“She often spoke about loving two men. If she was seeing two people, it was not out of fickleness, but because she loved them both, they answered two sides of her personality. She was open to life, and when encountering a new experience, could not stay away. It may sound strange, but she was really a very loyal person.”
____“Lover Of Unreason”,Yehuda Koren
This week, I’ve been back up to my regular schedule of writing between 2700-3000 words each day for work; this is wonderful, in that I’ve effectively tripled my income and proven I’m healthy enough to keep up, but it’s also left me feeling a bit drained. Although I did work on my poetry journal a bit last night, I haven’t really been inspired to put in any effort on my “novel”. (I put that in parenthesis because I doubt it will ever become more than fragments and short stories; still, at almost 20,000 words, it’s the closest I’ve come to developing the vision for a long piece of fiction and completing it.)
November is actually National Novel Writing Month, which challenges people to write 50,000 words, or 175 pages, in a month. Ironically, hearing about this has made me less motivated about my own project, either because it’s no longer something “special” I’m working on, or because there’s this thing about deadlines and pressure that I dislike, and often that causes me to abandon projects midway.
This late night, instead of writing, I’ve been reading about writing. I’ve finished the biography on Sylvia Plath, and am now reading about her counterpart, Assia Wevill, who lived with Ted Hughes after Sylvia’s death and committed suicide in precisely the same manner. Assia’s story is not nearly as likeable, as she’s portrayed as a rather cold and selfish woman with gifts she never had any idea how to make use of, so she simply married numerous times. I think it’s also a marked difference to note that when Plath killed herself, she took special pains to protect her children; Assia Wevill took her youngest daughter to her death with her.
Still, an interesting and tragic story of a not-altogether-sympathetic heroine. I enjoy reading biographies from time to time, interspersed with fiction, because it reminds me how in some way, most everyone’s life is fascinating. Perhaps that’s what keeps me liking and interested in people, even though I often don’t think the best of them on the whole. Everyone has a story, and usually, it’s more than worth hearing. Since people aren’t so willing to be vulnerable and open in life, biographies exhibit this inner world we all have and spend way too much time keeping hidden.
My story isn’t terribly interesting lately, but I did successfully get a date for the ENG I’ve needed for some time, to determine if I’m suffering from a vestibular problem that’s led to my anxiety: November 30th. It’s amazing that you often need to book tests a month in advance. I’m also to see a new GP on Tuesday, one that comes recommended through a friend as an excellent diagnostician, something that’s been sorely lacking in other doctors I’ve seen.
In the meantime, my medications are temporarily on track, and I’m more motivated than ever to start trying to get rid of the extra weight the meds have caused me to put on my body. It’s horrifying; I have little stretch marks, which make me feel like I don’t even want to take my clothes off alone, in the shower. All this has been so immensely hard on my self-esteem, always a fragile issue with me regardless. If I ever get better, I’m going to need to see the plastic surgeon next. 
Tine to go to sleep now, I suppose. Need to start saving up for that plastic surgeon. ;P