A Writer’s Mind is Never Still

A Writer’s Mind is Never Still | By Amy Roullier.

You could be forgiven for believing that a writer who isn’t writing… isn’t writing. But while the pen might not literally be meeting paper, figuratively, the mind is always tapping away.

I reflected on this today.

After a few intensely packed months where, unfortunately, actual writing time has been scarce, the day has finally come: pen can meet paper.

I’ve been looking forward to this all week. A whole 24 hours to myself to write whatever I damn well please. But where to begin? There’s a new blog for the website that needs doing. Another Substack post to add to the rather sparse collection I’ve managed so far. The second poetry book is crying out for edits. Pages and pages of thoughts – mostly formed at deeply inconvenient times like just before sleep or mid-toilet break – have been piling up and now need shaping into something more than midnight ramblings.

Naturally, I didn’t sit down to write the moment I woke. Instead, I did what might easily be mistaken as dithering.

I walked the dogs. Mowed the lawn. Deadheaded the roses. Put a stop to a sapling’s ambitious plan to become a mega tree in the most awkward spot imaginable. I went to Tesco. Took a long shower. Had several cups of tea. Did a quick stop at my Nan’s. All while dithering.

But this wasn’t your garden-variety procrastination (though I can be quite good at that too). This was active thinking. This was a writer, writing, just not yet with words.

It was the starter before the main course.

The trailer before the film.

Like an opera singer doing vocal warm-ups.

A necessary act – at least in my experience – to prepare for the real work to come.

Throughout every one of those tasks, only half my brain was engaged in the real world. The other half was elsewhere.

Lost in a realm of dreams and ideas, where possibilities swirl and settle. I rummaged around my little old brain, fishing for anything worth turning into something. I plucked out thoughts. Let ideas roll around. I tried one, discarded it, tried another. Imagined paragraphs, then reimagined them. Until something sparked enough excitement that I reached for my phone, fumbling clumsily over the keypad with one hand while the dogs tugged on their leads in the other.

I considered revising things I’ve already published (typical artist behaviour: we’re master self-defeatists). Nothing we create ever quite feels good enough. Even when success arrives, it rarely feels earned. Still, we keep at it, crafting something beautiful in spite of ourselves.

I toyed with future projects. Tinkered with titles. Wondered which prose poems might sit best in which book. I debated layouts and cover designs. I thought about other writers; their successes, their secrets, and wondered how to replicate just a sliver of what makes their work click.

I wondered about pretty much everything and also spent time thinking about entirely nothing.

Sometimes that’s helpful too. Simply to feel, to allow emotions to simmer gently until one bubbles to the surface and I can grasp it, and hold it steady as it spills out into words I didn’t even know were waiting inside me.

To an outsider, it all looks very ordinary. Just a person doing ordinary things.

But inside?

It’s the life of someone dreaming of extraordinary things.

So yes, you could be forgiven for thinking a writer who isn’t writing… isn’t writing. But whether we’re in a cute coffee shop, gently tapping at our laptops, or scribbling in a notepad on a train, or simply walking the dogs and basking in the fading sun, a writer is always writing.