These seem to be popular themes in my life over the years, and I would have thought they might have gone into abeyance now. The depression is currently controlled by a drug called citalopram - which is a great menopausal drug. It's not HRT but it is meant to ward off the depression that apparentlycomes with losing one's oestrogen.
[Paragraph censored for reasons of privacy]
I am married of course, and though my husband is very nice, he is also very infuriating. He says that my mother probably died of frustration, unable to progress and do what she wanted because of my father. It's possible I will share her fate.
As a Christian I ought to go to church on Sunday, but I am no longer a church-going Christian really. My husband says I am like Simon Stylites.... I often feel a bit like one of the desert fathers, rather engaged with the struggle for my soul - visited occasionally by people for advice. One of my book group described me as a guru recently... but she's a hyperbolic nutcase... I am theologically protestant and culturally catholic, and, I recently discovered, part Jewish - yipee! Now I can tell Jewish jokes without mealy-mouthed PC nitwits telling me I shouldn't.
There was a great play on in the West End 30 + years ago called Mrs Klein, about the analyst Melanie Klein and her daughter.... Mrs Klein mentions, "The Neurotic Weekend" as the title of a paper by one of Freud's followers, Ferenczi I think; apparently one gets so engaged with work during the week that one goes quietly mad at the weekend (I paraphrase, and no doubt diminish, the concept).
Now I should go and fulfil my motherly duty and make a nice cake for supper to go with the roast pork and veggies (carrots, broccoli, peas? apple sauce, spuds). Whatever happened to Sunday lunch? I don't know. My mother would be disgusted that I don't do it every Sunday. But today M and I went to see if we could see the remains of the beached sperm whale in the bay - so we went out, and we couldn't see a thing because it was high tide, and "they" had cut it up and carted it off... then we got hungry and went and ate at a pub and then tried to locate a few WWII military sites - pill boxes etc. We found some Nissen huts and a very heavily overgrown pillbox. I suppose that's a slightly satisfactory use of time.
While I was leaning on a field gate, watching a cat racing mysteriously up a field, I thought that if I wrote 2,000 words of my novel a week it would be over by Christmas.... then I could have an orgy of editing and start showing it to people. Who knows by then I might even have an agent? Gosh, I thought I might get an agent by Christmas 2009. Was I nuts? Anyway, when I write I usually find I do a batch of about 1.000 words, which means simply opening Conscience twice a week.... and as the mornings are getting lighter and I tend to get up earlier there's a real chance of progress. If only I didn't have to do all this schlepping and schmoozing....
[Paragraph censored for reasons of privacy]
I am married of course, and though my husband is very nice, he is also very infuriating. He says that my mother probably died of frustration, unable to progress and do what she wanted because of my father. It's possible I will share her fate.
As a Christian I ought to go to church on Sunday, but I am no longer a church-going Christian really. My husband says I am like Simon Stylites.... I often feel a bit like one of the desert fathers, rather engaged with the struggle for my soul - visited occasionally by people for advice. One of my book group described me as a guru recently... but she's a hyperbolic nutcase... I am theologically protestant and culturally catholic, and, I recently discovered, part Jewish - yipee! Now I can tell Jewish jokes without mealy-mouthed PC nitwits telling me I shouldn't.
There was a great play on in the West End 30 + years ago called Mrs Klein, about the analyst Melanie Klein and her daughter.... Mrs Klein mentions, "The Neurotic Weekend" as the title of a paper by one of Freud's followers, Ferenczi I think; apparently one gets so engaged with work during the week that one goes quietly mad at the weekend (I paraphrase, and no doubt diminish, the concept).
Now I should go and fulfil my motherly duty and make a nice cake for supper to go with the roast pork and veggies (carrots, broccoli, peas? apple sauce, spuds). Whatever happened to Sunday lunch? I don't know. My mother would be disgusted that I don't do it every Sunday. But today M and I went to see if we could see the remains of the beached sperm whale in the bay - so we went out, and we couldn't see a thing because it was high tide, and "they" had cut it up and carted it off... then we got hungry and went and ate at a pub and then tried to locate a few WWII military sites - pill boxes etc. We found some Nissen huts and a very heavily overgrown pillbox. I suppose that's a slightly satisfactory use of time.
While I was leaning on a field gate, watching a cat racing mysteriously up a field, I thought that if I wrote 2,000 words of my novel a week it would be over by Christmas.... then I could have an orgy of editing and start showing it to people. Who knows by then I might even have an agent? Gosh, I thought I might get an agent by Christmas 2009. Was I nuts? Anyway, when I write I usually find I do a batch of about 1.000 words, which means simply opening Conscience twice a week.... and as the mornings are getting lighter and I tend to get up earlier there's a real chance of progress. If only I didn't have to do all this schlepping and schmoozing....
No comments:
Post a Comment