The last few days, I’ve been feeling a little out of it all. I remember the feeling from before, something I describe at the end of this post: Writing about Reading: Fishing in the Rivers of Light
Only, this time, it is not about reading. I’m still reading, yes, three books at a time, again: Oscar and Lucinda by Peter Carey, The Little Stranger by Sarah Walters, and They Whisper, by Robert Olen Butler.
I’m living more in my head than in my life, and as a result, I’m trying to tread carefully: I double check the lock when leaving home, double check the alarm while baking bread, constantly pat my handbag for my phone, make sure I’ve switched off the treadmill before I jump down, or the gas after I’ve finished with the stove, and so on and so forth, in order to avoid anything from a minor disaster to a major catastrophe. I’m simply not paying my normal attention to life.
One of my characters just drowned, another is failing at suicide, a third is asking a lot of difficult questions for which I have no answer. Yet another has decided to learn the salsa at 81, and broken her hip. Like demanding friends (or enemies, if you prefer) they’re whining away in my head, and I often find myself listening to them rather than the person speaking to my face. Dreaming more than living can’t be good for me. Or anyone.
I have begun the new year going nuts, it seems. Blogging is an attempt at regaining sanity.
The only good news I have to offer is that another of my short stories found a home, and since this is a story based in India, I’m entirely happy it found publication in an Indian literary journal. Last year was not too bad for my publishing credits, but it could have gone a lot better.
My first week into work— I feel a few stories bubbling within me, a river of them, actually, and a long work or two. Some revisions. No, make that a lot of revisions.
Bring it on, 2011!