13 October 2009
The other day I asked a friend how her writing was going. She said, "It isn't." This is, I think, one of the most crap (crappestm crappiest?) feelings possible. It does come back, was my first response -- I've been writing for long enough to be able to say that. But the deep dark secret truth that I didn't say is, that at the moment I haven't been writing much either. It looks like I am because a couple of poems were published and I submitted a couple of others and intend to submit some more by the end of the month. But that's not writing. There are notebooks full of half-drafts that I'd like to get to, so why have I not been at the desk every morning by 8.15? (8.15 is when I get back from taking Clover to the bus stop.) I'm doing yoga, I'm cooking lunches, I'm vacuuming the furniture, I'm clearing out bookshelves... I'm doing just about anything but sit down at my desk. The Seashell is up and running, connected to everything, so what's wrong with me? I make a few notes in my journal and all too soon voila, time is up, it's off to the day job and the contrôle technique and the everything else that seems so important, but isn't. There's a lesson in here about priorities perhaps. Well. If so, I'm ready to learn it.