I’m still here. My words on the page have been few and far between, and I have a good reason for it, but it still makes me feel like a hobbyist rather than a writer. I’ve been back and forth to doctors and to hospital for a couple of weeks with some pregnancy complications, but I’m glad to say that my baby is still fighting fit and growing every day. I’ve already started to feel baby move, which has been most reassuring. In order to keep this pregnancy moving forward I’ve had to make a lot of sacrifices, including walking for more than 20 minutes at a time, which cuts out shopping, exercising, travelling and gardening. Needless to say I haven’t felt like doing much writing. I’ve read a lot though, thought a lot and considered where I want this novel of mine to go. More importantly, I’ve thought about where I want my writing life to go. What it amounts to is this: I write because I love to write and it seems the more conditions, objectives and constraints I put on it, the more difficult it becomes, which makes me want to do it less.
It would seem that now is the best time to write: I have time – as much time as I want since I’m not allowed to lift so much as a broom – I have all the tools required to write, and I have the desire, yet I’ve made such a big deal out of the fact that I haven’t written any fiction in a little while that I’ve talked myself into it being a burden. Knowing the problem doesn’t always lead to a solution either. I cannot reverse this trend as easily as I started it. In essence I’ve let it go on too long and now what was initially a minor obstacle is now a craggy hill. It is all my own doing. I broke one of my own commandments of writing often and proved to myself why that commandment is so important to uphold: the more you write, the more you write.