Welcome back readers. I took the week off with the family and opted for a ‘better late than never’ holiday.
Having two children and one job, our holiday was limited to renting out a static caravan for a week on the east coast of England.
My wife’s nan took care of our four month old Sonny, that being a holiday all in itself. So it was just Ruben; our two year old, my wife and myself. We were supposedly having an ‘Indian summer’, one of those rare occasions when the summer heat carries on through the autumn months. That all came to an end the very day we left our house. Rain, gale force winds, hailstones and even the odd thunder storm made our time away as difficult as possible.
I never understood how a holiday could ever be truly called a holiday when you have children along with you, because believe you and me they are just as much hard work as they are at home, always serving them to please. But having experienced it for the first time, I get it. Seeing my son with a smile on his face as we spend hours a day in the swimming pool, watching the spring in his step as he takes to the evening entertainment dance floor and the unbreakable father/son bond as we get to have each others company for more than just an hour or two a day. I fell in love all over again, it’s hard sometimes to remember what being a father and a husband truly is, and it’s so much more than just providing.
Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation. – Graham Greene
Now please don’t assume I’ve all of a sudden changed my posts into a personal diary from a mediocre life I lead. There is a reason and it does involve writing.
Knowing I had a week away I saw this as the perfect opportunity to get lots of writing done, I’m always moaning that I never have enough time in the day to write. With this in my thoughts one of my first items to get packed were the tools of a writer; the trusty pen and notepad. I opted out of bringing the laptop; technology is too distracting. With the family asleep and exhausted and a flat screen television in the room, that was so small it made Homer Simpson look slim I set out my notebook and began to write. Nothing. I wrote next to nothing. When I forced ink to paper all that came out was words a ten year old would be ashamed of. What’s happening to me? Surely not writers block again, not now, not when I have all this free time. I tried reading more than usual for inspiration. Nothing. I tried going for a stroll in the middle of the night. Nothing. I came back home with a bad taste in my mouth, was this is it for my literacy journey? Was this is it for Last of the Authors?
Inspiration is a funny old thing, it didn’t take long. I never expected to be back at home with a screaming baby in his rocker to my left, and a toddler screaming in my face because he can’t have a Cornetto right before dinner time and then all these words come flooding back into my head as if by magic. I needed a notebook again to catch all the thoughts. It hit me hard and is a lesson I will take on board with me wherever this journey leads; my writing is my escape, my own personal holiday from the hardships of life. It makes sense now, sure a lovely scenery might inspire you to paint, but what good is that to a writer. There aren’t many of us that want to read about ravishing landscapes and solitude, we want the real stuff, the pain of life, the love in life, the dramas, the horrors and the farfetched. Something we can relate ourselves to.
I wonder if it’s harder to write a novel once you are a successful writer, and I mean Stephen King, JK Rowling successful. I wonder if its more difficult for them to write with a hypothetical padded cushion behind you?
Either way, It’s good to be back.