I’ve just finished writing a book. It’s far too long, but I hope some of it is something. It’s my first attempt at fiction and it’s been a pleasure to build a world then spend time in it. It’s with my agent to share feedback so, for now, the only thing to do is step back and wait. Everyone keeps telling me it’s an opportunity to slow down and take on inspiration. Don’t you know me, I think. I thrive on spreading myself too thin! I love a long to do list, like being busy equals being important. I should be having lie ins, reading and walking the long way to work. Instead, I feel fidgety.
I don’t like not being in the driving seat. But of course, nobody does. My partner is always telling me to enjoy the process. At the end of the day, that’s all we have, he says. It’s a pain when he’s right. But he usually is on these things.
And I have loved the process. The last year has been magic. It’s been like having a naughty little secret. A place only I can go. Somewhere to escape. Every night when I get into bed, I wrap myself in the folds of my duvet, close my eyes and play scenes in my head like a movie. Then in the morning I sit and write them down. Sometimes, to jog my memory, I look back at what I’ve written on Notes feverishly in the night. Stuff like:
Knowing = tending someone else’s soil
Swallow vinegary envy
Sister says ‘Wife duties at girlfriend prices’
Add baked bean lasagne to dinner scene
Cillian’s smell?
Mostly, I have no idea what I mean. I love becoming an expert on strange things. Like what an Ecological Officer might spend their days doing, the phenomena of EDC (Every Day Carry) and floral and fauna on Lundy island.
So, this pause feels unsettling. It’s a bit like a breakup, but before you move on and get obsessed with someone new. I haven’t yet defined my new identity without this project. I keep worrying on it while I wait, like the way your tongue returns to a loose tooth. You keep returning to it. I’m going over every little thing and comparing myself to prettier, sexier, newer, less naggy manuscripts. What if no one wants my book? What if it’s rubbish? What if no one likes my silly little story about silly little women’s things?
I guess what I’m trying to say is: I feel powerless. Like a boat without oars on the tides of the publishing industry. And often the purpose of writing—for me at least—has been an attempt to get power over the narratives in my life.
So, I thought why not take back some power and write a newsletter! (Imagine some extension of the boat / ocean metaphor here). I’ll share notes on love, loss and the restorative power of nature. Sometimes fiction too! Because I love a short story.
My last book was about tidal pools. But it wasn’t really. It was about grief. I’m not done with that yet. So, expect it here. I’ve also been thinking about something Jade Angeles Fitton—the wonderful author of Hermit—said to me at an event we did together in Hampstead Heath. That, really, I write about love. And I think she’s right.
In each entry I’ll also share the nature I’m noticing, questions I’m asking and answers I’ve found. Hope to see you there.
Freya x
P.S I’m gonna keep this free. But mostly because I’d love it if you buy my book, The Tidal Year. Please buy it!
Nature I’m noticing…
Japanese Quince by the Co-Op. Flashes of blood red buds surrounded by dagger thorns.
Opal skys in Tankerton.
Long pink earthworms under my olive tree after it knocked over in the storm.
Stopping to appreciate the shapes of leaf-less trees with their broom-twig branches. Trees, you look great naked!
Questions I’m asking…
Is it just me that gets pins and needles in my crotch from wearing jeans all day?
Why is there no seaglass on Whitstable beach?
Should I have a baby?
Will I always be this distractible or should I work harder at patience?
Seriously, is it just me on the jeans thing?
Answers I’ve found…
When you point the finger, there’s three fingers pointing back at you.
Perhaps swimming is something I needed when I was unhappy, and I don’t need it as much anymore.
Eating vegetables before a load of bread stops a glucose spike.
No one is thinking about you as much as you think. Seriously, no one cares Freya.
As always, the questions and answers don’t seem to match. That’s ok.