On Not Writing
The trouble with being a writer is, even though I spend so much time thinking, or reading (and calling it research), whenever I plan to take time off away from the laptop, and do other things, in this case, a 1,000-piece jigsaw, my writing brain won’t switch off, and keeps giving me ideas!
It was Thursday – I had just enjoyed a coffee with a friend, and we were wandering back to the car when I saw them on the back seat.
‘Oooh!’ I said, ‘Jigsaws.’
‘Would you like them? I’m only taking them to the charity shop.’
Long story short, I lifted the two jigsaw puzzles out of the car and took them home.
As I say, that was Thursday. It was lucky I’d already handed my latest novel over to my peer reviewers, and had a gap in my writing schedule. And I had told myself I wasn’t going to do any writing until I got their notes back.
Which was fortunate as I had forgotten that, once I’ve started on a jigsaw, I need to finish.
Thankfully, that evening (it was Thursday), there was nothing on telly that I wanted to watch … it took me until midnight to do the edge (finding the last two pieces for the edge was a pain: it took me half an hour – for two pieces!)
The next day, Friday, I didn’t even get dressed until gone midday, lunch was late, and supper nearly didn’t get made – I had to have a stern talking to myself to tear me away from the jigsaw to do some cooking, or I’d have gone to bed hungry. But I had got so frustrated, I was half-way there, working from the bottom of the picture upwards: that one piece I couldn’t find. Nor could I just leave it, no matter how many times I told myself it was just a jigsaw …
Then, yesterday, Saturday, was a lovely sunny day, which would have been great for a walk. I knew – the weather forecast was all over the news, never mind the two (yes, two) weather apps I have on my phone: Storm Floris was on the way, so Sunday and Monday would be wash-outs in terms of getting outside. So, of course, I didn’t set foot outside the house. Instead, I was up early, and ploughing on with the jigsaw: it didn’t matter that the temperature was increasing outside. The conservatory was moving from warm, to hot, to baking. I did eventually open some windows. I was more worried about differentiating which brown bit was from which branch of which tree, which leaf was which shade of green. It was all very, very frustrating. Though I did finally find that piece which had eluded me the previous day. By the time I had finished, the sunlight had faded. My back was complaining from too much bending over the table, my feet from too much standing in one spot, but I had to finish – and I did: just in time to watch on old Miss Marple on BBC4.
Then the writing brain kicked in. It seems, just because I’m not writing, just because I’m trying to take a break from writing, I can’t stop thinking about writing, about stories I could write. Take this jigsaw, for example. The picture is clearly a nostalgia piece: when did we last see red squirrels wandering through our villages? So, given the three gentlemen are in what we’d now think of as formal attire, we must be set back in the 1950s, say. Or, given the young man in the phone box – no mobile phones back then – has a flat cap on, but he is wearing some sort of T-shirt, maybe the 1960s? On the other hand, the elderly lady on the right-hand side is much too modern in her attire. What sort of rebel is/was she? A flashy film star come to retire to a ‘quaint’ English village? If so, why is that guy sat opposite, supposedly reading a newspaper? Is he keeping an eye on her on behalf of the authorities? Or is he more of a stalker? The possibilities are endless.
And, although I was delighted to see it (if a village is going to have one shop, let it be one of these), why is the only shop a book shop – though it could do a better job of advertising its wares. Yes, I see it: clearly this place is not what it seems. What lurks behind all those closed doors? How long will the deceptive calm of village life last – where even the cats allow the birdlife to eat in peace? Will there be a murder in the High Street? Whose past will catch up with them, shaking the kaleidoscope of life, until it can settle into a new pattern?
I can, you’d probably guess, muse like this for hours, making a plethora of novels up in my head based on one jigsaw picture. Now, of course, all I have to do is break it up and put it back in the box. My long-dead father would always demand everything was ‘tidied away before bed.’ After all, it is ‘only a jigsaw. Anybody can put one piece of wood or cardboard next to another.’ H’mm. Maybe so, but, in just over two days, I’ve put a thousand pieces next to each other, in the right order – I think, though, I will leave it for a while and enjoy the pleasure of achievement for a day or two. Doing a jigsaw is not world shattering, and perhaps, in my dad’s view, it is a ‘little thing that pleases a little mind;’ but I will leave it and look on it with pleasure.
I did say, didn’t I, that there were two jigsaws. However, the second one is of a winter scene: white sky above, and white snow below – maybe I’ll leave that for another day. Perhaps some dark winter evenings, when cold thoughts need to be kept at bay?
And, of course, the biggest irony is: if I’m supposed to be taking a break from writing, why am I writing this?