Back when I started this blog, I had every intention of writing several more posts about our Harry Potter wedding and all the things I made for it. But then, as is wont to happen, I got distracted. Usually, this isn’t a good thing, but in this case, the thing that distracted me was writing a book.
I have a truly weird relationship with writing. On the one hand, I do it pretty compulsively. Writing is integral to Brittany-ness. But much like my only-child play was centered around what was going on in my own little head, writing isn’t really what I do for anybody else. Yes, I write a blog, and yes, I’m a frequent poster on Facebook, but I write as much or more for myself than anyone else. I certainly don’t do it for attention, or for dreams of worldwide fame. I don’t much enjoy being the center of attention, actually. And while I do like the idea of being published, it’s more in an I-want-my-books-available-if-anyone-is-interested kind of way. This half-assed attitude probably isn’t the way to get a Man Booker prize, but whatever…
The thing is, I realize that it’s a half-assed attitude, and that if I stopped pulling an Emily Dickinson, I might actually reach more people who would get enjoyment out of my writing. The part of me that is a reader says that the more reading options there are in the world, the better. To get over myself, and put myself out there. So I do, or more honestly, have started to. But I grumble the whole time, because it just feels so weird to say “Look at me! Pay attention to me! I’ve got something important to say!” Just writing the words here makes me feel all cringey.
But anyway, I got sidetracked this winter because I wrote a book. A weird book, too, if I do say so myself. Deliciously weird. How often does someone open their diary to you and say “Have at. Go nuts.” It’s pretty no holds barred, and for the voyeurs among us, a really good time. It’s called Courtesan (you can find it here at Amazon ). It’s a diary told through poetry that’s raw and blunt and basically me trying to make sense of my life after my 13 year marriage imploded and I had to start over again. It’s also the story about falling in love again, despite my best efforts not to.
I wrote all about it here at Studio Mothers.
And while that is happening, I’m also still chugging along on the novel I began in 2008 when John was an infant. John just turned 11. And I’m all kinds of annoyed about that. Where has the time gone? How have I gotten so old? Working on a novel for 11 years? Maybe I should just cut my Sisiphusian losses, and taking up knitting? (Oh wait… I did that.)
This is also not the way to get a Booker Man prize… I want to be done before the end of the summer but it’s going to be a challenge. I keep telling myself that I’m closer to being finished right now than I’ve ever been before.
I’ll keep you posted.