Success and spontaneity

I’ve always fought shy of success. I’ve seen what it can do to people and I’ve seen the pressure it can create. I worked hard at school and university – too hard perhaps – and ever since then I’ve wanted to live not succeed. I’ve been happy hiding in a backwater, counting the pennies.

    Recently however I’ve been wondering whether that's an antipathy I need to confront. I’ve been wondering whether I mightn’t be happier with the validation that success can bring – of me and my way of being and of the way I’ve been spending the last ten or so years of my life.

    In other words, it might be time to have my fiction published.

    And if that sounds arrogant, it’s only because I know – as described in the previous post – that the universe responds to intention.

    To that end, I’m entering my autobiography – or ‘memoir’ as they seem to call autobiographies by non-famous people – for a competition. I don’t think it’s got a cat in hell’s chance of winning. I wrote it in two weeks flat, pacing the hills with a notebook and pencil (dog in tow). As my sister said, it reads more like the research for a novel than a book in its own right. But what it might do, is get me noticed.

    I last did anything to the autobiography about five years ago so I’ve been going through it quickly taking out the worst bits. I did rewrite that first draft after sending it to Cornerstones Literacy Consultancy for their opinion and I'm now noticing that, while the second draft is better structured, it sounds pompous. I’m trying too hard. The first draft sounds more like me.

    I’m not going to do too much about the problem now but it’s interesting to note. I shall bear it in mind when I go through my novel again, which is what I intend to do when I’ve finished with the autobiography, just in case anyone should ask what other writings I have in my drawer.

The book I'm reading at the moment

The book I’m reading at the moment is a masterpiece of directness. Even though the story is convoluted and chilling (‘as twisted as fairy lights in the loft after Christmas’ says one quote on the back of the jacket) and even though the author is also a poet – perhaps because she is also a poet – nothing in it sounds as if it couldn’t be spoken as easily as written. The style is an example to me.

    Blogging is helpful too. It’s good practice – for me – in writing more spontaneously and naturally.

    Another reason to continue with it.

 

Asking for what you want

As I’ve said before, I do believe in prayer. It’s not necessarily a simple process however – or at least it’s not for me.

    First, you have to know what you want, and for me - brought up never to want anything for myself - that’s not easy. Secondly, you have to ask for it, and that’s not easy either, for the same reasons as above. And, thirdly, when you ask for it you have to really mean it; you have to be prepared to put up with all the disadvantages of having whatever it is you want (of which another part of you will always find plenty).

    Finally you have to be specific and the more specific the better. It’s like magic wishes. They do come true, but you have to make sure you phrase them in the right way.

    For example, it’s no good saying, ‘I’m fed up with being stuck at home.’ You have to say, ‘I would like a car of my own.’ Nor ‘I would like a job,’ but ‘I would like part-time work as near home as possible in something like a bookshop.’ Both of these being prayers I’ve made in the past and both of them granted almost immediately in completely unexpected ways.

    I’ve never knowingly prayed for anything harmful. I’ve never dared because I know from experience that all harm you cause rebounds on you at least threefold (as the old magic precepts have it), as if the universe were beating you about the head saying ‘no, no, no’ until you learn your lesson. But I dare say those prayers come true too.

    All of which is a lead-up to the point of this post.

    A couple of days ago I had a bit of a meltdown. I felt as if I’d been plugging away for ever at this fiction lark and I was fed up. Nobody read my blogs, I thought. None of my books was published. I’d had to stop The (latest) Novel because I was messing it up, even though I needed to write because not-writing made me ill, but I had no ideas for what else I could do.

    Please, I said, just give me a sign that it’s worth carrying on with the blogs – a comment, a new follower. And give me an idea of where to go next in the rest of my writing.

    Not very specific, I grant you, either of those wishes, but they did the trick.

    So, thank you to the Killerton Dragon for her comments on Her Outdoors and thank you to my new Banker’s niece follower (you know who you are).

    And thank you to the universe for showing me how to take two of my books one step forward so that I can then put them aside and get on with something new, and how to take one of my books one step out into the big bad world. More of all that anon.

    There’s no limit really to what one could ask for, if only one had the courage.

The need to write

I have a horrible night. I spend the whole time running, dreaming that I have too much to do and too little time in which to do it. It’s that feeling that gives me migraines, and I’ve been feeling migrainous on and off for 8 days now. (No chocolate, no wine. Just unadulterated reality.)

I explain all this to Frog this morning at breakfast and as I do so I realise that I need to start writing again. That is what the dreams were telling me.

Ever since I stopped writing (a few weeks ago) I’ve been running around like a headless chicken. Do I garden or sew? Do I feed the birds, do my washing, wash up? Should I take that bag of old clothes to the charity shop or should I go to Homebase and replace our 1960s’ iron which has started to burn things because its thermostat has gone awry and even Frog has given up on it? I’m overwhelmed by choice. I’ve lost my centre, my raison d’être.

The need to write, I realise, is part of me, like the need to eat, or sneeze. I ignore it at my peril.