'Harvest Time' - the novel I was writing for NaNoWriMo - is still unfinished. That's not say I'm not continuing it, it's just that the 'gotta get to 50,000 words or look like a pranny' impetus has gone. Such is life. I've also got other stories to finish too - including 'Bathtime' which I promised Cole an age ago.
I've sent a short story off to a magazine, and am waiting patiently for the rejection slip. At least this time I didn't send a 'Dark Drama' to a SciFi mag. Duh.
Cole Parker's 'Blea
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.
I keep thinking about Jason's blog entry. I keep thinking 'and there by the grace of God go I' but that's entirely wrong. I have been there in my own way. Similar but different.
I keep being told that addiction is a personality trait, and therefore genetic. In other words we are pre-programmed to self destruct. And I wonder is that right? Are there addictive personalities or is it just modern day psycho babble to excuse a whole tranche of society for misbehaving?
When I was small I was a class
I ain't blogged in an age, so seeing as how I'm in the mood I thought I would.
I'm now past halfway in my NaNoWriMo tale 'Harvest Time', which started out being one thing and has now turned into something else. I still have faith that it will be a good something else, but who knows.
That's the trouble with being a pantser. One the one hand it's like exploring a vast empty city - you're constantly surprised - and on the other you really, really wish you'd thought about it a bit before you set o
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.
Arriving home after a long, and very hard days manual labour, is ... just peachy.
I can go to bed - or stay up and veg out with the TV brain death machine.
Tomorrow, I can throw the alarm clock out of the window without feeling guilty.
In fact I'm free ... for almost two days ... FREEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!
Until Monday. Damn Monday.
Why are all my blog entries so ... depressing? I'm not normally a depressed person, but then I suppose there is no normality to my life any more. I feel like I'm drifting - oh for a boat - and have entered the doldrums. The sails are up, but *insert deity of choice* has switched of the wind. The fucker.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda. That's all I can think of. And I'm sooooo tempted to pack a bag, and vanish. Yeah right. Not like it's going to happen. But the thought is like a lifeline. Th
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
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've got so much to say, but have just had a phone call. I'm always late, and here I am late again.
The above means goodbye for now. Explain all later.
PS 'Tardy Swine!' emoticon obviously required.
Sunday car boot (trunk for those with a different vocabulary) sales have taken over from church as the place to congregate. Not only do we all worship the great God Mammon, but we either get a bargain or two, or make a few quid - depending if you're buying or selling. I've been both, but today I was selling.
I HATE it. Hate, hate, hate it! Got the idea? It's so damn embarrassing having total strangers trawling through your tat.... But needs must when the devil drives, so suffer I did, with che
My poem 'Cheery Me' seems to have caused 'a bit of a to do'.
Cheery cheery me
Razor blade and morphine free
Can't take the final step
No one to feed the cats you see
I appreciate the concern more than those concerned will probably ever know: however, I'd like to state that though I've occasionally pondered the idea of 'offing' myself - and who can honestly say they haven't - I wouldn't. It's pointless, and I have way too much to do. I really, really want to finish my novel. I've songs to re
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
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
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
One of my all time favourite films is 1980's 'Airplane', which is now considered such an old chestnut that you can hear the groans of disapprobation from miles away every time they announce it'll be played; Still, I like it. There are two classic running gags. The first is the Peter Graves' Captain Clarence Oveur to Joey, the little boy: "Joey, do you like movies about gladiators?" "Joey, have you ever seen a grown man naked?" etc. The second, Lloyd Bridges as Steve McCroskey, the frustrated co
Today I dismantled what is laughingly called 'my office'. In estate agency terms it's 'bedroom three, big enough to swing a cat - just.' My cats weren't keen.
I have/had two computers in there. One, an old pc, is no problem; It does what it's told. The other (a bargain I just had to buy - stupid arse) is a very large old server. I've never done anything with it except store my albums on its hard drive, and say to all and sundry whilst preening: "I have a network". Now, kind as I am, I can't see
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,
When I was young, until I was about twelve or thirteen, I used to cry a lot. When I say a lot, I mean a lot. At the drop of a hat. I don't think I ever cried infront of my peers and friends, but at home I'd be howling at the unfairness of whatever it was that was unfair at that moment in time.
Now I can't, and I WANT TO. Badly.
There must have been a pivotal moment in my life that caused me to stop. But I can't think of one specifically. I went to boarding school (where you'd rather cut your l
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
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
I've added a new category 'Claptrapish' This is for claptrap that has marginally more ... erm ... possibilities than straight common or garden Claptrap.
Here's an example: Astrology. Believe? No. No proof; but it can be entertaining.
Aries March 21st - April 19th
'"If you hold your dreams too tightly, you'll crush their little ribs," was the message scrawled on the wall of a public restroom I visited today. I immediately recognized that
It's taken me an age to decide to blog here. Dunno why I am really, except secretly I like a lot of the people who hang here, more than a lot of people who hang elsewhere I blog. No names, no packdrill. Which is a very silly cliche.
I'm trying to be more positive. I spend a lot of time bemoaning my lot, and tend to forget that I'm really quite well to do compared with others, even though I only have three pairs of jeans in comparison to some who possess more. Then Jeans do not maketh the man. B