what writing feels like

a change in circumstance

This month I feel grateful to have realised a long-held ambition; to make the majority of my income from writing. To be transparent, this is mostly from writing jobs and not my books - I will sing that dream from the hills when it happens! - but it’s a fulfilling way to support further creations from my wild, moonlit inner world.

Some of the emotions that came with this transition surprised me, so I thought I’d share what writing feels like for me, at this moment, in this today’s letter.

Writing feels beyond mortal estimation. It can’t be reduced to words tallied on a page or hours toiled at a desk. It feels slow and unhurried one moment, like watching rain wet the flagstones a reflective black or listening to cafe birdsong while cradling a foamy latte in my hands. Then the next, it’s a gush of ink on the page, like warm gore from a nimble ferret’s kill.

Writing feels like a small part of me…until I try to set it aside. For I’ve realised something. There’s writing, and writing. If I neglect the words that mean the most - observations dashed in my diary, the novel bubbling in my brain - my spirit weakens. That’s when writing feels critical, intrinsic as blood or breath.

It feels like a craft I must defend. Words can’t be whistled up like an old dog. Words aren’t bruised and broken fruit, hastily scavenged from the pulpy ground. Words are notes, hummed pleasantly in your ear. Easy to read, but bloody hard to write.

It feels like a passion I choose, again and again. A hymn to life. Wild fervour, midnight trysts. A notes app ten million miles long.

Writing feels like the hardest thing I will ever do. What names do I give the unexpressed feelings within me? And what hexerei can call forth the nameless from another’s soul into my pen?

Writing feels risky. A boat mishandled by rough waves. An expansive, spine-tingling unknown. The dawn-glimmer gilding the dark sea. The seal-road to forgotten isles begrimed with silver.

Sometimes it’s a thorn-scratch of guilt. Mercy, the cut heals quick. Words are always worthwhile.

Writing feels practical. Commodified. Sellable.

And yet.

Writing feels like perfumed poems pressed to my breast. Tender notes to self, carried in my pocket like lucky charms. A gift for a friend.

Writing feels mysterious. It’s diablery and monstrosity. An inky tongue that flows and speaks. My every nerve vibrates to finely tuned phrases, and the silences between.

Writing feels stubborn. I try to work on Fireside Ghosts but words don’t flow. Sometimes I feel afraid that writing is finite, as though words are a weekly allowance and I am spending all mine on other people.

But deep down I feel that writing is limitless. The words will come, but I must seek a shadow place. A peculiar grotto where tongues are silent but words are carved upon the trees. Once I find this place, words will froth over like spring water from a well, like blood from a wound. I will write, knowing that writing never leaves me.

Thank you for reading, as always your support means the world! As I seek a balance between writing for others and personal projects, I’d love to know - which Selkie Grove letters do you enjoy most? Are there any topics you’d like me to write about?

Kate xx