Sense-less

Lately, I’ve been wondering if I’ll ever write again. I’ve taken a break from feeling that I ‘should’ do this and I ‘should’ do that, in the hope that the muse will just return, take over and restore order to my messy mind.

Having ‘failed’ in my attempts to be published in the traditional route, okay, ‘failed’ is tough on myself, when I’ve very nearly made the cut a few times, I’m still now faced with a few options

1. Drown myself in an abyss of tears and become a pain in the ass to live with.
2. Self publish. (I have tried to embrace this route but started and never finished. I just keep coming back to ‘Is this what I really want?’)
3. Try again. Begin another novel. The problem is, even if I could face what has to happen when its written, edited, polished and honed -  I’m not sure I have a ‘killer idea’, one that just has to be written.

See why a break is a good idea?

In taking a break from writing every day, or feeling that I ‘have to’ do/finish a certain thing, I’m slowly finding the joy in the little things again. The things that perhaps inspire people who want to write, to do just that. I’ve only just begun to feel this and I don’t know if it’s a mere tremor of hope, or if it’s the beginning of the crawl from the abyss, but I can feel it...

I’ve started to notice the beautiful shades of the rhododendrons in the garden. I lay in bed yesterday morning, listening to the rhythmic sound of the rain dancing on the roof. When I spoke with the postman this morning, I noticed he wears very thick glasses and I wondered if he’d been on the end of nasty name calling in school. Placing my mug of tea on the dining table, I put it on a coaster, not wanting to water mark the table and found myself wondering why trees never get water marked from the rain.

In short, I think my senses are waking up.

I had gotten to the point where everything I did, writing wise, seemed senseless. By that, I mean pointless, unfulfilling, crap whatever, but I also mean sense-less.

I’m not there yet. Not by a long shot – the writing break still applies. But in beginning to hear and see things differently, in wanting to savour touch and taste, ideas are starting to form and I feel hopeful.

If I take it slowly, bite sized paragraphs on nothing in particular, just because I feel like it. Maybe, just maybe...

"I'll Have What She's Having?"

Remember that line? Penned by the wonderful Nora Ephron for the screenplay of ‘When Harry Met Sally’ and spoken just after Meg Ryan (Sally) assures Billy Crystal (Harry) that women can indeed ‘fake it’. It was a fabulous scene and worthy of an Oscar for Meg Ryan. Or perhaps not? If she’s to be believed, we women are all capable of turning on such rapture on demand. Anyway, a funny scene I wish I’d written and one which I remembered, when a friend recently suggested I read some Nora Ephron. I’d wanted to read about the real, untouched by tourists New York , as I was about to take a trip there. Having managed to get a copy of her book of essays titled ‘I feel Bad About My Neck’ just before I left, I settled happily to the read at thirty thousand feet.

Suffice to say the poor man sat beside me was straining to see what title made me chuckle for most of the long journey. I LOVED it. Really, anyone who has ever struggled to think of a present for a girlfriend, buy her a copy of this book . It reminded me that when I started to write I really wanted to write a funny novel. Somehow, somewhere along the line, I seem to have lost sight of this? Possibly because since I started to write I’ve submerged myself in several ‘how to’ books and read more of everything from literary to vampirical sagas.

Nora has made me yearn for a return to humour. Nora is my new imaginary best friend. She and I regularly hoot with laughter over cocktails at the Manhattan Carlyle...

But this post is not only an homage to Nora. It’s also about said trip to New York that I’ve just taken and the effect it had on me. It was genuinely orgasmic. Seriously. No faking involved. Every moment was tasted, savoured and enjoyed. I saw the Dakota building, the Guggenheim; took a walk through central park in the snow, ate in diners; wrote a chapter of my WIP at a table in the main hall of the New York Public Library on fifth avenue and sat at the famous table in Katz’s deli where Sally did ‘her thing’ in the movie. Frankly, I was so turned on by the whole experience that I had to hold back from trying to mimic Meg Ryan. (I resisted - thought it best not to end up on uTube)

Because the NY experience was exceptional and rare, I tried to make sure to feel every nuance with every sense in my body and to take notes along the way. Right now, if I close my eyes, I’m back there... I can smell the salami on rye in Katz’s deli; I can hear the fire engine sirens outside; I can see the nut and bolt detail in the rusting structure of the Brooklyn bridge; I can feel the hairy, slightly scratchy but warm warm touch of the woollen scarf, wrapped tight against the cold and I can taste the steaming starbucks on every corner.

And I’m determined to keep it up - to ‘write with my senses’ in my head even while I’m walking or doing mundane chores. And to re-capture the humour... Because someday I’d love to sit beside a stranger laughing as she reads on the plane to New York (I'm on my way to close the deal on my new Tribeca condo...) I’d think, ‘I’ll have what she’s having’, just before I notice my name on the spine. Ah yes, the stuff dreams are made of. Speaking of which, my eyes are closed again and I’m back in the Carlyle with Nora. It’s Cosmo time and there’s laughter in the air.