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I'm in limbo. Not a creative limbo mind. I'm zooming along painting and quilting and making a phenology wheel (what? you don't know what that is? Well, I invite you to look it up - especially at Marion's World on YouTube youtube.com/@MarionsGarden
I'm also figuring out the yearly gifts for my coven of women friends - affectionately called The Babes. Every year I make them all something for Children's Day, a Buddhist holiday that usually lands on my December birthday. I think I have this year's figured out but not sure. I did a proto-type and I think with a bit of tweaking it will work out fine. I've never made a prototype before - not for anything - I might watch a million youtubes or read books for hours but usually when I start I just start. I think my DNA is changing. I made a prototype for the phenology wheel too. I will begin in earnest on the first of January but I want to make sure of the size and materials.
Maybe for my next book I'll start with an outline. No I won't. If I do - come and get me, for it means I've been taken over by the BORG.
November 5 question - When you began writing, what did you imagine your life as a writer would be like? Were you right, or has this experience presented you with some surprises along the way?
When I began seriously thinking about being a poet (as I started writing books when I was in grade two) I imagined that I would move to Paris, live in a garret and be surrounded by other writers. We would live off wine, cigarettes and ideas with the odd baguette thrown in. I would be published in small journals perhaps, though that was a bit fuzzy.
When I began writing plays I believed it was only a short matter of time before I lived in NYC or London and lived in a flat with other writers, actors and stage designers. We would live off beer, spliffs, and ideas with the occasional pizza thrown in. I would have a play on off-off-Broadway or far-West-End London perhaps, though that was a bit fuzzy.
When I began writing novels I believed it was only a short matter of time before I lived where I lived (but nicer) and had both an agent (a kind bespectacled female agent who adored me but was somewhat strict) and a publisher. I would meet the latter for long conversations around a table at the Algonquin in NYC. I'd live very well indeed off huge advances and hang around with other writers sipping our Dalwhinnie scotches and eating steak frites.
My writing life, needless to say (and yet I do) is nothing like any of this. I like it fine. Those were all just romantic dreams and like the kind of men I imagined when I was young - the one I've lived with for 23 years is different and much better. The writing has stayed pretty much the same. I try and finish things and then I try and flog those things. Same. My community is quite different - with moments thrown in here and there that remind me of those old dreams - especially being around people who like to talk ideas, but mostly it's me slugging it out by myself and coming up to the surface now and then to get some feedback from the fella or friends who tell the truth.
How about you? Are your dreams packed up with your old manuscripts in a cedar trunk somewhere, or are they refashioned into workable plans?
1 comment:
I love this. It's a reminder that those "enhanced" dreams are just that. When all is said and done, it's what's real that matters. I wouldn't change the life I have now to be rich and famous. I'm not really sure I'd like being rich and famous, actually.
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