Death: Not The Final Nail in The Coffin for Your Writing, But Still a Pain in The Arse

No, I’m not dead yet (at least not the last time I looked, although I suppose it’s stating the bleedin’ obvious that if I were dead I wouldn’t be able to write again), but I’m talking about the death of a loved one.

Three weeks ago, my old mum succumbed to pneumonia and the ravages of dementia and passed into the next world to take up where she left off and started nagging my dad again, with me at her bedside at the end, holding her hand and telling her he was waiting for her. Any minute now, I thought, she’s going to sit up and tell me to shut my gob and let her die in peace; and so she did die at 7.30 in the morning. I’m naturally upset, but her dementia and schizophrenia are no more and she was 89; not always a good life, but a long one. I’m glad for her she’s gone.

Since then, my feet have barely touched the ground: a funeral to arrange, an endless list of officials to tell, a solicitor to consult about wills and probate, red tape and palaver to get through. I already have a bulging Manila folder related to her estate. My book Episode hasn’t been on my mind since and I haven’t had the energy to pick up my pen, nor have I been able to find the strength to do any book promotion for my other titles. There go my Christmas sales!

Yeah, wouldn’t you know it, there’s Christmas slap bang in the middle of it all; and that four letter word, work.

I’ll grieve when I get round to it, shall I?

This is the first time I’ve even thought about writing and I see this blog post as the first step to motivating myself to get started again, but not until January. Maybe not even then; dunno, yet. Not even mindfulness can get me through this period right now. It seems selfish to even try a practice.

Work, though, now I can probably find the time to get that finally sorted out. New year, new start.

I’ve said this before, but I don’t usually like New Year. This time around, however, what with the shock of Keith’s illness and Mum’s passing, 2015 can kiss my weary arse. On New Year’s Eve I plan to dance naked around the garden with a party hat and Manhattan cocktail, welcoming 2016 and daring it to piss me off just once. It should be mild enough, it’s been so un-December like in the UK lately, and even if it’s below zero so what, Keith can stand at the door painfully embarrassed calling me a chav as he does sometimes and it’ll give the neighbours something to laugh at.



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