Where the Deadline Ends
If any of you have a fondness for the film version of Rocky Horror Picture Show, you will remember the final set of frames where the criminologist is in his office and reciting a poem, “Crawling around on the planet’s face/are some insects called the human race/lost in time and lost in space/and meaning.” When someone asks me what it’s like to finish a brutal deadline, they often have already imagined an answer that includes an emotion akin to relief. But really? It’s the above poem that runs through my head.
I usually just sit there and feel lost and unable to figure out what I need to do next or gather the energy to triage the tasks around the house that we’ve been forced to neglect. That first weekend off in a while is a weekend fraught with a headache and a rollercoaster of too much energy peaks followed by fatigue valleys. Welcome to freelance.
A Writer and His Prizes
Thomas Bernhard was a writer that, though most of his heyday was in the 1970s, has work that has endured to the present day. Particularly, his novel The Loser is enjoying a brief resurgence in popularity. If you’ve never read one of his books, you should know that he has a distinctive tone to his narrative voice. Self-effacing, but also prideful. Often full of complaints. Nearly always full of ego. His work has not all aged well.
He takes that distinctive tone to a compact but punchy memoir about his various literary prizes, including stories about awards ceremonies, insider gossip about his times on judging committees, and how he loves a good pullover and trousers combo.
The Foibles of the Literary World
Yes, these stories are about prizes, but that doesn’t mean that every prize is one that Bernhard wanted or thought highly of. He is quick to point out when committees make decisions based on politics, power, and pettiness rather than literary merit. He bemoans getting an award that he describes as one that is only usually given to younger writers at the beginning of their careers. If you have seen books where writers talk about writing, this is instead a book where a writer is talking about what comes after writing and around the writing and being surrounded by other people who are also writers. A writer talking about the literary world and how it rewards (and punishes) its darlings.
The insider knowledge is great. The humour made me laugh out loud several times. But some components of this haven’t aged well. And there are times where the complaining takes on a tone of ungrateful arrogance as Bernhard praises his own brilliance. Not a good look. Especially in contemporary literature.
The Takeaway Feeling
I think anyone who loves books and has tried their hand at writing literature of any variety has had more than few moments of imposter syndrome. Or the inevitable conversation with some well-meaning individual that tells them how young Thomas Mann was when he wrote Buddenbrooks. I have been there. I have felt those feels.
Reading My Prizes is comforting, because even though Bernhard has reached that pinnacle of success and the goal of being recognized as a writer, he still has problems. He still feels misunderstood. He is still human and still complaining about all of the inconveniences of life. It takes the goal and makes it manageable or at least makes it less of a problem-solving magic event that you need to get to in order to feel like a real writer.
What to Do at the Edge of the Sidewalk
So, what is the solution to post-deadline malaise? Usually, it involves a lot of me accepting that yes, this is post-deadline malaise, and no, I do not need to panic about larger mental or physical health concerns. That it’s okay to catch up on PVR and to let my brain wander around misty, vacant moors.
The cats? They help provide some structure to the structure-less. Mealtimes are set. In. Stone. Also? Bubastis has started to chirp for her medication at ten o’clock — or at least the butter she gets after it.
