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I’m one of a group walking the Ullswater Way on June 8th in aid of the Mental Health charity MIND. (The Ullswater Way isn’t a style of walking, but a route around the lake, covering about 22 miles of fell path and farmland track). If you’d like to support this venture here’s a link to the group’s Just Giving page.

Apparently about one in four of us will suffer from mental health problems during our lives (and who knows how many before and after?), and my guess is that writers will score well above the average, so if you possibly can, however little, do please help us out here. A poem of Mine on this subject recently appeared on the Guest list at Acumen, which might throw some light on why I’m involved in this!

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There is an old saying, along the lines of ‘never put off until tomorrow what you can put off indefinitely’.

One of the things I’ve always admired about Arthur Rimbaud – well, the only thing really (the gun running stuff reads like a Carry On/B Movie crossover, and what I liked most about the Illuminations – at least, the ones I’ve read, was the fact that they were called by that name) – is the fact that he managed to walk away from writing. Others have tried; some repeatedly. Philip Roth for example, who died shortly after succeeding at his last attempt (which might be the trick).

Quitting while you’re ahead must help, but quitting – bearing in mind the adage that ‘you ain’t beaten till you quit’ (which doesn’t necessarily imply being beaten into quitting) – isn’t just a matter of having been a success or failure. It’s also an acceptance that your ‘body of work’ is suddenly a dead body. It isn’t going to grow any more. It is, in fact, a ‘corpse’ of work (and calling it a corpus only sugars the pill), and perhaps one that won’t be preserved too well: it will begin to disintegrate, to rot. Bits will detach, moulder away, be mis-laid, lost, buried, perhaps in an unmarked grave.

Walking away from writing (the phrase itself rather a circumlocution – I mean giving up; stopping doing it; finishing it; putting down the pen; switching off the keyboard.) is like stepping out from cover. Suddenly you’re exposed; stripped; dispossessed; not even failure, perhaps, to hide behind; success already receding into the background.

Suddenly you’re a has been, or (no worse but just as bad), a might have been, a certainly wasn’t, a who? A what’s your name? A what do you do? Nothing.

Quite an undertaking then. Worth putting off, I’d say, with one more attempt at least to write something worth having written.

BHD being toast?