Category Archives: writing

Greenwich Mean Time

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I’m beginning to think all time is mean time.  Whatever happened to me-time?  Life’s a tricky business, isn’t it?

‘Ooh, it’s been a rollercoaster’, that’s what they say on telly.   Sounds about right; we’re strapped in – usually against our will – then hurtled manically about, unable to get off no matter how much we scream.  If we get to the end without crying or wetting our pants in public, it’s deemed a great success.  And let’s face it, if you’ve had children, you don’t escape those indignities anyway.  Crumbs.  What a ride, eh?

So here I am; my last blog post was about new year resolutions and now the Christmas lights are lit in town.  On that note, permit me a teeny rant: what has happened to ‘proper’ Christmas?  You know what I mean: chestnuts roasting, the Salvation Army banging out some carols and Santa arriving by sleigh?

‘THANK YOU IPSWICH’, yelled the singer onstage in Ipswich last night, punching the air as a few mums watched on with their wailing children, waiting for the Crimbo tree switch-on.  The square, in the meantime, was ablaze with colour as toddlers waved their fluorescent plastic purchases.  To be fair, nothing screams festive more to me than a strobing neon sword.

Grumpy old woman?  Moi?  Nah.  But I do think I might have a new career planning proper Christmas markets.  I’ll add that to next year’s to-do list, along with all the things I didn’t do on the last list.  Anyway, there are still 39 days, 11 hours and 24 minutes left of this decade.  Plenty of time.  No one wants to peak too soon, right?

Rust, Ruts and Resolutions

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Don’t you just love this time of year?  All those perky new plans popping up and shouting ‘yoo hoo, here I am!’ while we’re writhing on the bed, trying to do our zips up and wondering when – WHEN? – elasticated waists will become acceptable.

I spotted something on Instagram a little while ago that I liked the idea of: my month as a flatlay.  I’ll do that, I thought.  I didn’t do it though.  I never get round to doing anything.  I’m terrible.  So.  2019 is the year I will Achieve Things.  No procrastination.  No excuses.  I mean, apart from the new full-time job, associated study and the street food wotsit to run.  I will write my novel.  Or maybe a screenplay.  I will do whatever it takes to look no older than 40 by the beginning of May (when I’ll be 50).  Exercise, healthy living, that sort of thing; the glass of red I’m drinking as I type this doesn’t count but I can’t remember why.

I’ve made a three-pronged start already and I think you’ll be proud.

Declutter:  an essential.  I know this because I read it on the internet.  I gathered up all the things I haven’t used or worn for a while.  I spent hours researching how much I should list them for on eBay, had a lovely daydream about what I’d spend all the money on before deciding I couldn’t really be arsed.  Sent some stuff to charity.  Decided to keep the rest.  I’ve not beaten procrastination but I’ve been provident.  Those old clothes will come in handy when I’m young and thin again, won’t they?

Sort out desk/study to enable efficient studying/writing: um, well I ordered a guitar stand so that the guitar I haven’t played for six months doesn’t just rest on a pair of jeans that I haven’t squeezed into for six years.  Yeah, let’s gloss over that one.

Creativity: Fiddled about with some photos demonstrating ‘my month as a flatlay’.  Well, a flatlay of things I didn’t do at all last year but were all top of my teetering pile of resolutions.  It’s not even a flatlay, to be fair.  A pile-up, perhaps?

A pile-up of procrastination.  Yes, I think that just about sums my life up.  2019 will be better though, right?  Whatevs.  Even though I’ve decided to be 40 instead of 50 this year, I’m still looking forward to the time when ‘lie down more, eat more cake and just have a nice time’ becomes ok.  It’s all about achievable goals, right?

Anyway, The Voice starts tonight and I’ve got a risotto to make.  I’ll write the novel tomorrow.  Probably.

 

 

 

Sticks and Stones…

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Man, I feel old.  I hurt everywhere – the kitchen, the dining room, the garden…

Last month, we were walking ten miles a day in howling icy gales, making our foodie  five-year plan and laughing that we were more driven and oomphy than most 30-year-olds.  Then, on yet another windswept yomp, the beastly dog twizzled me round at high speed and I fell on my twisted knee.  I’m too old for unexpected twizzling; I need a little advance notice.  So.  Torn cartilage.  Knee bigger than my head.  Bruises forming as I lay on the Felixstowe footpath, crying, with gravel in my hair.

“No need to fuss,” I told the Greek God as he hauled me up.  “Let’s go to the pub.”

Never let it be said I’m not a brave soldier.  But two weeks on and it’s fair to say I’m a bit down in the dumps.  My career options as a downhill skier or knee model have hit the skids.  There are no treats to eat and I can’t even drive to the shop because the clutch is too ouchy.

I could sleep for a million years.  But there are books to read.  Lovely, lovely words that always perk me up.  In the absence of being able to shop for/cook food, I’m reading about it instead.  Far less fattening.  I’m loving Ruby Tandoh’s ‘Eat Up’ – not quite what I expected but I’d go so far as saying her writing has a touch of the Nigel Slater about it.  She seems a good egg; I’d invite her round for a natter.  So long as eating up doesn’t involve standing up.  Did I mention I’ve got a sore knee?  No?  Oh…

Doing the Write Thing

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06:45 in the morning.  It’s still dark.  I’ve been awake since 4:30 with ideas for my novel turning and churning – details on setting, the characters and what sort of food they’ll want to eat.

I used to set my alarm before 5 in the old days; tea in bed with my laptop as I tapped away before real life kicked in.  Before emptying the dog and making packed lunches and fighting my way through a fug of Lynx to get the teens off to school and then my own madly busy day job.

It’s years since I wrote properly.  It’s scary.  Instead of my old Sussex morning silence broken by cockerels crowing murderously, there are empty buses rumbling out of the depot and cars grumbling around the edge of Ipswich.  The neighbours have had new pipes and the white noise of traffic is punctuated by what sounds like twenty tons of grain being thrown down a mineshaft.  RATTLE TATTLE rattle tattle tattle as they flush their loo.  I’m glad they’re not incontinent.  Not quite the creative flow I had in mind.

The last novel I wrote, about a billion years ago, was submitted for professional critique as part of some new writers scheme.  The Romantic Novelists Association or somesuch.  Heaven only knows why I chose them; I haven’t a romantic bone in my body.  The feedback was harsh and pretty much put me off trying again.  The reviewer lady didn’t like the silk paisley scarf  a male character wore.  She loathed the almost-sex scene because “a nice girl wouldn’t do that”.  But she did say I can write.  I’d sort of forgotten that bit.  We’ll see.

I still think about that silk paisley scarf.  I might buy one and wear it with my woolly socks and dressing gown with some kickarse red lipstick while I conjure up a world for my imperfect characters to cavort in.

There’s long way to go before I become a caped crusader of words, slaying doubt as it chases me about.  But I’m here, in my clapped out telephone box, trying to squeeze into the writerly lycra before anyone notices I’ve fallen over and my bare bum’s poking out…