A TOAST TO COURAGE, by Pauline Fisk

It’s pitiable what we authors will sometimes do to get out of writing. Let me illustrate with a little story.  Four years ago, I started having a problem with red wine.  I liked red wine, but it no longer liked me and my throat began to hurt every time I drank it.

I switched to white.  Fine for a while, but then white wine took against me too.  Not to be put off, I became a lager ladyette instead.  But then that became a problem too. So I turned to Coke [a-Cola] - only to discover that fizzy drinks were out as well.

Thank God I could still drink coffee, tea and water on the rocks.  Lots of water on the rocks, because by that time certain foods had started going funny on me too.  Spicy foods became difficult to swallow, followed by acidic food, meaty foods, potatoes, including roasted and chipped, foods flavoured with tomato, vinegar, pepper or salt, most vegetables, most meals that were served hot, most treats including chocolate, strawberries, raspberries, dried fruit and even the bland and humble banana.

Eighteen months ago I went on a trip with my brother, who happens to be a doctor, which means when he sees his sister wincing over her every mouth of food, he doesn’t accept it as yet another example of Pauline’s random oddness, but leans across the table and says, ‘Okay, what’s wrong?’

As a result of that encounter, I’ve been in the hand of the NHS for the last seventeen months, which believe me – especially nowadays, thank you certain politicians – is not a good place to be.  I’ve had tests you don’t want to know about, and neither did I, experienced the loss of my case notes [twice] [as good a way of doctoring waiting lists as I’ve yet come across] and generally been passed around from pillar to post, sometimes in tears I’m ashamed to admit.  I’m assured that my life’s not at risk - no nasty cancer lurking or anything like that.  But the medication I’ve been put on hasn’t worked yet after several months. The only positive thing I can say about the situation is that - much as you’d expect from someone who's only comfortable consuming bread, Complan and vanilla ice cream – I’ve lost loads of weight.

Medical health is boring at the best of times. I’ve had plenty of time to think about this, so I know what I’m saying here.   So why am I boring you, you may well ask.  Am I after pity [good God, no]?  Or answers [I’m past caring, believe it or not – I just want whatever I’ve got to go away]?  Or is there some other reason I’m writing this?

Well, yes. Actually there is. What I’m meant to be writing about this month, what I’d promised myself I’d write about this month, what I even want to write about this month is my new book and the glorious news [at least to me] that I’ve started work on it.  At last.  

Except that I haven’t, I’m afraid. I've written this instead.

What is it with us authors? In my case, I’ve had a book in the pipeline for the last couple of years, thinking, scribbling, reading around my subject and generally pecking away at it on and off.  Last year I even went on a little research trip to fire myself up, but that was the trip when my brother came along, and afterwards I allowed the NHS to distract me, and now I’m doing it again by writing this post.   

Sometimes the distractions have come thick and fast - new grandchildren; author visits; Christmas; sorting out my website; joining Authors Electric and the Scattered Authors Society; bringing out ‘Midnight Blue’ as an ebook and now [soon] ‘Telling the Sea’; setting up Shrewsbury’s first National Flash Fiction Day; weaving tapestries for an exhibition and at the exhibition holding weaver-in-residence days; running writing workshops; going to Canada and writing a Canada blog; cleaning my house [yes, even that]; even going to Birmingham last week to buy the new Kindle Fire [yum, yum, it’s beautiful – more about that next month]. And now even writing this post on any other subject than the new book.

The good news about all this distraction is that it provides a chance to explore why I write.   Is it for the money [ha ha]? Is it because I can't stop? Because I don't dare stop? Because I won't feel like a worthwhile person unless I write? Or is the stories themselves that call to me? In which case, why am I excusing myself with the pathetical argument that I can’t write because my desk is too untidy, that I can’t tidy my desk because I’ve run out of bookshelf space, that I can’t buy new bookshelves because I'm hard up and I'm hard up because  I'm not writing any new books.

Why do we authors do this sort of thing to ourselves? Why is it that the one thing more than any other that we love to [want to, need to] do is the one thing that we won’t? For twenty years I never knew what writers' block was all about.  I wrote novels seamlessly back to back, barely stopping to rest. Even before that, in my earlier writing life, I was rarely to be found without notebook or pen. In fact, ever since that first little portable Olivetti my parents bought me at the age of ten [when I'd made my big career decision to become a writer when I grew up], I’ve rarely been without a keyboard either.

And now look at me, sitting in front of my lovely state-of-the-art Apple with a book bursting to be written and my head full of wonderful ideas, spending my time blogging about bookshelves and my stupid health! Never mind that I can't swallow food or glug down wine - if you want to pity me for anything, pity me for that.  

A while ago I had a conversation about this sort of thing with my agent, the wise and wonderful Laura Cecil.  ‘What you need is courage,’ she said.  And she was right.  She'd hit the nail on the head. 

Every book I’ve ever written has taken courage, but it's fair to say it's only recently I've  recognized how much. Those of you who are authors will know exactly what I'm talking about here.  Books call us to make steps in the dark, put our lives on  hold and take risks. And all for what? Often we've  no idea if anyone - including our publishers - will like what we write and, if they do, if anyone will buy.  Even if they do buy, we're to be found wondering if our books even justify the loss of all those trees. What do they count for in the grand scheme of things?  What do they even count for in our small schemes?  

These are hard times for writers, no matter what the publishers may say at conferences about us never having it so good. Old certainties are collapsing or have long-since collapsed. None of us can be sure where we stand in the face of new mega-corporations like Random Penguin, nor what these corporations bode for the future of publishing.  But the stories are still happening all around us, begging to be written.  And the world still loves stories, so the need is still there. In fact, in the face of the total ghastliness to be found in some bookshops these days, the need for writing of courage and conviction - writing that costs - is even greater than before. 

So a toast to courage, that's what I say.  And having reached my almost last word on the subject - which means [oh dear] there’s nothing left to keep me from it – a toast to starting the next book.