I’m not writing. I’m not thinking about writing. I spend most of my spare time. thinking about domestic things like tomatoes and the mould colony on my bathroom ceiling. I haven’t been to a book/magazine launch since The Lifted Brow (though I did try to go to the Griffith Review but got waylaid by the Eastern Freeway/Carpark…oops). What’s going on?
A few years ago, when I was studying writing at Deakin University, I spent a dysfunctional amount of time learning salsa. I went dancing three or four times a week. It was fun for a while and then I started to enjoy it less and less. The dancing wasn’t so much of the issue, but I hated the random men who would try to chat me up, instead of concentrating on the salsa.
In some ways, writing is turning into the salsa. That high that I get from creating something new is getting harder and harder to chase as I get more and more bogged down with social writerly niceties and this crippling conscience that dictates that I should be doing the right thing but not necessarily the write thing.
Therefore, I think it’s time to stop. Not necessarily writing, but the other stuff: launches, journals, blogging, socialising. My partner says I should start keeping a diary and write about what I know for a while. It’s sounds like such a decadent and self-involved practice, but I think I need to gorge on cake for a while.
I will still keep this blog, but you might not see a post for a month, maybe two months, maybe a year. The idea is to make it fun. Angela Meyer once said that people should blog only if they want to. And so I shall.