Iona Winter

I farewelled the Masters Thesis (aka ‘The Novel’) into the post last week. Released into the hands of the markers, acutely aware that I’ll not hear anything for months. But it’s done, kia mutu, finito. Bliss you might think. Fireworks and popping champagne corks. People saying, “CONGRATULATIONS, you must feel so good.”

Nope.

It’s like waiting for Christmas, having already unwrapped your presents—secretly. Actually I did do that once (as a child), much to my mother’s horror. Faking joy or elation (or in fact any other emotion) is nigh on impossible for me. The tome of a thing (times two), was carefully packaged up in a box, and slipped gracefully from my hands into that of the postie. I needed a break from it I suppose. The honeymoon was well over.

It feels like a bit of a let down. AN ANTI-CLIMAX.

Having worked on ‘The Novel’ solidly this year (rather than my previous part-time efforts) my relationship with her (yes it’s female) has changed. I still want to keep writing. But WHAT do I write about now? I’m really not sure what to do with my life these days, other than go to my job. The garden has even lost it’s appeal—because it’s no longer a distraction (albeit a guilt-ridden one) from writing.

Thankfully its not all doom-and-gloom. I’ve found myself (post hand-in) slathering over scholarships, residencies and fellowships. All in the vain hope that I might miraculously be able to keep on writing—yeah, like for a LIVING. I know, that’s akin to wanting to win the lotto isn’t it? You must think me seriously deluded.

Anyhow, back to ‘The Novel’. At the moment I can’t look at her—she’s a bit like a spurned lover. But I know intimately her every, single, word. I recount chapters of her in my sleep. ‘Who the hell would even want to read it?’ I ask myself (often out-loud, no point internalising such things).

Yesterday I rolled down my car window (on the way home from said job), and yelled an expletive. Why? No good reason, just because I felt like it. Two seconds after the words had escaped the confines of my mouth, I LAUGHED raucously at the thought of someone in their garden overhearing (said expletive), and wondering what the hell was going on. I laughed. I imagined a little old lady, with a straw hat, leaping in surprise. Is that a tad sinister of me? Maybe. I can’t believe I laughed though. It’s a very anti-social business this writing malarky.

So what to do, what to do, with myself? Twiddle my thumbs, find a new hobby, maybe take up speed-skating or something equally as thrilling? Nope. I’m not quite ready for thrills just yet. But I guess the chooks could do with a visit. They might lend me some inspiration to write something new. Or not.