Not an Odalisque

The Panicking Basil Plant (in which Not an Odalisque uses too many metaphors)

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basil

The last few weeks, I’ve felt like a wilted basil plant in a sauce of water. Basil plants aren’t fickle like bonsai trees or orchids, they suck the water up so fast you can watch the level drop, and their leaves are plump and green again within minutes. I’d been scared that I’d got into lazy habits, and would never quite get back to my normal self again. As I get better, though, I find that I don’t have to fore myself to do things. I’ve regained my ability to feel enthusiasm.

My novel is lying fallow as I churn out quick, simple spanking tales. It’s part of my plan to trick myself into activity by ignoring anything big and scary. Bank statements, work emails, overdue library books, dresses in need of mending, car insurance renewals, letters from the hospital, rising damp, difficult texts and emails asking about scheduling are all being ignored. New creative projects without an identifiable market (or competitors), pretty dresses, photo shoots, trips to the swimming pool and double macchiatos are all being pursued with enthusiasm.have to fore myself to do things. I’ve regained my ability to feel enthusiasm.

This is great progress. Every couple of days I find myself swept on a wave of activity, planning and general fizz at the possibilities. I rush to the library, type fast through lunch, read stories, type more, edit. I leave light headed, wondering why I’m hungry, and sometimes convince the lover to buy me a piece of cake and more coffee at the station, while I tell him about the exciting things I’ve done, the exciting things I’m planning. At home, I fiddle with another aspect of the project, or another project entirely. The lover makes me dinner, points out it’s time for bed. I don’t want to sleep, I want to tell him about all the new ideas I’ve had, I want him to tell me how to fix a technical problem or who is going to want this anyway, when I’ve finished it. Then, with the sudden, horrible thought that I’m wasting my time, real life comes crashing in. I still haven’t returned my library books, my aunt’s phone calls, the school skirts from Marks and Spencer. I’m not earning enough to pay the bills, and I’m concentrating all my efforts on pointless projects. I’m tired and my eyes hurt. I lie awake thinking up new ideas I don’t write down because the rising bubble they make in my stomach is soon popped by the thought of what I’m going to say to the doctors, or how I’m going to make it to work with this headache.

migraine

Twice last week I managed to whip the stress to such a pitch that I gave myself a migraine. The day-glo cherry on top was that, one of those times, the cost of migraine drugs was a contributing anxiety.

I suspect a bit of mania can be good for writing, but how does one integrate it into kink? I have the enthusiasm for play, without any level-headedness, without the self-awareness to negotiate, to subtly move the scene along, or provide self-care. My recent scenes have been a bit hit-and-miss, and when they have worked I deflate immediately afterwards, starving, exhausted, confused. So that’s another worry to keep me up at night. How long can I carry on writing about kink, without doing any?

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Written by Not an Odalisque

March 5, 2013 at 2:04 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged with , , ,

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