Eimear McBride: ‘My husband shouts “For God’s sake, come down to dinnerâ€â€™ | Books
By 9.20 I am back at the house, boiling the kettle and starting to slip down into thinking properly. During a novel, this moment doesn’t exist. The novel insists itself through every single thought and out-manoeuvres the need for almost any kind of human interaction. There are moments in both my books which are as real to me as my own life. But I’m not working on one today so the morning is dangerous. Hopefully no one will phone. People are the worst distraction, or an interesting email arriving out of the blue. I make a cup of tea. I get upstairs to my desk as quickly as I can, ignoring the mess.
I put the computer on. I won’t look at the news. Just a quick check of the emails then. Shit it. Loads. All wanting fiddly things. The name on my passport? Eimear McBride. Which train do I want to Stansted? The 14.20 would be great, thank you. Are you around this week for an interview with our local paper but they’re not sure when exactly? Yes, probably. Actually they can’t do it this week, can they get back to you? Yes. We’ve had a think about it and decided it’s not convenient to do an event with you at our bookshop but see you some other time, yeah? Yeah.
Drink some tea.
Open a document for this article. What am I going to say? Why did I agree to write this? If I was writing a novel it would be simple: I sat down, wrote until my husband, somewhat impatiently, shouted “For God’s sake come down for dinner†for the fifth time. Afterwards, either I went back up and worked until I fell asleep or watched some telly, depending where I was in the process.
I type My Working Day at the top of the page. I change the font to Times New Roman. I change it to 12 point. I put it in bold. I remember the writer who told me this was the font and size I had to use. How right she was, I suppose. I really hate writing this kind of piece. Why did I agree to it? I hate all this “writer’s tips†business. Does anyone ever follow them? Apart from the font thing, obviously.
Stand up. Sit down. Consider checking my emails again. Drink some more tea. Consider going downstairs again to reheat it in the microwave. Stand up. Look out the window. Why is the neighbour staring out his window? Can he see into my office? Does he watch me sitting in here? Sit down. Look out the window. I can’t see him from my desk. Does that mean he can’t see me at my desk? Why is this the first time I’ve considered this? Stand up. Ah shit, he sees me looking. I shade my eyes and pretend to be blinded by the sun. Sit back down. Jesus.
Just start writing. You know that’s the only way. What’s the first thing that comes into your head? I hate these kinds of pieces. Don’t write that. Write “By 9.20 I am back at the house.†Then I write for an hour and a half. A lot of it is rubbish but that’s all right. It’s easier to fix than generate. Was that dog barking because of the post? I’d better check. It was. A catalogue about wall brackets for some fella called Nigel. Sure, since I’m down here, I might as well have a tin of soup and call lunchtime done.
I have a tin of soup. Who was Nigel? Did he care about wall brackets?
I go back upstairs.
There are more emails. I like emails but people always want things in them nowadays, they hardly ever just send friendly ones any more. I suppose that’s all done on Facebook these days. Should I join Facebook? No.
I go downstairs and put on the kettle. I go back upstairs.
I read what I’ve written. I cut out all the stuff about Stalin. It’s nearly finished, just a good tidy up. I remember the kettle. I run downstairs. It’s going mad. I make coffee.
I go back upstairs. I reread. I add a bit about reading a proclamation by someone that she’ll be “Having Opinions†about Lesser Bohemians. Lucky me! Then I cut it. Well … not all of it.
I’m very nearly finished. It needs the night. I’ll read it again in the morning before sending. Jesus, it’s only 3.20pm. This has practically been a day off.
In brief
9.20 Home. Making tea.
9.30 Desk
10.00 Finish checking emails
10.05 Drink tea. Stare out the window.
10.15 Open a document. Fiddle with fonts. Stare out the window.
10.30 Stop worrying about my neighbour and start writing
12.00 Go check the post
12.05 Open a can of soup.
12.10 Eat a can of soup and think about Nigel.
12.45 Go back upstairs
12.50 Look at emails
1.10 Go downstairs and put on the kettle
1.15 Go back upstairs
1.20 Reread and cut
1.30 Go back downstairs and make coffee
1.40 Go back upstairs
1.45 Rereading, adding, pondering, cutting
3.20 Finish
Eimear McBride’s The Lesser Bohemians is published by Faber. To order a copy for £7.64 (RRP £8.99) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99.
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