The Utter Joy Of One's Craft

The fire crackles contentedly in the grate. The sound of one child practising the lute for his school concert drifts across from the music room, while the happy laughter of the other two tells me that they have finished their homework without being asked and are now having a jolly good game of outdoor chess.

How blessed I am to be a full-time writer! The writing studio in which I sit nestles elegantly in our immaculate garden. As I gaze out over the weed-free expanse to our beautiful Georgian house, my eye lights upon the bookshelves filled with the fruits of my labours. My agent has been trying to get hold of me, no doubt to fine-tune the details of my next European tour, but I’m so intent on honing and polishing my latest novel that I am ignoring her increasingly peevish answerphone messages.

Good heavens, I am most terribly sorry. I appear to have written two paragraphs of complete guff. I think I’ve been drinking too much coffee.

If you’re still with me and haven’t disappeared to take out the bins, I hope you’ll forgive me for indulging myself with a bit of fantasy. Sometimes I amuse myself by drafting imaginary bios. My favourite phrase is: “She divides her time …..” as in: “She divides her time between her cottage in Cornwall and her estate in Puglia.” In fact, it would be closer to the truth to say: “She divides her time between the kitchen and the A12” since I seem to spend half my life washing up and the other half driving children to and from school and college up and down the said highway.

I wrote this blog weeks ago, long before we even knew about the dreaded virus. The underlying reason for its creation was to poke gentle fun at those, "Look at me, my life is perfect" posts on Facebook and Instagram, which, at best annoy we authentically messy types, and at worst can plunge us into a slough of doubt and shame. My life now, in self-isolation, is no more perfect than ever it was. Yes, we made some scones yesterday. No, I haven't drawn up a daily timetable for the children's education. Yes, I put all the socks away, cleaned and tidied my bedroom and mowed the lawn. No, I haven't instigated a daily exercise routine. Today, more than ever, it's vitally important for writers like us to tell the truth as we see it, to encourage, to uplift, to comfort with our words.

I'm a serious person, but I do love to laugh and to amuse others. I'm re-reading Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time and like Elizabeth Bennet, "I dearly love a laugh." Humour has kept me going for the last few weeks - laughing with my friends on FaceTime, checking in with the hilarious Celeste Barber every day (#celestechallengeaccepted) and choosing only uplifting literature to read. Leigh Towers is a dystopian-free zone at present.

Back to my “sorted” writer. (Isabella M Smugge is her name). She sounds pretty annoying, doesn't she? If I met her at a writers’ day, I’d steer clear as soon as she started rabbiting on about the utter joy of being a full-time writer in her gracious Georgian home. 

Being a writer is hard. It can be lonely. That’s the truth. Dark thoughts go through your mind. What if you never shake off that writer’s block? What if everyone hates your writing once you do? What if you’ve been kidding yourself all along and can’t write for toffee?

The writing which affects and encourages me the most is that produced by people who don’t pretend. They’re honest about their struggles. They don’t draw a veil over their pitfalls and stumbling blocks, but point them out, so that their readers won’t stumble when they pass that way. They take the leap of faith, drop the pretence and share their worries, their limitations, their darkness.

I must have read this verse a hundred times, and yet today, writing this blog, it leapt out and smacked me between the eyes. “If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness.” (2 Corinthians 11:30). Counter-cultural, philosophical, thought-provoking. The complete opposite of Isabella M Smugge tinkering away in her blasted studio.

May God bless you in your writing today and every day.

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three delightful children, runs her own catering company and has 13 chickens and 6 quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, writes poetry as the mood takes her, writes for a number of Christian charities and has just started writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever, keeps meaning to slow down and is now able to do the school/college run in her onesie most days. She blogs at Big Words And Made Up Stories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle production plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

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