“Ladies and gentleman,” said the brilliant Neil Innes, introducing his song “Protest Song“. “I’ve suffered for my music, now it’s your turn.” I’m sorely tempted to say the same about my writing, although I do feel that my loyal reader, bless you, has suffered far more than I have. This could certainly apply to today’s offering.
The good news for those of you who really can wait for the publication of that difficult second book, the follow-up to my dismal worst-selling publishing debut effort, Corfu, Not A Scorcher, is well underway. I am close to the editing stage, with self-publication hoped for in the lucrative pre-Christmas market (as if that will make a blind bit of difference to my book sales, if there are any). But in a strange, what will sound a self-pitying, way I am suffering for my writing.
This as yet untitled book is a personal memoir, based around the music that has been, according to my Bumper Book of Clichés, the Soundtrack of my Life. I am sure you can see the problem here. Someone who has not succeeded in, or achieved, anything and is barely a household name in his own household is, in effect, writing his life story. Where’s the audience? Unless this book is remarkably brilliant, and I can pretty well guarantee it won’t be, this is surely little more than a drawn-out effort in self-indulgence, right? What I hadn’t expected was just how draining the experience is and has been.
Digging deep into the recesses of my life has been unexpectedly draining. It has been as if I have been my own therapist, recalling and uncovering vast parts of my life that had until now lay dormant in the back of my mind. While there have undoubtedly been uplifting memories, the most affecting aspects have been much darker. And the deeper I dig, the more powerful and emotional it becomes to the extent that my sleep patterns, never the smoothest, have been utterly ravaged, leaving me too tired to get up but too alert to get back to sleep. The problem comes when the words are flowing so rapidly, as they are at the moment, you are loathe to pause in case they disappear for good.
Looking back at episodes of deep depression, night terrors and panic attacks has been tough to deal with, which I have found strange since I am always content to talk about them. Then, putting all these things, and more, into a new context created by my (too) late diagnosis of ADHD, and still undiagnosed God knows what else is hard work. The morning after another crazy night of weird and wild dreams finds me drained, both mentally and physically.
The ADHD aspect explains my brain, which appears to be attached to a motor that never switches off and is highly active throughout the night, during the sleeping and waking hours. This morning, I kept coming up with more and more memories and writing ideas to the extent that I had to get up at some ungodly hour to write them all down so I wouldn’t forget them. It is said that you have ten seconds when you wake to remember what it was that you dreamt the night before. I don’t know if that’s a scientific fact, but I rise quickly just in case I miss the moment.
Hopefully, the fog of exhaustion will soon clear and I can put last night’s thoughts and ideas if not onto paper then onto Word, so until then, my friend, you’ll have to make do with today’s blog, something that is much easier to write, at least for me, than something more specific and precise, like a chapter for a book.
When I say I have suffered for my music, my tongue is lodged firmly in my cheek. I do have sufficient awareness to understand what real suffering looks and feels like and anyway what I am going through is entirely self-inflicted. What I will say, though, with all sincerity, is that writing this memoir has been revelatory in so many ways and teaching me that actually I know far more about my life than I realised I did.
That difficult second book is coming. I couldn’t think of many worse ways to spend your money but I hope you spend it anyway.
Footnote: my proof-reader of choice, a much-loved dear friend, died late last year. If you know of someone who proof-reads, do email me at eclecticblue@blueyonder.co.uk. You won’t get rich, but I will pay you for it.
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
