Suspended somewhere between the present and the future

Sat here in my favourite coffee shop, there’s a buzz of conversation. Mums with babies, blokes like me, silent monks buried in contemplation, half-consumed cake, laptops, music, wobbly tables, and proper floorboards.

It has a writing vibe. Not a meeting point for avant-garde artists and poets but a – I don’t know – a welcoming hum. A place of anonymity amongst crowds. And the music isn’t intrusive but loud enough to tap along to.

Why am I here? The estate agent is showing another potential buyer around my house, so I’ve relocated here, wondering if my blog-writing-tryst will be interrupted by a promising phone call.

Whilst my body lives in the present, my mind is less confined by the clock. I confess I have already built an extension, or a writing shed, or a garage, or all three at the new house. The only drawback is that the future is dependent on the present; got to sell mine first. Time is frustratingly linear!

It’s the same disconnect at the moment with my writing – it’s suspended somewhere between the present and the future. The present seems to be as well-defined as a warmed-up slab of chewing gum, stretching far into an uncertain future. The book is written, but awaiting editing, a cover, blurb, publishing, book launch, and marketing…and its sequel seems to be lurking just out of reach, over the horizon. 

What to do?

Note to self: a few things come to mind:

• Ask ‘What is your core purpose as a (Christian) writer?’ If that’s too heavy a question over coffee and cake then maybe a 9 pm vigil in the back garden, cigar and whisky to hand, will help?

• Remind oneself that the Holy Spirit is at work sharing His patience…or, more accurately, forming His patience in me, to be content to be led at the right time

• Keep exercising the writing muscles – poetry, blogs, short stories

• Read books, but try not to analyse the text so heavily that enjoying the story is lost…but note mastery of technique in passing e.g. Ian Rankin’s skill at planting incidental small actions within the dialogue

OK, it’s time to leave. The remaining froth in my flat white requires a spoon, my cheesecake is no more, and there’s been no phone call from the estate agent…yet.

The future is pressing its claim. It’s almost time to exit. But I’m sitting here caught up in the thought that this rather impromptu post might just encourage someone else who’s floundering in an ‘in-between’ state, between the present writing project and what lies tantalisingly just over the horizon. 

If so you’re welcome to join me – in spirit – 9pm. Back garden.