I’m the schizophrenic, who am I, what’s it all for, gardener/writer, (or should that be writer/gardener?) who started this blog a couple of years ago with wild promises about writing once a week, and didn’t do too badly…. until a few months ago, when everything kind of went pear shaped.
Because I hit a wall. Couldn’t write, didn’t know what to write about, didn’t want to write. It was scaaarrryyyy….
I considered writing posts about my garden. But couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm. (The truth was I couldn’t summon up the enthusiasm for my garden, let alone writing about it.) Several times I started off writing about writing. And ground to a halt after a couple of paragraphs. Aaargghhhh.
It was horrible. I felt like I’d lost myself. Didn’t know who I was, who I was meant to be. Did people really want to know about my garden? Who really cared if I’d self-published a book? Was there any point in writing about anything?
But today I woke up, got out of bed, drew back the curtains, and peered out across the fields. The sun was shining in a pale blue, winter sky; the whole world was sugar-coated with silver. I went downstairs, fed the dogs, made tea, sat at the kitchen table, tea mug in hand, looking out at the frosted garden. The cotoneaster outside the kitchen window was weighed down with jewel-red berries, and two thrushes were perched in its branches enjoying a winter feast.
AND I REALISED THAT I FELT LIKE WRITING ABOUT IT.
Hurray! Hurrah! Hurrooh!
And now I remember why I write….
Because I want to.
So here I am. I’m not going to make any promises about writing weekly posts. Because who knows how I’m going to feel tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. But today it feels great to be back writing again.
And I’m going to leave you in a ‘watch this space’ place that could lead anywhere.