Talking to real people

Yesterday Ellie and I went on a long walk with friends. (Frog stayed at home nursing the remains of cold/flu.) As you may know from the blog so far, I don’t find socialising easy, but this was my sort of thing – plodding through mud in wind and rain – and a bit of sun.

    ‘How’s the writing going?’ asked James.

    I launched into a long tale of my woes – being stuck, bad reviews, wondering if it was all a waste of time.

    He thought for a bit and then he said, ‘I think everyone feels like that at times, whatever their job.’

    That made me feel so much better. I wasn't some freak. I was normal. Writing wasn't some peculiar self-indulgence. It was just a job.

    And another thing that made me feel better was the fact that we all found social networking sites a waste of time. I had been beginning to wonder if I was the only person in the world who didn’t have a Facebook page. 

    ‘And it’s all so egocentric,’ said Simone.

    That got me thinking about this blog. I started it for several reasons. Firstly, as a way to record my writing progress so that I could learn from my ups and downs. Secondly, to keep myself up to the mark: calling it ‘a writer’s diary’ means that I have to write.

    And there’s a third reason, which I’ve only just recognised now as I write this. It’s a way to talk about what matters to me. Not everyone understands about writing. Few people do, in fact. I probably don’t myself. And I spend far too much time alone. So this blog is a dialogue with an imaginary listener.
    Is that egocentric? I don't know. Perhaps I would be better getting out and talking to real people.

Seagulls in Sainsbury's

Frog is at the deli counter,

I’m with the crisps and nuts

concentrating on my migraine.

I hear seagulls

and I presume they’re in my head

until a nearby man answers his phone

and the noise stops.

‘Seagulls in Sainsbury’s’, I say to myself.

Now there’s a good title for a poem.

But I couldn’t think of one.

Spotlight

The full moon startles me when I draw back the curtains on Tuesday morning. At first I wonder why someone is shining a spotlight at me.

I have an intuition about my dread of seeing people: it’s the result of an old wound. They will most likely not tear me to pieces, and even if they do I can probably cope these days. (And even if they do, says Frog, it’s their problem and f*** them.)

A vision arrives. I am mingling with rich and famous people and feeling confident because I have had a novel published. I am their equal. I have done something unique. I have proved that I am real.

Poleaxed

My shoulder is nearly better, thanks to the osteopath, but now my lower back has gone and I’m creeping around like a ninety-year-old. I feel poleaxed, as if I’ve had a sudden bereavement.

Is it because of the novel review, or because I’ve been wheeling around barrow-loads of manure, or just because I need a rest?

The sensible thing to do

On Wednesday I joined YouWriteOn again in the hope that the reviews will get me out of the impasse. I received the first review today. Not enough plot, it said. And I know they’re right. It’s why I’ve ground to a halt halfway through. I’m not sure I can face rejigging the whole thing again though. I may just abandon this novel and start another.

Sometimes I even wonder whether I should give up this whole writing lark. I’ve been struggling for so long and I realised this morning that I have a recurring dream. I’m in a job and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing and no one is helping me and I have to pretend to be busy and I feel like a fraud all the time . . .

But if I do consider giving up writing my life has no point any more. ‘You’ll find something else,’ says Frog.

I will wait for more reviews however before making any decisions. That at least is the sensible thing to do.

Aarghh

Normally, in this novel-writing business, I know roughly where I’m going, even if I don’t know how I’m going to get there. Now, I don’t know either. Aarghh.

As Frog says, it’s probably because the novel has caught up with my life. Double aarghh.