Bubbling up like a fountain

The publisher in Montreal is suddenly delighted with everything I send him. For a few days I have been basking in this sudden unusual  approval,  feeling that I am getting better as a professional writer and the writing has taken on a happy confident  glow. Now I hear from him that he is in love. It is spring and he is reading the love poetry of  Neruda and Leonard Cohen. He l;istens to corny pop songs in the bath and  admits his critical faculties have deserted him. He stops in the street to smell the flowers and  doesn’t mind sneezing from flurries of pollen. He is going to lose weight and join a gym, climb the odd peak in the Himalayas. Sent off a bunch of sweetheart roses to his ex-wife instead of a lawyer’s letter. He  may try his hand at a spot of  writing himself. He wants everyone to be as happy as he is. Sadly, he is not so much in love that he feels like paying more money to his wonderful writers.  But  right now he assures me that I am brilliant and dazzling and bubbling up like a fountain of creativity. Long may his love affair last!

Well, the time is not right to talk about  violence, it would seem. I did try to put my arguments as clearly as possible and  did not mean to tread on toes. But I was talking about patterns of sexualized intimate violence in the context of a rape culture. And if there is not a deep understanding of patriarchy or sexism and the  kinds of specific and prevalent violence arising from those social forces, then anything said will sound unfair, biased or excluding. Thanks to those who did email me and do understand.

An encouraging note on writing process from the always-inspiring Laila Lalami:

When I give readings, one of the most common questions I get asked is to describe my writing process. I always hesitate to talk about it, because it seems so idiosyncratic and hence useless to anyone else but me. For instance, I always begin my writing day by listening to Rachmaninoff. Why Rachmaninoff? I have no idea. But listening to the same piece every day helps me start my routine. And routine is paramount for me, because I can’t afford to wait for my muse to show up. She’s kind of unreliable. I’m also pretty fastidious about my note-taking, so in addition to two writing notebooks (one for fiction, one for nonfiction), I also keep a logbook to keep track of what I’m writing and what I’m reading. Right now, I’m working on my new novel, so my current draft, my research, and all my associated notes are stored together. That way, I can find what I need when I need it. It’s early in the process, so I am only on my first box for this novel and it is not even full yet. But, you know, one page at a time…

One page at a time, one day at a time. Sometimes I am amazed at how much can be achieved and completed or begun within the space of 24 hours while sober, clear-headed, aware, grateful, focused. Sometimes I am equally amazed that 24 hours has flown past and  it feels as if I have scarcely managed to get myself up, fed, washed and dressed, never mind putting pen to paper. So much lively village gossip! Such fascinating things written by other people on the Internet, so effortlessly! Such fun dogs wanting to play out in the garden and be walked or bathed! And then there are phone calls from lovely friends and a quick visit to the library. So many new books written by other people and so much more interesting than my own writing! Time out for lunch, salads and soups and cups of green tea and  another quick raid on the chocolate supplies. Just as I sit down to work, I recall that I should really write an encouraging email to somebody who has been sober six months. She is also putting off writing and we fire emails back and forth, full of wittyanecdotes and  gratitude lists. Then it is time to attend a workshop on literacy training — and like all committees we meander and eat sticky buns and drink  tea afterwards and argue or agree  or sulk, and when I get back it is time to have supper and chat with the housemate who has had a busy and productive day and wants to share at length. Then I am back at the keyboard and yawning. Empty-headed. Time for a hot bath and bedtime with a little reflection on the day, a little discernment, Steps 10 and 11 and  – no, too late, I’m asleep…

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