30 April 2015
0 this is grim
something freaked me out towards the end of my drafting the jackie book. something essential that i've not yet figured out how to express beyond jotting notes in my journal under the heading "the horrible thing."
i've been waiting a month with this rolling around in my head. waiting to get back to london, back to the safety of library days and aloneness, so that i might lean in and figure it out. this horrible thing.
which doesn't sound at all fun but is somehow essential.
it's strange days. one person has read my book. four more are in the process. it's out of my head. a tangible thing now, for other people to have their ways with. and i'm thrown back into dark waters, places i've not yet been to figure out what it all meant so that i can write the other component of this wacky phd.
and for some reason that part seems to want to be about photographs. all i want to read about is photography.
there's this phase of writing that isn't discussed enough, which i'll call "thought soup," where you try to load into your brain the precise ingredients so that you're idling mind can get through all the muck and the nonsense to where it's trying to go.
i worry i'm becoming a devotee of psychoanalysis. after decades of rolling my eyes at psychoanalytic interpretations. but more and more it seems the way to get words on the page is letting go in the absence. waiting. idling.
none of which i'm good at, by the way.
you'd think it'd be easier now the draft is done. i do not know that the terror ever eases. it just takes on other nuances and you lean at a different angle, using a different set of muscles, to bear its force upon you.
i've seven months left, if we're counting. i'm trying not to because tomorrow is confusing enough. seven months is unfathomable.
i'm writing about anxiety. you can imagine how calming that is.
the thing is i'm not sure "the horrible thing" (which is perhaps best provisionally described as a profoundly unsettling experience of the fact that we are all doomed) is so horrible. unsettling, yes. but there's still the hope, the belief, that it can be explicable, that there are words whereby that i can make it ok. which i say though it is, i'm pretty sure, the very same delusion that enables us to go on, which has always let us go on.
filed under: biogrophiled