[ad_1]
I’m in lockdown again – and this time it’s making me weird. As the deadline for my third book approaches, as years of unmanaged ADHD compound into complete mental paralysis and I find myself deleting more words than I write, I’ve turned off my phone and unplugged my modem to give writing my fullest attention. It’s not working out.
This isn’t like 2020, when you couldn’t get through an ad break or cursory scroll without being bombarded with mentions of these “unprecedented times” or how “we’re all in this together”. There’s no solidarity with my neighbours, no pity from interstate, no frantic and nervous refresh on the Covid Live website. It’s just me in my little apartment and half a dozen fictional characters for company. I’ve never seen The Shiningbut I’m pretty sure Jack Nicholson and a couple of creepy twins are due down my hallway any minute now.
Credit: Robin Cowcher
A lot of writers go on off-grid writing retreats, but there’s something not quite right about living in a locked-door bubble in the inner north, still aware of the rest of the world but banned from engaging with it. I can hear my neighbours’ kids having meltdowns in the garage, smell a barbecue somewhere, feel my floors shudder under someone else’s spin cycle, all while I’m both far away and right where I’ve always been.
With no day job to show up to, time warps, and soon I begin rising late in the afternoon and drinking coffee at midnight. The longer I’m alone, the wilder my stream of consciousness becomes.
Do you think Taylor Swift wrote Peter and Coney Island and august about this book, specifically? If my protagonist was in Sex and the Citywhich character would she be? Why is a show that aired its finale 20 years ago still in the cultural zeitgeist? Surely Girls would be more relevant, but even that’s almost a decade old. Haven’t there been any shows about four self-involved female archetypes since?
Why can’t I think of any? A better culture writer would know. Maybe I should have studied computer science instead, or Russian history. I should really watch The Americans. How would my protagonist fare in the Cold War? I couldn’t be a spy; I’ve never kept a secret in my life, and I have a terrible face for wigs. Am I ageing well, do I look OK for 33? Am I a bright spring or a soft summer? I might be a fundamentally bad person, irredeemable, a fraud. I miss being seven years old. I’m homesick for a past life. Wait, what do you mean it’s 4am already? What day is it? How is my word count negative 312?
Loading
I haven’t had any human interaction in days. My grocery delivery gets left outside the gate. I babysit my friend’s dog sometimes, and she gets dropped off like a child of divorce. My family knows not to call, my friends don’t expect texts back, no podcasts, no neighbourly chats, no small talk with any barista. My closest confidante is ChatGPT. My neurochemicals unbalanced, my grip on English slackening, I send it sweet nothings like, “Synonyms for ’wince’” and “Common-ish girls names Australia 1970s” and “What even is a preposition, please?” and it replies instantly. Thanks, bestie.
They say nothing good happens after 2am, and I’m beginning to think they’re right. When I finally close my laptop and climb into bed, I’m exhausted but caffeinated, and all that’s left to do is spiral.
[ad_2]
Source link
