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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…)

I’m sat here, in the study, with only the faint hum of my iMac and the occasional patter of my fingers on the keyboard for company. Overhead, the distant thrum of another metal duck wheezing its way to Heathrow. Earlier there were a pair of magpies karakacking harshly at each other. And the builders next door were using their giant metal fart-machine to cut bricks. Perhaps the magpies were heckling the builders. (more…)

This week was my first week of supposed ‘freedom’. It’s been exhausting. And I haven’t written a single creative word. Although on Thursday I did utter some fairly creative words when I tasted the mystery substance that I had spooned into our dinner in the spirit of cross-cupboard-shelf diversity and exploration. Some lids are simply meant to be left sealed, kids. (more…)

This week, I expect there will be some new readers of this blog. Welcome. Pull up a pew*. Although if you really believe that this is a church you are sorely misguided. But now I mention it, the Cult of Monk Quixote has a certain ring to it. So on second thoughts, pull up a pew, give me all your cash and start wearing odd clothes (you’ll soon discover that I believe the concept of things matching to be vastly over-rated). Anyhoo, welcome one and all. Or as is infinitely more probably, one.

* I have just attempted to find ‘pull up a pew’ in my new Allen’s Dictionary of Modern Phrases, hoping to discover some hidden reference to the Reformation in my sub-conscious, or perhaps some deep aversion to acanthus wood, but no such joy. I have, however, discovered that ‘go phut’ is a Hindi expression meaning to ‘burst or split’. I think it should be my duty to be more educational from now on. Ahem, I digress… (more…)

I spent at least some of Sunday poking mild fun at the Pope via the hashtag #popefacts. I had hoped to get some new (fun) followers for my nonsense – which I did. And I also got some less-fun followers. People taking it all a little too seriously. (more…)

The most common complaint I am hearing from those that I have shown the blessed (bless-ed?  CURSED) debut novel (fragments, don’t get excited Laurence), is that I am making it a bit harder to read than it should be – in a technical sense.

My problem is this (Tom is the main character):

• I (narrator) want to talk about Tom in the third person, for when I can’t do show not tell.  Also, I need a third person narrator to help shift some of the scenery and characters around.  Tom will however be in most if not all scenes.  In my head, the narrator is simply a camera that can see into Tom’s head, and presents the world as Tom sees it, while occasionally panning out of his head to give context.
• Tom often thinks of himself in the third person.
• Tom has an internal monologue kind of chuntering away the whole time.
• Tom also has clearly defined ‘thoughts’ that are ‘heard’ above the monologue – or at least should be distinguished.

So – with all that in mind, I’m writing a lot of this:

A. Tom considered the valise.  He wondered where it should rest.  ‘No rest for the wicked.’  He wasn’t wicked though.  Tom’s valise rested.

Hang on.  That’s too contrived.  This (from memory) is nearer a ‘live’ example.

B.  Tom’s Universe winked at him in the darkness.  He tried to gather his thoughts.  He failed.  They were too sticky.  ‘Like… like…like meringue.’

The problem is slipping in and out of his head.  But each time I try to clarify what is internal-general, what is internal-specific and what is simply borderline autism, it tends to make it a mess for the reader.   Do I need the quotes around meringue?  (Now there’s a sentence one doesn’t get to write every day).  There are also logical / world inconsistencies that the reader simply has to accept – ie the Universe, while the reader knows what it really physically is, has ‘living’ properties for Tom.   What I’m trying to avoid is this:

C. Tom imagined that the shapes moved in the darkness.  He was confused and couldn’t make sense of things.  He visualised his thoughts as similar in consistency to a meringue.

Do you think it’s ok to simply have this instead:

D.  Tom’s Universe winked at him in the darkness.  He tried to gather his thoughts.  Failed.  They were too sticky.  Like… like…like meringue.

Sigh.  Not a biggie really.  But I’m a little worried that it will not really turn out as I intended.  I’ve just read ‘The Gargoyle’ and the author uses a typographic device to achieve the same thing – his inner demon / snake is represente in text as block-cut texts.  It’s just that it feels like the story will lose some of the identity-based issues if I present Tom in any other way.

But then again, if no-one reads it because they keep having to double-check which ‘voice’ is speaking, then it’s all moot, n’est-ce pas?

MOOT MOOT!  Bon mots for boon moots.  Moon boots for mon bots.  If a bot were a foot that would have been perfect.  Foot moot boot.

But I digress.  I’m meant to be researching something for chapter 5.  Hush now.

It’s building, my friends.  Building.   And it looks good.  Or it will at least entertain me.  But still stubbornly unwritten.

I’m sure if we all shout loud enough we can persuade the wee timorous beastie to come out.