Tonight I've discovered that my husband thinks of my writing as a vaguely therapeutic activity that I do to keep sane but which unfortunately prevents me being quite as full on with the housework as I might be (read "ought" there).
I have seldom in the last 20 years have had quite such comprehensive evidence of his density and lack of interest or understanding of my motivations. He thinks TRF is just a sort of apologia which I am working on for psychological reasons. I freely admit that that was its origin - but it's moved on a lot since then. And I've written another novel in the meantime. He does not understand that I need to make my own life, that I need to earn some money, that I need to have an outlet for my talents and abilities which I am generally denied elsewhere. He seems to be unaware that I was writing for years before I met him (admittedly with less dedication and conviction) and that my first husband diverted me from a writing project that had gained the interest of a publisher (yes, I can barely bring myself to recall this now) by telling me I couldn't sit around writing and researching, I needed to "get a job". I didn't then have the confidence to believe I could do it - I didn't have the confidence to tell James to fuck off and let me get on with it. Mark has forgotten that I was earning money from commercial writing and journalism before he met me, he doesn't seem to be aware that this is what I have always been good at, and is the obvious thing to try and earn money from.
I don't know what his motivation is - probably it is just stupidity, but maybe he's jealous or threatened or something. It maybe because he is upset about the personal/autobiographical elements of TRF (even though he's been written out of it). I sometimes feel as if this book would be the end of all my relationships if it ever gets published. None of my cousins will ever talk to me again - and M and the boys are getting full of resentment. I could have reminded him that they all make it so difficult for me to write that I had to go to a convent to get some writing time. Our bedroom is not the ideal place to write, especially in the evening when it is his tv room. I must reclaim the upstairs office and work there I think. I can just stay there all evening without having him looking over my shoulder or watching tv in the same room.
Am I angry? Is it justtified? It's obviously an area that is sensitive. I was reminded of my argument with Markovitch a thousand years ago when he said "So where is this writing you talk about? Why haven't you finished a book yet?" Good grief. I shouldn't care, I should understand that non-writers DON'T understand, but it is deeply upsetting to discover that people you care about actually think you are just pissing around... when actually I'm busy burning with a hard, gem-like flame and cutting and snipping and re-doing and thinking and exercising my remaining braincells in the best way I know (don't talk to me about differential calculus - you try re-writing a novel to take account of several changes in character and motivation: it's like 3D computer programing, working with chaos theory - where every change in one character's behaviour has a knock-on effect on everyone else in the book).
Really, really, this is an entry that should go in the Only Writing blog. But it is my everyday life. And I wrote a blog entry in the other blog about two or three hours ago which was cheerful and more confident. Then he made his fateful remark. It's rather like the famous (to me) penis incident (no dear reader, I am not telling) - he says something pretty unforgiveable, blaming, hurtful and you get the cold water bucket of truth thrown over you "This is what he really thinks!" Gradually the impression fades, eventually you challenge him, he makes feeble excuses about it, you get tired of hearing the fibs, and go away. Eventually you haven't the energy to feel hurt any longer. Now along comes this incident, and then "I don't understand why you are getting so upset about this". And that's partly the problem: wound me about something very fundamental, creativity, sexuality - and then assume that your verbal klutzery is just part of the picture, and that I am getting excessively worked up about it.
Perhaps in 4 years or so I will have forgiven him, in fact, I already have to an extent, it's just that I am not entirely sure if I can continue to live in this situation. Usually when he upsets me like this I cry - but actually I am too angry to. Of course the mature, committed adult thing to do would be to talk it through and deal with it - and sort it out, but I no longer want to do that. I know this is childish, I don't harbour many resentments, but to be so comprehensively misread by someone you've spent 20 years tending and nurturing (well, 16 of the last 20 anyway) feels like something rather outstanding in the everyday slings and arrows stakes... Occasionally one just wants to tend one's anger, like in the Blake poem - one almost enjoys one's feeling of self-righteousness. It's not very Christian or very likeable, there's no justification, apart perhaps from the fact that occasionally there is an insult to one's sense of self that is so egregious that one wants to set it apart and put it on a pedestal and indulge it a little. I let a lot of things go by, I am pretty forgiving, I don't take offence, I see other people's viewpoints, understand their weaknesses and limitations as far as I can.
It is very sad. When I came downstairs to cook supper tonight I was feeling low - the struggles with the literary differential calculus were getting me down - and I actually sought a hug and was relieved to find it still had some power to console, and was relieved that I still had someone to console me (it was a rather passive hug on his part). Strange that about an hour later the consolation should so comprehensively have vanished and been replace by an utter emptiness and incomprehension.
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