Last week, I wrote about how writers time travel — how we move between the past, stay rooted in the present, and reach toward imagined futures.
But this week, time feels different.
Image: Heather Mount on Unsplash
Someone I love deeply, my dear Mr.M, has been diagnosed with a rare cancer (there, I’ve said it), and everything else — the calendar, the to-do list, the writing rhythm — has fallen away.
It feels as if my words have gone quiet. Not gone, exactly…just...waiting, rearranging themselves behind the scenes, like our lives.
We’ve been in the pit of diagnosis hell, which has taken months because the cancer is a rare one.
This isn’t a road I’ve walked before/we’ve walked before. It’s his journey really. I don’t yet know how to shape this into something that makes sense. And I don’t want to turn this space into a diary of grief or fear. But I also don’t want to pretend I’m somewhere I’m not.
“Writing isn’t just about putting words on the page. It’s a way of saying: I was here. I felt this. It mattered.”
— Dolly Alderton
I usually write about love, hope, and connection. The ordinary beauty of romance. I’ve told you before that I often write about a point of change in someone’s life, or in the life of a community. That will always be part of what I offer — and I believe in it even more now.
My heroes tend to be Scottish, handsome, kind, and unique. Mr M is all of the heroes in my writing.
I’m also learning that being a writer means showing up honestly. And sometimes, that means saying: the words aren’t ready yet. Or: they’ve changed their shape. Because I certainly have reached a point of change. Not one I, or my dear Mr.M, chose.
“Stories are our way of making sense of the mess — they allow us to shape chaos into something that can be shared.”
— Elizabeth Day
In the quiet spaces — between hospital visits, conversations, the sudden rearrangement of daily life — I know I’ll still seek escape. And light. And beauty.
I will always be looking for the glimmers - perhaps now more than ever. I’ll still be reading what you’ve got to say because I love it here on Substack - it’s my escape!
As far as my writing goes: I’m playing around with a much larger piece of work, uncertain if I have the skill to tackle it, and it does keep buzzing around in my brain - so, regardless of all the daily challenges, I’m likely to give it a go.
I have stories already accepted for publication throughout this year, and writing craft will continue to be a focus here, because that rhythm anchors me. It helps. It holds something steady.
My next published story is mere weeks away, and it’s a wonderful one with commissioned art-work that I can’t wait to see in print. Celebrating seems silly at the moment, but Mr.M insists. And, there’s…normality to consider. If that’s possible.
But if I seem quieter for a while, now you know why.
On good days, we may manage some short trips around the Scottish coast, and I’m sure that will inspire me to write. Or simply fill my well.
Photo by Jackie Morrison: from the motorhome table
“You are allowed to not be okay and still be doing your best.”
— Anna Mathur
Thank you for being here — for reading, for holding space, for showing up alongside me.
I’ll be back soon with more thoughts on storytelling, on the strange alchemy of writing, and on the moments that hold us together. But for now, I’m letting the quiet do its work.
If any of this resonates, or if you’ve been through your own season of quiet, I’d love to hear from you.
Be sure to send some glimmers too!
Jackie, in the Little Writing Corner in Scotland x x x
Image by Jackie Morrison: Gairloch Beach, Scotland
Notes on quotes:
Dolly Alderton: About Dolly Alderton
Elizabeth Day: About Elizabeth Day
Anna Mathur: About Anna Mathur
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