Neurotic Writers

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY:

It is the greatest of all mistakes to do nothing because you can only do a little. -Sydney Smith, writer and clergyman (1771-1845)

This week hasn’t been one of my best. Not sleeping well and a huge amount of emotional as well as hormonal turmoil.

As most of you other writers know, fiction comes from the subconscious – or at least, when I write it, it does. (Journalism comes from the conscious side of the brain, whichever side that is.)

For those of you that don’t write, I can only describe writing fiction as like meditation. Though meditating is not something I’ve ever been able to do.

When I write fiction, I go into another place. I inhabit another person. I have to be able to breathe, think and feel like that person – or people. I have to BE that person, and live in their house, look out on their view. I have to know their likes and dislikes, understand their insecurities, know what makes them laugh or cry.

When I start a novel, I have an idea of a person who might have come from someone I’ve seen or know. But once I start writing, this person takes on a life of their own. They are in charge. They have their own hangups and talents, headaches and insecurities. They make up their minds what they like and what they don’t.

I can remember going to a talk with Julie Myerson, a fabulous novelist. She was asked why she had written about the death of a two year old – the character’s daughter. She said that one of her deepest fears was that something should happen to one of her children. In order to deal with this fear, and perhaps to prevent it happening, she made herself write about it.

One of my deepest fears is that something should happen to Himself. Which of course it will one day. But this has been bothering me more than somewhat of late. And it struck me the other day, that it’s ironic that I should have written about what I fear most. No wonder I haven’t been able to sleep.

The good thing about fiction is that it’s cathartic. And you can, to a certain extent, dictate what happens. (I say to a certain extent because quite often the characters have other ideas.)

But in the case of Arthur, all is not doom and gloom. He has to understand why things went wrong, and learn to let go. And then he has a second chance of happiness.

So whenever life is bleak, don’t despair. (I have been telling myself.) Weep and wail, grieve and rejoice. Somewhere, round the corner is a letter addressed to you. It could be your chance at happiness – or luck – or love. Or all three.