How to Survive those Tough moments in Writing

About the (non) glamorous reality of being a writer, and the abominable Sean Penn novel – by my always witty and often brilliant friend Tom

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

Contrary to popular quotes, it isn’t always sitting down at the typewriter and bleeding (Hemingway.) 

It seems timely for a blog about when writing gets tough, and I don’t mean losing your wi-fi connection and having to actually do some, but when the task appears to have been set by some vindictive boss you no longer have the contact details for.

Sometimes writing is a summer breeze on a stifling hot day, it’s oil on a bat, or sugar in tea, but sometimes it is hard work. This was unlikely to have been part of the plan when some younger version of yourself thought being a writer seemed appealing. The job spec. was all mid-distance gazes, dented typewriters in war zones and thoughtful drags on cigarettes, but it’s not. And of course there’s no one to blame, not even the Conservative party or Brexit. This is your own doing, and…

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Insomnia

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Another year older, time zips past – a demented hare in this sometimes beautiful, often hellish race.

A great wave is rising – I am divided equally between making a stand, fighting, resisting

and letting it drown everything, everyone, the brave as well as the underserving.

My great love affair with words might be over. Too many times they’ve been used and abused – lies, propaganda, hysterical agendas.

And so it means that night, when it comes, brings on the usual insomnia.

The horrid fight starts, it saps any remaining strength,
motionless,
eyes wide open in the dark,
unseeing, looking inwards,
where thoughts circle, twist, turn, chase away rest,
decisions made, unmade, strings of fears appearing, vanishing,
night is heavy, it shivers – this is the dark of the tomb, my mind whispers.
In the distance, something, a great sphinx enigmatic,
peace, elusive, far out of reach
every night I try I but never reach it and I know I never will.

Mornings are harsh, eyes blurry, marked, mind weary, day or night there’s nowhere to hide. And so I put on the mask, a smile, which hopefully won’t slip – in public at least – though of course it does, I’ve never been good with lies.

Tick tock, awake around the clock, how long till I break, till all life drains,
All I need is a clean sweep, all I yearn for is deep, blissful sleep.

In-between

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I have a new crush, it’s Jordan Peterson. Brain and reason will get me anytime, I can’t be doing with aggressive agendas and mass hysteria. No Cathy Newman and No Rose Army for me. No hypocrisy. No insanity. No demonising, lying, rewriting, attacking, not taking responsibility – no playing the victim.
It IS possible to be a strong woman, tomb raiding (not literally, let’s calm down) in a kickass outfit, while loving men and valuing their input.
One can have deserted the left and yet not have joined the right.
I’m Lara Croft and I’m not. I’m in-between, and the media doesn’t know what to do with me.

*For my beloved grandmother who passed away on January 7th – I feel her absence dearly and daily. I would have said those words to her and she would have disagreed on a couple of points, and told me why, and applauded me for being forthright.*

Home Working – How Much Work REALLY Gets Done at Home?

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

Where do writers get their stories?

There are many questions writers ask themselves and an important one, after ‘Why did I start this?’ is ‘Shall I work from home?’ Now, how much work actually gets done at home? I’m not even sure that much homework gets done at home anymore. I’ve talked before about how working from home mainly involves high level pottering, which achieves little more than moving stuff that may or may not need to be moved from one room to another. And pacing. Homes are best suited for lounging around in waiting for amazon packages and to escape the weather outside, not for working in.

I was always struck by JK Rowling reporting how she wrote in a cafe as a mark of a being breadline writer, when it’s actually far easier to write in a cafe than it is at home. There’s less distraction, and if…

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Almost always

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Given the chance 
I will almost always
Take the spiral staircase
Leading to a place
I shouldn’t be
It’s crazy, it’s risky, you might lose your mind, fuck up catastrophically
It’s definitely not recommended for everybody
but it’d be so shitty
to look back and think
Hey, fuck it, I missed out –
entirely
What’s life without danger and a little mystery
Don’t listen to me though,
It’s well known
I’m away with the fairies

Image credit: patimakowska.deviantart.com

When it snows

If I ever got married, if I was ever so inclined

To make another forever mine

I’d like it to be when it snows

Cheeks red with cold, perfect scarlet apples, breath like puffs of smoke

I’d want clouds, across the sky blown by winter wind

No sun blazing at my wedding

Imagine Rod Serling

Introducing the twilight zone

His face bathed in monochrome shades

All my photos in an album of sepia tones

Love may mingle with the snow, neatly filling the Hollow

As a tiny church nestled inside sleepy walls

Sets the scene

And completes the tableau

*This little something was inspired by the last lines in this gorgeous (and v. emotional – for me) tune*

5th of November

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5th of November:
Outside, the air suitably smells of powder, smoke — it’s bitterly cold but no matter, because for the crowds, it’s all about homegrown terrorism and Guy Fawkes.

A penny for the guy and a penny for your thoughts, before you play your hand — straight As for your poker face and the impressive attention span.

It’s a royal flush of course: you win, take everything-including me-on the table. It’s messy, it’s bold, the cards tumble, fall to the floor.

“Preposterous” I mumble.
Why? I don’t know, maybe the wine was responsible, or this is what happens when sanity crumbles.

“Say it again” he tells me…he insists, when I don’t reply instantly.

I oblige: “Pre-pos-ter-ous”

Possibly the strangest dirty talk ever, have I done weirder? I can’t recall.

Nevertheless, as long as there’s no straight jackets, give us a cell and padded walls—sex laced with intellect from dusk till dawn—I guarantee I’d never get bored.

Pre-pos-ter-ous. Possibly my new favourite word…this, I discovered on a night filled with fireworks, on the
5th of November.

*Posted this time last year, but I kind of like it – occasionally, I write something that’s very, very ‘me’*

Get a life

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I had a busy day today, juggling all kind of stuff. I was getting a bit stressed with it all when I checked my email and some fuckwit had sent me a message about something I said on Twitter a couple of weeks ago, might even have been longer than that. In any case, my little tweet had enraged the fuckwit and he clearly NEEDED to tell me about it.

This is EXACTLY why I don’t let non-followers private message me on Twitter anymore. Between the guys who want to send you dick pics and the people who just HAVE to let you know how offensive your political opinions are, I couldn’t handle it anymore.

But, my blog link is on Twitter and if you find my blog, you find an email address. The fuckwit was kinda dedicated, I’ll give him that. I was talking to my tutor while reading his bullshit email which basically amounted to: I’m an ignorant stupid bitch, out of touch with reality, etc…the usual stuff.

Well, obviously I don’t reply to those kind of emails.
What could I say? Only this:

Fuck you, you fuckwit. Fuck right off and when you’ve fucked off as far away from me as possible, fuck off some more. I don’t give a fuck what you think of me because why would I worry about the opinion of a fucking toad? Also, take a fucking chill pill, we’re all allowed an opinion – even you – but you shouldn’t bloody harass people with it though. Seriously, get a fucking life.

You know? Some of us HAVE lives to get on with, I’ve been up since 6 and been working and studying all day, I don’t have time for some fuckwit’s meltdown. And now I’ve gotta go and workout.
You lovely people enjoy the rest of your day – as for the fuckwits: in case you SOMEHOW missed the message, I refer you to my pic, I’ve got nothing else to say to you, so keep the fuck away, thanks.

Down With Free Speech

Brilliant piece on the current and very real threat to free speech by Sam White – I love his writing and he’s one of my favourite people on Twitter.

Up All Night

The cry from the left is unmistakable now: free speech is dangerous, and to support it marks you out as a suspicious individual. Naturally, you wouldn’t want to be added to any hit lists of people who favour free expression, so best just to grab a pitchfork and hope the mob doesn’t intuit your thought crimes.

A particular favourite of vapid hipster conformists is to implicitly support the de facto reinstatement of blasphemy laws. You have to be very careful with this one though. Stick up for the wrong religion and you’ll be thrown to the wolves. Crucially, to be part of this odd crowd, you must be fearfully respectful only of Izlam and the Prophet MacHamed, while showing utter contempt for the stupid bloody Christians and their church fetes.

The choice way to broadcast your subscription to the fashionably authoritarian new-left mindset is to wait for the next jihadi…

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Halloween Lover

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So it is that soon I will rise again

I will come up

through the mud and dark earth

emerging in a damp cellar

dry flesh craving the touch

of an unwilling lover

will it be you that I caress

stroke with my ice-cold fingers

embrace for one fleeting moment

my frigid skin peeling, shredding

my eyes unseeing

your screams rising

in the raw glacial night

what a sorry plight

is yours, wretched victim

of my yearly Halloween yearning

*I have posted this before, but it is one of those I like though I wrote it ages ago – it’s got that sexy creepy vibe. And I just love that pic – it deserves to be reposted just for that*

Image Credit: Beautiful Decay by jaded-ink @deviantart.com