“Writing is like a fart. Don’t force it otherwise it’ll be sh1t!”

Driver Jatt

“Writing is like a fart. Don’t force it otherwise it’ll be sh1t!”

So today was hit and miss. No decent money jobs early on, and I was in the middle of the Derbyshire Dales, feeling a bit down, trying to find an address that was testing my satnav’s patience. Miles off my self-imposed targets for the day.

Then a job flashed up. One taking us all the way to London. It paid well. Very well. So I took it. A decision well made.

An Unexpected Invitation in London
I delivered the package to an old couple in a quiet, book-lined street. They were lovely. The kind of people who have a calm about them. As I was leaving, they offered to take me in for a coffee. How lovely. I was genuinely taken aback by their kindness, especially in the middle of a busy day. So I said yes.

Turns Out, They Were Writers
We got talking. It turned out they were writers. Well published writers. I cannot name them, but they are not small fish. They have books out there, proper ones. We ended up speaking about writing, the process, the block.

The husband told me something that stuck. He said that when we write, we are not writing from our present, conscious self. We are writing from our subconscious. We are just the channel. Take a moment to let that sink in. It reframes the whole thing, does not it?

His advice was simple. Wake up thirty minutes earlier each morning and just write. Do not think, just let it flow. Edit it later. He was adamant. “Do not leave any work on your pc,” he said. “Always publish. Even with a pseudonym. Just do it. Put it out there.”

My Contribution to Literary Theory
Feeling a bit out of my depth, I told him what my murshid once said. And I quote: “Writing is like a fart. Don’t force it otherwise it’ll be sh1t!”

They did not laugh. They took it seriously. The wife grabbed a notepad and wrote it down, word for word. They looked at each other and said that was the most accurately simple statement about writer’s block they had ever come across. I think I contributed to literary theory over a coffee in Chiswick.

A Reward on the Road Home
I left them feeling strangely uplifted. The long drive back from London did not seem so bad. Stopping for fuel and food, I found myself in a Persian restaurant. I was mesmerised by this picture of a cheelewali on the wall. It felt connected to the whole day somehow. The simple, good things.

The job took me to London for a package. It gave me a coffee with wise strangers, a new mantra for writing, and a quiet moment with a picture of flatbread. You cannot plan that. You just have to be open when the road offers it.