Quiet

I have been quiet of late.  My book made it out into the world and the reviews have flawed me. People like this book. It is difficult to look back a few months and remember how distressed I was. I remember saying that if I was going to die any time soon I would prefer that I died before my book launch so that I wouldn't have to face any of it.

I am now glad to be alive.  Alive, and finally enjoying the process. I am enjoying the people who like the book, the positive feedback, the book tour, the events.  I am still terrified each time I have to get up on a stage but not I am proud to be there standing up for a book I am proud of.

I have started a new thing. I have space now, with the terror abated. I have made a good start and I am beginning to find joy in the writing again.  Baby steps. These small moments of pleasure for now. Who knows how I will feel tomorrow and then the next day. One sucker punch from the wrong person and I will be down again for the count.

For now, thanks to the people who prop me up and the ones who believe in me. I am up now, and tentatively walking out into a future that looks surprisingly calm and bright. Day by day. Day by dat.

Out in the world

Small thing. Unfolded. Sent out into the world.

Two years have been rough for me. Two years wondering if I will ever make something like this. Something ordinary but extraordinary. Two years of sleepless nights and worrying in the gestation.
Out in the world and people are reading it and people are liking it.

I feel myself relax.

I have kept the bad things said to me close to my heart. All these years and the good things have seemed like lies, all the positive reviews and the people who have liked my books.

Now for the first time I am listening and hearing. People like this small fragile thing. It is safe to let it go now and move on.

87 year old sex

I want to take your 87 year old face between my hands. I want to smell your skin, look into your eyes so close that our lashes catch on each other making a sound like a dropped cinnamon stick. I want to be with you and also to be you. You have come to my rescue a dozen times. When I am unsettled your words calm me. When I am off course you open a new channel and tow me into it. We fit together like the most suited of lovers. Your dialogue fills the spaces where my conversation fails me. Your matter of fact outlines slip neatly into the  curve of my descriptions. We make good sex together. We should have met. I have met you on the page but you have never read me.

You are 87 years old.

I want to become you, slowly. I want to surpass you, isn't that what the next generation is for? I only have 44 years to improve my craft.

James Salter, wait for me.

What doesn't kill you

That old cliche. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Well I am not dead quite yet.

I may not be ready to face the work for a while, but till then I will read Ondaatje. I have taken on what you said about voice. I don't think I can change my voice. I think voice is as unique as a fingerprint and my strength has been the clarity of that print. But  I can go back to Ondaatje. This is where I began. A kindred soul. I will go back. One day, maybe I will write again. Till then, poetry.

Post from under my bed

So there will be reviews. People will read this thing.Why can't I feel just as I felt a few weeks ago when I loved this book. Why do I feel more naked now than I could ever be without clothes on. Why do I feel like I will never write something beautiful.

I take the books out of the shelf, the ones I love, other people's perfect gems. I arrange them next to my bed like something stolen and exquisite. And beside them I am nothing. Beside them my book is temporary and not made to last the distance.

He tells me my voice is 'samey'. He tells me I write too fast. All the passion that is there on the page escapes him because, I fear he is incapable of seeing passion. Still, I have no core. I am empty of heart. Inside is a hollow place that bad reviews tear through, making a noise like a little hum.

I will not read the reviews and this is why. The bad ones will beat at me like blunt instruments. The good ones I will not believe. I have nothing to hold me up through the next few months.

If you need me I'll be under the bed.

Your good eye

People will say nice things about your book. Sometimes their enthusiasm may surprise you. Surely it isn't as great as their enthusiasm for it. Well, no. It isn't. You knew it was ok. Good. Not great. But ok. It was ok enough for a pubisher to take it on. Good enough for you to let go of the constant, ego-shattering re-working. Good enough for others to spend their money on it and to read it. And some people really liked it a lot, but most had reservations.  You won't hear about these reservations. It is too late. It is done. What point is there for someone to tell you that it lags a bit in the middle, or that the beginning is a bit tedious, that the characters are not fully realised. It is done. There is nothing you can do about it.

The rare friend who will be honest may shatter your composure. You were, after all receiving nothing but praise. What does that friend know? Has he ever written a book? Even if he has, was it any good? Was it perfect? No. And maybe the feedback is misguided. Only you will know, because deep down, you know this book is not perfect, not even close to it. You may be fond of it but your next book will be better, and the one after will be better still. If that tactless friend was right about the glaring holes that somehow you and your editor overlooked, then he is a very valuable friend indeed.

You, my friend, are valuable.

It is an ok book. Maybe it is a good book, but your feedback would have made it a better book. If you had given me this feedback even six months ago I could have done something wonderful with it. I have always respected you for your good eye.

I have a good eye too. I knew there was something wrong with the book despite the excitement of my early readers. I spotted the problem but I was too close to see it. I see the holes in your own work which is also good. Very good. But not great. I am your good eye and you are mine.

The book is forever. It is stuck in print, frozen in time. It will never be better, and each year I am trudging closer to my grave. You were a useful tool just out of my reach. You were my good eye, rolled away from my fingers and stuck there, staring back at me.

Next time. Please. Next time.

I will hear a lot of praise from a lot of people who read this book. Behind my back they will tell each other their reservations. Maybe some of them will also have a good eye but I don't know it because they never tell me what they see.

Next time. It isn't too late for the next book. Next time. Please. Lend me your eye in good time.

synesthesia

I think I have an odd kind of synesthesia. I feel words. When I write it is like sculpting. It feels like motion. I feel like I am running my hands over a scultural form. I can tell when the piece is too flat. I can feel the rise and fall of it. I can feel it when I am reading too which is why I get so angry when the words I am reading clang flatly. It is a ride and if the ride is not fluid I am jerked out of the story.

I know this now because I went on anti-depressants last week. I took them for 5 days. They stopped me from sleeping. I broke out in pimples on my nose and forehead. I sweated terribly and smelled funny. But the worst of it was I wrote words without feeling them at all. They were all flat on the page. I had no way of telling if they were good words or bad words. I was removed from the dance of them. I couldn't feel them in three dimensions any more.

Last time I went on the drugs I didn't write for a year.  Now I think I know why. What is the point of writing flat words on a page. If the dance is gone or if you are removed from it, why bother to try to dance at all?

I have stopped taking the drugs. I know I have been close to the edge. I know I have been worrying my friends and bothering my acquaintances with my odd paranoia. I have been thinking about the long sure plummet of late and that is a concern. But what is the point of living if you are vaguely happy. What is the point of working if you cannot feel the words.

Maybe it is not synesthesia but if not it is something terribly similar. Whatever it is, it allows me to wrap my arms around the body of the work an bend it into the most pleasing shapes. It is like being with a responsive lover. It is like the best kind of kissing. I am not yet ready to abandon this for the safety of sanity. I have come off the drugs. Bear with me. We may be up for some hard times. yet.