Currently reading Myth of the Mousetrap, by Anne Miller, which despite obvious potential for thrillerdom is acksherly a book about creativity and getting your ideas adopted. I was sent a review copy at work and have found myself drawn in, despite the fact that it’s (a) work and (b) self-help. Although not self-work nor indeed semantic soup for the soul. Anyhoo, it’s tres enjoyable and a good kick up the cojones.
I have singularly failed to engage with NaNoWriMo. At least I registered. That’s got to count for something, right? I mean. At the end of the day whenever I do finish the novel and approach PFJ for representation they’re going to say ‘hey, this dude totally signed up for NaNoWriMo in 2007’ and they’re not going to say ‘poor choice of soup, feller, always go for a legume and pork combination’.
But anyhoo, the point of writing, ok blogging, is to remind myself that I can. And to remind myself that if I can write 40,000 words of this drivel (ok, I exaggerate, there was a post in February 2005 which was just ‘le bombe’) then I should be able to write 100k of stuff that I live, eat, drink and breathe. I call it Porterfiction. Because you can wear it. And drink it. And quite possibly ask it to carry your luggage like a mahout.
I was disturbed the other day to receive a whole sequence of spam messages that had titles not unlike my blog. I mean, one thing is reading Gibson/Noon. Another is being part of the pattern’o’t’ting.
Running another marathon on Sunday. I guess it makes up for not writing. If there was an 16 week writing schedule, perhaps I would stick to that instead. But the competition is so different. And you don’t get a medal. Or chip timing.