On May 1st I shall be starting my three month Writers’ Bursary from Literature Wales. Three months in which I will be paid to write. I still have to pinch myself.
Now, I love what I do in my day job. I’ve written before on this blog about ways my work can inspire and add to my writing. In fact, it was reading an unpublished diary of a young doctor from a local village, as part of an oral history project on the First World War, that was one of the inspirations for my current book.
It wasn’t the work of a poet, or even meant to be read outside the family. It didn’t even describe the horrors of the trenches. The immediacy came from the entries made as a young man who had never been outside his locality, let alone Wales, setting off to England for his training, and then over to France. There’s the excitement of new places and new experiences, of people cheering them on and of crossing the English Channel for the first time. Then on a summer’s day, walking through French fields, the grenades begin to fall. As part of the project we were working on, we recorded the diary for the Talking Newspaper for the Blind. The descriptions are factual, restrained. There is no attempt to create a picture or create an atmosphere, or even to comment on the horror. By the time my colleague had finished reading, we were in tears.
I don’t want to shut myself in an ivory tower (or ‘crog’ loft, in my case), but I am so looking forward to a few months of not having to fight myself for the time – and most importantly of all – the headspace in which to write.
The Bursary is such an extraordinary privilege, I’ve been busily planning everything I’m going to get done in the time. Sitting by my pond last night, watching the newts and the tadpoles and things that looked like wood lice having a right old tussle, I remembered that there was one thing I’d forgotten in all that scheduling. A few things, actually. Meeting up with friends.Tending my poor struggling veg patch (a brain needs spinach, and a heart does nicely on garlic, after all). Getting out and absorbing all the life going on around me. And sitting in any sun going to read. For pleasure. For being so totally absorbed in a story I don’t want it to end. That thing called life. The bit I so often forget about, or feel guilty about doing, or simply put off until another day – and then wonder if my inspiration and enthusiasm flags.
So here’s to life and fiction and inspiration and everything I am going to learn over the next three months.
Let it begin!