Rachel Watts's Blog, page 5

Why I can’t sleep at night

I have a nervous little dog. We rescued him from the shelter, where he was frightened and trying to be a bigger, meaner dog than he really was to look tough in front of the other dogs. We took him home and I proceeded to love him into submission. He bit me on the first day.

About 18 months later, he’s like a new dog. He’s on medicine for his nerves, we’ve had a special trainer come and give us advice and we’ve changed a few habits. He goes up to sniff visitors instead of snarling at them. He acts like the sky is falling every time he sees the postman, but generally he’s a much calmer dog.

We close him in the front room at night. Our house is an old brick and tin workers cottage. A long hallway and four rooms off it are the original house. It’s old, the original house, but we have no idea how old. The floorboards are uneven, and even the lightest middle-of-the-night step will make a loud groan. The internal walls are brick and every one of them is warped, or kinked where repairs have been botched over the years. There isn’t a right angle in the place. In winter the house is 5 degrees colder than outside. In summer, 5 degrees hotter.

The front room holds the heat from the heater for a long time in the evening, so we close the dog in there where he’ll be warm and will have somewhere cozy to sleep. That way the cat can walk about the house without fear from the dog. And the dog won’t be whining at our door all night.

The dog has problems with doors closing. He has problems being alone. When I tell him “stay” in his room each night I see his head droop a little. Routine and reassurance are of utmost important, so I always close him in there last thing, after I’ve brushed my teeth and turned out the lights. Always in the same way, with the same words.

“Stay. Good boy. Go to sleep. Good Boy,” I say as I back out of the room.

“See you in the morning.”

Over the past couple of months I’ve changed it. Partly just because I’m irritated by repetition, I’ve left off the “see you in the morning”. But in my head, it’s still there.

Because our house is old and creaks and groans it never seems entirely quiet, never entirely at rest. So now that I don’t complete the routine, it’s clear, Technicolor clear, that the house completes it for me.

“Stay. Good boy. Go to sleep. Good boy,” I say as I back out of the room.

And a low growl drifts down the hallway. Or worse, it’s right right behind me. Right in my ear. As I back into the dark hall.

“We’ll see you in the morning.”

A little life: The Year of the Scavenger

I’m reading Hanya Yanagihara’s novel A Little Life and I’m thinking about this little life of mine, the arts, and the starving artist trope. (Hi, how are you by the way, long time no write and all of that.) If you haven’t read Yanagihara’s novel it’s well worth doing so, I’m only a couple of chapters into it but find myself endeared to the New York City lives of his characters, struggling to find a place to live and a place to belong.

Finding a place to belong occupies more of my own time than I’d care to admit. And I never thought I would discover this, but a lot of the place I carve out in the world is to do with my work.

This post has been bubbling up for a while and I’ve pondered the wisdom of posting it because it will probably sound like a bit of a whinge, which I suppose it is in a way but also isn’t, or at least isn’t intended to be so. Anyway, best of intentions being what they are, forgive this whinge because I suspect the need to air this is what has kept me from blogging for so long.

I’m studying full time at the moment, and writing. I’m studying writing though, so the pair go hand in hand, though I find myself staring at a computer more often than not wondering what to do with it and whether I should be writing something to submit for print, or whether I should be researching, or looking for some kind of paid work because holy hell this level of financial stress is actually making me insane. And then I panic a little bit because it feels like there’s no correct answer and I should be doing all the things all the time and making sure there’s something for dinner because it’s not like I work to make myself useful, all of the writing and study is just jolly japes, after all.

But most importantly I am discovering this idea of having worth. And it’s such a complicated thing because part of it is dragged down by depression and my own habits of thinking but it is also partly informed by what I contribute to the world. And what I contribute to the world, right now? Nothing.

Nothing.

Let’s qualify that, though, because you’re no doubt sitting aghast wondering if I’m as mental as I sound (actually, much more so, but that’s by the by). I contribute nothing to the world that the world actually wants. On occasion, and I’m so grateful for these moments, they make so much of the shit and the soul searching worthwhile, someone in the world sees my work and realises actually it hadn’t occurred to them until this very moment but they do want what a have after all. But in terms of actual demand? Nothing.

I was chatting to a friend about this on the weekend, not in so many words, but idle chit chat about the way my income is, which is largely non-existent and so irregular that I can’t plan anything beyond lunchtime. Her response was surely there’s no-one in my field in the position of being able to rely on a regular income. And she’s probably right.

No regular income. No superannuation. No savings. No safety net. Wheeeeeeee! But seriously. I’ve been knocked back for graveyard shift work at the airport which didn’t make me feel awesome. I was listening to David Bowie while dying/running the other day and I realised this year is the Year of the Scavenger. I have to say yes to everything. I’ve picked up a few casual hours here and there, thank god, and my partner looks after keeping a roof over our heads and food in the fridge. There’s no danger of starvation.

But what am I worth? I knew this year would be hard but I had no idea how much having a job to do, and getting it done, contributes to one’s sense of self. The pieces I’ve had published (and counting them up, there’s many, maybe more than I rightfully should claim, but fuck everything they’re mine) have each come at a moment when I was drowning. Just as I’m going under some kind journal editor has thrown me a rope. The publications that pay me, even if it’s only a few dollars, even more so. My work is worth something and by extension my time is worth something and it follows logically that I am worth something. This space I carve out in the world is deserved.

Conversely, those people who assume I’m totally flexible, cancel appointments or ignore my payment terms – they make my time worthless, and by extension they make me worthless.

I realise I shouldn’t allow anyone to do this to me but in the absence of any other input – this is the reality I live in.

I read somewhere that when writing and publicising your first novel, the thing you need to remember is that no-one wants to read your work. Not your family. Not your friends. Not complete strangers. Start there and the process will feel easier only because you’ll have lower, more realistic expectations. Never give away copies of your book to your family, because realistically they’re the only people who you can rely upon to maybe lash out a full $25 to buy a copy. Every reader you earn you will need to actively convert.

This all takes a phenomenal amount of self-belief.

What is this world we’re in? Are we happy with what we’ve created, an over-educated underclass? Today I had a class in the university’s new medical building and conversation swung around to the millions spent on a new building for students that don’t exist yet. Meanwhile I’m subscribed to an arts newsletter that regularly reminds me how important work is for self-identity and why don’t I pay $99 for a membership? I don’t have $99. I would think that arts organisations know this. But they don’t seem to. And I have to argue for my place in the world again.

This was a period I knew would come, I expected this would be difficult. You don’t just leave full time employment and change careers without experiencing some teething problems, low moments, soul searching and asking yourself “my God, what have I done?” in wide-eyed whispers late at night. There’s just a lot of those moments at the moment.

This novel had better be bloody brilliant.

New work at Tincture Journal

I have new work in print! The great people at Tincture Journal accepted one of my stories for their latest edition. It is available at their website here. You can (and should) also buy a subscription which will get you a year’s worth of new writing straight to your email and into a device of your choice.

Tincture is one of those journals, like so many others, run on a shoe-string budget by people who put in hours of hard work, sweat and anxiety driven tears to keep it going. Somehow Daniel and the team behind Tincture also manage to pay the writers. It is impossible to overstate how big a deal this is. Please take a moment and a few humble dollars and support new literature from Australia and around the world.

 

New work online and in print

My blogging grinds to a halt during semester it seems. However, I have had some work published this month so I must let you know.

First, I have a piece of fiction in Island, something I’m super thrilled about. You can buy a copy here.

I also have a piece about roller derby ahead of The Great Southern Slam this weekend. That is free to read online so drop by Lost and check it out.

New fiction: SWAMP Writing and Ghostlight

It’s been approximately a billion years since I’ve written here. I feel like I’ve neglected a pet. Lashings of apologies.

I am back with some good news! I have some fiction out. You can read At the End of the World for free online right now at SWAMP Writing.

My short story Lived In has finally appeared in Ghostlight: the Magazine of Terror. I’ve been promising this one for months and here it finally is. This one you need to buy online, but you know, supporting writers is a reward unto itself.

Both are creepy little pieces, but so is everything I write. Please do let me know if you enjoy them.