So when does correction become rewrite and rewrite become tedium, tediosity, boringsville? I wrote my first full-length manuscript four and a bit years ago and thought that was it, fini, fame and fortune, job done.
It turns out there is no definitive ending to a novel if you really care about your work and don’t want to be seen as an illiterate imbecile who can’t be bothered to do the extra stuff required to polish the undoubted turd that any first draught will be. Of course in the excitement of finishing your early work you think that’s it, send it off, show everyone, it’s bound to be loved, published, turned into a tv series/film, receive plaudits and make a fortune.
Now I look at my words and wonder how I ever thought I had the skill to entertain people with such drivel although admittedly there are some fantastic ideas in there, they just don’t get chance to shine through because the writing’s like surfing through sludge.
Anyway, a chapter got a thorough spanking and a new pair of cotton panties so hopefully if it ends up scuffing its knees and the ambulance crew, for whatever bizarre reason, need to check for clean underwear everything should be okay but who can tell?
Only another thirteen chapters to go and I might have a serious proposition to send out to face the vicious bullying of the older kids who never managed to do their own work so they got a job in an agents office from where they can belittle the truly talented but in the nicest, precisely worded, stock emails designed to wound without twisting the barb so deep the recipient gives up wasting their time presenting work to the terminally incapable, the dim-witted and the plain uninterested.
The only places available to the new author are already booked in the names of Mrs celebrity cookbook, Mr real-life disaster that could maybe lead to a film deal, Ms not very famous but with enough c-list kudos to cover costs and Mr Oxford masters in literature, studied on various creative-writing courses, read a ‘how to write a murder mystery’ book so gaining just the right amount of similarity to the greats who never dreamt of such idiocy; oh yes and one is an old Eton school-chum of the editors son.
Sycophants, irascible old codgers and frustrated novelists unite, publish and be damned sir Nigel
Just had my first mc’flurry in two months.
My teeth feel as if someone’s burnt them, it’s grrreat!
Couldn’t help overhearing a seventeen-year old complaining about how her mother insists on rules and decent behaviour and how unfair it is and how she tries to impinge on her life; whilst no doubt paying for it. How unfair?
None of the boys in here can pronounce their TH’s, everything’s everyfing, somefing, cushty and f-words even though there are kids everywhere.
I could never have envisaged that me using the same words but swearing quietly so old people, ladies and children can’t hear would make me feel old but here we are in a brave new world where showing consideration for others is regarded as an affront to the rights of the foul-mouthed twonk to talk at full volume without the slightest interest in whether their language might be considered offensive. The fact that these are the children of people younger than me and that my generation only added to the problem is truly disturbing.
I only came in to replace some of the grandad flab that’s been steadily shifting from my belly, a treat for being good for two months and I end up with a treaties on the modern society. And people think mcds serves little purpose?
The efficacy of compiling music in the hope it might invoke some sort of interest when in most cases it’s unlikely to be appreciated? Luckily I have a fairly easy time of it whizzing through my collection. There is music that simply should be appreciated and if not there is obviously a problem with the recipient thereby negating further acquaintance. (Psychedelic Furs, Placebo, Muse, Metric, I could go on) I kind of figure if you like music then there are certain types of band that will appeal right across the board although there are the Bruce Springsteen fans who don’t get that Dire Straits and Dylan suck and can’t work out why.
Still, it’s all subjective isn’t it but I do try to offer a vague alternative even if the alternative is now the mainstream. I’m so old I can remember when house music was the underground BEFORE S club 7 stole some of the best bits and began turning children into the future E-users.
Yes, it was their fault!
Anyway, a friend wanted to hear the new Warpaint cd so I thought I’d put some similar but slightly more uptempo guff together for the old fart only to realise that what I consider mellow is grating noise to some. Oh well, it’s all an education isn’t it; well, unless it’s in the popular charts. If it’s not played in Costa you know you’re on the right track. I think I can guarantee most of my favourite songs aren’t although why School of Seven Bells are not enormous I have no idea. They’ll probably become known their time has passed.
I suppose I’m lucky the only person who makes me CDs is my brother who does have exceptionally good taste, most of the time.
I struggle to forgive the Nick Cave fetish though
Apparently you get out what you put in but I’m not so sure.
Sometimes I do a lot, more often than not I manage a few paragraphs before the opaque mist fuzzies up my cells and continuity drifts but whatever, the end result is the same because when I’m nearing completion of a book there’s no way of telling where those fuzzy days are compared to the days like this afternoon when I got straight into it and got some heavy-ass shhhh on the page. I like that I’m in the lucky position of having no audience and no expectations placed on me so I can just get on with writing whatever feels right.
This latest, Bus-cut trees, is a real release from the normal strictures, freeform expression, no rules, no restrictions although there is definitely a flow in the right direction but I don’t know what I’m doing or where it’s going and yet still the flow carries me. Ideas formulate as I go, maybe I’ll take them on, maybe not. When you have no expectation of anyone reading or judging your work it doesn’t matter.
I’m going to have a try at some poetry in amongst the rest of the madness I’ve been writing, my character is going to try and express his feelings about love, death and the ability to feel love whilst inducing death. It’s going to be great and if not…whatever.
What; you’re my mother now?
Not a fantastic lover of t-shirts, especially the ring-neck tee. What is that about? A man of my calibre needs a v-neck, perhaps a number of buttons a la the rugby shirt style or perhaps the flounciness of the Fred Perry. It seems to me the general state of men’s clothing is dire but then when you’re on an, ahem, ‘limited budget,’ ie, a benefit-scrounging lazy work-shy dog of satan, complaining seems a luxury that is primarily for the rich but I am English so I will have my say. Castle; every mans home etc…
So there I am, not a lover of the tee, not a fan of the slogan, certainly not a lover of the ironic jokey picture that would have been ironic were in not repeated way too fcuk (this was NEVER funny) much, but when faced with the beauty of Darth Vader manning the decks, one hand raised in emulation of the D.J. calling the yoot to the floor to ‘ave it large n ting’ well; I quivered; wavered: quavered. Should I? Could I seriously take the chance? It seems unlikely the heroic pose could ever become tiresome, Darth AND raving?
Suffice to say I have succumbed to the ring neck sadness of the picture fronted tee-shit with a classic design. I’m sure some will mock. There will be hand gestures, there may even be those unkind souls who suggest a man is dressed as lamb way beyond his wrinkled status but I declare no-one can deny the power of the force, those that tried have only to remember Luke, I mean if anyone looked like they could mince about the dance-floor it was Pastel-Luke.
Put ya mutha-fa-kin light sabres in the ayeerrrr!
Loving the Sochi guff.
Half pipe on skis! Sooooperb.
Working on my first manuscript, Tolkienesque, forests and Goddesses and kids who speak to animals and all that gear. It didn’t translate too well the first time but I think I’ve acquired the skills needed to transform it into the masterpiece it should have been. Can’t believe how bad the first draught was but that’s what’s so great about writing; we learn; we move forward in increments and progress is made, slowly. I’ve finally learnt that taking as much time as is needed is the only way, unless you like substandard. Every mark on that screen has to be rolled and mulled and questioned and broken down until it’s the only way that works, then; only then, can it be sent out into the world to make its way into the catacombs of the Amazon computer system where it will be passed over by far inferior work but that, my dear, my precious, is the way of the world. The only reward is in the process because none of those fucks who are supposed to get behind you and support new talent have a clue what’s good or what’s not.
I only care about the quality of my ideas and my ability to transcribe that, so long as I know it’s good anyone else’s opinion is irrelevant. Only I know why I’ve created what I have and only I can judge it properly.
The ideas in the Lily Pond always were good, I just didn’t have the talent to properly nail it.
Now I can get all gnarly on its ass.
I had one of those post-dinner, you’re-going-to-sleep-now-and-tough-if-you-don’t-like-it naps this afternoon and now I’m still up at four in the morning but I have to say that ever since I got old and my body has begun to enforce these random sleeps on me I’ve just gone with it and they’re probably the most rewarding of all sleeps. Night time bed just seems to leave me spaced out and unsatisfied (sounds like my ex) but the middle of the day half hour or as-long-as-I-feel-like-ac-tu-a-ll-ee sleeps are amazing. I’m always astonished how totally impossible it is to fight the urge too, like body says yes, mind tries to say no but there is simply no contest, body wins, brain closes down, zzzzz, beautiful. Within an hour I’ve got proper energy like night-sleep is meant to bring.
I think I might be turning into a baby the older I get, I eat, I poo, I sleep when I feel like it, I play with my food, I talk a lot of rubbish. Back to nappies soon
Started going over my first novel again tonight. So much to correct although the ideas are good but the writing is terrible. I’ve got so much more idea of structure now and visualisation, essential when you’re writing fantasy. I’ve finally realised that it’s market is kids to teenage, not adult. Half the battle isn’t it, realising your market, although I have no doubt there will be just as few interested in reading this as everything else that’s been ignored but I have no more idea how to change that than I have about how to repopulate Christmas Island.
Does Christmas Island need repopulating you might ask, well, yes and no, sun and rain, ant and dec, men and women, a popular concept that somehow chimes with the death toll of incompatibility but perhaps my experience and that of every male I’ve ever known, heard of, read about and made up is not good enough judgement on the subject; after all we don’t have the foresight of the female superior. I don’t think I have the balls to ask one though just in case they put me right, again.
I’m sensing I’ve gone off the subject, lost the crux, the nub, the course of the narrative so probably best to call it a night, you know; the night. It is 3:18 am so I’m definitely calling that the night
How is it possible to exist in a world where every time you do anything you have to go through this tedious rigmarole? I’m sure like most people I have the same five or six accounts but trying to remember which code goes to which account results in me constantly having to do the ‘forgot password’ nonsense then waiting five minutes because I dared try to get into MY account! Someone needs to find a way of charging for the privilege of changing the poxy things, they’d get mega-rich within weeks.
‘Oh but you mustn’t use the same one for everything!’
Really? Then how am I supposed to remember the bitch!
Whether to confront the weather or whether it’s better to never mind the weather or the incredibly irritating weathermen with ill-hidden semis scratching against their corduroys and slick-assed slacks. There’s something immensely unseemly about weathergeeks and their excitement over yet another day of torrential rain when there are so many suffering the consequences. Their ill-disguised glee at having a proper ‘weather event’ to comment on obviously makes gussets sop, turgid lengths throb as shoulders and backs writhe with the frisson as another exciting front develops that can then be related to us, their public; their authorititiveness no doubt spurring them to self-pleasure once their spell in front of the camera is over, eueuw!
Whatever the weather it gives me little pleasure to question whether the weather is meritorious of our attention or whether it is just weather and should therefore be left to itself and the weathergeek be kept in a nasty little damp patch in a box