Mood:
chillin'I walked down to the post office today and mailed my application for the A Room Of Her Own Foundation Grant. It took about an hour to print out all the pages and finsih filling in the application forms. Sad to say, when I got back from the post office I didn't have anything in me to start writing. I guess I'm exhausted and burnt out.
The writing right now in my book is dangerous stuff to me. I'm writing about my suicide attempt. I find the subject horrifying, hopefully the reader will be horrified as well. The next bit to clearify, where I left off yesterday, is why I hate myself so much for being schizophrenic. It is painful to write and I think I need a day off before I go back in and present the details. Oh, I know exactly what to write and how to write it, sticking to the rule of thumb that things and feelings should be shown rather than told. So the way it goes is I'll show you a despicable person - me. I'll give you a portrait of a nobody. To be more exact, a person who has failed at being a person. That is how I saw myself before my suicide attempt.
I've been reading some powerful short stories by Russian writers. It makes me despair. How can I match their energy and bold inventiveness? As preparation for a writing career I've started reading the classics. The quality I encounter is stunning. I even wonder how it is humanly possible to create the kinds of thoughts that these writers have. I feel so small and insignificant. Actually it is comfortable to be beneith notice. Every day I answer to nobody but myself. Nobody is watching and waiting for me and husband lets me spend my time as I see fit. At the bottom of it, even my husband could care less wether I write a book.
In my essay about writing that was part of the AROHO grant application I stretched the truth. Truth is I don't feel as safe writing at the library as I feel writing in bed. My bedroom is tiny and dark with one window. The walls are painted mint green and they seem to close in on either side of me. It is a cave. It is a place where there is no people or movement or noise. It is a good place to focus one's thought. In my essay on writing I gave the indication that most of my writing takes place in the library. The library is good for me because getting out of the house is good for me but I don't feel the same tight connectedness to my writing in the library as I do at home. The library is lofty and expansive and I seem to have some residual fear about the people there. They are all strangers. Isn't that enough to cause fear? I don't own my spot in the library like I own my spot in my bed. At the library a person says, "It is my right to study here!" and this is true. The library is created and owned by the public, all the luxuries it gives are for the public. So what I need to do is to walk into the library and feel a sense of entitlement. Which as of yet, I do not feel.
Wore my converse high top sneakers to the post office. They are very hard to get in and out of. But they are so comfortable. They have become my footwear of choice. I told my husband that I am going to wear them for the rest of my life. He said, "Don't make promises about forever!" But I then said, "How many pairs of shoes do I have and how many more are in storage in the barn? I have extensive experience with all sorts of shoes. And now I have found the perfect shoe!"
The isolation in Vermont is good for a writer. It is difficult to endure but it gives the best incentive to produce. Does God want me to write this book? Has he brought me to a quiet place, a place where there is no place for me, just so that I will invent my own purpose?
down
a-ok
happy
hug me