Struggling to find myself

Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.

Recently, my writing has deserted me. I sit and stare at my computer screen as if divine intervention will descend from the ether to touch my fingers and see them race across the keyboard. It isn’t happening! My two little sausage dogs, aware of my consternation, cuddle up beside me. Willow places her head in my lap and looks mournful, while Bear burrows in under my tunic, hardly breathing. It’s clear that my sense of loss and desertion has permeated through to them as they tip-toe around me until I give up and do something else, huffing loudly at my own sense of uselessness.

Thinking rationally, it’s not unusual at this time of year for me to find that, like the world around me, I go into a kind of hibernation, braving the cold only when I have to. My existence shrinks into the pages of a book as every afternoon as I take to the dining room and the log burner, and my two little sausages use me like a giant cushion. On the plus side, I’ve caught up on my reading, having demolished possibly as many as 20 covers this winter, but even that has its drawbacks as I’m overly critical.

I want to read stories that are really well written and I can’t guess the endings. Books that challenge me on some level; that educate and enlighten me. I realise that finding such a read is a tall order as, quite naturally, what equates to a ‘good book’ is entirely subjective. In my opinion, 98% of what’s heralded by numerous hyperboles and critics as “the book of the year”, is total tosh.

I’ve learned that the moment it says “Turned into a major film”, I should avoid it. The other issue for me is that unlike most people I know, I never revisit a book; once I’ve read it, I’ve read it and it’s done and dusted. So I never find old friends or seek familiarity in a book.

I’ve loved the classics since childhood and writers like Graham Greene, Charles Dickens, Louise Erdrich, John Irving, and many of the obviously acclaimed authors have given me great pleasure. But finding new writers that take the mustard is a real challenge for me. There’s also those embarrassing moments when friends insist on giving me books because “I’ll love it!”, only for me to hate it, finding it trite, obvious, and badly written.

My other thing is that I always read two books at the same time; one fiction and one non-fiction. The non-fiction is often historical or medical (but not always). Great, you’d think, but whilst I’m used to dealing with quite complex subjects, some non-fiction writers seem to forget that other people are actually supposed to read the books and it’s like wading through treacle.

I hate self-help books, especially those that claim to “change your life”. And perhaps worse are those fiction authors designated as “holiday reads/light entertainment” as, for me, it’s just not happening. Perhaps the exception to this was Conclave, which I did enjoy (and has now been turned into a major film!). It was done and dusted in two afternoons and while it wasn’t particularly well-written, the characters were developed well and it had a cheeky little twist at the end which made me smile. I also really enjoyed The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. It’s hardly ‘holiday literature’ and not exactly ‘jolly’ on any level, but is well crafted and beautifully written.