Same location, different words

Here is where my writing journey commenced properly, 2 years ago, where pages poured out. On a thin piece of land off the Polish coast, exposed to the elements.

Last time I was here I wrote about 10,000 words. Disordered fragments.

Interpretations of the past and the present. At that time I thought I was writing a book. Thought I had it all worked out, my ‘grand memoir’, but with the least self deprecation possible, who wants a memoir about me at this point. An agent graciously, in the most respectful words, told me the same approx 6 months later, when I was shamelessly contacting literary agents with the intro to said memoir and a handful of poems. (smiles)

I feel a profound effect in moving locations to enable reflection. Move out of the present to step into the past. Change of space, plus the passage of time.

Out of my regular surroundings and 2 years later, I revisit those words and acknowledge what they have done for me. Catharsis in writing it down, getting it out. Cleaning out the mind, pen to paper every morning, or tapping fingers on letters late at night. Til the head stops humming and the heart stops hurting, for a time at least .

Old Father Time allows for reflection. Funny how time is referred to as our father, masculine. As if it's all powerful. Then again think of how we gender other major phenomena of our existence in the maternal: Mother Earth, Mother Nature. ‘Mothers’ being the carriers of life, we create life. Father Time being the decider, the definer of how long in that life we have perhaps. Fair?

I think that ‘book’ will be just for me. I could try and transform some of it into fiction, take inspiration from Matt Haig, or I could break it up into pieces and possibly accompany it with other writings. Experimenting with form, like my other favourite Max Porter. Maybe. Either way, it will take time and patience and practice.

Here’s a little exert from what I wrote then.

‘For some the age of 40 is right slap bang in the middle of their life, but for others that’s a long life and that’s where I find myself these days , aged 40 and veering back towards the most positive , or at least appreciative perspective and outlook, that I have already lived a long and vibrant life and will be lucky if I live another 40 as ‘thoroughly’.

What has happened between my beginning ,middle ( being positive and calling it middle for now, hopefully plenty more time ‘to the end’ ), I am grateful to be able to class as ‘a lot’. A lot has happened, so much in fact that I find my memory failing me horrendously these days. In an era where we are all learning about the nervous system , our inner children, the patterns of our childhood experiences and how they affect and inform our present, I find myself wanting to find, wrestle with, talk to , forgive , accept and then let go of, or at least process my memories of the past. But if I can’t quite find them, how is that going to be possible? Hopefully this written account of what I can remember, will help the processing. As I dart around my history, I will need to keep a semblance of order, or forge an order or re-order of my life so far and my memory and mind, as best that it serves me.’

Since then I did write some additional sections, but I didn’t order anything. I’ve written folders and folders worth of other words: poems, essay sections, shells of other ideas. Published some, overthought some, not thought enough about others, over intellectualised bits, hidden and binned plenty.

But truth be told I have not, I realise now, devoted proper, dedicated time to words, bar a few guided sessions with the incredible Laurie Bolger . Those sessions lit me up , stirred the creative juices.

I feel the merit in slowing down the pace, forming some parameters, space between words, focussed time for the organisation of words. Set the tone, convey with clarity. Maybe less is more. Being more considered is definitely a benefit. Arrangement and editing. Unedited words create nightmares.

I’ve been good at moving , but so rapidly so as not to have opportunities to look back, excavate the past. I’ve kept running, kept numbing, via different means this time..but still distracting myself away from the ghosts. If you have a child, I don’t know if you can outrun those ghosts. Definitely not if you’re an obsessive , highly sensitive Pisces with neurodivergent traits.. and not if you finally allow yourself space and get sober.

Sometimes I’ve thought who am I writing any of this for? Where is it taking me? Is it self indulgence? I thought originally that I should post substack essays with demure looking black and white pics of myself for the algorithm. Set myself in the image of someone I hope I could be. There’s also been a time I had an idea and was dead set on delivering it. ‘I definitely need an agent now’ I wanted all the help I could get , to make sense of it, of myself. To make something of myself maybe, give myself some meaning. But I realised you have to DO the thing. And I’m still working it all out. No one will be able to represent me, if I don’t know what the thing is. What my thing is, what I represent.

I’ve got a few decent traumas and traumatic topics to talk about, but I’ve realised I’m only recently coming to terms with them and hopefully integrating them into my life now. I’m only 2 years in. I have to do some things first, on my own terms, that make me feel my joy and allow some peace.

We are constantly evolving, shifting, moving forward into altered states and versions of ourselves, trying to continuously tolerate that uncertainty of what lies ahead.

At the core though, there has to be genuine feelings of comfort in your self. You really can’t progress in complete discomfort. A little is healthy, but not the kind that when everything is quiet and you’re alone chokes you and says ‘stop now. feel me. stop pretending.’

Break yourself first, gather some understanding then try and love your self back together.

Events mark us and sometimes it’s only later we notice the scars.

It takes me a long time to process things and I’m awful at letting go. I acknowledge and try to accept the main reason now. I never felt good enough for my mother and then she died. I’m not sure if I’ve ever been ‘at peace’ with myself since. I would never be able to become good enough for her. I could never show her anything ‘good’ that I did. And that is the haunting void in my life, the incompleteness that has hovered over everything.

What is the point in sharing this? But maybe that is the point, simply the act of writing this down and pressing publish.

I’ve never actually read back any of the posts I’ve written or listened back to the podcasts I’ve recorded , but at the times they were released, they were complete, ready to be let go.

So I need to do it, I need to write more, pick a platform and forge some order.

Monthly has to be achievable surely, set time aside, make it a practice, ritualistic writing, give it shape, make it meaningful.

I want to create a life that feels good enough for myself . Write honest words , or create words that feel meaningful . Feel a rhythm, find a flow. Find a sweet spot between the manifesting and the generating.

And understand that it’s just for me, then perhaps in turn, for the generations past and future.