I live with a major fear, that my damaged brain, so far able to eke out a couple of hours on a good day for being creative and writing fiction, will some day become unusable for this purpose.
Add aging decline to the damage sustained from illness or trauma, with the inevitability of death at the far end of the descent, and the conclusion is inescapable: one of these days I will write my last, whether I know it at the time or not, and I won’t be able to cajole the neurons into working for me ever again.
This happens to Alzheimer’s patients, such as novelist Iris Murdoch. One day, after not much work, the pen is put down – and never taken up again.
Or a stressful interlude may divert the writer for a while to other matters, and the synapses break down in the interval – and writing is never resumed.
What will the end be like and when will it come?
I don’t fear it so much if I don’t notice it, though I fear greatly the depredations dementia perpetrates on its victims, including the lucid interludes which come and go, with the old desires undimmed.
What I fear is what happens every time I take an enforced break – taxes used to do it to me, preparing for/going on/recovering from vacation does it now every time – of not having my good time available to write with regularly because said good time is required for more pressing matters which I have decided to allow/have forced on me.
This vacation, which ended last Sunday, Oct. 9, with a long day of travel, has been followed by an extraordinarily non-productive week. Unproductive of fiction, though I’ve written several blog posts.
Because I’ve sat myself down at the computer most of every day to write fiction. And it isn’t coming out because I’m not having my good time. It isn’t happening.
Interruptions are harder for me, and take longer to come back from
What I’m having a lot of is interruptions. Hubby is doing taxes, belatedly, for NJ – and has decided to investigate various long-overdue details from the years when I was doing them because he was working – and ‘needs’ things, and he needs them now so he can move forward with his plans, and he doesn’t know what he will need ahead of time so I can locate them the night before, and he can’t divert his attention to something else because whatever it is is on the critical path. One or two of these diversions, which cost people in general almost a half hour each to recover from, and me much longer, and that day is dead to fiction. Yes, I’m that fragile.
Daughter is moving out, coming and going at random, requiring something very small at times – where are the decongestants? Or rather where is the box where I usually find decongestants? Which requires that I stop what I’m doing, important or not, and find them in the suitcase we took on vacation, which I meant to return to the box on the floor which will then go back to its natural place in the bathroom closet – where she would have found the decongestants without bothering me, had I made it that far on unpacking.
A friend who moved precipitously to Florida, without me having a chance to take her out to lunch and talk with, calls. We spend an hour on the phone, and I will take her out to lunch when she comes back to get the house ready for putting on the market – we’ve been friends thirty years – and I want to talk to her. Up until recently, she was right across the street – and we rarely found time to talk because I can’t easily walk over there, and she has grandchildren, and there was always tomorrow – only now there isn’t.
This Saturday started with the leaf-blowing neighbor and his lawn cutting service making a constant noise I could only partially block with my ear-plug-and-industrial-strength-headgear solution – which isn’t really comfortable enough to write with on the days where I’m so close to the edge of not being able to write – like today. The leaf blower just came back for a second session, forcing me to wear headgear again for my afternoon nap.
Coming back from a sea-side vacation with wet bathing suits and T-shirts requires laundry. It has taken chunks out of four days, and will take more: gather and wash, put in the dryer before it gets moldy, get daughter to bring up because heavy loads are getting too much to me, and folding – but it’s sitting on top of my still full suitcase, instead of being stored where it belongs, closets and drawers in several rooms, because it is ‘vacation stuff.’
Healthy people don’t have these fears, even when they get sick
Daughter pushed through, loaded the car on Thursday, drove four hours, unloaded in NY state. Today she drove back with the feeling of being sick, and went out for the evening and possibly overnight – as soon as she had some lunch. I used to be able to do that, LONG ago.
I wrote the above a while ago, before a nap and dinner, and then the hubby came in and complained about being under the weather (he napped all afternoon) since we got back, and the fear died down a bit. Maybe we’re still fighting off that small vague illness we all brought back – and the aftereffects will go away.
I hope so. Even at my pace, I want to use what’s there to write.
But that fear won’t ever go away.
Do you experience this kind of writer’s block? For the same – or a different reason?
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