I’ve taken refuge in mundanity. Maybe this is what David Foster Wallace was trying to grasp as he struggled to grip the subtle wisps of insight and capital ‘T’ Truth that were intended for The Pale King. In no way do I hope for some comparison with DFW – that just seems utterly ridiculous to me. But I like the idea that meaning and fulfilment are not locked away behind the barriers of wealth and success but are instead merely shrouded inside us by our yearning for acceptance in something greater than ourselves.  

These past few weeks while avoiding work on the ‘thrilling conclusion’, I’ve taken great comfort in several seemingly tedious tasks. I water the garden and ‘observe’ what is growing. I wash the car. I’ll do dishes and laundry as an excuse to move around and stand up. I’ll play with the cat – not that he cares much for my interest unless it’s on his terms. I read. And I stare at nothing and think about nothing and feel altogether calm for a split second before my mind reminds me that time is precious and that I should be more productive.  

The part of me that is frustrated by stillness rarely wins on a day-to-day basis. However, when I’m left only to my thoughts I find that I struggle to stave off the needs of activity and the sense of achievement that might accompany it, no matter how idiotic my thoughts might be. I want nothing more than to sit and feel as though there is nothing that needs to be done, yet I know that sitting is not the most convincing means to that end. Maybe that’s the real problem in this day and age.

Are you ready for it?

I’m about to give you a sweeping statement where I equate my limited life experience to some grandiose assertion about the state of modern life.

Here it comes.

I think we’re addicted to praise. I mean praise in the broadest possible sense of the word. It’s not just a bland congratuwelldone, it’s something far simpler and easier to accumulate regularly. Recognition is praise. It is praise for the fact that we exist, that someone might take the time to remember that we’re a specific thing amidst the messy swamp of life. I think that people are obsessed by this. We are totally preoccupied by the hope that other people think similar things to us and that we might have kindred spirits out in the world.

It’s not like this is all bad or anything. It’s just something that I’m realising about myself, in that I publicly struggle with being singled out but I like to be recognised for my efforts. I find praise both exciting and distressing. I want it to be mine and yet I refuse to believe that it is mine.

I’ve just finished reading Ernest Cline’s second novel ‘Armada’. His first novel ‘Ready Player One’ was a real adventure ride. It won awards, is being made into a film directed by Steven Spielberg, and was an undeniable success. And it’s in finished his second book that I started to really get a hint of what he might have been thinking while trying to put ‘Armada’ together.

There would have been pressure – expectations. Some might have even had hopes and dreams riding on it. Now, that doesn’t change what he set out to write. But there no way that it wouldn’t change the feeling that shaped his process.

I don’t have a wildly successful book and the pressure that comes along with it. I have a book that has been reviewed remarkably well by the small cluster of people who have read it, which is undeniably exciting for me. I’m lucky in that the sequel is completely drafted and largely polished. However, as I distract myself from completing the series, wandering in my garden in the hope that I might order my thoughts a little better – mentally shuffle the pages of my ideas – I am starting to feel a little edgy about what my, no doubt rabid, fans might think of what I do. I hope that what I write can live up to the expectations of others. I hope that it is different enough – big enough – that it might demonstrate my growth as a writer.

While I gather my wits – slowly – I hope that I can continue to take joy and comfort in the simple things that have given my day-to-day shape and meaning over the last few weeks.

Who knows?

In the infamous words of Kurt Vonnegut: “And so on…”