Sitting in bed I could hear the sound of next door’s children playing outside in their garden. Then the sound of the recycle lorry stopping and starting as the men pulled the blue bins to be emptied. I was in isolation in one room upstairs in the bedroom. I had torn a cartilage in a simple exercise of turning as I got up from a chair. Now I was not just ‘confined and cribbed’, but in alot of pain unable to walk except by moving my toes then the heal of the same foot, then gently sliding the injured leg along behind.
It is only when one is thus restricted the value of the freedom to for a walk, go to the shops go to the nearby coast, shines in the mind like a beacon to struggle towards. A goal without presidence. At first it seems so far in the future one just concentrates on the present situation, listening for the sounds of normality in the house and outside, looking forward to the comfort of other people. But as one settles into a sort of routine of maintaining and encouraging one’s self to keep going and ‘heal’, something to pass the time is vital. It is then that one considers writing.
At least that is what happened to me. A sense of frustration was paramount to feeling better, but still unable to walk downstairs for instance. Therefore a large red exercise book with clean white pages looked enticing. There is something very appealing about such an empty book, just waiting to be filled with words. Many may say, ‘abook, what about a laptop?’.
Mark Twain | Writing in Bed
The laptop did make an appearance later in this procedure of getting well, but at first the comfort of just sitting resting the poorly knee, pen in one hand, paper in the other was sufficient.
But what does one write about, that is the question? What does one write?, A diary like Pepys, or poems, or a novel? I tried to recall any story of someone writing in a similar situation, then decided on describing how I felt when involved in a Poetry Society examination in regard to reciting Shakepeare. I had to read a speech of Queen Margaret from Richard 111, in which she curses Richard, the ‘bottled spider’ who will deceive and kill, and then I concluded with a speech of the Nurse in ‘Romeo and Juliet’. Somehow the Nurse speech was delivered with an Irish accent, which I never rehearsed, and which made the examiner laugh and remark that the Stratford production had just such a nurse with just such an Irish accent.
This fact was not known to me and lead me to reflect on plays I had seen, theatre visits, and before I knew it hours had gone by. I wrote the events of this occasion in my book, then decided to try to write something everyday while thus confined. The injury improved with cold compresses, massage and physiotherapy, but also the stimulation of the mind.
