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.

Being sociable

In spite of everything I said in the last post but one about not having a social life, I did go out yesterday, at my neighbour’s insistence, to a Christmas tree festival in the village church. I enjoyed it and, what’s more, I bumped into Sally and Jack whom Frog and I knew thirty-five years ago. They’ve been working in London but have come back to the village to live. Another circle turning 360 degrees. It must be our age. Sadly Frog wasn’t with me as he was on the floor of the conservatory mending our washing machine which has been out of action for two weeks.

I realise that it’s not exactly social life per se that I avoid. It’s all the obligations and the reciprocity that go with it. Perhaps I should be better at saying no and less good at letting other people’s expectations influence me.

On the other hand, being sociable ain’t half exhausting. I have to go for long walks with Dog to recover.

Pitons

I had another thought about writing this morning, and about this blog specifically.

It’s like the pitons you hammer into a rock face to enable you to climb it. Each blog post marks a step forward in my career as a writer-person, and because I’ve marked it I can’t slip back. The blog forces me to progress, it’s my means of progressing, because I can’t keep wittering on about the same old problems.

Whether it has any value for anyone else, I wonder, but if I didn’t do this thing publicly it wouldn’t be nearly so powerful. In fact, I don't think it would work at all.

I'd rather go deaf

A patchy week due to migraine, another osteopathy session and a visit to the hairdresser. I’m flagging severely but want to carry on till Christmas if I can and take a break then. I’m in a nebulous section of the novel at the moment and don’t want to leave it until I’m in a better place.

‘I’m going slightly deaf,’ I explained to the osteopath as he worked on my shoulder behind my head. ‘I have to see people’s faces and lipread in order to be sure what they’re saying.’

    ‘Funny you should say that,’ he said. ‘I was talking to another client and she asked me which would be worse – to go blind or to go deaf.’

    ‘Oh, to go blind,’ I said instantly.

    ‘Well we both decided that deafness would be worse because you wouldn’t be able to socialise.’

    ‘But I don’t want to socialise,’ I exclaimed, horrified.

   

Sometimes I worry about myself. I don’t have a social life and I don’t do anything for the community. Writing takes up all my time and all my energy and, as you can see from the last few posts, even finding time for basic maintenance (dentist, hairdresser, osteopath) is a struggle. I worry that people think I’m selfish (perhaps I am) and I worry what will happen if I get infirm and need help or if Frog dies before me.

It was so inspiring however to see a documentary on television recently about Judith Kerr, the writer and illustrator of children’s books*, who is now widowed and in her eighties but works all day and every day on her books except for the hour a day when she goes out walking. She is healthy and cheerful. I’d like to be like that when/if I get to that age.

* If you haven’t read her book When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit, do give it a try. It’s the first volume of her fascinating autobiography. Her father was a writer and critic of the Nazis and the family fled Germany just before Hitler came to power.

Curious beasts

We writers are curious beasts (and you won’t believe how many years it’s taken me to be able to say 'we writers' – to consider myself fit to be included among those lofty beings). Because we’re not in direct competition with each other – because all books are different and because they’re luxury purchases – we tend to encourage each other. Which is exactly what I’m going to do now.

You may remember me writing a year ago about a new book called Tracking the Weretiger by Patrick Newman. Well, I’d now like to reproduce for you some sections of a review in this Christmas’s issue of Fortean Times (which, in case you don’t know it, is the magazine for unexplained phenomena and all things weird and wonderful). It is the lead review and by the magazine's founding editor.

The review starts:

Any account of the 19^th century colonial fad for hunting tigers in India, Indonesia, Malaysia and China – especially the much-feared man-eaters – would be a great read; this one is above the rest, reading like a Boy’s Own thriller but with a thorough scholarly apparatus underpinning every narrative opportunity.

and ends:

I found the book as fascinating as a tiger’s stare, well written and packed with all the detail – sometimes gory but told with the panache of a seasoned narrator – that you could possibly want on such a curious and delightfully obscure topic.

Fortean Times Verdict

A BIG BOLD 10 OUT OF 10 –

UNMISSABLE! JUST BUY IT!

Well done Pat!

You can also find Pat in his blog, ‘musings of an old booklover’ (formerly ‘musings of an old shikari’).