How do you switch off the writing?
You don’t. Can’t. Impossible. Or rather it is possible, but I don’t think one really wants to.
If writing is writing then the non writing part of ones life, the living becomes prep for the writing part. And then of course there’s the mothering.
I listened to a interview once, where a writer spoke of how well you know my children didn’t ask to be born to a writer, so when I’m with them, I’m with them.
I wish I had that grace.
School holidays, after school, sick days and the days when there’s so much crammed into it writing is but a figment of a tired imagination.
But things that’ve been pushed away, they don’t particularly like it. Like when someone shoves past you on the tube, and you turn around to stare at them, so rude, you think, and it makes you almost want a confrontation so you can let them know you didn’t like the pushing, and think them rude for having done it so strongly.
You push away the writing, deny it, say uh uh,but it only wants more and more of your time, like the way children do, and dogs. Or rather, as with children, and dogs, they want time immersed, time when there is nothing else but you and them, and perhaps the woods through which you walk. They want to be the whole experience as the rest of the world falls away, and then only once that has happened are you released. Whether to the kitchen stove to prepare supper, or to wherever you go. Your computer to write, if you’ve just been with your children, or your children if you’ve just been with your computer to write.
Tonight, a bath. The first for a while. A huge dunk of pink Himalayan crystal salts I poured in. A whole load. The water’s crimson hot. I’m in a for a little while, and then I get all stirred up by Nathalie Goldbergs Wild Mindand I’m there in the bath but I don’t want to be, I want to write. But there’s resistance.
Don’t write! Stay in the bath. Don’t go.
I don’t know why. It’s a sort of you’ve begun it so finish it mentality. But the writing urge is there, so after contemplating it, I get out of the bath, wrap a towel around me, but don’t pat myself dry, so that as I sit on my bed, picking up my pink notepad as I do, the sweat from the crimson bath is dribbling down me as I write. But I don’t care, because I’m writing, and the joy of writing is such that everything else slips away. Like it does when you’re with you’re children, just you and them, and the moment shared, or your dog, and the woods. But tonight it’s the writing making time slip away, and this is me giving it a kiss goodnight…
Till tomorrow x