I’m reading too much. If that’s even possible. I’ve just finished reading a novel that’s made me want to write with a typewriter again, like I did in my youth (that typewriter has long disappeared, unfortunately), rather than on my PC or even into my journals (although I have to admit that the rough draft of this is lying on my desk in my journal in front of me as I type).
And in the meantime, my next idea sits in a separate journal to the right of me on this desk, by the printer, waiting for me to transcribe over 30 pages of tinily-scribbled words into a file on my machine. And I know they’re just fragments of a framework to be fitted around more fragments, more shards, more narrative and inventions and stories yet to be imagined, yet to be written, yet to be made, begotten, created.
The day before yesterday, I emailed a friend about that idea:
“Your father has actually hit the nail on the head of something that I’ve been thinking for a very long time - the perceived need for plot. I’ve always had this dream of writing a plotless novel, just never really worked out how that might be done. Though, having said that, the thing I started working on in 2022, and which I’ve picked up again, might just, might just, be able, with a lot of hard work and patience (which is something I rarely have when writing, my brain saying this must be finished, this must be finished, so you can jump on to the next idea) to become that.
“For me, having had one book published by an actual publisher, the problem is always trying to make sure that I hit (or try to hit) those marks that publishers demand - page turner, consummated love, bad vs evil with a tangible outcome (and, yes, in life I do wish for good to vanquish evil), all the lines of dialogue actually contributing to narrative and plot resolution, etc blah blah. Proust (although I’ve never read the whole of In Search Of…) probably had it right - memories, memories, tangents, and more memories and dreams.”
I usually accuse myself of allowing my tasks to expand into available time, but lately it’s not felt like that. It’s felt more like I’m scrabbling for quiet time, somehow, somewhere, to be able just to sit and order my thoughts, my words, my papers, my lines of vision.
Self-care - I am doing 20 minutes of Pilates every other day, a 45-minute one-to-one session with a Pilates instructor once a week, still doing my minimum 2.5 miles walk (fast or slow) every day, starting therapy again next week (albeit with a new therapist) because I need to mind my mind, simplifying life in many ways, trying to breathe more slowly. And still my tendons and mind feel like they’re rigid, too tightly coiled.
The counter-argument - it’s because you’re not writing; hence the tightness, the galloping and tense mind.
Perhaps.
There are words there. Just waiting.
And then the question will be what it always was and is and will be. Are any of them of value?