My under-nourished child: writing

I’m writing again. After a year of office work fee-earning, a lot of high heels and suits, mind-shredding guilt and doubt, 800 commuting hours and a host of very unexpected experiences, I’m writing. Again.

And of course, a bit of writing stuff happened in the last year – one stageplay rewrite, a couple of 1-page TV proposals, a film treatment or two. But it was all tinkering, squeezed in around work, parenting and attempts at a life.

My clients – a few hundred miles away – and I knew this day would come. September 2015. My wee one starts school. And next week, a month (a month?!) of two- and three-hour school days ends and he goes full-time. I’ve saved up, cut our living costs and am hoping to buggery one of my writing seeds grows a financial leaf.

I’ve questioned long and hard whether I’m writing for the right reasons. My need to write has not been a pleasure these last 12 months. It’s upset me, tugged at my cuff, tripped me up, made me bloody miserable. I haven’t been able to look after this need – it’s been like a child I can’t nurture, a source of shame and conflict.

So this week, I completed a short monologue. It’s quite good. And I loved it. No big length to achieve – just 2 minutes max. I can still write (ticker tape is falling), I made a new world. I’m working up film ideas with a director and watching several creative friends achieve great things and couldn’t be happier for them (a great sign of optimism, knowing you’re not jealous!).

Needless to say, if you need a writer, you know where I am. And in the meantime, watch this space. (I’m back!)

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