I am a good editor; I love nothing better than ripping writing apart, cutting and stripping, always trying to sharpen and hone – that’s why I never get to the end of anything except poetry! That and ideas for new novels. I can’t sit down and write a simple short story because I find subtext, themes and before you know it there’s another book in the wings. So, it’s either poem or novel; there’s nothing in between – even the flash fiction I write demands to be big, bigger, biggest.
Inspiration, stimulation and perhaps increased circulation has got me moving in the right direction and I’ve been working on two of these poor, neglected works. Maybe this year. Have I said that before? Definitely.
This time though, I’m approaching projects that are well developed and am charmed by the characters and their stories – bloody impressed is what I am! I created these babies and they’re okay, so I should finish them. I will. Then why am I fannying about on here?
Alright, I’ll do something in a minute; I’ve also neglected my lovely blog; I’m supposed to be a serial blogger, but not this month, or last month. Hopefully when I look back on this time, from my busy writing routine, I’ll name it My Thinking Phase and have fond memories of how comfortable this sofa was. I’ll wonder why I thought I could write whole novels from that position instead of sitting properly at my desk or at least a table. But I know writers who write in bed!. Why can’t I be a better writer on my sofa?
Of course it doesn’t help that the telly is flashing in the background; I can’t hear it over the noise of the washing machine but I’m still aware of the movie and keep pausing to catch up – it’s a bomb on a plane thing, and I have seen it before – yeeeaars ago…so why am I watching it? Because I can.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, January 26, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
RESOLUTIONS
All I’ve got to do is stop
eating trash – start
walking fast, to slow
down the onset
of death.
All I’ve got to do is be
energetic
tick the boxes – see
entertainment
in gym.
All I’ve got to do is swim
instead of float
facing front – not up
pay attention
take part.
All I’ve got to do is grow
a love of sport
bore myself to death –
not list’ning, go
away.
All I’ve got to do is find
a way to play
when I’m not looking –
vacate my mind
maybe.
All I’ve got to do is stop
messing around
pound the pavements, right?
You’re hounding me
I’ll try.
All I’ve got to do is learn
to accept death.
Flattened by a bus
or heart attack –
who cares?
eating trash – start
walking fast, to slow
down the onset
of death.
All I’ve got to do is be
energetic
tick the boxes – see
entertainment
in gym.
All I’ve got to do is swim
instead of float
facing front – not up
pay attention
take part.
All I’ve got to do is grow
a love of sport
bore myself to death –
not list’ning, go
away.
All I’ve got to do is find
a way to play
when I’m not looking –
vacate my mind
maybe.
All I’ve got to do is stop
messing around
pound the pavements, right?
You’re hounding me
I’ll try.
All I’ve got to do is learn
to accept death.
Flattened by a bus
or heart attack –
who cares?
Monday, January 12, 2009
HOLD THE FRONT PAGE
I’ve been writing!!! I think I’m back in the swim. Also been spending time on the collaboration site Protagonize but it seems to have been taken over by young writers from a site that’s closing down; it’s all very cliquish and busy with their chatter. I’m hoping the excitement of a new place will settle and things will return to some kind of normal, but it still has the same effect on me – it makes me write, is still stimulating as long as you don’t mind being ignored. I’m not there for ratings – I want more than that; I want writing practise and collaboration.
This has been a great weekend in that I’ve done nothing but read and write…and watch a little telly; I’ve been cool, calm and collected. There has been NO decorating or cleaning or cooking – tomorrow is another day and I plan on doing all three. The slow cooker is set on top with a chopping-board, bags of ancient potatoes and all the veg from the fridge; I’ll be making Stovies (Glaswegian stew with sausages). I’ve lived on pies all weekend; they were wonderful, mostly because I haven’t been able to cook or heat pies for the past 18 months. My little oven & grill is great…but the good news is that I’m being given a gas cooker, but will have to pay to have it fitted. Still, it is good news; I haven’t stirred anything in a pot for a long time.
I’m beginning the New Year with bank charges and visits to the dentist for root treatment – but what a slap in the face! I hope it acts as a torrent of cold water to wake me up and make me use the space I’ve created for anything other than watching bloody TV. I will turn it off. I spent hours last weekend in front of so many repeated episodes of CSI. This weekend might’ve gone the same way if I hadn’t set up the table in the corner here and brought in my twirly chair – I usually curl up on the sofa with the laptop which is not really conducive to writing. I promise to turn it off and write.
This has been a great weekend in that I’ve done nothing but read and write…and watch a little telly; I’ve been cool, calm and collected. There has been NO decorating or cleaning or cooking – tomorrow is another day and I plan on doing all three. The slow cooker is set on top with a chopping-board, bags of ancient potatoes and all the veg from the fridge; I’ll be making Stovies (Glaswegian stew with sausages). I’ve lived on pies all weekend; they were wonderful, mostly because I haven’t been able to cook or heat pies for the past 18 months. My little oven & grill is great…but the good news is that I’m being given a gas cooker, but will have to pay to have it fitted. Still, it is good news; I haven’t stirred anything in a pot for a long time.
I’m beginning the New Year with bank charges and visits to the dentist for root treatment – but what a slap in the face! I hope it acts as a torrent of cold water to wake me up and make me use the space I’ve created for anything other than watching bloody TV. I will turn it off. I spent hours last weekend in front of so many repeated episodes of CSI. This weekend might’ve gone the same way if I hadn’t set up the table in the corner here and brought in my twirly chair – I usually curl up on the sofa with the laptop which is not really conducive to writing. I promise to turn it off and write.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
FIRSTS
This is my first day of doing nothing and boy was it good? Oh yes! I did crochet 100gms onto a blanket while watching telly but that doesn’t count – I can do that with my eyes shut and it only took an hour. I feel as if I’ve been eating all day; I’ve had meals, even pudding – all from New Year’s Eve leftovers. My first dinner party in the new flat was successful even though there was a hitch with the mashed potatoes. Five grandchildren and their parents around my little drop-leaf table; I need to get a board to make it bigger for next time.
Time has disappeared under all this house-moving, decorating, xmas, new year and birthdays - we have three birthdays: 20th 24th and 26th. Power Ranger turned 6 on the 20th and had a family party with all his cousins there; it was pretty mental. When I was a child we were all shy about dancing, either by ourselves or in a group – especially the boys. You should’ve seen these boys go; number-one grandson, Bouncer, suggested a dance-off and they were up birling and twirling, legs all over the place, elbows jigging, faces twisting… I was ill laughing, but I made a terrible judge. I could knock a couple out but couldn’t make the choice at the end. Stunningly noisy.
So, I’m trying to set myself some routines, one of which is swimming or/and aqua aerobics, but the main ones have to be writing and art – I’ve just gotta get myself under some kind of control; I can feel life drifting under the front door!
My friend, Oracle, is beginning a new job tomorrow; I wish him well but will miss him at work so much. Even at work, I need to conduct my spare time when I’m not on the phone; I’m going to set myself some writing tasks – I think everyone has a blanket so I should stop crocheting, for now.
Right, that’s me sorted. All I have to do is do what I’m told, what’s expected of me.
Time has disappeared under all this house-moving, decorating, xmas, new year and birthdays - we have three birthdays: 20th 24th and 26th. Power Ranger turned 6 on the 20th and had a family party with all his cousins there; it was pretty mental. When I was a child we were all shy about dancing, either by ourselves or in a group – especially the boys. You should’ve seen these boys go; number-one grandson, Bouncer, suggested a dance-off and they were up birling and twirling, legs all over the place, elbows jigging, faces twisting… I was ill laughing, but I made a terrible judge. I could knock a couple out but couldn’t make the choice at the end. Stunningly noisy.
So, I’m trying to set myself some routines, one of which is swimming or/and aqua aerobics, but the main ones have to be writing and art – I’ve just gotta get myself under some kind of control; I can feel life drifting under the front door!
My friend, Oracle, is beginning a new job tomorrow; I wish him well but will miss him at work so much. Even at work, I need to conduct my spare time when I’m not on the phone; I’m going to set myself some writing tasks – I think everyone has a blanket so I should stop crocheting, for now.
Right, that’s me sorted. All I have to do is do what I’m told, what’s expected of me.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
NANO RULES
Just a little extract from the novel I'm working on for National Novel-writing Month:
***************************************
I wish I’d stopped drinking last night when I said I would; working with a hangover would be interminable, especially with Marlow yammering on about the evils of anything other than red wine. Elegance is a bottle of the most expensive red you can afford, according to him. Well, it was beer or nothing last night. I’m fed up being piss-poor.
The shower always made me gasp and moan; the weight of wet hair down my back equalled pure ecstasy. It battered my hangover into submission and I felt more myself as I clambered out of the bath – I’ve never been elegant. An image of Frankie and his pet policeman forced itself into my head; he was driving me mental, this son of Satan – a true teenager, and definitely not my favourite child at the moment. Everyone said he would grow out of it, that he’d be a fine man – yeah right.
My first call was Moaning Millie; she wanted her mother to help her with her new baby – wasn’t that what a mother did? She whined that she was tired and had expected her mother to come clean the house, take over so she could sleep. I didn’t tell her that her mother had probably had enough of her and her sister to last a lifetime and was now in clover with her own little flat and piles of peace, contentment and bloody freedom!
Marlow smirked from his booth. He sat there surrounded by all kinds of balms, stones and healthy spiritual stuff; Dr Witch, I called him – he never moved from his place and we spun around him like the little satellites from his very own solar system.
‘Don’t even think it.’ I said.
‘I would’ve thought you’d have found something more interesting than alcohol by now.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I know what you’re going to say next; It was Jess’ fault. Now isn’t that right?’
‘You said that, not me – and I was not thinking it.’ I couldn’t look at him because he was always right. ‘Bitch.’
‘Patsy you’re a patsy.’
‘Yeah well. Jess is bad; she thinks she’s a terrible mother.’
‘She is.’
‘She is not…and you don’t know her. Well maybe you do, but you weren’t there. It’s too easy for the childless masses to slag single parents off – they haven’t got a clue. We’d be better off in Huxley’s Brave New World; created in test-tubes and grown in jars for nurseries somewhere distant. I don’t think we should be parents at all; we’re all bad, selfish and stupid.’
‘You’re in a lovely mood this hangover, aren’t you?’ he dug into his bag and offered me a French Fancy.
I couldn’t get Frankie out of my mind, wondering if he was smoking wacky-backy or breaking into some empty factory for lead and copper. He was supposed to be in his room studying and watching TV – he was probably talking on my landline but not to mobiles; I’d had them banned, so at least he wasn’t costing me too much money. Bella would keep an eye on him; she was a terrier when she started. That was the only fault with this job; I liked working at night because it stopped me wasting my time in front of the box but it meant that I wasn’t there to supervise my wayward son – but he was sixteen; he should be part-way sensible by now. I prayed he didn’t turn into a Hoodie, and wouldn’t buy him anything with a hood on it – not even a jacket!
***************************************
I wish I’d stopped drinking last night when I said I would; working with a hangover would be interminable, especially with Marlow yammering on about the evils of anything other than red wine. Elegance is a bottle of the most expensive red you can afford, according to him. Well, it was beer or nothing last night. I’m fed up being piss-poor.
The shower always made me gasp and moan; the weight of wet hair down my back equalled pure ecstasy. It battered my hangover into submission and I felt more myself as I clambered out of the bath – I’ve never been elegant. An image of Frankie and his pet policeman forced itself into my head; he was driving me mental, this son of Satan – a true teenager, and definitely not my favourite child at the moment. Everyone said he would grow out of it, that he’d be a fine man – yeah right.
My first call was Moaning Millie; she wanted her mother to help her with her new baby – wasn’t that what a mother did? She whined that she was tired and had expected her mother to come clean the house, take over so she could sleep. I didn’t tell her that her mother had probably had enough of her and her sister to last a lifetime and was now in clover with her own little flat and piles of peace, contentment and bloody freedom!
Marlow smirked from his booth. He sat there surrounded by all kinds of balms, stones and healthy spiritual stuff; Dr Witch, I called him – he never moved from his place and we spun around him like the little satellites from his very own solar system.
‘Don’t even think it.’ I said.
‘I would’ve thought you’d have found something more interesting than alcohol by now.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I know what you’re going to say next; It was Jess’ fault. Now isn’t that right?’
‘You said that, not me – and I was not thinking it.’ I couldn’t look at him because he was always right. ‘Bitch.’
‘Patsy you’re a patsy.’
‘Yeah well. Jess is bad; she thinks she’s a terrible mother.’
‘She is.’
‘She is not…and you don’t know her. Well maybe you do, but you weren’t there. It’s too easy for the childless masses to slag single parents off – they haven’t got a clue. We’d be better off in Huxley’s Brave New World; created in test-tubes and grown in jars for nurseries somewhere distant. I don’t think we should be parents at all; we’re all bad, selfish and stupid.’
‘You’re in a lovely mood this hangover, aren’t you?’ he dug into his bag and offered me a French Fancy.
I couldn’t get Frankie out of my mind, wondering if he was smoking wacky-backy or breaking into some empty factory for lead and copper. He was supposed to be in his room studying and watching TV – he was probably talking on my landline but not to mobiles; I’d had them banned, so at least he wasn’t costing me too much money. Bella would keep an eye on him; she was a terrier when she started. That was the only fault with this job; I liked working at night because it stopped me wasting my time in front of the box but it meant that I wasn’t there to supervise my wayward son – but he was sixteen; he should be part-way sensible by now. I prayed he didn’t turn into a Hoodie, and wouldn’t buy him anything with a hood on it – not even a jacket!
Saturday, August 23, 2008
POSITIVE THINKING
I’ve been thinking on the positive wavelength for a couple of months now, more fiercely since I watched the movie The Secret – and it’s working; I am attracting all sorts of great stuff to me! People I hardly know are offering me things; two lovely women who have recently started work beside me have offered furniture, a microwave, coffee-maker – one has presented me with beautiful baking trays, signed by Antony Worrall Thompson himself! Before that another workmate brought me in shoes that she couldn’t wear, then a lovely blouse and then a pair of lined curtains for my new flat!
Yes, I’ve even got a flat out of all this positivism, oh The Universe has definitely got me in its sights – I hope I’m not looking too needy. But I do need a lot of stuff. I don’t think I’ll ever remember all I lost in that fire; I had the cupboard packed full of all kinds of arty-farty bits n pieces, photographic equipment and everything that comes out of that. I know that I’ve lost all the black n white negatives along with the enlarger. A few little accoutrements survive for my new darkroom but I’ll need to visit ebay for another bargain enlarger. I can’t wait to have my own kitchen again – so I can black it out and play.
The Artist’s Way is written with The Secret in mind, which was working on me long before I saw the movie, but I stopped doing my morning pages and working on the book when I found the collaborative writing site Protagonise; I always go off on a bender when I find something new. So, I’m heading back The Artist’s Way and will pick up where I left off. I’ve promised myself that I’ll keep the TV turned off this weekend, and hopefully every weekend – with the odd exception of particular programmes. I’ll be good. I’ve given myself a 10,000 word task to be done by Tuesday so let’s see if I can make it.
Yes, I’ve even got a flat out of all this positivism, oh The Universe has definitely got me in its sights – I hope I’m not looking too needy. But I do need a lot of stuff. I don’t think I’ll ever remember all I lost in that fire; I had the cupboard packed full of all kinds of arty-farty bits n pieces, photographic equipment and everything that comes out of that. I know that I’ve lost all the black n white negatives along with the enlarger. A few little accoutrements survive for my new darkroom but I’ll need to visit ebay for another bargain enlarger. I can’t wait to have my own kitchen again – so I can black it out and play.
The Artist’s Way is written with The Secret in mind, which was working on me long before I saw the movie, but I stopped doing my morning pages and working on the book when I found the collaborative writing site Protagonise; I always go off on a bender when I find something new. So, I’m heading back The Artist’s Way and will pick up where I left off. I’ve promised myself that I’ll keep the TV turned off this weekend, and hopefully every weekend – with the odd exception of particular programmes. I’ll be good. I’ve given myself a 10,000 word task to be done by Tuesday so let’s see if I can make it.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
CONFESSION
My name is Irene and I am a blogaholic! There, I’ve said it. Oh, the loneliness of the serial blogger. I switch on in the mornings, check email, wonder why no-one has left me any comments, then swing right on over there to the blogs; checking stats is also becoming addictive – when I first got a site-counter at Blogger I was all over that map and it was soooo exciting, but I got bored with the non-readers, all those searchers looking for granny-sex.
I set up a new blog with Wordpress last week, BUBBLES IN TIME; working on compiling an autobiography, and it’s great fun – especially the YouTube searching for just the right music and film clips. So, a few days in and I’m twitching, looking at stats, and wondering what to do next – set up another blog! And suddenly the name Fatty McSlob arrives in my head…and within minutes there it is, FATTY McSLOB in the flesh; ten minutes later it has a post and I’m satisfied, for now.
Wordpress is a whole new world of blogs calling to be read; they come to me from tags, I can pop next door, just like at Blogger, and then there is the blog networks in Facebook. OMG I wish I was unemployed or retired or rich – possibly in reverse order! I spent hours in Facebook blog networks yesterday, reading about full-time bloggers and how they make money. I think I want to be a full-time blogger when I grow up. Maybe I’ll just create ebooks and sell them on the blogs! Just think of all those tangents!
So, going off on that tangent, I should do a little ebook research just for the fun of it; I suppose it’s the next step from reading blogs, isn’t it? Mmmmm, and I’d have to blog about the experience and spout opinion, yes, good idea. Maybe I should get a dongle and take the laptop into work – I’ve been thinking of that anyway, taking it with me to work then I can write properly between calls instead of using a pen and notebook. I could stock-pile blog posts instead of the bulk-crocheting I’m doing now; it would be tidier than the craft work; no glitter all over the phone or glue gumming up my desk.
I really want one of those little laptops; it would sit very nicely on the side. This is small but an even smaller one would be much lighter and I’m all about if you don’t need it then get it out of your bag.
Some people can’t read off the screen but I seem perfectly comfortable with it; I know I’d be too miserable to print stuff out. I think the laptop has become my security blanket, and if I got a smaller one I could take it everywhere with me – not that I actually go anywhere these days, but it sounds good. And reading blogs is a bit like having a huge collection of short stories or serials, for free.
I set up a new blog with Wordpress last week, BUBBLES IN TIME; working on compiling an autobiography, and it’s great fun – especially the YouTube searching for just the right music and film clips. So, a few days in and I’m twitching, looking at stats, and wondering what to do next – set up another blog! And suddenly the name Fatty McSlob arrives in my head…and within minutes there it is, FATTY McSLOB in the flesh; ten minutes later it has a post and I’m satisfied, for now.
Wordpress is a whole new world of blogs calling to be read; they come to me from tags, I can pop next door, just like at Blogger, and then there is the blog networks in Facebook. OMG I wish I was unemployed or retired or rich – possibly in reverse order! I spent hours in Facebook blog networks yesterday, reading about full-time bloggers and how they make money. I think I want to be a full-time blogger when I grow up. Maybe I’ll just create ebooks and sell them on the blogs! Just think of all those tangents!
So, going off on that tangent, I should do a little ebook research just for the fun of it; I suppose it’s the next step from reading blogs, isn’t it? Mmmmm, and I’d have to blog about the experience and spout opinion, yes, good idea. Maybe I should get a dongle and take the laptop into work – I’ve been thinking of that anyway, taking it with me to work then I can write properly between calls instead of using a pen and notebook. I could stock-pile blog posts instead of the bulk-crocheting I’m doing now; it would be tidier than the craft work; no glitter all over the phone or glue gumming up my desk.
I really want one of those little laptops; it would sit very nicely on the side. This is small but an even smaller one would be much lighter and I’m all about if you don’t need it then get it out of your bag.
Some people can’t read off the screen but I seem perfectly comfortable with it; I know I’d be too miserable to print stuff out. I think the laptop has become my security blanket, and if I got a smaller one I could take it everywhere with me – not that I actually go anywhere these days, but it sounds good. And reading blogs is a bit like having a huge collection of short stories or serials, for free.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
WHY I WRITE
I have thought about it, a lot, and have probably spouted the age-old answer: ‘I write because I want to.’ But, what does that mean? Scribble? Or do I mean some kind of continuous stream that will eventually attract someone’s attention? Am I really planning to be a novelist? Or do I fancy myself in the trade of public observation, like in a regular column? Yes, I’d like to live in that description. I want to describe, sum-up and comment on people, places & stuff; but I also want to create and lie for a living.
Living to lie; that sounds just the right slant to me – I want to be that! One of the blogs I regularly read, Every Day I Lie a Little is pretty hysterical. Lying is fun. I remember people coming to me for lies in the 70s, when they’d taken time off work or been late; I was a great liar and could come up with the most outrageous stuff that was so out-there that they could only be the truth!
I don’t know why I was drawn into the world of writing but I think it might mostly be the fault of Margaret Atwood; I fell after I’d read her for the first time – The Handmaid’s Tale did me in. That was probably about 1988; I’d spent the years before that at some party or another and seemed to have drank my adult life away – I really don’t remember much about 1985 or 6 or Chernobyl because I was mostly drunk!
I thought I was happy then. We had the time of our lives, Carrie and me: me and Carrie tripping from party to party, men to men – cool was our middle name. When I stopped it all and started college Carrie found it very difficult, propping up bars by herself…and it took me two years to get her to leave me alone; to stop trying to drag me out to pubs. I’d discovered further education and Writing; a new drug – it took me over completely and I haven’t been the same since. Carrie eventually forgave me.
So why do I write? I don’t know; this stuff just falls out of my head and there it is, on the paper, on the screen – it swims around me like a feeding shark, nipping at my heels and sometimes (well mostly) there is so much of it. Then it needs filing and remembered, and then editing begins and never stops, but then a shiny new thing comes in and distracts me and I see the end of the road taking a turn, twisting into all those zed-bends. Navigation is murder.
Living to lie; that sounds just the right slant to me – I want to be that! One of the blogs I regularly read, Every Day I Lie a Little is pretty hysterical. Lying is fun. I remember people coming to me for lies in the 70s, when they’d taken time off work or been late; I was a great liar and could come up with the most outrageous stuff that was so out-there that they could only be the truth!
I don’t know why I was drawn into the world of writing but I think it might mostly be the fault of Margaret Atwood; I fell after I’d read her for the first time – The Handmaid’s Tale did me in. That was probably about 1988; I’d spent the years before that at some party or another and seemed to have drank my adult life away – I really don’t remember much about 1985 or 6 or Chernobyl because I was mostly drunk!
I thought I was happy then. We had the time of our lives, Carrie and me: me and Carrie tripping from party to party, men to men – cool was our middle name. When I stopped it all and started college Carrie found it very difficult, propping up bars by herself…and it took me two years to get her to leave me alone; to stop trying to drag me out to pubs. I’d discovered further education and Writing; a new drug – it took me over completely and I haven’t been the same since. Carrie eventually forgave me.
So why do I write? I don’t know; this stuff just falls out of my head and there it is, on the paper, on the screen – it swims around me like a feeding shark, nipping at my heels and sometimes (well mostly) there is so much of it. Then it needs filing and remembered, and then editing begins and never stops, but then a shiny new thing comes in and distracts me and I see the end of the road taking a turn, twisting into all those zed-bends. Navigation is murder.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
CHRYSALIS
I’ve found a fantastic site for procrastinating called, Protagonize. Collaborate to your heart’s content. I’ve tried to get my fellow writers at WF in Writewords to play with this kind of thing but they never do, or keep anything up I begin. So I’m in clover; I’ve only been a member there for two days and I’ve got two stories running and have joined in a couple of others – now this could be very addictive but at least it is actual writing!
And the bad news is, I didn’t write my morning pages today! No reason other than I was writing and polishing old stuff for Protagonize. I thought I’d use old bits of work that I know I don’t want to continue; there are loads of scraps filed away, and I was already trying to tidy the fiction file – so this is just perfect, isn’t it?
The thought of other people creating a continued life with my characters is very exciting; I really hope people are stimulated enough to write some of these threads I’ve suggested; they have what they call branches, where you choose titles for three tangents or new chapter beginnings for other writers to investigate. God, the very idea just makes me high as a dragon chasing an addict!
I confess to addiction; I am addicted to new projects – I wonder if there is a name for this. I’m not afraid to finish them: I just kind of slope off in other directions but I do pop back eventually, hopefully to finish. Womag blogged some info that peaked my interest the other day about Woman’s Weekly looking for new submissions; I’m thinking of having a go at short fiction for that market, so have already rescued a few neglected pieces. Let’s all send a prayer up to the universe that I finish something.
The unfinished novels sit in the back of my mind and mock my attempts at forming routines; they know that I’m a lazy bitch and that they could be neglected for years! But, I am a new woman now; I know this – still a baby in this persona, a youngling. I feel a rebellion coming on, so watch out!
And the bad news is, I didn’t write my morning pages today! No reason other than I was writing and polishing old stuff for Protagonize. I thought I’d use old bits of work that I know I don’t want to continue; there are loads of scraps filed away, and I was already trying to tidy the fiction file – so this is just perfect, isn’t it?
The thought of other people creating a continued life with my characters is very exciting; I really hope people are stimulated enough to write some of these threads I’ve suggested; they have what they call branches, where you choose titles for three tangents or new chapter beginnings for other writers to investigate. God, the very idea just makes me high as a dragon chasing an addict!
I confess to addiction; I am addicted to new projects – I wonder if there is a name for this. I’m not afraid to finish them: I just kind of slope off in other directions but I do pop back eventually, hopefully to finish. Womag blogged some info that peaked my interest the other day about Woman’s Weekly looking for new submissions; I’m thinking of having a go at short fiction for that market, so have already rescued a few neglected pieces. Let’s all send a prayer up to the universe that I finish something.
The unfinished novels sit in the back of my mind and mock my attempts at forming routines; they know that I’m a lazy bitch and that they could be neglected for years! But, I am a new woman now; I know this – still a baby in this persona, a youngling. I feel a rebellion coming on, so watch out!
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
IS THIS THE WAY?
I’ve gone ‘The Artist’s Way’ which might be detrimental to the blog for a while, but the great thing about it is; I’m writing and actually getting something done. In the last two days I’ve solved a problem with the section of the novel I’ve been working on, so it’s almost finished – the section I mean, not the novel.
I’ve been kind of stuck here for a while but I hadn’t thought of it as being blocked; I don’t know if I believe in artist/writer’s block, but something has happened and I’m only on day three! I’ve done my morning pages every day (I don’t do mornings) and I am beginning to look at what I’m eating and doing. You never know, I could be reborn within a month. Agents and publishers look out, ‘cause here I come!
I’ve been kind of stuck here for a while but I hadn’t thought of it as being blocked; I don’t know if I believe in artist/writer’s block, but something has happened and I’m only on day three! I’ve done my morning pages every day (I don’t do mornings) and I am beginning to look at what I’m eating and doing. You never know, I could be reborn within a month. Agents and publishers look out, ‘cause here I come!
Sunday, May 11, 2008
MARCHING ORDERS
I’ve got two lots of homework to do: Morning Pages, and 20 lines of iambic pentameter. I suppose the former should be done first, otherwise it’ll all end up iambic. Of course I do realise that this is not morning, but that kind of thing doesn’t matter to me; my life has its own time zone.
Still reading bits of books - can’t seem to get a whole one to stay still and on my mind for longer than fifteen minutes. I discovered a little pile of lit mags with me inside them somewhere (they stink of the fire) and it was fun browsing work that I’ve either discarded or lost; I must type the viable ones up to file. Funny the things that survived that fire; I mean, all my old notebooks, my clothes, shoes, books, art materials, photos, negatives, furniture and I hate to think of what else went up in smoke…and some scabby old poems make it out.
I don’t think my memory will ever be able to recall everything that was in that cupboard – fate has me in its grasp and I must continue with what I have now. I had an email from Lulu in Spain last week. She said that the Spanish police have her car but I don’t know which car she meant; the one she uses or the old black one that’s full of our junk! So that would be more of my possessions going PUFF! Mind you, I haven’t seen that stuff for eighteen months, and have no clear idea of what is or isn’t there, so maybe I don’t need it.
What I need is to live in the present and concentrate on my future; I need to write, to position myself either with a pen in my hand or my fingers splayed across this bloody keyboard!
Still reading bits of books - can’t seem to get a whole one to stay still and on my mind for longer than fifteen minutes. I discovered a little pile of lit mags with me inside them somewhere (they stink of the fire) and it was fun browsing work that I’ve either discarded or lost; I must type the viable ones up to file. Funny the things that survived that fire; I mean, all my old notebooks, my clothes, shoes, books, art materials, photos, negatives, furniture and I hate to think of what else went up in smoke…and some scabby old poems make it out.
I don’t think my memory will ever be able to recall everything that was in that cupboard – fate has me in its grasp and I must continue with what I have now. I had an email from Lulu in Spain last week. She said that the Spanish police have her car but I don’t know which car she meant; the one she uses or the old black one that’s full of our junk! So that would be more of my possessions going PUFF! Mind you, I haven’t seen that stuff for eighteen months, and have no clear idea of what is or isn’t there, so maybe I don’t need it.
What I need is to live in the present and concentrate on my future; I need to write, to position myself either with a pen in my hand or my fingers splayed across this bloody keyboard!
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
MORE PSYCHIC PAM LETTERS
Dear Pam
If I sent you something belonging to someone, would you be able to tell me who they were and what kind of people? I’ve bought something that was supposed to have belonged to Dean, on that ebay place, but I need it confirmed before I’ll really believe it. Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have told you that it was his. Well never mind, I trust you, and you’d have known it anyway I’m sure. I’ve enclosed it with this letter.
Also, Sonjia said something the other day that really got me all wound up; she said that Dean was seen with a woman in a London restaurant...she’d read it in one of her stupid magazines. Is it true? He told me that he wasn’t going out, that he spent all his time reading up for the next show, or just watching TV. We like a lot of the same things; he loves Midsomer Murders too! I realise that he is a man and will do all sorts, sometimes, but I got the feeling that he had kind of grown up, and therefore learned something since his divorce. Sonjia still doesn’t believe that I’m working for Dean Webster Live! She is very old fashioned though, and doesn’t keep up with modern technology. I’m taking a course - a computer driving lesson thingy, and then I’ll be able to email you instead of waiting for the post...though I do love the postman bringing letters to me: not just bills.
I was startled by your photo on the website yesterday and felt very close to you because of the resemblance to my mother. It always worried me that I looked nothing like her and she’d say I was my father’s living image; he died before I was born. It was also very interesting to notice that our dates of birth are close. Are you sure that yours is right? And do you know if you were adopted or not? I think it might be possible that we are twins. I know that might sound pretty mad but if you look at this picture of my mother (which is also included) you’ll see what I mean. You really could be her daughter. Maybe we were separated at birth...or maybe had the same father, but that wouldn’t explain why you looked so much like my mother, would it?
There must be an explanation. Maybe we could meet and talk about it. I’m free pretty much all the time so could make any date you suggest, though I suspect you’re madly busy. So, if we were really sisters, maybe that explains my interest in the Tarot and all that stuff – maybe I could be psychic too!
Ooooh, this is getting exciting. I can’t wait to hear from you. Now, don’t be afraid of my feelings, I can take it; I would love it if we were sisters, but it isn’t the end of the world if we aren’t. But maybe we could get a DNA test to make sure.
Love Isabel X (sis)
If I sent you something belonging to someone, would you be able to tell me who they were and what kind of people? I’ve bought something that was supposed to have belonged to Dean, on that ebay place, but I need it confirmed before I’ll really believe it. Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have told you that it was his. Well never mind, I trust you, and you’d have known it anyway I’m sure. I’ve enclosed it with this letter.
Also, Sonjia said something the other day that really got me all wound up; she said that Dean was seen with a woman in a London restaurant...she’d read it in one of her stupid magazines. Is it true? He told me that he wasn’t going out, that he spent all his time reading up for the next show, or just watching TV. We like a lot of the same things; he loves Midsomer Murders too! I realise that he is a man and will do all sorts, sometimes, but I got the feeling that he had kind of grown up, and therefore learned something since his divorce. Sonjia still doesn’t believe that I’m working for Dean Webster Live! She is very old fashioned though, and doesn’t keep up with modern technology. I’m taking a course - a computer driving lesson thingy, and then I’ll be able to email you instead of waiting for the post...though I do love the postman bringing letters to me: not just bills.
I was startled by your photo on the website yesterday and felt very close to you because of the resemblance to my mother. It always worried me that I looked nothing like her and she’d say I was my father’s living image; he died before I was born. It was also very interesting to notice that our dates of birth are close. Are you sure that yours is right? And do you know if you were adopted or not? I think it might be possible that we are twins. I know that might sound pretty mad but if you look at this picture of my mother (which is also included) you’ll see what I mean. You really could be her daughter. Maybe we were separated at birth...or maybe had the same father, but that wouldn’t explain why you looked so much like my mother, would it?
There must be an explanation. Maybe we could meet and talk about it. I’m free pretty much all the time so could make any date you suggest, though I suspect you’re madly busy. So, if we were really sisters, maybe that explains my interest in the Tarot and all that stuff – maybe I could be psychic too!
Ooooh, this is getting exciting. I can’t wait to hear from you. Now, don’t be afraid of my feelings, I can take it; I would love it if we were sisters, but it isn’t the end of the world if we aren’t. But maybe we could get a DNA test to make sure.
Love Isabel X (sis)
Sunday, May 04, 2008
WHO AM I?
THE SIX-WORD BIOGRAPHY
1
Lazy, creative, pragmatic, experienced runaway granny
2
Quietly-verbal, outrageously-opinioned, crafty crazy manic dreamer
3
Optimistic, spiritual, obsessive, cynical, determined hermit
I, voluntarily, picked up this tag from WomagWriter’s blog but I’m not passing it on – if you want it just do it. It reminded me of the 30 second pitch of your novel to an agent you meet in an elevator. Lots of magazines ask for little biogs and I’m always unsure as to what people want, so maybe an experience in snippets is in order.
Here’s one I did earlier:
I fell into middle age when I was 40; sensible overnight – payback for the years of sex, alcohol and trashy high-heels. I’ve been flat-shoed since I was 35 while my idiot pal stumbled around Gateshead in the snow, falling in and out of her multi-story footwear. Now I am soooooo the sparkling, intelligent, unruffled and together older woman; it all depends on where your priorities lie. My friend (of the high-heels) has a problem with self-esteem – and she’s slim and attractive: I’m fat and bursting with laid-back enthusiasm for life, and death - in order to feel happy with the outside body you have to live happily within it.
There is another one full of bragging publications which I won’t bore you with; I think it’s definitely time to spice myself up in a more amusing package, with a sprinkle of everything so watch this space. So, have I just set myself on yet another tangent? Perhaps, but who’s counting tangents? It crossed my mind yesterday to tidy up my pile; to list the novels, short stories, flash, poetry, plays, sketches blah blah blah; don’t forget the autobiography; the blogging; the ideas; the future projects; the half-done synopses; the floating bits; the old bits; the morphic bits; and always, the sneaky little tadpoles tickling my memory with half-remembered dreams…like the one last night where the bird leapt onto a (huge) motorised butterfly and began to attack it like a woodpecker! How did I get a brain like this? And what would it be like if I could remember all the dreams?
1
Lazy, creative, pragmatic, experienced runaway granny
2
Quietly-verbal, outrageously-opinioned, crafty crazy manic dreamer
3
Optimistic, spiritual, obsessive, cynical, determined hermit
I, voluntarily, picked up this tag from WomagWriter’s blog but I’m not passing it on – if you want it just do it. It reminded me of the 30 second pitch of your novel to an agent you meet in an elevator. Lots of magazines ask for little biogs and I’m always unsure as to what people want, so maybe an experience in snippets is in order.
Here’s one I did earlier:
I fell into middle age when I was 40; sensible overnight – payback for the years of sex, alcohol and trashy high-heels. I’ve been flat-shoed since I was 35 while my idiot pal stumbled around Gateshead in the snow, falling in and out of her multi-story footwear. Now I am soooooo the sparkling, intelligent, unruffled and together older woman; it all depends on where your priorities lie. My friend (of the high-heels) has a problem with self-esteem – and she’s slim and attractive: I’m fat and bursting with laid-back enthusiasm for life, and death - in order to feel happy with the outside body you have to live happily within it.
There is another one full of bragging publications which I won’t bore you with; I think it’s definitely time to spice myself up in a more amusing package, with a sprinkle of everything so watch this space. So, have I just set myself on yet another tangent? Perhaps, but who’s counting tangents? It crossed my mind yesterday to tidy up my pile; to list the novels, short stories, flash, poetry, plays, sketches blah blah blah; don’t forget the autobiography; the blogging; the ideas; the future projects; the half-done synopses; the floating bits; the old bits; the morphic bits; and always, the sneaky little tadpoles tickling my memory with half-remembered dreams…like the one last night where the bird leapt onto a (huge) motorised butterfly and began to attack it like a woodpecker! How did I get a brain like this? And what would it be like if I could remember all the dreams?
Saturday, May 03, 2008
WRITING
So, sometime next week I have to spend lots of time lounging around Waterstones with piles of animal psychology/behaviour books and Earl Grey. Oh it’s a hard life indeed; my very bad guy from the Josie & Rita novel is going to be some kind of expert on both. I’ve just been reading Susan Hill blogging about writing in cafes, but there’s no need for me to report on Costa because it’s the same all over and everyone knows that Waterstones is Paradise.
Interesting week coming up then, and TopCat is going into heat, see the vibrating tail! She’s vocal again, and rubbing herself on anything that’s not flat; my old shoes; bags; tables; my feet; and don’t forget the galloping through the flat in the middle of the night, leaping across me in my bed, up onto the windowsill above my head, THUMP, down again. For a little cat she makes some noise landing on the floor. Also, I’m planning on getting her a collar and lead; she’s never seen another animal (except my grandchildren) and I want to see what she thinks of grass – when the weather is warmer of course.
I got lots of bits of work done in work last night; been taking The Writer’s Workbook in with me. I buy these books and don’t use them, so now I’m giving myself a real slap – this is a good workbook, with some great ideas for writing…I think I’ve had it a year and barely looked in it.. Here are two exercises with potential:
1.
‘Keep a travel journal for a week. Detail every journey you make. Include maps and illustrations, snapshots or sketches. Talk about the souvenirs you bring back, like fluff from a carpet. Make the smallest, most banal or disgusting detail amusing and alive.’
2.
‘Describe a barn as seen by a man whose son has just been killed in a war. Do not mention the son, the war or death. If worked hard enough, a wonderful image will be evoked, a real barn would stand before us but one filled with mysterious meaning. And another of his suggestions: a lake as seen by a young man who has just murdered his girlfriend. Do not mention the murder or the girl.’ (This is from John Gardner 1984) Change gender if you want of course [me].
This book has been catching my eye all week, from the bottom of a pile on the unit. Already I’m thinking of the travel journal and am cleaning out the camera, rubbing my eyes and preparing my lazy self for an onslaught of writing practices.
Interesting week coming up then, and TopCat is going into heat, see the vibrating tail! She’s vocal again, and rubbing herself on anything that’s not flat; my old shoes; bags; tables; my feet; and don’t forget the galloping through the flat in the middle of the night, leaping across me in my bed, up onto the windowsill above my head, THUMP, down again. For a little cat she makes some noise landing on the floor. Also, I’m planning on getting her a collar and lead; she’s never seen another animal (except my grandchildren) and I want to see what she thinks of grass – when the weather is warmer of course.
I got lots of bits of work done in work last night; been taking The Writer’s Workbook in with me. I buy these books and don’t use them, so now I’m giving myself a real slap – this is a good workbook, with some great ideas for writing…I think I’ve had it a year and barely looked in it.. Here are two exercises with potential:
1.
‘Keep a travel journal for a week. Detail every journey you make. Include maps and illustrations, snapshots or sketches. Talk about the souvenirs you bring back, like fluff from a carpet. Make the smallest, most banal or disgusting detail amusing and alive.’
2.
‘Describe a barn as seen by a man whose son has just been killed in a war. Do not mention the son, the war or death. If worked hard enough, a wonderful image will be evoked, a real barn would stand before us but one filled with mysterious meaning. And another of his suggestions: a lake as seen by a young man who has just murdered his girlfriend. Do not mention the murder or the girl.’ (This is from John Gardner 1984) Change gender if you want of course [me].
This book has been catching my eye all week, from the bottom of a pile on the unit. Already I’m thinking of the travel journal and am cleaning out the camera, rubbing my eyes and preparing my lazy self for an onslaught of writing practices.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
ADDICTION
Talking about fragments; I’ve lived through, and got out of, many phases so I’m sure I don’t have an addiction gene – for the simple reason that I’ve obviously moved on every time to the next one. But, is writing and art addictive in the same way as drugs and alcohol? I watched, Am I Normal? last night, and had to pause when someone pushed forward the idea ‘Just stop’. At first he sounded a bit belligerent and unsympathetic but by the end he’d caught my attention by saying that most people move out of one phase and into the next...and that a lot of addicts stop and move on, eventually too. This is true. And, we are definitely a nanny state.
If being creative is addictive then I’m very happy to be that addict. I’ve had many fun phases where I drank a lot but haven’t become an alcoholic (and we’re talking about waking up in hedges here). There was also the sex; and that was a bit of an addiction I suppose because I’d jump on any old bones if I felt like it – Carrie was always dragging me away from unsuitable men. I get bored if I’m not winning (which is why I could never be a gambler) and got fussier as the years rolled on - very rarely found strange men in my bed. That boredom led me back to education and a more creative life. Now, if anything is addictive, it’s education. I only had a few O’Levels in mind to get a better job, that’s all; I ended up with a degree in drama and it takes all my willpower to stop myself from continuing – I know that I hate teaching so there is absolutely no point in going further. (forgot the TESOL course I did in Barcelona)
All my life I have been searching for something outside of myself, always looking into the future; when I was seventeen I was desperate to find the man who would make me a full-blown woman – it took over a year! I was the oldest virgin I knew. The deflowering and short relationship was so unsatisfactory that I waited another year before attempting it again, which wasn’t any better. Maybe that gives some insight into the way my mind works where relationships and love are concerned. There’s a poem, here on the blog that I wrote for a competition about love; it is not completely biographical, though the conversation about killing the wife-beater is true, but I wasn’t the wife.
I was talking to someone in work tonight and she asked me how often I used my laptop, ‘Every fifteen minutes!’ I said. ‘If I could hang it around my neck like an usherette’s ice-cream tray, I would.’ She’s a normal person, she doesn’t understand; she thought I was kidding. I am using Opera (don’t ask me what it is, it’s an internet thingy) and I can have all my special pages open at the top of the page…and just click click click, back and forth all day, night etc. it’s bloody marvellous! So you are all at the hover of my mouse (when I do that a picture of the page flashes up) and if that isn’t the sign of an addict then I don’t know what is. I know I’m getting worse but I don’t care; I’ve even begun to talk about writing to people who don’t do that kind of thing and can see the pity in their eyes – they think I’m madder than I actually am.
If being creative is addictive then I’m very happy to be that addict. I’ve had many fun phases where I drank a lot but haven’t become an alcoholic (and we’re talking about waking up in hedges here). There was also the sex; and that was a bit of an addiction I suppose because I’d jump on any old bones if I felt like it – Carrie was always dragging me away from unsuitable men. I get bored if I’m not winning (which is why I could never be a gambler) and got fussier as the years rolled on - very rarely found strange men in my bed. That boredom led me back to education and a more creative life. Now, if anything is addictive, it’s education. I only had a few O’Levels in mind to get a better job, that’s all; I ended up with a degree in drama and it takes all my willpower to stop myself from continuing – I know that I hate teaching so there is absolutely no point in going further. (forgot the TESOL course I did in Barcelona)
All my life I have been searching for something outside of myself, always looking into the future; when I was seventeen I was desperate to find the man who would make me a full-blown woman – it took over a year! I was the oldest virgin I knew. The deflowering and short relationship was so unsatisfactory that I waited another year before attempting it again, which wasn’t any better. Maybe that gives some insight into the way my mind works where relationships and love are concerned. There’s a poem, here on the blog that I wrote for a competition about love; it is not completely biographical, though the conversation about killing the wife-beater is true, but I wasn’t the wife.
I was talking to someone in work tonight and she asked me how often I used my laptop, ‘Every fifteen minutes!’ I said. ‘If I could hang it around my neck like an usherette’s ice-cream tray, I would.’ She’s a normal person, she doesn’t understand; she thought I was kidding. I am using Opera (don’t ask me what it is, it’s an internet thingy) and I can have all my special pages open at the top of the page…and just click click click, back and forth all day, night etc. it’s bloody marvellous! So you are all at the hover of my mouse (when I do that a picture of the page flashes up) and if that isn’t the sign of an addict then I don’t know what is. I know I’m getting worse but I don’t care; I’ve even begun to talk about writing to people who don’t do that kind of thing and can see the pity in their eyes – they think I’m madder than I actually am.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
TRAVELLING
I’ve been on the road for years, well the best part of five, and the idea of settling on solid earth is fascinating; my mind is running with streams of images and the possibilities are endless – there will be no patterns on my walls; I want to be surrounded, in that new place, with memories. I also dream of organisation and industry...from me. Hope lives here.
19th April 2005
On a Virgin train to Bristol
Grey clouds under white; the sky is thick with British summer-time. I’m travelling backwards; there’s more time to think about what’s before you, like tiny lambs that are just a crumb on the landscape, and screaming fields of rape blaring at you. Across the world a grandson is stomping around beneath a blue sky and I’m on my way to join him. This trip, I’ve learned to tell the difference between the songs of the robin and the blue-tit, and a larch tree from a birch (not silver – I’m not that bad). Also I was reminded how to make a white sauce; I haven’t done that since I was in school. I come away from this month in Devon a wiser woman.
May 18th 2005
Back to work in lovely Budleigh Salterton
It always surprises me when I arrive at a new place that even though the house might be sparkling and clean there are basic stuff that isn’t done; when I got here the out-going carer was listing and worrying about everything and anything, but the mugs were stained and the fridge full of white-label food! And the washing-up liquid was watered down again. I like her but she is bringing the client down to her level rather than keeping them at the level to which they are accustomed.
May 21st 2005
I'll do a writing exercise to jump-start the novel again; haven't touched it for many, many months - every time I decide to work on it I change the format or the focus or some bloody thing or other; I can't even get to the middle of it never mind the end! I'm not just a lazy writer; I'm a lazy everything; artist, potter, photographer. The job I do to earn a living consists of me keeping the elderly company in front of their telly! I try to be some kind of productive by crocheting or sewing patchwork - life is just too diverse. I can't finish anything, except blankets.
June 2nd 2005
Budapest for Bree’s hen-party.
The first meal I had was Chinese! Lovely, and only 900ft which included a glass of beer; that’s about £2.43, in a little fast-food buffet just along from St Stephen’s Basilica. So far, I’m not terribly impressed with the city. My hotel is pretty crumbly and tatty, in fact quite a lot of the place is like that - Budapest could do with refurbishing. Now I’m sitting at a pavement café and have just paid 700ft for a cup of tea! It was Earl Grey though. I’ve got to sort this money out. I think bloody Travelex have done me; I just don’t know where it’s all gone, and now I’m confused about the value of the forint.
1st December 2005
God knows what I’ve just eaten on this plane…and what the hell is Emmental cheese? At first glance I thought it said elemental. There were 14 E numbers in that sandwich, and it tasted like nothing, with a hint of ham. 7 euros for a sandwich and a cup of tea!
Jan 1st 2007
Three weeks in Glasgow
Again I wonder what the hell I am doing, wandering around the world, homeless, rootless, when I’m fast approaching sixty; and then I think, I’ve got years to sit doing nothing in some old-folks home. Though I’m sure I’d have them all doing arty-crafty stuff and turn the place into a growing concern, selling artwork, greeting cards and performing poetry. I’m beginning to fall apart; tomorrow, someone at the gastroenterology department is going to chuck a camera down my throat and check for inappropriate behaviour of my body against itself. I’ve been tidying out some of my life, trying to remember stuff and get it written down for my children, and I have got rid of a lot of junk - but I keep buying more.
April 29th 2008
From my cave
I might have stopped moving, for now, but I’m still travelling in my mind; I see the lovely new flat, the stretch of floorboards and empty walls – Loch Lomond, are you ready for me?
Monday, April 28, 2008
SCRAPS
In searching for scraps of work to build a blog post I found this poem I wrote for Carrie’s 50th birthday earlier this year; I made her a scrapbook of our holiday in Gran Canaria.
CARRIE
My friend spreads her branches
all the way from Aberdeen
down the wind to me.
A tree with hands like rafts
and a heart to slice for stepping stones;
she is my wand.
We are driving music, rock legends
for grown-up women
and elegant drunks.
Stages of our growth are evident
in albums, in sequences, in
sentences finished.
The future flashes images of dreams
and rings around trunks till
zimmers surround us.
And this, is a funny find; I have no idea where it’s from, except a vague recollection of a game we played on WF in Writewords...yeah that was definitely it. Different people gave the POV and subject. Actually it was Facebook. Oh, I am getting old.
Here’s my piece: handbag from pov of poor student.
My God, she must’ve made this. She’s crocheted it with straw; never seen anything like it; little fans or shell shapes with bobbles, and bloody bells. Bloody hell, but it is kinda cute. There’s hardly anything in it - eight pens is a bit excessive. I like the fancy rosettes on the front. Cosmopolitan: that must be some kind of label, not for her though; that wouldn’t describe her – she matches her bags. It’s scary how she discovers the stuff she wears and cooks up. I think one day this bag will be in a museum; someone will take it apart and analyse it all to hell – and come out with bollocks. It’s practically empty and I can’t find what I’m looking for.
‘Where’s your purse Mum? It’s not in here.’
CARRIE
My friend spreads her branches
all the way from Aberdeen
down the wind to me.
A tree with hands like rafts
and a heart to slice for stepping stones;
she is my wand.
We are driving music, rock legends
for grown-up women
and elegant drunks.
Stages of our growth are evident
in albums, in sequences, in
sentences finished.
The future flashes images of dreams
and rings around trunks till
zimmers surround us.
And this, is a funny find; I have no idea where it’s from, except a vague recollection of a game we played on WF in Writewords...yeah that was definitely it. Different people gave the POV and subject. Actually it was Facebook. Oh, I am getting old.
Here’s my piece: handbag from pov of poor student.
My God, she must’ve made this. She’s crocheted it with straw; never seen anything like it; little fans or shell shapes with bobbles, and bloody bells. Bloody hell, but it is kinda cute. There’s hardly anything in it - eight pens is a bit excessive. I like the fancy rosettes on the front. Cosmopolitan: that must be some kind of label, not for her though; that wouldn’t describe her – she matches her bags. It’s scary how she discovers the stuff she wears and cooks up. I think one day this bag will be in a museum; someone will take it apart and analyse it all to hell – and come out with bollocks. It’s practically empty and I can’t find what I’m looking for.
‘Where’s your purse Mum? It’s not in here.’
Thursday, April 24, 2008
THIS COLLAGE OF LIFE
The letters to Psychic Pam are going well; I’m having an hysterical time and looking forward to seeing them all printed out in a few months. Some of them seem as if they’ll fit in better later in the sequence. Got five done now. This seems to me to be a great and very sneaky way to write.
I’m also thinking of putting a spurt on with this novel so have great plans for next week; gotta go see the Pollok mob on Saturday and was thinking of a stroll up Loch Lomond way on Sunday – with a few grandchildren. I want to take photos of Balloch for one of the other novels; the Susan Hill project. I’ve never really taken the time to look at the place properly; always just been passing through somehow – couldn’t name a shop or pub, but there’s a great chippy beside the train station. Quite a bit of that book is set in the area and I’ve barely set foot on the loch-side, I’m ashamed to say - it’s only fifteen miles away!
I’m doing a photo collage for a woman; I took the pictures of her children the other week but couldn’t get a perfect one with all three, hence the collage/art idea – supposed to be going out today to buy a frame but too lazy. There’s always tomorrow – gotta have it done for Saturday!
God, isn’t my life always about the last minute? Yes oh yes. I’m almost finished the blanket for my nephew. Angel was striking poses with it wrapped around her last night in work so I’m going to take the camera in tomorrow night and capture her. If she says it’s okay I’ll post one.
I was reviewing April in my head last night and feel that I’ve been pretty much full of death and destruction (aren’t I always?) but not in a depressing way, I don’t think. On the whole I’d say I was a very positive and optimistic person; cynical too, but that’s allowed in this climate.
I’m also thinking of putting a spurt on with this novel so have great plans for next week; gotta go see the Pollok mob on Saturday and was thinking of a stroll up Loch Lomond way on Sunday – with a few grandchildren. I want to take photos of Balloch for one of the other novels; the Susan Hill project. I’ve never really taken the time to look at the place properly; always just been passing through somehow – couldn’t name a shop or pub, but there’s a great chippy beside the train station. Quite a bit of that book is set in the area and I’ve barely set foot on the loch-side, I’m ashamed to say - it’s only fifteen miles away!
I’m doing a photo collage for a woman; I took the pictures of her children the other week but couldn’t get a perfect one with all three, hence the collage/art idea – supposed to be going out today to buy a frame but too lazy. There’s always tomorrow – gotta have it done for Saturday!
God, isn’t my life always about the last minute? Yes oh yes. I’m almost finished the blanket for my nephew. Angel was striking poses with it wrapped around her last night in work so I’m going to take the camera in tomorrow night and capture her. If she says it’s okay I’ll post one.
I was reviewing April in my head last night and feel that I’ve been pretty much full of death and destruction (aren’t I always?) but not in a depressing way, I don’t think. On the whole I’d say I was a very positive and optimistic person; cynical too, but that’s allowed in this climate.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
WRITING
Letters to Psychic Pam is new. Yes, another project, but it’s just a little one; I have to write a letter every day to a fictional character for about four months or so, then it all sits together as a piece of work – what’s it for, where’s it going? I don’t know yet, but it tickled my imagination. I found the idea in the writing workshop site in my links and thought I could take it somewhere. The story is based on a real situation but I’m twisting and turning it into my own thing. They’re only about 500wds, and I don’t absolutely have to do one every day but, at the moment, I can’t wait to see what comes next.
I began the other day with 60yr old Isabel writing a letter to her psychic, asking for a tarot reading through the post. After creating the first one, I was worried about getting interesting stuff every day; when this (previous post) fell out of my head yesterday I sniggered all the way to the end. So, am looking forward to seeing what happens.
Other writers are always telling me to focus on one thing at a time but it seems that, after all these years, this is the way I work...and I am inching to the end of stuff. Maybe it’s because of the poetry; poets need to put work away for long periods of time so must have lots of projects – and I learned a bundle from sending work out far too early. I have some poems, started twenty years ago that are still not quite right; some of these have been rejected many times; they’ve been re-worked, moved back and forth from poetry to prose and back again. I know they have heart; a diamond inside them – I just need to find it.
I must be feeling my age; this is the second elderly MC I’ve come up with, but I like her – she is off her tartan trolly, and is in fact a stalker on two fronts. This will be fun.
Happily, I am writing every day, at the moment; sometimes just for the blog but that’s okay. Stress is not something allowed in my life, these days. I’m working slowly towards some kind of crescendo that will be a re-birth for me – then maybe I can quit the day job and play with words all day (I don’t need much money). Ideally, there will be some clay in there too; the idea of settling down in a new flat with space for all my stuff is exciting; photography, pottery, art and crafts. I can actually see it being just a couple of years away; it sits in a frame, well-lit, at the end of the corridor but I am sauntering towards it: not running. I’ll get there, eventually, without breaking a sweat; we wouldn’t want to appear too desperate, now would we?
I began the other day with 60yr old Isabel writing a letter to her psychic, asking for a tarot reading through the post. After creating the first one, I was worried about getting interesting stuff every day; when this (previous post) fell out of my head yesterday I sniggered all the way to the end. So, am looking forward to seeing what happens.
Other writers are always telling me to focus on one thing at a time but it seems that, after all these years, this is the way I work...and I am inching to the end of stuff. Maybe it’s because of the poetry; poets need to put work away for long periods of time so must have lots of projects – and I learned a bundle from sending work out far too early. I have some poems, started twenty years ago that are still not quite right; some of these have been rejected many times; they’ve been re-worked, moved back and forth from poetry to prose and back again. I know they have heart; a diamond inside them – I just need to find it.
I must be feeling my age; this is the second elderly MC I’ve come up with, but I like her – she is off her tartan trolly, and is in fact a stalker on two fronts. This will be fun.
Happily, I am writing every day, at the moment; sometimes just for the blog but that’s okay. Stress is not something allowed in my life, these days. I’m working slowly towards some kind of crescendo that will be a re-birth for me – then maybe I can quit the day job and play with words all day (I don’t need much money). Ideally, there will be some clay in there too; the idea of settling down in a new flat with space for all my stuff is exciting; photography, pottery, art and crafts. I can actually see it being just a couple of years away; it sits in a frame, well-lit, at the end of the corridor but I am sauntering towards it: not running. I’ll get there, eventually, without breaking a sweat; we wouldn’t want to appear too desperate, now would we?
Monday, April 21, 2008
LETTER FROM A MADWOMAN
Dear Psychic Pam
I was waiting for my little yellow bus today but a white one turned up instead. Things like that throw me off balance. Do you think it means something? Is it a sign that things are moving on without me? Our usual driver sat behind the wheel and spun my ticket out of the machine but there was someone in my seat. Somehow, the day is getting out of control. My hands keep attracting my attention; they look different – much, much older than they were yesterday, though I haven’t really noticed them for a while...so maybe it all started weeks ago, months even. Do you think it’s possible that I’ve been abducted or something? I mean surely I would’ve noticed these changes.
It’s all driving me crazy and I’m annoyed at myself for being paranoid, but when I saw that the big clock on the Pearce Institute was obviously new I nearly fell off the pavement; it was smashed before, wasn’t it? I’m scared to look in the mirror in case there’s a stranger there. So I’ve locked myself in my room – I don’t have a mirror in here but I need to avert my eyes from the glass doors of the unit. The news is normal, I think; it’s only me who’s a bit bonkers. I watched Who’s Line is it Anyway and got a shock when they put on the alien masks; there was a flicker of recognition in the back of my mind. If I’d known I was mad when I was over at the hospital visiting my friend I would’ve popped into A&E for a quick brain scan. Do you think I need one? Should I just get a taxi over there now, do you think?
I know you can't really answer that.
Oh I don’t know what to do for the best so that’s why I’m writing to you Pam; you always help me to see the real world. I think I’m going blind – I have to keep rubbing my eyes to get rid of the film that makes everything blurred. I know I’ve asked you before but do you think it’s possible that I might’ve been taken? I don’t know how else to explain all the goings-on; I can hear music too – it comes from all directions at once...that must mean that it’s really on the inside, doesn’t it? My feet tap to it, honestly they do – when they think I’m not looking. When I catch them they freeze. It’s just occurred to me that it might be a circulation problem; that affects the extremities, doesn’t it? Are your eyes extremities too?
I know you’ll forgive me rambling on (you always do) and I hope you can recognise all this as something – hopefully nothing serious, and offer some advice. Even the coats hanging up behind my door seem to be twitching, and the cat has totally disappeared...and this is the tenth floor of a flat! Though I hear her sometimes. She wouldn’t take food from me the other day; do you think she recognised that my hands were those of a stranger? Who am I Pam? Do I sound different to you?
Signed: Very Worried in Glasgow (Isabel)
Ps; I’ll be waiting by the door for the postman.
I was waiting for my little yellow bus today but a white one turned up instead. Things like that throw me off balance. Do you think it means something? Is it a sign that things are moving on without me? Our usual driver sat behind the wheel and spun my ticket out of the machine but there was someone in my seat. Somehow, the day is getting out of control. My hands keep attracting my attention; they look different – much, much older than they were yesterday, though I haven’t really noticed them for a while...so maybe it all started weeks ago, months even. Do you think it’s possible that I’ve been abducted or something? I mean surely I would’ve noticed these changes.
It’s all driving me crazy and I’m annoyed at myself for being paranoid, but when I saw that the big clock on the Pearce Institute was obviously new I nearly fell off the pavement; it was smashed before, wasn’t it? I’m scared to look in the mirror in case there’s a stranger there. So I’ve locked myself in my room – I don’t have a mirror in here but I need to avert my eyes from the glass doors of the unit. The news is normal, I think; it’s only me who’s a bit bonkers. I watched Who’s Line is it Anyway and got a shock when they put on the alien masks; there was a flicker of recognition in the back of my mind. If I’d known I was mad when I was over at the hospital visiting my friend I would’ve popped into A&E for a quick brain scan. Do you think I need one? Should I just get a taxi over there now, do you think?
I know you can't really answer that.
Oh I don’t know what to do for the best so that’s why I’m writing to you Pam; you always help me to see the real world. I think I’m going blind – I have to keep rubbing my eyes to get rid of the film that makes everything blurred. I know I’ve asked you before but do you think it’s possible that I might’ve been taken? I don’t know how else to explain all the goings-on; I can hear music too – it comes from all directions at once...that must mean that it’s really on the inside, doesn’t it? My feet tap to it, honestly they do – when they think I’m not looking. When I catch them they freeze. It’s just occurred to me that it might be a circulation problem; that affects the extremities, doesn’t it? Are your eyes extremities too?
I know you’ll forgive me rambling on (you always do) and I hope you can recognise all this as something – hopefully nothing serious, and offer some advice. Even the coats hanging up behind my door seem to be twitching, and the cat has totally disappeared...and this is the tenth floor of a flat! Though I hear her sometimes. She wouldn’t take food from me the other day; do you think she recognised that my hands were those of a stranger? Who am I Pam? Do I sound different to you?
Signed: Very Worried in Glasgow (Isabel)
Ps; I’ll be waiting by the door for the postman.
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