I'd like it if I could assign more than one category to a post. It would be peachy, because this might well end up being claptrap as well, and possibly include a whine or two. So.
Trust is the most important part of any relationship, be it in real life or in the relationships we have with people we are never likely to meet. There are people here I like, there are people here I admire, but as far as trust goes is it right, or indeed safe, to open up and be truthful about who I am. Stupid questio
I'm sitting at Mick's computer, and he's on the phone talking to a guitarist.
Our band is going to take a back seat for a while, 'cause we're re-forming a band that was quite well known a while ago. It's a three piece, and I'm going back to my first discipline: Drumming.
Looking forward to it? Fuck yeah!
I love 'Duck Duck Goose' and I hate it, too. As a story it's had me in all states of emotion, yet as a writer I know I could never write anything similar. That kind of length would get me twisted up in knots so fast I'd have to admit myself to the loony bin.
But why? That's what's bothering me. Why can I only seem to write short stories?
I have a couple of nearly finished novels, and yet every time I think of finishing them, I get into a cold sweat.
Know thyself is good advice. I obviously do
Bloody black dog. I can't seem to shake the thing. And me thinking it was all roses. They have thorns, don't you know.
'Bath Time' is finished, and should be up this weekend, I hope. Like 'Fellow Travellers', it has a pinch of truth swaddled by muse's wanderings. Apropos of nowt: spooge is such a great word!
'Probisher' is getting longer and longer, and consequently more and more convoluted. I want to write an 'A does this, then that, then a bit of the other ... and finally shags B' Oh, s
As a few of you know I've recently moved. It was a pain in the rear, and in order to get out in the time required I either had to throw a lot of stuff away or store it somewhere. Unfortunately I'm an inveterate hoarder - I don't mean keeping piles and piles of old newspapers or heaps of rubbish, but I've got a lot of personal stuff like photos and ... well, stuff. You know - or perhaps you're lucky and don't.
Anyway, I got rid of two van loads at the dump, and then I found out about the conce
I'm talking about revision. You get back what you thought was a tightly polished story, and damn me it's suddenly got a plethora of 'things' that need fixing.
I have one paragraph - a description of two people sitting on a bench overlooking a meadow - which it seems I've spent a decade on ... and it still isn't quite right. Oh, it was fine before, ;) but now, no. English is a very silly language. There are so many ways of couching the same thing, and each has something to recommend it.
1761 when I should be at least at 5001 is peeving. Peeving I tell 'e. It's just not good enough!
And, and, and oh poop. I picked the wrong day to give up sniffing glue. What? It's my blog I shall be as contentious as I like. And frankly - but don't tell anyone, it's a secret - I've never sniffed or mainlined glue. Or herbage either. Difficult to inject a large pot plant, anyway. Though why smoking one of God's own plants is illegal worries me. He/She/It gave us t
I is feeling mucho needy.
Just over a year ago I took my heart in my hands and told my best friend that I loved him. It was done deal, really, 'cause deep down I knew he felt the same way ... and he did. The idea was that we were going to live together as soon as we could. A year and a bit down the line it still hasn't happened. 'Things' keep getting in the way, and I'm getting really effing brassed off.
One of the 'things' has been ... erm ... my problem, is to do with personal space. I'm a
I went swimming today: In the sea, and it happened like this.
M and I have been taking daily walks. He thinks he's overweight, and he is a little bit - though I wouldn't ever tell him. He's gone on the Atkins diet, which, to cut a very long load of bollocks short, is a royal pain. I eat what I want, but can't do it in front of him as he starts drooling like Homer Simpson. He, on the other hand, can't eat any carbohydrates at all. None. It's a pain.
So in the afternoons we go for a walk. Today,
"They don't like it up 'em, Captain Mainwaring!" This line from 'Dad's Army' set the tone for Katie (ancient siamese beasty) having her claws clipped. She's pretty much house-bound nowadays and her claws are ... well 'savage' belies the truth. 'Wickedly Bitching Sabatier' comes closer.
You don't want her on your lap: unless you're wearing chain-mail, and unfortunately, mine's rusty.
So ... I tried. The thing is with cats: they're psychic. She knew I was nervous even before I decided to start
I've always lived with the idea in the back of my mind (don't laugh) that, if push came to shove I'd be able to walk out of the door with a pack on my back, and start a new life without worrying about what I'd left behind.
Ha! Fat chance. I'm selling this thing called house (can't afford the mental anguish any more) and have been trying to get rid of my 'things', but it's proving a lot, A LOT harder than I thought it would.
Take photographs. I have a lot of them, both from home and from work,
It's raining, and the cats are in a fractious mood. Cody sneaks up on her brother ... wakes him up ... he gets grumpy, and starts chasing her ... she comes thundering upstairs, and hides on my lap.
Then they go out, and back in again: wet. I have to stop what I'm doing and dry them off ... then they go out again ... and back in ... and ....
I'm part exchanging them for a hamster.
I'm feeling fragile. Apologies for the expletives.
Ultimately it comes down to purpose. Why am I here, and what the fuck am I supposed to be doing?
They say - depending on who the 'they' are - that I'm here to improve my lot and will come back time after time until I get the keys to ... heaven/nirvana/shangri-la or alternatively I'm gonna burn in the fires of hell. Well, I'm not keen. And I'm certainly not keen on the fires of hell. I want to know what it is I should be doing so I can get on w
Living in the country is very nice:
I know this now I don't.
The grass elsewhere is always greener,
but move again I won't.
Ah, hindsight. Suh-weet hindsight.
The move went well - in as much as we moved. Hard work? I should bleedin' well coco! There aren't enough web-bots or admins to remove the expetives I'd like to write - or masseurs to ease my aching muscles. Obviously I'm not fit enough to live in a house with three floors, 'cause, duh, floors mean stairs. Of course, being avian, I'
The 2007 NaNoWriMo is finished! Thank the stars.
I wrote a story called 'Harvest Time' which started off one thing, and ended up something else entirely - there is no accounting for my muse's whim.
It's not finished, but hopefully will be soon, and then It'll be edited and released chapter by chapter. It's sequelesque to Nyquist and Feredir.
Part of the reason I originally moved from 'the big smoke' down to the coast was to avoid the membership dues of the 'Getting Off One's Face' club. So, it was with trepidation (yeah right) that I got the call, and rushed for the train (Whoopee!!!).
Mental salivation is just as good as physical in my opinion, though on the way up I much doubt anybody watching me would have known, and on the way back I could have cared less.
London: one thing I have missed is the eye candy (paragraph two equall
Two days ago I came thundering down the stairs and wacked my knee into a stupid door frame. Yes, I know. Since I live here, I should know there's a door frame at the bottom of the stairs, but hell ....
Anyway, it still hurts ... in fact it still ^&$$()_$%!!! HURTS! So I've had words, and whilst the door frame won't apologise, it said if I'm careful, it'll try to stay out of my way. Yeah right.
Time and time again I do it, and time and time again I berate myself when I ... umm ... wake up.
Never, never, never, never, never post stuff when in an altered state. There is an off chance that it might be okay, but the odds are similar to those of winning the lottery. Best not to bother - I tell myself yet again. Gah!
Stupid, stupid me. Now, I must go and stand in the corner for an hour.
Confused? Here's a poem I wrote about 'it'. Profound or what?!
So ... I'm fed up with my uber whiny blog entries, and much as I sincerely appreciate all the sage advice and help proffered, enough is enough - until the next time.
We have a gig tomorrow night, and like any sensible fools we rehearsed. I wish I'd recorded it. My guitar, which has had some problems with its pick-up, has been fixed, has new strings, and sounds peachy. 'twas a good couple of hours. But not as good as the walk on the beach that followed
Don't ask me why, but the beach was empt
So I trundle off and write a story - or which I'm proud - and post it.
I'm tidying up when the computer goes 'ting'. Email!
'twas a rare missive from the Dude! After opening the champagne, and putting the caviar on ice (yick, pah, pass me a bucket) I sit down to read:
I scratch chin, then panic - or was it the other way around....
Paranoia wakes up. Everybody hates me. I pace up and down ... up and down ... down and up....
Grinning I sit back, then frown and start to worry that
I'm marginally happier now since I finished www.camysgaff.com, and Codey's 'Broken Heart'.
It's kind of strange that I worked harder on that song than I ever work on my own stuff. I know I'm genuinely lazy, but that - that recording - has shown me I can achieve more if I want to. Now all I need is a month in a proper studio and a band. Fat chance.
My new short 'Gin' was almost finished when I showed it to a mate. Now: I'm ripping it apart and re-writing. I wanted to post it soon, but there it
Time zones. I don't like them. They are there to annoy.
I suppose I should be honest. If the world revolved around the time zone I was in I wouldn't mind so much: having to think about them would still irritate, but I'd cope. BUT having an editor who lives eight hours behind is just ... well bloody inconvenient. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't change her for all the tea in China (hmm...). Let me re-phrase. For all the tea in China - which I would sell and then be able to pay her a vast salary an