This past Covid year I’ve discovered the things that kept me sane and hopeful also kept me writing. Some of the most important are:

My introversion, that made lockdown seem just more of the same (only more scary to go out). 

Zoom gatherings with family and book launches that kept me in touch with the wider world.

My garden and drought-breaking rain. These were vital for me: our dam filled, plants flowered and trees turned again to green, all glowing with hope.

Wonderful Flynn, my four-year-old grandson who was living with us during lockdown. Flynn invited me into the play and daring of his imaginary worlds (where dinosaurs rule).

And perhaps most importantly, reading books. As I read, they reaffirmed my belief in the capacity of writing to change us. 

All this has shown me that my writing isn’t separate from the rest of my life, but an integral part of it. There’s a vital and constant interplay between them, for good or ill, and along with the good things, there has been the distraction of news updates and fears for the future that have made it difficult to focus.

But this year of fear and uncertainty, my writing journal has been my invaluable friend and companion, a safe and welcoming space. It’s the place where I have a conversation about my writing.

Some days it’s businesslike: the day’s notes of scenes to be written, or revised, or aspects to be researched. More often, it’s writing down how I feel: doubts about whether it’s worth going on writing, whether I really am a writer; fear of the page; confusion and questions about character or plot; dreams and imaginings.

Always, always, the writing tends to my needs, leads on to something more, some way through, some step forward.

I’ve learnt again that writing begets writing begets ideas and creativity.