the lonely business
I think it was yesterday that, at a panel on writing, people touched the myth of “writing is a lonely business”, with the similarly mythified (I know it’s not a word, but is there a word in English for “forcibly made to be a myth?”) addition “it doesn’t have to be”.
I remember my mother who used to lock herself in a room for hours because she was working (writing or translating), and nobody was allowed to mess with her. And that was what I wanted, that’s what I still want. To lock myself in and to cry a bit, and ignore everybody. That’s what I’m doing right now, or as close to it as I can get: not attending the party, sitting on a terrace, crying a bit, and wondering whether and how could I morph this horribly lonesome feeling into a simple fantasy novel about horse racing.
(Yesterday, I called my husband and, among other things, asked him what should I write about. Newil is shaping slowly and is becoming a horribly complex piece. I don’t feel ready to write it now, since I’m already discouraged by The Virgin mess. And my husband said I should write about horse racing. Predictably, I said “damn it, and screw you”, but by now I have a skeleton of a plot, a map, a Mary Sue-ish main character, a conflict and the stakes, so I guess that I might as well write it and see how it goes.)
Probably I’m so tired because I have de facto worked full time. I suppose that cons are meant to be fun and relaxing, but instead I’ve been soaking every little thing in, weighing it against my experiences, and have overloaded myself. It seems that I am quite incapable of taking things easy. Or, rather, that I can shape myself into that confident, easy-going, fun-having person, but this person doesn’t write.
Yesterday, Pat Cadigan told me that writing should feel good, and better with every time. I know that’s true, but I don’t know how to do it. (Probably by allowing myself to sit alone and cry a bit, and write a sad post, and then opening a fresh document and typing away.)
