You know that you’re dedicated
ready to be committed when you’re writing a book and the following things happen. Things that don’t seem to perturb you, even though they should.
– you conduct all business from bed. Phone calls, emails, conference calls, interviews, reading coroners reports and court transcripts,
skype sex or any sex for that matter.
– you realise that strawberry breaka’s are your poor man’s smack.
– you fly into a panic when there is no caffeine in the house.
– you think to yourself that the tiny spots of mould on those crumpets really aren’t that bad. You will just excise them with a knife, surgical style, as one would a melanoma.
– you don’t know what the weather is doing until you go to the BOM website.
– when midnight is ‘turning in early’.
– you feel guilty for reading fiction.
– you hold off on having a shower. For two days.
– you start writing a short story titled ‘Fuck you, you fucking fuck’, and end it there, because you’re happy you wrote anything at all.
– you write haiku for yourself.
– you begin to believe in astrology a little too much.
– you haven’t eaten vegetables in a week and look like you have scurvy.
– you go to the supermarket in your Ugg boots. While wearing your pyjama pants that you try to pass off as ‘leisure wear’.
I’m happy to say that this behaviour was when I was stuck in the hell that was ‘Jet’s Lore’ and that times have changed (aside from the supermarket in pj’s thing, because really – who gives a fuck in West End, anyway?)
These days I’m more than likely in the kitchen being a Vitaminx and blending all manner of veggies, clay and super greens into smithereens, drinking pots of tea, having early nights and early mornings, not watching t.v, trying my best to not eat wheat (but sometimes baked goods just make their way into my mouth), and though there are some days where I can barely breathe because of what I’m remembering and writing, I get out and about and cry in cafes instead of at my desk.
Apologies to Pear cafe and Blackstar, who had me as their poet in residence for six months; Avid Reader, Specialty Cup and that one place in Toowoomba where I lost my shit over brekkie last July on my solo sojourn to the Garden City. Blessed be that I had the Review section of The Australian to stuff in front of my face which I pretended to read so my fellow diners didn’t have to see my squished up crying and ‘looking-like-a-hog’ face. I’m very selective about where I do my public crying. It doesn’t happen often, and nor does private crying – about sadness, anyway. I cry often about joy and miracles and love and kindness. I weep for the magic that happens every day, because I did too much crying as a kid to lose any more tears over things that are sorrowful. Bring on the magic, I say and as Dallas Green affirms – ‘Bring me your love’ ♥