Too Much To Declare

Not many only friends left, when I come to look around.  They've all got their own stuff, families, comfort zones, alibis - just as I have had, for far too long. Still, there's no point in banging on their doors all the time if they want to keep them closed.

And new friends?  Provisional to start with (see below).  But to hell with it.  There are lot of people out there (incuding all of you) - and I've got a lot of energy.  I'm a sociable guy.

But at least, this time, I have the rest of the novel to revise while I wait.  Plus as the first section is only about 8,000 words long, I can probably prevail upon one or two ready-to-be critical friends (even Friends) to read it as well.

For example, "Nice weather today,"  "How are you?" (without expecting a reply)  "Great game!" in certain contexts.  Of course the context matters.  Academics could argue for hours whether a given statement is phatic or not.

No need to go into that.  The fact is, most of us use phatic statements all the time.  Sometimes on our blogs.  Or perhaps the word is superphatic. Some linguistic meaning but mostly greeting noises.  A sort of hand shake or cheek kiss wrapped up in an anecdote.

No?

Certainly I myself am aware of blogging stuff from time to time which really means no more or less than hello.

Nothing wrong with that.  We all need to be greeted and recognised. But today, instead of inventing a reason to be here, I would like to greet you with a word I have (I think) invented:

Shut up!  Enough of the ego stuff, and melodrama.  I must find a way of letting go.

We have a special half-holiday for a long forgotten reason.

Some friends and I lie in a circle in a field, touching the willy of the boy to the right.  It's fun and quite exciting.

Optimism in the Land of Drizzle.  The same book, but nuanced, subtle.  A little less Hey, Ho, Silver Lining!  Feel the Buzz!  Discover Your Inner Yummie - and a bit more poetry, and old world realism...

After that, Annabel spent most nights sleepless, planning Richard's demise.  But she knew that the situation was hopeless.  Even if she employed a hitman (and how would she find one?) she was always going to be the chief suspect.

So it came as a shock when her husband was gunned down in Bond Street, outside Louis Vuiton.  Tow bullets in his head, a third in his groin.

The police would be round in a minute, and she hadn't even changed into a dull, sombre dress.  Annabel could help indulge in crazy ideas: maybe she had hired a hitman, and forgotten; maybe she should contact Max Clifford and get him to sell her side of the story to the Daily Mail; maybe she should confess to the crime, and hope for a mistrial...

Then the phone rang.  She let it ring.  It didn't stop.

"Hello?"

"You don't know me."  The voice was seedy, spiteful.

This phone call would change Annabel's life.

The moral of this story is...

Boring for you, no doubt, to hear all about my down times  and never-ending digestive problems, but therapeutic for me.  In fact, letting it all hang out - as it were - is one of the best, only, ways I know to stop feeling so miserable.

So groan, if you must, next time you read a post of mine like the one below.  But remember it's all part of my healing process.

I ate some allegedly gluten-free bread.  Think it must have had some rye in it.

Today's writing session has been a write-off.  And no deep thoughts for here either, right now.

This is because things have on the whole being going better between us.  Perhaps, afer all these years I've become more tolerant of her.  Or it could be a lull between storms.  I think part of the reason is that at last, I can make a distinction between what has happened in the past, and her frail, usually benign state of mind now.

And I can even smile at the irritations.

It is hardly her fault that she has never been able to bare direct sunlight.  Often it sets off a migraine.  But is very depressing to have to sit in the gloom with the blind down every day the sun comes out. Particularly at this time of year, when the sun, if it shines at all is low.

"It was gloomy yesterday, thank goodness," she told me on the phone just now.  This made it easier for her to drive to the hairdressers for her weekly visit. 

I can understand what she means, but it still depresses me.  I don't know if SAD (Sun Deficit Disorder?  What does the A stand for?) is one of these hypocondriac-invented diseases.  But if it isn't, I've got it.  Low cloud, continual rain, gloom - the essense of British weather - really brings me down, sometimes for months at a time.  So far this autumn there has been a lot of sun, at least here in the south.  Alec Weston 2  Mrs Weston 0.

Actually, it was more like a depression-attack.  Everything I thought about had its down side - including long past incidents in my life which had never seemed in any way negative before.  When I did so-and-so in 1986, I'd been an insensitive jerk.  That person who appeared to a friend 12 years ago was secretly back-stabbing me.

It got ridiculous.  By 4 am, all my usual tricks to fall asleep again had failed.  I imagined lying on this beautiful, tropical beach - and thought about the polution, the global warming that was about to destroy it all.

Eventually I feel asleep again at about six, mostly dozing.  I expected today to be a write off.

But, no.  I have felt shattered with tiredness - but emotionally, spiritually, I haven't felt bad at all.  And I completed some writing that I've been blocking about for days.

In the past I have done some editing work for him.  We have developed several projects together, though so far none have materialised.

He is keen to know how my novel-writing is going.  Perhaps, previously I have overstated how near I am to finishing (as perhaps I have here).  But now I've come to the conclusion that my impatience to finish has in fact, been letting me down.  For example, I only took two months (August and September) to change the whole novel in several fundamental ways.  If I'd taken longer... maybe I would not need to be re-writing so much now....  Or maybe not.  Producing a publishable novel, especially for the first time, is a long and complicated process - and involves sending it off and listening to the criticism that comes back.

Anyway, in the past my main failling has been impatience; and now I making a conscious effort to take things, especially creative things, more slowly.  And I think the quality of my writing is improving as a result. (Plus increase in happiness)

My friend doesn't understand.  Aware of how much time the novel has takne me already, he obviously doesn't believe there's any more work that possibly needs doing on it.  He is aware of my financial problems (which on the whole I avoid mentioning here), so some of his incredulity comes about because of his empathy with me.  But his atttitude must also spring from his own work life - long hours, frantic, yet basically unsatisfying.  Like most of us, he projects his feelings on to  friends and family.  He's appalled I am only fitting in one hours writing today because he needs me to finish and live out some of his own dream.

I'm simplifying, of course.  Who knows exactly what is going on in someone else's head?

But my point is this: however much I try not to be, I find I am affected by my friend's attitude.  Not  that I cancel my plans for the rest of the day (including a wonderful cranial-sacral massage from another friend) but some tiny part of me wants to.  A little bit of me thinks my good well meaning friend is right - simply because he is a good friend and well meaning.

There a few other Alec Westons in the world.

Still, I expect there aren't many subvilles, welsh celt girls, time killing kids, safrizes, zenethrus, msphulfats, trollys (well, maybe)... etc... etc either. (excuse omissions)  So any of you, or anyone else - Friends or passersby - checked your Google Score recently?

Please tell me what they are.

And - is it all worth it?