Writing as my Bubble

The book launch for Sibling Poets safely over in a satisfying way - it went well and I enjoyed it - I am reflecting on the last year and recognise that writing has been my bubble.

I have another, 'real' bubble in the form of family. And very grateful I am for that in a year that has made writers even more isolated than usual. But I realise so much more, that writing is a self contained kingdom, a world of my own making. An escape. A fortress or a comfort blanket. I can choose.

Sitting on the cliffs as I often am, with pen and paper in pocket or hand, I become enclosed in that absolute moment when thought and creative stream appear as words on paper. Sometimes they are driven by me and sometimes not, sometimes they take on a life of their own and at its end, the words become an entity. Meanwhile I am elsewhere. I am on the cliff but I am capturing the moment for later. 

At any time I can withdraw the paper from my pocket and transport myself back to that moment, the feel of fresh air on my cheeks, the world of water and sky, the vista of clouds and green hills, the smell of salt and the cry of the gulls. Perhaps recall the conversation I had with a stranger. 

Above all else, while I write I am taken into a world where I don't think about anything except the content of the writing. It is almost meditative. I create worlds away from worlds where all is well.