I've just become Conscious of it....

I have recently been thinking about the dire effect of writing on my conscious life - and how much easier it is to bury oneself in the work - and not negotiate with recalcitrant children, creditors, clients etc.

Today I heard Deborah Moggach talking about how it was quite a good career to have for your children, because you were at home, but at the same time another writer had said that it wasn't really "you" who was there, but just a husk, because you were too busy thinking about something else.  I laughed, because that just about describes it, and I am also much more impatient when I am in writing mode.

But extrapolating a little from that, and throwing in my recent observations about how my rational/intellectual side is being progressively more sidelined by this dreamy, unconscious "creative" function, I suddenly realised that some of the more bothersome thoughts that I have are simply part of this - the ideas that won't go away, and the mild obsessions have seeped out of that unconscious bit.

I had vaguely supposed that the rush of ideas that seems to occur when one writes was a sort of "creative" unconscious - but that it was very much something that one used for work, and left well alone the rest of the time.  Of course one's unconscious is full of all sorts of other stuff, repressed memories, desires, horrors, bad experiences, things which one wants to keep a lid on.  It now seems that by liberating the "creative" bit I have also given the other bits a bit of an outlet that they did not have before, hence the vague upwellings of anxiety or love or discomfort or embarrassment that occur more frequently now.  But perhaps the good thing about this is that I should not worry about it too much, some of these feelings are no longer real feelings, just memories of former feelings, so should not worry me any more.  I feel much better about them now that I think I understand what's going on.

It remains to be seen whether this is a good thing in creative terms.  What I am clear about is that this kind of writing, the blogathon, ought to be the more rational stuff, and I seem to be managing it tolerably well.  My inventive writing ought to be even better - except that I have been doing very little this week (trip to my father, stinking cold, shop minding and even - heavens! friends and family have all impeded writing this week.)  And at present M is doing his utmost to to impede this spot of late-night blogging.

Book of the Month

For some reason I posted this report in the other blog - but here's a link if you want to see the current state of reading (much better recently!)  http://schmoozyschlepp-quotidiana.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/book-of-month.html

Blogging for pleasure and profit

Well, One of the few topics (apparently) I do not spend much time soul-searching about is why I blog.  I know why, I was told to, I started it, and found it was a useful outlet for anything I wanted to mull over (not this blog of course - but the Quotidiana one).  But every now and again, I remember that a writer's blog is meant to be a fabulous outlet for one's writing and all sorts of things.

Today I came across an article called "Why do we blog" http://www.molly-greene.com/why-do-we-blog/ and I am putting the link here - because it is (a) the antithesis of why I blog, and (b) perhaps it is how I should be blogging.   (Note to self: make content more perky, relevant - less solipsistic).

Worst of all I see that I have chosen a style and layout that does not permit me to include lots of brightly coloured pictures of my book covers (to be announced).  I should be building up a mailing list apparently!  Oy-oy-oy!  Well, OK.  This is the way to go, since I am not that kind of writer, I think I can carry on regardless.  Should I find a publisher for those searing works of fiction The Romantic Feminist, the Conscience o Trilogy and Islanders (to say nothing of 17 Years) then it may be that a publisher will kindly offer the services of one of their underlings to assist me.

However, perhaps the final paragraph of the blog is the most helpful - the thing about confidence.  Curiously, despite my still mainly unpublished status, I do have a certain amount of confidence, but I suspect my natural modesty and experience of failure of one kind and another, prevent me from too much trumpeting... plus of course that crippling disease "being British" which makes one very unable to tell the world how fab one is in case one is accused of showing off.   But confidence must have an outlet, and mine comes through what could be interpreted as arrogance... but is actually a sort of sardonic/sarcastic humour which doesn't really look too much like showing off, but at the same time demonstrates a level of cleverness/superiority - hmmm.  I just hope it is leavened with some self-deprecating charm. 

Poetry

I used to write poetry, when I was a teenager - some of it was good, even my mother, usually my sternest critic, said so. I wrote it chiefly during the emotional Sturm und Drang that enveloped me from about 16 to 19.  When I got to university I wrote a little, but once I met James, my first husband, things settled down and the mood no longer came upon me.  It was about that time that some of it got published in the university literary mag... as always, at the first hint of success I down tools and go off and find something else to do.

Nowadays I live in terror of the question "Would you like to read some of my poetry?" - although I do know two excellent poets (Simon Darragh and Sue Rose) who I would read any time - because most amateur poetry is pretty dreadful and I find it hard to compose my face in a suitable expression when I have to read something which either rhymes like a greeting card, with sentiments to match, or doesn't rhyme, but has no discernible poetic qualities either.

Anyway - yesterday "by special request" I wrote my first poem for over 30 years - it's a haiku, an epitaph on a distant friend (a friend once removed?) who was an international environmentalist, supporter of communities and all round loveable, charismatic and inspiring person.  He died horribly "young" - i.e. about 57.  I thought it was good - the recipient thought it was "very good" so I shall put it here, to rest until someone needs it.

Roger Hammond

A good life, inspired
By nature, the whole world seen,
Loved and upheld, changed.

Perhaps there should be a book of haiku epitaphs.  Or maybe I should go and stick it on the memorial website.

Writing and real life

Having had a really interesting, blog-worthy evening last night, when I woke up this morning all I wanted to do was write something to add to TRF.  I suppose this is the classic thing - a night carousing in one's unconscious mind brings forth more interesting thoughts and connections than a great many conscious experiences... but I was making connections last night.  I wondered for example whether it would be permissible for a young Edwardian clergyman to sing Take a Pair of Sparkling Eyes at a musical evening.  I think probably not - but might be acceptable for David to sing it privately to Kitty - to woo her a little?

For the last nearly four years - when I began to write most of the time - I've felt a strange disconnect between my conscious, planning brain, and  my unconscious which seems to have over flowed its normal boundaries, and to be rising up to the top of the seawall...I live far more than ever in the unconscious - and sometimes real life is a bit of a strain.   Last Friday for example, we went to Marine Studios for an exhibition and talk - it took a while before I could adjust - when asked how I was I replied "a bit weird actually" - and I really couldn't engage properly (needed 2 glasses of wine in fact), but when I told Mike, the potter this, he just gave me a great big hug and somehow that grounded me again... almost immediately we found a topic of conversation and normal service was resumed.

Does/can we rely on physical contact like that to jolt us out of where we are?  I think perhaps, as with hiccups, it has to be a surprise.  If M came over to me and tried to hug me to distract me from working I don't think the response would be so positive.  I hate the fuzziness that comes these days - I don't feel as if I am doing much new thinking - I over-rely on the intuitive side of the brain, the rational is under-exercised (I don't think Sudoku counts).

Now where?

A week without writing - not very good.  Actually I began to read TRF again, because I am trying to steel myself to send it out again.  It seemed good to me!  Oh dear, but the intensive self-criticism and corrections all took place during the first two or three years, I can't keep updating it.   I had a whole load of ideas that I wrote down and now can't find the document - probably didn't save it.  I wondered whether to tweak the structure again - but I felt that small tweaks were more in order.  I am still waiting for T to come back with her critique, I am sure she has been busy, but I wish she would, I want to feel I have a version that has dealt with the JM criticisms and then rejection/acceptance becomes simply a matter of taste.

So, next week, I should probably work on Vol 1 while I wait for T to ponder... then think about submitting TRF again...  Oh.  It's all too damn complicated, but while all the published writers I know say airily "Don't worry - find another agent!" as an unpublished novelist I feel slightly less sanguine - then again, I've only had 8 rejections so far - at least 5 of them rave rejections!  So, sooner or later I must find someone.