Reflecting, or, The Fog, a 21st century melodrama


I’m always going on about nature and how it makes me reflect on life in general and my writing in particular. Outside my window is a foggy scene. We’ve had a very mild autumn here in Derby, England, and unusually for us here on our little hill, a lot of rain. Only a few months ago I was exchanging emails with an acquaintance in Jamaica and we were both lamenting the dry weather – cracked ground, plants dying. Of course everything is much more acute there than here, but I was concerned by how little water we had. In fact ever since we came back from Australia I’ve been kind of obsessed with rainfall.

But now we have had so much rain – it has rained almost every day for the last three weeks, or that’s how it seems to me. But the warm earth has been met every night by the cool air, and we have had thick fog from the onset of darkness until dawn, when it magically disperses. But not today. As I write this at midday, it is finally beginning to lift, but still through the houses I can see the silvery pockets that surround bare-limbed trees. The countryside resembles a book cover for a paranormal or horror story!

It’s just like my writing at the moment. I have times when my way is clear and I rush ahead, writing and writing, with a sense of purpose, knowing where I am going, then the mental fog descends and I am lost, baffled and everything seems unfamiliar and cold. I have my sparkly new story board, so I know where the story is supposed to be going, but how do I get there? I used to think writer’s block was when you sit at your desk and weep as the ideas fail to present themselves. But now I know it’s more like sitting at your desk and thinking, this must have been written by someone else, it means nothing to me.

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