I was hoping to see the biggest moon for 15 years last night. But sadly it has rained for most of the night in the part of the world I live in. So, no big shiny button in the sky for me to ponder on. And lots of drips and creaks for me to listen to instead. Shame. I was looking forward to the moon. And nervously waiting for the fur to appear.
I haven’t felt like writing much recently. Experience tells me that as adversity approaches, or encroaches, one should retreat to an area of safety, or joy, or comfort and joy. Or simply mince pies. I’m good at retreating into mince pies. Or I could fight, obviously, but fighting is wearisome (what a Dickens of a word, is it Christmas?) and like most rational people I am more choosy about my battles nowadays. So I negotiate. Mostly with myself and the over voices. And attempt to focus on what matters to me. And move on.
Which is what Tom should be doing in the novel. The phone has been ringing in his head for about four months now. All he has to do is answer it and hear a single bit of news. News the reader already knows, as I just told them two paras ago. But it’s something to do with character development. Or some such nonsense. And sometimes I don’t have as much room for problems in my head as I would like. Possibly because of all of the moon-gazing and mince-pie-cooking equipment in there. Needs a good spring clean, my head.
So. Moving on has proved more difficult than I’d hoped. I have an obsessive streak — I think it’s a prerequiste for creative people. You put your problem/challenge / duende on the table and try and find the best solution — walking round it, looking at it, poking it, cooking it, melting it, giving it a little bobble hat and calling it Jemima.
I also went to Catholic school, so I live in eternal doubt. A doubting obsessive. Doesn’t sound quite as hollywood as compusilve obsessive. But the doubt is fundamental. It gives me options. It means that my moon can be a button. Or cheese. Or that Dairy Crest should start making cheese buttons to compete with Cheese String. Or that I really want a coat with buttons shaped like the moon. Or maybe I want a coat that I could wear on the moon. Or perhaps I’m simply sick of zips, the sun and dairy substitutes.
I digress. So. Emotional wrappers for Dickensian christmas presents. Ok, ok. I’m still digressing. Sometimes I think that I am still on a tangent that started some time in 1975. Probably at tea time. Who knows, maybe mince pies or cheese where involved? I mean, I was there. But you know, I also _wasn’t there_. A bit like the moon tonight. And when I think of tangents I always think of the rabid dog that gets shot in To Kill a Mocking Bird. A tangent to me is a drunk man on ice. Or maybe that’s just me — a drunk man on a white background.
Anyhoo. I’m sober as I type. Unusual for my two readers. But I thought I’d give them a little treat. But now, having flicked back a paragraph, I’m stuck with the word ‘tangent’. I mean, as far as I can remember (which apparently is not back to 1975), a tangent is a line that runs off the main line (but the line continues). Whereas my tangents are more ‘explores’. Like a hamster looking in word burrows for a nugget of word-cheese. And boy, is it often cheesy. Ba. Dum. Tish. (I’d just like to point out now that I typed ‘word burro’ — which tickled my cheese stick for a second, but I corrected it like a dutiful son — despite the image of an ass laden down with metaphors being rather apt for my writing. Oh yes. Ba. Dum. Tish. Again. I’m here all night. Try the mince pies.)
So. Problem solving. Not as easy as you’d think. Although little moons are only big moons that are further away.
Ivanovitch, if you just wrote lots more stuff like that and stitched it all together with dialogue you could call it a novel and sell it for money.