I had a productive day: cleaned up the kitchen, prepared food, washing, returned glasses, bought a new kettle and went to Pegwell Bay to the pub to correct my MS. I sat there for about an hour and a half, with a large and delicious gin, engaged in this story - then M came. I found it hard to adjust to the reality. I found it hard to talk to him, I felt like those middle aged couples who sit in silence, because they said all they had to say about 27 years ago and there's nothing left. In our case it's not true, we did talk about his marketing exercise - and how much he was learning from doing it. (He's doing a trawl for new potential clients, due to the failing nature of one or two of his old clients). But I felt tired - it was very windy so I had been sitting inside in a bright sunny window, overlooking the sea. I thought it was the gin, I thought it was the sunshine, I had a soft drink, we each had a plate of food and then went home, had a further snack (we'd only had starters) and felt gloomy, I decided it was because I was tired, so I went to bed and slept for about 90 minutes, and hoped I'd feel better when I woke up.
I woke up, I sat at my computer, I looked at my emails...I felt empty and sad. I did the I Ching. Now I feel on the edge of tears - which is unusual for me in my medicated state. Is it the book? Is the autobiographical nature of it making things more painful for me? Will I feel better when I've finished the edit? Will I feel better when I've got going on the next book? Will writing 17 Years make things better...? The on-line I Ching asks this: (42, Increasing)
What would you do if you knew you were blessed?
What if there were no limits?
What could change for the better?
I have answers to these questions, although I can hardly dare express them. And some of the things that would make things better might involve another person, who might not want to participate in the project! And some of the things that would make things better for me, would make things worse for other people.
‘True and confident, with a benevolent heart,
No question: good fortune from the source.
Truth, confidence and benevolence are my own strength.’
Truth and benevolence are probably features of my nature, confidence is only a recent acquisition, but my emotional life is not an area where I have any confidence, because I cannot assert myself there. I can't even send an email and get a reply. I could text I suppose - but what:?
The other half of the I Ching reading - is Nourishment - what is nourishing you? This is always pertinent. It doesn't answer my question - it reflects it. What nourishes me is writing - and close relationships with people... that is why life is difficult often, because I have gradually become lonely. This is such a contrast to my feeling of rejuvenation last week.
Last night there was Festival Club - which is fun, I talked to people I liked a bit, and Emily Tull gave a good talk... but but but...I felt outside, not part of it. Is that my nature, is that reality? or is it the fact that I am so closely engaged with the inner life of the novel, that anything else, other social contacts, don't work. Which is partly why I am not enjoying reading so much, but that said, I am really enjoying The End of the Affair by Graham Greene - it is striking a lot of chords with me. I nearly fainted when I started reading it - the opening lines were extremely similar to one of my (now discarded) possible openings for The Romantic Feminist. It was consoling to see that love stories can be written by great writers too. Oh what nonsense, so many great novels are love stories. Er, well, perhaps not. Manon Lescaut, all of J Austen, Brontes, oh, I can't be bothered to do a list. But the point is, I felt there was a tradition, and perhaps the Catholic conscience of GG was something we had in common, which might create a similar slightly anguished attitude towards love, especially of the adulterous kind.
I woke up, I sat at my computer, I looked at my emails...I felt empty and sad. I did the I Ching. Now I feel on the edge of tears - which is unusual for me in my medicated state. Is it the book? Is the autobiographical nature of it making things more painful for me? Will I feel better when I've finished the edit? Will I feel better when I've got going on the next book? Will writing 17 Years make things better...? The on-line I Ching asks this: (42, Increasing)
What would you do if you knew you were blessed?
What if there were no limits?
What could change for the better?
I have answers to these questions, although I can hardly dare express them. And some of the things that would make things better might involve another person, who might not want to participate in the project! And some of the things that would make things better for me, would make things worse for other people.
‘True and confident, with a benevolent heart,
No question: good fortune from the source.
Truth, confidence and benevolence are my own strength.’
Truth and benevolence are probably features of my nature, confidence is only a recent acquisition, but my emotional life is not an area where I have any confidence, because I cannot assert myself there. I can't even send an email and get a reply. I could text I suppose - but what:?
The other half of the I Ching reading - is Nourishment - what is nourishing you? This is always pertinent. It doesn't answer my question - it reflects it. What nourishes me is writing - and close relationships with people... that is why life is difficult often, because I have gradually become lonely. This is such a contrast to my feeling of rejuvenation last week.
Last night there was Festival Club - which is fun, I talked to people I liked a bit, and Emily Tull gave a good talk... but but but...I felt outside, not part of it. Is that my nature, is that reality? or is it the fact that I am so closely engaged with the inner life of the novel, that anything else, other social contacts, don't work. Which is partly why I am not enjoying reading so much, but that said, I am really enjoying The End of the Affair by Graham Greene - it is striking a lot of chords with me. I nearly fainted when I started reading it - the opening lines were extremely similar to one of my (now discarded) possible openings for The Romantic Feminist. It was consoling to see that love stories can be written by great writers too. Oh what nonsense, so many great novels are love stories. Er, well, perhaps not. Manon Lescaut, all of J Austen, Brontes, oh, I can't be bothered to do a list. But the point is, I felt there was a tradition, and perhaps the Catholic conscience of GG was something we had in common, which might create a similar slightly anguished attitude towards love, especially of the adulterous kind.
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