Tag: Fiction

I don’t feel like writing today.


I really don’t feel like writing today. And yet, I have to.

This is one of those creative writing advice things that you find somewhere near the front of just about every creative writing book out there. You the know the one, “Try to write a little something every day. Even if you don’t feel like it.” To be honest, I’m not feeling the love right now. It would be so easy to shut this program down and fire up a game. I’d have much more fun, at least for a time. Then my shoulder angel would appear and say something like ‘You know, if you didn’t waste your time playing these games, you could be writing the back story for them.’ This almost always happens, and how the hell do you argue with that anyway?

Then the shoulder devil appears and speaks his hard to ignore words, ‘Don’t listen to that guy. He’s full of crap. He wants to lead you down the path that sucks. I’m not. You’re doing just fine on your own. Look! You’re a level ten druid.’

This is my life. I have conversations with these guys daily.

Well, I’ve resisted the cool devil guy and here I am. This is a good thing. I feel better already for having sat here and let my mad fingers go to town over the keyboard. It could have been an ugly experience, especially if I’d had writers block. That could have led to a very grumpy and depressing afternoon. But no, this is good. My mind is working, the circuits are firing, and new synapses are growing in my skull. My mind is being charged up for a potent release of genius. I can feel it….
Hmmm. Any minute now…. any minute and genius will strike. I’ll never suffer with writer’s block again. Come to think of it, when do you start calling yourself a writer? Technically, as I have actually published a total of fuck all then I’m not really a writer am I? So what the hell have I got if not writers block? Depression? Brain damage? Hmmm. Something is going to have to change soon. I can’t go on staring at blank screens and wondering why I can’t do it.

That’s right… because the computer is to blame for your lack of talent.

It’s a damn good thing I’m not being paid for this. My boss (hypothetical) would no doubt be wondering how best to lay me off. I’ve just had the strangest mental image. I’m going to have to try to find an image to encapsulate it.

This needs no caption. Oh wait… this is a caption.

Well then. This is just getting silly now. Although, I thinks its been worthwhile. It’s a few hundred words I wouldn’t have written if nothing else.

Lets see what madness tomorrow brings.

M 🙂

Isaac Asimov – Now there’s a c**t.


There are times when I sit down at my computer to write and just stare blankly at the screen. I will sit there for hours, waiting for the muse to spear my cerebrum with a lightning bolt of inspiration. Whilst I’m waiting for her to come and find me of her own accord, I will seek her out by browsing the web of wonders. I’ll stop at all my usual places like the black hole of YouTube for instance, which as we all know, steals hours as though they were minutes, and other such places, like Facebook and various forums. If I’m having a particularly slow day, and as per usual neither I nor the muse can find each other for several hours, I might try and cheer myself up by playing ‘just a bit’ of Civilisation. Now there is a true ‘time sink.’ Why, just the other day I glanced at the clock at it said it was eleven o’clock. A few minutes later I checked again and it was ten past two. Oh, and iTunes. iTunes is another one that seems to be stealing my life, and yet it’s the one I most frequently visit. Like most people who enjoy being a rabid scribbler it’s important to get in the ‘mood’ so that you can write that truly apocalyptic scene that will win you a Hugo, or that tear jerking melancholic voyage of depression that will have people pouring water from their face all over their keyboard.

Yet, there is no muse is there? I’m sitting here laughing to myself when I think about how many hours I have sat here waiting to be struck down with inspiration and rise a genius. You know what I’m having right here? I’m having an epiphany – a sudden bright idea that sheds light and illuminates the dark and echoing landscape of my mind.

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That’s not me. My hair is better.

The only way forward is through sheer effort and determination. That means sitting here and writing whatever crap comes out even if the only good that comes of it is that its practice. I’ve read that writing is a craft that, like all crafts, needs to be worked at. Okay, I can see the logic there. But what about those of us who live in the modern world where we’re just not used to waiting for things to happen? In this day and age if you want something, generally speaking you can have it the next day, sometimes even on the same day. But then, I guess I would argue that anything really worth having that isn’t just massaging my consumerist ego should be worked at. I find that hard. I’m finding this journey hard. I can write. When I really put my mind to it and I’m not just letting my fingers dribble over a keyboard like today, I can write pretty well. But that’s not enough. I spoke with a guy the other day who reckons he could bash a story out in no time at all. I bet he couldn’t, at least anything publishable. It’s a hard road, that’s for sure. Man, how pissed would I be if that guy did sit down and bash out a story as though it were no trouble at all?

I’ve started reading some of Isaac Asimov’s stuff as well. Now, I admire that guy for the sheer amount of literature he produced when he was alive. He wrote hundreds of stories. I bet had another hundred in him too but for me, sitting here right now and waiting for that damn muse, well to me Isaac Asimov can bloody well have another few mounds of earth piled on his grave. I don’t mean that. Not really. That man was and still is a legend. I wish I could have met him. Its weird but some people, I dunno, famous people who I respect, I just want to shake their hand. I don’t particularly want to talk to them (I’d probably dribble and get carted off as a suspected stroke), I just want to shake hands. How weird is that? Yup, so its a shame he’s dead as now I won’t be able to that. Not unless I dug him up of course. Could be a bit strange shaking hands with a skeleton though. Wait, lets just think a moment. He died in 1992? Hmm, he might be a skeleton. I can’t think how long it takes for bodies to decompose. Then again, how would I know? He might be a kind of fleshy rotten zombie. Na’h, twenty years? Must be a skeleton. In which case I wouldn’t bother shaking the hand. I’d take the skull. How cool would thatbe to have Isaac Asimov’s skull on your writing desk? I wouldn’t need any bloody muse then. Okay, I’m a little sleep deprived here, and having some weird thoughts but you gotta admit, it would be cool.

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It was clear from his passport photo that he was taking the diet way too seriously.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m over complicating the whole process of writing a story. Maybe I should bash one out, tidy it up and then blast it out into the void to be mercilessly critiqued by others in my position. I guess that’s what other people have done and for some it must have worked out okay.

Well, it’s only midday but I think a little tot of Southern Comfort would go down a treat right about now, and so with that thought I’ll be off for.

Oh, Sarah, if you still read my stuff… can I ask if you ever critique work us plebs might throw at you?

M.

This is not an amused face…


;

Okay… slightly miffed as this is the second time I have written this post but…. count to ten….

Okay. Feel better now. Where was I?

Today, is actually a pretty good day. I have just submitted a short story to a publishing house and feel really quite chuffed with myself right now. I am sorely tempted to crack open the wine and have a mini celebration all on my own but I’ll have to try to resist. My wife took her motorbike into work today and I happen to know that she was running low on fuel when she left the house. She’s at that nervous stage in her biking life whereby she knows the bike needs fuel but she’s never filled a bike up before. I went with her the first time but today she is all on her own. I got a text message a few hours ago that said she hadn’t stopped on the way and so she’s hoping she can make it to the fuel station on the way back.

*Sigh*

No wine for me just yet. I wonder if I’ll have to go and rescue her? Running through the options, it would seem the most likely scenario will see my driving to the fuel station and buying one of those annoying little containers. Then I’ll have to stand in a cue of cars like a lemon until I can fill the thing up. Drive off, fill up her tank and then drive off in disgust. Okay, maybe not disgust… but that won’t be a joyful face.

I’m off work today, and have been praying all week for a nice sunny day today. Behold! It is sunny! I was insanely pleased about this when I got up this morning as I’ve been itching to get out on my own bike all week. Alas, look at what I found in my tire…

Arghhhhhhhhhh! I don’t believe it!

It should be noted that this is an image dragged off the net but, yeah, this is the same thing I found this morning. A fucking nail!

I rang my local garage and asked if I could pop in on the off-chance and have them just change it over quickly. I could almost hear the bitch sniggering down the phone, and I swore I heard her mouthing to a colleague ‘Oi, Daphne…. this bloke’s asking if he can just pop in on the off chance!’

Bitches.

Anyway, the end result is that it will be Tuesday afternoon before they can do the work. I’d do it myself but they don’t even have it in stock so I’m doubly shafted.

So, Tuesday…. hmmm. Just in time for me to go back to sodding work.

Damn, I really want to open that wine. Maybe if I text her now she can tell me of she thinks she’ll make it to a garage? Hmmm, maybe not. As pissed off as I’ll be having to rescue her, I doubt my wrath will compare to hers if I can’t perform said rescue because I’m drunk.

*Sigh*

M 🙂

A Tower of Tampons


I hate shopping. No, that’s no fair. I am bored by shopping. So very bored.

Yawn…. We’ve heard all of this before… Why should I read any further?

Well you don’t have to, but if you stay I’ll share with you how it is that I get through a shopping trip with the wife.

Many men hate/loath/fear being dragged around Tesco or where ever for the weekly food shop. Me too, but secretly, I’m really starting to look forward to it. Now its an opportunity for me to come up with new and inventive ways to make a nuisance of myself and generally be as unhelpful and childish as possible.

It all started during a trip to a local DIY store. I was outstandingly bored to the point that I found myself staring in mock disgust at other men, other men who were nodding enthusiastically at their wives selection of lamp or curtain pole. On one occasion a chap caught me staring at him, my face a twisted sneer of loathing and he stood stock still. I imagine the awful realisation of what he had become was dawning upon him as his arms, outstretched as they were and clutching a carpet held up to catch the light from various angles, slowly lowered as he stared back at me. I could see the momentary change in his gaze as we shared a moment of understanding. What had we become? In my mind I wondered what a warrior Celt or roman soldier would have done when confronted with a choice of fabric to put on his humble homes floor. I imagine he would have back handed the woman to the floor, roared like an enraged god and then charged out into the ice wind to seek enemies to smite. He would return speckled with blood and carrying the bloody corpse of a slain lion – actually, two lions, one in each hand. The woman would then gratefully show her respect by prancing about naked and making ‘cute’ gasps of delight as our hero describes the lions final moments. Needless to say she would then except her reward for being a good and dutiful wife through the medium of a proper deep throating.

Er…. I digress.

So this guy sees my sneer of disgust and knows instantly that I think he’s a thumb crushed wimp of a man, but what’s this? His look of shock and recent dejection changes. It warps before my very eyes into one of a wry smile, grows into something more before finally, he beams in abject triumph. I follow his gaze and turn to see my own wife. She is holding a curtain rail in each hand and waiting for my judgement.

Sigh.

She sees me squeeze my eyes closed and assumes I am thinking really hard about which rail to choose but I’m not. I’m trying to hold on to the memory of me as a heroic Celt warrior being noshed silly by a grateful nymph and yet the dream drifts away – mere smoke through my grasping spastic fingers. In its place I see a pathetic looking man, naked and limp. He is sad as he looks at me and points where his beautiful naked nymph once stood. There stands a cackling witch and in her hand she holds a curtain rail shaped wand.

Sigh.

And so I grow angry, and then mischievous. We walk to another isle where a row of plungers catches my eye. I walk along the row pushing each and every plunger down so that it suctions to its shelf. Then I retire a little further up the isle and await some poor fool to walk into my trap. Behold! My first victim arrives and assuming nothing is amiss he tries to pluck up a plunger without even breaking stride. His stroll is suddenly arrested as the plunger refuses to move and he almost pulls himself off his own feet. As anyone would, he looks around quickly to see if anyone has noticed and sees me sniggering to myself. He shakes his head at me and reaches for another only to be thwarted a second time. I continue to snigger, only a little louder and my obvious mirth appears to challenge him. He places one foot on the shelf and for some reason unknown heaves with all of his might. I’m not sure how much suction he thought was holding those plungers down but the amount of effort he applied was probably a tad too much. The plunger, obviously, relinquishes its grip and the man, plunger in hand stumbles backward into the opposite isle.

I can barely stand, such is my amusement.

After that episode I spent many hours considering other schemes to amuse myself.

Hiding with the trolly is always a good one. I usually do this after my wife has just been down the pet food aisle and so carrying two cases of cat food. Watching her struggle to carry them around the shop and red with rage is priceless.

My best one so far though has go to be this. My wife has a fear of tampons. I don’t know if it’s the word ‘tampon’ or if it’s actually the thought that anyone who sees them will know she’s on her period but it still makes her bury them in the shopping trolly. This always amuses me. One day, I feigned interest and walked around the shop with her. I didn’t do any of my usual tricks or jokes and she assumed I’d finally grown up. When we got to the checkout she went to the packing bit and started to pack the bags while I proceeded to construct my masterpiece. I was getting some strange looks from the woman in the queue behind me as instead of laying all my shopping out nicely I proceeded to build a tower of food and other bits and pieces. And yes, you’ve guessed it, I placed her tampons at the top of this tower. I knew I would pay for it a soon as I got home but right there and then I was glowing with pride. The till girl saw what I had done as my massive tampon tower slowly moved toward her. At least she had a sense of humour as she laughed out loud. My wife then noticed and turned a brilliant red. It was awesome.

So you see, shopping doesn’t have to be hell on earth. There are a million and one different ways to make it more interesting, if not a little dangerous, but you get the meaning.

I wish you luck in your endeavours and hope you find as much enjoyment as I have an still do.

On Writing – Plot (Or how to work bloody hard and get absolutely no where)


Arrrrrrrrrrrrgh!

Plot! Does anyone else find plotting bloody irritating? Its not like I’m trying to overthrow a government here. I can understand that that would be hard. No, I’m just trying to plot my own damn story.

Normally I’ll try and wing a story. I’ll have a vague idea and I’ll try and just bash it out in one go. Then I’ll discover that my cool ‘story’ idea is actually just a cool ‘scene’ and that once I’ve written this scene I hit a brick wall.

Not today though. Today I wrote an outline. I had hoped the outline would keep me on track, that I would somehow start and finish and that the result would make sense. Nope. Didn’t happen. The finished product had no resemblance to my outline at all. In my outline, I’d set the scene in some old women’s bedroom. Shut up. It’s not that kind of story. So, My character is supposed to be in this bedroom but instead the scene opens in a street in London. My protagonist female is now a male, and instead of regaling us with a rip roaring tale of a past life he is now charging up a London backstreet where he gets his head kicked in.

What the hell is that all about? What happened to my plot that I had written so carefully in my outline?

Can you imagine if that had been a paid job?

Editor: ‘Er… Mark, what the hell is this shit? I asked you to write a story about a roman hero and his rise to glory. He is supposed to heap piles of skulls at the feet of his own Emperor before casting him down and taking the empire for himself. He’s supposed to do all of this armed only with a stave. And what is this you’ve given me? Some weak shit about a mad giraffe who pebble dashes his way across the Serengeti before being unveiled as the reincarnation of Shaka the Zulu. Your fired!’

Oh dear. Does anyone else struggle with plot? I find it hard enough just coming up with a bloody idea, and should I actually come up with an idea/cool scene, it never seems to appear on the screen as I type. It’s almost as if my fingers are working against me. Yes! That must be it. My brain says,
‘Fingers! You will write this crazy cool scene.’
‘Oh okay sure, no worries. Leave it with us.’
*Cue cute finger sniggering*

Oh god it’s happening even now. I wanted so much to write something insightful about plot but… but… It’s the fingers I tell you! They’re holding me back!

*manic laughter*

I don’t need fingers! Who needs fingers??

*Sharpens knife*

Arghhh!!!

P.S I am not drunk.

P.P.S I am now drunk.

P.Ps. I an oh fuck it.

On Writing – Support


 

‘Are you coming down the farm?’ She asked the question in a tone that expected I had nothing else important to do.

I hesitated, aware of the precarious situation I was in. After all, a refusal could be construed as rejection on my part.

What to say? I was desperate to write, but in truth, and even though she didn’t say as much, I really had nothing important to do. I certainly hadn’t got anything important to write. And yet, I knew I had to write just for the sake of writing. Writing is of course a craft and one can’t expect to ever get any better if one does not practice his craft with fanatical fervour.

In the end my hesitation won the battle for me before battle had even begun. It warped itself into a palpable aura of sulk that proceeded to melt my face into that of a petulant child. I did not do this on purpose, rather my whole being seemed to respond to the threat of not being able to write by my regression back to a child like state. I call this my Level One writing fit. Level Two sees my regression go even further whereby I enter a primate like state, raging and hopping about like a maddened gorilla. Unfortunately for me, Level Two is completely ineffectual against my wife who is able to slay petulant gorilla men with a single stare – a stare that threatens pain and suffering on a scale untold unless one calms, sits and enters peaceful negotiation. This negotiation is I swear both victory for her and a punishment for me as not only do realise I have become an arse, but I am losing writing time by the second until I acknowledge my current arsehole status.

On the whole though, I have the support I need. I am blessed with a wife who understands the importance reading and writing are to me. I feel immense sorrow (pity?) for those writers whose partners are not supportive. Knowing how much reading and writing means to me, I am not sure I could be in a relationship without the level of support I have. I read about writers who have shut themselves away from the world. They’ve cut themselves off from friends and family and they hide behind closed doors, and all so that they can gain a piece of that solitude we as writers all crave. I can understand why they would do that. I really can. It is for this reason that I bless my luck at having a wife who stands by me as I stumble on down the path of the writer. My concerns are heard with a ready ear, my hopes caressed and my dreams encouraged. When I fall, my wounds are soothed, my pride eased and my ambition stoked.

You would be wrong to think my wife simply pours honey in my ear and gives false hope for she is also my chief critic and advisor. Nothing gets passed her that would not be better burned. In fact, my previous post talks all about this and so read that if you can spare another few minutes. It saves me repeating myself.

Having read back through this post I am amused by what it has become. It was supposed to be all about how important support is to writers, but what I appear to have written is how important my wife’s support is to me. But then, I suppose I have achieved my goal after all as without her support, I wouldn’t be writing very much at all. Support in my eyes is not just that which someone gives so you can go off and play writer while they do the dishes or walk the dog. It’s something they give even when you’re down and don’t feel up to putting your thoughts and feelings out there. That’s real support – the ability to give you a bloody good kick up the arse, and make you chase that dream you’re always harping on about.

 

Criticism


My earliest memory of receiving praise for a piece of writing I had done comes from my first year at secondary school. Obviously it was part of an English lesson but I remember it because of that. English was always my favoured subject. I always looked forward to it. Our teacher used to say to us,

‘Class, you have until the end of the lesson to write a story, off you go.’

On this particular occasion I had been having a relatively dry patch, creatively speaking, and so I was thrilled when the teacher came back to me and said,

‘Mark, this is really good stuff. I really enjoyed it. This is the kind of stuff you used to write! Write more of it.’

I do remember thinking, what do you mean ‘used to?’ Still, it was a bold move on my part. Most other people would write variations on Robinson Crusoe or other well-known classics. I wrote something about a Mermaid-man ( a Merman?) and I can remember describing his movement through an undersea tunnel, his great battle axe scraping the worn stone sides.

Another memory, a much more recent one this time, comes from a piece of fiction I wrote a couple of years ago. It was about a paramedic and his patient. I think I wrote that as some sort of cathartic release from feelings I had cultivated at work. Basically, it is very easy to make a snap judgement of someone based upon the most minuscule piece of personal information; it’s even easier to be wrong about that person. So I wrote that piece and I handed it out to a few friends. In retrospect, this was a mistake. They were all nice with their comments but not one offered any real criticism. To me, this highlights the problem with handing your cherished work to a friend, especially one who does not want to tread on that friendship.  What could they say? I mean I believe them when they say they enjoyed it, and I don’t believe they would have said so if they hadn’t. Yet, I don’t think they would have offered any criticism in a negative light for fear of damaging relations. I understand that now and I shan’t be passing my work to friends again in a hurry. As much as I am grateful for their taking the time to read my nonsense, they were just too nice damn it!

My harshest critic is my wife. She’ll tell me straight if something is god awful and to be binned at once in a fiery bin. Once I gave her a sci-fi story I had just finished. I was immensely proud of it and was about to submit it to a publishing house that afternoon when I had the brilliant idea of asking her to take a look. I’m not sure what I was expecting really. I mean I loved it. I thought the plot was tight, the characters were believable and it even had an underlying theme. Yet, I still felt trepidation as I handed her my precious few pages of creative genius. She sat down and read the first page. I tried to feign disinterest but it was impossible. In the end I just sat cross legged on the floor and watched her reading. I scrutinized every expression of her face, followed her eyes as they moved across the page, imagining I knew which sentence she was currently on. Oh… she’s near the bottom of the page, I thought. She must be nearing that part where Mal the Slayer announces his big secret. She’s turning the page… and… What is she doing? She’s turning back to the first page! I’ve made a mistake?? I’ve obviously handed her the story with the pages all out of sequence. Her expression is now puzzled, confused even. She shakes her head and plods on through the second page. My insides have turned to mush. My heart has dropped out of my arse and my eyes have begun to burn in a most unmanly fashion. She doesn’t even finish the second page. She puts it all down, looks at me.

‘This makes no sense what so ever,’ she said.

I was utterly gobsmacked. I can remember staring at her in disbelief, becoming slowly aware of my own teeth grinding.

‘Your grammar isn’t very good either.’

I felt my fists clench involuntarily and thought that now would be an excellent time to leave the room. I can remember sitting down at my desk and re-reading every word over and over again. She must be wrong, I told myself. She just doesn’t ‘get’ sci-fi.  I must have sat there for perhaps three hours mumbling and gnashing my teeth in the direction of the study door every time I heard her in the next room. It was then that I came up with my master plan. I am a little ashamed to admit this but stay with me. The end justifies the means.

I was convinced I had to test the theory that she didn’t understand sci-fi and that therefore she wasn’t qualified to make judgements upon my own work. So I copied someone else’s work. Ah! I cringe when I even write such a thing, but I did it. I found a short excerpt off of a blog written by an author I admire (Aaron Dembski-Bowden). I copied it, printed it, and handed it to her and then… I pretended it was my own. I’m cringing so much as I write this. I had to prove that she was wrong though. I had to prove she just didn’t understand sci-fi. I mean, if she found his work rubbish then mine must be fine right? Right?

Once again, she sat on the sofa and patiently read the piece I had given her. I could discern no emotion or reaction this time on her face and inwardly I was preparing my victory speech. Ha! I would exclaim. This has been written by a very successful author and you thought it was rubbish. You know nothing! Nothing!

She’d finished reading now and sat back drinking her tea.

‘Well?’ I asked.

She looked at me in mock surprise, clearly enjoying my discomfort. I think she could see the strain etched inch deep in my forehead though and relented.

‘It was good. Really good actually. You should write like that all the time.’

I stared at her for a few moments before standing and walking back upstairs in total silence. I presume she must have thought I was just relieved. I closed the door to my study and sat down in my chair. Then I shouted at the top of my voice, ‘Bollocks!’

I learnt an important lesson that day. Criticism, be it good or bad is extremely important to an aspiring writer. I understand that now and I take any criticism on the chin, appreciating it for what it is. I don’t worry if I get something wrong now but instead learn from it, and I’m reminded of a good quote as I write this. It’s very apt I think and a good place to finish for today.

‘I’ve not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that don’t work.’ – Thomas A. Edison.

 

The Dreaded Synopsis


I need help.

My mind is failing me greatly as I attempt to pen a synopsis for a short story I am writing.

In my mind, the synopsis is soooooo important in avoiding the slush pile. I don’t know this for certain, as I am as yet unpublished although I’m working on the theory that a synopsis is equivalent to a personal statement in a CV.

The personal statement is always read first in an effort to find the applications that stand out. After all, if a company receives 100 applications for a single position then it can be safely assumed that they all meet the basic requirements for the job. Hopefully. Just trawling through them is not going to help in selecting the best candidate though is it? It would be soooooo boring trawling through 100 applications that all read the same.

Step forward the personal statement. This is the only piece of your application that allows you to show that you are a human being, and not just another drab looking application among many. If anything is going to help your application stand out then it’s the personal statement.

I think of the synopsis in the same way. I want so much to get it right and to stand out, but I’m drawing a major blank. The words just won’t flow. I sat at my keyboard for four hours yesterday and managed a mere 300 words, 200 of which I deleted. I went to bed with a splitting headache and feeling thoroughly defeated.

Today I am back at work and will be for most of the week. Hopefully this will give me the time I need to sort my head out and get back in the game.

Sit me down and ask me to write a personal statement and I’ll be fine. I have never, ever been refused an interview for a job in which I needed to submit a personal statement. Why then am I finding writing a teeny weeny synopsis so difficult?

Perhaps it’s because, unlike all the jobs I have applied for in the past, I didn’t really mind if I got the job or not. Now, all I can think about is getting this right.

I would genuinely appreciate any thoughts you may have on writing a synopsis. Do you have a particular method? Do you struggle too?

I am sure I’ll get it out sooner or later, but for the moment, consider this a cry for help.

M:-(

I need a muse (To the tune of Bonnie Tyler’s….)


I have a few writing projects on the go at the moment.

I’m desperately trying to finish my Bridport entry for one. I also have several short stories I want to enter into other competitions and I have one other project of which I can’t say much about at this time. The wife reads this. I think she does anyway. Sorry for all the hush hush. All will be made clear in a few months.

I suppose many wannabe pen monkeys feel this way from time to time. There are simply not enough hours and those that I do manage to take for myself are devoid of any writers inspiration.

I’ve read that to be truly successful, or at least to have any chance of sampling a single iota of success, you have to be a be able to write any time. Otherwise how would you ever stick to a schedule?

So I’m going to go and sit down at my desk now. I’m going to take a bottle of wine with me and then I’m going to punch that keyboard until the word count bleeds. I don’t care what comes out. Who knows? It could be the best stuff I’ve done to date.

Man, that says a lot about my talent doesn’t it?

M:-)

I say, my head hurts awful bad…


I spent the whole day writing today. I had to really after stumbling across a short story competition the day before yesterday.

Ideally I would have liked to have spent a little while boozing and pondering an idea. Then I should of liked to spend a day or two bashing it out in draft before leaving it in a drawer to fester for a month or so.

That would have been ideal.

Yet life’s not fair like that is it? So, I spent all of today bashing out a random story, stressing and generally being rather unpleasant to be around. Got the damn thing finished and submitted though. Yeah biiiiatch!

So its in now and worrying about what I did or didn’t do won’t matter a damn. Sure I might re-read the submission I sent, probably several times. I may even find some glaring grammatical errors but so what? Practice is all it is at the end of the day.

I hold little hope for my effort but I’ll still watch the forum with interest to see who did do well.

I go now to mope and generally feel sorry for myself.

Bye for now.

M 😉