A few weeks ago, a doctor friend of mine told me that she has trouble when a kid comes in with a big boil, and so she gets out the syringe, but it hurts to poke it in, and the child starts crying, and the Mum says “Oh no don’t hurt my baby!” because of a Yolngu cultural thing that loosely translates as “soft face”, where a mother isn’t supposed to be tough on her child. That’s other family’s responsibility, like the child’s paternal Aunt.
Anyway, the boil is painful to have, it’s painful to remove, but afterwards there’s no pain.
I have written before about writing, about my inspiration being something there waiting to be drawn on. At the moment my inspiration feels more like a boil.
Last week I had a break from work and I wrote heaps on my novel, which I have also talked about before. I wrote every day, more than a thousand words on most days. I got the book to the stage I wanted to, which is all the “gaps” throughout are filled in, but I haven’t written the ending yet. So what I am up to now is reading through the whole book and then writing the ending. And that starts the next stage of drafting, editing, sharing etc etc blah blah the point is. The point is, I wrote a lot of fiction last week.
I also wrote a little blog post to put up here, but then I couldn’t get around to editing it and posting it.
I don’t know what is going on with me at the moment. I think maybe I needed two weeks’ break rather than one. I am weary. I have all this writing that I want to do but I can’t. I don’t know why.
I wrote about abuse a couple of weeks ago (this post is unintentionally turning into a catalogue of my very young blog). And I have done more writing on that. I have a lot to say. I have been reading a really informative book about abuse.
But it is wearying. It is great to understand things, but it wears on you to start to see the world that way. It is triggering to see abusive behaviours described in perfect detail and have it remind you of people that you know or used to know. And when you think about how prevalent this abuse is, it makes you think more about the men around you.
And yes I am hiding behind the second person pronoun (you) here. Normally I would change it to “I” and “me” — I am tough on myself when editing, asking myself, “what are you really talking about? You don’t mean ‘you’, you mean ‘I’” — but I am not editing this post. I am typing it straight into the wordpress text box, rather than typing it into a word.doc, then leaving it, then editing, blah blah.
Because I have to pierce the boil.
I am frightened of the boil of my inspiration. I don’t want to write about abuse because it is scary and real, and even though I don’t have a deep dark intense history of it, I have still brushed against it. The concept is neither foreign nor detached.
And now, I don’t even want to post this, because by saying that I am going to write about abuse, I am committing myself to it publicly. Not that I haven’t done that before and never followed through. But it puts pressure on for me, even if no-one holds me to it.
The boil is growing. The pond is infected and it is boiling. The situation is extreme, and you (and I) can tell because I am mixing my metaphors.
At some point I have to stop avoiding it. I have to sit with with my laptop and a metaphorical syringe, and I have to pour out the story that is building up inside of me. The story might not be very good. The process will certainly be painful.
But I am hoping that, once it is out, I will be free from the infection, and able to move on with my life.
Comments are most certainly welcome. I am really interested to know if anyone has a clue what I am talking about. If you have never commented before, I encourage you to do so now.