The downshift

A change is gonna come

I named this newsletter The Uproar because I planned to write about the things that deserve to be shouted about: injustice, discrimination, oppression of many kinds. All the things that used to get my fingers flying across the keyboard and my fury flowing. Over the years I’ve been known for my scathing screeds, political posts, and epic takedowns, alongside my more heartfelt writing. I’ve always run hot then cold, sweet then sour, dark then light.

When I left social media and found refuge here on Substack, I initially had so much to say about disentangling myself from the rage machine that was feeding my discontent. Weekly posts flowed from me easily and I got into a nice rhythm. I found new writers and they found me, our mutual admiration growing alongside our small but respectable audiences. Finally, I felt like I’d found my people, my place, my community. Thank god for long form essays! Hurrah for nuance and intelligent debate!

And then, without warning, I stopped. I not only stopped writing Substack posts but also the freelance articles I had plans to submit, and the novel I had just begun to work on. All the grand plans I’d made and the frenetic creative energy I’d harnessed since January seemed to grind to a halt in mid-March, and I had no idea why.

At first I told myself that it was temporary writer’s block, that I was enjoying the weather and being outside more, doing things around the house and being present for my family. I gave myself grace and didn’t force myself to continue staring at the blank page if I wasn’t feeling it, assuming inspiration would strike soon enough and that I’d return to ‘roaring’ when the time was right. Yet, here we are, now officially in May, and the impulse has not returned. The more my anger and anxiety dissipates, the less compelled I feel to write about the world around me.

No, wait, that’s not strictly true. Specifically, I don’t feel compelled to write about societal issues and what other people are doing and thinking about them. And therein lies the problem, I suppose. Because that’s what I’ve always written about. That’s what The Uproar was meant to be. How can I go from rage-fuelled political commentary to writing about my simple and contented daily existence?

Sure, I could write about my daily walks and how good it’s been for my mental health to get back into that habit. I could tell you about my newfound passion for DIY and all the time I’ve spent at hardware stores, fiddling around with drill bits, power washers, and weed trimmers. I could post about the books I’ve read, the meals I’ve cooked, the line-dried sheets I’ve buried my nose in at night and sighed.

I could share the conversations I’ve had with my children about their futures, helping them study for exams or navigate tricky situations at work. I could write about my 25 year marriage, how I fall more in love with my husband with each passing day, how strong our relationship is and what he means to me. I could write about the friendships I’m nurturing, the people I’ve helped, or the places I’ve visited.

So why aren’t I?

Honestly, I don’t know the answer. I’m not sure if it’s because I think those things are of no interest to anyone else, or because they are mine and they are private, though that’s never stopped me before. Historically, I’ve been the queen of oversharing, never afraid to admit a failing, vulnerability, or strong opinion. But something has shifted. Somehow, for some reason, that just doesn’t feel right any more.

At the weekend, I stood drinking my morning coffee looking out at our overgrown garden which needs a lot of work. I’ve been feeling a bit despondent and overwhelemed about where to start with it, having no idea how to get it into shape and mould it into the space I’ve envisioned. I’d made some vague plans and done a bit of half-hearted clearing, all the while begruding not being able to afford to pay someone to do it for me, which is what I’ve done in the past. Waiting for someone else to take charge, for inspiration to strike, for the stars to align.

As I stood there making a mental check-list of all the things that need to be done and wondering who would do them, it occurred to me that I could do them. That might sound silly or obvious to anyone else, but as someone who knows next to nothing about gardening or plants, and who has been hampered with a very limiting physical impairment for the last few years, the thought had genuinely not crossed my mind.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I changed into clothes I didn’t mind getting dirty, grabbed a few tools from the shed, and got to work clearing four overgrown flowerbeds. I pulled weeds, dug up roots, and hacked at clumps of grass until my arms were like jelly, my back ached, and a large blister appeared on my finger. Still, I pressed on, determined to finish the job. Hands in the dirt scrabbling to get to the bottom of each obstacle before me, thrilled when I managed to prise it out and hold the offending item aloft, a reward for my persistence.

One by one, I worked my way around the flowerbeds until they were cleared of the past and someone else’s dreams, ready to be replanted with my own. Now, they are ready for something new, even if I have no idea yet what I want to grow there. The freshly turned soil invites endless possibilities, an open future. I only have to believe that, in time, what it is best suited for will reveal itself to me.

Today, as I stared at the blank page of a new Substack post again and waited for something to happen, I recalled how willing I’d been to jump into my garden and start working, even if I had no plan at first. With the cursor blinking before me, I realised that if I want to reshape my writing into something more aligned with my new life and vision, I’m going to have to do the same.

Instead of feeling stuck with what was originally built, I must allow my writing to change and grow like my garden. I have to apply the same belief that even if it’s different to what I first wanted, with enough hard work and determination I can make this place beautiful again. No more waiting to be saved or inspired or for someone else to do it for me. This is work I have to do with my own two hands, in a way that is true to myself.

With that in mind, I’m going to return to writing every week, even if what I want to write about seems mundane or silly or sentimental. Showing up is half the battle, and I trust that the rest will come as it should. Naturally, even that will evolve and change over time as my interests wane and shift, and that’s okay. I will keep reminding myself that I don’t have to stay in the box I first put myself in, that I am allowed to build myself a new one each time I evolve. After all, if we can’t allow even ourselves to change, what hope is there that we will accept the changes that inevitably come with each new season of our lives?

So for now, I’m planning and seeding. That might involve a name change for this publication, or it might not. It might mean I write about topics and issues I’ve never delved in to before, or a different type of writing altogether. It might mean I publish short pieces of fiction or excerpts from my shelved memoir alongside my essays, or it might not.

All I know for sure is that instead of standing behind glass waiting for something to bloom, I’m ready to roll up my sleeves and plant this garden myself. I hope you’ll stay to witness the transformation.