Friday 3 January 2014


Yesterday I returned to writing my book. At long last. The chapter about the villain, to be precise. It is turning out to be so hard that I can only see myself writing a single chapter from inside his head. I am not even sure that I can do that. I am trying, No - not good enough - I shall do it.
I have printed out Renee's recommendations for my book, no I should shall cross that out, for my book, Renee's recommendations for me, in an assertive font called Elephant, (black and bold) and stuck them by the screen of my computer where they will attract my attention as soon as it wanders.
I must get the book finished this year. There is nothing to stop me, except myself.
Yesterday a friend came for lunch - no, the truth is that I myself invited her for lunch. I did that. I was writing well, I was onto something to break the back of this awful chapter which has held me up for so long. I had returned to it at long last and  I invented a way out of doing the work: one o’clock was near. I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge for some reason ( what reason?) and it seemed filthy, so I cleaned the worst of it, indignant at the distraction. I then also cleaned the toilet, scrubbed the bowl, swept the floor. I worked fast and furious, desperately. It seemed hugely important (I know now it was a displacement activity, but it felt completely urgent and necessary at the time) and instead of being angry with myself, I was furious with poor Diana, who had no idea what this was about and sat at the table and considered me with her peaceful eyes. She knew exactly what I was feeling, we are old friends, good friends, and she had no idea why I was the way I was, which was something like a not very well restrained cyclone. An inner cyclone and trying to pretend that nothing was happening. I was furious for the time I had spent cleaning. A huge anger which radiated out and contaminated everything no matter how pleasantly I spoke, how often I smiled. Everything offended me. I offended everything. I won't say that I offended Diana, because she does not offend easily. We are usually very fond of each other, but yesterday, when I had fled into my room because I couldn't stay a minute longer eating-and-chatting-when-I-should-be-writing, when I left her with P, and when he had left the room too, she quietly slipped out and tried to run away home. I caught her at the front door and forced her to come back - she is very polite - and the three of us followed the original plan, which was a good one, going for a substantial walk at 3:00 pm to the top of the hill which is near our house, through the bush and up to the top where the wind was blowing, hard. By the time we got back home it was late afternoon and we had been out for two hours. Diana left immediately, poor thing.

That evening, I went out again, with another friend I am fond of, for another walk, a short one. I was not angry at all by then (why not?). I had not seen her for a long time - which was unusual. Short walks with her used to be part of my routine, part of the way I kept sane, balanced (I hope).
I did no more writing yesterday. P and I were tired.

This urge to write is to be respected and worked on. Renee says that I don't write enough.I'll go for a thousand words a day, 6000 a week. No writing on Saturdays.

I'll finish this chapter before I leave for the Zen retreat, which is in ten days time. Is that reasonable?
I shall shut myself in my room, which is a good place, and write. If I allow any more time, the work will smear itself over too long a period, which is what has happened this last year.
I return on the 20th and then I need to work without abating, without seeing anyone, like a monk on a retreat.
Is that too extreme? I'm afraid I won't last. How to manage the keeping in touch ? Maybe not do it,  though I end up weirded out if I haven't spoken to anyone for a while.We might meet friends in a cheap restaurant rather than feed them here. Go to a movie once in two weeks. Keep up the short walks. I shall finish the writing about my grandfather by the end of February, even though we are going away.

What I have now is not good enough. It is a collection of short stories, rather than a single story I can tell all in one go in a flow.Telling that story is what is to be done, by me.

Writing this is a displacement activity. Bah!
Get on with it, girl!

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