Writing Bubbles - Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to one and all.
I find I lose track of time when I am writing intensively. I call it being in a “writing bubble” but “in the zone” will do. By that I don’t mean I forget the time of day – although that happens – but more that I lose track of dates, with all their associated symbolism. That can get me into a great deal of trouble where birthdays and holidays are concerned; and it does not help that I don’t have much of a memory for dates (unless they concern a writing project).
Yes, it is not hard to see where all this is going. However, in my defense, let me say that such social ineptitude is not intentional. It is, I argue vainly, part of a writer’s makeup, a cousin of “Absent Minded Professor Condition.”
This year, I emerged from my writing bubble late December 21 2005 and realized that my chances of getting Christmas Cards out to anyone were zero. Accordingly, I sat down over the next three days wrote about a hundred personalized e-mails. I wish I had sent more. Some of the replies were very touching.
The following is an extract from one of the e-mails I sent out:
“The house is redolent of spices and baking, the tree and decorations are up, the blanket chest is displaying a veritable cornucopia of neatly wrapped presents, and, as I write, my daughter Evie (the very spirit of Christmas) has gone hunting for an organic turkey - which I think she intends to find dead and plucked, though I cannot be sure. I am old enough to remember the days when killing the thing and doing all the rest was considered normal. Mind you, I don't recall that we shot them in Ireland. However, I do remember my stepfather killing a couple of chickens with my machete with spectacularly bloody results. I have actually wrung a few chicken necks in my time on my grandmother's farm though found turkeys a little hard to render dead in a similar fashion - but I was small at the time so it was more like wrestling with a feathered equal who would have won if it had had hands.”
Compliments of the season to you all.
Yes, it is not hard to see where all this is going. However, in my defense, let me say that such social ineptitude is not intentional. It is, I argue vainly, part of a writer’s makeup, a cousin of “Absent Minded Professor Condition.”
This year, I emerged from my writing bubble late December 21 2005 and realized that my chances of getting Christmas Cards out to anyone were zero. Accordingly, I sat down over the next three days wrote about a hundred personalized e-mails. I wish I had sent more. Some of the replies were very touching.
The following is an extract from one of the e-mails I sent out:
“The house is redolent of spices and baking, the tree and decorations are up, the blanket chest is displaying a veritable cornucopia of neatly wrapped presents, and, as I write, my daughter Evie (the very spirit of Christmas) has gone hunting for an organic turkey - which I think she intends to find dead and plucked, though I cannot be sure. I am old enough to remember the days when killing the thing and doing all the rest was considered normal. Mind you, I don't recall that we shot them in Ireland. However, I do remember my stepfather killing a couple of chickens with my machete with spectacularly bloody results. I have actually wrung a few chicken necks in my time on my grandmother's farm though found turkeys a little hard to render dead in a similar fashion - but I was small at the time so it was more like wrestling with a feathered equal who would have won if it had had hands.”
Compliments of the season to you all.
posted by Victor at 11:00 AM
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