As we leave 2018 behind I find myself in these first few days of the new year trying desperately to find my sneakily-elusive creative mojo. It’s there, it’s just rusty, and needs stuck up on the ramps for an oiling and a tuning. It’s been idle and left to rot for a long time out in that old barn with the holes in the roof and the odd chicken roosting by the spare tire. *scratches the winter belly.

Since the Bells struck midnight for the last time in one year and the first in a new I have tried to jumpstart my mojo by starting to edit my novel and fill the gaps when I’m not typing by holding a brush. A couple of nights ago I broke out the watercolors and gouache, returning to an unfinished sketch I’d started sometime last Fall with a mixed bag of eureka and oh shit moments. Meanwhile, in the edit, I changed the tense of a whole chapter, rewrote parts of it, and messed around with the grammar only to realize at the end of a couple of hours that I preferred it the way it was before I’d fucked about with it. Beep…beep… reversing… reversing.

Today (the 3rd) was a productive day of procrastination. I didn’t write but, I designed and ordered business cards so that I can look like a right dick in pubs and at social gatherings when people say “Oh, you wrote a book?” Whereby I reply with the flourish of a hand from my inside pocket and accompany it with the smug phrase of “Here’s my card.” It’ll either leave me standing alone at the bar or, get me laid – the real intention is to sell books. Though, getting laid will do on the odd occasion.

After I’d pressed purchase on my new dickish accessory I intended to re-edit the chapter I’d messed up but, instead I worked on my personal budget Excel spreadsheet. I now know when my cell and internet will be paid for the next eighteen months – which is impressive as I don’t even know if I’ll be allowed to stay on this continent in fourteen months time. I put it down to unusual optimism that my next visa is in the bag. My optimism on that subject fluctuates on a daily basis.

Tonight, between episodes of The Office (brilliant) I tinkered with the painting. Poppies are bloody difficult! You’ll maybe see it in a week or two if it doesn’t end up in the trash. As I lay in bed now the still far from finished artwork is under a pile of books and a 25lb dumbbell in a bid to flatten the water warped paper.

Being a writer and a painter is frustrating in lots of ways however, one of those is nothing to do with the actual tasks. It happens when you tell people what you do.

“Oh, yeah, I heard you were writing a book. Not done yet?” Or, “Weren’t you writing that a couple of months back?”

Yeah, fucker! It takes time! At least when the cards come I can just smile and hand them one in the hope that they’ll get a paper cut… and of course also have my blog address so they know when to buy the novel that amazingly doesn’t take just three weeks to write.

It’s the same with painting.

“What did you do last night?”

I reply, “I was painting.”

“Doesn’t your landlord do that?”

Then the look I get as I explain I wasn’t up a stepladder with a roller and a gallon of emulsion makes me think it would’ve been easier to just say I was having trouble edging around the light switches.

Being creative can be frustrating. It can be tedious, laborious, frustrating, and often soul-destroying. For those of us that “waste” away our days and nights trying to put some words or brushstrokes on a page the getting made to feel silly for our efforts can be enough to stop us dead in our stuttering, insecure tracks. Meanwhile the detractors wander off chuckling to themselves about the loser wasting their time on fanciful dreams. “Get a life.” they’ll maybe think as they sit down to read a book, watch an episode of the gripping new Netflix series, book tickets to a show or movie, maybe even go out shopping for some new artwork for their freshly decorated lounge. While we can all be guilty of doing that remember the loser that’s trying desperately to feel motivated to write, draw, paint, and create all the distractions that make our lives feel better.

And, for all the damage the detractors do to the confidence of us arty types we really do appreciate the support, kindness, purchases, reviews, and plain old honest interest that people give us. Folk like that are the ones that get two business cards, one for themselves and one to pass on.