"All good novelists have bad memories" ~ Graham GreeneI can't really apply that quote to myself at this point in time without bookending it with this one:
"It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards" ~ Lewis Carroll
Because I do plan to have a novel finished by the time I'm 85.
Every mood I'm in, every stage of life, it always feels like I've always been this way and never any other. It's very tiring. And something that I see others ascribe to young children, and yet here I am all 41 and haggy, and I regularly succumb to this way of thinking.
Logically and rationally, I know how much things change. I remember in some vague fashion that things are always changing. But the fight for perspective is a difficult one, because I am like David, fighting for that perspective using a ragged, pathetically sievelike memory as my weapon. Honestly, I did not smoke that much dope in my earlier years for my memory to be so truly, monumentally fucked up.
I am feeling a little unsure and adrift (geez, what's new?) Feeling on the verge of new ways of looking at things, hanging onto the hope of other people to think that I can do that. And so to remind myself of how I have dealt with feeling these sorts of things in the past, I went looking at my blog to see how I felt in 2007, 2009, randomly flitting from one post to another, seeing that really and truly, nothing much really has changed - I'm still depressed in some variety, still anxious in another, still struggling to get through some of the days.
And yet at the same time it feels everything has changed. Every word I have written that is in the past has this feeling of everything being somehow easier than it is now. Which is not true. It's just that everything is frozen in time in every second that is not now.
The interesting part about reading the words I had carefully crafted on some day other than today, on days where maybe I was trying to keep my head above the water of whatever swell I felt was sinking me at the time, was that the rereading felt redemptive. Even apart from bringing you clarity, hope and purpose, the act of writing about your own shit brings along with it its own comfort. I know I felt that sense of comfort. of reframing, when I hit "publish" on those posts in 2007 or 2009. Because it's how I feel every time I hit "publish", every time I finish writing something, anything.
The redemption comes twice over, upon rereading your own blog posts. Discombobula has literally become a self-help blog for me :)
It's all good, as long as you can put aside the discomfort that you must be horribly self-absorbed to go reading your own stuff for help - sort of like how I imagine it would feel after cooking a beautiful meal you're proud of, only to vomit it up whole. Looking around to see whether anyone else is looking - should you re-eat it? But hey, you're hungry. And what better than enjoying it once but enjoying it twice?