I think one of the things I crave most is having someone close to me I can talk with about my writing – and not just talk in a general sense. I want to speak about what I’m writing and what I’m trying to write; about what’s in my mind, what my goal is. I want to investigate it with them, to get another perspective and to hear the questions that otherwise I wouldn’t think of. I want to share, but I also want the insight that comes from another set of eyes, a different set of experiences and, ideally, another gender.
I feel this most keenly right now as I wrestle with chapter one. The conversations I might have with another are instead entirely internal, and less satisfactory for being so. It’s a closed circuit. I expect I’ll get there in the end, but it’s harder work than it need be.
I would love to share it too. You feel as if you are embarking on a great journey, and how nice is it to have someone wave you bon voyage, and to whom you can exchange missives and postcards along the way.
I know all this now because I am much more sensitive to my needs. It’s like I’ve cracked open a door that has been welded shut: through it come walking the most unexpected revelations. It feels uncomfortable. I am vulnerable like I can’t remember when. There’s the illusion of fragility too, but it is but an illusion. Discomfitting as it is I welcome it. I will adjust and acclimatise and by the end of it – I hope – I will be the enlightened, open soul I hope to be, and at peace with it. I am, I wonder, woke – or at least, waking.