Again with the tensions. Last night was a great writing session over MSN with W2B that was cut frustratingly short by our messages failing and problems with the service. What we were doing felt exhausting to me, after I’d strained to push out a first version of the verse, and being disrupted just made me wearier still.

It was already quite late by this point, and we’d already made some great progress, so it felt like a natural break though unnaturally forced on us. But my better half was still raring to go, had only really just got started, and I know the time difference had little to do with it, especially when I had tried and failed to write a post here during the evening and then once again after we’d broken off.

The tension I’ve got now isn’t so much about not writing, or trying to write. It’s the writing I’m doing at work. These posts have been great, healthy exercises, and the work we’ve done on the poem has been progressive writing, feeling like it’s getting better at the same time as we’re getting better working together and I’m getting better and more used to a daily writing schedule. This week, however, I’ve also been juggling a big writing project in the office.

I’m writing an entire brochure, which involves a huge amount of design thought, editing of existing work, reading and taking in a lot of previous messaging and then creating something which turns it all into a cohesive whole. Plus, since it’s writing, I’m trying so hard for it to be brilliant and different and avoid stale, boring prose. I’m trying to prove myself, while writing in a way which really doesn’t fit to my skills. It’s like attempting to show your clothes sense while wearing someone else’s ill-fitting wardrobe.

Not much else to say, aside from that I may have to learn a very hard lesson – I can keep work at bay, and I can turn off on the walk home and not think about the pressures or demands of the office. But I’m going to have to learn how to do that in my writing, and leave the writing I do in the office, in the office, so that the writing I do for myself can really breathe. I’ve failed before, and burnt out like a sodden cardboard match. Not again, thanks.

About Ben Catley-Richardson

Writer, reader, husband. Father!
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