Stephen Fry once said you could get away with one article like this in your lifetime. This is my second, at least; this is my first. But don’t think I’m treading water: I’m actually practicing autotextualization.
Of course, since moving out to Witney I’ve got a good deal accomplished. I’m now in a band, and if that’s moving slowly then it’s because of trying to do everything else, plus the difficulty of not being able to drive into Oxford with all my kit of an evening. I’ve stepped up my music buying (if not necessarily my gig-going) and written, at my most prolific, a book review a week, one of which was typically syndicated by ReadReverb. I’ll hopefully be writing for the nascent company blog, and also for a personal blog that I’ll be willing to put my name to, once it has enough content.
Planning the wedding has become, though, a veritable project these past few months, by which I mean: it has needed time, planning, hard work, communication and everything else a HR-defined project involves. Yes, I should’ve known in advance that this would happen, and on one level I did: all I’m saying is that I ought to have begun a Gantt chart a few months ago. The invite alone became a publishing venture which is only now coming to a close as we enter the distribution phase: envelopes don’t write themselves; entertainment doesn’t book itself; details don’t check themselves; maps don’t draw themselves. Each problem has been unpacked to yield further, smaller problems, ad nauseam rather than ad infinitum. I hope that by now K. and I are, at least qualitatively, contributing equally to the preparations; at the same time I hope she’s suffering less than I, but I doubt it.
Still, by reclassifying everything I’m doing—putting invites together, technical posts etc.—as being a real writor (pace Thicky Liberman), or at any rate content production, I can claim that I’ve met all my extra-curricular targets since moving out here. Alternatively, by looking ahead to late June, I can see a time when I will be stunned by the sheer lack of tasks most evenings, possibly stunned out of this silence in which I find myself. At that point I hope to start writing again, seriously and with long-term plans, and more than criticism of other people’s work too.
In other news, I have yet to receive the pony I wished for eleven months ago.