I was rushing off to the gym yesterday for the 2nd morning in a row, and the third day in a row of workouts. After ten days in Thailand with all you can eat buffets, and a lot of static time in a meeting room, I was feeling very out of shape. With so much travel this period, and three overseas trips within two months, I’ve felt out of an exercise routine, and heavy. Particularly with the stress-inducing flesh-exposing Mardi Gras on its way at the start of March, where I’ll likely go to dance all night, and like everyone else, take off my shirt.
But I was thinking: if I put as much energy into my writing as I am doing now into my exercise, I could really get going. I would be OK, I would be producing and more disciplined. It has gotten me thinking and perhaps beyond these blogs (which are working OK), I’ll get to work on that idea I had for organising my writing notes and ideas – and start working on things in a substantial way. This is the year that I want to do some major writing.
Last night, I talked to S about writing, and he asked about the various blocks. One is what I describe above, having other things take up the time, not allocating time to do it. In terms of the exercise, I’m not quite ready to give up vanity yet. Perhaps after Mardi Gras…
The other thought which I shared with him was something I’d pondered yesterday or the day before about how I’ve stopped with my autobiographical stories. I was tired of feeling that I’ve revealed so much. I hated the reviews which didn’t deal with my writing but attacked me as a person instead. I was annoyed that even when stories weren’t about me, people assumed they were. The natural boldness of how I wrote, the self-confidence and ease, have become less and less the last years. I think there is a foolish young writer in there who expected by writing about the honest emotions of my life that I would be “understood” somehow. It is true, I have had some lovely comments, and have had people really connect with my writing. At the same time, I’ve been misunderstood, and hell, there’s some disappointment that I can’t get my friends to read my books sometimes, and as I said, a few bad reviews, even though: why should my creative process and being be dampened by a handful of people that I don’t even know. I need to get back on track, and while I do want to write non-autobiographical fiction, I shouldn’t be afraid of the form in which I first found my voice. Let it be free. Let it be free.