WHY I WRITE RUBBISH
Since THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT* my mind has been in a right old state. My short-term memory is shot. I find it hard to concentrate. I read the science and despair all through the daytime, read some more news reports and despair some more long into the evening, go to bed worrying, worry throughout my dreams and wake up – sometimes around four in the morning – terrified.
Occasionally I take a break from all-out panic and segue into utter despair. It’s exhausting.
As someone who’s had chronic depression in the past (plus a couple of half-hearted suicide attempts under her belt) I need to do something to press the PAUSE button. If the COVID don’t get me, guvnor, the anxiety-induced asthma attacks will.
The only way I can break this nasty little cycle, which like an emotional wall of death, spins ever more manic, is to do some physical exercise – check out my FITNESS posts on the socials to see how exercise has kept me alive through this challenging time.
The other way is to write it out.
This writing has nothing to do with my actual writing, scrappy though it’s been in the last few months. The writing writing has stalled a bit. I’ve actually found editing a little easier in short bouts.
This writing is a splurge. I don’t do it on the computer but longhand, on scraps of paper thus recycling and putting the ominous financial statements that still arrive (despite me going paperless!) to better use.
I believe writing any old rubbish helps get the spooling thoughts out of my mind – like writing a shopping list stops me from reminding myself several times a day that I’ve run out of washing up liquid. Until I lose the list.
I don’t read this writing back. I rip it up and chuck it in the recycling. To be honest, a lot of it is so scrawled I doubt if I could read it back.
If I have a good idea (and my standards are pretty low right now) I write that on the computer afterwards.
I think other writers do this. It’s a bit like a pianist practising scales or a singer warming up. Or running an old tap until the water runs clearer from all the rust.
I’m also glad I hear from other writers on Twitter and at The Society of Authors who also feel their brain has been shredded, otherwise I might fear I was losing my marbles along with everything else.
I think it’s important for me to just write something – anything – to get going again. My tendency to feel like it’s all rubbish at the best of times, coupled with a warped perfectionism and obsessive re-reading and re-editing, means it’s often hard to just write.
This way I negotiate with the inner saboteur, the negative animus, the bloody critic who hisses why bother? it’s all shit! Replying, yes! This is meant to be shit! Now shut the fuck up!
*Copyright COVID