Temptations away from the blank page

how I write

It has been difficult lately to sit and do my work. The writing work. I managed to finish a master's degree a couple of weeks ago, and I had told myself for months that as soon as it finished, I’d have the time, space, and energy to get back to the writing work I really want to do moving forward. But of course, it’s never like that, really. The things I put in front of me in an effort to procrastinate the things I actually want work so well to distract me from the fear I have about doing the work I want to do. That’s a mouthful because my bullshit patterns feel like a mouthful.

And then there is our broken world and how all-consuming it is. It feels trivial to write these little missives with multiple genocides happening in Palestine, Congo, and Sudan. The burning planet. To write from my comfortable desk, in relative safety, with food to eat. Does it do anything at all? What’s the point?

Patti Smith

spoke about this in a video on her Substack this week, and it helped remind me to continue. I wasn’t planning on giving up, but I also haven’t felt like anything I have to say matters right now. This is often a struggle for artists: to keep working despite and because of the state of the world, which has always been broken and full of violence.

Last week, I had the privilege of attending a writing retreat where the high desert meets the mountains in New Mexico, a place I’d never been before. On one of the days, we were invited to consider how we write through a writing prompt. As I move forward over the coming summer months, I’d like to reconsider how I write because so much of my writing practice is inconsistent. I don’t always write with an aim in mind — my hand moves across the page, and I discover new bits of information I didn’t know existed within me. I surprise myself, something that doesn’t happen when I’m roaming around the dark alleys of my brain.

How I write always reminds me that I’m a part of something bigger than myself. I’m descended from a lineage of both realised and unrealised wit and intellect, so many artists and bright minds have come before me. I imagine past lives and ancestors of penniless Irish writers, French healers, and stoic, sensitive souls. I write because nothing else makes sense except for when my fingers are tapping across the keys. I write to make sense of myself.

I can barely make sense of what’s out there, but in here? There’s fragrant jasmine, green gardens, and burnt toast with heaps of butter. Crumbs on my keyboard and butter residue on the keys. Even as I write this, the remnants of toast and a small square of butter sit on the table next to me. Flour and butter revving the engine of my thoughts on paper. I almost always write with toast and tea. A necessary ritual to mete out ideas.

I don’t have a time of day that I write best, and I don’t understand advice to writers about when to write because, to me, it feels so personal. But if we’re being honest, most times of the day are inopportune for writing. As a result, I have always sought out advice from writers because if someone can just tell me the best thing to do, I’ll listen to it for one day (maybe two) and then do the total opposite every day following for the rest of my life. It’s almost always a better time to do laundry, water the plants, or make an Ottolenghi recipe with 900 ingredients, some of which I have to travel an hour to get. It’s almost always the best time to avoid writing. But still, here I am, writing to you on a Tuesday in June. Returning because that’s what feels best in a broken world.

With love,

Nora x