Recently I’ve been ill. Seriously ill.
Asthma attacks and chest infections do not mix!
After four weeks of what I thought was a cold, I relented and realised I needed to see someone for some medication. I had rugby to go to six days later, and realised I needed my voice and lung capacity to cheer on my men. I had booked an appointment on a Sunday at the Urgent Care facility, based next to my local A&E department at the hospital where I live. I pulled into the parking space, and was standing in the queue to pay for my ticket, before walking over to Urgent Care. The walk is no more than one hundred yards, but when you’ve a severe chest infection and you’re an asthmatic, it may as well be one hundred miles for how easily you’d be able to traverse it.
Whilst I was standing there, being ever-so-British and waiting my turn to pay whilst the man in front of me was trying to work out how to use the machine, I was worried about walking back to the car to put the ticket in the window, and then having to walk back on myself to go to the appointment I had. During this time, the simple act of standing up was taking its toll on me, and I began to struggle to get oxygen into my lungs.
I was having an asthma attack.
Clutching for my inhalers in the mini make-up bag hanging around my wrist, the man asked me if I was all right, and I shook my head to suggest I wasn’t, admitting defeat. There were two ladies who were stood outside the building and saw I was struggling – thank goodness I live somewhere where the people are lovely and still have a strong community spirit – and came over to help. The man had fetched a wheeled chair, and the ladies were helping me to keep my inhaler attached to my spacer and trying to coach my breathing (bless them). They wheeled me into the A&E, flagging down a member of staff on the way, who took me immediately inside for treatment. God bless the NHS! The receptionist asked the ladies what my name was, they said they didn’t know, and I threw my handbag (with my car keys, mobile phone, purse with money in it etc.) at them. If I lived anywhere else, I’m almost certain that not all my possessions would have been returned to me… but that’s another issue.
So, after staying at the hospital for four hours’ observation after initial treatment (in which they dug for gold in my arms and after several large bruises - one of which I still have now, more than six weeks later - only ten millilitres of blood was extracted via arterial blood gasses), and X-rays and diagnosis, etc. I went home and called in sick from work for three days (a concept unheard of in my life – I never, ever have time off!).
So, what has this got to do with writing?
In the back of my defiant mind, unwilling to accept that I’d almost died, and that if it wasn’t for the kindness of others, I’d never have been able to get help for myself, I wondered if I shouldn’t use the time off to plan some of my next novel, or even write a bit of it.
Of course, being so seriously ill I could do little more than sleep for those three days.
The short answer to my wondering? No.
The long answer? If I had done any work, it would have been so dreadful I may have thrown in the towel, altogether; doubted any writing ability I may have convinced myself I had, and never written another word again.
I’d never thought of clarity of mind when writing before; I’d never really had to. I’d always just been able to write. But when your health is hindered, your writing is bound to be, too; you can’t do justice to the plot if you can’t do justice to yourself.
What a cliché, eh?
I know that a lot of people have daily writing targets: edit this chapter today; re-write that paragraph tomorrow; write four thousand words the day after that; lather, rinse, repeat. But I wonder if everyone is truly able to stick to this schedule – what do they do, how do they adjust, when real life happens to them? And, let’s face it, real life happens to us; when things go wrong, we are merely passengers on the rollercoaster that is this mortal experience! My advice, should you want it, is to not be too hard on yourself if you cannot write every day; I know this is the old adage, but if you’re writing for writing’s sake are you producing your best, most inspired work? Can you be critical when editing, if you’re going through a traumatic or challenging period of time? Can you extend your metaphors and structure your text effectively enough if you’re under the weather, or stressed, or simply exhausted? Can you use subtext well enough to help guide your reader to where you need them to go? Can you write subtly enough for the twists and turns of the plot to sneak up on the reader and surprise them?
I’d be willing to put an entire fifty pence on the real, honest, answer being “no”.
So, don’t do it. Don’t write if you’re not wholly in it, if your mind isn’t present, if you’re not able to give it your all. Save your writing for your best self, and save your best self for your writing. (Again, with the clichés!) It is this, alone, which will do justice to your story, to help make sure your reader doesn’t just like your book, but loves it!
Until next time,
Louise.
P.S. This wasn’t just an excuse for having a later-than-usual blog post, this month. Honest(!)
