The Rooster #21
On creative ennui, birdsong and the family we make for ourselves...
This is my first fortnightly Rooster and it feels so much better that bit of extra space, to really think about what I want to say to you and to make sure that it’s something of value. As always the recommendations section is behind a paywall at the end, this week featuring my album of the month, the comfiest garden chair and a book that I will never EVER get over. If you want to subscribe or upgrade your subscription you can do so below.
May came in strong.
At the end of the first week my child had scheduled surgery. For three days life was on hold. He’s back now at school now bouncing around. We were struck by the people that showed up for us and for him. We live away from our families, the ache to be nearer is always there and it ebbs and surges all the time. They say when you live away from home you have to create your own family. For the first time in the eight years of our sons life in this little pocket of north west London we saw a glimpse of his chosen family and community; the friendship network around him, his football team, his teachers, the presents, the well wishes, the box from his two best friends full of notes and cards and drawings. It was very moving, the kindness of people, and how loved and cherished he seems to be by them. Now I am allowing myself to feel relieved.
On Monday, my novel was passed over to my publishers. I’ve been discussing this process with my friend the writer Seamas O’Reilly. He describes it as “like handing over your brain to scientists for dream analysis.” You can feel very vulnerable. Very exposed. It’s impossible for me to have any sort of objective perspective on what I’ve written when I’ve been so deep inside it for a year and a half. So I await my novel’s diagnosis with a severe lack of patience. I sent my agent a text yesterday.
Me - how long does one give an editor to read a book before one can ask WHAT DO YOU THINK?
My editor - I think a couple of weeks
A couple of weeks! Torture! Handing in a book draft comes with big feelings. I have been feeling bereft, and it’s been interesting to interrogate this. My writing is so much more than a creative pursuit. It’s a prop for my need for busy-ness and serves as my own ever- reliable distraction tactic from real life. When it’s not there to fall into I feel exposed, as if I’m in a room with no furniture. I don’t know how to exist in this space. Where to put myself.
I keep thinking I need to write a piece for Substack, surely my brain should be bubbling with new ideas! - but I haven’t been able to write a thing. I have themes in my head for stuff to write about but when I go to write on them I can’t get past the first two lines. I’ve got nothing. Nothing!
I’m telling myself it’s ok. There’s been a lot on. Maybe my mind is like my stomach after a big meal; these big life experiences need time to be digested into memory. I’m conscious of this now, how quickly I can move from one thing into the next. Sometimes the brain needs to stew for a while.
So instead of writing, I’ve been doing things. I borrowed my neighbours jet washer and spent the weekend blasting every flat surface I could see with a turbo jet of water. The levels of satisfaction reached! I went to the garden centre and bought six different coloured geraniums. Since planting them I’ve been sitting in my garden a lot. Scrolling through the news. Thinking about Gaza. Feeling helpless and angry. Watching Minnie contort her body into new elaborate positions for her afternoon naps. Minnie will forever be my relaxation muse. She reminds me daily of how joyful resting can look and feel. There’s nothing I don’t love about her, however, her presence has meant that we don’t get as many birds in the garden as we used to.
Which brings me on to a very charming story I learnt about on this weeks episode of my podcast Sidetracked with Nick Grimshaw.
The theme of this week’s episode was Birdsong. We learnt about a famous British cellist in the 1920s called Beatrice Harrison. Beatrice used to practise the cello in her garden and she noticed after a while that nightingales would listen to her playing and mirror the sounds of her cello with songs of their own. Beatrice managed to persuade the BBC (which was only two years old at the time) to come to her home in Oxted in Surrey and broadcast her and the nightingales evening recital live on the radio. And so Lord Reith reluctantly agreed to allow a team of engineers to take their technology out of the studio and into Beatrice’s garden for one of the BBCs first ever outside broadcasts.
BBC Archives provided us with a clip of the broadcast which we played out in the episode. You can hear over a crackle Beatrice drawing out the notes of Danny Boy on her cello and a nightingale singing around the melody. It’s beautiful. Awe inspiring. At the time the public reaction was huge and the garden performances were repeated for years after. You can read about it here.
And you can listen to Beatrice and the nightingale on Sidetracked here.
Sound the siren! Our next scheduled chat is going to be next Tuesday evening 20th May at 9pm. Please arm yourself with drinks and blankets and come ready to convene. I will send a reminder on the morning.
Okay time for recommendations now… my album for May, garden furniture, and a book that destroyed me.. here goes…