January Blues

Those of you who live close enough to meet up with me for a beer may have noticed my recent absence - something especially unusual given that Beck’s away in foreign (cold) climes. Normally, during her travels isolation forces me out into the pub and because, you know, I always drink too much whilst she’s away, I might as well do it people’s company rather than alone.

But no. I’ve been missing.

I’ve been shackled to my desk working, fourteen, sixteen hours a day, surging towards my deadline of last Friday.

But now I’m free.

Dealing with assignment deadlines feels a little odd. In my working life I had monthly revenue targets to achieve. I could cold call, make appointments, chase people for decisions, but ultimately there was only so much I could do. There came a point where I had to pass it into the hands of others, it’s not as though everyone has a magic combination of words that flicks a switch in their head and makes them say “yes”. I had to move onto the next person giving space for them to reach a decision in their own time. If I forced it too much the answer would invariably be “no”.

When I did my undergraduate degree I never stayed up all night desperately writing an essay to be in the next day. I was a plodder, working consistently Monday to Friday from ten till one and then two till six, never stretching myself, taking regular breaks, all very slow and calm. Very occasionally I might have worked a bit in the evening or the odd weekend - although the latter is pretty unlikely as I remember once, when the clocks changed, being aghast to accidentally wake up on a Sunday morning . I had an eight-day technique for a five-thousand word essay. Four days reading books and articles, two days writing by hand, one day down the computer suite typing up, half a day at home editing and the last half day making corrections back down the computers, probably handing it in a day early on the way home. I got a 2.1 for virtually every piece of work I did, the occasional 2.2, but never a first. Perhaps if I’d broken my strict regime, put a little extra work in I’d have raised the bar, but I could never be bothered. There were others things to life.

All of which made me more than a little surprised at my attitude to the course-work I’ve just submitted. Obsession, constant tampering, re-reading, re-working, time and time again. Doubt. All of this sounds much more like the way Beck works than my more methodical system.

There were two pieces of work to do. The first was an academic essay. The course includes a series of seminars given by established writers on their practice. We were expected to take a point from one of these and apply it to a wider contemporary literary context that also makes reference to our own work. It took me a couple of months to actually understand what the hell that meant and then it slowly dawned on me that a) I should have been making notes and b) no-one was going to be distributing a reading list or even suggesting texts of interest. It was all going to have to come out of my own head. As one of the few on the course to not have at least a BA in English Literature I already felt a bit disadvantaged, but when my attempts to teach myself literary theory resulted in cries of “what a load of cock” rather than enlighted insight I began to worry.

In the end I decided to do the essay on physical experience leading to an authorative voice which I think worked rather well. (Bugger, I’ve just exposed that my recent Poland blog was, essentially, me thinking out loud. Oh, well.) It also allowed me to focus on biographies, autobiographies and fiction rather than theory books. But the initial drafts were nearly twice as long as required. Continual rewriting was required, my brain wasn’t playing by it’s own rules. I went through about nine drafts rather than my standard three.

I also had to submit some fiction which proved even more problematic. Two pieces, both equally liked by me. Two tutors, each very enthusiastic that I should submit one piece and a little disparaging about the other. Of course, it wasn’t the same piece that they liked.

The final choice came down to me. Damn subjective mickey-mouse arts courses. There is no right and wrong, stuff just exists in its own space. So again continual rewriting of both, moving semi-colans around, changing line breaks, switching adjectives about, walking around the house reading both aloud, checking for how they flow. Trying to clamber in-between the words, to see which one’s heart beats stronger.

I hadn’t been quite ready for a such a level of intimacy with my own work. With Beck away that was literally it. Just me and the stories. All other relationships temporarily redundant.

And now it’s gone.

I spent Friday night in the pub with Ben and Stu and Saturday with my folks in Richmond Park, distracting me from the reality of work. It was only half way through cleaning the bathroom on Saturday night (rock and roll!) with a live Clash album blaring out from downstairs that I realised I had nothing in particular to do. Faced with such an opportunity I failed to utilize it and managed to do, well, nothing really. My brain was clouded in a confused fuzz, unable to see anything of interest in life. There’s almost a sense of loss. I read the paper, had a couple of beers, couldn’t even build the enthusiasm to watch Shaun Of The Dead and instead resorted to Match Of The Day, followed by a hundred pages or so of Ali Smith’s rather wonderful Like and then went to bed.

Inactivity pisses me off. I have things to do. There’s reading to do for Wednesday and I’ve got ten days to write some brand new fiction for a tutorial and all I currently have is three titles, or perhaps they’re simply lines from a story, I don’t know yet. Seven Phone Conversations Before Midnight. You Are Not Joe Strummer. The End Of History. I really should start trying to come up with some more details for at least one of these, but that almost seems a betrayal to The Definition Of A Second and Into Paddington, which, having not been submitted, now needs a home of its own. Instead I’ve procrastinated. Written this. Watched Friends (Friends? I don’t even like Friends!) and The Simpsons. Read a little. Lain down on the bed.

I’m not even sure if I can muster a decent ending for this.