I guess it's time to come clean and admit that no matter how hard I try I am an inveterate pantser. It's one of the reasons I mainly write short stories and not long and rambling novelesque things.
All that seems to remain from my outline are the locations and characters, their names and their descriptions. Everything else has gone out of the window. Good or bad? I have no idea, and don't care so long as I get to the end of the first draft: then I can fix what's bust.
I think I'm enjoying 'Wor
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
Okay, so I have just under 12 hours to get my act together.
I have an outline of sorts, which is all well and dandy, but I wanted the whole thing nailed down. I wanted to know exactly who was going to be doing what to whom and when -- to the nth degree. Fat chance. I should know myself by now.
I do, however, have a title: 'Worth.' A good and worthy title I'm sure you'll agree.
Good luck to everyone who's taking part!
After a fractious and car-less weekend, all is now well. My baby's back, though now her front brake discs are beginning to rub. :(
It's most strange that not having transport readily available - even if you aren't going to use it - is stressful. I live out in the country and although there is a bus a couple of times a day, and I could walk if needs must, I really did keep looking out of the window and pouting at her empty parking spot. Still, never mind eh, all is back to the way it was ... exc
I love my car, I really do. She's a little silver-grey Renault Clio and goes for miles on very little petrol - which is a boon with petrol at nearly ?5 ($9) a gallon. Yes, she's done me proud ... until late Friday afternoon when her clutch cable snapped. I won't repeat the words we had as I drove her (double de-clutching is a doddle if you don't value your gears) in first and second all the way to M's. Sighing, he then drove me home in a borrowed 3.5 litre BMW that was built when petrol was A LO
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.
... because it's Sunday, which means I haven't blogged for a week. Not that that's anything to write home about: I've not a lot to say. However, now I shall vent as I'm annoyed, and might well soon be ill. Why? Because I happen to like cold coffee and hate flys.
Obvious then it is to cover one's coffee mug: and if not, at least check for alien invaders before drinking from it. Obvious to all but me, sadly.
A mouth full of coffee (nice) and a large fly (not so nice) is enough to send even th
Sunday. Sunday, Sunday, oh tranquil ol' Sunday.
The day of rest, so sayeth the wise.
Unless, of course, you've decided - in a moment of skint fiscal madness (and not my own, I hasten to add) - to 'do' a car boot sale.
"Oh yes, it's fun, and we'll make money!" It's not that we ever do make money - or enough to write home about, anyway - but generally we have a laugh.
"Oh okay then. But you have to get me up." (minds out of gutter please).
So ... on Sunday morning I wake up, glare
I adore Ywriter software. Or perhaps I should say I adore the concept of it, it's great, and it's getting better and better and easier to use the more I write. Anyway, to cut a potentially long and vitriolic self loathing diatribe short. YWriter has recently been updated to a beta of V5. Complete with warnings not to use it for real work! It's in beta, and beta is buggy: obviously.
So dick head here uses it to write a short story. It was a good short story, too (I thought while I still had it).
So ... CERN's Large Hydron Collider has been switched on, and amazingly, the world is still here, and still in one piece.
Having recovered from cowering in the corner and attempting to kiss my bottom goodbye (why anyone would want to kiss their own bottom is beyond me) I find that a lot of people were really, Really worried about it.
I guess if my Dad had told me the world might be ending I'd have been worried, too. Though I'd probably have tried to use it as an excuse to not do homework.
The idea of customer service and 'satisfaction' in the UK sucks. There, I've said it.
Like a big kid I fell in lust with the idea of getting a Sony Reader. It's not that I can afford one. It's just that I've got a credit card, and I haven't gone mental with it for a while.
So, on Saturday M and I schlepped into the local Branch of Waterstones. Waterstones is supposedly the UK's biggest chain of book shops. They have a deal with Sony to sell their 'Readers', and a dinky site to flog eBooks.
"Hmm," I thought as Rad Steven changed his name to RJ. "Perhaps part of my malingering malaise is my name. Maybe I'll change it."
Reversing the letters you get Ymac. Which sounded weirdly peachy until I slapped it into Google. Not only is Ymac an acronym for 'Your Mom Adores Cock', but Ymac.com is a highly dubious web site. So, In glorious 'ain't done nowt except think about it' hindsight, I've decided I like me just as I am.
Yesterday we went for a stroll on the beach. Shocked? I was. It mus
I've been feeling really meh recently. Miserable weather does me in, and so far August has been a bleedin' awful month as far as weather is concerned. I'd thought that was it: another poxy English summer crawls to its grotty end ... and then today arrived.
Today was magical! Today was shorts and t-shirt weather, with a long, long walk on the beach. Of course I should have been sorting out the container, but no chance. The sun pulled me elsewhere.
The tide was so far out that bones of the wr
I'm having problems divesting myself of crap. I don't mean that I have a blocked loo, or that my underwear needs cleaning. It's just that I have a container full of stuff that I can't seem to throw away. I wouldn't mind if it wasn't costing me a fortune every month, but it is and that annoys me a lot. So if anyone has any idea what I should do, then please, don't hesitate to say: sarcasm welcomed (I need a laugh), though bear in mind that a fire is out of the question as I have yet to find my pa
I like blog categories. I've just created a new one called 'Waffley Truth' which is ... umm ... pretty much what it says. In fact as it covers such a multitude of sins, I think I'm falling in love with it. I used to use 'Claptrapish' and 'off the rails' a lot, but 'Waffley Truth is now definitely number one. Numero uno. Bilingual me.
I'm working (jolly, jolly hard) to finish last years NaNoWriMo novel before I have to start on this years one. Actually, it's rather good, even though I do say so
M and I had a row today. I was in a foul mood and flew off the handle at a meaningless slight. Then, much like Attila the Hun, I told him to go f**k himself, and stormed out, slamming the door behind me. I was incensed. Then, as I drove away, I thought about how he must have been feeling, and I almost ... almost turned back: but I'm nothing if not bloody minded, and drove on. A mile up the road the phone went off ...
... and all is well in the garden, Chancy.
We went for a great walk on the be
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,
It's gorgeous weather. It makes such a difference to my frame of mind. I'm feeling quite perky, which is good for many reasons, not the least of which is, I hope, my writing. I now have so many part written stories it's not funny. Just to finish one would be a wondrous delight, yet I'm beginning to wonder if I've 'shot my bolt'.
Virtually everything I've written has been written during 'bad' times. I wrote to escape the stress. Now I'm not so stressed I'm finding it really difficult to write a
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?!
This is one weird week.
I've received both an awful bit of news - in that The Hub is closing, and a great bit of news - in that I've made Dude's pick for July with my short story: 'JJ and The Boys.'
First, The Hub. Rob and Kitty followed a dream, and built a small, but vibrant community. They went through awful trials, worthy of Greek myth, and finally won through. Then ... stuff happened, and Kitty left. Rob carried on for a while, but he has a life to lead and rightly decided that enough wa
I spend a lot of time bemoaning the fact that I'm not doing what I should be doing; cursing the mistakes I've made, my bone idleness ... and then wondering what it actually is that I should have been doing in the first place. Daft, huh?
Anyway, when I get in one of those frames of mind I read this poem: which knocks sense back into my thick skull. After all: we only have the one shot. We might as well enjoy it, no matter what. ;)
by Percy Byshe Shelley (1792-1822)
I met a travelle
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
You wander along thinking life is almost perfect (I say almost, as perfection is really impossible) and then ... shit happens.
One of my oldest and dearest on-line friends has just left the net, and I'm gutted. Gutted because they've gone, and also because I had no inkling - not the vaguest idea - that anything was wrong ... and I don't like it. The foundations of my 'world' have been rocked: there's been an on-line earthquake.
But, as has been pointed out, change is inevitable. I might not li
We've been here now for three weeks, and the Cats have just started to get to go out. They love the garden, and especially the 'patio' which heats up in the sun. They seem to like lying on their backs and wait for their tummy's to be rubbed. Jolly sensible I think, and I'm going to do the same the next time M comes over ... provided the neighbours are out.
The angst involved in letting them out was almost too much. The road at the front of the house, though not a main road, is not Cat friendly
I'm beginning to feel chilled and happy. The stress of the last year has finally vanished over the horizon - never to return - and it's summer! What more could a chap want? Oh yeah, that. ;)
That's being worked on. *coughs and blushes*
Ooops. I'm late.