It is never quite the right time to write is it? Or so it seems to me. Priority has always been given to duty and writing for me is such a loved pastime that in my mind it is an indulgence. And, raised in a strict Catholic tradition which screams fire and brimstone at anything that might appear to be pleasurable, I always have had to relegate writing time to the back end of all my duties. How can you write when there's always so much to do: laundry, dinner, shopping, cleaning...oh, and earning a living while you find someone who will pay for your writing?
 |
| This isn't a picture of me, but when all six were at home and there were eight of us, I wish I could have hung washing from each window as well as the lines in the garden and every radiator indoors! Laundry, laundry everywhere and not a stitch to wear! |
As a working parent, there were always many more duties than time for indulgences. With six kids to raise, and periods of running my own businesses, there was rarely time to sleep, let alone write. And of course, if you don't sleep, your writing is generally poor because your brain pretty much babbles. You see, it's not "baby brain" - that is just a construct from a paternalistic society that convinces women and the men around them that pregnancy and motherhood somehow affects your ability to be rational, clever, quick-witted, problem-solving, creative, professional and all those things that make you worth employing and successful and worth paying as much as the next man (yes, deliberate use of a traditional male-centred vocabulary). The problem for a writer with being a parent is lack of sleep and how that affects your brain. (I'm going to make interruptions a theme of a later post).
So, six kids later I'm pretty used to thinking in a state of brain fog. And looking back on some of my early attempts at poems and stories, even feature articles, these clearly show that I was knackered. Like this:
Dunfanaghy and beyond
That crumbling cottage by the lough was once a home,
A shelter from the winds that lash the hills.
It had a roof of black thatch, once,
And small windows that caught a little sunshine
To brighten the daily gloom.
The doorway is low
And must have encouraged
A suitably obsequious stoop from the farmer.
No, not farmer.
Peasant, perhaps, or chastened warrior
Driven to the edge of survival by the conquistadors
That came in droves to raid and plunder,
And rape
The very bowels of the earth they trod.
The stones, now worn and tumbling,
Grey as the mist that shaped them,
Still carry the brown scent of the turf fire,
And scattered in the single, ragged room,
Abandoned remnants of rural toil:
Iron cooking pots hurled in a hurry aside,
A spade and a poker dropped in the corner
These last hundred years and more.
Banked to the side,
Leaning, like a child against his mother’s time-worn
skirts,
A byre,
Still sweating the stench of huddled cattle,
Sheltering from the leeward lunge of ocean gales.
It was once a home, filled with warmth,
And singing children, smiles amid the toil.
But hunger curbed their joy.
Famine destroyed them all,
And death spread his insidious net
Over barren hills and sterile glens.
Just a little heap of stones,
Staring silent to empty space.
Just a grim and lingering grave.
That effort emerged from a snapped half of an HB pencil, chewed at the snapped end, and scribbled onto a tourist guide pamphlet in the mid-90s during a drive through Donegal. Three kids, full time job, just finished a part-time university degree and wondering if I could cut it as a poet. Awkward phrases, lack of rhythm...but not entirely wasted. I salvaged one or two bits and inserted into other poems and it was good practise at using an observation to develop an idea and write about it.
A published novelist told me last year how she managed to start to publish her work, despite having to raise six kids of her own. "It was difficult. The first ten years were really hard, writing in bits in between doing everything else. But it all boils down to persistence. Every sentence you write means you get better, no writing is ever wasted." It took her over ten years to write a novel good enough to publish. She now has half a dozen to her name and her books can be found on book shop shelves all over the country. Others I have spoken to - few with six kids, though! - were a bit more fortunate: partners who worked while they parented, au pairs and nannies, parents who paid their rent for them...I shan't go into my views on class, money and the opportunity to be a creative, it would become a political rant.
So, all that aside, I keep going, bit by bit, sentence by sentence. Yes, there have been four or five, or more perhaps, stabs at novels. Stories sent off to publishers never to be seen again (oh, the cruelty of the silent rejection!). Dunfanaghy and beyond has not seen the light of day for over twenty years till today. It was all part of the dud notes of practising. I think my writing got better. Use of language, playing with words all improve with practise. Just as a pianist can only learn a symphony one bar at a time, a writer can only finish their piece one word at a time. And sometimes, short pieces can work well. Like this one, which got a "highly commended in a small competition once about eight or nine years ago:
Winter morning.
Morning air so cold
it slices through your skin
and peels back the last of night-
time sleep
from eyes that sting in thin
winter light so bright
it glints rose gold
from silver leaves.
Each step a snap,
a crack, a sharp shot,
each breath a shard of icy mint
that lingers on your tongue,
then leaves the scent
of musk, of earth,
of naked trees,
of frozen dew
…of death.
I still have a teenager at home, and all the worrying and thinking about my kids, even those in their twenties and thirties who have kids of their own, and I still am a really poor sleeper. But I have kept going, with long gaps, lots of frustrations, lots of interruptions and loss of "the flow" and I finally feel I can say "I am a published writer". And I am paid for some of my writing. I still need to fulfil my ambition of publishing fiction, a novel perhaps, or another slim volume of poetry. But every word, every sentence, is a step closer.
