Offness

Is there such a thing as writernity leave?

It all feels off at the moment, like there is a thick glass wall between me and what is on the other side. Almost everything is behind the barrier. Politics, the news, events in other people's lives, the writings I skim through, the books I try to read. Even my own novel that I send out in weekly bitesized portions feels off.

I am fed up with scrolling on Notes, with trying to think of ways to grab people's attention, I am tired of everyone being so loud about whatever they deem important this week.

And.... if I am truly honest.... I believe it is not me who is off.

I feel very much in, and it is 'the world' that is off. That strange referral everybody --including me-- now uses. 'The World' consists largely of the online feed, and the opinions and states caused by that online feed in people. We really believe that word. We really think we can see, understand, and even predict what it contains. At the same time, the weather forecasts seem to consist of randomly assembled numbers that they shuffle around every few hours. Shouldn't we by now have short-term predictions in the pocket? Seeing as, we now thoughtlessly dare to present decades long scenarios about where we are heading? Why does the state of a single human within a ten-foot range seem stranger to us than outer space? Arrogant little shits we are. Expressing what should be done in places we have never even been near to. We've seen the footage, and now we know?

I long to unplug, to mute, to dampen the incoming, the amount that pours in per unit of time and compensate with other sources.

One of the young rebels trying to decide if he can trust me…

Here in France, the air is thick and fragrant. The scent of a thousand flowering acacia trees can still cover the bitter exhausts of cars. As I drive onto the courtyard, two buzzards circling are contemplating our newly arrived chickens as a choice for a lazy lunch. This morning the pubescent cows of the neighbouring farm, twelve or thirteen of the ivory coloured calves, escaped to go on a world-exploring mission. Their parents, too big to use the same flaw in the fence, were loudly expressing their concern about the youngsters.

I do not want to spend energy and time on why everything further out feels so wrong. I long to retreat into my 'glass' sphere and listen to the inner voices demanding me to write. God, that sounds dramatic and pompous.

Writers are known for producing language, for uttering countless words. What isn't highlighted too often, is the amount of time spent listening, taking in. And I don't mean the online feed, which is a poor source of anything when there is no scent being followed, no tracker in charge of the trailing.

Yes, writers read a lot, listen to and observe, hoard information, steal ideas, and accumulate content. And it is important for that input to be freshly picked, well-prepared and according to the appetite, but even then, none of that 'raw' material is usable in that form. The scribblers cannot simply consume, chew, swallow, and churn out substance.

If it were a digestive tube like that, machines could do the job. All we had to do is feed the damn thing high-quality input and eagerly hold out our hand at the other end.

But what comes out is shit. Not good writing.

Creating is not a blender, in which you cram prompts, info and recipes. Not done with pushing the button et voilà. While what comes out is undeniably smooth, and often has this weird bright colour for a short bit, writing that matters is done differently. Creating is about the energy released through digestion. Creation is not just in the material. It is the spirit in the matter that makes it come alive. That forms the broken down into new produce.

I think I feel off, long to be off because the spirit is calling. The inner voices demand attention.

No wonder I experience the world as if behind thick glass. I need the quiet to feel. I require the barrier to function.

There is a book in the making.

There is a making in that book.

I cannot yet tell if I will be able to finish this project. Time will tell if it is what it feels like. But it feels like the result of a long process of fermentation is ready to be served. Several years worth of absorption and accumulating is waiting to communicate, to take shape. And it wants out. It wants to be born. Now.

I am in labour!

Is that weird or what? Straight white dude in labour after a long pregnancy. That would be some headline.

I feel off, in pain, emotional, hardly able to do normal stuff. I struggle with each essay. But I also feel more ready to do this than ever before.

I can't yet share much about the offspring. I have chosen a three act structure, a 27 chapter plot as a rough guide. But will adapt if necessary. It is as if this structure was ready to be filled with what lay waiting. I wrote the detailed outline of a new novel in a few days. And now it rapidly gains weight and is taking shape as a whole. It is pushing all else aside.

This week I have written eight chapters, so act one is almost done in first draft. And it beautifully influences and deepens and inspires what follows. It is like I am shaping the whole thing all at once.

This is so different from how I have worked until now. Now a scene or a beat has a clear movement, driving the story, and my job suddenly seems much more doable. Like, I have always tried to play all the instruments while creating. And now I can write the parts of the symphony's score separately. Because now I know the length of the piece, the range.

I wish to find an editor early on for this project. One who after learning about the outline for this story chooses to become deeply involved and shares my belief in the potential. I thrive on good feedback. The fascinating mix of speculative, romance, artificial developments, self-sufficiency and our collective descent into a very uncertain future asks for a well matured mentor.

So, please excuse me, if I have nothing to say about Joey or Donny, that I am not publicly enraged about people developing viruses just to make money, that I am not preaching abstinence from fossil fuels while using spray-cans to smear some holy tourist attraction, excuse me as I refuse to play by the rules made by rule-breakers, for digging Joshua and being annoyed by almost every Christian, for not confessing to left right or middle, excuse me as I retreat from the meeting places, the talk-rooms, and not say much.

I'm okay, just a bit off. Off-grid, off-line, off-market. Growing something fragile, small and new.