Magnolia Fay Writes

An update barely longer than its title, and a feeling I wanted to share

It’s a very peculiar time. I am on the very last stretch of pregnancy, and every day is full of tasks that are decidedly alien to writing. In the way of writing, even.
Putting together a changing table.
Stocking up on nappies.
Sorting out toys.
Folding tiny second-hand clothes. Trousers, tops, onesies. So many onesies. If I weren’t plagued by insomnia right now, I would dream of onesies.
I don’t know if it’s nesting, or an instinct of turning the wait into a big preparation project. The fact is, I have pushed my husband and myself into a complete tidy up and reorganising of the house.
It felt grounding, it felt satisfying, and we are both absolutely exhausted.
And this is before baby even gets here.
I think we only survived so far because my parents turned up and kept us fed whilst my mother embarked into the biggest Operation Baby Laundry the country has ever seen.

And none of this has anything to do with writing, no.
Because I haven’t been writing.
I haven’t been thinking about my stories much.
I have barely engaged in the community.
I haven’t even been reading at all. Not even the few baby books we got.

And yet, I feel satisfied and free in my creative journey right now.
Because my prepping was not limited to the house, or to the baby.
I have tidied up my stories too, brushed up on everything I have unfinished, set up systems to make it as easy and immediate as possible to get back to writing should timing and desire align.
It felt like taking a box of scattered decorations and baubles and cleaning them one by one, fixing anything that was broken and discarding what was beyond fixing. Then wrapping them in paper before putting them away in the order that makes it easiest to find what I need when the inspiration to beautify strikes.
Okay, that does sound a bit twee and saccharine, and maybe I should rewrite that metaphor using a tool box instead. Feel free to read it that way whilst I enjoy the pretty and sometimes wacky colours and shapes of my bauble-stories.

So yeah, I inch closer and closer to the end of a barely-writing period and the start of one where writing will likely be happening even less for a while.
And I have never felt more secure in my love for my writing.
I have never known so deeply that I will write again.
That I am free to experiment and play and find the ways of writing and sharing my writing that bring me the most joy, meaning, satisfaction.
Because otherwise, what even is the point? It’s not like it’s making me rich or famous.

I will write again, maybe sooner than I expect, maybe later, who knows? I don’t.
And, for once, I am fine not knowing.

Happy reading!