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"I don’t like what I write now"

 

I am reading Virginia Woolf's diary (I don't think she'll mind) and found this, which was pretty much how I was feeling yesterday, except about being in Richmond and Nessa's children, whom I would be happy to have to tea.  

"Monday, October 25th 1920 (First day of winter time)

 

Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to the end. But why do I feel this: Now that I say it I don’t feel it. The fire burns; we are going to hear the Beggar’s Opera. Only it lies about me; I can’t keep my eyes shut. It’s a feeling of impotence; of cutting no ice. Here I sit at Richmond, and like a lantern stood in the middle of a field my light goes up in darkness. Melancholy diminishes as I write. Why then don’t I write it down oftener? Well, one’s vanity forbids. I want to appear a success even to myself. Yet I don’t get to the bottom of it. It’s having no children, living away from friends, failing to write well, spending too much on food, growing old. I think too much of whys and wherefores; too much of myself. I don’t like time to flap round me. Well then, work. Yes, but I so soon tire of work—can’t read more than a little, an hour’s writing is enough for me. Out here no one comes in to waste time pleasantly. If they do, I’m cross. The labour of going to London is too great. Nessa’s children grow up, and I can’t have them in to tea, or go to the Zoo. Pocket money doesn’t allow of much. Yet I’m persuaded that these are trivial things; it’s life itself, I think sometimes, for us in our generation so tragic—no newspaper placard without its shriek of agony from someone. McSwiney this afternoon and violence in Ireland; or it’ll be the strike. Unhappiness is everywhere; just beyond the door; or stupidity, which is worse. Still I don’t pluck the nettle out of me. To write Jacob’s Room again will revive my fibres, I feel. Evelyn is due; but I don’t like what I write now. And with it all how happy I am—if it weren’t for my feeling that it’s a strip of pavement over an abyss."

 

Photo: See page for author, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

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Working

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How Plays are Written

The Laughing String ebook cover - a red light wave symbol on the cover.

 

This is how my plays are written.

I was feeling pretty down today and not at all like writing but I opened the laptop and looked at some of my works in progress. I usually have three or four things working, so I don’t get bored with any one in particular.

I happened to open a one-act play I have been working on, thinking I would just see how far I had gotten the last time. I read the last line I had written and thought of a line in response. Then I thought, well, I better write that one down at least, or I will forget it. So I wrote it down. Then I thought of a response to that line, and I thought, well, I better write that down at least, or I will forget it. Ten pages, later I finally couldn’t think of a response, so I stopped.

This is the kind of in-depth planning characteristic of my work.

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Limerosity

I have three books coming out next month, and thought I would share them with my Green Room friends.

The first, The Laughing String is a collection of my thoughts on writing, interspersed with some quotes on the art and craft that I found either inspiring or enlightening (or both). 

 

The Laughing String 5x8 ebook cover 6282020 4

 

The second is called Two Short Novels, and if you think that it contains two short novels, you would be almost right. Actually it contains two short comic romances, but that doesn't roll off the tongue quite the same way. The first one, The Marriage Gift, is I still think the funniest thing I have ever writen. 

 

 

TSN ebook cover

But the last one, Limerosity, is my favorite. If you have been hanging out in the Green Room for a while, you might have noticed my fondness for limericks, and perchant for having literary figures as subjects. I have collected some of them and present them here. 

Limerosity ebook cover 522020

 

 

It's a short book now, but I hope it will grow in future editions, my light-hearted version of Leaves of Grass. Who knows? Maybe some of this talented community will end limerickly commemorated in there one day. A consummation possibly not to be wished. 

 

 

 

 

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