Yesterday was the culmination of some vague thoughts that I'd finally managed to re-connect. I saw something about Harriet Gilbert in a newspaper a few weeks ago and I remembered that about 20 years ago I'd written a number of articles for a book she was editing. At the time I'd never been notified that the book had been published, and after a couple of years I'd written to the publisher to see if anything had happened about it. This was just before email and internet, so effort was required. I didn't get an answer so, since I was busy generating children, I didn't pursue it. I assumed for some reason that the book hadn't been published as I'd never seen it anywhere. However, when I heard HG's name mentioned I rushed to Wikipedia and found that she'd written a book called "The Sexual Imagination" - I looked for it on Amazon, found it available for 63p or something ridiculous - and yesterday it arrived.
It's rather a good book, and it opened at one of my entries, on Anais Nin. It was coherent and vaguely disapproving... I flipped through it, trying to discover which articles I'd written. Eventually I located eight, all of which were delightful to me, as they were both familiar and unfamiliar, as though they had been written by another person (rather like my university essays). What was also rather exciting was looking at the list of other contributors, many of whom were rather distinguished feminists like Dale Spender and Angela Carter - I was pleased to find myself in this company.
It looked to me, as if, just before I met M I was about to take off, get a bit more involved in my writing etc. It reminded me of when J ordered me to get a job when I was researching my unfinished book on Women and Catholicism - even though I had had a spontaneous letter from a publisher... can you imagine? which I'd never replied to. Oh gawd. It doesn't do to repine, but there is a bit of a pattern, but now I can't see what can interfere with my writing except my own lassitude (or someone in the family requiring a carer of course! God forbid!).
Anyway, I now have another publication to add to my thin little CV, so perhaps I will finally get the application off.
Tomorrow night I am going to a party for writers in the Isle of Thanet - wonder who'll be there? Tara Moore? David Lee Stone? Others unheard of (Jane Wenham-Jones presumably). Oh god, I hope it's all right or will it just be wannabees (like us?). But I'm beyond the wannabee stage - I know this, because I meet wannabees who are amazingly impressed that I've been published.
I can see why people must cringe when one says one's a writer and thens says one hasn't published (much) because one could be a useless fantasist.
I am pleased to report that my lassitude has diminished, I am fairly energetic, although horribly unfit. Wonder if I dare go swimming tomorrow?
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