So today I beat carpets in the yard. It is a large yard of row houses where my mum still lives. I’ve lived here between the ages of one and a half and 19 and visited regularly later. Now I’m staying here until the weekend.
One of the old ladies who has known me all my life wondered what I was doing here, wasn’t I in my former town of residence? How long would I stay and so on. Oh, I’d moved back, what was I going to do now?
I realised, while concocting an answer, that replying: “I’m writing a novel”, isn’t an acceptable answer. Except that that’s exactly what I am currently doing. My brain is engaged in it more than it ever was with any job I’ve had in the past and I’ve been writing for about 4 hours a day, plus writing in my journal about writing, reading and doing background research, and just plain thinking about the whole thing.
I guess it’s different when you actually publish something. It becomes a legitimate activity then.
And even if I say it out loud (not to old neighbour ladies, though), people seem to laugh it off. As if I’m just using it as an euphemism for doing nothing, or it’s something silly. Like I haven’t been dreaming and waiting for this for my whole life.
What reduces our dreams into other peoples jokes?
Ok, I’m not really this bitter about it. I know my value, quoting my favourite tv show. Even though sometimes I’m convinced what I’m writing is absolute shite. I know my value.