My name is Clár and I think I have a problem

This week, I went to my daughter’s school to take part in a careers fair. I had two posters, one for author and one for journalist. The former was  beautifully illustrated by my 11-year-old and the latter was my rather pathetic attempt at bubble-writing.

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I had photos from Somalia and Ivory Coast, loads of newspaper clippings and copies of my two books. But I still struggled to say ‘I am an author’. I muttered something along the lines of, ‘Hello, do you have any questions about being a journalist? I’ve been a journalist for a long time. Oh yes, I write books too. Well, I’ve written these two and I’ve another coming out in October. Any questions about being a journalist?”

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You see, it’s hard to admit to an addiction. It’s difficult to stand up in public and say, ‘I cannot seem to shake off my debilitating need to make stuff up and write it down’. You’d think I’d be better at this by now. You’d think I would be able to own up to my weakness. But it’s still not easy to be honest about something so delusional in our oh-so-pragmatic world.

It’s not like this is my first time on this merry-go-round. I’ve just finished my third novel. And I do mean finished. It has been edited and proofread and will soon be winging its way to the printers. It is really, really done. Or rather my role in its journey is over. I have no control over what happens next. I am done. So why do I feel so unsettled?

Last week, I found myself moping around our dusty, neglected house, wondering if now would be a good time to break with tradition and actually move the furniture when I hoover. Perhaps, it was time to acknowledge that the insides of the cupboards also needed cleaning. But I felt too wound up for housework.

I was incapable of settling to anything. I made long, LONG lists of all the family admin I needed to do, the photo books I needed to make, the rooms I should clear out. But that’s as far as I got. I found myself staring into space way too much. I trawled Twitter to seek out competitions I could torment with my barely-there short stories. I opened the Microsoft Word files where my previously unsuccessful tales are lurking, but it was not enough.

Finally, it hit me: I am in withdrawal.

Of course, I’ve no one to blame but myself. This is all my fault. Again. This is my third attempt to kick the habit in as many years. And it is not going well.

I’ve tried to distract myself from my cravings. I went for a 10-km run (my first in about a year, it nearly killed me). I have been reading a lot. I am watching way too much 24-hour news and talking angrily to myself, Theresa May, Trump and sundry other world leaders as I stomp up and down the stairs, pretending to tidy but really just moving teenager-litter from pillar to post. I have also started talking to the dog. He is as alarmed as I am. None of it is working.

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You’d think I’d be over my costly fixation. This last book was difficult. It bears little resemblance to my previous two — Fractured, set in Somalia, and Rain Falls on Everyone, which tells of a Rwandan boy who grows up in Dublin after fleeing the genocide. My new book, The Reckoning, takes place during the first and second world wars. It required a lot of research. I was overwhelmed by my lack of knowledge. Halfway through, I rued my choice of subject, of setting, of protagonist. How could I possibly imagine what it had been like then? How could I be so arrogant to think I had something to say on a subject about which so much had already been written?

I swore many times that this would be it. After publishing three books in three years, I would take a break. I would strive to, gulp, get a job again and earn some money. I would return to earth and stop flitting around in the clouds. This was it. No more books for a while. Time to get real.

But despite all the internal ranting and raving, I pushed on, putting word after word on the page. I wrote, and rewrote, and revised, and reordered and eventually the story took shape and took off.

And now I am bereft. Yes, it is partly the terror of not knowing what happens next. The Fear. What if everyone hates the new book? What if ‘they’ wanted something else, something similar to what I have done before? What if I was right when I told myself again and again that I was trying, very unsuccessfully, to reinvent the wheel?

But mostly my malaise is the result of my addiction. I miss writing the book. I need to make things up. That’s why I can’t focus. That’s why I am squandering so much of the time I wished I had more of when I was knee-deep in Book 3. I’ve tried to go cold turkey and it isn’t working.

So, with deep and sincere apologies to my long-suffering husband, I must confess that I have slipped off the wagon. The other day, I found myself down the rabbit hole again. I wrote ‘Book 4’ on a clean page in my notebook and then I scribbled four or five lines. That’s all it took. One puff of magic and I was hooked again.

Now I can do the dusting. I can hoover under the beds. I can tackle that pile of mildewed folders in the so-called office. I have a plan. A story is spreading its delicious juices through my bloodstream. I can feel it buzzing in my veins. I’m okay again.