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I am almost a writer, I feel. In that I feel a little more like a writer than yesterday, last week, last month. Although, never having been one before, I am not entirely sure what it should feel like. I mean, by the same definition,  I also feel more like a bear, because I am looking for excuses to hibernate, punctuated by adventures in marmalade and/or honey. Plus I have very little brain. Trust me. I’ve forgotten if I had any toast this morning.

Better have some more to make sure.

And this feeling writerly / ritterly is on top of imagining my writing skills as some form of dog, inspired by a cow. It gets quite noisy, and messy, in my head sometimes. Lots of paws for thought. I said, ‘lots of paws for thought’. Oh all right, suit yourselves.

Yes, it’s animal month in the Ivan imagination. In the novel so far we have monkeys, seagulls, crows, pigeons and a rabbit. And, obviously, the first law being write about what you know, it’s drinks year. Those already named include whisky, port, Guinness, rum and vodka.  Perhaps I should abandon all attempts at fiction and simply produce lists of things. I’d need a hook, though. Some variation of ‘The most crap top-tens for un-adventurous boys in 2010 ever’. Yes, that will get me published.

Although now that I think about it – yes, dear reader, the poor sod writing this actually thinks like this – I should name some of the drinks that Tom erm, drinks, after animals.  Which would normally be the perfect excuse to lose myself in the intertron for a couple of hours researching animal-themed names for drinks that have some loose connection with children’s stories. (Feel free to comment if any spring to mind).

But I digress. Of course. This is half the point of my writing. To wander around. Turn the corner. Open cupboards. See what’s inside.

Of course there are different definitions of ‘writer’.  To a degree, I get paid for putting one word in front of another. It’s just that they’re not necessarily English, and they tend to have more logic and structure than my fiction. They’re also, mercifully, shorter.

I have yet to meet another definition of ‘writer’ – that of being referred to as ‘a writer’. My greatest envy/pleasure at the moment, is that my friend-through-marriage As is referred to as a film-maker.  All the prizes he’s won don’t help (the envy) but it’s the plain old simple introduction that I’m most jealous of. ‘He makes films’. One day – one day I’ll be referred to as ‘he writes books’. Until then, it’s plain old ‘puts some funny stuff in email / on his blog / gibber jabbers like a crazy fool’. Sigh.  That’s a long old Native American name.

But in the sense that I’m ‘working at writing’ – that I now write most days, in volume and vaguely to a plan. Well, yes. I am a writer. I need a few hundred words to warm up – hence this post about nothing, but I do feel a bit more of a writer than I used to. And that’s mainly down to routine. To work. And a little discipline. I take the knocks a little easier now. I don’t let myself by side-tracked so much. I don’t spend hours lost in researching the name of a pub or person who only appears in bookspace for two paragraphs.

I have returned from deepest, darkest, Devon. No, not the metaphorical Devon of the mind – all rugged tufts of thought and sanity-rescue landrovers.  The Devon of an Arvon writing retreat.  Think thatch, intermittent showers and people waxing lyrical about the earlier works of Graham Greene. The sounds you can hear are the gentle benevolence of poets, and the frantic herding of cat-like egos, anxious and well, more anxious, fuelled by tea, cheese and red wine.

And the bellowing of cows confused by the changing of the clocks.  Well, I say clocks. Whisper it quietly but I think some rocks could give cows a run for their money on an IQ test.

I have eaten my own bodyweight in Nutella, hopefully made new friends, conversed with a winner of the Orwell Prize (I’m convinced that you don’t talk with people who’ve won big awards. One converses. Darling. Actually, this is entirely unfair, as she was one of the nicest, most humble, sensible people I’ve met).  There have been wild thoughts, and messages sent through the ether – through time and space. Many of which appear to have ended up written in shaky biro or felt tip pen in the drawer in the desk in my room.

I’ve shared secrets and madnesses, and told complete strangers the most unbelievable things. Except they were all true. Well, except the lies. A bit of heroic lamplight never hurt a good telling.

I’ve listened, and nodded, and read aloud. Prodded and probed. Been skewered – ‘I lost interest’ is possibly the most disheartening thing an individual can ever say to another.  But I found new strengths. And revenge is best served in lines on a page. And there has been a lot of that. My shit list has lost a few names these past few days. Shame, by definition, they will never read the lines and recognise themselves. But still, the fun is had, regardless.

Catharsis. Only bettered by love. I’ve been excited by monologues and disgusted by chicken parts. I have written – every day, and in reasonable amounts. I feel I have grown from a writing puppy, keen, eager and needing to be toilet trained, to a more…controllable sort of writing dog. My paws are dirty, but my snout is clean. I still chase after cars. But they deserve it, for the most part. For being shiny and noisy and smelly and fast.

I steer clear of the cows. They stare. They know. I am sorry that I eat you, big, clumsy shaggy thing. But you are a cow. And I have opposable thumbs. And the wit and imagination to eat you. If not the skill and courage to kill you.

But I digress. Writing is good. Writing is fun. The novel moves on, and new faces come and go in reasonably bite-sized vignettes. I feel, at times, that I am writing something like Amelie-for-boys meets Poirot-with-the-black-humour-cells. And this pleases me. And the realisation that this pleases me, pleases me even more.

I’m not as scared as I once was. I can see the vaguest possibility of me finishing this book. And the freedom to write other things. I will no longer be trapped by these people. By Tom. By Monk Quixote. And there’s a slim chance that some people will find it interesting enough to publish. If I can hold their interest.

I will do what I can, dear blog, to write my little sporadic nonsense. But for now, the flow pulls me in the direction of a cab ride across London. And a man wearing a neckerchief will open the door to a surprise visitor.

I’ve written it before, and said it to everyone I can. But for any writer who feels unsure of themselves, or feels guilty about the selfishness of writing – retreating inwards, downwards – then I simply cannot recommend going on an Arvon Foundation course highly enough.

It was magic the first time. And the magic – and the cows – are back this time, too.  And you know what, I think the cows have followed me home….

Yes, folks, my moo-joy has returned. (Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I tried to resist, but it was staring at me in another window. Like a big, shaggy, cow).

(NB My username on the running site I log my training on is monki)

I’m running. Well, somewhere between plodding and running. Pruning, that will do. Yes, I’m pruning the air. I approach the steps down to the Thames Path on the unmentionable side of the river. Must avoid the fourth step on the second flight going down. ‘Potential deathtrap’ as Lynn Faulds-Wood would say. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve imagined myself tripping over at this point, usually leading to at least a shattered ankle, if not full on runner’s breakdown.

Ah. Safe. Once again I outwit you Mr Step. That is because I have opposable thumbs. Ok. Don’t waggle thumbs in public while running again. Unless running towards Bobby Ball doing his Rock-on Tommy thing. God! Did I really used to watch Cannon and Ball. Yes, I suppose I did. Right, that’s the steps done, let’s rejoin the path.

Curses! Who’s this joker who’s cruising up on the right? He appears to have pipe cleaners for legs and arms. He’s milky white, accentuated by an all black kit. His scraggy backside is enhanced by a mahoosive bum bag. So. We meet again Mr Bean.

No time to laugh. He’s about ten feet in front. We both have headphones on, so I’m not sure if he’s heard me or not. I’ll catch him up. Hmm. Or not. Both doing exactly the same pace. This is tedious. I should drop back, give him some space. Or just run up his arse the whole time. Ok. Not literally.
Annoying. We’re still ten feet apart. Oh, I see. He’s speeding up is he. Well, we’ll see about this. Hmm. Or not. Tired. And still seven miles to go. Let him go. He’s not worth it. Let his bumbag bob gracelessly into the distance.

I switch off for a while. I do that sometimes. It’s like having a holiday in your head. But forgetting where you’ve been. I hope it wasn’t somewhere expensive. Anyhoo. Wind’s picking up. Oh. Nerd-man is coming back to me now. HA! You don’t like it windy, do you stringbean. Although it should be me that suffers more in this headwind. More surface area and all that basic physics. Physics, man! Get a grip. Prune the air!

And then something magical happens. The Goth Mix arrives unbidden on my iPod. My feet are suddenly thumping in time to a distorted drum machine. I can feel my eyebrows sharpen. I have to resist the urge to fling my arms about and studiously avoid eye contact with everyone in the bar, I mean Thames Path. But for the greater glory of emo, fill me with your baritone speed. Or something. I mean.

Who listens to goth lyrics anyway?

It’s working though. I’m catching him. HA! Hear that Beany-boy? That… is goth. Here comes Wayne Hussey to mow you down. All over this wasteland….Dum dum durrum. Amphetamine buzz. Etc. Catching him. Less than half a mile to the tree. The Tree At Which I Must Turn. I will catch you, sonny. I will catch you. I am a running black metal machine.

I’m catching him. I’m going to make it. He’s gone. Shot. Dust. HA! Look! It’s easy. I’m flying. Straight past. Grind him into dirt. Eat my backside, loser! Ha. Made it. With fifty yards to spare. I rule! I am the Monkinator. The Great Monkitron wins again. I rule! Who’s the King of the Nerds now, Geekboy? Eh?

And then, seconds too late, Jesus Built My Hotrod comes in the mix. And I feel bloodlust in my nostrils. I swear I’d have ripped him limb from limb and eaten him for a protein shake. All hail the Monkinator! Grrrrrrrrrrrr.

Oh. Happy trance. Five miles back now.

Where was I? Oh yes. Funny what you think about when you’re running.

I’ve been away.  Sorry.  I’ve been running, and working, and not-working.  And most definitely not writing.  But hopefully I’m back now.

I ran ten miles yesterday. Pretty unremarkable, other than it’s my longest run in several months and only the third 10+ this year. Pretty poor effort. But I’m blogging about it because:

(*) First time this year I’ve fitted into a Fetcheveryone.com (Fetch) top. So I wore it. Good to be back in fluorescent yellow stripes.
(*) Listening to an audiobook for the first time on a long run (Transition by Iain Banks). Never listened to an audiobook before. Bit of an odd experience. I struggle to remind myself not to start drifting off into my own thoughts as I run. I can’t hear it while running alongside the A4, but it makes the towpath section much more … exotic.
(*) I was passed in mile 1 by two wannabe-Olympians. Skinny posh boys in school running kit – maybe 12 or 13. No big deal, I’m going long. I can take it. Fepping hell, what’s this? A girl? A girl is running faster than me? Not just a young woman – an actual, proper to goodness girl! Witch. And random other middle class tyros pootle past me in mile 2. I smile as I see the ones at the back ‘casually’ turn an earlier corner than their mates to loop home. The two budding Crams are away off in to the distance. They’ve probably hit Reading by now. (Does the Thames go through Reading? I can’t remember. Windsor then….)
(*) I pass a coffee-skinned girl with blonde frizzy hair and her mum. She might as well be called Miss Mischief.
(*) Various dog emptiers are out on their poop and scoop duties. ‘Travels with my beloved’s waste in a polythene bag’ as the romantics would have it.
(*) Speaking of romantics, I cross Chiswick bridge and note the absence of rowers. No ladies in stripey socks and wellies today. Would that ever enter my consciousness as a fetish if I didn’t run? But there is a man sat on the bench with no shoes or socks on. He has filthy toenails and muddy feet. I feel karma is watching me.
(*) More dog emptiers, yummies, eastern european posh-pram-pushers and the odd thousand-stride-stare runner, eyes glazed, iPod cocked to disguise the sound of their labours.
(*)The smell of sewage.  Only for a quarter of a mile.  But it’s as well that I breathe through my mouth.
(*) A policeman, ambling up the towpath. Operation Trident are out in Chiswick today, as there was a shooting earlier. I pretend that the suspect they are looking for is hiding in the bushes, waiting to ambush passing runners for their GPS enabled watches. But in all probability he’s PC Plod, plodding along, keeping the peace. Perhaps he will fine some dog emptiers. Or he just likes the sounds of leaves under his boots.
(*) I can’t find my tree. My garmin is on a mediterranean day, beeping when it can be bothered. So I look for my tree. My five mile tree, as opposed to my 3.5 mile tree. I mistake others for it. I apologise, when I eventually reach the right tree. It shrugs, in as much as a tree can shrug.
(*) In mile 6 I run past the man who sleeps in a tent by the side of the Thames. He always wears one of those woollen beanies with toggles, and I sometimes see him sat on a box outside Holland and Barrett on Chiswick High Road. I have a highly romanticised view of this individual – perhaps because he looks quite rugged for someone who’s been homeless for at least three years (that I know of). A better person would stop and talk to him one day. But instead he fulfils the dubious honour of being the only beggar I still give money to (having been burned badly in Cambridge by scam artists).
(*) Mile 7. An old lady in the distance, jogging. No. Not jogging. Doing something ludicrously like intervals. When she runs I make no ground on her. It’s only her walk breaks that let me move past her. I’ve had enough pride-assassination for one day.
(*) Mile 8. An insect flies straight into my eye. It gets stuck there, and no amount of rubbing can remove it. But I do not stop. I have visions of bugs drowning in tears. But at least I haven’t swallowed it. Once again I fantasise about owning a pair of Oakleys. I’m already wearing a Fetch top and compression socks – how much more of a tit do I want to look like?
(*) I cross the bridge back. The audiobook has spent the last 20 minutes discussing various ways to torture and kill people. I feel odd. I’m running on trail now, having avoided the conkers in the path, and still to receive one on my head. Ahead is a bench with a bike parked up. Someone is lying on the bench, looking at the clouds. It is a woman. Pretty freckles. She has her eyes closed in a smile. Perhaps she is waiting for someone. I see lots of assignations on this stretch of the run.
(*) Two older kids are throwing things at each other. They look at me but don’t hurl anything, verbal or physical, my way. Must be the fep off fluo stripes.
(*) Plodding now – nearly at the end. I run down Chiswick Mall and smile once again at the completely ineffectual ‘No cycling’ sign that some exasperated resident has taped to a lamp post.
(*) I don’t turn for home – deciding to go to the gym instead to use their physio couch for stretching properly. The Thames is high. It’s flooded the road. People are stopping and vehicles reversing. Wusses, I think, it can’t be more than a couple of inches. I splash on. It is up above my ankles. My feet are soaked. I feel stupid. But it’s ok. I’m wearing a Fetch fluo top and compression socks. No-one was expecting any better from me.
(*) I cross the A4 by the underpass with the big bug-eyed mirrors. I’m nearly there. Just time for the obligatory count of builders’ vans and pallid men with vein-snaked arms smoking and chattering to themselves along this road.
(*) Beep. I’ve made it. I stop my Garmin and my legs, in that order. I take my headphones off – forgetting I’m listening to a continuous drama. I catch my breath. I’m pleased it’s over.

Just another sub/urban/urbane towpath run.

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.

(more…)

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.

(more…)

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…)