Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Save and Send (getting to draft 1)

This blog has languished somewhat in the last couple of months. Partly because I've been writing. Which is probably a good thing right?

The last 6 weeks or so have been a blur of constant dedicated writing on a play, and when I finished the first draft on Sunday, to send to my collaborator/producer I had planned to write a blog reflecting on that moment, and the achievement of getting that far.

Instead, I was too exhausted, and drank gin and watched TV.

And now, three days later what you get is not a blog of elation and 'look I did it' but one of anxiety and neurosis. Which let's face it is a far more honest writing blog.

To rewind however, the last I'd say 6-8 weeks have been both the most concentrated work I've done on a project in several years, the most all consuming but also incredibly rewarding. This project has plodded along since around last October/November with some batting about of ideas etc and early in the new year I did my first chunk of substantial writing on it.

It was a disaster.

I'm not used to having to share work so early with someone and let's just say the work I did share I'm now so mortified about that I have not actually looked at it since. Lesson learned, don't agree to share until you're ready.

Again skip forward, some more successful sharing/collaboration/ideas and I somewhat foolishly in hindsight agreed I could indeed finish the damn draft by June.

Back to the writing itself in a moment. But this project has been beset by a variety of  'real life' interludes, roadblocks and well call it what it is: an utter shitstorm. I first got approached about it weeks before I was set to lose my job. Maybe it's a sign, it's probably not. But hey I had no job I might as well give writing this a go right? And so when January rolled around and I got kicked out of the admin job that was going to sustain me financially while writing this (Do read more about my adventures in Domestic Homicide investigation here) and my life went into disaster mode.

Some writers do their best work while depressed. After the work I churned out in January I can categorically state that I am no such writer. That may in fact be some of the worst words I ever committed to paper (and I once wrote about a flying Unicorn for an Eisteddfod competition).

What I did do however was make a decision to give this opportunity (and a couple of others that came my way) the best chance I could. So instead of chasing 'proper' jobs I dedicated myself to the writing for the next few months (more on that here) But that in itself is hard. It's hard to shut out the pressure of the rest of the world to get a 'proper' job. It feels selfish to 'hit pause' and do what you think you need to do.

 And it's a scary leap. And I'll be honest, one I feel guilty about often. But I put up with a temp job, poor pay and getting shouted at by the public to try and drag this thing into fruition. And mostly it was a wonderful thing to immerse myself in something I loved again. I found joy in writing again. There's a moment when writing is going well that it feels like music- I'm a piss poor piano player but it's the equivalent of bashing out notes that soar on the keys. It's, as this soprano might say hitting the high note every time and finding the harmonies. Even when it's hard (and is it hard some days) it's that good hard, that ache in your brain from doing something that stretches every part of you. It's engaging everything so it feels like the lights have come back on. And it's that exhausted but satisfied feeling when you stop. Those days, the minimum wage and the shouty Joe public is worth it because you might be onto something.

There was a point, about three weeks before the draft was due, that I felt myself getting really down, irritated and generally out of sorts. I eventually realised that I'd been sucked into the play that much that I was taking it with me everywhere. My characters had at that point fully infiltrated my head and I was taking their thoughts and feelings and everything with me. Actually by that point I really just wanted them to shut the hell up and go away. Then there were the three days when I had three separate incidents (redacted for spoilers obviously) that could have been straight out of what I'd just written that I began to question my sanity. This was also a point I found myself unable to use my brain to concentrate fully on much else- reading complex things, TV or film that required concentration. In fact for a full week all my brain could cope with TV wise was Greys Anatomy and The Inbetweeners. (let's face it not a bad TV week anyway right "friends" you did the voice. You did.)

I'm not sure I recommend working on such a tight timescale- this is the first time I've been writing to anyone's deadlines but my own. On one hand it means it gets written. On the other, even when working part time to accommodate it, it was a struggle. I calculated last night that I'd actually written much of it in 20 days, and I had had one day off in 6 weeks. This is not generally a sustainable model of working.

But I think it is what I needed as a bit of a 'Baptism of fire'. The reason I felt so relieved, and proud of myself when I hit save and send, was that this is the biggest writing project I'd undertaken since my PhD. I'd proven I could still do it. That I could always do it.

While it may well be a pile of utter shite. While nothing may come of it still. I had gotten to the end. I'd written (with discarded bits) probably 300 pages of dialogue. Since the PhD the longest I've managed is a long-form academic article and a handful of short plays.

For people who haven't undertaken it maybe that sounds a bit lazy, a bit like I never really wanted to. And it's hard to explain- having been consumed by something for 4 years. Having written 100, 000 words (well probably twice that in all) on something. Having had that something ripped to shreds and then some, the idea of putting pen to paper at any length was overwhelming. It's not news either to anyone who knows me that the PhD destroyed much of my confidence. Not least when I suggested to my supervisor that I might write my own play about HIV as a creative response to my research. I won't repeat her response here, but let's just say it was less than positive (pardon the pun).

Well, as of Sunday, I did.

I wish I could make this a blog of cheering achievement. Of how satisfying it was to have gotten that far and that it didn't matter now becaue I've proven I can once again churn out the words, carve out something at least sort of creative, and that I am no longer afraid.

Well I'm afraid fuck all that because I'm a writer. I'm an ex academic, I'm a woman and I have raging anxiety problems and insecurity. Did I mention I'm a writer?

No sooner had the elation of hitting send worn off (well ok no sooner had the gin worn off) than I was beset by the fear, and quite frankly the genuine nausea of what would happen next.

It's hard to explain to someone whose brain doesn't work like this, what it does to you. Firstly there's the immediate worst case scenario brain logic. Then there's feeling mortified- not just embarrassed- that you've done something awful. The disappointment in yourself. The panic that you've done something wrong. The trying to decode. The mind racing five steps ahead of where anyone else might be. And it's physically exhausting. The nausea, the tightness in the chest. The mental exhaustion manifested as physical. The trying to breathe properly. And no none of it is logical, that's the point.

Waiting for someone to read your work never stops being terrifying. I found it hard in the PhD but there was at least an academic (pardon the pun again) detachment there. When it's creative work, it's so personal. I once read somewhere (I know where but it's embarrassing) that to make art you have to carve out a piece of your soul and not expect to get it back. I'm not wanky enough, or self important enough to think I'm making "Art" but I do believe to make something, anything good, you have to give a little of yourself away. And in what I've written this time, there's a lot of me.

And so when waiting for someone to read it. In even getting a tiny whiff that they don't like it, that it's wrong, it tears the heart out of you. To someone else it might be 'Not personal it's business' but to quote my favourite film 'It's personal to a lot of people, it's personal to me'.


Yesterday I went down a full on rabbit hole of exhaustion induced anxiety. I did a full day of work. Read an email that destroyed any confidence I had in my work (accidentally) burst into tears and hit a wall of exhaustion. I went to choir and couldn't decide if I was going to fall asleep or burst into tears. The last 6 weeks, hell the last 9 months have taken the life out of me and I currently have nothing left in the tank.

I will pick myself up. And if the criticism on the draft is bad, I'll pick myself back up from that. But right now? right now I climbed a mountain to get it that far. I'm proud I got up there, but I'm going to need a minute before I can climb the next one.

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