The Distracted Writer

Write, they say. Write like you write Facebook posts – they make us laugh. Or better still, write like you write your letters; we love to get your letters – they’re so newsy and funny and articulate. Write like you tell anecdotes. Tell the story of your elbow or your wrist, or those other parts of your body that get injured and require treatment and behind which there’s always a story. Tell the tales of your holidays. You always come back from your trips (and slips!) with some hilarious tales of strange women running naked with goats in the olive groves of Tuscany, and countesses painting your skirting boards with a Sri Lankan ‘house boy’ called Nuwan when you’re out trying to follow a Slovenian guy called Roman in his car at 130km/h to Spezia and beyond to visit Cinque Terra, then dosing you up with honey and hot lemon to sooth your fevered brow as you lounge by the pool in recovery. A wordsmith, you are, they tell you. I’m sure there’s a novel in you. Get it written. That eulogy you wrote – and read out – at your mum’s funeral. People applauded for heaven’s sake. At a funeral. And at your friends’ same sex wedding when you talked about patriarchy and love and read a poem by Rumi. You’ve come a long way since your story books of Jasper and the princess and the tale about the conversion of a London bus into a moving public convenience through the removal of the upstairs seats and the installation of communal toilet facilities. Your mum had to divert you from taking that story any further if you remember.

But it’s not so easy to sit down and write, and composing pithy Facebook posts and eulogies and celebrations of the power of love conquers all is quite different from, well, writing a story. A reflective invective on the state of the nation or a quip to accompany a photo of some wonky carrot from the allotment is a different challenge from being able to string a narrative together and create characters out of your imagination. The skill of constructing a sentence is one thing; having the imagination to dream up tales of dramatic intensity from your subconscious is a totally different talent.

Besides, that’s all very well but there’s always the washing up to do. Or the bins to put out. Or that TV programme to watch. That game of Wordfeud to finish. Time for a shower. Time for bed. Is that the window cleaner rattling his wretched ladders and you’re still in your dressing gown with your hair looking like Tin Tin’s but without the excuse of being a cartoon? Is that a knock at the door? The window cleaner for his money? No, a man selling dishcloths and religion, that’s all, but it takes ten minutes to get shot of him. Then there’s the dental appointment, the haircut and finish (always amuses me that they like to ‘finish’ your hair and not just dry it), the blood test, the blood result, the lunch date, the coffee date, the choir practice. You’ve run out of milk now; better pop to the shops. Coat on, boots on, where’s my handbag? Purse? Must be upstairs where I left it after doing that online shop for a new toilet seat (don’t ask). Phone, where’s my phone? On charge in the kitchen; boots back off, no shoes on the hall carpet (who made that rule?). Better take a shopping bag, don’t want to incur a 5p charge for a plastic carrier bag and a lifetime of guilt thinking about the poor turtle who may die from ingesting it. I’ve got a shopping list somewhere, I suppose I could get it all when I’m out. I’ll take the car and pop to Waitrose. It’s been a couple of weeks and I’m getting withdrawal symptoms and need some ham and to spend a three figure sum when I only popped in for some milk and a block of organic butter.

What’s that now? An alert – someone’s posted on Facebook. Better respond; let people know I’m still alive. Besides, it’s been all of half an hour since the last political rant about the NHS / PIPs / homelessness / Trump ... so much to be angry about, so little time. Then there’s that cutesite wootsie doggie woggie video to go “ooh” over and make you feel a bit better about the big, bad world. Must share, spread the love, let people know you’re more than a bag of rage and have a sense of humour and a worthy soul. And haven’t you been sitting on your backside for long enough? This writing nonsense is no good for your weight or your blood sugar or strength or fitness, what you have of it. Off to the gym with you. Get on yer bike and do some rpms. And then – and this is all BEFORE the guide dog pup arrives – there’s the proofreading. What are you doing, you self-styled Word Smith, to get work? Clients? Try a Tweet. Do another doggie blog. Get it posted on Facebook, update your LinkedIn, follow more people, raise your profile. No time. Never any time.

It’s not time, though, is it? Not really? Where do you start with writing what? What are people interested in? We’re all self-publicists and social commentators and political journalists and life hacks and experts in this and that these days, aren’t we? This interweb thing is overflowing with words. Brains are getting Googlefied. They don’t have to retain anything cos Google (other search engines are, apparently, available) is always there for us. Or Cortana, who hangs around at the bottom of my start up screen in Windows 10, baiting me to ask her (her?) something. I often feel tempted to ask her the meaning of life, but I already know it’s 42, although one day I might ask her whether there’s a God just to see what the response is.

I’ve got writer’s block. Not so much of a block, really, so much as an organised layer of blocks. Well, organised layers of blocks. Ok, it's a wall. I admit, it’s a big wall, much like Trump would like to build, but bigger. A big Pink Floyd of a Wall, worthy of capitalisation and guarded by word police; well, not so much police as distractions, really, but they could be police if they wore uniforms and carried anti thesauruses. Turn off all devices, unplug the phone and the router – just sit down and get on with it.

Better hang the washing out first, though; the sun’s just come out and don’t want to miss a good drying day. I’ll have coffee after that. Then I’ll start. I’ll just respond to this Facebook comment first and reply to that text and I’ll be there. Oh, an email’s just come in. Just deal with that. Now some real post has plopped onto the mat. I wonder if it’s that curtain sample I’ve been waiting for? Ah yes, better ring the curtain man. Can’t – my phone’s rung before I can dial his number. The car’s ready for collection? Ok, coat on. Maybe I’ll start my novel tomorrow.