I am ten big A4 pages into editing Dystopolis, and it’s struck me not how hard editing is but how time-consuming it can be. When I write, the words tend to tumble (no pun intended) out of me in this huge stream, often getting a couple of pages written in half an hour; by contrast, when I edit, I labour over every line. I cut about as much as I write, which is a lot - there are paragraphs I’ve slashed through on every page, replaced by exposition and better pacing and (especially in this first story) a better understanding of what the fuck is going on.
As I edit this book, I am keeping an eye on the visa timelines of other people in my situation, and learning upsetting things - namely, that someone who received a particular letter at a similar time has their visa interview scheduled, and that it’s in late December. I look at this and wonder how realistic my hopes of getting to America before Christmas really are.
In the last couple of months, I have been the sometimes-close and sometimes-distant witness of a thousand emotional moments. Two of the people I follow on Tumblr have gotten married (to other people) - something that I have been wanting to do for so long, now, with the cold hard hand of the US Government pressed squarely into my chest as it grins humourlessly, simultaneously yelling “WELCOME” as it makes me feel as unwanted as it possibly can.
Today, at work, someone came back from maternity leave - leave that was being covered by my job - and I saw her instantly re-integrate herself just as I’m preparing to grab my things and leave forever. One staff member said that it was as if she had never left. I can’t help but wonder if that sentiment extends to the idea that it’s as if I was never there.
The hardest part lately has been knowing that until I move, no part of my life can really move forward. This isn’t just talking about my relationships with other people - Arden most of all, but also the people I’ll end up meeting in the US. It’s also my career, and finding a place I can call home, and getting financially independent for (really) the first time in my life - something I approach with just as much trepidation as eagerness to get started. All of this is cut off by that same invisible hand, with no real idea when it might beckon me a little closer.
Until I begin to pack my bags - and I hope that’ll be soon, but hope is all I have - I can carry on editing a few pages a day. The illusion of progress. I can immerse myself in the only thing that’s left under my control.
This was probably a downer to read, and usually I’d end with some quip about how things aren’t all bad because hey Masters of Sex is a great new series on Showtime that you should definitely check out but - no. The person I love is 3,156 miles away from me, and that’s normal, and it shouldn’t be. There’s a danger of feeling entitled to this sort of thing, and I’m aware that there are situations far worse than mine, but sometimes envy sets in. I want to be the subject of the next elated emotional moment. Not just another witness.