Day One: When I Was Introduced To The
Slow Lane
It occurred to me as I wandered the
grocery aisles on Day One, that one of the major impressions I was
gaining about my first day as a full-time writer, self-employed, no
longer at the beck and call of others, was one of
life having slowed to the pace of a relaxed heartbeat. Absent, was
the white noise - the constant background panic brought on by the feeling of not having
enough time.
bird on a blanket, Port Chalmers shop
Through deciding to leave my work in an early childhood centre, I have cut myself adrift; free
to float slow. It was a novelty to be quietly choosing produce in a
supermarket at 1.30 in the afternoon, rather than my usual busy
snatch and run method. Welcome to the slow lane.
A bit later, I was. In the slow lane.
Swimming in the (what is called 'Hot' but is really more lukewarm)
Salt-Water Pool at St Clair, revelling in the sensation I had of
floating in blue limbo. Overhead, thunder-heads rolled on by as I
kept snug in the water, hoping that any lightning strikes that this
particularly nasty spring weather is doling out,
weren't going to force the pool to close. I had already been informed
by one of the other swimmers that this had happened the day before.
Juke box, Port Chalmers shop
As soon as I arrived at the pool, I
immediately noted that my desire to be left to private thoughts,
un-hassled by strangers wanting to engage, was never going to happen; despite my deliberate hunched over, no-eye-contact-demeanour and
monosyllabic responses. The body language of other swimmers; such as
slightly leaning into my personal space, unsubtle methods of seeking
eye contact; made it abundantly clear
that I was required to be part of every conversation – the
comparing of tans (olive as opposed to freckled), the inquiry as to
the pool attendant's recent trip away (as if I cared), the previous
day's experience of being pinged by hailstones whilst still in the
swimming pool (now that, I must admit, sounded like fun), how clothes stick to you when getting dressed after a
swim, no matter how hard you try to completely dry yourself off …
This last conversation-bid took place while I was struggling to maintain
some dignity in the changing rooms. Really?! You want me to turn
around and talk to you while I'm in the process of trying to dress as
quickly and privately as is possible under a thin towel? Really?!
looking out, shot from Vogel Street, Dunedin
When my eyes flew open that first day
at 7.45. I felt like a child on Christmas morning, ready to leap out
of bed. It was Day One and despite the cliché, it actually did feel
like the first day of the rest of my life. Later on in the day when I
checked the mailbox, I found a card left by my neighbour N. wishing
me well on my first day. Inside she'd written, 'Happy 'day 1' of
being a full-time writer, and happy day 2, day 3, day 4 …'
Not that I got much writing done. By
the time I had rung up about getting Ruby (our Toyota Corolla) a new
battery and waited all morning until the guy came with one, then did
the grocery shopping, then mailed a parcel overseas, then swam, then
napped (to recover from either the swim or the twenty-five years of
gainful employment in the early childhood sector, I can't decide
which) it was time to cook dinner.
heavy wooden door, Water St, Dunedin
On my last day at work, I was
fare-welled very sweetly by the staff and children at the centre. I
was given a generous book token and a giant, brightly-painted card
the children had made. 'We Love You' it said, and 'We will miss you'.
At my stage of life, leaving paid work is an acknowledgement that my
working life is over. At the end of my last day at work, when I went to start
Ruby to go home; she wouldn't start. Her battery was flat. The
significance of this didn't escape me.
Being this close to retirement age
means that I am tempted to feel like I'm already there, with the
ground I have stood on up until this point of my life, cut away. A
door has been closed. This could be seen as diminishment; if I
hadn't chosen to close the door myself. However, the truth is that I
am like our car, Ruby, after we got her new battery fitted; leaving paid
employment has given me a brand new go; I am primed. Start the
engine, hear me purr.
Day Two: When I Did Not Read 'War and
Peace'
It appears I received another good-bye
present from work … a tummy bug. Part of working with pre-schoolers
is that you are in direct line of fire for sickness. After a few
years, you build up a certain degree of resistance and this invisible
suit of armour fends off most of the illness that swirls around you
in the form of droplets and toxic fumes from suspect bowel motions.
But not always. As my second day of 'retirement' has demonstrated. One of the bugs obviously
made it through the fine mesh of resistance I had over the years
carefully and methodically constructed. Perhaps my decision to leave
lowered my defences, leaving me disengaged from defence mode and
vulnerable to attack.
Two-year olds have been proven to be
the biggest carriers of disease in the universe. They have an
enviable capacity to spread bacteria. Anyone planning an evil, viral attack upon the community, for whatever dastardly
purpose, need look no farther than a two-year old. With no idea of how
to 'catch that cough' or about frequent and thorough hand-washing,
their success rate for the spread of disease is truly astonishing.
At one stage during the day before my
last day at work, J. sat on my knee while I read him a story about
Rapunzel. He spent the time sneezing openly with the abandonment of
spittle and mucus that only a pre-schooler can manage. Chances are it
is because of this (or some other up close and personal moment with a
toddler) that I spent last night throwing up.
Consequently, Day 2 of my life as
a-writer-and-that's-it, was spent in bed. I slept and watched Graham Norton shows on TV On Demand. I
ate a banana and three pineapple chunks. I drank one cup of tea. I kept
up with my Facebook timeline. (Our son in Kyoto posted another photo
of a Japanese roof to add to his collection of Japanese rooves.
Japanese buildings have astonishing rooves. My sister posted a photo
of a tui being a tui).
Suffice to say, I did not spend the
time in bed profitably reading 'War and Peace'. I didn't even do a
crossword. That day my brain cells did not fare any better than my digestive
tract.
chalk drawing, Vogel Street, Dunedin
That day a space-craft made a perfect
landing on a comet; right on schedule, upright and to the second; like
a Japanese train driver.When I saw on-line footage on Facebook of the
scientists celebrating the instant of point of contact, I did have to
chuckle at how inept scientists (who can programme with genius
precision a landing on a comet) are at high fives and hugs.
As evening approached, my tummy bug
turned coward. It was no longer the rough, unshaven ogre lording it
over my sense of well-being. It had begun to whine and to plead for
forgiveness. And because the smell of the chicken stir-fry Robert was
cooking for dinner smelt so damn fine, I decided to be magnanimous
and grant Hairy-Ol' Gut Bug my pardon; then promptly booted it right out into
space where it could kick up merry hell and infect the comets.
Day Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven,
Eight, Nine, Ten: When I Love My Job
People ask – what's it like writing
full-time, with no deadlines or rules, being able to take a tea-break
whenever you like? Etc. After a week and two days, I can say that
it's harder than you think.
Sticking to a routine and being
disciplined enough to actually write, is not easy.
My stock replies to inquiries seem to
be; I am so busy being me, I have no time left over to actually
write.
Or; I spend so much time doing stuff to do with
writing, there's no time left to do any actual writing.
An office away from home would be the
answer, then I wouldn't see that the bird dishes need topping up with
sugar water, that the washing needs hanging out on the line, that the
washing needs to be brought in from the line …
Lumsden railway station; Northern Southland
In order not to seize up, I
realised I needed to replace what physical exercise I was getting from
my work with early childhood (it had more or less provided a useful
daily work-out) with some other form of physical exercise. This takes time. Swimming, an Irish dancing class,
walks … all good fun, but each requiring up to two hours to prepare
for, get to, do, then recover from.
J. and A. Cooke's garden, Queenstown
Important too, to keep up with family,
friends and other writers. Always highly enjoyable, stimulating and
necessary to prevent any slipping into a shrivelled indoor-world that
a writer like myself is tempted to allow. This, however, requires
such occupations as meeting for coffees, lunches, emailing, texting,
on-line networking ... All of which gobble up time.
Then there's the necessary shopping, housework, meal prep. Writers also
need to daydream and to read … Fitting ACTUAL writing around all
these is frustratingly difficult.
caravan, Ranfurly Camping Ground, Maniototo
One day I decided, right. Let's be
disciplined and organised about this. I worked to a strict timetable
in order to complete the urgent things I needed to do and, with the
aid of a trustworthy crock-pot, cleverly carved out a chunk of
writing time for myself in the late afternoon. I achieved it, but in
the end decided to use the time I should have used for writing, to write out Christmas cards. It is still November – am I going
crazy? All I succeeded in doing was hi-jacking the writing space I
had so earnestly created. The next day I was so exhausted from a day
of being strict with myself time-wise, I woke up with what felt like
hangover symptoms - without the benefit of having had any alcohol-fun.
But I am not complaining about these predicaments. I am loving
it. As I said to one of our sons; after all these years I can finally
say, I love my job. Really. I do. When I get round to actually doing
it.
Day Ten: When There's Always Tomorrow
I've given up counting the days now.
Being a full-time writer is becoming normal. Hell, I am even
writing! I have moved on in the novel. A paragraph. I count that as
advance.
I used to have 'tomorrow never comes'
paranoia and push myself to achieve much in one day. Now I feel there is 'always tomorrow'. It's a very South
American attitude. In the seventies we did hotel work while overseas and one of the staff we worked with (Joaquin) was
always saying, 'Manana, manana' which kind of meant, 'sometime soon,
sometime never'. Joaquin ( another of his jokes was to say when
introducing himself – “I'm Joaquin and I'm not jokin'”) would
be very proud of me these days. What doesn't get done today, can be
done tomorrow. Manana, manana. Another paragraph, another chapter,
another poem. It's as if tomorrow has taken on a new personality. This attitude may not get a novel written in quick-smart time (luckily I'm not working to any publisher's deadline) but for today, I'm liking tomorrow.
magnolia and Cecil Peak, J. and A. Cooke's garden, Queenstown
