When not all your heart's in it...
Something of a 'ramble' as I stare into a compromised future.
It turns out my recent heart procedure wasn’t 100% successful — which means I’m once again pumping at about 80-90 percent capacity. Although that will slow me down, I’m told it won’t kill me. There’s a further procedure which has a success rate of 75%-85% percent, but a) is more invasive, and b) can (in <3% of cases) cause permanent damage. And even if successful, my current regime of pills wouldn’t change — and the fix might only last a maximum of about 10 years.
As much as I love probability and numbers, I can’t be bothered to try and work through all of that; I’d much rather go on how I feel. And right now that’s pretty good.
So there’s a ‘new normal’ on the horizon which should require only minor tweaks in lifestyle… and in any case, the more radical option never really goes away — or probably not until I’m too old to care..!
This lack of a perfect outcome and the need to adjust to practical realities — especially how one ‘feels’ — is also part-and-parcel of the Writing Life.
We never create something ‘perfect’ i.e. there’s always a defect somewhere. And however much we would like to adopt a particular approach to our work (in terms of projects/hours/words etc.) the mechanics of living will always trespass on our plans. Of course, beyond all of that — irrespective of whatever dubious logic we concoct to drive ourselves forwards — whether we ‘succeed’ or ‘fail’ will be based upon how we feel about our work.
As I walked down Lincoln High Street after seeing the cardiologist, I was feeling surprisingly okay with his less-than-ideal message. “It is what it is” a clichéd voice whispered in my ear. Of course, none of the hundreds of people I walked by had any idea about my situation — and even if they had, they probably wouldn’t have cared that much. Doesn’t everyone have ‘their own fish to fry’? I certainly saw a lot of obvious ‘burden carriers’…
It’s a scenario which is also a lot like writing, isn’t it? Ultimately no-one cares as much as you do (about your health or your writing) and because of that, I think taking committed ownership to both has to be our duty of care to ourselves.
Right now doing so feels like needing to deconstruct my ‘new normal’ and then embracing it; and on the back of that, recognising that what I write has — perhaps more than ever before — to be what I want to write, what I believe in, what ‘feels’ right, and what fits with that new reality. And that includes everything implied by that new reality (a bit like never being able to run another marathon).
It has always been that way of course: just occasionally something crops up which forces you to stand back and re-assess, re-adjust. Marriage/divorce and births/deaths are probably the most significant interruptions our [writing] lives face. We are forced to confront them, try to manage our way through the change (both positive and negative), recognise how the future will be different, then move on.
This is the commonly accepted change curve, and the key is surely to arrive at ‘experiment’ as soon as possible. To be honest, I think I was already there by the time I was on the bus back home…
Perhaps we can apply the same curve to our writing where ‘shock’ is akin to realising something we’ve written isn’t very good, or is rejected by an agent or publisher, or fails to win any laurels in that competition where we were certain it was a ‘shoe in’. These are all small scale setbacks of course, but the majority of writers suffer the weight of the cumulative. In various ways, I have offered my work up around 100 times this year for less-than-ideal — but still precious! — reward. That’s an awful lot of shock-denial-frustration etc.!
What else is there to do other than face into it, ‘own’ it, move on?
As I sit here, I’m still not entirely sure what that now looks like.
One thing I’m not going to do is to postpone contemplation until 1st January, turn it into to some kind of ‘resolution’.
My mind was already whirring before I’d left the consultant’s office. Perhaps as soon as he finished the sentence starting “I’m afraid…”. Who knows?
And maybe knowing is the key part of the jigsaw; when you know something you can work with it, do something about it. If you discover you’re an alcoholic you can choose to try and stop drinking; if you’re overweight, you can choose to try and diet etc.
I know something now I didn’t a few hours ago.
Accept it; own it. Buckle up. Let’s go!
Being candid about your health can open a can of worms as others’ stories wriggle their, largely unwanted, way into the light.
Here’s my wriggling tale, for what it’s worth with apologies for its length…..
Firstly…..
A serious road traffic accident – fractured sternum and spine, post-traumatic stress, depression.
Earning my living by selling my artwork and poetry at events up and down the country was postponed. The day I came out of hospital I wrote my first short story and set myself the target of achieving something that I would never have achieved had I not had the accident. My aim was to win a decent literary award within two years and write a book. I was fortunate enough to achieve both – Cheshire Prize for Literature (first), Write Time (first), Welkin Prize (best new writer), Wrekin Prize (second), Henshaw Prize (third) and various other shortlistings/longlistings, plus poetry success with O’beal (third) Erbacce (longlist), Elmbridge (highly commended), et al. And my book ‘Devils in the Switchgrass’ comprises 30 of my sixty-odd short stories so far.
Secondly…..
Having regained strength I decided to exhibit at some local events and took my art work plus my new book to sell alongside my already popular ‘coffee-table’ book of poetry and images. All was set for my ‘comeback’. It felt good to be let loose upon the unsuspecting public again after such a long break.
In the night before the final day of the show, I experienced a severe pain in my left shoulder which refused to subside. I joked about a heart attack. Armed with painkillers and a ‘never say die’ attitude, I attended the the show determined to dose myself up later to enable me to reload my car more easily. I didn’t get that far. I collapsed with the intense pain and became unconscious and incontinent. I began to vomit and become hot then cold. An emergency ambulance whisked me off on ‘blues and twos’. It transpired I had not had a heart attack but overnight observation revealed a heart rate that kept dipping to 20 beats per minute plus unscheduled tea-breaks. I already had high blood pressure, an enlarged heart, AF, two leaking valves and probably a partridge in a pear tree but I now have a dinky little pacemaker as well, fitted the very next day. God bless the NHS for looking after me so swiftly and well. A month on and I now feel better than I’ve felt for years and my previously undiagnosed heart condition finally explains my car accident.
We can’t all be robust Hemingways but perhaps many writers are fragile, physically, mentally or both, which could explain their love of writing. Hang on though, wasn’t Hemingway seriously injured in the First World War and didn’t the trauma of that echo through his writing? Discuss under the following heading: The role of trauma in producing excellence in literature.
Ian,
What an incredible attitude. Love to hear this positivity under the adversity. My wife is a champion of this approach and with her thyroid cancer, heart issues, seriously compromised immune system, she carries on with yoga, walking, exercising as she can, and a great positive approach to what life has presented to her. Good and bad. Attitude is everything. In writing and in life. I wish you the very best.