My priorities have shifted around again and I may be downgrading my blog-writing activities to times when, like now, I am too tired to write anything important (or remotely coherent). This has been brought about by my frustration with not writing, and, possibly, Modafinil, which may have lessened the clutter of impulses, the invitation to struggle of my executive function (only time will tell to what degree this is so, but certainly the timing tallies for now).
The last couple of days I have stuck to coming in from work and settling straight down to reading my one nominated book. I have tried to do this numerous times in the past but found it then impossible to adhere to. That I have adhered to this for three days may seem little enough. (It is little enough, of course.) But that for years, this was not possible.
Similarly, I have been trying to stick to the latest story, and to write it, to finish it so that I can then learn something from the structuring of it - something I obviously cannot do if I never finish a piece.
There is always a lot in my life that I could write about. Events at work over the last few weeks could have led to a whole swathe of essays, stories, even novels. They have passed through my mind. But I was getting so stressed only a few days ago at all these projects mounting up, that I saw something had to be done. These notes would, I said to myself, be consigned to dictations while I was cooking, doing something. Otherwise, they could fall by the wayside if they were not important enough to commit to disk in that time, they were not important. I must be consistent. The current story must be the most important. Novelty must be postponed.
And I have ridded myself of clutter. I have even made some progress, downgrading some particularly time consuming projects - First Circle, for example, remains unwritten - whilst carrying on with others.
This all means that posts in the category of The Unfinished Minutes, and indeed potentially all of Yes We Have No Bananas, must be downgraded too.
Fiction will continue to be posted on Masterkidderminster. Perhaps one day I could move towards podcasts, for those few who would want to subject themselves to my leaden delivery and tendency to trail off and multiply digress.
This decision has been justified by casting an eye over the second web page brought up by a search of Fiction blogs. Here I found an insightful quote by William Gibson, who I regret I still have not read:
I’ve found blogging to be a low-impact activity, mildly narcotic and mostly quite convivial, but the thing I’ve most enjoyed about it is how it never fails to underline the fact that if I’m doing this I’m definitely not writing a novel ? that is, if I’m still blogging, I’m definitely still on vacation. I’ve always known, somehow, that it would get in the way of writing fiction, and that I wouldn’t want to be trying to do both at once. The image that comes most readily to mind is that of a kettle failing to boil because the lid’s been left off.
I’m not certain how convivial my blogging experiment has been for me, but I do know that I do not enjoy being on vacation. I want to get back to work. I still hope to build up some kind of a readership and post some short articles from time to time, trying still to learn the art of brevity, perhaps, but as I have said before and will say again, I still haven’t managed to even get the flavour of my life across on these pages, and while I have been writing what turns out to be such a scanty and misleading glimpse into my life, I have not been writing, and those few relationships I have left have been neglected even more than usual, the little quality time I spend with these people marred by angry frustration.
I want to get from writing more than it takes from me. That’s how it should be. Writing, as I have recently (re) learned is therapy as much as it is anything else. I’d tell you about it, but it’ll have to wait…