Mindfulness

Apologies for the cliche but even 'no-nonsense Yorkshire men' with over 200 wickets for England adhere to forms of psychotherapy.  Darren Gough is open about a tactic he employed throughout his Test career.  Following a day's play.  Whether it was good or bad.  He was taught by the team psychoanalyst to write down the events that occurred on the field.  He would then tear out that page and throw it in the bin. 

I imagine Goughie would then proceed to make his way down to wherever the team were congregating and spend a few hours holding court, drinking a pint or two and talking ten to the dozen.

It worked for him and it's worked in a similar fashion for me.

I've always written a diary of sorts.  Hidden away in the attic at my parents home are a collection that chart my angst, ever growing comic collection, teenage crushes, fueds, fears and secret thoughts.

I would often start a year religiously adhering to my resolution to 'write every day' only to get to the start of February and find life had got in the way.  Sound familiar? 

Common themes would appear.  Either it was the start of a calendar year and I was trying to install some kind of discipline into my life.  Again, stop me if you've heard this.  Or something was bothering me that I needed to get down onto paper and out of my system. 

Writing has often been a coping mechanism as much as anything artistic.  In years to come if my diaries are discovered a future relation would be forgiven for thinking I led the most miserable and anxious existence.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  The problem is that when life is at its captivating best I don't have time nor inclination to sit in my room and write about it.

The solitude of writing is also part of the process.  As much as I like to imagine a lifestyle that would allow me ample time and space to write for hours I'm not sure that would work for me.  Put me in a room with a window, sunshine streaming in, a brook and a field outside and I'll be itching to get out there rather than stay put and murder words.

I am also aware of my limitations.  I can't write well enough, I don't know enough and I write so damn slowly.  I am friends with and work alongside several writers.  Amongst them is Jarrod Kimber.  He vomits words. He literally can't stop himself from writing 1000 words every time he coughs.  Most people's cigarette breaks are his chance to discharge another chapter or article.  It's insane. 

But on the flip side this blog storms (limps) into it's 13th year.  2006-2019.  There's no reason to think that even if I've again stopped writing by Feb 1st I won't be back again in 2020 and beyond.  Something inside me wants to get out.  I feel sated by writing in a way that I don't broadcasting.  Although there is a noticeable post show-buzz associated with presenting or commentating well.