I never wanted to be one of those bloggers who gets too busy to blog, disappears for months and then pops up again with a ‘I’m sorry I haven’t blogged in a while’ post. I set myself the target of doing one blog post a week and I’ve managed it so far, but this week has been particularly busy and I honestly just haven’t felt inspired to write. I worry when that happens, what if this is it and I never write another word?
I realised though, that even when I’m not sat down putting pen to paper or tapping away at my laptop I am still writing. Most of my writing happens before I reach that stage, it happens in my head and mostly when I’m walking. Often when I go for my lunchtime walk round the lake at Highfield Park a piece of writing I’ve been struggling with will write itself in my head as I put one foot in front of the other. Of course the link between walking and writing is nothing new, Wordsworth and the Romantics were quite literally wandering poets.
What’s more, as I walk I find myself collecting snippets and storing them away for future use. For the last week my bike has been out of service because of a puncture and I’ve been too busy, and/or lazy, to deal with it so I’ve been walking to and from work. The advantage of walking is it’s slower and you notice more than you do when you’re whizzing along on a bike. Every night as I’ve been walking home I’ve seen the same bird perched on the same spot of the same roof, singing for all it’s worth. It sings as though it doesn’t care that it’s nearly dark and no one is listening, and anyway it’s almost drowned out by the sound of traffic. I can’t be sure what bird it is but I think it’s a blackbird (though any bird would look black silhouetted against the dusky sky). Every time I see it I feel sure, someday, somehow that blackbird is going to make its way into my writing. But then, perhaps it already has.