One of the things I thought I’d have more time to do after retiring in October last year was to post to this blog more than once in a blue moon. So that didn’t happen, given that it’s taken until now to do anything… One of those imagined posts was some kind of record of what I was doing in retirement and what issues that raised for me: something I’ve vaguely rehearsed in my head a few times and now eventually got down in writing.
One of the main questions for me was how much I’d keep writing academic-oriented film books, once that was no longer something for which I was paid as part of my salary (and it does not earn very much in any other way). I couldn’t really imagine ceasing to do so at all, so important is that outlet to my general sense of self and self-expression. But that left a lot to resolve in terms of how much, how intensively or obsessively – an issue I’m far from having solved so far.
My first decision was to have a clear break for a least a couple of months and fill that with lots of ‘indulgent’ reading of fiction. That started with the maybe pretentious-obligatory Proust, the first volume of which I read back in 1989 (the date was inscribed in my copy, along with an old TGV ticket I’d used as a bookmark while starting it on a trip to France). I had the three books, all from that time; Penguins nicely softened with age. So I bashed through them one after the other in characteristic fashion (rather than letting them fill out a larger space), and a few other literary classics I’d not got around to before. Proust, in turned out, wasn’t a long-term retirement project…
In the meantime I took one substantial decision: to shelve a full-length academic book I’d been planning for some time (a book about the distributor A24) and seek to do something easier and less all-encompassing: namely a shorter, single-film study. I’ve written a couple of these for different series in the past (on Donnie Darko and Lost in Translation). Pondering a couple of other options, I decided to pitch for something for the BFI Classics series: eventually narrowing that down to The Conversation, which has always been one of my favourite films. So I started a bit of gentle background reading, mostly books about Coppola, and began to prepare a proposal, having established that it was a title that interested the series editor.
This was just the kind of more restricted way of keeping writing that I’d thought would probably be a good idea, as part of a properly managed transition to whatever longer-term retirement would look like. But then, pretty much at the same time I sent in the proposal for that book (February this year), I suddenly got the idea for a new full-length book project. This was basically a framework that would enable me to write about a bunch of my favourite works of arthouse cinema from the last few years – plus some that I first saw at this time (the list includes Aftersun, Close, Petite Maman, Anatomy of a Fall, The Zone of Interest and All of Us Strangers, the last three of which I folded into it as the idea coalesced). This got me quite excited.
I thought I’d try to get a publisher interested at an early stage, without providing any draft material, which proved to be a possibility (although it would still entail the usual long process of having academic reviewers rate the proposal: an ordeal with which fellow academics will be all-too familiar). Having a contract early on would give me a sense of fixed commitment, something I felt would be more than usually valuable given that I had no other formal context in which to produce this as part of a job. The alternative was to consider the full freedom of self-publication, which I’ve been tempted to do for a couple of books or so. But that meant working in a complete institutional vacuum until completion, which didn’t feel quite right at this stage. The question of commitment – my own or that of a third party – seems more of an issue in a context in which nothing else external requires me to do any of this.
I would read a small amount of material relating to some of the specific thematic background issues, I told myself: that would probably be necessary to satisfy academic reviews of the proposal at this stage. More than 40 books later… Yes, so I wasn’t capable of just reading a little on the subjects concerned but was knee-deep in probably as concentrated a period of such research as I’d ever done. Pretty much a book a day, day after day, for several weeks (weekdays only, at least: I’ve kept that distinction intact so far). This was highly stimulating and enjoyable in one sense but did not represent any progress in the art of doing such things in a less obsessive-intensive way. Maybe no surprise there.
Having read that much, I then felt the need to write up some key material, while it was freshly in my head, rather than taking my time and doing that later, as I had anticipated. This added to what was to have been a very brief draft opening that gave an initial flavour of the main films and issues I was planning to address. A bit later on, what was going to be a short section to flag up one of the main industry-background case studies I was going to use – the online streamer turned producer and distributor, MUBI – found itself as pretty much a whole additional chapter. So my not-going-to-provide-any-draft-material-other-than-very-brief-opening-flavour eventually became more than 20,000 words.
All this went straight onto the back burner once I got the formal go-ahead and contract for the BFI book on The Conversation, in June. That’s now a pretty-near-complete draft of 25,000 words. So a total of 45,000 words in my first year of retirement. Don’t get me wrong: I’m chuffed to have done that but I don’t feel that it represents any progress in the longer term attempt to rebalance my life between this work and, well, what would be fully leisure activities. Even with four weeks of campervanning in France in September…
I also get caught wondering what to call what I do now. I still think of it as ‘work’, and it clearly is labour. Some of that is pleasurable but it can still be hard graft of its own kind. Some of the actual writing gives me a real high, and deep satisfaction afterwards (the pleasure of having written something I’m happy with is one of the best feelings). But there’s also some stress at times. Part of me keeps asking whether or not I can let all this go – or, at least, do that more of the time. Or work in a less all-or-nothing manner. It is different when it’s part of a paid job and, effectively, necessary or required (even if I’ve always written more than was strictly necessary from a basic-employment perspective). Or is that really an illusion and this more about my way of doing things?
I suppose it gets a bit predictably retired-existentialist now. To what extent is doing this work, effectively, who I am, or a large part of it? (I’ve left out other the aspects of my life since retiring in this account). Is it just a fantasy that there’s some better mode of being, one that is all delirious relaxation and none of what remains the more labour-like activity of planning, researching or writing my books? I rather think that is the case.
I’ve sent off the proposal for the new book now, so will relax on that for at least a while (need to put the finishing touches to the BFI book after the holidays, though). But when I get back into it, can I do it in a more measured way? Do I really want to (or just want to be someone who could do that)? I’m betting with myself that I’ll be piling in wholesale again, and probably sooner than I plan…