Sunday, August 14, 2005
My Battered Muse
I nipped out to get the paper and some other stuff. Normally I buy The Herald and Sunday Herald but in August I buy the Scotsman and Scotland on Sunday (SoS) for all the festival coverage it provides. In today's SoS there was a free book give-away of the Scots Dictionary. It's superb and it gives me ammunition because a lot of the words I use that Gail says are slang, are actually official Scot's Language. Vindication, at last.
It was a slow day, with the weather nice and pleasant. I thought about working on the office but with the electrics still not complete I can't do anything inside the room. The bookshelf and radiator in the garage need painted but Gail was over at her Mum's and brother's houses most of the day so I couldn't get away to buy paint. I wouldn't know what type to buy anyway.
This decision not to do anything in the office is one I shall now regret for a while to come, for it is a fine line the balance between a normal life and that of a writer's.
There seems to be no grey area between, but only defined do's and dont's. I'm told areas of my life are suffering and the guilty party is my writing. It's a dilemma I need to air some carefully worded thoughts on.
I think the time has come that defined blocks of time have got to be set out in my life if all parties are to be kept happy. A compromise has to be reached. It seems I will have to get my finger out of my arse if I am to keep a modicum of peace. So when will I be able to write if I have to devote more time to other areas of my life? Later into the night, early morning, at work and in my sleep seem the most plausible answers.
My Muse is confused, hurt and a little pissed off. The last I saw of her she nipped out back with a cigarette and a cup of coffee to calm down under the amber dusk sky.
I am going to suggest this tomorrow to all interested parties and I will attempt to reach a compromise. But the world must understand that I am not going to stop writing for anyone. It is in my blood and it is what I intend to do until the day the big man with the scythe taps me on the shoulder and says, "time's up, wee man. Yer coming with me."
The more I seem to commit to my writing, the harder it seems to become for other people to take me seriously. I know I'm not alone in this struggle but at the end of the day why should I feel guilty about having a passion and a drive to do something that makes me feel whole. Writing is what and who I am and if I am not writing, a large part of me is missing.
I am serious about my writing, just as serious as I am about my family. I just wish my family could be as serious about my writing as I am about them.