This weekend I had my first ‘I have an awesome story I need told and since you said you were a writer…’ experience. It was quite exciting, since it was my first time, but HUMANITY, WHY SO FUNNY! Even funnier, it was from the Ridiculously Eager Gym Consultant, who is clearly not reading my blog, since she has left me a further four — FOUR! — messages in the last three days.
Dear lady: please don’t make me have a conversation with you wherein no matter HOW awesome your story is, it is not having a year of my life. Also, I doubt it’s as awesome as you think it is! Also also, I very much enjoyed my first yoga class this weekend (discoveries: not bendy! Am hurty! Enjoy the laying quietly and listening to tinkling hippie music v. v. much, even if brain not capable of shutting down. See also sleeping, as in: am not), so please do not make me loathe your establishment just because you have an addiction to hearing my voicemail greeting. It’s bordering on stalking. Seek help.
So, it’s becoming obvious that this whole working on two novels (while working) thing is exponentially more difficult than working on one (while working). I’m having what I’m calling a sanity-free interlude. Others might use different words. I’ve invited myself to Rach’s tonight to prevent me chewing off my own fingers and dancing naked in the blood — although this is still entirely likely, since when I get home I will have the exact same amount of work to do and much, much less evening to do it in. I’m all fragile and out of hand and find myself sending desperately pathetic emails at unfortunate hours, in between bouts of weeping (after a certain point, frustration is expelled as snot (I don’t know why. Ask a scientist)) and maudlin self-pity (WHY DIDN’T THAT ONE BOY LIKE ME THAT ONE TIME WHEN I WAS AT THAT ONE PARTY IN 1996) and frantic non-writing activity (YOGA. GOTTA DO YOGA. GOTTA MAKE MY OWN HUMMUS. THERE CAN BE NO MORE PRE-PACKAGED HUMMUS).
Why isn’t this in the books on writing? Set aside time each day to write. Also, expect periodically to go BARKING FUCKING MAD. This is just your tiny brain unraveling. Lose sight of the big picture and remember to wear pants in public. It’ll pass.
I keep reminding myself that this has to be sustainable, because I don’t know how long I’ll have to keep it up. But the part of me that accepts that is in direct competition with the part that thinks that the harder I work, the faster things will come together. They’re both right, but only one of them ends with being institutionalised. Probably after I set my manuscript on fire and/or cut a bitch, which is likely to happen any day now. I’m sort of looking forward to it.
Things that are probably a good idea:
- SLOWING MY FREAKING ROLL.
- Socialising. Spending entire weekends alone to ‘catch up’ leads to manic, jittery, finger-chewing craziness. Up is not caught. Much hummus is made. I cannot eat this much hummus.
I need some tinkly hippie music. YOGA. GOTTA DO MORE YOGA.