Is 2022 the year you'll finally tackle that romance novel you've been wanting to write, or get cracking on the family history? Maybe the memoir about the adventure you had traveling in Nepal or living on the island of Corfu in the '60s?

If there is one thing the COVID pandemic has taught us, it could be, 'Get on with it!' We can never know what is around the corner. Time is precious and it's finite. 

If you don't have a writing project in mind, how about journaling? 'I have nothing to write about' is a common roadblock for daily journal keeping but even the mundane can be interesting.

If all you're doing right now is sitting in a chair on the deck avoiding the heat, write about the chair. How long have you had it? Where did it come from? Who sat in that chair during previous summers?

I like to sit on a solid old wooden deckchair that belonged to Mom. The arms still bear the ring marks of multiple gin and tonics she used to perch there while she looked out at the sea. 

Perhaps you have a favourite pillow that goes with the chair. Was it given to you by someone or did you pick it up at Bed Bath and Beyond? What is special about it? The cushion I use in Mom's old chair is soft and faded blue with an unusual pattern on the material that looks like devils' heads. (Come on, really?).

Deciding to keep a daily journal - or every other day or even once a week - is a mighty fine writing activity to have on your radar this year, and it isn't a huge undertaking like creating a novel which, let's face it,  can seem daunting and even downright impossible during the blissful, enervating days of summer when energy and brainpower is not really a priority. 

Setting small goals, taking little steps, can produce great things over time.

So what's on my radar this year? My usual journaling, as I've done since the age of 17 (with a few gaps here and there), and working with other writers to help them reach their writing goals.

As for my own personal writing, I'm exploring the horror/suspense genre. I suppose you could say the COVID pandemic has heightened my awareness of how ordinary, daily life, can be turned on its head within days by the most unexpected of events.   

Not far from my house there's a small reserve with this lovely, cool green tree right in the middle. 

It sits bare and forlorn all winter and then, without you even noticing, it begins to unfurl these gorgeous lime-coloured leaves. The tree affords a delightfully cool place to catch one's breath on a hot day. 

I took a photo of it the other day because I suddenly noticed it had all its leaves!

On my walk today I saw my tree had some company. A lady was sitting on her folding chair with a thermos of tea and a scone, scribbling in a notebook. She looked up as I was passing (keeping my socially acceptable distance) and she said without any encouragement from me (apart from the smile I gave her), 'I'm writing a novel and it'll be a best seller!  Imagine! At my age!'

I guessed she was probably in her 80s although one can never tell with certainty. She waved her notebook in my direction and said, 'It's a sex book.'

Way to go, I thought. 'Tell me more,' I said.

She said she had always had a novel in her and this was to be the romance story she had been thinking about for years. Her husband passed away last year and so now she had time to write. Her aim was to develop a pen name that befitted the romance genre and she planned to submit her manuscript to a romance novel publisher in England she had her eye on. 

I told her I had once had a go at writing romance fiction under the pen name of Amber Forest. I figured out pretty quickly it wasn't my genre. My new friend wagged her pen at me and said, 'We all have lives of romance. You just have to let it bubble to the surface. Life is romantic! All you need to do is listen and write down what you hear.'

She said she liked writing under the tree because it was such a pleasant place to be on a warm day but it also inspired her as she'd had some of her 'best romantic experiences' under trees and in peoples' gardens. 

I told her I was a writer and we had a conversation about that and then she paused for a moment, took a sip of her tea from a china cup festooned with roses and said, 'You're never too old to write  a best seller you know. Look at Grandma Moses. She started painting her folk art at the age of 78. Her stuff is worth a fortune now.'

​So true. 

I don't know about you but I've had so many toasters in my life I've lost count. 

My work-day breakfast routine includes a piece of toast with jam or honey and a cup of coffee,  and if I don't have a toaster that works, well, you can imagine the rest. This kick-start to the day has to be right.

I'd purchased yet another toaster during lockdown. The predecessor was off its nut, burning the bread to cinders no matter the setting. So this one arrives by courier, all shiny and flash looking and I unpacked it with glee, all ready to plug in and enjoy. Lockdown has meant many things but in this case, it meant I could not peruse the toasters in the shop so had to look at them online and pick. I thought I'd done pretty well.

So off we go. Toast in, slide down, coffee ready. 

Boom.

Well, a loud 'thunk' that struck a chord of familiarity for me. Said new toaster tripped the electrical failsafe for the whole house.  No power anywhere. Fortunately I knew how to remedy this with a reset of the switch.

Can you imagine the exasperation: coffee ready to go, butter and jam standing by, hungry writer ready to start work, a new, glamourous but defective toaster smugly proud of its ability to destroy it all.

What to do? Dig out the old pyromaniac toaster from the garage and put up with it.

I've had cheap toasters, top of the range toasters and it doesn't seem to make any difference. They have all bitten the crumbs after what seems to me to be an inordinately short time.

Now I think this short-circuiting toaster is reflective of what's going on for me right now. Our city of Auckland has been pinned down by the arms and legs by COVID restrictions for about four months and my circuits are overloaded.

This evil minded toaster sent me over the edge. It doesn't take much to trip my failsafe. I think a lot of us are short-circuiting right now. 

I just want a toaster that works. I want a nice piece of toast with my coffee without having to worry about the toaster blowing up the house. 

Is that too much to ask? 

I've written before about my cat Betsy - indeed she had her own journal for a while. She was with me for 21 years. That's a lifetime, you could say.

She died last December and I still miss her.

You know how it is. Sometimes you see a flash of grey-brown in the garden and your brain in its instinctive wisdom goes, 'It's Betsy-cat' and then it rationalises, 'No, she's dead - that's a young blackbird you're seeing.'

Or you'll be sitting watching TV at night and you'll hear what sounds like a plaintive meow from the front door. That would've been Betsy wanting to come inside. Maybe some feet pitter-pattering on the tin roof. Betsy loved going up there to enjoy the expansive view and moonlight.

It's been said that our deceased loved ones visit us in dreams. This is when they can drop in and say hi, let us know they're doing OK. I am not sure about this but I do know I've dreamt about Mom lots of times and I nearly always wake up feeling reassured but in pain because I miss her so much.

Despite the pain, there's a knowledge that she is fine, enjoying wherever she is, probably hanging out with her old friends over gin and tonics. Now, I don't mean any disrespect here but imagining her in this way brings me comfort. Sometimes I see her as the woman she was before Parkinson's  stole so much from her - vibrant, funny, always a smile - and at other times she is debilitated and a bit wobbly but she is unfailingly happy and often, in these dreams, I am taking her shopping, something she and I loved to do together.   

Last night I had a dream about Betsy-cat. In the many months since her death, I've thought of her a million times but she hasn't come to me in my dreams.

In this dream I was walking up the driveway and she was lying on the warm brick steps, enjoying the sun as she loved to do. In the dream, I was so astonished to see her (because I knew she had passed away) that I exclaimed, 'Betsy! I'm so pleased to see you!' and she lifted her head in that relaxed way she had, as if to say, 'Oh, it's you, OK' and then she got up and came towards me. 'Hello sweetheart,' I said as I gave her some loving pats and tickles around her ears.

Then, once again as was her habit, she allowed this affection for just so long and then turned away to return to her warm spot on the brick steps. By this time in my dream, I was crying, saying 'I miss you Betsy...'.

I woke up then to find I hadn't shed any real tears on my pillow but my throat was thick with them.

Was Betsy telling me she was OK, lounging about in the warmth of wherever she is, letting me know all was well? 

I don't know. What I do know is I miss my old mate. We had a great run together - 21 years is a long time and what a gift it was to have her for so long - and even though she's no longer hanging out in the garden or on the roof, she'll always reside in my heart, my special Betsy-girl mate.  

How do you write a book?

One word at a time, or, on a good day, several words.

It can seem like an impossible task, this book-writing gig. You have an idea, you can see the end result (your book sitting in the shop, people flocking to purchase, the movie deal knocking at your door), the fame and glory, cash rolling in ... fabulous!

But how do you get there?

I hate to tell you that the movie deal and tsunami of cash may be a bit of a challenge - but aim high, I say - and the reality of writing a book is a mission that needs to be undertaken with a commitment as solid as the Great Wall of China. Many books begin with a flurry only to languish in desk drawers or share a box in the attic with last year's Christmas decorations, or reside deep and lonely in a hard drive somewhere.

Having an idea for your book is the first step; having a plan to reach the endgame (publication, movie rights, adoration) is the next, and then, well, once again I'm sorry to tell you, you have to write the jolly thing.  

Going the distance with your writing will take discipline. Just like athletes training for the Olympics, they won't get there unless they have a plan, work hard, and stay with it. Of course you can hire someone to write it for you or mentor you while you write it (someone like me...) or you can set yourself a writing goal and make a writing plan you can live with and that's important because if it's unrealistic, you may not be able to stick to it and use this as an excuse not to do it.

Now comes the 'word by word' bit. That's how you write a book. Some days the words flow, other days they don't, but those words add up, they grow, layer on layer, page by page. Some words in that first draft may be outrageous, embarrassing, totally wrong, but that's what first drafts are for, building content, page after page, chapter after chapter, giving you content to hone, craft and polish .

Focusing word by word can take away that overwhelming feeling of 'the whole', the panic and desperation we sometimes feel when we visualise the flashy book on the shelf but cannot see how in the heck we will ever get there.

The whole is the sum of its parts.

Those parts are the chapters.

The chapters are the words. 

Go for it.

What do we do when we are locked down for months at home?

We garden.

Gardening has kept me sane most days, and we've had some glorious weather in which to work outside. Spring is definitely here and summer is dangled tantalizingly in front of us although we are not sure at this point how much enjoyment of the traditional kiwi summer break we will have. There is no bright horizon when it comes to COVID so we take each day as it comes.

​I looked at my last post and couldn't believe it was from the 31st of  August. What? Way over a month ago? Time seems to be standing still right now.

Auckland has been in various levels of COVID lockdown since that post in August. Right now we are in Level 3 with perks, those being we can meet outside, two households, no more than ten people, for a barbecue. Oh yes, and we cannot use the toilet in someone's house. Not allowed to gather inside, anywhere. This has been somewhat problematic when some public toilets have been closed due to COVID. We are encased in our city with closed borders north and south.

Special documentation is needed to leave or enter Auckland. Face masks are the order of the day and it's dueling trolleys at the supermarket as we attempt to get in, hunt and gather and get out as fast as possible.

The rest of New Zealand has more freedoms but no rambling about too much please or gathering in huge numbers. It's tough right now. It's hard to stay motivated.

A number of writers I work with are having trouble with their projects. Lockdown seemed like the perfect opportunity to get stuck in and finish their books. Not so. Lockdown lethargy settles on us like a fine dust, dampening down, stifling thought, and it's easier to sit in front of the TV and watch box sets of Dexter. I've felt that way too. I do my daily work but when it comes to my creative self - like writing my Blogs - well, you can see how well that's going.

The spring colours seem especially vibrant this year or maybe it is that way because our senses are seeking out the brightness, the fragrances, the loveliness of nature whilst we scramble about and try to contain the daily virus cases. Such a longing for colour, the solace digging about in the dirt can bring, the delight at seeing the accomplishment in the garden at a time when it feels like, as a city, we take one step forward and four backwards.

It lifts the spirits.  

This morning is stormy - here's the view from my office window. Rain, wind, wild seas and a neighbourhood shut in not only by the weather but by another two weeks of Level 4 lockdown in Auckland. Not much sleep was had last night as lightning flashed, thunder rocked and rolled and the rain barreled down on the old tin roof.

We were warned about this level continuation by our Prime Minister, Jacinda Ardern, a few days ago and it was confirmed yesterday. Even so, having a heads-up beforehand didn't really do much to lessen the feelings of .. what? 

I have a number of those feelings this morning as I look out the window, feeling very much isolated not only by the storm, up here in my working space, but also by the knowledge that at 11.59pm tonight, our city will be cut off from the south with police at the southern boundary, and it is likely that on Thursday this week, at 11.59pm, we will be cut off from the north, another border patrol in place to prevent people coming and going unless they have specials exemptions for work or to provide essential services.  

We shall be soldiering on alone.

I have to say though, that our Prime Minister delivered this news in a way that was both firm and yet empathetic. She said Auckland had been doing much of the 'heavy lifting' for the whole country, which is true, as we are the port of entry into the country and as such, the city is always on high alert, and now Aucklanders are having to bear up so the rest of the country can begin to resume normal activities, albeit with heavy restrictions still in place.

Facing another two weeks of isolation is daunting, it feels emotional this morning in a way it didn't yesterday. That prospect, plus this wild weather, looking out my window and seeing no one, apart from a few signs of life (a bunch of sodden washing on a clothes line across the street, a rubbish bin blown into the empty street by the gale) I feel as if I could be the only person here.

I was brightened just a moment ago, receiving an email from our blues band leader, with a song he'd like us to listen to and learn whilst in  this home-alone period, a good old Bo Diddley rocker, one that will be great for when we can be together again. 'The COOLEST groove' he said, 'especially for bass (him) and drums (me).' 

And that's pretty good advice too, for right now. Stay cool and stay groovy.

It'll see us through.

The COVID Delta variant has arrived in New Zealand with a hiss and a roar, or would it be better to say, like in insidious interloper, now well accustomed to finding its way into populations all over the world with its well-honed and crafty viral skills.

Once again New Zealand is in the highest level lockdown and we are watching the world go by from the windows of our homes. Not that my home and view looks anything like this from master Henri Matisse but the gorgeous colours gave me some cheer this morning and I hope they do the same for you.

I was listening to some news this morning and the District Mayor of Westland, a true-blue West Coast man, put it best. 

He was saying this Delta variant is dangerous, we need to take heed and abide by the current Level Four restrictions in place for the whole of New Zealand.

"This has the potential to really bite us in the bum," he said, to which the reporter replied, "And we don't want that."

We surely do not.

We've heard so much political-speak this week, lengthy orations about the virus and this new mutation, and that is fine and we need the information but in terms of understanding what could happen if we don't play ball and stay at home,  the Mayor's words say it all in a way that we can all really take to heart.

So we find ourselves in this lockdown place again and most seem to be handling it OK, despite the ever-increasing list of locations of interest which seems to be creeping further south and north every day. So far, on our little peninsula here, we are OK but who knows who amongst has may have visited the dumpling place down town, or the Sky City Casino, or the BP station in Waiouru, and then come home with an unwanted passenger.

It can really get to you, if you let this train of thought leave the station, gaining momentum as it travels down the tracks until you're so anxious and beside yourself, you begin to wonder if its actually safe to  walk on the beach, even with a gale blowing (as it has been the last few days). Is 'it' traveling on the wind? Is that person I just passed someone who was at the Glenfield McDonald's this week at the time an infectious person was? 

As my mother would say, 'Balderdash! Get out there and have a walk!' OK.

I am walking, I have been to the grocery store (well done Silverdale Pak n Save for managing shoppers in such an efficient and caring way), and I have spoken with neighbours, albeit from a distance.

Even though this virus wants to bite us in the bum, we can't resign our bums and just give in. Of course, abide by the rules, but keep your pecker up (i.e. chin) and carry on as we navigate our way through this challenging time.

And don't forget to write about it. This is an historical time and your thoughts about living through a pandemic will not only be fascinating reading for future generations, but getting it down on paper or your computer is good therapy. 

If there was ever a time when writing could help us heal from trauma and challenge, this could be it.

Even though COVID 19 and it's repercussions have become very familiar to us, the anxiety continues. Will it spread, what about this horrid Delta variant that is so much worse, when will I get my vaccine, why are we letting sick mariners bring their boat to within coo-ee of our largest city ... it is relentless, every day, every night on the news there is more.

'Healing writing' helps us make sense of why we feel the way we do. It encourages us to explore our emotions and thoughts and is not so much about what we write but how we write it. The way we write it can vary: in a journal, as a poem, a song, a prose story. Doesn't matter. You choose, because the writing you do, is just for you, no one else. That's part of the healing. You aren't writing to please or impress anyone, you're not writing to sell or publicise. You are writing for you, to express your emotions and to make sense of life.

Healing writing, also known as 'expressive writing', can take the form of a story with a beginning, middle and end. Tell the events and link your feelings to them. For example, say you attended a large gathering, perhaps a birthday party, last weekend. Lots of people. The scene was happy, band was playing, and you were having a great time until you heard whispers that someone at the party had recently returned from New South Wales and may have been at a COVID 'place of interest' in Sydney. The realisation that you may have been exposed to the virus occurred to you when the band started playing the Van Halen song 'Runnin' with the Devil'. So: the event was the song, what was the feeling that went with it?

The first important thing about healing writing is to let it all hang out and get it out, no matter how it comes. Don't worry about spelling, grammar and all that horseradish. Set the timer for ten minutes and keep moving, don't stop. Sentences may be full or fragmentary, or you might just have thoughts scattering the page like buckshot. That's all OK. 

The second is to focus on details: for example, delve into that moment at the party when you heard the song and the COVID scary news. What were you doing? Maybe you were standing in your uncomfortable red stiletto shoes that you bought specially for more than you earn in a month, holding a cold glass of a sweet cocktail that had run over the side and your fingers were sticky ... you get the picture?   

The third is 'the big reveal': what have you learned about yourself? Not to buy too-expensive shoes? Not to drink sickly-sweet cocktails? Not to go to any more big parties for a while? Probably of most importance would be your reaction to the COVID fright at the party: how did you respond (fear, anger, denial, feeling foolish because you spent so much money on those damn shoes and the party has turned into a horror show, or booze-inspired bravado?), and why did you respond in that way? Identifying why you responded the way you did helps you make sense of it, learn from it, and find a way forward. Writing about it can also help us forgive ourselves. We're only human after all.

After you've written for ten minutes, you may find that your blood pressure has lowered, you're more relaxed and in control, your mind unburdened, less emotionally charged and overwhelmed. You feel better.

Now I'm not saying that expressive writing cures all ills, not at all, and sometimes we need to access more appropriate help to support us as we move through a tough time. I do know that this type of writing can improve overall wellbeing and help settle the anxious mind and spirit. 

There's something about translating an emotional experience into words. It can turn a negative into a positive. Try writing for ten or fifteen minutes for three or four days in a row: set aside the time, say 4pm to 4.15pm or whatever works, stick with it, see what happens. 

I've been a bit 'under the weather' lately.

My Mom used to say this when we were sick and my current under the weather episode would have fascinated her. Mom was intrigued by all things medical and would have made a great physician.  She'd look at me and say, 'Jane you have the most unusual ailments.'

I looked up the 'under the weather' saying before writing this post today as I was curious about its origins. Apparently it's a nautical saying from the days of sailing ships. If a sailor was unwell, he went below decks to be protected from the weather, hence the term 'under the weather'.  I am not sure that being below decks on an old sailing ship would have been that beneficial, considering a sailor might've been sharing the space with a canon, canon balls and a goat or two.

My 'under the weather' has been a series of unusual events with an as yet undetermined cause. Suffice to say I've been crook for a while now: off my food (unusual), unable to touch a beer (catastrophic) and even had to bail on a couple of drumming gigs (unheard of). One thing I can say is, it's not COVID-19. Phew.

I was telling a friend about the litany of health horrors with which I have been afflicted and she said, 'It's a bit like a whodunnit. There are several suspects who've had their hand in the cookie jar and it's a case now of finding out which one is actually responsible.' Mom adored whodunnits, the more horrid and convoluted the better, and she would agree wholeheartedly with my friend.

A series of tests and scans has eliminated some potential suspects but we are still to find the culprit, the one causing the malaise.  

We're all hyper aware of our health now as the world continues to wrestle with this persistent and doggedly determined COVID-19 virus, one that seems to morph and change to ensure its survival and stay one step ahead of us. We can certainly empathise with those who have endured it and of course have heartfelt sadness for those who have died from it.

All of this reminds me of two things: no matter how far we have come with medical treatments and research, the body can still hold mysteries that baffle medical experts, and the second, its can often be a process of elimination to find 'whodunnit'. 

Oh yes and there's a third. Whenever we were under the weather, Mom would remind us of this: 'Your health is your most valuable asset. Do all you can to protect and care for it.' ​   

It's insidious, creeps up on you, a bit like a cat in the grass, stalking, ready to pounce when you least expect it. It's this feeling of uncertainty, generated by our old unwelcome adversary COVID, not knowing what tomorrow may bring when this grumpy thing decides to kick up rough again and throw us all into a lockdown of anxiety and financial stress.

You don't always realise how anxious you are until you see a news report that startles you like a deer in the forest, makes you uneasy like walking into cobwebs in a dark and unfamiliar old house, feeling your way, or just downright strikes fear like a stake into your heart.

And it's exhausting, this constant apprehension about everything. I suppose the reassuring thing here is: you're not the only one. We're all in the same boat, steady as she goes amidst the troubled waters.

I've started remembering things in my past, memories of good times, because they are certain. They are mine, my history, and there they are, rock solid, steady and sure. They often appear as little video clips parading across my mind's eye, or as still snapshots of places, people, animals. 

I remember the first time I played drums in public at the Dairy Flat Community Hall jam night. It was the first time I had ever played outside of my own living room, and I played with some experienced musicians and we played 'Mary Had a Little Lamb', the Stevie Ray Vaughn version. I didn't know the 'stops', as I call them, where everybody is supposed to stop playing for effect and the intro to this song has a couple of those. Of course I played through the stops, my very inadvertent and embarrassing first drum solos. That was a lesson learned and now when I play I ask, 'Are there any stops?' 

I can also become happy and relaxed for a while when I think about other drumming experiences. Playing music always makes me feel good and I've played in some interesting places: on top of a pool table down Franklin way at a mini country music festival, and in a converted shearing shed up at a farm on the Port Albert Road.  I've played at music festivals and most recently at the Paihia Country Rock Festival this month. The photo above was taken at the Orewa Street Fiesta back in February this year.

So we do what we can to ease our minds during these 'times of scary' as my neighbour calls them. I often think writing one's thoughts and feelings out in a journal can help too but sometimes even that gets me too wired up and anxious. I never thought I'd feel that way about my journal but sometimes I have to put the pen down, step away and pick up the drumsticks instead.

​Yeah, man.  By the way, below is the Stevie Ray Vaughn YouTube video.

I'm not playing in this one.

We are hard-wired to tell stories.

... those long dark nights when we sat around the warmth and safety of a fire and shared stories about our day: what we did, what we hunted and gathered, what we saw - and of course all of those tales would've had a good dose of imagination thrown in. That animal we speared for dinner became far larger than it actually was, the trip to gather water from a nearby stream became fraught with tension because we lost our way and couldn't get back for ages (when actually we probably just took some time out to sit by the water and dream for a bit), and then there are the stories we tell about others, embellishing our own with those day to day interactions and relationships.

What wonderful stories we had the privilege of sharing at my recent Introduction to Memoir Workshop last weekend. A gathering of women with ideas and projects to describe,  eager to commit their stories to the written word.

The writing of memoir involves the telling of truth, your story or journey, what happened during a time of change or transformation in your life. It can take courage to tell those stories, and we tell them when we are ready.

That can take a while. My Mom died in 2010 and it has only been within the last two or three years that I have started the writing of my memoir about her. In contrast, my memoir about my first year after a breast cancer diagnosis was written and published within three years of that fateful day when I found out I had cancer.

Good strong stories customarily follow a narrative arc. A very simplistic description of the arc is the beginning where we meet the main characters and the scene is set (Act 1), the conflict/action/crisis follows (Act 2) and then the resolution ends the story (Act 3), where we find out what eventuated, the conclusion of our story. For example, earlier I mentioned going to the stream for water. That is Act 1 where we meet the person, the scene is set. Act 2 is all the conflict - what happens to challenge the mission of getting water? Our character falls down a hole, or is confronted by a wild animal, or indeed falls in the stream and floats away. Act 3 is how our character made it back to camp. How did they manage? What did they do? What have they learned from the experience?

Sometimes we are still living the story we want to write about. There is no resolution yet. We don't know what the end will be. Should that stop you from writing your story? No, I don't think so. You'll probably have the first two parts of your arc, and some memoirs do end with nothing being resolved.

Whatever your story and wherever you are in it, tell it.

Write it honestly and truthfully, because therein lies the power.  ​   

Don't let the boat sail without you! Join me for my Introduction to Memoir Workshop on Sunday 18 April. Find out more ...

It's so easy to say, 'I won't think about that today - I'll think about that tomorrow'.  That's what Scarlett O'Hara said after shooting a Union soldier dead in the foyer of Tara. She decided to sort that one out later.

We do that with our writing. We always think we have another day, another month in which to begin, or we'll plan to write our memoir next year because we'll have more to write about ... oh yes and a nice new laptop on which to write it, and maybe a flash office with a comfy chair and a beer fridge in the corner with a potted African violet on top for a bit of colour.

Before we know it, that ship has sailed and we're left on the grass, watching the opportunity vanish into the distance of life.

If you've ever wanted to start some writing, or a memoir, now is the time. Procrastination is no longer an option. We may not have that seemingly endless spool of time that will keep unravelling before us, day after day, month upon month, year after year.

Maybe you need some help to get started. Nothing wrong with that and getting going can often be the first hurdle we have to jump over. And we do throw up a lot of those. It's kind of like a self-destruct mechanism, a default position almost, thinking up barriers to stop ourselves from beginning. Common ones are: I don't have time, or I have nothing to write about because my life has been so boring (remember, there can be a lot of interest and depth in boring!), I have nowhere to write, I need new glasses etc etc. 

Others may be 'I don't want to hurt someone by writing my truth about them' or 'What will people think of me when they read what really happened?' These can be emotionally difficult to get through, but there are ways through.

You just need to begin the writing.

Join me for my Introduction to Memoir workshop on Sunday 18 April and we will get you started on your story. We'll talk about those hurdles and find ways over.

We'll get you on board that boat before it sails away.​ 

I have a covered porch on the side of my house where I stack firewood to dry over the summer, ready for burning during the cold winter days. At the moment, there's a pile of kanuka from a tree we removed a while back. It's the perfect spot for my colony of wee lizards who enjoy the heat and sunbathe atop the limbs.

I was sitting out there the other day when I heard some commotion from within the woodpile. I thought, 'That's a mighty big lizard' and I prepared myself for something out of a horror movie, taking on a defensive stance.

Out popped a little ginger head and it was my old mate Mr. Boy from next door. He and his sister Poppy have now discovered my cottage, trekking up all the outdoor stairs to visit and explore what they see as a new and fascinating place.

The unexpected … yesterday was a prime example as northern parts of New Zealand were on high tsunami alert following a swarm of earthquakes, one dangerously close to our East Coast, others to the north east near the Kermadec Islands.

We've had months of the 'unexpected' here … the White Island volcanic eruption, COVID-19, and now this, a reminder that New Zealand is vulnerable to tsunamis and we could well generate one of our own, sitting as we do on the Pacific's volcanic 'ring of fire'  (which we had described to us at school as 'the fiery girdle of the Pacific'. Very dramatic).  

My first response to Mr. Boy's rustling about in the woodpile was fear and a stab of anxiety - 'What is happening and what will happen to me?' After gathering the facts, it was, 'What do I do about this?' In this case, nothing apart from enjoying my little friend's company for a few minutes until he dashed off for more adventures in the garden.

Yesterday, we had a call to action in the face of a threat and people responded in an orderly, calm way, getting to higher ground to await an 'all clear.' For those of us in Auckland, there was no need to evacuate but everyone in our neighbourhood here kept a weather-eye out, watching the high tide for signs of even higher water and unusual currents.   

I woke up this morning thinking, 'what could possibly happen today?' 

So far nothing more than a beautiful, calm, and sunny Saturday morning.

Life being what it is, this calm could change in a moment.

We live in a time of uncertainty already, never knowing if the COVID-19 balance will tip into the danger zone while we await our vaccinations against it. Add something else into the mix, whether it's Mr. Boy or an earthquake, then we can tip all too easily into our own emotional danger zones.  

I already feel better writing about it because confessing my anxiety about Mr. Boy leaping out of the woodpile and the tsunami (accompanied by screaming alerts on mobile phones, media coverage on TV that could scare the crap out of anyone, plus the incessant wailing of evacuation sirens in areas where the threat of inundation was very real indeed) to the written word.

Seeing my worry laid out in front of me takes some of its power away, helps me to process the feelings and understand my responses.​     

It was Hemingway who said, 'Writing, at its best, is a lonely life'.

Writing is something that we will often do alone, but does that mean it is a 'lonely life' or do we just have that need for solitude that makes one perceive that writing is a lonely occupation?

I can't say I've ever felt lonely when I'm writing because my head is so full of ideas and characters rattling around in there, chatting away to me in their raw language that I interpret and hone for the page. Time passes without me knowing, I'm engrossed in what I am doing. I look up and it's lunchtime already.

Sometimes we do need to share what we're doing with someone else, a collaboration or a mentoring, someone to coach us from the sidelines or dive deep into the fray alongside, to wrestle those ideas into a story, a poem, a song, a film script. I was reminded of this when I was out gardening the other day, alone with my spade and shears, rummaging about amidst a tangle of weedy horror, in despair because the more I weeded, the worse things got.

Then I looked up and there were my two wee mates from next door, Poppy and Mr. Boy, appearing silently from behind a clump of hydrangea. I encouraged them to pick up some tools and get stuck in but they just sat and stared at what I was doing. However, their mere presence and intense interest in my horticultural labours spurred me on and soon my garden waste bucket was full and the mission was accomplished.

Afterwards, the three of us retired to the deck where we lay in the sun for a while to bask in the glory of our achievements. 

I've noticed in my work with writers that yes, the writing life can be heavy going at times, because we are essentially on our own and can get bogged down, tangled up, overwhelmed and it can be so helpful to have someone like Poppy and Mr. Boy who show up, hang out with you, encourage and cheer from the sidelines. Such collegial support can help restore faith and get back on track.

If you need someone to cheer you on, come and see me. Book in for a one or two hour mentoring session and, who knows, those two precious wee buddies from next door might pop in and join us for a cup of tea.    

Well here we are again … Level Three in Auckland with road blocks at the Super City boundaries and people on edge in New Plymouth where potentially infectious people did some travelling and sightseeing. Long lines at the testing centres and a 3-4 hour wait to get through the boundary checkpoints.

Our neighbourhood is quiet again this morning as people sleep in, stay home, no morning commute happening. And it's mighty good weather for staying home as it's rainy, muggy, cloudy with more rain to come. Perfect for catching up on those saved movies and stacks of summer reading books from the library. 

Or doing some writing!

Most seem to have met this latest development with a shrug and a sigh as it is something we expected could happen and hoped would not. We have been fortunate though, exceedingly so, being able to enjoy our summer holidays and events while so much of the world is suffering through wave after wave of the ongoing struggle with this lethal COVID-19.

Sure thing, it's a bummer being housebound again and it's an anxious time as we wait for more information about this latest community outbreak. There are concerns for our work and incomes, whether we can get out and do the things we need to (for example, the Warrant of Fitness is due on the car), worries about our families and health, and whether we can place our trust 100% in those who are tasked with keeping us safe. 

It's a set back but there are positives.

We're all OK.

Our little neighbourhood here is a microcosm of support - we're communicating over the fences and in the street (socially distant), hanging out on our respective front porches and chatting, keeping each other up to date with the latest news and the do-you-need-anything kindnesses. The phone buzzes, it's someone checking in. It fills you with warmth. 

These few days provide opportunities to take some 'me' time, a bit of 'time out', take a breather, do some writing, get started on that book or poem you've been thinking about. Writing and reading are good distractions when times are tough, so indulge, heartily. 

Summer is an easy-going time but most of us were already back on the treadmill of work and obligation. Now we've stopped in midstream. OK, so, step out of the current, make your way to the riverbank, take a seat, and watch the water go by for a day or two.   
​

Yes it's summer - long, languid days at the beach and a Summer Writing Salon or two at The Writing Place. What could be better?

I took this photo from behind my drum kit at our annual Jazz Concert in John's Garden. This is our third year and the jazz takes place on the Saturday of Anniversary Day weekend here in Auckland. We set up the band under the awning in my neighbour John's back yard, invite all the folks living up and down the street, and have an afternoon of good music and fun. They bring their folding chairs and drinks, find some shade under the trees and settle in to enjoy themselves. 

This year we had a seven-piece band: drums, keyboard, a saxophonist, a trombonist, a guitarist, bass and vocalist. Fabulous. The music cheered the souls and spirits of everyone who gathered in John's garden.    

Summer is also the time for writers to get together for a relaxing afternoon of writing and we had a grand old time at the Summer Writing Salon here at The Writing Place in January. Six writers joined me for a good session of writing to timed exercises, sharing the resulting work, discussing and offering good constructive feedback. Some of those attending had projects under way that they presented to the group, asking for ideas, guidance and some inspiration. All in all, it was a wonderful afternoon with an extraordinarily talented group of creative women.

Summer is about sharing and enjoying music or writing or any kind of creative activity, settling down in some of our most beautiful places to get inspired, to create, and have fun. Goodness knows we need it after the year 2020 when the world changed so dramatically for everyone.

Creativity helps us to 'download', process those feelings of uncertainty that underpin our days as COVID continues to plague us, ease them somewhat so we can relax and our mind can travel a different path, at least for a while. 

I encourage you to write, play music, share your creations with others. Get out into this beautiful summer. Get inspired.

Get writing. Now.   

It's coming up to a New Year and American country and western singer Brad Paisley said, "Tomorrow, is the first blank page of a 365 page book. Write a good one." I am hopeful that 2021 will bring more good pages than bad ones.

​Will you join me at my Summer Writers' Salon on Sunday 17 January 2021 to write your first page? Let's begin our 365-page year book together with a day of writing at the Bay here in Whangaparaoa. 

Can we call 2020 'bad'? Or simply say, 'It is what it is - a not so good year. We've had them before.'  Not like this one, I would reply. I certainly did not factor a global pandemic into my 2020 business plan, no sir, although we did include earthquakes (possible here in Auckland) and a tsunami (also possible).

There is no doubt that this year inspired some extraordinary writing as we collectively experienced this COVID-19 virus. Many writers kept blogs, recording their daily thoughts during lockdown periods, expressing their fear, anxiety, sadness, depression - all of those emotions and feelings we have when normal life is off the rails and we don't know what could be coming at us around the next corner. I had never lived through anything like this before. Nothing even close to it.

Sometimes it seems that difficult times spawn more. They may be related to the main issue (COVID) or be something else altogether. I am still grieving for my old mate Miss Betsy-cat who died a few weeks ago, thinking I spot a flash of her tabby-brown coat in the sunlight under the lemon tree, or hear her pitter-patter on the roof. There are the orchards in Nelson/Tasman devastated a couple of days ago by horrendous hail, a loss of millions after a year of profound financial loss and struggle. Most people I speak to narrate tales of more loss, grief, challenge, change. 

But there is brightness too. We're lucky here in New Zealand, able to wander about freely and enjoy a long-awaited summer of sun, relaxation, get togethers with friends and travel within our beautiful country. Tomorrow I am heading up north to visit a friend who has a magnificent property overlooking the blue vastness that is Doubtless Bay. We will talk, laugh, share, and bring in the New Year with good champagne and some neighbours, sitting on her deck overlooking what I hope will be a moonlit sea. 

I feel humbled by all that has happened this year and I am going forward into 2021 with some care, stepping lightly, not wanting to make even a little wave just yet.

I have to feel my way a bit, test the water, see how it goes. That's what I'll be writing on my first page.

What will you write about?

But what if you've just been diagnosed with breast cancer? 

Everyone is decorating their homes, shopping for gifts, buying up large for Christmas dinners and celebrations, and going to end-of-year parties … there's an air of fun, frivolity, and summer plans.
You have been given a diagnosis of breast cancer.

The impact of a diagnosis changes our perspective during the festive season. Instead of wondering whether to serve roast potatoes, or potato salad with the ham, it’s “How can I celebrate when I have breast cancer?”, “Will I feel well enough to do anything at all with my family?”, and “What is going to happen to me?” … and all the while the cheery emails and cards keep arriving, Great Aunt Maude and mad Uncle Charlie will be there any minute, the helter-skelter build up to The Big Day continues, and you’re left standing on the sideline, exhausted, frightened, panic-stricken, sad, and feeling almost every other emotion it is possible to experience.

First off, allow yourself to vent those feelings, thoughts, and emotions. People do at Christmas time, and while yours may not be so jolly, giving yourself permission to express them – laugh, cry, get mad – reflects that old maxim ‘better out than in’.  Keep the communication going with those close to you.

Acknowledge that this Christmas will be different. You may not be able to keep up some of the traditions, and that’s OK. Christmas is often the time when we feel we must please everyone, make sure our family and friends are cared for, fed well, and enjoy themselves. Mad Uncle Charlie may need to stay with your sister for a bit.

Make a plan with family and friends, decide what you feel able to do, and what you aren’t up to doing. Having a plan takes some of the stress away, and also gives you a response when someone suggests what they feel you should be doing.   Remember it’s about you and it is your right to choose the best approach that nurtures your well being and healing and does not cause more tension.
Accept invitations if you’d like to, and say that you may leave early, or not attend, depending on how you feel on the day.  

Take time out each day to acknowledge what is happening.  All too often over the holiday period there will be an invitation to “swallow it back” and “not rock the boat” for others.  All very admirable, but a quiet half hour each day to focus in on your own experience will keep you grounded and sane.
Indulge, be kind to yourself, do something that you may not normally do. A diagnosis can make us feel angry – at ourselves, at God, whoever – and we can feel out of control. Self-nurture helps us take things back into our own hands and smooth the way a bit.

It is OK to say ‘no thank you’ if you’re not up to it, and ‘yes please’ to offers of help. Sometimes people don’t really know what is needed, so tell them. Perhaps they can assist with some pre-Christmas shopping, or lend a hand with the housework, meal preparation and clean up over the holidays.

Christmas and New Year are times to feel grateful for the blessings of family, friends, and many other aspects of life. Feeling gratitude may be tough after a diagnosis, but try to think of three things each day that you are grateful for. These thoughts can provide a small antidote for fear. 

Even if you are not a religious person, attending a Christmas Eve church service (if you are well enough) can provide a private, quiet space, for you to acknowledge those feelings of grief, loss, fear, uncertainty. Taking time for yourself at home to meditate, or relax, can also offer a peaceful haven and some respite.

If you need to talk to someone, Auckland-based Breast Cancer Support has a toll free Help Line available every day throughout the holidays on 0800 273 222. Many of their volunteers have ‘been there too’ at Christmas and can offer practical and emotional support. ​

Let's say you want to write about your life.

Maybe you've traveled to exotic places and had jungle encounters with wild animals ... perhaps you set yourself a personal challenge to swim across Cook's Strait, and on the day it was blowing a gale but you did it anyway, by golly.  

Did you experience a time of grief and sadness, as a result of a loss, or endure a health crisis that necessitated stays in hospital, lengthy treatment, and a long recovery that changed every aspect of your life?

Does your family have a fascinating history, grandparents who fought in world wars, kept diaries as they sailed to New Zealand as immigrants way back when, to forge a new life in what was a wild and untamed place, far from home and all that was familiar?

We all have stories to tell, whether they are are own, or we're breathing life into those of our parents or ancestors.

Sometimes it's hard to know where to start. There is so much material, an overwhelming multitude of thoughts and memories, like a giant scrapbook with pages all over the show and pictures falling out everywhere, no rhyme or reason to any of it.

It's such an avalanche of material, we're lost in it.

What to do?

Come to a Write-In.

I say this because talking about it helps to clarify, distill, break all of that BIG IDEA into manageable pieces. Working in isolation is fine when you've made a start and have a path to follow but when you're struggling with the 'where to start' thing, it can be really helpful to talk to other writers who 'get it' and understand how hard this part of the process can be.  

I've written before about a writers' group I attended for many years. We've gone our separate ways now but I was so grateful for that supportive presence of other writers, never more so than when I was trying to get started on something.

There's a trust that develops amongst a small group, even one that is meeting for the first time, and it doesn't take long for that camaraderie to emerge.

That's one of the best things about a Write-In. People arrive, unknown to each other, and leave as colleagues, all sharing that wonderful ability to weave words into gold. And the best part? 

Coming away with a direction for that story or project, knowing how and where to begin, with energy and enthusiasm, inspiration and motivation.

Join us for a Write-In, Saturday 7th or 14th November, or both. I guarantee you'll enjoy it, or I'll eat my Halloween witch's hat.

I'm having a Spring write-in, two in fact, the first on Saturday 7 November and the second a week later on the 14th. Find out more!

Sorry to say, it's not a love-in (popular back in the 60s with the hippies, an outdoor public gathering and demonstration of love, friendship and unity, often with psychedelic drugs) however it is a chance to get together with other writers, do some writing and share experiences of the writing life.

The write-ins are held at my Writing Place here in Arkles Bay, a beautiful bay that a friend of mine recently referred to as 'the jewel in the crown of Whangaparaoa' - and it is indeed a lovely, peaceful place to live and write. I'm not the only writer living in Arkles Bay. There's another writer a few doors down from me, and a few more residing nearby. 

So what is a write-in at The Writing Place? It's an informal gathering of up to six writers, here at my writing studio, from 10am to around 2pm. 

First up is coffee or tea and a chat where we introduce ourselves, talk about our writing preferences (and these vary considerably, from genres like fantasy and horror, to children's fiction, memoir, life story and more) and what we'd like to do with the write-in time.

Some writers have projects they're working on and just need some quiet hours. Others come to receive guidance and support to make a start. Some attend just to be with other writers and this alone can be a reassuring and confidence-boosting benefit.

We usually begin the day's work with some timed writing exercises.  I give writers 3 minutes to write on a set topic, or I'll offer up a beginning like, 'Today I feel like ...' and they do the rest. This is a good way to begin as it warms up those writing muscles. All are welcome to read their short writings to the group if they'd like to, and then we're into our work for the day. 

During this time I offer a 15 minute individual coaching/mentoring session to each writer. They may have a particular problem they wish to chat about and this could be anything from writing process to getting published or overcoming a roadblock.

We break for lunch (everyone brings their own and we sit out on the deck with a view of the bay, if the weather is nice) and chat and then we do some more work. Towards the end of the day we'll have another sharing time of readings and feedback.

Now, I have to stress to you that the sharing is entirely optional. There is no pressure whatsoever to share work with the others but comments from previous write-ins have indicated that writers feel very comfortable here, confident and safe in this environment and that is great to hear.

So won't you join us for a day of writing on either the 7th or the 14th, or both? It's just $35 to come to the write-in and I can guarantee you'll leave feeling relaxed, confident about your writing, and you'll have made some new friends.  You may even have made a start on a novel or project, or have come up with something you never thought possible ... good on you!

Let's say each word you write costs you a dollar. 

Your natural response would most likely be, 'I want to save money.' 

Inflation might bring this up to $5 in a few years' time. Then you'd be very economical.

Now I know that when we're in the heat of creation on that first draft, we're encouraged to get it all out on the page - blah on without restrictions - so we're going to spend a lot of money on those words. And I think that's OK because, if I can get lyrical here, our creativity is richly endowed and can afford it.

But when it comes to editing back, honing our story to perfection, each word matters and has to earn that dollar or five dollars to deserve its place in your story. And if you remember that each word is costing you, you will be ambitious about cutting out the ones that don't serve the purpose so you can save 'money'.

Let's take an example: here's something I wrote recently as part of the book I'm writing about my Mom. It's definitely first draft stuff. Here goes:

Whenever we went to the beach, Mom would always wear her palm frond hat she got in Fiji when we came over on the boat from America. Over time, it got faded and crisp, those fronds were sticking out all over the place and the little bird that used to nestle on the side was long gone, blown away one day with the tidal winds. She also wore a bathing suit with a funny skirt that used to float about her as she waded into the water and along with the hat she looked like some kind of exotic bird.

That's 100 words and at, say, one dollar a word, that passage has cost me $100. Way too dear. So now I take to this passage with a financier's eye and cut back to what I can afford, and what my story actually needs to move it along:

Mom had a faded palm frond hat she wore to the beach and a bathing suit with a skirt that floated about her like some exotic bird's plumage as she waded into the water.  

33 words, $33 dollars, and I've saved $67. The sentence isn't quite to final draft stage but you see what I mean. 

Does the reader really need to know that the hat came from Fiji, bought while we were on a boat? This information, in fact, is covered earlier in the story, and we don't need to know about the bird that once decorated the hat. What is important is the hat and the bathing suit and the image of Mom as some kind of weird bird.

Words can cost us dearly, not in monetary terms, but because too many of them can hold up action. We have to be ruthless when we're editing.  Think economy, saving money, working to a budget, making every dollar count.

Every word need to be there for a reason. Every word is there to serve the story and move it along because the story is everything.  

Whenever I visit Central Otago, I always make time to go to the Boundary Road crossroads.

Made famous in the painting by Grahame Sydney, 'Boundary Road', this to me is one of the most stunningly beautiful places in Central. True, there are no lakes or rivers around that you can see, and the mountains and hills are distant, but this place intrigues and humbles me.

Usually when we go there, the road is quiet. The occasional car goes by, but mostly it is silent, just the crackling of the grasses and trees in summer heat, or crisp cold winter air that you can swallow by the mouthful like clear mountain snow melt in a bustling river. 

I like to stand right out in the middle of the road, at the heart of the cross. You can hear a car coming miles off so plenty of time to get out of the way.

We often find ourselves at a crossroads, not only in life but also in our writing, where we must choose which way to go, not always knowing how that decision is going to turn out but understanding that the road will take us somewhere and the journey will probably be well worth it.

One particular dilemma for a writer is: 'Should I begin this project? Which way should I go, how should I begin?' There are choices and decisions to be made at these creative crossroads.

Sometimes we'll choose a path that doesn't work out. It's a dead end, a cul de sac where we have to make a u-turn and head back to the intersection, take another road. 'OK, let's try this one and see where it takes us.'

As disheartening as choosing the wrong road can be, I always remember a poem I was given very early on when I started writing. It's Ithaka by Greek poet C.P Cavafy and in it, he describes the journey one takes towards a destination. He begins,
'As you set out for Ithaka
Hope your road is a long one ...' 

I think about this poem when I'm at Boundary Road, standing right in the middle of those four, dead straight roads heading off into four different directions. Which shall I choose?

Make the decision, take a chance, your choice, your writing destination.

Even if it turns out that the destination disappoints you, or is that dead end we dread, you will have taken the journey, seen and learned so much along the way. Choose your Ithaka.
​'Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.'   

My last post was written when we were facing another major lock down here in Auckland. We had a community outbreak so it was pronto-quick into Level Three while the rest of New Zealand stayed at Level Two.  Level Three contained us within the city limits unless there was a rock-solid reason to be let out. Indeed the queues of cars at roadblocks attested to the hundreds of folks trying to leave with special exemptions in hand. Many were turned back. The  feeling that we we could not leave Auckland without good reason  made for anxious times.

Now we are at Level 2.5, in that twilight zone of uncertainty between Levels 2 and 3. The way forward is unclear, the future foggy, the outlook tinged with the grey that reflects flagging spirits, worried brows, financial cliffhangers and the spectre of this ghastly virus that has settled in for the long haul. 

We can now travel outside of Auckland but I think the rest of the country views us with some trepidation. We have had a community outbreak and while it appears to be under control, every day brings fresh information and none of it is exactly hands-in-the-air-hip-rah.

The government isn't doing Aucklanders any favours by saying if we do travel, take our Level 2.5 restrictions with us into the rest of New Zealand's Level Two. They can have gatherings of up to 100 people. We can only have groups of ten and the Minister of Health says, with a smile, Aucklanders should perhaps think twice about attending gatherings of up to 100. Our usual twilight zone 2.5 number of ten is better. Is it little wonder the rest of the country is skittish when we say, "We're allowed out now and we're coming for a visit! Isn't that great?"    

A common denominator for everyone is the compulsory wearing of face coverings on public transport. Most people in Auckland are wearing them everywhere now. I have disposable ones that fog up my glasses. Visiting the supermarket last week was traumatic because I couldn't see, didn't know what I was buying, ended up purchasing all manner of weird stuff because I just grabbed things off the shelves hoping it was what I wanted (it wasn't), and I got odd looks as I peered closely at vegetables, feeling them up to be sure I was buying broccoli instead of cauliflower.  I am investing in a mask that does not make my glasses steam up.

Level 2.5 has seen the libraries re-open and you can believe I was there right away, perusing the shelves with other masked book marauders, making off with stacks of reading material in case we get locked away again.

The only person who doesn't seem at all bothered by this rigmarole is  Miss Betsy-cat. In fact, the advent of Spring (and we have had some lovely days recently) has seen her galloping up her ramp and onto the roof where she sits most all day, untroubled by viruses, delightedly leaving her face covering at home so she can breathe the fresh, flower-scented air and feel the sharp, sea-salt breeze tickle her nostrils.  

Ah, the delight of it. Will we be able to do that again soon?   

We are faced once again with the dogged determination of this COVID virus to insinuate itself into the fabric of our lives with the stealth of a stalking tiger. You cannot see it, or hear it, and yet here it is again to wreak it's havoc.

I'm all in a dither. There is comfort in knowing I'm not the only one. However, as a friend of mine in Atlanta used to say, 'Chin up brave soldier'.

​We can do this.

Yesterday was the first full day of Level Three restrictions in Auckland.

​Roadblocks, no leaving now.

The rest of New Zealand is at Level Two. We are the chosen ones here in Auckland because we have had outbreaks, evidence of community transmission, the dreaded eventuality we have managed to avoid for over 100 days.

And everyone says, 'But we have been doing so well!'

What did you do yesterday on that first day of another lockdown?

I was so dithered that I couldn't really focus on work so I decided to get outside (it was a beautiful day, reminiscent of the first day of the Level Four lockdown in March - calm, blue sky, bright sun) and do stuff.

I sprayed 30 Seconds all over the outdoor stairs, of which I have many, then I got out the water blaster and made merry on the slippery paths and decking while Betsy cat watched from the safety of the bush.  Today I will probably do more because 'doing' is far better than 'thinking' right now. I go into quite the Zen state when I have the water blaster out, back and forth with the wand, watching the dirt and slime fly away, and then admiring the fine work afterwards. And I'd like to add that I have a tank full of rainwater for this purpose because, to add to the woes of our city, we are in a drought situation with water restrictions in place for those on town supply. 

Doing chores gives me some control over something at a time when I feel as if I have none. It also takes my mind off things. It provides a respite from the relentless plague of uncertainty that surrounds us every waking minute: what will happen next, can we believe everything we're told, where will the next outbreak be, is that South Auckland cluster under control, the virus has hopped over the bridge and is now on the North Shore, it's getting closer to us, here on our peninsula, will it find it's way into our neighbourhood ... on and on it goes.

I took a break and sat in the sun with my walking buddy Pam who lives over the road. We had a cup of tea in the garden and some of her delicious home made cookies (with dried cranberries). She was pretty subdued as well. We watched the family groups out on their bikes and scooters again (something we hadn't seen much of since we emerged from heavy levels last time), more people walking dogs again and I wondered if Ernie would return to the beach front with his stuffed-toy friends, to provide some lightness and fun in this grim situation.

So I ask again - what did you do on the first day of Level Three in Auckland? 

Did you happen to look in the mirror?

I did. After my water blasting, I went in to wash my hands and happened to look up at myself reflected there. I saw a face spattered with odd bits of unmentionable rubbish - mud, grass, dead bugs maybe, not sure - but I also saw a face that looked vaguely startled, as if it had been taken by surprise by something that it knew was coming, but had always thought would not.