Not-Writing 2

January. After Janus, the Roman god of gates and doors. The beginning of the year, a door opening to new possibilities. But for me it felt as if a door closed.

Outside, a bleak absence of colour.

And inside, not-writing-because-I-am-having-a-holiday-and-enjoying-myself-doing-other-things slipped imperceptibly into that dreaded state of not-writing-because-I-can't.

Not even this blog.

I don't know whether this experience is what people call 'writer's block'. That doesn't feel quite the right word to me – it makes me think of a huge block of stone – something 'out there' and inert.

Whereas this is all internal and it feels like wrestling with something slippery and alive, a writhing serpent compounded of loss of confidence, a sense of failure, despair. I can't gain access to my inner creative space: this ugly serpents squats at the entrance.

It doesn't just prevent me from writing; its seeping poison alienates me from every area associated with writing. If I'm invited to teach or speak to writing groups, I feel a fraud. I can't read or respond to the blogs of other writers who are functioning happily. It's like being struck down by an illness, cast out from normal life. I'm afraid that I'll be stuck like this and the horrible question looms: well, if I'm not going to write, what am I going to do?

In an effort to struggle out of the serpent's coils I try various things:

I give myself a good talking to: Stop being so self-pitying. The world doesn't need any more books from you. Think of others suffering far worse afflictions: people losing their jobs, living in oppressive political regimes, starving… This doesn't cheer me up.

I plan a holiday, trips out, activities designed to distract me. I try retail therapy, focusing on purchases that need a lot of research: what is the best kettle, the best TV available at the moment. This is good. This fills a lot of time. But there are only so many things one can buy. And I know really that all this is running away.

I turn to sources of help. When I first started writing seriously I armed myself with The Writer's Survival Guide by Rachel Simon, now sadly out of print, but available online here. Rachel Simon is perceptive about the states of mind, both positive and negative, that a writer may experience. I look up Feelings of Failure; Insecurity; Shame. I recognise myself. I read the chapter called The General Antidotes. It helps.

Things I read by chance snag my attention: a biography of Tennyson describes the adversity he suffered early in his career: poverty; the death of his friend Hallam; fear of inherited madness; damning reviews. Throughout it all, he continued to write.

I find myself wanting to read poetry. I enrol on a poetry writing course with Helen Farish, not because I intend to change direction – I'm no poet – but so that I can spend a day writing, without pressure, no-strings-attached.

I start to feel better. I can read blogs again and on the splendid FictionBitch come across Sue Gee's post on Writing. What she says about the  deep appeal of writing chimes with me.

Yes, I think. I want that 'secret life'.

I write this post. Outside, snowdrops, crocuses, puschkinia appear.

Inside, the serpent has gone. Doors are opening. Something new is arriving.