Bounty Hunter Awaits

Meals in bed

Life is like being on the run from an anonymous Bounty Hunter.  If my family medical history’s a good predictor, my own Bounty Hunter’ll be chasing me into my eighth or ninth decade.

I can’t see myself as a sweet old lady, taking all my meals in bed.  Not exactly the sit-on-my-duff sort of person.  Most likely my carers’ll help old Bounty Hunter take me away.

So when I got sick, my patience surprised me.   Surprised everyone, apparently.  Loving son, El Punko said that, since my symptoms were respiratory, a bit of oxygen deprivation might be helpful at peace negotiations.

Cheek like that, he’s off my Christmas list, but don’t tell him.  He’s great at gift giving.  He got me this really kickass Witch Ball last year.  I’d hate my next Christmas spoiled just because you can’t keep a secret.

Admittedly, there were less patient moments on the NHS conveyor belt.  The day I stood in the surgery parking lot screaming, ‘I hate the NHS.  I hate this surgery.  I hate all doctors.’ 

Probably a daily occurrence for them, now that I think about it.

But anyway, how a person responds to illness has nothing to do with what you’re made of.  I’m about as demure as a wet cat, but other than that one hissy fit, I’ve patiently told my story to a cast of thousands and never once pointed out that none of them were paying attention or that yes, fatigue is a symptom or that when my heart danced the Flamenco after taking the prescribed steroids, the cardiology referral was to cover their over-worked asses.  Or arses, I suppose it should be.  But not because I had a heart problem.

Witch Ball

Which is why I didn’t go immediately.  To the cardiologist.  Plus, we were coming up to Christmas –the Witch Ball Christmas, to be exact – and I’d been referred for 3000 unnecessary tests as they do when your heart goes biddly boo bee doo deee doo, even if the reason it did is because you’ve been on steroids. 

Mostly I didn’t go because, although I’d been told not to talk about my fatigue – fatigue isn’t a symptom – I was fecking tired. Not exactly the behaviour of a wet cat, but I had to choose my battles.  So I only went to the respiratory specialist.  Because, you know, my symptoms were respiratory.

They treated my respiratory symptoms, but I was still tired (which is not a symptom).  My short term memory took a handbasket to hell (along with several bottles of homemade damson gin, I suspect).  I stopped walking dogs, pruning trees, writing.  I sat out Samhain and ghost walks, candle services, Yule parties, New Year champagne and more.  I gave up my life but unexpectedly, didn’t mourn it.  Something inside me, some magical cottage in the dark wood of my psyche felt this was a time of waiting.

Doodle bed games

Tired but not sleepy, I knitted like Madame DeFarge.  Played bed games with Doodle, discovered how really awful telly is.  Watched Youtube videos, read blogs and You Won’t Believe What Happened Next web stories I’d not had time for before.  Witnessed twenty-first century literary wisdom buzzing through reams of Tweets about 99p e-books and cover launches, how-to-write essays and book reviews,

gradually becoming invisible myself,

not blogging or tweeting or posting on Facebook, not pushing a manuscript in this or that person’s face,

quiet and patient until I saw it differently, this Writer's Life we'd all been told we had to live.  Like editing someone else’s writing.  Seeing clearly what’s not plain to the writer herself.  And I thought blasphemy.  I thought . . .

That’s not the way I want it done.  That’s not the person I want to be.  A thought which initially scared me, because any twenty-first century writer knows what that thought means.  If you're not socially aggressive, you commit publishing suicide.

So I let the NHS distract me from scary and blasphemous thoughts.  All my tests were negative, and since fatigue isn’t a symptom, my Bounty Hunter’s name had to be heart disease.  And who’s the naughty wet cat who didn’t make an appointment with the cardiologist?

There’s blasphemous me in the cardiologist’s waiting room, sitting next to the Bitler who’s convinced I’m in heart failure.  Mine is an intuitive soul.  This isn’t the end.  This is a time of waiting.  A threshold.  But I don’t say that because the Bitler’s a woman of science, and she’s waiting until science has spoken.

That’s when I notice her lipstick’s only on one side of her mouth.  We both laugh for a who-gives-a-shit moment that transcends science and blasphemy and the expectations of people who won’t ever give you a Witch Ball.  The kind of moment that makes sense when you’re in it but doesn’t translate into words, yet leaves you knowing that you have to do what you can live with.  The kind of moment that matters.

A little touch of fatigue.

The cardiologist says my heart’s fine.  In fact, he thinks I’m suffering from fatigue. 

Identity, Transition, Fox Poo

If we’re being precise, I’ve been a trans-parent (someone with a transgender child) for over thirty years, but I didn’t know that until about twelve years ago.  The only amazing thing about my part in all this is that although I accept the concept, I still don’t understand.  I often create trans characters in my writing, but I can only write what I’ve witnessed, not what I’ve felt, experienced.

Big Nose Dog and I were taking the dull walk that day, a shorter trek squeezed in between rain showers.  The venture seemed ours alone – not even the buzzards had appeared.  While Big Nose sniffed every blade of grass in Yorkshire, I walked and waited and walked until my mind wandered to identity.

When I was in undergrad learning my developmental psychology, we were taught that identity was the task for the teen years.  If we think about ourselves as teens or about teens we know, it’s all pretty embarrassing.  You might be forgiven in feeling that adolescence should happen where there are no witnesses. 

But is that really about identity?  I don’t think so.  (And Erik Erikson rolls over in his grave.)  Teens know who they are (as much as anyone can know anything in only a dozen or so years).  They aren’t exploring identity, but how that person they know themselves to be will interface with society.  Which is why there’s so much rebellion about it. 

Anyone who’s lived through raising a toddler has witnessed their surprisingly strong personality emerge from what used to be a cute, burbling enfant.  And to be honest, when my son told me he was my son, not my daughter, I felt really stupid because it was so obvious that my child had never been a little girl.

And yet what many teens learn is how to subvert their identity in order to be accepted by the society that will sustain them for the rest of their lives.  We dole out pink passes to girls and blue to boys, put more money in military than education, reward beauty and athleticism over brains or innovation.

We all make compromises in order to get on, so why transition?  Why not just suck it up?  Transitioning isn’t an easy thing.  Not physically, psychologically, medically, socially, financially.  It can be dangerous.  It can be fatal.

So Big Nose has found something delightful to roll in, making little growly sounds of joy.  I let him, because he’s a dog, not because I appreciate smelling like fox poo.  That grey, solitary landscape around us is apt for 2014 as the Year of Rejection for my writing with the only reward, a dog who smells like shit.  For a brief moment, I think perhaps I should go back to my day job.

And then somehow all this connects me to my son, fiercely brave in his right to be.  Identity is the only thing we’re given to get through life.  A divine gift, perhaps.  Something brutally inevitable, the power of ME . . . well, a person just has to do it, don’t they?

Wee, Teeny Bravery

My current soon-to-be-turfed work has multiple perspectives, so it’s no surprise I’ve been thinking a lot about the writer’s voice. 

One of my characters is Irish.  Predictably, I’ve given him my husband’s speech pattern.  It’s like putting on the Butler’s still warm jacket.  More than that, it’s practicing a skill I don’t do naturally (speak Hiberno-English), a wonderfully engrossing challenge. 

Another character is American, from a region near my own.  I sit back in his verbal rocking chair and become Uncle Remus.  Here is where, in the guise of a gay male military surgeon, I speak openly about dark things.  I am a brave sheep in wolf’s clothing.  My bravery comes from no one knowing what is true and what is not. 

This isn’t real bravery, no powerful earth woman standing with her arm raised, calling down the power of the Furies.  It’s wee, teeny bravery.  But, the only reason this wee teeny bravery exists is because someone asked me to write about myself.  And I did.  And I got a surprise.  The surprise was that I wasn’t brave at all, so wee, teeny bravery is a step forward.

http://booksbywomen.org/a-purple-crayon/

About this character actor I admire.  (Come, come.  The Appalachian mind must travel in curves, never straight lines.)  There’s a British actor who transforms himself so completely for his roles – voice, appearance, walk – part of my enjoyment is to see if he’s in there under the wigs and makeup.  However, when I’ve seen him as a narrator in documentaries, he comes across as uncomfortable in his own skin, as if he doesn’t know who he is without a role.  It’s amazing (and painful) to watch. 

He’s a good actor, you say?  He is.  Then what’s the problem?

For the incurably introverted (myself, perhaps?), the role or the character’s voice protects the interior world, the place where creativity comes from.  Why mess with that?  No great moral reason, I can see.  I just like a challenge, because by stretching my skill past what comes naturally to me, I improve that skill.  Except the times when I fail hilariously, of course.

In this first wee, teeny bravery, I’ve learned something.  First, I’ve learned to honour my own experiences.  I am the only person who’s had them.  We all share certain experiences, this is true, but I had those experiences in my body with my emotions reacting to and my thoughts being shaped by them.  Therefore, my experience is unique.

The next thing I’ve learned is that there’s liberation to this bravery.  It’s like being forced to use your right hand when you’re a natural southpaw, then picking up the pen in your left hand.  That’s more than being a better writer; for me, when I’m writing as the gay male military surgeon, I feel like I’ve moved close to my reader and quietly shared a very good secret.  I feel closer to you.

And so far when I spread my unique experience on the table, the people who see my wares go, wow . . .  I mean honestly, when I see your wares, I go, wow . . . what made me think you wouldn’t do the same?  That wow moment is a gift.  My experiences are a gift to you.  If someone doesn’t graciously accept them – and that’s bound to happen – that doesn’t have to be about either of us.  It just is.

The biggest thing I’ve taken from this is that the act of being asked to speak is THE most important thing that can happen to a writer.  We pitch and we submit and we work in our closets in the hope that someone will notice our incurably introverted selves.  It all changes when someone says to me, will you write . . .

It’s one thing we have no control over.  I would love to say, Will you write, and validate your wares, but me asking you to write is one step away from Granny doing it. 

Qaisra Shahraz (The Holy Woman, Revolt, Typhoon) recently suggested that writers participate in virtual writing communities, not just through RTs and shares, but with our comments.  Give our voices to other writers to let them know their work is being read.    

It’s great advice and I pass it on to you.  Will you write, will you comment, will you speak to other writers?  I request 140 characters of your wares.  Will you write . . .

Mad Farmers & Chocolate Pudding

Big Nose starts his walk.

So let me tell you about the Mad Farmer. Yesterday, when walking the Big Nose, we took the same path as always, but on the way up the slope in the second meadow, Big Nose got all excited. A long white leg had come through the hedge to touch him.  This long white leg was attached to a beautiful Brittany spaniel who was attached to a shouty man on a quad bike.  Mad Farmer.

Apparently Big Nose and I were on the wrong side of the field.  Rather than do a circumference of the field, we should have walked to the stile, turned and walked back.  The path isn’t marked in that way and to be honest, I didn’t consult any maps, just village advice when I started taking this walk.  In general, I’m quite open to correcting my mistakes if you’re respectful of my ignorance.

Mad Farmer began our relationship by screaming at me, soon followed by his female companion screaming also.  Someone who goes from zero to sixty in a fraction of a second, well he’s already made his mind up that I’m no good.  Worse, I couldn't see either of them through the bushes.  So I ignored them, walked up the wrong side of the field, quad bike and shouty couple on the other side of the hedge until I crossed the stile and went home.  I felt bad about their treatment of me for the rest of the day.

Big nose off the path.

I took that bad-feeling energy and wrote Mad Farmer into a scene in a humourous way, a little joke about what’s really a nasty piece of work.  That didn’t make the bad feeling go away, but it did do something productive with it.  And this morning, Mad Farmer & Co are another funny story.

Coincidentally, I’m at that point when a long term piece is being turfed out into the world.  There’s a whole lot of feelings balled up in that, but the icky one is, what happens if this doesn’t go anywhere?  What do I do next?  Is it time to give this all up?

The Butler said the most amazing thing to me.  You keep writing.  Isn’t he the perfect writer’s spouse?  Truly.  But his advice is perhaps the hardest in the world to follow.  Being a writer sometimes feels like swimming through chocolate pudding.  It’s a really big sacrifice to swim and not eat the pudding, cuz I love my chocolate.  By this I mean, the time I spend writing is time away from all the other wonders in life, with perhaps not all the gratification a lot of other jobs provide. 

I get discouraged, even with a Butler.  That discouragement more than anything else – poverty, colicky babies, a deluge of rejections coming through the mail slot – that will kill your writing.

The view

Earlier this week, I met a villager whom I’d only spoken to at a New Year’s Eve party.  She’s dog sitting and wanted to compare notes.  She knew I worked from home because I’m rather visible in my Writing Closet, but she didn’t know what I did.  I said, I’m a writer.  I saw it in her brain, the churning Do I Know You question.  That usually doesn’t turn out well.  So then I said, Not a very successful one.  I do it because it’s what I want to do.

Part of me said, what are you apologising for?  I don’t apologise for my gardening efforts or my knitting efforts or the fact my outfits never match.  But, I’m glad I said it because a really neat thing happened next.  All the muscles in the woman’s face opened up and she smiled.  She made some comment which said, that’s really wonderful that you’re doing what you want to do with your life.

It’s really wonderful and brave that you’re writing.  If this is the only sentence of this blog you remember, then keep it close.  Just that sentence.  Because it’s true. 

Long distance swimmers have people in boats to protect them from drowning, people shouting from the shore that yes indeed they will make it.  And if they get attacked by jellyfish, they get medical care.  Writers, some days all we have are Mad Farmers on the other side of the hedgerow screaming abuse.  The people on the shore tell us to get a real job.  The ones in the boats laugh at us.  When we get stung by rejections, no first aid.  Just those looks which say, you should’ve stayed out of the water.

The goal.

Think of the hardest thing you’ve ever done or had to endure.  Not something small.  The BIG one.  Think of that right now.  Think of the strength it took you to get through that.  You’re pretty remarkable, aren’t you?  You are.  That quality alone is something you should share.  And you do that most effectively through your writing.

Don’t let them stop you from writing, those Mad Farmers of the world.  Write.  Write.  Write.  And keep writing.

Home from Edinburgh*

The Butler (my husband, not the movie) planned to spend August covering his colleagues’ holidays rather than take one himself.  Fine with me, as I had a novel that needed attention.  However.  I didn’t do the responsible thing when one evening he said, ‘I have a few days off.  Let’s go to the Edinburgh Book Festival.’

The process of novel writing is a strange game of what-if.

Neil Gaiman 22/08/13

We took the afternoon train that rides the east coast, one of my favourite trips.  A friend met us on Princes Street, took us to Charlotte Square which had been transformed into a secret village.  There were no passport checks, but we definitely had crossed the border into Somewhere Else.

If you ignore your inside voice, you ignore it at your peril.

                                                                        Mark Billingham 23/08/13

Once inside, there was settledness to the place.  Not the spiritual tranquillity of a religious building, not an ivory tower concept or romantic notion, but the still hum of a thousand intellects invoking the imagination. 

 

It’s the journalist's business to write about politics.  The writer must write about more important things.  What is important in life is of the world without words.  The writer translates and is above the level of politics.

                                                                        Mikhail Shishkin 23/08/13

They weren’t all well behaved intellects.  Children raced and screamed and had tantrums.  Staff had to pick up litter.  These people got drunk, one woman shouting, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck photography,’ and sent the Festival photo team skeedaddling.  

We’re inured to violence.  Fiction gets over the issue fatigue, a sneaky bastard that comes at you from the side.

Lauren Beukes 23/08/13

A thick Scottish accent bellowed at us to get in the queue.  Book signings ran like conveyor belts watched over by security.  Inside all of that, though, something felt different.

I imagine Ian Rankin walks around Edinburgh to find a car park to stuff a body.  Kind of like the Easter Bunny.

Margaret Atwood 24/08/13

Our second day there, everyone abandoned me for their sessions.  I grabbed an ice cream and a deck chair, sat down with my manuscript.  Next to me gathered a multi-generational family.  A set of middle-aged grandparents, several thirty-something parents. 

Sometimes people are undone by success.

Stephen Grosz 24/08/13

The grandfather carried a baby, talked to it, explained what the rest of the family were doing.  Nothing significant about this bunch until the other children returned. 

The true inspiration for the writer is the bank manager.

Andrew Grieg 24/08/13

Kids young enough to speed across the square with their picture books were greeted like lionesses who’d returned with food for the pride.  Adults squatted to hear the stories even if the child went through the book backwards. 

I love challenge.  At least I say that to myself before it’s started.  Halfway through, I say, this is the most terrible challenge!

                                    Antonia Fraser 25/08/13

And when the excitement calmed down, ice cream for everyone.  My kind of family, I can tell you.  They know what it takes to raise a kid.  Ice cream and books.

I feel this is an audience full of women laughing and men, not.

Naomi Alderman 25/08/13

El Punko later tweeted, Can we live here?  That’s how I felt, as though I’d found the lost tribe of my native people.  Nothing tangibly different on the outside, but on the inside – if we could do DNA tests on the soul, you’d find something a bit peculiar.

If you want a virtual reality experience that takes you out of reality, read a novel.

                                    Valerie Martin 25/08/13

Between sessions, we sat in deck chairs and read or wrote.  Some of us fell asleep.  We ran into old friends, met new ones, shared writing opportunities, lusted over book after book after book.  Bought way too many.  Ate some of the best cake I’ve ever had.

Zombies are not good on skates.

                                    Margaret Atwood 25/08/13

Sometimes I felt overwhelmed by the intelligence on the panel, both writers and moderators.  Sometimes I felt I’d underachieved.  Sometimes I felt enthused about my craft, couldn’t wait to get back to the deck chair and write write write.  After some ice cream, of course.

Burke and Hare had their good side.

                                    Ian Rankin 26/08/13

At one of Margaret Atwood’s sessions, a man asked her what to do with all the stories in your head, if you weren’t a writer.  She said something close to: Anybody who can write things down is a writer.  Then it’s up to you to become a better writer.  (Take that, all you people who belittle writers who aren’t yet Margaret Atwood.)  

My feeling about her is she’s the perfect corporate wife.  (Lady MacBeth) 

                                    Margaret Atwood 26/08/13

Which is who El Punko wants to be when he grows up.  At first I was surprised he didn’t want to be Neil Gaiman, but then I realised Neil Gaiman hasn’t grown up yet, which is really quite lovely.  I think becoming Margaret Atwood is an admirable goal, even without the writing bit.

A book can be as many books as it can be.

                                    Valerie Martin 26/08/13

My experience of the festival, though obviously limited, was that it lacked the usual hierarchy.  This is a craft and everyone there loved it; some of us in the creation but all of us in the appreciation of it.  So while there was a yurt where the writers could hide, they also sat with their families in deck chairs, stood in line for talks, bought ice cream from the stand without being mobbed. 

Adults have no attention span.  They give up and go away long before you’re finished.  (Having stories read to you.)

                                    Neil Gaiman 26/08/13

That ethos, perhaps, of egalitarianism, reinforced in me the need for writers (and all creatives) to support each other in an honest but positive fashion.  That includes supporting yourself as well, despite people who don’t believe you have something to say.  If Ian Rankin and Mary Talbot and Val MacDermid don’t mind walking among the rest of us, then feck the begrudgers and walk here as well.

We were just talking about Jane Austen’s underwear.

                                    Margaret Atwood 24/08/13

*All writer quotes are as close to what was said as possible.

The Perils of Pillage

My mother is a master quilter.  She has the ability to see, in a collection of fabrics, the intricate wee triangles and squares that will create a balance of colour and motion.  The art of quilting originated from necessity – the absence of a large fabric met by joining small scraps of old clothing. 

Many writers create in the same way, but it isn’t the rag bag that they pillage their bits of colour and texture from.

Most writers I know have an incredible capacity for information.  The whole ‘write what you know’ is set aside for write what speaks to you.  History, art, music, all the behavioural sciences, and just plain old people, we dive into them with the ability to hold our breath for minutes, hours, days if need be to absorb what it takes to feed the desire to know.

In my early days as a pillager, I often confused this subject immersion as a more lasting interest and, as a result, have (to list the less embarrassing escapades) learned to play piano, trombone, tambourine, recorder, penny whistle, guitar, bodhrán, banjo, Scottish pipes, and fiddle.  I’ll pause here to say, I’m not a musical person, so by the time I’d created a main character who played uillean pipes, I’d learned to research the experience with a pen, not pipes.

Here’s where peril begins to happen.  A book or craft or musical instrument, no matter how deep a relationship we form with it, does not respond in kind.  A person is quite different altogether.  There’s a sort of ethics to pillaging from a person.  For instance, regardless how kickass their metaphors are, how powerful their stories, I wouldn’t take one from a client.  The dynamics in that type of relationship make asking an unfair thing. 

Those ethics shouldn’t apply only to a therapeutic relationship, though.  To take a friend’s stories without asking is worse than stealing their cutlery when they’ve invited you over for dinner.  Taking another writer’s metaphor or theme or story is a capital crime.  And most of us know that. 

Unfortunately, there are no ethics in the treatment of writers, and that’s where the peril of pillaging lurks.  There is a type of person out there who can do a real mind fuck on you and you never see it coming. 

A little psych lesson.  The act of creation for a writer, all this pillaging and plunder I’ve been rabbiting on about, it has something to do with ego boundaries.  Ours tend to be semi-permeable.  We can empathise til the cows come home.  Normal people see that for what it is.  A few may think we care more for them than we do, which isn’t to say we don’t care about them. 

But when Neil Gaiman looks up from a book he’s signing, smiles sincerely to a teenage boy who absolutely loves Ocean at the End of the Lane, then says something nice to his mother because the boy’s too star stuck to speak, Gaiman is being empathetic and kind, and probably doesn’t remember the boy five minutes later.

And on some level, the boy knows that.  He’ll show Gaiman’s dedication to his friends, tell them how genuine and real Gaiman is.  Now think about Gaiman’s behaviour.  It only has meaning, it only has power in the context of a famous person taking fifteen seconds to acknowledge a teenager.  If I who am standing behind that teen in the queue smiled at him sincerely, he’d move closer to his mother and break all eye contact.

So we've established normal, at least for us.  Let's go to abnormal.  Hopefully you’re still with me, because here’s where it gets dicey.  This pillaging that you do in order to write, you probably don’t turn it off.  An old guy on the bus strikes up a conversation and if you’re in the mood, you carry your end, ask more questions than answer, learn all sorts of things about him and walk away having given nothing of yourself.

BUT

Sometimes, that casual conversation turns into coffee, turns into swapping books, turns into friendship.  Sometimes this person is a bit emotional.  Sometimes you have to be the more understanding person.  Sometimes, if you have a bad day and decide to go caving, as I call taking a break from social interaction, this person calls the police after six hours.  Or your mother.  All your friends. 

And that seems cute.  You feel bad for making that person worry.

But these cute, idiosyncratic moments multiply.  The friendship becomes care-taking becomes hard work.  You think this person’s going through a bad time, it’ll blow over.  Life’s hard.  You’ve been there.  You’ve plundered stories from other lives that have been there.  This person’s your really good friend.  You have so much history together.

And then one day, this person attacks you.  And continues to attack you but won’t let you respond.  Then blocks all access to him, tells your friends what a shit you are, takes some of them with him.  You’re left with the confusion of what-the-hell-did-I-do and the ugliness spilled over all the memories you share with this person.

What’s that all about?

Well, some people out there are really badly damaged.  Their ego boundaries aren’t just permeable; they’re goddam shaky.  They need someone else’s boundaries to hold the amoeba of themselves.  Your interest in this person, your intense, flattering interest means something very different than friendship to them.  Because their ego boundaries have never been properly put into place, your wit and verbal skills, vast information base, creative spark, all the good things that you’ve spent a lifetime building, those now belong to him.

Which is why, if you go caving, they freak out and call the Mounties.  And, when life gets stressful, if you fail to sooth them the way a mother soothes a baby, they will attack and vilify you.

This sort of thing could happen to anyone, not just writers.  It’s why we have stalking laws.  It’s a core of domestic abuse and bunny boiling.  But I think, perhaps wrongly, that because writers have this huge initial investment in new people – we’re curious as hell, ask questions, work to understand because it’s how we create – we don’t see the forest for the trees sometimes. 

The danger of all this is the memory it leaves you with, the learning that life is dangerous and you’re not able to see it coming.  If it happens more than once, then you think you obviously ask for it.  You’re the person who’s not a very good friend and you don’t even know why.  That type of damage done is pretty hard to recover from.  It is, indeed, perilous.

These people are hard to spot initially because when you’re good to them, you’re very, very good.  It seems like a genuine friendship.  Your best defence is your current social circle. 

Listen to what your tried and true friends tell you about the new friends you make.  Look at the new friend's other relationships – are they bizarre?  Are they secretive about normal things?  Think about the stories they tell you, the believability of them.  Real life isn’t lived in dramatic arcs.

Most of all, be aware that your propensity to pillage distorts the boundaries.  Don’t be overly forgiving in the beginning – forgiveness is earned, not a free pass you give to someone who interests you.  Walk away from anyone who wants exclusivity to your time and friendship, who tries to interfere with your established friendships or hobbies or most especially, your caving time.

Writers aren’t formed in quite the same way as non-writers.  Pillage to your heart's content, make new friends, but always, always, always take care of yourself.