I keep waiting for the time to arrive but it's not coming so the frustration is growing. And then I wonder - will it ever arrive and if it never does, does it even matter? And then I quantify the mounting pressure and realise that if it doesn't soon then I shall spontaneously combust, and I would rather not go before my time. So I should start to find a way to create the time. I think - am I an idiot for moving back to Paris? And the immediate answer is a small yes followed by a resounding NO. For Paris, to me, is life, frustrating and wonderful and fucked up and tear-jerkingly beautiful. At least, when nothing make sense I can look around me and know that I am alive - I am certainly not nowhere. But how to survive and to actually make the work? This I do not know. I just noticed I am saying do not and shall and that is because I have started reading again and there are the voices. I don't need to add any more voices in there since I began writing the book because my characters kept speaking like Bukoswki or Carver or whomever it was - whom? -seriously? but now the fact I am writing this right now is better than the fear of sounding like someone else. Miranda July in this case. She has such a beautiful, gentle way of writing. Like the way she speaks.
Anyway - the time. Finding the time. In Shakespeare it has two syllables. Ti-me. Time is funny because it's when you think you've got none that you have some - for example, when I'm flat out working on say the translation of a 70 page document on a guidelines brochure for an electrical company suddenly I get an idea and it can come out all clear then - and be fine. Mostly not, but it does happen. I think I've been most productive at times of crazy affluence.
Which leads me to the question - self - why the desert? Why so long dry? There is stuff swelling in there but i keep quashing it in order to be available or something. Ah it's starting to make me angry - secretive and hard and resentful - and I don't want that. I have to change. I have to find a way to change.