Existential Angst

The Obsessive Diary - Oct 2nd - 9th

I finished a shitty first draft the day before yesterday and hey presto, like clockwork, yesterday I fell off an emotional cliff, caught somewhat by two Sams. It always happens; not the being caught by two Sams but the falling off. I’m locked in. I get to the end. I have a small cry. I wake up the next morning and am hit by a gust of such existential angst and, What’s the fucking point that it knocks me right off my pins.

I should be used to it by now. I should have learnt to step away from the edge. Sam Jordison inadvertently threw out a net at the beginning of our conversation - we’d started talking before we went on air, and my answer to his question, How are you? crossed the border of the green room and took up the first five minutes of our chat (sorry about that, Sam 😂). And then the other Sam, my friend who I’ve known for a thousand years, rang from LA, about to start his own writing day, and put out two arms; one of which allowed me to moan while the other gave me a hug and told me to take a break. It occurred to me this morning that if I stopped trying so hard to prove I deserve to be here, I might not get so tired.

Then again, I’m human, and as the voices told me distinctly as I walked on the beach, it’s a pretty exclusive club. We all know what the chances are of a blink and you’ll miss it lifetime on this planet. As near zero as damn it. And as a human person? Rare as hell. I know, I know, Pol Pot and Myra Hindley, but look who else has been a member. David Bowie! Kate Bush! Nye Bevan! Not bad as clubs go. I’ve been comforting myself with the thought that I share the dressing room with some pretty amazing people (as well as the awful ones), that being human is falling all over, and being a person is failing better.

Now I expect you’re thinking, What is she talking about? Didn’t she just say she finished a first draft? I did say that and I can’t explain it. What would be expected to be a reason for celebration is always a cause for me to bury my head. I think it must be something to do with exhaustion, and my go-to embattlement when my defences are down. Another voice told me in the car as I drove back from sitting on the beach, If you want to stop feeling like such a victim, you could try not attacking yourself. Fuck you and your rational, inarguable wisdom. Whatever.

Yesterday was a pity party day.

I sat at a wooden table on the beach and watched a bevvy of old women walking in the sea. I dunked croissant into my café crème and judged the ocean liner cruise ship for taking too much space. A man on a hover board appeared like a film on repeat. A child in a green Hulk sweatshirt ran after his mother, shouting at the dog. A woman wished me, Bonjour, sat at the table beside me, and ate a huge ice cream fudge sundae dripping with chocolate sauce.

Then I came home and spent over an hour in conversation with

SamJordison

. I wanted to get the thorny issue of The Polari Prize out on the table. We did that, and more. Here’s the recording for the full conversation. We talked about book banning, the cancellation culture wars, and what advice he gives his authors. We also managed to squeeze in at the end a quick note about the short story prize he’s running at Galley Beggar Press. It’s a prestigious competition, past winners have gone on to glory, and he was keen to keep the submissions coming. If you’ve a short story that fits the brief, send it in now. Deadline is November 8th.

That’s it for now. Another day rolls around and I’ve begun notes on another novel. As ever, their bark is worse than their bite. I think I’m going to be okay.

Eleanor