Month: February 2007

I’ve completely gone off the boil, writing-wise. All my energies are going into work and training at the moment. Ok, and rioja. Tom and Frank are less distinct in my head, stepping back into line of the players in my mind’s theatre. Or something less p-word. I haven’t read a book for a while either – I think I have about 40 unread novels slowly breeding in word-piles. A holiday would sort at least ten of them out, but then I’d almost certainly buy new shiny words rather than words that have sat around my home for a while, waiting to be cool enough for me to read.

I miss pootling away in here. I miss pootling away on the story, but while I’m less than 100% convinced about the plot there seems little point in bullying it onto the screen. I may go to a writers’ thing tonight – there’s an agent from PFD coming to tell us hungry hippos how to wallow in the glorious mud of acceptance. I normally avoid writers’ like the p-word. I tend to fall in love with their hair and their giggles, without realising that by definition they are as neurotic and paranoid as I am. And occasionally more talented. Bastards. And there’s little worse than a paranoid neurotic bastard. Ooh, a despot, maybe. Or Alan Sugar. Or a sugary, hairy author who writes under the nom-de-despot Alan Paradroid. (And as I type, Idi Amin has been referenced on Today’s Thought for the Day. Kudos.)

Anyhoo. A whimsical post. I woke up too early today and I will suffer for this shortly. I just wanted to post ‘bewitched, bothered and bewildered’. But instead typed ‘neglect and negligees’. As you do.

I have been exercising my parapsychological nose-twitch recently. Willing things to happen. The score is currently 3:2 with standard probability about to bring on a substitute (probably one of the highly amusing Physics PhDs on the train last night sharing in-jokes about recruiting people with basic maths skills. Seinfeld had nothing on them. Thank NBC). But little does probability know that I am about to introduce the socks of inifinite doom to the equation. They’re never wrong. Except when I buy the Independent. Then everything’s wrong.

Hmm. Rambling. No, not that kind. The Lemon Jelly kind. Everything changes but you kind, by Take That. And Party.

And on that note, I think I shall decamp to the train, ergo work, sum London. I don’t even have the braincells to ask my one reader a question. I can has chhezburger?

I have / am very busy. As in my arse is in gear, mon derriere c’est busy. By which I do not mean I have diarrhoea. Oh no. Far from it. But still, busy. Like a busy thing. Excitement, isn’t it?

Oh. And in typical volte-tush, I have decided to not finish this novel and instead write one that’s more ‘me’. Le sigh.

There appears to be a surfeit of adjectives doing the rounds. I blame the blueberry-flavoured, extra-filtered yet comfortable, expensive and soft, new, improved Cillit Bang. And the grammar’s gone! Seriously, there are too many things that are too many things. Let a thing be a thing, people. Why can’t a cereal bar simply be a humble cereal bar?

Why does it have to be both crunchy and chewy? What kind of message is that sending out to kids? EH? You can’t be both black and white. Unless you take out the middle eight and ‘ooh oohs’. But then you’re left with a B side, and never was an adjective more deserved than as a B side. Except perhaps a conjunction – ‘however’ or ‘because’ would work equally as well. Although it’s generally – what can I not sell on the next LP. Kids.

Anyhoo. So – where was I? Ah, yes, confuzzling people. Well – you see – we’re pretty au fait with there being too much packaging in and around products nowadays. The liberal forget-me-nots and the neo-con naysayers all meet in the middle, surrounded by an extra fine sheet of bio-degradable, ethically sourced, ribbed for her pleasure – her shopping pleasure – bio-exo-nanoo-nanoo-plastic.

However (that word again – if I could compare you to a summer’s day you would be Thursday July 28 1979), no mention is made of how much word-(w)rapping goes on nowadays. Individual word clouds surround politicians and marketeers like Vurts. There is too much language. Too much sentiment. Too many empty adjectives. And not. Enough. Fucking. Nouns.

Or nuns. Or clowns. Or clown nuns. You know the ones – pretending they’re in some kind of religious Black and White minstrel show, except with red noses instead of face paint. They’re taking over the world you know. And you know what? They’re crunchy and chewy.

No. I didn’t write any of the novel today. Thanks for asking. Try the veal. I’m here all week. And let’s face it, I should know. BANG! And the thought is gone! [smile for the camera]

Not even a chocolate mousse has alleviated my petty *meh*ness. I haven’t found myself the time to write for a week and while work has been stressful and involved longer hours than of late I think it’s simply the same old same old doubts about the plotline kicking in again.

I’m tempted to simply finish any old tat and print myself a copy through lulu.com simply for the sake of doing it.

Meh. Meh. Meh. The more people I read on t’intertron, particularly aspiring novelists, the less I feel like finishing the current story and the more I feel like going more outre and genre than at present. Meh. I’m not sure I’d read the thing I’m writing. If you see what I mean.

Meh. Give me an E, give me a M, give me an O. Grumpy grumpy grumpy.

Looks like it’s time for a nap.