I'd like to explain

Know this...

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist or understand.”

George Orwell 1903 - 1950

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Oxfordshire, April 2026

A short piece today to share a perspective. Regular service resumes again later this week.

I’ve missed you.

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Daunting

I have felt overwhelmingly flummoxed in the few weeks since the afternoon last month that I sat myself down in front of my laptop, my headspace lost in the abject terror of the empty document I’d suddenly created and shared with Stephanie my agent; an act solely to add to the burgeoning feeling of inadequacy and dread that I now felt watching me from around every corner. The tiny black cursor that flashed expectantly, willing me to start, blinking away in the top left corner of the screen, reminding me that I actually had nothing at all to say and that I’d failed before I even had started.

Just a glowing white Macbook staring back at me with a word count of precisely zero, that is except for a header and title, which doesn’t count.

Though I suppose it was a start at the very least.

Overawed at the enormity of the task that beckons, and one that I’m fully aware I’ve jumped headlong into, an undertaking that lies ahead for the coming year, with that feeling of my certainly not wanting to let anyone down and the overwhelming sensation of why on earth would anyone want to know about my life.

Reality

I announced here in Notes a while ago that I’d formalised what I believe is my literary fate, and am now putting words to metaphorical paper, now bound by a contract to write it all down and then pitch to a publisher. Inadvertently, as I’m quite sure those of you, frustrated by my haphazard writing schedule of late have clearly noticed, and my subscriber stats firmly attest, my absence here has been noted. My paltry excuse is that I have devoted the last month to putting down the beginnings of the words that will eventually become my debut book that I have officially undertaken. It seems I am an author of sorts after all, and for those of you who have an interest in the words that I write, this won’t be a cookbook of any sort that is recognisable as such, so there’ll be no glorious pictures of prettily placed ingredients; just simply the images that I’m able to conjure with words. What it will be, is a journey into storytelling and memoir, with the tale of the love of my craft and the pace of the seasons at its heart, weaving its way through the changing year, and a love of my work that at one time seemed lost in the dark corners of burnout and the realisation that I had reached my lowest point, ready to throw everything away as I couldn’t see the purpose anymore.

At least that’s how I’m able to see it today.

I am spurred on by the faith you all seem to find in the words that I write, and I’m currently immersed in the stories and prose of my way down my path over the years and into the here and now, all written down in two lengthy documents of jumbled up words that I know will eventually merge into one cohesive, beautiful story that will tell you about who I was, who I am and the things that I love.

And I suppose in a way the reason I’m telling you this by rambling on, is that I want you to believe in this book that I’m writing, and as the calendar moves through the seasons that change over the long months ahead, perhaps I’ll not be here every week as I wish that I might be, but what I would like you to know, is that the words that fill my head are kept somewhere else, just for now.

Fifteen thousand or so at the last count, with an aim of ten times that if I’m honest, typed into documents to be explored and broken apart, rewritten again and again and with all my hopes, assembled into something I hope one day you might hold in your hands, read in the half light with a bookmark in place, or sat in the sunshine in the grass or a chair by a window.

My irregular schedule is certainly not because I’ve walked away from this project here on this platform, this embarkation into writing that started on these pages three years ago. Though until I find my rhythm again, one that allows me to encompass all of the things that I work on and to allow the writing to grow in new ways, for now, the bulk of my words are funnelled into a different space for a while, before I can unwrap them again for you one day soon.

Onwards

My Substack is very dear to me and everyone of you who has ever clicked to subscribe or taken time out of your day to read what I write, please know that I do not take that gesture lightly. Those of you who pay for my work, I can only say thank you, yes, the money helps but the trust that you place in me is something incredible. I will always continue to tell you stories here, perhaps less frequently than I have previously, perhaps not, but know this; there is certainly a lot more to come.

Looking ahead, perhaps I might try writing you shorter essays more frequently as I did years ago, something I’ve certainly tried and failed at before, finding frustratingly that these pieces would also eventually turn into thousands of words every time, as I got lost in the prose, script and rhythms of writing, which then defeated the purpose entirely, taking me back to editing work deep into the night, working to a schedule that kept me awake till the tiniest hours.

I have often struggled to find a space in my life that allowed me to write, juggling my work days and my homelife and looking to find the quiet I imagine I might find if indeed I could transport myself to a cabin somewhere in the woods, and often finding myself tapping away at three o’clock in the morning rushing to complete just something to give you, some words, that might satisfy my meaningless deadlines that I set myself. And now with the undertaking that I have begun, and with no particular target to meet except allowing myself one year to complete twelve beautiful chapters, for those of you who will come to read it, and with that very long road that stretches out far ahead on an unrehearsed route, with any conclusion as yet far from sight, I will likely uncover many things I’d forgotten about life and how I arrived at this point in time.

So I’m going to stop checking the little icon that gives me the word count in the bottom left corner of this browser. I will stop insisiting to myself that I need to do this and that, and stop chasing the schedule that just adds to my anxiousness when I’m unable to be everything for everyone that I believe I must be. I will just write for the pleasure and I will learn to love the process and words, the thoughts and the purpose I find tucked in between all the layers that I lose myself in.

And know this… I will write it all down for you.

William

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