On the blink

The publisher who couldn't look at words

Hi everyone,

I’m currently living through an extended reminder about not taking things for granted, and I hope you won’t mind me sliding into your inbox to share it with you.

In short, my body will not currently let me look at words on screen or paper for extended periods of time. Ten to thirty minutes after I start, the writing begins to double and quadruple and slide around; if I quit at that point, things settle down and I can try again, after a break of about twice the amount of time I worked for. If I press on for something resembling a normal working day, as has occasionally been necessary, the entire world becomes blurry for the next couple of days.

I’ve had brief spells of this since June, going back to the time I reported “autistic burnout” (see recent blogs), but I don’t know if it’s related to that or not; it’s only been a truly noticeable issue since mid-August. I’m on the search for answers, coming up empty-handed at the opticians, and now relying on the slow cogs of our NHS (which Sir Keir is racing to fix as we speak – probably?)

What I do know is, something needs to change. Even if this gets fixed, which it hopefully will, I can’t carry on working the way I was before. The “one-man band” era of Valley Press is over; I need help, other editors, designers and maybe more, to carry some of the weight. Perhaps I always did, and this is the universe’s way of letting me know? Running a small press can be a very lonely job, if you’re not careful.

I’m reminded of this very old, worn-out quote from the Dalai Lama. (If you’ve not seen it before, congratulations on finally escaping that cave on Mars and getting your first internet connection!)

“Man sacrifices his health in order to make money. Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health. And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.”

Of course, to the average member of my generation, this scenario actually sounds somewhat utopic – what a beautiful thought, earning enough money while young that you have some to spend on healthcare in later life! I feel it’s time to confess: I haven’t had a single penny in a savings account since I was 16, and the most valuable thing I currently own is one of my son’s Hornby model trains (though it is a very nice train, admittedly). As I say, something needs to change. An issue with looking at words on a screen is not exactly a boost for someone in an already fragile, crumbling part of an unpredictable industry, but it has given me time to think.

Don’t get me wrong though, this is not a “poor me” post – I’m just “spitting truths”, as a performance poet might say. I like to think I have avoided the trap in the second half of the Dalai Lama’s quote, always taking time in my day for non-work-related activities, done just for their own sake. I chose a career that was heavily weighted towards freedom and, on a good day, passion, and to create a legacy that needs a set of bookshelves to contain, rather than one buried in the HR records of some conglomerate. I still believe in Valley Press – as a concept separate from me, anyway – and will do what needs to be done to keep the lights on and things moving forward.

Oddly, I’ve never worried too much about health; the one time I had a serious issue, requiring two weeks in hospital, I was famously so zen about it that the nurses urged me to look more distressed when the doctor passed by, else I be left there forever. (I usually tell this story as an example of autistic people struggling to “act their emotions”, but I actually do remember feeling fairly chilled out – even before the drugs kicked in!)

I think that comes from a keen awareness that the various bits and pieces that make up my body are temporary – that it’s a miracle they work at all, a thought I often catch myself in throughout even the best of days (and there have been many over the summer). I feel like I’m just borrowing my body parts, until the day the entire strange contraption becomes “just another thing among things”, as a wise writer once put it, and the “real me” moves on. (Or not, I guess – the jury’s out!) That’s all I really wanted to remind you of, I suppose; whatever parts of you are still in good working order, make time to enjoy them as much as you can. I think you probably are already.

To end on some good news: I have three great guest posts lined up, two interviews and an article, which I’m hoping will herald a return to regular service around these parts. Thanks for reading, as ever, take care of yourselves, and I’ll be back in your inboxes soon with an update.