I don’t want to write today.
I feel angry, resentful, depressed, bitter. I want to sit with my back to the world like a toddler, arms crossed, refusing to cooperate.
But I’m not a toddler, I’m an adult, and I can’t bury my head in the sand.
Neither can I stop being me.
So I sit down at the desk, because that’s where I feel safest, and I pour the toddler’s complaints onto the page. Whining, sulking, complaining. Resentful, spiteful, selfish. I let the toddler have her say.
And when I sit back and look at what I’ve done, I find I have page after page of scribble, malformed letters sliding together in a hurry to get away from their meaning. Angry, it says. Voiceless, it says. Unheard, it says. But today I have listened.
I’m a great believer in writing as healing.
To me it is a refuge, even when I don’t want a refuge, even when I don’t want healing. When I want to wallow. It allows me to wallow, and then move on. Sometimes we all need to hold a pity party for ourselves.
In the last month, I’ve had something of a ‘slap upside the head with the Frying Pan of Enlightenment’, as they say. It’s been about acceptance. Accepting my shadows. The things I don’t like about myself. The things I hide, even from myself. The anger, spite, pride, pettiness. All the things that were dirty words in the house where I grew up, the worse qualities you could display – lazy, selfish, greedy. As a child, I would have done anything to avoid being labelled with those words. As an adult, I’m pathologically terrified that people might think those things of me.
But honestly, we’re all lazy, selfish, greedy, sometimes. It is part of being human. It doesn’t stop us from being transcendently kind, loving, self-sacrificing, compassionate, gentle, patient, all of which we can also be. Sometimes.
Accepting that human beings can all display every human characteristic, good and bad, is one thing a writer needs to be able to do in order to paint vivid characters.
Accepting that, as individuals, we can all be those things is something we all need to do.
And as a writer, I can use my experiences of feeling those things, of wanting those emotions, those behaviours, of indulging them, as insights into my characters. I can use them as rocket fuel for my writing.
But only if I can accept that I have them.
(It’s a bloody hard job, this self-knowledge stuff, but I’m having a go.)
So here I am, sitting in the shadows, gnashing my toddler teeth, sulking fit to burst, and at the same time, observing myself, knowing that all this is going to make a great scene in my novel.
And you know what? I feel so much better now. I might even crawl off my naughty step and go and find myself something nice to eat as a reward for exploring my shadows.