Sometimes it is easy to forget who we are.
I have just moved house. It’s a stressful experience, but now we’re on the other side of it, it feels good. But the writing has been interrupted, old routines broken and thrown to the wind, as the places that I’d made for the writer in me have been replaced with new places and new routines are going to have to be forged: this is what made me an arsehole.
So the time came in the new house, the time to seek out a corner for myself – somewhere quiet where I could “get in the zone” or “find my muse” or whatever other terminology might be used to try to justify my own selfishness. I seemed to make such a big deal of getting this space right (whereas in the old house I just used to write on the bed, the same one as I would sleep on), and it became all consuming that it was just right. Arsehole!
I think that sometimes it is easy to forget that I am not the most important person in the world, and that probably most people don’t feel like I do about my work, and that maybe all of those hours spent on a piece of writing don’t make it a masterpiece that must take precedence over all other aspects of my life. I mustn’t become the arsehole!
So now that new space is in the spare room, wedged in between some plastic bags, some bunk beds, and a load of junk in cardboard boxes. Who knows, perhaps that is where I belong – with all the junk – but perhaps not. Perhaps writing in all that junk will give me the drive I need to actually get things moving. But being an arsehole isn’t going to help anyone. I must stop being an arsehole.