It’s taken nearly a year and a half to really get down to it. Retirement seems like bliss when you’re still working – all that time to do what you want, to pursue your dreams. No more tedious team meetings or hours spent driving (an activity I’ve never liked.)
I said I wanted to bake and write. Enjoying baking would be a bit tricky now, my back and legs aren’t up to it, and sitting down to cook isn’t that easy, in spite of what the occupational therapist assured me.
So it’s writing. Over the years I’ve scribbled a lot, in a lot of notebooks. Disjointed scraps, angsty attempts at journal writing, cliché-ridden character sketches, banal morning pages. (Shut up Inner Critic!)
I started a creative writing course with the Open University, but didn’t finish it. I’ve bought books telling me how to write, downloaded writing prompts, and joined a creative writing group, which was fun, but sadly didn’t last long.
I continue to buy and get given notebooks. This lovelies remain empty:
Last night, after a couple of conversations and encouragement from friends, I got down to it. I’d been thinking ‘I bet Jane Austen didn’t scour the local papers for courses on how to be a writer, she just sat down at her little desk by the window and wrote.’
So that’s what I did. I was in bed. Getting up and into the other room to fetch a pretty notebook would have taken my wobbly legs too long, inspiration would have said ‘bugger this for a game of soldiers’ and fled, so I reached for what was available by my bedside, something I’d been using for things-to-do-around-the-house lists and got stuck in:
The challenge now is to keep it going. Wish me luck!
