One year - an interlude…

In which I flounder and blubber eternal thanks to you...

One year of words…

You can choose courage, or you can choose comfort, but you cannot choose both. – Brene Brown

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To my dear and very welcome readers and writers.

Astonishingly, this day marks one whole year of writing on

Substack Writers

.

A few weeks back I was wondering what I might write here today, at times, even if I’d write anything at all. I thought piece by piece I would have developed a regular writing process, I haven’t. I have no process, regular, developed or otherwise. I quite simply, when I have a few minutes of silence and freedom from the shackles of daily mundanities, just write. I ignore any lack of literary geniusness—oops, you see—that I don’t have a whole new year of writing planned ahead of me, that there are many days when I have zero time to write a single word not to mention many words. When ideas gather in my head and spill over onto a blank page, I wrestle them into semi legible phrases. Et voila!

But! But but but… good grief it took courage to publish those first trembling bits of me.

Ideally, I would have preferred that date to have been the first day of the year, for reasons of tidiness perhaps—new year/new project—casting aside the old for the new and no doubt other arbitrary irrelevancies. But, for 17 days I laboured over the words I’d written. I edited, I deleted whole paragraphs and rewrote them. I re-edited. And, edited again while thinking to myself; Do I really even have anything remotely interesting to say? And, Who wants to read yet more words from yet another expat wandering soul? I felt uncomfortable, beyond any boundaries of protection. I reminded myself that writing was something I enjoy. What did I have to lose? But, though the discomfort remained, courage fought back and so it was, with shaking fingers/whole body and great trepidation that I dubiously hit the send button on my first letter on January 17 last year.

Many times since then, including today, I have read over old letters, poems, words sent from my heart—after numerous tinkering’s with—written for you and wept tears of embarrassment both inwardly and outwardly at the inadequacy, of my inadequacy. But, by sheer coincidence I listened to Samantha Clark’s, The Cringe Stage while I was preparing supper this evening, a serendipitous moment of relief, for me and quite likely this letter.

Samantha had this to say,

…I am here to tell you that the cringe stage doesn’t ever go away, my friend. Not entirely. Every piece of creative work goes through a cringe stage. Perhaps several.

In fact sometimes it feels like there’s a law of entropy at work here, that every piece of creative work we do actively wants to be mediocre, sloppy, woolly, baggy, just plain bad. The only reason there is any good work out there at all is because someone has been diligently tweaking and tinkering, propping it up at every stage of the way.

Making good art takes persistence and diligence. It requires of us a certain rigour.

So here I am a year later! Wobbly, definitely, less wavering, still harbouring doubt but nevertheless persistent and, this is my 62nd letter! I’ve written tens of thousands of words which you have read and commented on and encouraged me to continue. I am in awe of how effectively you, my faithful readers, have become the sparks that ignite my fire! The tiny alluring flames of attentiveness that have spurred me on and kept my head filled with stories, poetry and prose, even on the days when time has been short or nonexistent, or when I’ve felt like deleting every word, when confidence has run off hand in hand with inspiration to cause me a game of chase with no sign of the finish line. I am filled with gratitude for your presence.

I have read tens of thousands of brilliantly eloquent words during the last year, written primarily by other writers here on Substack. These letters, in their myriad forms of brilliance, have instilled, at first, a bone-crumbling fear of villainous Imposter Syndrome, when one line of illuminating metaphor culminates in the throwing down of pen and then, just as swiftly, despite inevitable self criticism, are locked away in a compartment, precious sparks that might reignite future dwindling flames. To light the way to greater literacy and, maybe, a tangible process.

Hence, regardless of the difficult journey with its many wrong turns, slips and blunders, I will continue—hopefully a little less blindly—into another year of writing letters to you with humble thanks for your kindness and support thus far. I wouldn’t be able without you.

With love

“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.” Mark Twain

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There are many writers here on

Substack Writers

who have encouraged me, given me inspiration in times of blank mindedness, the confidence to continue through many days of self doubt.

Vineyard tales

- for believing in my work and guiding me to this wonderfully supportive community of readers and writers.

Feasts and Fables

- for continuous considerate and gentle encouragement!

Alexander M Crow

- for his journal recounting A fall in Time, giving infinite ideas for adventure and more detailed discovery of this hill I live on, as well as inviting me over the next year to work as a guest writer on his own Substack, details to be revealed soon.

Debs Stott

- for accepting my proposal for an episode on her wonderful fantasy road trip of Curious Questers and surprisingly—to me because fantasy fiction is not a genre I ever would have considered myself capable of—inviting me back to write another. Again, details to come.

Erica Drayton

- for advice and help with technicalities beyond my understanding, for introducing me to her incredible daily 100 word stories and inspiring my own, fictitious or otherwise.

To you all and countless others—you know who you are—I give endless heartfelt thanks.