Blog from my Bubble

Day 12 of  the Covid-19 lockdown in New Zealand.

Today the Queen addressed the Commonwealth and I must say it was a jolly good speech. It is a rare event for her to speak other than at Christmas time so I guess she thought her subjects, whether ardent royalists or ho-hummers like myself, could all do with a stiff shot of reassurance that we will indeed get through the turbulence inflicted upon the planet by Covid-19.

Better days will come, the Queen promised us and I believe her, don't you?  She has, after all, survived 100% of all the dramas she has ever been through.

On a personal and selfish level, I hope for better days when it comes to my writing.  It has been years since I wrote a blog.  Oh, I have my excuses , the least plausible being, "I was busy", but that is just feeble because we all know that the most productive people are always busy. They have learned to prioritise, organise, strategise and well, they just do what they have to do - and then some more.

I, on the other hand, am horribly prone to paralysis and it baffles me as to why even what I love to do most - creative writing - is so adversely affected. Why, oh why, do I find it easier to mop the kitchen floor than write a blog?  Why does melancholy set in, smothering my energy and focus? Of course that in turn exacerbates the paralysis and I spiral into an even worse lethargy. This vicious cycle has been driving me crazy for decades.

Even now, in the midst of this Covid-19 lock-down, when I have a blank canvas in front of me every single day, my creativity eludes me. An opportunity wasted. I am the frustrated child who longs to unwrap my gift from under the Christmas tree but there is too much sticky tape. I am the weary adult flipping through a book of amazing motivational quotes but finding not one that can lure my fingers over to the keyboard to tap out a single sentence.

So, what is wrong?

One young woman I had coffee with over a year ago said something interesting to me. She had spent most of her 31 years under the spell of a cult-like church where she was told what to think and when to think it.  Eventually she got a gut-full and these days she is a kickin' and fightin' to reclaim who on earth she really is.

She urged me to write whatever I want. She told me that I am a scaredy-cat. She told me we are not placed on this planet to tailor our opinions and thoughts to what we think others want to hear. We are here to be real.

So who knows? Maybe my paralysis has been nothing more than an understandable terror of negative feedback? Or simply a resistance to writing stuff that is personal? I have been long avoiding the word, 'vulnerable' because it is is such a trendy concept these days but, actually, there is no adequate substitute. I have been avoiding both the word and the feeling.

If nothing else, maybe I should start writing for me. Just for me but allow you into my world now and then?

Wish me luck.