Second Helpings

Writing and Other Animals

In one of my many files I have a list of titles for novels I'm pretty sure I'll never write. My latest one is more of an advice book than fiction and goes by the name 'The Art of Faffing' Faffing is in the dictionary and I have recently realised it's something I devote a lot of time to. I suspect it's a waste of precious time too, but breaking deep rooted habits is a difficult one.

I have a lot of interests I can pursue at home. I enjoy knitting and can also use a machine. I like glass painting, card and jewellery making, gardening and photography. I have dabbled in watercolours and still have my paints in a cupboard along with a multitude of other materials I planned on using one day. I quite enjoy cooking and baking, love reading, music and watching films, so on the rare day I spend at home I am never short of choices or left wondering what to do. Just the opposite in fact.

We all know life gets in the way of our plans and there are always niggling jobs to do as well as unexpected interruptions. But faffing isn't compulsory, so I frequently question why I do it so much. My definition of faffing is sorting out those cupbooards that contain all the materials I should be employing, reorganising stuff, downsizing and making lists of plans. But I know full well this is achieving nothing.

Maybe it's a way of life for a perfectionist, a symptom of OCD or the behaviour of someone with ADHD, but no matter what acronym we apply it makes no difference to the condition. How do you break away from repetitive behaviour and focus on what you really want to do? It sounds like it should be a simple matter of ignoring clutter, messy drawers and cupboards, forgetting about ridding yourself of unwanted items and just going for it. But even with a new found determination I know it wouldn't be long before I was sidetracked or sucked in by diversions. Is it that deep down I don't really want to do these things, preferring just the idea of them for fear of disappointment? Is it a self inflicted punishment because I feel I need to tackle chores and complete unfinished backlogs before I'm allowed to indulge myself? Over analysing is yet another bad habit of mine.

But above all these many interests and potential projects comes writing. It has always been my passion, though the hard work and focus involved are not particularly as appealing as a relaxing craft session or an absorbing film. I have described this writing bug as more of a need than a want and sometimes a need I wish I didn't have. I rarely plan on writing, but if I don't it builds up like a well of emotion that has to find release somehow. It took me a long time to realise I've been writing for most of my life and it took a casual writing class to give me the confidence to believe it's something I could potentially do well. So can many others I know.

So my recent faffing sessions have involved sorting out my writing cupboard with the intention of seriously focussing on some worthwhile writing before it really is too late. There are files of finished and unfinished pieces from the past decade, writing guidelines, ideas and tips, useful phrases, publishing advice and competitions. There is no doubt I could find something to complete, competitions I could enter with finished poems, articles and stories or the option to begin something completely new and hopefully more in depth.

But then I come across files from WDC and find myself drifting back to the past. The Blogville News, now dead and buried, but a project that kept me busy and (in) sane through some very tough times. The Saturday series I wrote with Nada centred around memories from music through the years, which kept us purposely busy and acquired a lot of readers. The interactive stories I find it hard not to resist reading again because they represent a special time on WDC when a crazy group of writers formed close friendships through involvement in joint writing efforts.

There were the hilarious Duck Wars and a manic adventure across the seas in the quest to visit Robin Hood. Those days were such fun and the resulting stories I find it hard to discard. So instead of writing I find myself reading through these stories and surprisingly teary at the end. It's sad so many members have now moved on, no longer write or keep in touch. I have contact with some, but it's scanty and intermittent. Times change. We cannot recreate those magical days and probably wouldn't want to as they took up a lot of time and effort. But in those days it ensured I wrote, even if it was just silly blog entries or chapters of loony adventures. These days it takes all my brain power to write a daily Haiku and a weekly blog post.

Maybe it's an age thing. Everything slows down, including the energy and enthusiasm for writing. Possibly it's the advent of more and more technological devices which I find too tempting and interesting to dismiss. Perhaps the long years of parent caring and now baby minding have chipped away at my sense of purpose and desire to achieve something meaningful in life. There are no doubt many factors involved, but I believe the faffing is the main reason these days why I just never settle down and seriously write.

I wonder if there's a self help group for faffers? 'My name is Scarlett and I'm a Faffaholic.' Maybe it's time to just either accept I'll always be this way or do something about it to enable the writing need to really take on some meaning and blossom. I think I should start the first chapter of a potential novel...

After I've finished faffing in the writing file cupboard.