I'm climbing out for a bit

On knowing when to pause

brrrrrr….

When I swim, I like to get straight in the water before I change my mind. I don’t dip my toe in. Or look at ‘today’s temperature.’ I shower, hang up my towel, and climb down those steps.

But this morning, I almost cried it was so cold. Usually a gentle mist hangs over the water (it’s open air) but not today. After the initial shock, my body numbed, and for a brief moment I considered getting straight out again.

But as I forced myself to swim the first length, it became weirdly pleasurable. The thoughts rattling around my head, all of a sudden stopped. It was too cold to think. Too cold to worry.

By length five I was having a weird kind of fun. It was uncomfortable, but exhilarating. I felt utterly alive.

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That is how writing here used to feel.

I don’t have an apt swimming metaphor for what it’s become - but If I tell you what happened next on the swim in question, you’ll get it:

You popped into my mind, dear reader. As I reached the end of lap five.

More specifically, it was an involuntary, insistent thought, rather than you. The thought said ‘you should write about this on Substack!’

And then - I am sorry to report - that same part of me began on a first draft of this letter. As I was swimming. Right there, in the pool.

It figured out a potential first line. And a structure. It worked through what this micro-story could best illustrate: Was it the power of just beginning? The idea that once you start it gets easier? How discomfort is part of growth?

It was not a gentle, delicious nudge of inspiration [those I welcome with open arms.] It was harsh. Pushy. It didn’t know when to quit.

I tried my best to notice it, and let it pass, but alas. It stayed with me for the full 25 minutes of my swim. It stole my swim. It even gatecrashed the hot tub afterwards.

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Lately, this has been a frequent occurrence. Not just on swims. But when I’m walking. Or hanging out with my kids. Or playing board games with my husband. Or looking up at the stars on a dark winter’s morning [last week’s post is a case in point. And that was about awe. Oh the irony.]

It makes this project feel like a job. That I must do. Rather than the fun, creative project it is intended to be.

It makes writing extractive, rather than the nourishing, healing presence in life I know it can be.

This over-zealous part of me somehow equates ‘creative living’ with ‘writing here, on Substack, each week.’

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What my stolen swim has shown me, is that it’s time to pause. And I mean for more than just a week, because it’s Christmas.

For fifteen months the weekly structure of writing here has helped me come out of hiding. The discipline of hat has been helpful. It’s expanded my creative capacity. Glitter and Biscuits was the permission slip I needed to cobble together whatever I had, throw it out there, and outwit my perfectionist tendencies [at least a little.]

But a different permission slip is needed now. I’ve known it for a while.

What may come of this pause, I don’t know. But what is clear, is that without it I’m going to kill my love of writing publicly entirely. And that - I don’t want. Sharing the journey can feel joyful. It can help us dig into what we’re experiencing. Invite more connection into our lives. It can feel joyful.

But not when the sharing dominates the journey. Which I am sad to say [and a little embarrassed to admit] is the case for me, right now.

Living the moments fully is more important to me, than writing about them.

In time I will learn to co-exist with this shadow side of creativity. I will develop my capacity to create from and with it, in a way that feels more sustainable that it does right now.

I also recognise this pushy part of me as my inner tyrant. The part that values productivity over all else. The part that is deeply uncomfortable with play, and pleasure and just being.

[Sometimes when I’m recovering in the hot tub after a swim it says “you could do twenty more lengths instead of sitting here. How about it?”]

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I’m not sure how long I’ll be pausing for. That will become clear. But my sense is it will be at least two months

…I’m looking forward to experiencing life, and knowing it won’t (in the short term at least) be fodder for a story. As I contemplate that, I feel a softness in my heart, and my head. A release of pressure.

…I’m longing to write in my journal, and it being a pure, private practice once again.

…I’m curious to see what other writing pops onto the page.

…I’m also curious to see what clarity emerges about Glitter and Biscuits and the format it might take next.

…I feel called to to gently focus my creative energy where it feels most nourishing, and see where it leads.

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Whatever we feel called to stop, start, adjust, pause or reset as we enter this new year - may trust our own inner guidance.

May we have compassion for ourselves as we honour our creative longings.

May we acknowledge it is not a straight road, and smile at ourselves as we stumble onwards.

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Thank you for being here.

With love,

Claire

p.s. If you’ve been kind enough to support me as a paying subscriber, your subscription will be paused until Glitter and Biscuits resumes. If you subscribe annually your annual renewal will be delayed by the amount of time I pause for.