Dear readers, such determined faithful as there are of you left, as I’m quite sure watching this blog fail to update is no way to pass a jolly evening, hello.
I have spent quite a few days in (somewhat apathetic) debate with the Editor about writing this post. I feel self-conscious and foolish about it. I ought to be writing all sorts of far more interesting things – I have quite a list of them. And I ought to be thanking Solnushka for nominating this as one of the blogs that make her think, which was so flattering that I actually had a little weep, and as both Aphra and Charlotte think I am worth a special mention for being funny and clever, then I ought to be funny and clever, damn it.
But what I shall actually do is whine. Because I am Sorely Afflicted, and it is creating a whole new Writer’s Block out of dust and ashes, or, this being 2007 and dust and ashes being in short supply in the well-regulated home of today, kleenex and hot-water-bottles.
The thing is, I’ve not been entirely well for quite a few months now. I thought I was managing to be merely slightly unwell, the sort of thing that can be sorted out by vitamins, fresh air, and a positive attitude, but recently I went to a specialist and had all sorts of diagnostic (and amazingly invasive) tests done, and lo and behold, I have a Big Complicated Thing wrong with me, and the doctors want to go in there after it and remove it forcibly with tongs and a laser.
The Big Complicated Thing has reacted extremely badly to being discovered, rather like a Bond Villain pressing the Red Button just as the army break into his secret head-quarters to drag him, still laughing demoniacally, to Justice. The boring symptoms have suddenly ramped up until they are horribly interesting symptoms that frighten the bejaysus out of my husband. James Bond however is doing his usual thing of waiting until the timer says 0:07 seconds, so we are on our own for the moment, and it is rotten.
The Editor did point out, in an unusual flight of almost flattering grandiosity, that there are many important writers and artists who did there best work while Sorely Afflicted, and I really need to get over myself. Keats wrote while coughing his lungs up, Marcel Proust spent years scribbling away in bed because he couldn’t go out without abruptly ceasing to breathe, Katherine Mansfield was disgustingly ill from her early twenties onwards, hell, Frida Kahlo went even further and turned her dreadful injuries into Art with a Very Capital A.
To which I responded, no one wants to know what’s wrong with my innards.
The Editor made me google for Frida Kahlo’s pictures after that, but no, really, you don’t want to know what’s wrong with my innards and anyway, I’d really rather not have the self-same Editor accusing me of being derivative [As if I... oh, yes. Good point - Ed].
So, I am letting the side down. The Novel is sitting about in an abandoned pile, the blog is getting dusty and tedious with neglect, even good old poetry, which I can normally scribble away at in a haze of adolescent anxst, is Not Helping. I mean, yes, it doesn’t help that I’m so tired and frazzled I can’t think straight for ten minutes together, but cogent reasoning was never the point of anything I did in the first place. I should be able to Sublimate, if not into Art, then at least into comment and vitriol. But I can’t. Everything I try to write ends up a great snivelling snot-trail of self-pity and far, far too much information. And I feel betrayed, because I had always held fast to the belief that yes, you could write yourself out of bad patches, that you could create at least a little scrap of something along as you had control of at least one eyelid, that writing was balm to the aching soul.
Instead, I find my ability to write depends very much on how well I feel, and that physical suffering is indeed the very arse of Beelzebub. I suck at this. Those brave Sorely Afflicted who Could are, frankly, better than I am.
So let’s pray for effective medication and a short waiting-list, shall we? Or it’s going to be an unbearably tedious year chez Out of Ideas.
Reed, I am so very sorry to hear you are not well. I think given the circumstances, you are allowed not to have to be funny or clever or write or do anything you don’t want or can’t do. Be kind and gentle with yourself. I hope the symptoms become less rotten and more bearable, that the medication helps and the waiting-list is very short. And in the meanwhile, it’s your blog, so you can use it – or ignore it – any way you want to. I, for one, won’t be going away. I’ll be here to cheer you on when you do feel well or inspired enough to post.
But, Reed – even when you’re busy being direly afflicted by ominous goings-on in your innards, you write brilliantly.
I’m sorry we’re putting pressure on you with our thirst for the output from your pen/keyboard. We don’t mean to make you feel worse.
We all wish you speedy laser and tongs action and a return to astonishing good health.
This is where I curse the fact that I’m not sufficiently wealthy to have you whipped into the nearest clinic and dealt with pdq.
One of the best things about being seriously rich would be the good stuff you could get up to with sufficient piles of the filthy lucre.
Courage, ma cherie – and lots of cyberhugs.
Although my posts never seem to make it through your spam filter: I hope the villain gets caught and destroyed – and quickly! And any eventual associated evil doers as well!
Very best wishes
sunny
Ha – it got through! And immediately!
What they said. Sorry, I know that’s cheating!
I’m so sorry to hear you’re not well, and I hope that you are able to be made better soon. Write what you like, when you like. I know you might not like to hear this, but, compared to your health the blog, the Novel and the poetry really don’t matter.
May the medication be effective and the waiting list short.
Get well soon
Dearest Reed – (I know, a trifle intimate for a newbie, but it’s amazing what affection can accrete while one lurks, chortling quietly so as not to disturb the regulars with the rustling of one’s cyber-mackintosh…) please stop punishing yourself. Effectively you’ve been sat on by a large and indifferent elephant, so smacking yourself on the forehead with your one free arm is unlikely to help.
Look. The afflicted artists Arted because there was no point waiting for their situation to ease; it just wasn’t going to. And having read several of their diaries/letters, I can attest to the fact that most whinged bitterly and often, so you can give up on the futile stoicism too. I’m a Chronicker myself, and the healing power of whining and drumming your heels should not be understated. By and large, insight comes later.
The tongs’n'laser combo will hopefully effect the grumbly shifting of your elephant, and you’ll get a “hallo birds, hallo trees!” moment before mordant humour and savage self-deprecation reassert themselves. Then you’ll go back to writing with a freshly minted respect for your health, and some sombre insight into the crushing effects of Big Complicated Things on your sense of self-ownership. Please, please stop compounding said crushing effects with sackcloth and ashes. That sort of stain requires replacing of carpet, and you have enough to deal with.
I don’t see anything odd at all in the fact you can’t write under these circs. You have a very craftsmanlike approach, it seems to me, and that must take all your concentration.
I’m happy you were happy about the blogging award thing, but I’m with the others – you need your space to get well and it’s not meant as pressure for you to write right now, as much as you can.
*hug* Get well soon. That’s a lovely card.
We love you, writing or not, whining or not, healthy or not.
*gentle non-invasive hugs*
Aphra.
I shall miss your writing a lot, but the others are right about you doing what you need to do to get better. Besides, I’ll only really enjoy reading it if I think that you’ve enjoyed writing it, so concentrate on getting better (cos I’d like a signed copy of the novel when it’s finished too!). So look after yourself and I’ll be thinking of you.
Hang in there!
I too am very sorry to hear you are not well. I hope the waiting list is VERY short and the tongs and laser will do the trick. Meanwhile, write what and when you can and don’t worry about us. We’ll be here when you are ready.
Reed, if you ever feel in need of cheering up, how about checking the Atelier Quote File?
Oh no, you know, I had a feeling – I thought to myself: “Reed often has colds and headaches, I hope she is OK.” How awful that it has turned out to be something Big and Complicated – but I am glad they have diagnosed it and are taking action. Having very busy Innards and Waterworks myself, I can well understand why you don’t want to go into the specifics. I do hope you’re going to feel lots better, very, very soon. I’m off to read your latest post and I hope it has better news. (I haven’t checked in for a few days due to a week of Police, Fire and Rescue in my charming neighbourhood, which has somehow totally invaded my time). Please take care!!
Oh Reed, I’m sorry to hear this. And it’s awful waiting around for the medical establishment to get going on your problem. While you wait, I hope there’s lots of sustaining tea, books, trashy magazines and soothing bath products (not to mention nice food products) coming your way. I’m sending you a virtual basket of all those things and good wishes! xo, BL
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