So, here’s the thing. I’ve decided to stop blogging here. Not in a tantrum way, I promise. At the moment I’m working on some writing projects that I really love, and there isn’t enough space in my brain hole to blog as well. It’s not just the writing either, it’s the thinking of something new to talk about all the time. Honestly, I have enough trouble thinking of something to feed the kids every day.
I have difficulty writing about the present (mostly because it’s so uninteresting) which means I perch on my chair and wonder which terrific anecdote from my life I can throw out, but it turns out that is quite draining. And also I need to draw on those experiences for the book I’m working on, which may or may not be finished in 2013 but which deserves a good crack nevertheless.
Without labouring the point, it has been a real pleasure to meet so many other wonderful bloggers while I’ve been writing here. Excellent writers, great friends, amazing supporters. Now I will just stalk you on your blogs and on Twitter because that is the kind of needy that I am.
As with most things, I will now use this as an excuse to be introspective and disproportionately emotional about something.
He had his old car – the most disastrous 17-year-old Honda with 400,000km on the clock and paint peeling like sunburn and windows that scraped all the way up and down – when I met him six years ago. He was so pleased with himself for owning it: behold, its incredible level of shit! no one else has ever had a car as shit as this one! I am the most ironic car owner in the land! He said he needed a wagon to take amps and drum kits around the place, but I must confess to having only seen the boot fill up with chainsaws and rubbish.
The old car has seen some pretty dire things in its time. Somehow it ended up being the Bus to the Bad Stuff, maybe because if Gaz hadn’t been the one driving I would have pretended not to know where I was going and none of it would have ever happened. The sound it made as it screeched away from the house – the squealing of worn tyres and a rattling drive shaft – became the soundtrack to our fights, the nights that he ran from problems instead of talking about them. Even now its whining brakes in the driveway immediately soothe me, because that has always meant the fight can be over – even if there is no fight. I know how to slam the door for maximum impact and what number the volume needs to be on to drown out the driver’s presence. I know how to jam the door open so the driver can’t leave without running me over.
It’s silly to go on about, but I am nothing if not ridiculously sentimental and the kind of person who attributes human emotion to inanimate objects.
There have been good things too, though. When we first found each other we spent whole nights – from sunset to dawn – with the seats folded down, telling secrets to each other. The only time it’s even been washed was the day Gaz first loaned it to me while my car was being serviced, and I secretly washed it before I brought it back – he was endearingly mad about it, being a Serious Punk who would never keep his car clean. It always has the faint smell of Maccas, from years of hot afternoons and hungover mornings, and when I read in the front seat I remember the time I dropped a whole tray of little lemon tarts on the floor as we drove to Christmas lunch. Once or twice it bore witness to other bluer activities under the cover of night and the backdrop of the ocean.
There is a blood stain on the back seat. Sometimes when I put shopping in there the whole diorama plays out in front of me.
Yep, it’s off to the wrecking yard with you, shitty old car. Luggage load lightening!
In the immediate future, I will only be able to offer you brief summaries of what is going on in life. I read four Pulitzer-winning books this week and now everything I do is a waste of the internet, obviously. Tip: if you want to go on believing you’re good at something, don’t launch yourself into an intensive study of all the people who are much, much better at it than you are.
My fingers are covered in bandaids because I’ve been typing on my typewriter and what they don’t tell you about that is that your digits disappear between the keys, and because your immediate reaction is to pull them out again, the skin comes off. It seems fairly likely that had I lived in a time before computers, I would have done considerably less writing and a lot more bleeding.
I put my NaNo story on hiatus after I sat down at said typewriter and out came a man called Francis who went and got a job in a bread shop. It’s funny the way stories can just come at you from nowhere and you have to find out what they’re about, even if they turn out to be quite bad. I was even more surprised by this one because I’m not sure Francis would have ever come to my place if I hadn’t bought a typewriter. He is a typewriter character, not a computer character. When I write at my computer, the old story comes out in such a way that makes me think the lines are too close together.
Sometimes my mum sends me text messages that just say, “I bought you a little present.” Eventually she gives me a book or a scarf, but the real present is that she thinks about me while she’s in her own space. There was a time when I didn’t think that would happen.
For the non-typewriter writing, I bought a new iMac. I’d had my old one for four years and I am nothing if not a consumerist wench, so I bought a new one. To be honest, it’s not that much different from the old one, because from the front you can’t see how crazy thin it is anyway, but the people at the Apple Store were so excited to sell me their first one that they took my photo with the sales guy and the iMac in its box. Then I walked back to my car in the rain on my own, so I guess the fame was fleeting.