Here I am, back from the interior badlands just in time to see Clint Eastwood raving at an empty chair–odd behavior, even when you disregard the venue. The political scene frightens me these days. This is what the terrain looks like when truth no longer exists to mark the path, when facts are pecked up and swallowed like so many breadcrumbs on the road to Babel. I think it’s best to avoid the news until after the election; easy enough, when the news is so fucking hard to find.
Fear has been seeping in from other sources as well. My husband finished his truck driving school and he’s got a new job which will put him on the road for weeks at a time, so it’ll be just me and my son in a dark house most nights. What feels like a warm safe nest with my husband nearby will soon become a creaking house of horrors, and I’ll begin the nightly patrol of closets and other potential hiding places where the big misters could lurk, because as the lone adult in a house I am a chicken-shit scaredy-cat.
In other news, I am writing. If you can call it writing. I spent several days drafting and deleting emails to August, six in all, begging for his help in plotting this slippery little fucker. I’ve read every writing book I can lay my hands on. I’ve collected encouraging quotes, and immersed myself in Steinbeck and Joyce Carol Oates. A few days ago, a watery ray of light shone through and I scrapped my plot and replaced it with a story. Then I drafted and deleted an email to Tetman (calling all daddies) pleading for advice on how to write a book. What the fuck. I’ve written three.
This is fear, conspiring against me. Fear of writing, or of being unable to write. Fear of failure, or success, or unbearable triteness. Fear of my own indolent nature which would have me wandering around the park all day or farm-stand hopping across the countryside with a basket over my arm and two Heidi braids trailing down. Fear of having nothing to say, of saying too much. Fear of saying the right thing wrong.
Fear of the dark, which is what it all comes down to in the end.
You are alone in a dark house. What do you do?
Photograph by Todd Hido
I understand, but as a person who’s lived alone for much of the time over the last 10 years, I have to tell you that getting over fear of the dark is GREAT. You can do it. When you described living in your house, with just your son, a wave of coziness swept over me. Do you have a fireplace? Bring in little lights, and flame — there is nothing like the thrill of candles and pools of lamplight in a dark house. Be the light. You are already, although you may not know it.
I do have a fireplace, and lots of candles. And actually it does sound pretty cozy now that you mention it. I used to live alone and it was fine–I’m sure it will be fine again once I get used to checking the closets every night.
XO
I turn on all the lights, keep my phone handy, and write about strong women.
And that’s the upside: lots of writing time, lots of quiet thinking time.
I’m with Jody above …. I love a dark, quiet house. Two weeks ago, my husband was out of town and I had a man here painting the sliding doors during the days. To paint them, he had to take them off, prime them the first day, and paint them the next. So I had 2 nights, home alone, with no doors on my living room or kitchen. I slept like a baby.
I am such a chicken! I’d have needed a door to lock behind me before I could have slept a wink. I am officially eight years old.
I’m also 8 years old, because hey, come on, I’m not really alone. I live with 2 giant dogs, and while they’re sweet as sugar the oldest one sounds awfully fierce when a stranger comes near.
You know, we’ve been thinking about getting a dog. An unscrupulous wife would say, Honey, I’m frightened without you, I’ll feel better with a dog in the house. . . .
Do it!
When I lived in a city and my roommates were gone, I would use my cat as a barometer. Noises that didn’t worry her didn’t worry me. (Oh and having a cat is also great because you hear something weird at night and the cat is not on your bed, you can just blame the cat.)
independentclause, i know just what you mean. my wife and i don’t have dogs but we do have cats. if there’s an odd noise and the cats don’t alert, neither do we. if the cats alert and we haven’t heard anything, we check anyway.
We would totally have cats if we were not all violently allergic. They seem like such low-maintenance pets, so calm and independent.
Averil, I like dogs but I prefer cats for the low-maintenance reasons. They bathe themselves, bury their own shit, never shout, and are not sycophantic. They know only that which is important. I’m terribly allergic to them and am on medication for that. For a long time mine were outdoor cats but then I started moving around and my wife moved in with me and I have my cats and she has her cats and they come in and out and I told her a few days ago if anyone asks us how many cats we have, we can just say, “All of them.” We have the legal limit for our jurisdiction. We had a nasty neighbor in our previous place who claimed our cats were hanging out under the streetlamp, smoking cigarettes and playing with switchblades and making rude comments at the girls passing by. She filed charges but those were not our cats and we had the charges dismissed.
It sounds as if you’re enjoying your new neighborhood, Tetman. Did you load up all the cats for a drive-by past your crotchety neighbor’s house after the charges were dismissed?
I stay in my room. The dark doesn’t usually bother me because I live alone and am used to the darkness. For all the things that frighten me, walking in the dark (outside or in the house) doesn’t bother me. Surprise there. My lack of ability scares me more. I fear failure more than anything or getting sick and not being able to fix myself. Now that stuff keeps me awake.
As for the writing, I’m to the point in my wip where I’m starting to question my direction. The drafting and brainstorming made it seem plausible, but I’m worried the writing is contrived. Like a “what the hell am I doing” moment. There are about 500-1000 words that I’m no longer sure fit. Writing is damn hard stuff. *sigh*
Oddly, I am more afraid inside the house than out. There’s a little pocket of woods I encounter every day on my walk, and though it looks a bit spooky after dark, there isn’t the same feeling of being cornered.
In other news, YES. Writing is damn hard. But if you’re deleting that means you’re moving forward. I’m jettisoning material as fast as I can write it and it still feels better than sitting around assessing the situation.
I overindulge in any vice I can get my greasy fingers on, turn up the music, and dance. Then again, it has been a long, long time since I’ve actually been alone. Maybe I’m not remembering right. Maybe I”d wander from room to room crying like a clown. I’d like to find out!
When you wrote about “my own indolent nature which would have me wandering around the park all day or farm-stand hopping across the countryside with a basket over my arm and two Heidi braids trailing down” = oh you killed me with that line!
Oh yeah, the vices. I’d forgotten about those.
(Shopping list additions: vodka, Bic lighter, pack of batteries.)
I have a very big dog.
Hmm, now there’s an idea.
“You are alone in a dark house. What do you do?”
Whack off (it’s a guy thing).
I should’ve seen that coming. (heh-heh)
Okay, I went back and actually read your post and the comments. Here’s some whats:
1. Get a dog. Dog is man’s best friend, but dog is an even greater friend to woman. Plus, with a dog, you’ll have to go out and take a walk every day. Then it’s not you slacking off, it’s you walking the dog.
2. When you’re not walking the dog, sit your ass in your writing spot and write. Don’t stop yourself. Only you can stop you. So don’t. Sit your ass down and write your fingers to the bone.
3. Jesus Fucking Christ, you’re thinking of asking me how to write a book? I’ve written twenty of the fuckers (more or less, though maybe ten of those were the same story over and over (I had issues)) and I’ve had exactly one published. And it has sold exactly eleven (11) copies. So if you’re asking me how to write a book, you maybe are desperate.
4. How to write a book? You’ll need something to write with, something to write on, somewhere to write at, and time to write. Then you sit down and you write. You make sure as you are writing your book that everything you are putting in follows from something you’ve already put in, though at the very start, you have to start with something that hooks. You know the story you want to tell. It’s there. The whole thing, it’s there. Help it be born. It’s hard work. It’s a task dauntiful. Some days are better than others. You know all this. Hell, some weeks are better than others. Some months, even. But you do it. You stick to it. You trust yourself. Trust. Your. Self. Write your heart out and you’ll craft something worth reading.
5. When you need a break, walk the dog.
I keep thinking that other writers have figured out the abracadabra and could pass on the trade secrets. But it’s all just, Sit DOWN, Averil, and write. Pfft. Where’s the golden key, for fuck’s sake? Where’s the magic wand?
And yes, you’re right about the dog. I’m getting one. As soon as I save some money for the rental deposit and sweet-talk my husband into agreeing. I’ll put my son on the case and let him do the pestering, he’s pretty good at that.
XO
I don’t know very many trade secrets, but here’s one: What you’re doing is called Composition.
Composition, not Procrastination?
Update: The hubby agrees! Now I just need the dolla-dolla bills.
The political climate is contributing to my depression. It’s embarrassing to say, but the Eastwood thing made me feel like I’d been punched in the gut. If he’s not suffering from some condition that’s caught up to him in public, and if he hadn’t done it and was watching someone else do it, I wonder if he would think it was as strange and incomprehensible an act as we do? Despite his politics, I’d been thinking of him as an reasonably intelligent and sensitive artist. His public meltdown somehow fuels my doubts about myself as a writer and a person who thinks she knows how to communicate. Is that an insane stretch? The poitical landscape makes me feel like I can’t get my feet on solid ground. I’ve been looking away a lot.
When it comes to the dark, more so than the day, I’m always muting the TV or the music because I heard a noise. But that fear is secondary for me. It’s the little things in the dark that make it hard for me to calm down and sleep. I have so many angles of discomfort wrapped around that, that I wish I’d grown up barefoot in the country.
I had no idea about Eastwood’s politics before he explained himself to an empty chair. I’d worry for his mental health except that I believe he’s still working and therefore presumably he’s doing well, and is just another run-of-the-mill wingnut asshole who’d rather talk to an imaginary person than have an actual conversation. If it turns out his health is taking a turn for the worse, he has my sincere apology.
It’s not the closets you need to worry about, it’s the spaces under the beds.
And Eastwood turns out to be one Big Mister that has lost my respect. Though, honestly, I was getting pretty tired of him anyway.
The beds are secure, not enough room under there even for skinny Clint Eastwood. But I do wish Lyra had not mentioned the shower curtains.
I have a fierce and loyal dog. Not a big mister, an alpha female. There’s just nothing like her company in the lonely times, writing or not.
I once spent a week dog-sitting for a friend who had a huge poodle (a standard poodle, is that right?). Before that, I never realized what good company a dog can be. He was such an easygoing guy, a big goofball.
What kind of dog do you have, CJ?
A rescue-half chow and half Keeshond–she is beautiful, thoughtful and very aware of her turf–only barks when strangers come calling. So when my husband is gone she is quite the solace. And walking her is a real workout. She’s a spitz so she likes to pull.
My husband worked afternoon/night shifts for the first nine years we were married…we had three kids within the first five years, so it was me and three kids alone at night. I was ok and not ok off and on…panic attacks for no reason at times and just fine at others. Very strange and I don’t think wholly a product of being alone. I’m a suck it up and do what I have to do person (after I whine a little), so I can’t even recall how I made it. It was a day-by-day experience. I had (still have) a pug/fox terrier that wasn’t any sort of guard dog, but great comfort when she’d lay in bed with me at night.
On another note, I never watch the news, I assume it’s missing half the facts or they’re twisted or it’s depressing. And likewise I’ve given up on the politics.
I would imagine that with three little ones in five years, exhaustion played a part in making some of those nights okay, and some of them fraught. It’s weird the way things intensify after dark. I spent half of last night awake myself, worrying about this and that, but this morning I’m fine.
I like your suck-it-up mentality, Jennine, you badass you. Lead on.
I feel for you. I spent years of nights being scared. I invested in a wireless alarm (can be installed without hardwiring so no damage) and kept a bat near my bed. It helped me sleep a bit better knowing I would wake up if someone did try to get in and I didn’t have to be vigilant of every sound. Home Depot and Lowes sell window/door alarms and motion detectors at not too bad prices. It was a hell of a journey through my anxiety, but I (finally) came out on the other side of not being scared all the time. Maybe that’s what you’re meant to do?
If all else fails, you can Skype me in the middle of the night for a chat. I’m probably 10 hours ahead of west coast time.
Alarms are good too, though they’re not warm and furry and don’t insist on dragging your ass out of the house every day. They also don’t shit on the carpet, so there’s that.
Ha! How true. I had a puppy that liked to chew cupboard corners too, no matter how many chew toys were available. The hub would like to build in the middle of nowhere, so I’m already lobbying for another furry creature. He’s surprisingly receptive to the idea. Then I can fly back and forth over the ocean with a cat and a dog….
I like writing the short stories. Someone takes off their clothes. They do it. Will they do it again? They will! They will do it again! But when?
Smut sister! Welcome to the dark side.
I LOVE IT HERE!!!
Well, I hope so, because smut-writing comes with a label that’s difficult to remove.
I like money. We’ll see. This may be a dead end, but it’s been a fun couple of weeks.
Anxiety is a horrible thing. It’s good to see the cures here, whether for writing or the dark. For me the fear is all that space around the writing, a void of silence. Brr.
Yes, fear of the dark. The void, which is not so empty as it would appear. Something scary lives there, Helen, something I don’t want to meet.
I panic and check behind the shower curtain, under the bed, in the closets and don’t let me begin on the basement.
Have you read Alice Munro? Just thought of her as you mentioned Joyce Carol Oates. She is the mother of all short story writers and I think psychologically very dark, something to keep your brain busy so you remember that you don’t need August or Tetman (no offense, gentlemen) to give you permission to do what you already know how to do.
I’ve read some of Alice Munro’s work and liked it, though I didn’t feel as intensely connected to her work as I do with JCO. Still, she’s a wonderful writer with plenty to teach me.
Thank god we don’t have a basement.
Don’t you dare let fear take over. You are where you are. Tell that to your motherfucker fears.
Oops. Did I just blurt that out? Sorry about that. I love you, Averil. You are my poet, the one who makes the reader in me wake up. Anything that undermines that is evil in my world. Get a dog. A big, furry one that knows how to protect and can detect badness miles away. My mom had those kind. She’d let them lick her between her toes, even. I always got groded (sp?) out by that.
Aww, I love you back, MSB, from the bottom of my cowardly heart.
XOXO
When I’m alone in the dark house, I apparently don’t write. Spent so much time sitting at my writing desk this weekend, yet accomplished so very very little.
It’s like meditation, when you’re supposed to think of one thing (or nothing) and your brain refuses to cooperate. So frustrating.
Okay. That’s it. Time to fall in love. http://www.goldenbondrescue.com
Oh! How did you know? My favorite breed!
So many sweet faces! I was just reading the bios, so many given up because their families could no longer care for them.
Note to self: Look away! You already have 2! Look away!
I’ve been looking through the Humane Society’s page, feeling awful for some of those poor creatures.
Your writing, even as you write about anxiety, is like a swim in a cool, clear pool.
I don’t get afraid like I used to. Is it the drugs smoothing out the edges? The protection of cats? The fact that I’m far more like a guy than I care to admit?
grilled windows help a lot. I don’t know how Americans in movies with screen doors and filmsy windows on their porches ever sleep at night.