Doubt.
It's an ugly word. In English as well as in French. Say it out loud. Go ahead. "Doubt." It's a word without any redeeming qualities. It's thick. It falls flat. It doesn't even have a kick to it to make up for the ugliness.
I've been writing for several weeks now, and I haven't even made it to the 5,000 word mark. Worse, the first couple thousand of those sound hollow.
Wentworth says I need to find my "left field". But what if I walk around in circles for months and never find the left field? What if I only have talent enough to write a very-much-middle-of-the-field book? What if I don't even have enough talent to do that? Could this decision that felt like the most liberating, truest decision of my life actually be a colossal mistake? Should I have stuffed my lofty ambitions, stuck to playing around with this blog as a hobby and found myself a nice legal job? "I want to write for a living." What kind of 30-something post-graduate idiot says that? And then follows up with it?
Hopefully this will all feel better again in the morning. Because when it does feel good, it feels amazing. Like being Superman. Only without the unattractive underwear. Maybe all I need is a good night's sleep and I will find my faith (a.k.a. delusion) again. I know I left it around here somewhere.
Nov 6, 2009
To Sleep
I'm drained. Driving across Europe in a Twingo will do that to you. All I want to do is sleep. And yet.
Crisis of confidence, meet Res. You two will be spending quite some time together, as she tosses and turns under the covers.
It turns out that when you finally catch a glimpse of "Everything You Never Knew You Always Wanted", it doesn't look quite as sturdy as you imagined. In fact, on closer inspection you begin to wonder whether the whole thing isn't actually made of out of paper-thin glass. Glass that is very likely to shatter into a million sharp pieces as soon as you get your clutz' hands on it. Especially if you have my hand-eye coordination.
So what do you do? Do you leave it there, eternally just out of reach but at least intact and still beautiful? Do you keep edging forward, very, very carefully, droplets of sweat appearing on your brow and quivering above your upper lip as you hold your breath? Or do you just smash the damn thing on purpose, just to relieve the tension and stop the agony once and for all?
Aye, there's the rub.
Now someone pass me a valium.
Crisis of confidence, meet Res. You two will be spending quite some time together, as she tosses and turns under the covers.
It turns out that when you finally catch a glimpse of "Everything You Never Knew You Always Wanted", it doesn't look quite as sturdy as you imagined. In fact, on closer inspection you begin to wonder whether the whole thing isn't actually made of out of paper-thin glass. Glass that is very likely to shatter into a million sharp pieces as soon as you get your clutz' hands on it. Especially if you have my hand-eye coordination.
So what do you do? Do you leave it there, eternally just out of reach but at least intact and still beautiful? Do you keep edging forward, very, very carefully, droplets of sweat appearing on your brow and quivering above your upper lip as you hold your breath? Or do you just smash the damn thing on purpose, just to relieve the tension and stop the agony once and for all?
Aye, there's the rub.
Now someone pass me a valium.
Nov 3, 2009
Of Love and Literature
I'm sorry boys and girls. I've been out frolicking in the countryside, enjoying my new life of love and freedom and literary treats, and I've just been leaving you by the wayside, haven't I. How very selfish of me.
But you have to understand. This is it! The life I've always wanted! It's finally mine! (Please refrain from calling forth unsavoury images of Gollum, or those seagulls in Finding Nemo.)
And so Newly Minted Res has been busy. Seeing her friends. Even in the middle of the day. Whenever they need her, really. And travelling on the weekends to nurture a young but promising love affair. And writing, re-writing, erasing, tweaking, and generally tearing her hair and heart out over the pages of that young but promising novel of hers. Basically there's lots of nurturing. So much so that one day I may be able to graduate onto a pet. Possibly a goldfish.
But I digress. This was supposed to be an apology. I'm not terribly good at written apologies. I find the teary-eyed hug technique to be so much more effective. (I'm irresistible when I go in for the teary-eyed hug, no matter how unforgivable I've been).
So instead of an apology, let me offer a gift. Of the latest two books I've read which were absolutely incredible, and the one I'm reading now which promises to be just as good (there's another thing I've been catching up on besides love, liberty and happiness: reading. It is possible I've died and gone to Res heaven. And I don't even miss the Blackberry one little bit.)
1. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society - Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows: don't be put off by the title, or the epistolary form, this book is a treat, like a toffee that keeps getting better as it melts in your mouth. Irresistible.
2. The Uncommon Reader - Alan Bennett: imagine if the Queen did nothing all day but devour novels. Are you smiling yet? You've only just started.
3. The Book Thief - Markus Zusak: it's not just the premise that's left-field, but the style as well. And the result is bewitching.
Notice that all three books are about... books. There's a sign there, I think.
But you have to understand. This is it! The life I've always wanted! It's finally mine! (Please refrain from calling forth unsavoury images of Gollum, or those seagulls in Finding Nemo.)
And so Newly Minted Res has been busy. Seeing her friends. Even in the middle of the day. Whenever they need her, really. And travelling on the weekends to nurture a young but promising love affair. And writing, re-writing, erasing, tweaking, and generally tearing her hair and heart out over the pages of that young but promising novel of hers. Basically there's lots of nurturing. So much so that one day I may be able to graduate onto a pet. Possibly a goldfish.
But I digress. This was supposed to be an apology. I'm not terribly good at written apologies. I find the teary-eyed hug technique to be so much more effective. (I'm irresistible when I go in for the teary-eyed hug, no matter how unforgivable I've been).
So instead of an apology, let me offer a gift. Of the latest two books I've read which were absolutely incredible, and the one I'm reading now which promises to be just as good (there's another thing I've been catching up on besides love, liberty and happiness: reading. It is possible I've died and gone to Res heaven. And I don't even miss the Blackberry one little bit.)
1. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society - Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows: don't be put off by the title, or the epistolary form, this book is a treat, like a toffee that keeps getting better as it melts in your mouth. Irresistible.
2. The Uncommon Reader - Alan Bennett: imagine if the Queen did nothing all day but devour novels. Are you smiling yet? You've only just started.
3. The Book Thief - Markus Zusak: it's not just the premise that's left-field, but the style as well. And the result is bewitching.
Notice that all three books are about... books. There's a sign there, I think.
Oct 14, 2009
Mise à jour
After a prolonged absence partly caused by not actually having any time to spend in my beloved city, Res Ipsa's Paris has now been updated.
It was a dark and stormy night...
The novel has begun. Though only a very little bit. Because unfortunately that consulting malarkey has not yet entirely finished and putting together slides on the future of the banking industry is sort of cramping the flow of my creative juices.
So let's just say that, if my novel was one of those wooden barns you always see American people building in inspirational Lifestyle movies, I've just barely nailed the first two big beams together.
But spirits continue to run high. Like any other job, "Writing" was also bound to have its tough bits, so I've decided not to worry excessively if the words don't flow onto the page as quickly or as smoothly as I might have hoped. They will get there. Eventually.
In other news, has anyone else noticed that we appear to have travelled from the golden fields of Indian summer to the frozen gates of hell in the space of 3 days?! What is up with that? And where is the global warming everybody's been promising us? I want my money back! That, or a trip to somewhere warm and sunny. Rephrase: a trip to somewhere hot and tropical. Maybe even sweltering. Sometimes I feel I may have been born in the wrong continent.
So let's just say that, if my novel was one of those wooden barns you always see American people building in inspirational Lifestyle movies, I've just barely nailed the first two big beams together.
But spirits continue to run high. Like any other job, "Writing" was also bound to have its tough bits, so I've decided not to worry excessively if the words don't flow onto the page as quickly or as smoothly as I might have hoped. They will get there. Eventually.
In other news, has anyone else noticed that we appear to have travelled from the golden fields of Indian summer to the frozen gates of hell in the space of 3 days?! What is up with that? And where is the global warming everybody's been promising us? I want my money back! That, or a trip to somewhere warm and sunny. Rephrase: a trip to somewhere hot and tropical. Maybe even sweltering. Sometimes I feel I may have been born in the wrong continent.
Oct 10, 2009
Oct 8, 2009
The Second Coming
Like an unfurling caterpillar, or Nessie's lesser-known tiny sibling, I am slowly emerging from the muckety-muck that has been 2009. And boy does it feel good.
These are what my days look like now.
8:30 AM: iPod posing as an alarm turns on. I smile, wrap myself up in the duvet like a pig in a - well - duvet, and scrunch up my eyes as my toes start wriggling to the tunes.
9 AM: Curious to see if the sun is shining, I stretch loudly and luxuriously across the entire span of my massive bed before hopping over to where I keep the caffeine.
10:30 AM: Having had my fill of the morning news, coffee, and email, I walk the 2 minutes to my gym to sweat profusely on the treadmill watched only by a small battalion of über-gay men in snazzy tight-fitting outfits. Running makes me happy. Running is my Everest. Considering that back in March I was in the hospital and unable to walk all the way to the bathroom without wanting to curl up and die next to my oxygen tank, the fact that I'm now clocking in at 7km fills me with an unsurpassable sense of pride and accomplishment. Hey, everything's relative.
12:30 PM: Right. Time to cook some lunch. While singing to myself. Because it makes the veggies more tender.
2 PM: This is when I begrudgingly admit that I am actually still employed by BM, open up the dreaded work laptop, and hammer out a few slides with some fun banking-related inanities on it that I don't understand. But as long as I align the boxes and choose my colour scheme carefully, I figure no one will notice.
7 PM: Okie dokie, work day is done, now I get to play! So what shall we do this evening? Dinner with friends? Movie? Early night with a good book? A meet-the-author event at the library (that's right, I have now met Petite Anglaise)? Wine tasting? The possibilities are endless.
And then there's all the other stuff. Weekends away to the four corners of Europe, visiting friends and seeking adventures. Walking across Paris to see how the rest of the city is doing. Daydreaming about renting a flat in Havana à la Hemingway. Preparing to lecture my former INSEAD professors (seriously). And the book.
Because there is a book, of course. Or a foetus of a book, at this stage.
But more on that another day.
These are what my days look like now.
8:30 AM: iPod posing as an alarm turns on. I smile, wrap myself up in the duvet like a pig in a - well - duvet, and scrunch up my eyes as my toes start wriggling to the tunes.
9 AM: Curious to see if the sun is shining, I stretch loudly and luxuriously across the entire span of my massive bed before hopping over to where I keep the caffeine.
10:30 AM: Having had my fill of the morning news, coffee, and email, I walk the 2 minutes to my gym to sweat profusely on the treadmill watched only by a small battalion of über-gay men in snazzy tight-fitting outfits. Running makes me happy. Running is my Everest. Considering that back in March I was in the hospital and unable to walk all the way to the bathroom without wanting to curl up and die next to my oxygen tank, the fact that I'm now clocking in at 7km fills me with an unsurpassable sense of pride and accomplishment. Hey, everything's relative.
12:30 PM: Right. Time to cook some lunch. While singing to myself. Because it makes the veggies more tender.
2 PM: This is when I begrudgingly admit that I am actually still employed by BM, open up the dreaded work laptop, and hammer out a few slides with some fun banking-related inanities on it that I don't understand. But as long as I align the boxes and choose my colour scheme carefully, I figure no one will notice.
7 PM: Okie dokie, work day is done, now I get to play! So what shall we do this evening? Dinner with friends? Movie? Early night with a good book? A meet-the-author event at the library (that's right, I have now met Petite Anglaise)? Wine tasting? The possibilities are endless.
And then there's all the other stuff. Weekends away to the four corners of Europe, visiting friends and seeking adventures. Walking across Paris to see how the rest of the city is doing. Daydreaming about renting a flat in Havana à la Hemingway. Preparing to lecture my former INSEAD professors (seriously). And the book.
Because there is a book, of course. Or a foetus of a book, at this stage.
But more on that another day.
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