It’s been a while. I have missed the last couple of weeks not because I was too busy to write, but almost the opposite: I have felt like nothing much has happened.
Of course, that isn’t true. It’s never really true that nothing is happening in your life, but when you’re not working, what tends to happen is that the days elide into each other. The rhythm of most people’s life is work, or child-rearing, or the climbing frame of domesticity which they have erected around their time.
I haven’t really yet cultivated that. I have had no work to do other than to make myself get up and write something every day. We have no children to depend on our timekeeping. And keeping house has never been a routine for either of us.
The commemoration this weekend has been that of three months since I last had to get up in the morning, do eight hours of work, and sign off from Teams. I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed it. Having nothing to do, no one relying on your input to get on with their lives, is something I can recommend to anyone who wants to avoid waking up one day and asking “what the hell happened to me?” It provides that thing we most lack as we dance busily through life: perspective.
So, what new perspective on my life have I found? First, that I have a kind of pastoral radicalism, a communism-not-Marxism which believes in the collective good. That sounds abstract, but I think it’s important. It’s a deep and abiding value, and we live in an age when values are used as a debased common currency, but in actuality are as ephemeral and short-lived as muons, decaying quickly into more stable and entrenched positions.
The second thing I have come to understand is how deeply rooted impostor syndrome is in my life. I have always spent time denying my role in what I have achieved (at one point, one of my managers made “blowing my trumpet” a goal for the year because of my habit of deflecting praise). Because of this, I am not kind to myself in any meaningful way. Being forced to just stop has allowed me to start the process of letting some of this go.
The act of writing can be both an antidote to and a trigger for impostor syndrome. Writers crave the validation of an audience because it’s the one moment when the feelings of fraudulence are pushed into the shadows. But the fear of not living up to expectations, of having no originality, of creating nothing of value, is also right there, all the time.
I have thought a lot about this over the past couple of days. We were away, first in Hastings (Kim was teaching a life drawing class there) and then Eastbourne, seeing the Turner Prize show. If you get, go: Rory Pilgrim’s Rafts made me cry, as did Barbara Walker’s work. It reminded me that art is emotion, and it means that I really do have to tap into my emotions to make mine work. More of that, I suspect, over the coming months.
Meanwhile, at some point I will have to actually get some kind of income or other. I have a few more months when I don’t need to work, but at some point money will once again become a thing of concern, rather than an abstraction which I can deal with later. One learning about money: I need much less of it than I would have thought a few months ago. Debt, it turns out, robs you of your freedom quite effectively because you have to earn more than you need to pay back someone for the time when you couldn’t earn all that you required. I’m free of debt now, and that feels like an unshackling.
Things I have been reading this week
I finished Gary Gibson’s Europa Deep in two gluttonous sittings. It’s a neat, tidy and highly enjoyable hard SF story, and it reminded me how much of the SF genre is currently playing with the tropes of thrillers and crime drama. I need to think a bit more about this because somewhere in the race to make SF adhere to the structures, tropes and pacing of the thriller, something – quite a lot – is lost.
Reading Hilary Mantel’s A memoir of my former self feels like a delightful indulgence. It’s a collection of Mantel’s extensive back-catalogue of non-fiction, created because she developed the habit early in her career of writing for newspapers, periodicals, and magazines as well as books. It wasn’t really for fun: it was a survival mechanism because writing fiction (then as now) was not really enough to live on, at least until you become the kind of celebrated and storied writer Mantel grew to be.
I’m glad she had to do it because she applied her mind to it and the results are spectacular. In the first piece, “On the one hand”, she writes about the difference between fiction and journalism:
Fiction isn't made by scraping the bones of topicality for the last shreds and sinews, to be processed into mechanically recovered prose. Like journalism, it deals in ideas as well as facts, but also in metaphors, symbols and myths. It multiplies ambiguity. It's about the particular, which suggests the general: about inner meaning, seen with the inner eye, always glimpsed, always vanishing, always more or less baffling, and scuffled on to the page hesitantly, furtively, transgressively, by night and with the wrong hand.
It’s great. You should read it.
