writer’s block

Jingle the shingles…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

My absence has continued. I know, I’m full of excuses. I’m apologise. I just keep getting ill or my meds get messed up or the someone in the world does another really fucked up thing. Anyway, this time it’s shingles. Again.

Yup, I have shingles for the third time in 2yrs. I feel a little bit cursed, but my dr assure me it’s actually my immune system and stress that are the culprits. Oh and being a woman; another perk of my sex. We caught it quick, anti virals galore with a bit of luck it won’t get too horrendous. I feel shitty, but it’s manageable. In amongst all my of body’s fuckwittery there has also been a touch of writers block and a general lack of motivation. What I can offer you is some mini reviews of books that have been keeping company.

We’ll start with good, The Alienist by Caleb Carr. This was re read, but the first read was so long ago that I had forgotten most of the details. I enjoyed it so much that I dove straight into the next book in the series, The Angel of Darkness. Both are set in 1890’s NYC. They follow a group of unofficial detectives on the trail of horrific serial killers. They’re led by Dr Kreisler, a pioneering psychologist who uses his unorthodox theories to capture their foe. The rest of the team is comprised of journalist John Moore, trailblazing police secretary Sara Howard and experts in new detective & forensic techniques the Issacson brothers. I love the way emerging ideas that are now commonplace are intertwined throughout the story. They’re classic crime thrillers with intriguing characters. Incredibly engaging, highly recommend.

I am less effusive about Love Untold by Ruth Jones. The book follows four generations of women in a family. It is an interesting story, but not well executed. Some of the character flaws make it difficult to like them, which impacts the books resolution. I also find the plot reveals to be clunky. The book meanders for chapters and then has huge plot dumps. It felt very unsatisfying.

My sister lent me Three Hours by Rosamund Lipton. It’s not my usual thing, but I enjoyed it. Set during a school shooting and told from various perspectives. It is a high tension page turner with some nice twists. The characters are really well developed; the other does a fantastic job of making you care about them.

I hope to regain my mojo very soon. I am doing my best to get into the Christmas spirit. Fingers crossed!

If you like what I do you can support me here or on Patreon.

Words are (not) flowing out…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

You may have noticed a down turn in blog activity. I’m struggling with a little writer’s block. Or big one. Even whipping this up is more tricky than I’d like.

I think my chronic indecision is the problem. I’m wrestling with a couple of Uber decisions and a whole host of related little ones. Trying to make all those choices correctly is eating up all my headspace. I am a tiny bit paralysed on the creative front.

Bear with me. I’m hoping I’ll the words will flow again soon.

Harder than easy…

~ somethinginthewayshemoves

I understand the appeal of ‘fake it til you make it’. It is definitely a strategy i’ve employed, but I’m beginning to wonder if maybe there’s a dangerous crossover point. Does acting like you’re ok until you can actually be alright lose it’s usefulness when OK ceases to be a realistic goal?

At the moment I’m wavering between distraction at all costs and crying in the dark. I’m filling the days with as many fun or productive things as I can physically manage. I carry on with the wee ones; go rascalling to farms & libraries & soft play. Have lunches & chats & belly laughs with people I love. They temporarily pull my edges together. I’ve been busying myself with tidying the spare room. Organising my wardrobe. Hanging art that’s been waiting in boxes for months. I keep going until my body screams. When I stop I realise the calendar is still set to my due date & there is just no way I can open the curtains today.

Calendar on pile of books

Some days I can almost fool myself that I’m doing ok. I can keep from asking what’s the point. Push the existential thoughts aside & paint on a smile. It never lasts long. I’m still hollow. I don’t know when the forced productivity becomes a lie. Left to my own devices I am pretty sure I would lock the door & perpetually reopen my wounds. Is this manufactured well being what people mean when they say ‘just keep swimming’? I have to be honest I feel like eventually I’ll probably drown.

Person submerged in blue bath water

I’m holding onto the possibility that it might get better. Time heals and so on. I’m not sure I believe that, though. I think most of the time you probably just get used to pain. Intellectually I can work our what’s happening. I’m grieving. Not just the baby I lost, but the idea of any baby. I’m grieving the entire life I wanted. All the babies I never got to hold and all the theoretical ones that might have made that easier bear. I no longer have hope. That’s what is making it so hard.

I’m worried that this is it. My life will always be waiting for the next life raft. Clinging to a few hours of something good before I wade back into nothing. Emotion aside I don’t even have the energy to keep up this level of diversion. The recovery to doing ratio is creeping up. It is getting harder to put on make up & push my arse out the door. I fear my real mood is leaking out.

How long can I keep this up? Congratulating myself on finally emptying the washing basket feels like a shallow victory when I can’t write anything that doesn’t make me weep. I really don’t know if I’m nailing the life goes on thing or just closing my eyes to reality. There are still pre natal vitamins in a cupboard I no longer open and a box of positive pregnancy tests under my bed. The perfume I wore when my own made me nauseous remains on my dresser. I can’t sleep. I’m struggling to imagine a future that feels fulfilling. I can’t help thinking that avoiding these truths won’t change them.

Moonlit sky

I can logic this out, but that doesn’t change the problem. I can’t afford to get crazy again. I also cannot stop wondering if this is all there is. This keep on keeping on farce is wearing me out, but I don’t see a functional alternative.