It’s strange to find how easy it is to lose one’s way as a writer. My intense output throughout the latter stages of 2020 and into Spring 2021 gave way to a time, not only of taking a ‘little break’ from writing, but finding myself lost and adrift. Without a long-term project, the shorter ‘deadline’ pieces came and went but without their usual sense of satisfaction. Social media was leaving me despondent and jealous. I’d lost something vital somewhere along the line.
Last weekend, having had plans cancelled due to the ever-rumbling pandemic, I decided to go to the coast on the train. It had been a little dream of mine since moving to this town last October, to be able to walk to the station and take myself off on an adventure or two; and I was finally making it come true. The day was overcast but my heart was lifted. Not even the noisy about-to-have-a-day-on-the-Broads party and their yapping dog could spoil the journey. As the train passed fields, with their poppy-lined borders, and the sea began to come into view, I was beaming. But it wasn’t the only reason…
I’d taken a companion with me. She’s long been an important influence on me – not that it shows too much – and we went into the tea-rooms together, her tucked into my bag. Once the coffee had come, with its fragrant, lavender scone still warm from the oven, I opened my book and we continued our conversation. You might argue that it wasn’t real. I mean, Beatrix Potter wasn’t exactly sitting opposite me at the table. And yet, I find that she speaks to me and, as I listened through the flat words on the page, she continued to do so.
After ‘our’ tea break, I went on a walk along the coastal path, pausing on a bench to look at the sea and read another chapter. It was then that I sensed the Holy Spirit join me, stirring my heart so that I felt I wanted to write again. Felt I could write again.
On the return journey, I came across this sentence, which sealed the deal: ‘Conveying truth by means of fantasy, enlarging our perception of life by poetic means, is one of the highest functions of art…’[1]
Who wouldn’t want to be a part of that?
[1] The Tale of Beatrix Potter by Margaret Lane (Penguin, 1986)