Day 4

I woke up feeling pretty rough this morning. I’d had a bad night’s sleep, and even went in search of a thermometer around 5 am; my temperature was normal, but I still felt like shit. Things weren’t much improved when I got up, just before 9. I took an inventory of my symptoms – swollen glands, achy head, heavy limbs and a feeling of generalised vagueness – and decided to allow myself a full day of crappiness, a day to give into it, indulge it, on the condition that I’d be fine tomorrow. (I adopted this strategy a few years ago, and it very rarely fails; except, as demonstrated recently, in the case of muscle strain, which you can read all about here.)

I made myself a cup of tea (I couldn’t face coffee yet), drank it while checking my email, and dragged myself over to Eleni’s – my friend and neighbour, hostess of extraordinary dinner parties, and fellow solitary dweller in the Sifnos autumn. Eleni took a break from washing up the dishes from last night’s dinner, made us both coffee, wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, and we sat down in her back yard. And then she asked me what I was planning to write during the next 96 days of solitude, and a really nice thing happened: as I tried to put an array of scattered, half-formed ideas into words that made sense, I began to notice a change come over me. Antagonist was mercifully absent (I suspect she’s still sulking because I dared stand up to her yesterday) and I found my voice getting a little bit louder, my gestures more and more animated (I had to throw off Eleni’s shawl so as not to overheat) and, for the first time in weeks, I actually felt excited about what I’m doing. What I will be doing. What I might achieve.

Because, even when the isolation isn’t physical, even when you haven’t given up your life to be a recluse on a Greek island, writing is a very lonely occupation. You have no colleagues, but your office space is shared with countless horrible little demons of self-doubt, and insecurity, despondency and hopelessness. And they’re not very supportive at all. It’s hard enough pouring your soul into something that may just come to absolutely nothing, without feeling that no one gives a shit, one way or the other. You need accountability, and sometimes all it takes is someone to show an interest, ask a question or two, acknowledge this scary, crazy thing you’re doing. And it keeps the demons quiet for a little while.

I left Eleni’s house knowing that I would produce no great writing today, but with renewed hope that, on another day, I might. Any day now. I just might. 

So today turned out to be a good day, after all; the crappiness has been fully and pleasantly indulged, and I haven’t heard a peep from my demons. I’m pretty sure they’ve gone off to find Antagonist, and together they are plotting how to bring about my demise. Let them. I will be ready to fight them again tomorrow when, as agreed, I will be fine.