“Are you listening to me, sweetheart?” My husband asks, perturbed by my ‘I’m looking right through-you’ glazed expression.
“Hey? Yeah, yeah, course. You were talking about…er….sorry, what did you say?”
These exchanges have become commonplace lately. My husband is talking and I’m not listening. And it’s not just him; I’ve stopped listening to everyone, properly.
Not because I’m no longer interested in the daily chatter, rather, I’m just preoccupied with writing. Maybe preoccupied should read ‘obsessed.’
Being married to a writer sucks. Having a partner who has little interest in anything other than tap, tap, tapping on a keyboard, must be very trying indeed.
I don’t have time to stop and chat. I’ve got a book to write, a play to draft, competitions to enter, radio discussions, and articles to research. Oh, and the blogging of course. That’s a thrice weekly commitment. And, let’s not forget the actual day job of copywriting for websites and helping my husband organise his business. I think I’m developing RSI from all the typing and my back is screwed.
Ironically, I am reading Eckhart Tolle’s ‘The Power of Now’ and even when I’m reading it, I’m not present. Instead, I’m thinking, ‘I shouldn’t be reading this, I should be writing my book/play/blog/obituary!’
When I am not writing, I am thinking about writing; reading about writing or talking about writing. That vacant look on my face is not boredom, I’m working. When I stare out my office (bedroom) window, I’m not looking at the cows, I am developing a new character, scene or plot. Every spare moment is dedicated to WRITING!
I can’t even watch TV or a film for pleasure anymore. Instead, I sit there uncontrollably analysing the script and thinking how I could have written that scene differently.
“I don’t think so-and-so would have said that. The dialogue isn’t right for the scene.” I say. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Teeky. Will you just shut up and enjoy it!” Comes the narky reply.
Of course, I am exaggerating a bit. A tiny bit. But I do believe that if I am to master this writing business, I need to work my nail-bitten fingers to the bone. Surely, I won’t become great if I don’t dedicate my soul completely. And, as long as I am making time for my family, as well as hoovering up occasionally, I can continue pounding away, can’t I?
Actually, I might take a day off today; I quite fancy a trip to Wookey Hole. That might keep my mind still for a few hours. A day of 100% presence. And if I miss a call from The Times, whilst I’m in a reception free cave, so be it.