The voices are back!

Just before Christmas, we had three nights away in a little rural town up the coast. Dairy, rainforest, mountains. Also, artists, craftspeople, artisanal cheese. We stayed in an elevated house with white everything, no clutter, no dust, air conditioning, and a view. Bliss.

And unlike every other holiday, I announced that I was having one, too. We ate takeout and you know what I did? I sat on my backside, on the sofa, plotting my next book.

I’d written quite a lot, you see, and although I knew exactly where we were going, I wasn’t sure how we were going to get there. With all these distractions, it’s easy to write round Robin Hood’s barn. Which, while entertaining for me, is probably less so for readers, and not a terribly efficient process. I need a map so that whenever I find a scrap of writing time, I know exactly where I am and what to do. By the time we came home, I had it: a breakdown of everything that has to happen in each chapter, and the first five chapters, trimmed and shaped. Ready to go!

But, ah jeez. 2021.

This week, our GP sent Mr Pixel to a dietitian who thinks his chronic health problems are down to a long-undiagnosed food intolerance and has ordered him to quit dairy. Clearly she’s never met a teenage boy before, let alone a neurodiverse one, and has no inkling what it will take to separate him from his cheese. Once I get him out of Fort Not Gonna, that is.

In the same week, Mum began reporting severe headaches, and can I just say this is NOT what you want to hear from an 85yo who has already had two small strokes?

Fortunately, it’s not her brain, it’s just diabetes. (!) Complicating matters – because why would anything be straight? – Mum is on a strict low-fibre diet. Do my sister and I have the knowledge and headspace to figure out a diet for diabetes + low fibre + dementia + congenital stubbornness? DO WE HELL. We can manage half that, but we need help. Cue much research, because even finding someone to be a useful part of the team takes a hella lot of work.

And this is after February, which was after January, both of which seem, bizarrely, to still be happening.

Wanna guess how much fiction writing I’ve done this year?


Turns out that therapeutic as writing is, you need a certain amount of freeboard to do it, and I didn’t have it.

All I have is implosions and explosions, coaxing, cajoling, coaching, guiding, reminding, feeding, and reading. So much reading. Apparently 2021 is the parenting Olympics here and I’m in every goddamn event. Can’t hear the voices when you’re racing to the next meltdown.

But a wonderful thing happened. I reached out to a friend. One of those miraculous friends who lives in my computer and yet somehow gets it, all of it, every last speck, one of the unalloyed blessings of this chaotic age. She was in a similar pit, so we raised virtual martinis to the crap, and then we started constructing our ladders. Two things, she said, that we can do for ourselves, for a week. Three days, I said; I didn’t think I had a week in me. Deal, she said.

My things were doing my physio exercises, and making sure I showered.

Yep. That’s where the bar was.

But the saving grace of being in a pit is that any step, no matter how small, takes you in the right direction.

As it happens, I didn’t manage to do my exercises and shower for three days.

But I did enough to feel better, both physically and morale-wise. When my friend said she could go another three days, I signed up. Did a bit more. Felt a bit better. Got up the next day and did that all again. Had a sweeter interaction with my kid, chipped a notch off his anxiety. Slipped back a step. Gritted my teeth, had a shower. Did it again. Found I had the energy to start making salads.

And suddenly, the voices were back. My characters talked themselves through the impasse; the chapter was done in about two days. So that’s six in the can; 21 to go. Chapter 7 is one that’s already written and just needs the front end trimmed, chapter 8 … well, let’s not get too excited.

It won’t be straight up from here, of course. It never is. But at 51 I’m still surprised by how little it takes, to give yourself some leverage. Every time you take that first step, it gets a little easier. And every time you keep going, that bit gets easier, too.

Especially if you have a friend doing it with you, even from the other side of the planet.

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