And there were times I’d take my pen
And feel obliged to start again.— Orange Juice. “Rip it Up.”
I think I just decided to scrap the blog post I’ve been writing as a guest piece for Sophie’s blog. I’ve been working on it almost every day for two weeks. It’s not writer’s block. I’ve written more than enough words. Most of the individual paragraphs are ok in themselves but the piece as a whole simply doesn’t work. Sigh.
I remember writing those words. It was July 15 this year and I was sitting at the slightly wobbly table on the balcony of the cottage I’d rented at Windermere Marina Village in the Lake District. I’d settled in with a coffee and my little writing setup — my Android tablet on its stand and the larger of my two Bluetooth keyboards — hoping to find some creative clarity. I’d had such high hopes for that blog post. A title I was happy with. A great photo sourced from Unsplash. A solid lead into the piece, inspired by something my friend and fellow blogger Sophie Bolam had posted. The topic was highly relevant to me and Fran. I’d cited examples from our fifteen year friendship, drawing on Fran’s personal experience and my own. It ticked almost every checkbox. Except it wasn’t working. Not at all. Not in any way.
I sat with my feelings for several minutes then typed those initial thoughts into the notes app on my phone. Journaling is my instinctive response to unexpected or inconvenient situations. I paused. Sipped my coffee. It was peaceful there. The only sound was the hum of cars on the main road. I’m a city boy. Traffic sounds don’t distract or annoy me. I find them soothing, like coffee shop conversations or the documentaries I listen to while I’m working. I took another sip of coffee.
It may not be a coincidence that I haven’t been able to work on the piece the way I usually do. Haven’t had my usual mega writing session at the coffee shop. Instead, I’ve worked in short bursts wherever I’ve been at the time. At home last week. Here at the cottage. Down by the lake. I was able to focus on it one paragraph or section at a time but I lost touch with the overall shape and direction of the piece.
That made sense but didn’t address how I was feeling about it. How was I feeling? Frustrated? Embarrassed? Cross with myself? I hesitated. Labelling my emotions is hard for me. I’ve explored this previously in two posts about alexithymia: How Do I Feel? and How Do I Feel Now?
My creative goal for this week away was to finish the piece. On those terms, I’ve failed. But maybe I can take something from that. Use it as the jumping off point for a new piece. Maybe. I doubt any of what I’ve written can be salvaged, beyond perhaps the opening paragraph.
My focus shifted from what had happened to what happens next. I was the only person who knew of my decision but I knew I’d tell Fran and a few other friends. Other than journaling and blogging that’s how I process what’s going on for me. I’d have to tell Sophie too, of course. I drafted a message to her but decided to wait a day or two before sending it. Not because I thought I’d change my mind but to let my thoughts, feelings, and options settle out.
I shared my journaled notes with my friend Robyn. She picked up on what I’d written about the break from my usual blogging practice. “I think the key there,” she said, “is learning how well your normal writing routine helps. You can focus on [the whole thing] in a longer session, and you can’t do that if only writing in pieces.” She was right and it’s a valuable lesson. My regular workflow begins with capturing ideas, short notes, scraps, sentences and paragraphs on my phone, wherever I find myself when they come to me. I might expand on them at home but the bulk of the writing happens at my favourite table at my favourite coffee shop. It’s been that way for a while but this experience was showing me something more than “that’s how I usually work.” It was showing me how vital that process had become to my creative flow.
Jen acknowledged my decision to set the piece aside but suggested I might revisit it when I returned home. That was — and remains — a possibility but the issues went deeper than even structural editing and revision. “Perhaps,” I told her. “But I’d need to start again from scratch.” “If you flat out don’t want to work on it, then don’t,” she said. “But [reworking it] is an idea. You might have some salvageable thoughts.” Salvageable thoughts. I liked the phrase and told her so. Conversations with Jen often bring me fresh insight and ideas.
It wasn’t the first time I’ve abandoned a blog post but it’s a rare enough occurrence that I don’t have a strategy for dealing with it. Another dear friend, fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson, commiserated with me but it’s not something she has experience of herself. “The only time I’ve come close to this,” she told me, “was when I’d written a number of pages for a blog post before getting a sense of déjà vu. It turned out I’d written almost the exact same in a previous post.” I’ve done that myself on occasion. Not just something similar, because a good topic can always be approached from a different perspective, but almost exactly the same.
A different perspective. Salvageable thoughts.
I’d written more than fifteen hundred words. The problem was they didn’t flow properly. It reminded me of the classic 1971 Morecambe and Wise sketch featuring world famous conductor and composer André Previn. Eric Morecambe is seated at the piano, attempting to play Grieg’s Piano Concerto. He fails magnificently. The maestro remonstrates with him in exasperation. “You’re playing all the wrong notes!” Morecambe pauses, then utters one of the most memorable lines in British television history. “I’m playing all the right notes,” he insists. “But not necessarily in the right order.”
I don’t hold with the maxim that everything happens for a reason. As I once wrote, “Life is not a lesson, though you can choose to see it as such. Life is not a trial, though you are free to live yours as though it were.” My stuckness over this guest post wasn’t a lesson from the universe but it reminded me that holding tightly to our expectations is rarely a good idea. Things don’t always work out the way we hoped, imagined, or anticipated. And that’s okay. (Not necessarily better, but okay.) I’d had several such reminders that week in the Lake District. My favourite holiday café, Mio Mondo in Bowness, was closed the day I was in town. Their chef had broken a collar bone. I had to admit it was a valid excuse but I’d looked forward to the visit all year and was genuinely disappointed. The search for somewhere else to eat led to The Albert public house. It had a friendly atmosphere and superb food. I’d never have discovered it if the café had been open.
A couple of days later my departure for Keswick was delayed by a delivery truck that blocked my exit for twenty minutes. It was frustrating but the interruption gave me the opportunity to reconsider the day’s plans. I elected to stay close to the cottage instead of driving fifty minutes each way, paying for parking, and walking round the town in the heat. It turned out to be one of the most relaxed and rewarding days of the vacation. There were other such disappointments that turned out just fine. A limited lunchtime menu at The Wateredge Inn allowed me to recognise I wasn’t actually hungry. I spent the time people watching, writing, and taking in the lakeside views. Glancing towards the bar I recalled the ten minute conversation I’d had there the year before. It inspired one of my favourite blog posts of 2025, One Must Imagine Marty and John Happy: Two Strangers Discuss the Absurd in an Ambleside Pub.
Almost any emotion or experience can provide a fruitful source of inspiration if approached with an open mind. I remember one time I was incredibly frustrated at being stuck for ideas to write about. I used the frustration as the starting point for a new piece. I Was Going To Write Today is another of my favourite blog posts and the only one I’ve read publically. I remember the taste of its closing words after listing the many reasons — excuses — for not being able to write.
And in the meantime the world goes on. And other people write. And they are not necessarily “inspired.” And they probably don’t have the right pen or the perfect notebook. Maybe they found the back of an envelope to scribble on when their laptop crashed so they didn’t lose what was bursting to get out. And maybe the cat just spewed up or the baby did. Or they feel sick today or depressed or despair of ever making a difference or even getting through another day fuck even another hour but you know what they dare anyway they dare to care and write and scream sigh vomit breathe craft something from the guts of them because sometimes that’s all you have and all you can offer to the world and sometimes it is enough you are enough YOU ARE ENOUGH.
I was going to write today. Maybe I did.
Since returning from vacation I’ve given more thought to what went wrong with my guest post for Sophie. Not my workflow but the more than fifteen hundred words I’d actually written. I realised I’d been trying to include too much. This was deliciously ironic, given that the topic was how we tend to carry too much in our mental and emotional backpacks. I reached for a pad of paper and sketched out everything I’d attempted to cram into the article. Way too much! It might work if I focused on one or two aspects rather than trying to cover everything in one go, but I’ve yet to decide if I want to make the attempt.
Sophie was very understanding when I told her I’d had to abandon the piece I’d promised her. It probably helps that she’s a therapist as well as being a lovely person! For more on her perspective and work check out her post The Power of Being Heard and Understood here on at Gum on My Shoe and her website.
Over to You
In this post I’ve shared some of the lessons I’ve learned about handling frustration and disappointment, both as a writer and more generally. How do you handle things when things don’t work out the way you’d hoped or anticipated? Do you adapt readily to changes or find it hard to regroup and pick up again? Fran and I would love to hear your thoughts and experiences, either in the comments below or via our contact page.
Photo by Steve A Johnson at Unsplash.
Comments
Post a Comment