You Need Support To Write Online
Being a Creator Can Become a Lonely Business
The thing I most remember about my grandfather was his huge hands.
Great slabs of strength shaped by years of hard work, first in the family butcher’s shop in Suffolk between the wars, then as a copper on the beat during the London Blitz.
He was a heavyweight boxer in the police force, and you could feel it in his grip. But those hands weren’t just about power, they were about care.
Protection, and quiet, unwavering support.
I remember sitting on his knee as a child while he sang Ride a Cock Horse to Banbury Cross. I’d nestle my tiny fists inside his massive ones and feel the difference - not just in size, but in time, in experience - in love.
Those hands had gripped cleavers in Bailey’s Butchers on North Street in his home town of Sudbury, while he worked for his father chopping meat cuts as a young man.
They’d lifted beef and lamb carcasses into the fledgling cold room, a generator-run chamber with a long drive belt that always fell off. My young grandfather would frequently be sent out to fix it, so the meat stayed chilled.
Those strong hands also lifted meat slabs, pheasants, rabbits and other game into the back of the Model T Ford delivery van - the first one of its type in the area.
My mum’s still got a photo of it somewhere - parked on Melford Road outside one of the three houses that hard work and enterprise bought the family.
The business eventually expanded to open a second Suffolk shop in Hadleigh nearby, run by my Great Uncle Fred.
Bailey's Butchers used every part of the animal. On Fridays, both shops wrapped the trotters and anything else left over in newspaper, and gave it to the poorhouse families who queued up outside.
Later, my grandfather's hands would dig through bombed-out buildings in London during the Second World War. As a policeman he was often first on the scene.
He told me harrowing stories such as one about pulling victims out after a doodlebug hit a typing pool - dozens of young women, all killed in an instant.
These weren’t memories he shared lightly. But I listened as an older child, wide-eyed, while his hands rested gently on mine.
He died several years ago, but I miss him greatly to this day. He was my best friend.
Support matters.
As creators, we need people who wrap their hands around ours and say, 'Keep going, I’ve got you'.
That’s what my grandfather gave me - and it’s what we should give each other.
This work can feel lonely and exhausting. Especially when you’re juggling a job you hate and 30 stolen minutes to write each day.
That’s why communities like Substack matter. That’s why The Weekday Writer exists.
To remind you that you’re not alone. That your voice matters. That there’s strength in your story - and power in your own hands too.
So keep putting one word after the next.
We’re right here with you.
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