Friday, May 4, 2012

What about my novel?

A friend of mine here asked an innocent question recently about how my being pregnant has affected my ability to write my novel. It got me thinking... I mean, I'm sure I have been asked this question before, but perhaps it wasn't asked in the same genuine, I-want-a-real-answer kind of way, where 'Well, I'm a lot more distracted and tired than usual' just wasn't going to cut it.

I am still working on my novel, but badly. When I do write, the quality is still the same as before, but there's something different... It took a while for me to put my finger on, and I think it has something to do with the intensity of the imaginary world that surrounds you when you are writing a novel. I have created so many imaginary places, all that have sounds and smells, weather, atmosphere, and a feeling underfoot. My characters are as if they were real people, with annoying habits, endearing qualities and flaws, with brows that wrinkle a certain way during specific emotions, with a particular gait, and with history. I have the story, both the grand tale and the perhaps-waiting-to-be-edited-out smaller scenes, floating about inside my brain, waiting to be caught and pinned onto paper. But mostly, it is a feeling. This novel has a feeling to me, and it is a feeling that I am totally encompassed by.

Or should I say 'was'. I still have reasonable chunks of time where this is the case, but having a baby (I'm assuming particularly your first baby, and perhaps also doing this as a reasonably new expat) is a pretty all-encompassing thing. It seems that the bubbles of my internal worlds have collided. The image of rain pouring through the veins of a cobbled street has to share space with the  cloth-versus-disposable debate, with the hunt for baby singlets (which, incidentally, I had to buy from Bonds in Australia, as my hunts here were fruitless!), the worry about whether that little tumble down the stairs caused real damage, the research into prams and baby-carriers and car-seats and boobies and ways to prevent premature birth and ways to kick-start labour... Add to that the list of health complications that make it all the more difficult for me to get to my writing places, and I'm starting to see the problem.

Of course I realise this isn't going to stop. It's not like this little bean will pop out of me (superman style, says the hubby) and then suddenly I can regain the imaginary world of my novel. I'm not deluded. I had thought that having a definite 'due date' was like giving myself a deadline that I had to work hard towards, but I soon found that I needed to manage my stress better, and what with the doctors consistently telling me to relax, I eased up on myself a bit.

So yes, I am still writing, and still writing what I consider half-decent words. I figure, though, that this is a balancing act I'll have to keep for the next twenty (or thirty!) years now!