Fellow writers! Today I am interested in time management, and I only have thirty minutes to be interested before I have to go out. How do you do it? I’m in a weird position, just over four years ago I had to give up nursing because I have MS. Now, I manage my symptoms well but this takes a lot of time. For the first two years of retirement, I was inundated with people popping around to visit. Sounds nice? Well, without sounding ungrateful, because I had up to ten visits per week this meant that I didn’t have time to look after myself, or… what I am getting to I didn’t have time to write. Move on to 2018, I am now doing a degree in Creative Writing and have published three books (soon to be four), the people that are in my life now understand and are flexible. But! I am struggling to find the time to write. Reason being, some of my week is spent doing physical therapies, and having allocated rest times. Now, I am the token ‘helper’ and marketing executive of my husband and mine’s woodfired pizza business. Although this has been good, physically, I am finding it hard. I still feel guilty if I am too tired to go to things that I used to do, but I’m too tired to move by 7pm. Or having to say no to people. Sometimes I am convinced that my body will not catch up with my brain, that I have too many ideas and not enough energy. I have thought about going to a specific place to write, such as a café or a pub! For now though, while I’m hoping to get finish the next in the series of my next books ‘Curmudgeon Avenue’ I think I will just have to be stricter with my routine. Interested to know how other writers cope with writing/life balance?
Searching the house from top to bottom
for non-existent cat food I’d forgotten.
Did they send those tickets out?
My electric shredder is causing me doubt.
It’s hit and miss if the milk returns to the fridge
I can’t remember, did I do this?
Daughter says she told me
Husband says my memory
is not as good as I think it is
as I take a guess at this cognitive quiz.
I tried to go shopping all by myself.
Choose my own stuff from those supermarket shelves.
I set off early to avoid the ‘push around’.
But the other early people are more pushy, and wear frowns.
I’m wearing shades,
the lights make my head ache.
I look like I’ve had a heavy night on the ale.
Unfortunately, I’m buying cheap beer to kill snails.
The man on the till looks worried – I’m out of breath.
He’s worked here for years and he’s never had a death.
To make things worse, I accuse the woman behind me of nicking my kitchen roll.
She’s got no sense of humour, a morning hunter-gatherer – she’s got no soul.
In the car park, people stare, they must be amazed.
Then turn, embarrassed- I bang my head on my car door – it’ll probably graze.
The death defying feat of unpacking my car.
I only nipped in for a few things, it’s as if I’ve run far.
I’ve spent all my energy; I’m all worn out.
I’ve only bought half of what I went for – I’ll have to do without.
Who pulled my plug? Who turned my light off?
Two days of darkness just from one day’s work.
Moving trough concrete, life should be easy.
Someone’s at home, but the lights are all out.
A draining conversation in the pool, about world news.
Skull in a vice grip, inside sounds like a broken fridge.
Every second and every day has to be paced.
Who drained me? Do you want to swap? No?
Well shut up.
copyright Samantha Henthorn 2017
The hallway frames the front door of my home.
Guarding me from well wishers, I need to be alone.
Seasons, styles or Saturdays, there is always eyeliner,
bold black wings from cut price to designer.
I woke the other day, robbed of my right hand.
Sudden stolen senses are hard to understand.
War paint frames my face, I’m ready for the world.
Without eyeliner, I look a different girl.
Blurred vision, a thousand texts becoming unbearable.
In her telephone voice, she tells me I ‘look terrible’
Healing time and patience all fall into place,
I’m faking being well with eyeliner on my face.
Samantha Henthorn copyright 2015.
Photo courtesy and owned by my beautiful daughter.
I love eyeliner, if my hands were working, I would be able to put it on like the photo above. I wrote this poem a couple of years ago, and it was accepted by the editor of MSmatters magazine, as yet they have not put it in print (even though they promised me it would be in the spring edition). Instead of spending time e-mailing them to chase it up, I’ve decided to blog it. The poem did appear in the Bury adult education/libraries anthology and exhibition last year, of which I was most proud.
Happy Wednesday, Samantha