I started reading a Susan Hill novel today. Now. She may be a lovely human bean. And talented. And kind to animals. And possibly, just possibly, a fan of 1930s motorcycle goatboy fanfic. But. There is simply no excuse for the words ‘ectoplasmic fog’ and ‘dreicht night’ in the opening three paragraphs. Not enough to make me burn the book. But oh so close.
The last few days have been weird. I keep persuading myself I have no focus, which is my main excuse for never finishing a . Sentence. I mean, novel. Writing, that is. Not reading. I’ve read an appalling number of novels I should have stopped. But what I forget is that I’m stubborn. You don’t run marathons unless you’ve got a mule gene. And yet I’m easily bored. All the running paraphenalia (kit, logs, spreadsheets) induce a state of hypnosis / euphoria / disengagement. Which combine to create small periods of OCD-intensity activity. Sadly (well, for my literary career) most of this energy is currently entwined in lycra. Well, not mine, but I digress.
Running. To run. To gambol. To pootle. To sprint until one is sick. It’s just glorious. As are my legs. Shame about the rest of me. But anyway. Running. It’s brilliant. And despite all appearances to the contrary, easier to do than writing. For me, at least.
And yet. When it goes well. It’s better than running. Putting words together is the best high. Words put a grin on my face. Running hurts shins at my pace. Sigh, that was a reach. I even enjoy the corporate writing I do. It’s like acting — putting on a voice. Obviously I don’t get to swear, or do the. Short. Sharp. Self-reflexive difficult to read shit that I do on here. With or without puns. But it’s just fun. The flow of words. Feeling them whistle past your ears. The an-a-to-mical source of the sound (to quote my favourite lyric ever. Although the irony is I can’t remember it properly).
Which leads me to the conclusion that Marks and Spencers Vintage Cava is the new absinthe. I can’t account for the short sentences otherwise.
