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I’ve lived in Cape Town for five years now but I only started trail running about a month ago. What was I thinking?! In fact, it’s taken a worldwide pandemic to get me out of my head and into the forests and mountains on my doorstep, which is probably one of the few blessings I’ll take from 2020. It’s not like we’re not an outdoorsy family, it’s just that because I’m married to a water man, we spend a significant time on the beach, leaving little spare time for much else.
The thing about creativity is that it doesn’t wait until it’s convenient. As a writer, I’ve always had visions of taking myself off to a villa in Tuscany (surrounded by lavender fields), where I’d live in solitude for a few months and complete my bestselling novel. There’d be peace and time to write, and no distractions.
But that’s not how it works.
It’s not like I haven’t been writing, because I have. Just not here.
Little poems have come to me in fragments, repeating sentences in my brain like a bird knocking on the inside of my head, desperate to be let out. They aren’t necessarily good poems but the good thing about my current stage of life is that I’ve started to care a bit less. I still seek affirmation, but that is now infused with a healthy dose of not trying to please absolutely everybody, all of the time. This feels intensely liberating.
Guess what I finally got my hands on today?! My author copy of Living While Feminist, the book I have a story in. I’m currently sipping on some bubbles and cradling it in my hands because I’m a published author guys! Everything was delayed with the publication and printing over lockdown – it was supposed to come out in March! But finally this powerful little book is heading out into the world and you can buy one people (there’s also an ebook if that’s your thing).
I’d like to talk about a feeling that is quite difficult to articulate, so forgive any rambling while I get there. My brain is not firing on all cylinders lately, and so finding the words is harder. It takes longer. This is hugely frustrating for a writer. Or any creative really. I feel a bit useless.
Like when someone designs a teapot, an item which is meant to make and pour your tea. But then when you try and actually pour the tea out, the spout doesn’t work properly, so the hot tea goes everywhere but where it’s supposed to go – in the cup. Your hands are burnt from the hot water and it’s a huge frustrating mess. Because what is the point of a teapot that doesn’t make tea properly? I’m that teapot at the moment.
So many feelings, but so difficult to express them. They sit bundled up beneath her skin, like flies trapped against a window. Like a tangle of white cords, with nowhere to plug into. Is this how non-writers feel? What do they do with these feelings, if they don’t write them down? Do they disappear back into the body, like a pimple that isn’t popped? Poison sent back down into the self again, because the carrier does not have the means to release it.