This Modern Writer: Post-Orgasmic Chill

Posted on by

I’ve been lucky lately. Like, super-lucky. In a three-week span I:

#1. Got a story accepted by BBC Radio 4 (due to be broadcast in January);

#2. Landed a paid internship at Creative Scotland;

#3. Won third place in the Bridport Prize (during which I met Zoe Heller and PJ Harvey).

Bloody hell, I thought, what could possibly happen next week to top this? An acceptance letter from the Paris Review? A busload of Suicide Girls showing up bored and horny at my door? A huge inheritance cheque from a relative I never met? Well,  I’ll tell you what happened: fuck-all.

I went to work, read books in bed, watched crappy crime dramas, had too much red wine, and painted my toenails. I wrote a paragraph on my novel, realised it was drivel, deleted it, then stared at my blinking cursor. I drank a lot of tea because, you know, British. A normal week, neither happy-making nor sad-making. But after my weeks of lucky breaks, it felt like the shittiest seven days ever.

I know, I know, I’m a right whingy cow. I don’t want to seem like I don’t appreciate all these good things happening, because I really do. But a career is a ladder, and every rung up means that the next rung is even higher. I am not good with the afterwards, with the holding of breath, with  what now? I know that isn’t even really a comedown, just reverting back to normality. So feel free to tell me I’m a whiner, but then tell me what to do about it.

How do you deal with the literary post-orgasmic chill?