'Very busy and stressed and depressed at the moment.' That's sad. Maybe it would have helped to continue writing.
On Saturday 14th July 2007, I started to write a book about an island man, by writing ten pages a day. I did it for about a year and a half, more or less. This year, 2012, starting on Saturday July 14th, I'm going to scan all these pages in day by day and post them on this blog, for what it's worth.
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
Thursday 4th - Friday 5th December 2008 (no pages written)
For a few years I didn't have internet, then around this time I got it again. Can you imagine not having internet? What a smaller world it would be.
Tuesday, 10 December 2013
Wednesday 3rd December 2008 (pp4373-4)
By now certainly I didn't mind that I was slipping further and further behind. And it was such a relief. After a year and a half of forcing myself to write, of feeling guilty when I didn't write enough, it was a divine gift to have that burden lifted. I thought that maybe having the pressure lifted like that would inspire a time of great productivity.
Tuesday 2nd December 2008 (pp4368-72)
I don't know whether I was aware that the story was drawing to an end. The narrative certainly seems to have an air of conclusion about it.
Monday 1st December 2008 (pp4364-7)
Did we have advent calendars? My mum usually brought me one. I don't remember seeing her very often around this time. We didn't have a Christmas tree.
Monday, 2 December 2013
Sunday 30th November 2008 (pp4360-3)
There was the feeling that the task had run its course, that I couldn't do it anymore. For her sake? Because I wasn't able to spend enough time with her? Perhaps. But also for the sake of the book; it wasn't productive anymore; I wanted to actually put together a good final book and I couldn't do that when I was forcing myself to write something, anything every day, when I couldn't ever go back over what I had written.
Thursday 27th - Saturday 29th November 2008 (no pages written)
I think it was on this Saturday that I expressed excitement at the coming of Christmas. I had been into town and there were decorations in the shops, etc. and I got home and had all these childlike feelings bubbling over and she just scorned it all, just poured wilful scorn over it all and we spent the day in argument. Couldn't bring myself to write anything evidently. Three days of no writing was probably the longest stretch of no writing at that point. Can't remember how I felt about it. Resigned, content or self-hating?
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