Managed to engage with the new book a bit today.
It’s a slow process. I used to find the moment I woke I was in the mood but lately the spark is wavering again. The urge to give in, to give everything up for the peace of eternity wallows in the background as ever.
The easy way out? Really? The sensible alternative when your life is the endless round of failures that mine has consistently proved to be.
I mean, no amount of success could bring back the girls.
I can’t get those years back and the ability to sustain a relationship is way beyond me now so I reckon one day loneliness might creep into the equation although it hasn’t so far but people change with age don’t they?
Regrets, I’ve had a few but then again so many I could go on forever and never get bored of moaning about them.
Doesn’t have the same ring to it does it?
Anyway, the book is going to be fantastic IF I can control the urge to rush ahead but it’s the same with everything I write, daunting. It always feels like the thing is going to wriggle out of my hands and what could have been magnificent will become merely adequate due to lack of skill, vocabulary, dialogue la la la. I think my characters do all have the same basic skill patterns which is a definite lacking. Their sense of humour is tailored to my own which is not the general populaces idea of funny. When you think how many think Fools and Horses or Michael bloody Crawford are the epitome of humour it shows how far out of synch I am.
I’m going to try and give them distinct character traits this time and keep the piss-takey banter out of it. Been there, done that.
Brilliant in Mast of Peace but you can overdo it if everyone is basically the same character in every book and, so far, they have been; er, you to..ss..er.
Still, maybe my best work is ahead of me?
Maybe there’s a novel in there that will blow people’s minds?
It seems unlikely but I can see me sitting outside a cafe in the north of Mallorca, pad, pen, shades, coffee, croissants and the heat sizzling, a sautéed, shell-cooked gem, simmering inside my skull in a mixture of endorphins and coffee fumes. The heat, the ambience, the occasional bikini clad buttocks passing by, inciting the germ of an idea that will ensure I never have to endure another English winter.
That will be the inspiration, that IS the inspiration.
Maybe New Zealand? Anywhere that’s warm most of the time where I can write and play will do. It’s not that I can’t work here it’s just I don’t want to and once you’ve been away it’s always understood that elsewhere you’re REALLY living.
Here is an existence, a ghetto, a compromise.
Too old for compromises now; too late to go back, onward, upward, don’t look down, it’s a long way.