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I think I need a bee or an m.  A writing buddy.  Or a mentor.  Or some form of mechanical prodding.  In fact, make that eletrical prodding.  Pavlovian writing.  That might do the trick.  Bzzt.  Hundred words.  Bzzt.  Hundred words.  Of course the quality aspect might suffer.  Particularly as more and more neurons in the brain are fried.   Bzzt.  Hundred dodos.  Bzzt.  De do doe don’t dey do? Bzzt. What’s a hundred?  Etc.  So how to increase my output?  How do I get more word-goods to market?  Who’ll be my role model, now that my role model, has gone, gone, ducked back down the alley and declined any further mention of latte, cake or wii.

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It’s been an interesting week.  A week of clashes.  Between the old me, the new me and the whatever me.  On Monday, I did whatever the business equivalent of ‘not turning up at a friend’s gig because you don’t want to bump into old bandmates’ is, which was a little sad – in both senses.  But I guess I skipped the ‘getting over yourself’ classes at school.  Probably had my nose in a book.  A book about people who don’t get over themselves.  Or short stories about shitlists and wishlists and global mofo domination.  But not shitwishing or lists of lists.  You only buy those books as stocking fillers.  Anyhoo, I digress. Quelle surprise. (more…)

I went to see, or rather hear, Courttia (Arvon tutor, writer and the only person I know so far who has been able to comment with any authority as to the plausibility or otherwise of getting away with murder – at least in Shepherd’s Bush, anyway – and the answer is more likely than the BBC would like us to believe. And let me clarify that Mr Newland was in no way involved. He just hears things, you know?  And no, not ‘hears things’ in that way, at least as far as I know) read at a Tell Tales gig last week as part of the London Literature Festival at the Southbank. (more…)

I appreciate that I don’t often write about technique or the process of writing here, instead boring my few readers to tears with endless hand-wringing and noise about all the things that stop me writing.  Well, it’s time to give something back I guess.  I’ve written four of my ‘shoes’ short stories in the past ten days, which means the collection is coming together.  I think I’m up to eight now, in various drafts.  I’m beginning to get a sense of my own style, how I workm what I enjoy, and what I don’t. (more…)

I was musing the other day, as one does, that there are some useful parallels to be drawn between running and writing.  And some less so. I was thinking about the relationship between joy and pain, mind vs duende and, obviously, shoes.  Although I do not yet possess a pair of writing shoes.  Thinking about it, I tend to write in socks.  By which I do not mean that I am some sort of Jimmy Cricket / Mr Bean -style sock-labeller, but someone who wears socks while writing.  Or to be precise, typing.  I do wear shoes while I’m writing in Starbucks.  Although I notice the little people consider shoes both optional and occasionally, nutritious.  But I digress.

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It’s been a bit of a struggle to adjust to working for myself, as the last few blog posts have suggested.  But I’m hoping I’ve turned the corner.  Got back on the horse.  Persuaded the horse to turn the corner, drink some water, perform a couple of quick stepovers and do the fandango.  Mamma mia, mamma mia, can you put me on the bridle.  Ok.  Enough already.  The point is, things are looking up. (more…)

It’s not often I make F snort yogurt out of her nose and convulse with laughter – well, except when I am attempting to explain the creative process or why I can’t finish the novel this week because I’m (a) washing my hair; (b) admiring the onion monster in the garden; (c) thinking up ways in which thinking about writing is like having your own Judaean People’s Front Committee meetings going on in your head, constantly; or (d) ooh look, an ickle kitten – but I managed it this week.  And all because I said, in all seriousness, ‘I am a duck, I swim.’ (more…)

It has been a week for finding the familiar in the unfamiliar.  Of revisiting the past, through a series of ‘sliding doors’ style vignettes, and reliving experiences – some good, some bad.   The shock of the old and the clumsy trip over the barely remembered.  I’ve been made to look in old mirrors, and find no Dorian Grey, or Mad Old Hatter, or indeed anyone I recognise in there.   The people and thoughts I’ve found are instead cloudy and blurred, or digitally enhanced and pixellated.  My memories are fogged through lack of use – overgrown weeds in the dark corners of the mind-garden. (more…)

Ok. Enough with the angst for a while. Please note that this period ‘while’ is undefined, both by me and by Bill Bryson (in the highly enjoyable Troublesome words of the title). And please note that reading what is essentially a dictionary for pleasure is not the same as reading ‘It pays to improve your word power’ in Reader’s Digest. Ok? One’s for bed and one’s for the doctor’s surgery. (more…)

I’m growing old. Empirically, mechanically and emotionally – I’m older. I know this. I can see it, feel it, touch it. Occasionally, I can smell it, or rather feel the rush of having aged when a smell cuts across boundaries like little else. As we grow older our taste buds reduce in number (or so I’ve read), so I assume I won’t be able to taste getting old. And it seems somewhat cruel that while my ears keep growing, I will hear less and less of life. (more…)