Iona Winter

It’s been a while, but I’ve done what I said I would do—hibernating. Now I’m back. Ta-dah!

While I’ve been in my interiority I’ve been thinking (a great deal) about anonymity, versus being visible in cyberspace. How visible should I be? Ha! Are you kidding me? It’s probably way too late for that brainwave missus…nothing false or incognito here.

What triggered this circular train of thought was seeing an article (with photo) about a writer who was published under a ‘pen name’…but his real name was also mentioned (he looked pretty real in the photo too). I don’t get it. Am I missing something?

Anyhow, back to moi. Reports on the cave-like dwelling space are that very little has occurred on the page. I’m in limbo again, whilst I await the next round of feedback on the rewrite of ‘The Novel’. In my defence, I haven’t been sitting idle but am working on a short story—aka a side-project that is picked up when ‘The Novel’ is in a parallel universe (being read by someone else). Oh but who knows where any of it will end up.

I must confess that saying to people, “I’ve written a novel” is wearing thin. They look at me like ‘seriously’ and I ask myself, ‘Why, is it that strange to believe?’ Then I realise that perhaps my next line has them flummoxed, when I reply to their, “So how long have you been working on it?” And I casually say, “Oh, about six years.” It’s easy to gauge the reactions, ranging between:

“Wow, six years. That’s a long time.” (subtext: “OMFG WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN DOING ALL THIS TIME”).

“Oh well, I guess you’ll know when it’s done eh?” (subtext: “Aw you poor woman, you’re obviously struggling”).

Occasionally, another creative person will totally get the process and nod in acknowledgement—then I can relax (with my hackles retreating beneath my skin). Although I am wondering if people are beginning to doubt me…

So I woke up this morning and said aloud, “Come on girl you’ve got to crack on with it now. It’s taking too long. You’ve lost focus.” In other words I gave myself a pep talk.

I DO KNOW that I won’t leave ‘The Novel’ on a shelf to gather dust, in a spinster-like fashion. “But it’s hard,” I whine, “I don’t know where to go next. Am I even on the right track?”

At this point, I feel it would be prudent to apply my internal therapist voice and say, “Do any of us ever really know if it’s the right track? Does it feel like it is? Yes? Okay, then go for it.”

Roger that…