Wednesday night is writing night. That’s the idea, anyway. The reality is rather different.
For the rest of the week, my brain is buzzing with ideas for things to write about – blogs, stories, scripts, all sorts. These all seem like good ideas, and things worth writing about, until Wednesday night.
It seems there’s a non-writer in my brain on a Wednesday night. Even as I prepare to sit at my tiny desk in the lounge, I can feel my writing powers seeping out of me. Lethargy, indecision and apathy take over, or perhaps – to be fair to myself – it’s just the inevitable midweek tiredness brought on by three days of staring at a screen and lurching from one meeting, task, place or deadline to the next. It might also be the kids’ uncanny knack of pratting about with extra glee and skill at bedtime on dad’s writing night.
Whatever it is, Wednesday night writing appears doomed. I don’t feel like writing. I don’t want to write. But I’m stubborn, and this would have been the second week in a row where I’ve sat down at the tiny desk and ancient, creaking laptop, opened a new Word document, stared at it, and given up. So I decided to write something – anything – just to spite the non-writer in my head.
So what would I write about?
The blank Word document stares at me, in a way that only a blank Word document can do. I close it.
“Why do you NEED to write?” asks non-writer. “You don’t HAVE to. Watch telly. Do a jigsaw. Relax.”
These are good suggestions. I don’t get much time to do those things either. “But,” says Mr Stubborn, the new player in the mind games, you SAID you were going to write tonight. You wrote it on the CALENDAR. Imagine how annoyed you’ll be if you let it go another week.”
Agh, Mr Stubborn speaks the truth! I DID do that. And he’s right – I will kick myself if I don’t write tonight.
So again I ask myself, what will I write about?
Maybe I could just write something about one of the nice photos I took on holiday. I look through loads of photos, and nothing inspires me. The non-writer mocks me. Mr Stubborn tuts and rolls his eyes.
How about something to do with birds?
Nah, can’t be bothered.
Something to do with mental health, then? “You’re always going on about how important it is, but it’s ages since you’ve written anything about it,” reasons Mr Stubborn.
But nothing is forthcoming in that area either.
Maybe I should give up blogging, or give it a rest for a while, ponders the non-writer. “WHAT?” bellows Mr Stubborn. “GIVE UP BLOGGING? What kind of talk is this?”
It’s that talk we have regularly, Mr Stubborn. Remember this? Then Mr Stubborn accuses me of neglecting my blog, and Mr Self Doubt steps in and berates me for losing readers and being past my best, and interrogates me on why I do this to myself.
“And this post is so self-indulgent,” he adds. “Who cares that you can’t write on a Wednesday night?”
But Mr Stubborn has the last laugh, because I have written something, just to spite the Wednesday night non-writer within me. And here’s a nice holiday photo to shut them both up.
To paraphrase Richard Ayoade’s catchphrase in the new series of the Crystal Maze, thanks for reading – if indeed you still are. Maybe one Wednesday night, I will write something more interesting…
One of my favourite wild places to escape to is Three Hagges Wood Meadow, between York and Selby.
A combination of young woodland and meadow, this special place is a haven for wildlife and is at its finest at this time of year – alive with chirping grasshoppers, swallows swooping low over the tall grass, bees and butterflies enjoying the wild flowers, and dragonflies and damselflies patrolling the pond.
Our friends Emma and Justin, who live nearby, introduced us to it about a year ago. We liked the place so much we decided to sponsor a square of the meadow, which we like to go and visit as a family.
Some time ago, Emma asked me if I’d like to be a storyteller for the Three Hagges Wood Meadow discovery day. It sounded like fun, so I said yes. But as the day grew nearer, my inspiration had dried up, and I had to admit I couldn’t think of an idea for my story. It needed to be something educational, related to wildlife, and with some interactive elements for children to join in with.
With less than two weeks to go, I had one free evening left when I could write something, so I sat at the computer and, without any sort of plan, decided to just start writing in the hope that something would happen. My daughter had suggested writing something from the point of view of an animal in the meadow, and that idea must have lingered somewhere in my brain, because the first thing I wrote was “One day, I turned into a grasshopper”.
Thankfully that set me on my way, and I wrote the whole story in one go. It was a liberating feeling, and the most I’ve enjoyed writing anything in years – no plan, no structure, no rules. I just wrote for the joy of writing, and it somehow worked. And I learned a lot about grasshoppers.
Now that my story has had its grand premiere in Bodgers’ Den – a cosy shelter in the meadow where my audience sat on bales of hay – I thought I’d share it with you. Here it is.
Paul the Grasshopper
One day, I turned into a grasshopper. I know, it sounds unlikely, but sometimes these things happen and you just have to make the most of it.
I was very lucky, really. I mean yes, I was very small and easy to step on, and loads of creatures wanted to eat me, but I could do some pretty cool stuff.
For example, I could jump a really long way. If you’d seen me doing it, you might not have thought it was a long way, but for a little grasshopper, trust me, it was. If I could jump that far as I am now, compared to my height as a human, I’d be able to jump 90 feet. How far can you jump? Have a go.
(((We all do some jumping)))
Very impressive, but do you know how far 90 feet is? It’s longer than a football field, or three-and-a-half London buses.
And I could make music by rubbing one of my legs against one of my forewings – that was one of the hard wings near the front of my body. I don’t mean I could play ANY music. I couldn’t do any Little Mix or Ariana Grande songs. I didn’t sound like Bruno Mars. But I could play music like a miniature violin. Sometimes other grasshoppers would join in, and it would be like a big grasshopper concert. Other times, when I played my music, lady grasshoppers would come up to me and say things like “Ooh, what lovely music. Wanna hang out together?” Which was a bit awkward, really, because I was still me inside that strange insect body, and I didn’t really fancy having a grasshopper for a girlfriend. Besides which, I’m married
Anyway, another cool thing was that when I turned into a grasshopper, I found myself right here, in Three Hagges Wood Meadow. Quite appropriate really, as it turned out I was a meadow grasshopper. The only bad thing about being a meadow grasshopper is that they’re the only sort of grasshopper in this country that can’t fly. Imagine how awesome it would be if I could have been a flying grasshopper!
But anyhow, what a great place to be a grasshopper – all that tall grass to hide in, and climb up, and jump around in. And all those other insects to chat with. There are loads of them! Have you seen any?
(((We talked about the day’s insect sightings. My favourite was ‘a dinosaur’.)))
The butterflies are so beautiful and colourful, then there’s all the different ladybirds, and the fancypants dragonflies that fly around the pond. And speaking of the pond, I do love watching the whirligig beetles spinning round and round. Sometimes I think they’re dancing to my music.
Then there’s all the bees and other insects that live in the Bee Hotel. It’s a bit over the top, if you ask me. I find the grass is perfectly adequate for an insect. I don’t get to stay in a hotel… I mean, what sort of insect needs an en suite bathroom, Freeview TV, complimentary tea and coffee, and a cooked breakfast? It’s a bit much. That’s what I thought anyway, then I realised it’s not as posh as it sounded, but still a great place to live if you’re a bee.
Talking of food, I’m a vegetarian, so being a grasshopper kind of suited me. I wouldn’t normally go around eating the sort of plants you get in this meadow, but there wasn’t a lot of Quorn about; no nice veggie curries, or chilli, or pasta, or mixed nuts – not even a stir fry. But I had these big, scary-looking teeth and could eat pretty much anything. Normally if I bit into a tree trunk, it would hurt and probably break my teeth, but being a grasshopper I could have a good chew and it was all fine. Different types of grass were the best. Secretly quite tasty if you’re a grasshopper and into that kind of thing. And a good source of carbs – useful for energy, which you need if you’re jumping about all day.
What would you chew through if you could bite through anything?
(((We chatted about this for a minute or two.)))
Another thing about being a grasshopper is that things want to eat you. That’s not something I have to worry about usually, being a human – not unless I’m hanging out in the African savannah and trying to annoy hungry lions. But I don’t do that very often.
So yes, it can actually get pretty terrifying being a grasshopper in a place where there’s so much other wildlife. So many creatures like to eat them – spiders, birds, snakes, even rodents like mice and rats. Apparently it’s a good thing that so many creatures like to eat grasshoppers, because if they didn’t, the grasshoppers would eat up all the plants and crops and everyone would be starving. It didn’t feel like a very good thing to me at the time though.
I’m a birdwatcher, so I found it weird being a grasshopper – I mean obviously it was weird being a grasshopper, that goes without saying – but what I’m getting at is that you can’t really go around watching birds when they’d gobble you up if they spotted you. It’s a bit like the opposite of birdwatching, really. They were trying to spot me!
But I couldn’t resist trying to watch some birds. I knew that sometimes Red Kites and Buzzards liked to fly over the meadow, particularly over the woods. They’re big, impressive birds, and I couldn’t help but think “Imagine how amazingly massive they’ll look through the eyes of a grasshopper!”
Now, if I’d been one of the other sorts of grasshopper, I could have flown up and had a slightly closer look, but I wasn’t and I couldn’t, so I decided my best bet was to climb up the tallest grass I could find and have a nosy from the top. I wasn’t going to get a very good view from down there in the undergrowth.
What’s the highest thing you’ve ever climbed up?
(((Justin won with Mont Blanc.)))
I hopped around the meadow until I was amongst the tallest grass, then began my climb. Suddenly there was a hiss behind me, and a grass snake slithered towards me. Aaaaaagh! I took a mighty jump as it opened its mouth and prepared to chomp down on me.
I’d escaped – just. But I needed to get back to my tall bit of grass, so I waited until the snake had stopped watching me and gone looking for another snack somewhere else, then jumped back, but there was more danger waiting for me. Just ahead of me, there was another grasshopper, but something was wrong – it was just hanging there, unable to move.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh you know, just hanging about,” it said.
“Really?” I said. “You don’t look very comfortable.”
“I was being sarcastic,” it said. “I’m stuck in a spider’s web and it’s going to come back and eat me in a minute.”
With not a moment to lose, I used those big, tough teeth of mine to chew through the web and release the grasshopper.
“Oi!” said a voice from above. “That’s my lunch. Come back here!”
It was a huge spider, and it wasn’t happy.
The two of us leapt out of harm’s way and hid behind a leaf until we were sure the spider had lost us.
I said farewell to my fellow grasshopper, and decided to have one last try at getting to the top of the grass. I could hear the cry of a Red Kite somewhere overhead, and sped up, hoping I’d be able to get a proper look at it. Leaving the ground far behind me – well, it was far behind if you’re a grasshopper – my little insecty head popped up above the top of the grass, and I could see all around. The woods, the pond, the bee hotel, Bodgers’ Den… But where was that Red Kite? Typical birds, always disappearing when you go looking for them.
I was about to have a good sulk, and possibly a grumpy chew on a blade of grass, when a huge bird drifted over the top of the trees, twisting in the air as it flew, like a… well, like a kite. And that’s what it was – a Red Kite, a bird that could only be found in a few remote parts of Wales when I started birdwatching as a boy, but that we can now enjoy watching here in the meadow and other places around here.
I didn’t have to worry about it eating me. Kites need bigger food – they’re not interested in grasshoppers. But I hadn’t been concentrating on what was going on around me. There was a swooshing of wings and the horrifying sight of a blackbird swooping down on me!
I waited for the end to come, but then all was quiet and still. My adventure was over. I was a human again, sitting in the meadow. The Red Kite was still there, soaring above me, and I watched a grasshopper hopping away, as I stood up, walked over here to the Den, and started writing about all the things I’d discovered about being a grasshopper. And that’s what I’ve just been reading to you.
Dippyman has been rather neglected this year, and continues to stand at a crossroads as it creaks into its sixth year.
It’s partly been quiet on this blog because I’ve been working really hard this year and there hasn’t been much space left in my brain.
The force awakens
It’s also been quiet because – and I’ve kept this quiet up until now – I’ve been under attack from depression again for the last few months. It’s come in waves, with star turns from anxiety, paranoia, insomnia, forgetfulness, fear and random anger. I’ve been fine some days, and far from fine on others. It’s a reminder that, when recovering from depression, the force does awaken from time to time, and I have to be on my guard and look after myself.
I’ve taken my own advice at times. I’ve stuck with my diary of positive things, and made sure I plan things to look forward to – like my trip out to sea (pictures below), looking for seabirds, at the start of this month. I find the sea calming, and to be out there for nearly three hours was a great escape. Not only that, I saw two firsts – a fleeting view of a Black Tern (one of the bogey birds that’s eluded me for years) and a Sooty Shearwater, which obligingly whizzed round the boat in a circle so everyone could see it.
I’ve been a poster boy for functioning depressives.
At other times, I’ve forgotten everything I’ve ever learned about coping with depression, and have done the whole ‘soldiering on’ thing, not really telling anyone, trying to prove myself, and generally being stubborn. And – just to take my own advice for a moment and to be kind to myself – I’ve done a pretty good job of it. I’ve taken on a lot and achieved a lot. I’ve been a poster boy for functioning depressives.
Another thing I’ve been doing is writing some blog posts for the Blurt Foundation, an organisation I admire enormously. My latest one was a chance for me to do something different, using my own doodles to show what you don’t see about depression.
I also keep chipping away at my children’s story, Splot, which must be on its sixth draft by now, in the hope that one day I’ll be happy enough with it to try sending it to an agent or publisher.
And, to be honest, I’ve struggled a bit with writer’s block. I’ve started and abandoned three or four posts, which I simply couldn’t get inspired by and couldn’t be bothered to finish. Each seemed OK when the idea had come to me, but had become deeply tedious by the time I sat down to write it. Heck, if I can’t be bothered to read my own writing, I don’t see why anyone else would want to.
However, bits of each of those abandoned posts have somehow ended up in this one – further proof that, if you want to be a writer, you just need to start writing. My plan tonight was, having abandoned yet another post, just to share some photos of the Yorkshire coast, but somehow the words trickled out in the end.
Recovery and persistence
That’s how it goes with recovery too, sometimes. It’s not all about big eureka moments, where you leap up and say ‘Ta-daaaaa, I feel amazing!’ Often, recovery is about sticking with it and chipping away, even when it seems hopeless and never-ending. It’s about persisting in a rather unexciting, unremarkable way, until eventually the light grows brighter and you realise you’re in a better place.
I’m in the last week of my thirties. My face still looks like it belongs in its thirties. My hair thinks I’m 60 already. The rest of me can’t make up its mind.
Turning 40 is something that’s been on my mind for a while. It has seemed to mark a stage in life where I should be all grown up; where I should know who I am, what I’m doing and where I’m going.
I’m not doing too badly on the ‘who I am’ bit. I’m blessed with a lovely family and lots of great friends, which tells me I can’t be too awful. I know what I believe in and what I don’t believe in. I know what I like doing and what I don’t like doing. I don’t feel any need to get into arguments or prove points, although I do have plenty of imaginary arguments and inner rants. I annoy myself all the time. I grapple with my demons more often than I ever let on, but I know those demons and their games, and I give them a good fight.
As for what I’m doing, ha – well, sometimes I know what I’m doing, but a lot of the time I lurch from one thing to the next in a daze. That’s parenthood for you.
Where am I going?
And where I’m going is anyone’s guess. Do any of us really know? We can make plans, but things happen that take us in other directions. And we might change our minds. My first career idea was clown/acrobat, or spaceman. I sort of play the clown now in pantomimes, so maybe that’s a dream fulfilled. Acrobat – no chance. I have all the physical dexterity of a sloth on roller skates. And I have no head for heights, which also rules out the spaceman option. I moved on to a more sensible aspiration of being a journalist, and I did that for three years, taking me into the communications career I have today.
Of course, I sometimes look back and wonder what else I might have done with my career. At school, I loved art far more than any other subject – could I have done something with it? If we’d done drama more at school, might I have discovered performing sooner? I used to harbour a secret wish to play James Bond. Maybe I could be James Bond’s dad when I get into my 80s.
And what of my writing? That’s why I wanted to be a journalist, after all. I sort of write in my job, but not a lot. But I do have a blog that’s five years old and has 100,000 views, which I never saw happening (blogs didn’t exist when I was at the ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’ age).
I may not be a best-selling author or successful script-writer – wasn’t that meant to have happened by now? – but I am slowly getting somewhere, and I still have the urge to write (usually in the middle of the night, which is rather inconvenient). Nobody ever became a writer without writing something, so that’s what I keep doing.
So what is it all about?
What I’ve come to realise is that turning 40 will not change any of this. It won’t mean I’ve failed at anything, or missed my chance. Turning 40 isn’t about what I haven’t done – it’s about what’s yet to be. It won’t give me immediate wisdom, inner peace or abundant confidence. I still won’t know what I’m doing or where I’m going. But rather than seeing it as a mid-life calamity, I’m now trying to look at it as a new chapter, with adventures ahead and blank pages to fill.
I’ll take my steer from Dr Seuss…
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!
Legend has it that blues singer/guitarist Robert Johnson met the devil at a crossroads and agreed to sell his soul in exchange for his musical talent.
I’m at a crossroads myself. I won’t be making any deals with the devil, but I could do with some inspiration on the writing front.
The crossroads in question is a blogging crossroads. The road I have been travelling seems to have reached a confusing junction. It has been a good journey, but what has brought me this far might not take me much further.
If this blog was a TV series, its declining viewing figures would point to inevitable cancellation. That’s the danger of studying blog stats – when it’s going well, the incoming comments and viewing figures are addictively enthralling. When you post something and the figures are low, it’s demoralising. The unhelpful voice in my head tells me to give up; that I’m a has-been. It compares me to other bloggers and says “They’re doing better than you. Why do you bother?”
I find myself wondering what to write about, and indeed whether to keep blogging at all, as I have plenty of other things to keep me occupied. On the occasions I have time to blog, sometimes I just can’t be bothered. Other times, I’ve got an idea for a blog and talk myself out of writing it because I don’t think anyone will be interested – and I’m not even sure that I’m interested myself. I’ve talked myself out of writing this post several times and am only really posting it to spite myself.
My writing was most compelling when I was ill with depression. I wrote because I needed to get it all out of my head, and people seemed to relate to it.
But I’m happy to say I’m not ill any more. As I’ve got better, the story has become less gripping, and fewer people read it and feel moved to share it. And I don’t have that same drive and impetus to blog at the moment. I used to post almost every week. Now it’s once a month, if that. The momentum has gone.
I’ve written a lot about depression and sometimes wonder if there’s anything useful I can do with that back catalogue. I’m proud of what I’ve done, and hugely grateful for all the amazing support you’ve given me. I know from the comments I’ve received that my blog has helped a lot of people, which I love to hear. In return, every comment, retweet or like has helped me.
To be honest, though, I’m not sure I have much left to say about depression. I’ve been writing about it since 2011 and don’t want to keep dredging up memories that I’d rather forget. And I don’t want to bore people, or myself, by going over the same things over and over again. On the other hand, supporting people with mental health problems is something I really care about, and writing is one way I can do that. I’ve got to know many brilliant people through sharing my story – people whose friendship has enriched my life – and we all need to stick together to fight the stigma of mental illness.
I do love writing about wildlife, especially birds. Birding is something that helps me stay well, and I mainly write about what helps me to keep depression away these days, rather than depression itself. But I don’t think I want to restrict myself to a theme. I like writing about random stuff like pantomimes and music too.
And so I stand at the crossroads. I know I want to write (sometimes anyway), but I’m not sure what. In some ways, it’s like starting again.
But there is only one of me. I have a finite amount of time, energy and inspiration. So another factor to fit into the equation – along with all the many other things I want to do all at once – is finding time to relax, and simply to be.
The main thing is that I stay well. I’ve burned myself out before and am always on guard against doing it again. I’m grateful to be well enough to have reached the crossroads, however frustrating it may be.
So, I don’t know what you can expect from Dippyman in the coming months. What do you think I should do?