Time's up

Yep. I’m out of time. (Or I have three hours left to write and tomorrow to hang out with my bestest friend and then Last Supper with other people I love.) 

Leaving, as always, breaks my little black heart. And my diseased liver. I love this city more than I love gin. More than I love captain and diet. On par with how much I love cocktails. And some of my friends here are the very best I have.

I hate going back to my mediocre (at best) life.

But anyway, never mind I will now be depressed, drunk and get really fat all through winter. Having been a bit ambivalent about spending this month in NY for a large part of this year, I am very happy that I did. It’s been very productive. The intention was to have between three and five chapters after this time, which logically would lead to four. And that I do. Well, 3 1/2. Still, not bad for someone who’s repeatedly stayed out drinking till 2-3am!

I had a meeting with my mentor this morning. (My mentor is in NYC to do some research for a couple of weeks so it worked out pretty well.) We talked about one of the chapters 10 (now chapter 11) and about what my plan is for going forward. All in all a productive meeting.

I have decided to take two weeks off from writing when I get back. Two weeks to reflect on what I need to think about in terms of making the psychological aspects of the characters more apparent. (I will need to add case notes from psychologists and columns/articles from magazines so a lot of fun to be had writing those.) This is not a banal little love story. And when the two weeks are up I’m getting back in there and I’m finishing the not banal little love story. That is the plan.

What I will not do is not finish this.

Anyway, I didn’t finish the novel by today, which was my intention a few months ago. So I didn’t get to write the last sentence. And yes, I know exactly what the last sentence is. But it's hust a matter of not too much time before I get to type it.  

Making stuff up

Being a fulltime writer (yes, it is what I am at the moment) is bloody hard work. I'm totally exhausted at the end of the day. Yes, I am also not getting in bed by 11 every night and yes, I do have a cocktail (or even two) sometimes so I guess my current lifestyle isn't helping with the exhaustion. But late nights and booze produces a different type of tired than the draining after writing an entire day. 

Who knew making stuff up could be such hard work?

This is not a complaint though. I love being able to write all day and the tired feeling at the end of it has a sense of accomplishment in it, and pride too. Nothing like the brain meltdown from boredom after spending the day responding to emails from needy, annoying academics and writing policy - quite different indeed. 

On Monday I'm seeing my mentor who happens to be in NY too right now. I thought it would be a good opportunity to take stock and evaluate how my retreat went and maybe talk about next steps. And talk about how I can stay motivated and not get all my energy sucked up by that pesky "real" fulltime job. 

Because despite having said that I would put writing on ice until December, I have realized I will just have to just push on. I need to finish this. This is more important than anything else. 

One week to go with Tuesday being my last day (NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!). I reckon I have maybe 4 1/2 more writing days left (I might actually allow myself to take the weekend off - I'm getting inked, drunk and who knows what else) so I should be able to write at least one more chapter. A new chapter 10 it turns out as the current chapter 10 is now going to be chapter 11... Don't get me started.

And on that note, I am going to get back to completing today's minimum word count and make stuff up.

Half time

So, I've reached the half way mark (STOP TIME GODDAMN IT!) of my writing retreat and so far pretty good. Two seriously bad days - one because something happened that knocked my equilibrium out of phase and the other one because someone stayed out drinking till 4am in the morning and then felt like shit the following day - it's difficult to be witty when you just want to sleep. Still, it ended up not being a bad thing as meant I had some thinking time and I needed that.

For instance, it made me realize the (now infamous) chapter 10 isn't chapter 10 at all, but more like chapter 14 or 15. And chapter 11 (half written) is chapter 15 or 16. Which means I am now writing chapter 10 again. However, this time it's so easy. Everything just flows and I've written over 2500 words today. I could quite easily finish the entire chapter today, but surprisingly enough I have to leave the library in an hour to buy shoes and then I have to drink cocktails. Priorities you know.

I've also had some days of wondering why I am writing this crap, days when I think the story is banal because on the surface it looks like some little love story. But it's not. And I just have to keep reminding myself that it's really got nothing to do with love as such. A lot of people have recently asked me what the novel is about and the reaction when I tell them is interest. Or maybe they're just being nice... Anyway, talking about it and telling people is making me more focused on the key aspects and the psychological issues the novel is exploring and the sense that what I'm writing is trite dissipates. At least temporarily. 

So all in all I think at the half way mark we can give the retreat a tick. I'm focused and showing up almost every day. And I accept I'm bound to have days when I'm less productive because I need to think. (Or because I've been out drinking till 4am...)

Just one more thing before I dive back down into my chapter for another hour, I would like to thank Max for providing me with the opportunity to using the word "cockpossum" in my novel. FINALLY! That has made me very happy and even if that had been the only section I'd written during my retreat I'd still think it a success.

Unwanted

The cab door closes the night

Leaving footsteps of broken glass

And paper napkins

Soaked in tears from a bottle.

She is unwanted.

(Just found this little piece written last summer - I quite like the first four lines.)

Inamorato

It’s always like the first time. The way your touch me intoxicates me. Every strand, the myriad of molecules, every neuron in me is tingling in anticipation as I look up at you, explore your skin, your hardness, your softness, with my body. I taste you. I fill my lungs with you. I can never get enough of feeling you inside me, under me, on top of me, moving slow, moving fast. And when I’m exhausted, you lull me to sleep. Our moments together are so tender, yet so rough.

You never cease to surprise me. There is always a bit of you that’s unknown to me. As you lead me to new streets, new bars, new adventures, and tell me tales of times past, of ghosts, of greatness, I forever fall more in love with you. Time stops; it doesn’t exist. But somehow, it always ends.

Thinking about you, even when I’m with you, makes me breathless, my chest tightens and it hurts. Because, I know, you will never truly be mine. To you this means nothing. As soon as I leave, you will forget about me. You will tell other women your stories, show them your heart, take them to your bed and make love to them. And then watch over them as they sleep.

But I can’t stay away from you. I have tried. You’re in my blood; you pulsate through me. I hear you as I put my head on my pillow to rest. I feel you as I'm running along the Thames in the rain. Do you ever think about me when I’m not with you? Do you ever miss me, miss having me next to you? I sometimes fool myself into thinking that if you knew how I feel you’d confess your true heart. And then we could be together.

Our relationship is breaking me. But I am forever yours, New York. And as we kiss goodbye, for this time? forever? I close my eyes. I don’t want you to see me cry, so I walk away without looking back. I don’t want to know if you are still standing there, watching me walk away, if maybe our parting is upsetting you too. I don’t look back because I don’t want to find out that you’re not standing there watching me walk away.

Still there's a light I hold before me
You're the measure of my dreams

New York New York - worth the price?

When I started planning for my summer in New York back in August of 1820 (or that's perhaps only what it feels like and it was more like August 2008) my greatest worry was that I wouldn't get the time off work. The pound was sky high, I was rocketing around the Universe (not because of mediation! or substance abuse!), my creativity was painting rainbows and life couldn't have been more overflowing with possibilities of greatness and adventure and... erm... love.

In October I secured the time off, in January I booked my ticket, and the Universe seemed set on me going there to finally do whatever it is I want to do there. But things that from the beginning are simple and without obstacles can of course change in a New York minute. The pound is worth nothing so no matter how much I manage to save I'll still have less than I though, and there are also other matters that are just not wanting to work out.

I have by no means given up on the idea. I'm being mature and am acknowledging that it might not happen in the end, and have come down from my rocket trip, but I'm still saving money like a capitalist swine and am investing in products (like the Bat Netbook) that are really for my time there. I'm not buying shoes despite having sever withdrawal that makes me spend forever looking at them and even at one point picking them up and petting them in a shop (not sad!), only three books since January (which must be a bloody world record), and generally depriving myself things.

But here comes the question - how healthy is it to deprive myself of life for six months just so that I can live for three? I need a new mascara - can't afford it as budget spent; I need money on my phone - can't afford it as budget spent; I need new jeans (NEED not just want) - can't afford it; I want (yup, surely I must be allowed to want things) Starbucks in the morning - can't afford it as that will make me spend over the allotted £15/wk. In order to stay within the budget, I shouldn't go to lunch with my colleagues, drink coffee bought in a cafe, go to the £5 meditation at Leicester Sq on Saturdays, eat food, have the heating on more than an hour a day or something, go to the cinema, have people over for lunch, visits etc etc. Lucky I'm temporarily not drinking alcohol or that would be another thing gone. Living like that might be great for saving and for me to have a nice time in New York, but I will by no means have a lot of money anyway.

When I return in September, with my massive credit card bill because my savings will only go so far and I want to do things - what's the point otherwise?, I will basically be back in the same position: months of not spending to get rid of debt.

So is it worth it just so that I can live my dream for three months? Is it? I don't know anymore. All I know is that I crave shoes, mascara, face cream, books, shoes, clothes, socks without holes in them, shoes, coffee, days/nights out with friends, shoes - a life!

But since I've started, and have after all booked my ticket, I suppose I'll just trundle on then. I'm not deciding if I'm going until May time. But by then I might be so isolated and anti-social from not seeing anyone because I can't afford to, and gone totally rabid by not talking to anyone (apart from Ivan in work and that's not very helpful!) that I'll be sectioned anyway. Perhaps the better idea is to spend time in the little shed in Somerset and accept that while New York would be cool and so much fun and it would be so fantastic to live a part of my dream, maybe it’s not a necessity. The jury is still out.