Sunday, 13 September 2015

Why I Write What I Write

In the past weeks and months, I, like many of you have read about the horrors in Syria, or those trying to escape.  At times, I’ve stopped reading, because the human stories of real people have been too much to take in.  I’ve tried to write about it, to do it justice, but the words just aren’t coming. 

It’s not that I don’t care.  With all of my heart, I do.
I tell myself that in a world of so much sadness, that my writings about the most trivial of everyday things, hopefully delivered with a sprinkle of humour, brighten even one person’s day for ten minutes, then it’s worthwhile.  

I had a fretful sleep last night, after taking my weekly inter muscular injection (and which deserves a blog post all to itself very soon).   I did a bit of reading to settle myself and was drawn to a blog by a friend, whom I mostly knew online, although we lived within miles of each other.  This friend, Margaret Wouters, died last week.  I reread her posts where she talked openly about her various treatments for cancer, dotted among stories about family and the most fabulous photographs of her house and garden, that were worthy of a House & Home style magazine.  I’m terribly sad that she has died, having fought so hard to be well.  I regret that I didn’t get to know her better in ‘real life’, but reading her posts again made me feel inspired by her.  A wonderful archive of this woman’s life.

Because I write openly about my experiences of living with MS, one person has suggested to me that I love playing the ‘victim’ and that I thrive on the ‘pity’ that I get from other people.   When I’ve been told this, I reassure myself that it’s untrue, but at the same time, the saying ‘there’s no smoke without fire’, lingers on my mind.   On a bad day, I worry that, subconsciously, maybe that’s what I’m doing.      

On a recent post that I wrote, I described how I felt that I had lost my ‘Va Va Voom.’  It was the most revealing piece that I have written so far and I thought long and hard before I published it.   And yet, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

Writing funny stuff is easy. 

Admitting that you are struggling isn’t. 

The comments, messages and offers of help that I received after I wrote that piece were heart-warming and lovely.  In a way, it was a watershed moment for me, drawing a line under the unmentionable and moving on.  I felt empowered and determined to keep writing.

Margaret’s death notice stated "Je ne regrette rien."  I’m with her on that.  Sleep tight dear lady.


  1. I had a similar conversation the other day with Himself. You put an awful lot of yourself out there whether you write or paint. Even dance or act. It's all a form of expressing yourself. And subsequently you run the risk of people saying things to you that are hurtful and critical. Some things just don't need to be said. Some things that are said though, I have learned, have nothing to do with you or what you said/wrote/painted. Rather the other person is in a bad place at the time and you happen to be an easy target for them. They are taking their bad day out on you. Also people interpret things so very differently and I have had my eyes opened several times and realised that "being honest" is all very well, but other people have a different take on it. Ultimately I now tell myself that if someone asks me for an opinion it is not my problem if they don't like it. Similarly if they read something that irks them or makes them feel guilty or whatever, they need to examine why. Maybe the truth hurts. Keep writing lovely lady and always write for yourself. xx

    1. Thanks Mrs Gwendy ! It appears that you have hit the nail on the head. I guess that we have both 'exposed' ourselves in similar ways. But then I think, would I have it any other way ?