The sun ached brightly from a sky of smudged aquamarine. Under its hazy canopy, a panoply of village dwellers gathered excitedly on the green, jostling for the best view. A buzz of expectation hovered above the crowd, drowning out the buzz of local bees who bumbled away at several flowers, industriously gathering their nectar and pollen. Toddlers sucked on silencing lollipops and ice creams, while mothers wiped up drips or tried unsuccessfully to keep two eyes on their three children. The men, those not involved in the contest, gathered at each side of the green, pints or bottles in one hand, cameras or mobile phones in the other. Some loudly exchanged memories of previous encounters, others gesticulated at the opposition, laughing.
In the centre of the green two small groups assembled - one to the North end; the other to the South. In a nod to traditional stereotypes, those standing at the North were dressed in flannel trousers, white open-necked shirts and flat caps, while those on the opposite side wore top hats and tails, or bowlers with pin-striped jackets.
But although the top half of their garb may have been frivolous, their bottom halves meant business. To a man they wore heavy walking boots, or steel toe-capped safety boots with deep treads. There was not a pair of trainers to be seen.
As the village clock began to chime the hour, the adjudicator stepped from the throng carrying a white cloth.
"Take your positions," he intoned.
North and South picked up their ends of a rope which had been lying unremarked across the green. The teams adjusted their relative positions, testing their grips and their footings as the centre marker swayed back and forth above the grass.
"Take the strain!"
The teams pulled slowly, taking up the tension of the rope. The adjudicator eyed the centre marker and turned to South.
"Give way, six inches," he shouted, raising his voice above the increased hubbub from the audience and lifting his white flag. As the marker approached centre a hush fell over the crowd.
"PULL!"
Boots bit deep into turf and muscles bulged as the teams tugged hard on the rope. North took an early advantage, leaning back strongly and with each team member having secured a solid stance. South, by contrast, having had to swap their anchor at the last moment for a relatively new member of the team, were initially caught off-guard. The centre marker swayed dangerously close to the line before the others recovered their balance and gained a holding position.
Beads of sweat stood out on the faces and arms of every man; sinews taut with effort and each face gurning with determination that the marker should, or should not, move any further.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Monday, July 30, 2012
100TWC - Day 3: Making History
If anything, the heat was even more oppressive than usual as Joan rode the elevator to the 11th floor. The acrid stench of the morning rush assailed her nostrils, made even more pungent by the welcome waft of fresh air as she joined the flood of grey-suited humanity jostling through the halls. By contrast the hushed sighing of moving paper from one desk to another in Room 1101 calmed her flailing heartbeat as she took her place in the parade of identical desks.
She took a sip of coffee and turned to her screen.
"I don't know how you can drink that stuff."
Her coworker, Stanley Brown, gave a disgusted grimace from his desk facing hers.
"When you remember what it should be like."
"I'm not sure I can remember."
"Damned sure I do. And I wouldn't touch that crap."
"Don't let the supervisor hear you. That's a definite demerit and loss of privileges for a week. At best."
"Privileges? Ha! That's a joke."
"Don't start. I have way too much to do to get into another 'bash the party' argument with you."
Stanley shrugged and turned back to his screen, his expression unreadable. Joan flipped over to a long list of documents, the top five of which flashed urgently. She opened the first: "Letters from a Wounded Hero", and scanned the first few pages, taking regular sips from her coffee and scribbling notes on a yellow pad in front of her in a neat, rounded hand. After a few minutes, she dropped her pen and sat back, blowing out the breath she had been holding and running her hands through her hair.
"Problem?"
"I can't see what's wrong with this but there has to be something. It was at the top of my list."
"What is it?"
"Letters from a Wounded Hero."
"Who's the hero?"
"Edward MacArthur."
"Hmm. Pretty sure it was his nephew who was recently charged with Conduct Unbecoming. My guess? MacArthur isn't a hero any more."
"I should check with Winston."
Stanley shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and looked quickly at the nearest workers. All appeared engrossed in their screens.
"Winston... isn't here today."
"Well I can't leave this until tomorrow. It's at the top of my freakin' list!"
"He won't be in tomorrow either."
She took a sip of coffee and turned to her screen.
"I don't know how you can drink that stuff."
Her coworker, Stanley Brown, gave a disgusted grimace from his desk facing hers.
"When you remember what it should be like."
"I'm not sure I can remember."
"Damned sure I do. And I wouldn't touch that crap."
"Don't let the supervisor hear you. That's a definite demerit and loss of privileges for a week. At best."
"Privileges? Ha! That's a joke."
"Don't start. I have way too much to do to get into another 'bash the party' argument with you."
Stanley shrugged and turned back to his screen, his expression unreadable. Joan flipped over to a long list of documents, the top five of which flashed urgently. She opened the first: "Letters from a Wounded Hero", and scanned the first few pages, taking regular sips from her coffee and scribbling notes on a yellow pad in front of her in a neat, rounded hand. After a few minutes, she dropped her pen and sat back, blowing out the breath she had been holding and running her hands through her hair.
"Problem?"
"I can't see what's wrong with this but there has to be something. It was at the top of my list."
"What is it?"
"Letters from a Wounded Hero."
"Who's the hero?"
"Edward MacArthur."
"Hmm. Pretty sure it was his nephew who was recently charged with Conduct Unbecoming. My guess? MacArthur isn't a hero any more."
"I should check with Winston."
Stanley shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and looked quickly at the nearest workers. All appeared engrossed in their screens.
"Winston... isn't here today."
"Well I can't leave this until tomorrow. It's at the top of my freakin' list!"
"He won't be in tomorrow either."
Sunday, July 29, 2012
100TWC - Day 2: Complicated
Now don't you go gettin' the wrong idea. I ain't tryin' to make it complicated. Heck if it wuz complicated I couldn't tell ya nothin' about it. Fact is I'm just sittin' out here on ma stoop tryin' to get ma head around it maself.
Mr. Murphy always used to say "Kid, it don't take no genius to complicate things. The genius is in keepin' it simple. So you're about as close as a body can git round here to fuckin' Einstein."
Well that made me colour up to the top of ma head. I could feel it, heatin' right on up there. I mean, far as I know, Einstein was a guy. I ain't gonna fuck no guy. But Mr Murphy was right about one thing. I AM good at keepin' it simple. The boys down at the store tried to tell me one time there ain't no black or white, only shades of grey. I just laughed at 'em. I mean there wuz a black stallion sat right outside in the street for starters. And what about them black folk? They's black all right. And we's white. And you never see no-one any shade of grey. Well, 'cept Mrs Hardcastle some times, when she can't get her breath, but she ain't always grey. Far as I can see, there's a lot of things that are black or white. Them boys just don't know what the heck they're talking about.
I know they wuz probably only tryin' to trick me. I don't mind. I just ignored 'em. It's simpler that way. I like things when they's simple.
Which is why I'm in a bit of a pickle right now. I mean, it's not exactly complicated - you know? But it sure as heck ain't simple neither. I wish Mr Murphy was still here. He could do that thing where he just sat down and got on with his whittlin' while I talked it through and you know what? Half the time he never had to say nothing. I wouldn't be much more'n half way through the telling about... well... whatever it was, and the answer would just pop right into ma head. All by itself! How do you like that? Nothing complicated about that.
I tried it with Ma once, but it weren't no good. She jes wouldn't keep still. And talk! Lord sakes. She's ma Ma an' all but I sure wish she'd hush up now and then. Seems like every word I said she'd come out with a question. Now THAT was complicated. I never had no time to think at all. I'd no sooner answered one question and then picked up ma threads and got the next word out, and there she'd be with another dang question. I said "Ma. Hush your mouth and jes listen to whut I'm sayin'" But she wouldn't. That wuz the first time I ever realised what the boys at the store mean when they say "Yadda Yadda Yadda." Fact I should call Ma that, I reckon. Yadda.
Anyways where was I? Yeah, so I ain't got no Mr Murphy to sit quiet, and Ma ain't no good for the job, so who'm'a gonna ask? An' I wuz thinkin' and thinkin' when little Martha May came walking by, smiles at me from under them pretty yeller curls of hers and sez "Hey there Joe, watcha doin'?"
Well THAT made me colour up too, same as when Mr Murphy said that about, you know, doin' it with Einstein. Only this time I sure wasn't thinkin' about doin' it with Einstein. No sir. But you can guess I WAS thinkin' about doin' it. An' then I got to thinkin' about talkin' it through with Martha May and that made me colour up some more.
And Martha May's sayin' "Jesus Joseph, what did I say? You're as red as a beet!" and I'm jes startin' to realise that this ain't the kind of thing I can talk out loud about... with a girl.
Mr. Murphy always used to say "Kid, it don't take no genius to complicate things. The genius is in keepin' it simple. So you're about as close as a body can git round here to fuckin' Einstein."
Well that made me colour up to the top of ma head. I could feel it, heatin' right on up there. I mean, far as I know, Einstein was a guy. I ain't gonna fuck no guy. But Mr Murphy was right about one thing. I AM good at keepin' it simple. The boys down at the store tried to tell me one time there ain't no black or white, only shades of grey. I just laughed at 'em. I mean there wuz a black stallion sat right outside in the street for starters. And what about them black folk? They's black all right. And we's white. And you never see no-one any shade of grey. Well, 'cept Mrs Hardcastle some times, when she can't get her breath, but she ain't always grey. Far as I can see, there's a lot of things that are black or white. Them boys just don't know what the heck they're talking about.
I know they wuz probably only tryin' to trick me. I don't mind. I just ignored 'em. It's simpler that way. I like things when they's simple.
Which is why I'm in a bit of a pickle right now. I mean, it's not exactly complicated - you know? But it sure as heck ain't simple neither. I wish Mr Murphy was still here. He could do that thing where he just sat down and got on with his whittlin' while I talked it through and you know what? Half the time he never had to say nothing. I wouldn't be much more'n half way through the telling about... well... whatever it was, and the answer would just pop right into ma head. All by itself! How do you like that? Nothing complicated about that.
I tried it with Ma once, but it weren't no good. She jes wouldn't keep still. And talk! Lord sakes. She's ma Ma an' all but I sure wish she'd hush up now and then. Seems like every word I said she'd come out with a question. Now THAT was complicated. I never had no time to think at all. I'd no sooner answered one question and then picked up ma threads and got the next word out, and there she'd be with another dang question. I said "Ma. Hush your mouth and jes listen to whut I'm sayin'" But she wouldn't. That wuz the first time I ever realised what the boys at the store mean when they say "Yadda Yadda Yadda." Fact I should call Ma that, I reckon. Yadda.
Anyways where was I? Yeah, so I ain't got no Mr Murphy to sit quiet, and Ma ain't no good for the job, so who'm'a gonna ask? An' I wuz thinkin' and thinkin' when little Martha May came walking by, smiles at me from under them pretty yeller curls of hers and sez "Hey there Joe, watcha doin'?"
Well THAT made me colour up too, same as when Mr Murphy said that about, you know, doin' it with Einstein. Only this time I sure wasn't thinkin' about doin' it with Einstein. No sir. But you can guess I WAS thinkin' about doin' it. An' then I got to thinkin' about talkin' it through with Martha May and that made me colour up some more.
And Martha May's sayin' "Jesus Joseph, what did I say? You're as red as a beet!" and I'm jes startin' to realise that this ain't the kind of thing I can talk out loud about... with a girl.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
100TWC - Day 1: Introductions
"Hello. I'm Nigel."
"Steven."
"Good to meet you."
"Is it?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Is it? Is it good to meet me?"
"Well... yes. It's always good to meet new people. Isn't it."
"Not in my experience. Not always."
"Well no, I suppose not. But you can't go around introducing yourself with 'Hi, I'm Steven. Dreadful to meet you' - can you?"
"More's the pity."
"And anyway, you don't know, do you, at the beginning, whether it's going to be good or not-"
"I'm beginning to get an idea."
"-so it's better to err on the side of expecting it to be good and then revising your opinion down later-"
"In the light of evidence."
"Exactly - rather than starting off thinking the worst, by which time it'll be too late to feel better about the encounter."
"Because you'll have pissed the person off so much they'll have left?"
"Well, I, I don't know about that. I don't usually give up that easily."
"So I've noticed."
"I like to give everyone a fair chance-"
"Big of you."
"-often people are a bit uptight meeting someone new. It's a British thing. Supposed to be. Although I'm British, and-"
"You're not."
"No, I am. My parents-"
"No, I mean, you're not uptight. Obviously."
"Oh! No. I mean yes. I'm not."
"So, how do you know her. Are you a writer too?"
"Me? No! Well, not professionally. I dabble. The odd poem for someone who's leaving from the office, that kind of thing."
"What do you do? In that office?"
"Sales. Telephone sales."
"Ah."
"Don't get the wrong idea! We don't do cold calling."
"Glad to hear it. I might have had to kill you."
"Ha! No. No, we met when she was just starting out. Well, I say met. We were both writing for the same firm, but it was all online. This is the first time I've actually seen her in the flesh."
"So you are a writer? The sales is just a day job."
"Yes, but-"
"No buts. Do you write?"
"Well, yes. But-"
"No buts! If you write, you're a writer."
"You must be a writer too then. Only other writers talk like that. Or..."
"Or?"
"You could be a coach. Tutor. Mentor. That kind of thing. Woo-woo happiness guru, helping people get in touch with their inner genius."
"Woo-woo?"
"You know. Mystical magical shit. Meaningless meanderings to mess with your mentality."
"Alliteration's bad form for a writer."
"I'm not writing at the moment."
"Had a bad experience with mentors?"
"Not especially."
"But not good."
"No."
"Probably haven't found the right one."
"You're sounding more like a writing coach every minute. What do you do?"
"I attend a lot of book launches."
"No, come on. Seriously."
"I'm her agent."
"Aaah!"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say what you were going to say. Ask what you were going to ask."
"How do you know what I was going to say."
"I'm psychic."
"Rubbish!"
"Well, OK. Not psychic. But I may as well be. You get enough experience-"
"So what was I going to say?"
"You were going to ask if I could take a look at your manuscript. You've been writing it for years. No-one has ever read it, not even your wife. Not even your closest friend. It's a masterpiece. It's what the publishing world has been waiting for. You're a genius. All it takes is for someone - some ONE person - to believe in you. Give you the break you've always dreamed of. Everything else will follow. Chat shows. Movie rights. You'll be set up for life and the whole world will buy your book and wonder at the awesome prose, the deep insights, the almost biblical
[ These two characters meet again at the very end of the writing challenge - on Day 100 in "Endings." ]
"Steven."
"Good to meet you."
"Is it?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Is it? Is it good to meet me?"
"Well... yes. It's always good to meet new people. Isn't it."
"Not in my experience. Not always."
"Well no, I suppose not. But you can't go around introducing yourself with 'Hi, I'm Steven. Dreadful to meet you' - can you?"
"More's the pity."
"And anyway, you don't know, do you, at the beginning, whether it's going to be good or not-"
"I'm beginning to get an idea."
"-so it's better to err on the side of expecting it to be good and then revising your opinion down later-"
"In the light of evidence."
"Exactly - rather than starting off thinking the worst, by which time it'll be too late to feel better about the encounter."
"Because you'll have pissed the person off so much they'll have left?"
"Well, I, I don't know about that. I don't usually give up that easily."
"So I've noticed."
"I like to give everyone a fair chance-"
"Big of you."
"-often people are a bit uptight meeting someone new. It's a British thing. Supposed to be. Although I'm British, and-"
"You're not."
"No, I am. My parents-"
"No, I mean, you're not uptight. Obviously."
"Oh! No. I mean yes. I'm not."
"So, how do you know her. Are you a writer too?"
"Me? No! Well, not professionally. I dabble. The odd poem for someone who's leaving from the office, that kind of thing."
"What do you do? In that office?"
"Sales. Telephone sales."
"Ah."
"Don't get the wrong idea! We don't do cold calling."
"Glad to hear it. I might have had to kill you."
"Ha! No. No, we met when she was just starting out. Well, I say met. We were both writing for the same firm, but it was all online. This is the first time I've actually seen her in the flesh."
"So you are a writer? The sales is just a day job."
"Yes, but-"
"No buts. Do you write?"
"Well, yes. But-"
"No buts! If you write, you're a writer."
"You must be a writer too then. Only other writers talk like that. Or..."
"Or?"
"You could be a coach. Tutor. Mentor. That kind of thing. Woo-woo happiness guru, helping people get in touch with their inner genius."
"Woo-woo?"
"You know. Mystical magical shit. Meaningless meanderings to mess with your mentality."
"Alliteration's bad form for a writer."
"I'm not writing at the moment."
"Had a bad experience with mentors?"
"Not especially."
"But not good."
"No."
"Probably haven't found the right one."
"You're sounding more like a writing coach every minute. What do you do?"
"I attend a lot of book launches."
"No, come on. Seriously."
"I'm her agent."
"Aaah!"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't say what you were going to say. Ask what you were going to ask."
"How do you know what I was going to say."
"I'm psychic."
"Rubbish!"
"Well, OK. Not psychic. But I may as well be. You get enough experience-"
"So what was I going to say?"
"You were going to ask if I could take a look at your manuscript. You've been writing it for years. No-one has ever read it, not even your wife. Not even your closest friend. It's a masterpiece. It's what the publishing world has been waiting for. You're a genius. All it takes is for someone - some ONE person - to believe in you. Give you the break you've always dreamed of. Everything else will follow. Chat shows. Movie rights. You'll be set up for life and the whole world will buy your book and wonder at the awesome prose, the deep insights, the almost biblical
[ These two characters meet again at the very end of the writing challenge - on Day 100 in "Endings." ]
Friday, July 27, 2012
100 Themes Writing Challenge - Themes
Here's the list of topics I'll be writing about (or attempting to) over the next 100 days. When I remember, I'll come back and edit the list item with a link to its post, so you can dip in and out if you're not following them serially.
Beyond saying where she found them, the owner of the site where *I* found them didn't link the source, so I haven't. The list is not copyright, but it has been used for inspiration by many people. In my case, the posts inspired by these themes will be whatever I come up with on the day - poems, short stories, random thoughts or just regular blog entries if, for example, the topic triggers a memory. My source used the themes to create a novel outline for NaNoWriMo, and reckoned it was surprisingly easy to do so, using each as the basis for a scene. OK, I'm not THAT ambitious! Besides I already have more novel ideas than I'll ever be able to write!
Beyond saying where she found them, the owner of the site where *I* found them didn't link the source, so I haven't. The list is not copyright, but it has been used for inspiration by many people. In my case, the posts inspired by these themes will be whatever I come up with on the day - poems, short stories, random thoughts or just regular blog entries if, for example, the topic triggers a memory. My source used the themes to create a novel outline for NaNoWriMo, and reckoned it was surprisingly easy to do so, using each as the basis for a scene. OK, I'm not THAT ambitious! Besides I already have more novel ideas than I'll ever be able to write!
Thursday, July 26, 2012
100 Themes Writing Challenge - Method
Most days, I'm up before 5.30am. I know, I know, it's crazy, but it's been happening for so long now it feels normal. A little over two years ago we both started waking up stupidly early. We decided we may as well get up and enjoy a pot of coffee before going to work. Two mugs each, sat in front of our computers catching up with the previous 12 hours emails, facebook updates, tweets (for Nikki) and news feeds.
I can't remember when it flipped from something we did because we happened to be awake early into The Daily Routine, but it wasn't long. It's a self-fulfilling routine too, because getting up at stupid o'clock also means you're ready for bed at stupid o'clock. And going to bed at stupid o'clock means you've had enough sleep so that you wake up at stupid o'clock. And so it goes.
But emails and facebook don't take two hours. Even when you add in the washing up (usually while the coffee is grinding and brewing); still not two hours. So what am I doing between the last email and going to work? I just know you're way ahead of me. Spider Solitaire. What can I say, it's an addiction.
So this writing challenge is just what I need to fill that early morning hour. First cup of coffee to wake up while I'm emailing and facebooking, and then SECOND cup of coffee to accompany the new writing. That's the plan. Pick the next one off the list of prompts, and off we go.
Now in Nat's case she's allowed herself 30 minutes painting. I don't know how much thought goes on before the start of painting, or if thinking time is included in the 30 minutes, but for the writing challenge I'm going to spend up to 10 minutes thinking about the topic - but without writing anything down in terms of notes, plot, etc. Then once I have an idea on how I'm going to interpret the theme, I'll set a 30-minute reminder and write until it goes off. There'll be a lot of unfinished pieces I expect, but with any luck there'll be some good ideas in there - maybe even the odd scene I can use in a novel, or the germ of an idea for a short story. I'm not going to restrict myself to narrative fiction either. If the theme suggests a poem then I'll rhyme for 30 minutes instead.
Themes coming up tomorrow. :0)
I can't remember when it flipped from something we did because we happened to be awake early into The Daily Routine, but it wasn't long. It's a self-fulfilling routine too, because getting up at stupid o'clock also means you're ready for bed at stupid o'clock. And going to bed at stupid o'clock means you've had enough sleep so that you wake up at stupid o'clock. And so it goes.
But emails and facebook don't take two hours. Even when you add in the washing up (usually while the coffee is grinding and brewing); still not two hours. So what am I doing between the last email and going to work? I just know you're way ahead of me. Spider Solitaire. What can I say, it's an addiction.
So this writing challenge is just what I need to fill that early morning hour. First cup of coffee to wake up while I'm emailing and facebooking, and then SECOND cup of coffee to accompany the new writing. That's the plan. Pick the next one off the list of prompts, and off we go.
Now in Nat's case she's allowed herself 30 minutes painting. I don't know how much thought goes on before the start of painting, or if thinking time is included in the 30 minutes, but for the writing challenge I'm going to spend up to 10 minutes thinking about the topic - but without writing anything down in terms of notes, plot, etc. Then once I have an idea on how I'm going to interpret the theme, I'll set a 30-minute reminder and write until it goes off. There'll be a lot of unfinished pieces I expect, but with any luck there'll be some good ideas in there - maybe even the odd scene I can use in a novel, or the germ of an idea for a short story. I'm not going to restrict myself to narrative fiction either. If the theme suggests a poem then I'll rhyme for 30 minutes instead.
Themes coming up tomorrow. :0)
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
100 Themes Writing Challenge
I promised you more about the writing challenge I'm about, with some trepidation, to undertake. Today I'll explain how the idea unfolded, tomorrow I'll describe how I expect it to work and the day after I'll list the themes. That'll take us to Friday, meaning I can start the challenge itself on Saturday - giving me a couple of weekend days to get me started before I have to try it on a working day.
It being the most glorious day of the year so far here in Manchester yesterday, Nat & I went for a lunchtime walk in the park during which she told me a bit more about how she's getting on with her art challenge. Paint 100 pictures in 100 days using a set of prompts garnered from t'Interweb for inspiration, and spending only 30 minutes on each piece of art. She might even link to the work in the comments, if you're good.
The more we talked about how important it is to "keep your hand in" with artistic endeavour, flex the creative muscles, and not worry too much about the quality of the output (at least initially) but instead concentrate on getting it done and trying new things, the more the parallels with writing became obvious. We're always being told to "write every day" and "write the first draft from the heart" and so on, and here I was with a couple of hours every day in front of a computer that belong totally to me. An ideal time to write.
As Nat predicted it didn't take much searching to come up with a list of themes. I don't know whether it's a good list. I'm not even sure I'd be able to recognise a "good" list. But it is A list, or perhaps more importantly it is THE list, because the point of the exercise is to try new things, not spend hours searching for a list I feel comfortable with. A degree of discomfort is probably a Good Thing. I don't know, either, if I'll be able to come up with anything remotely interesting for each theme. We'll see. Or rather you will. I couldn't possibly comment.
It being the most glorious day of the year so far here in Manchester yesterday, Nat & I went for a lunchtime walk in the park during which she told me a bit more about how she's getting on with her art challenge. Paint 100 pictures in 100 days using a set of prompts garnered from t'Interweb for inspiration, and spending only 30 minutes on each piece of art. She might even link to the work in the comments, if you're good.
The more we talked about how important it is to "keep your hand in" with artistic endeavour, flex the creative muscles, and not worry too much about the quality of the output (at least initially) but instead concentrate on getting it done and trying new things, the more the parallels with writing became obvious. We're always being told to "write every day" and "write the first draft from the heart" and so on, and here I was with a couple of hours every day in front of a computer that belong totally to me. An ideal time to write.
As Nat predicted it didn't take much searching to come up with a list of themes. I don't know whether it's a good list. I'm not even sure I'd be able to recognise a "good" list. But it is A list, or perhaps more importantly it is THE list, because the point of the exercise is to try new things, not spend hours searching for a list I feel comfortable with. A degree of discomfort is probably a Good Thing. I don't know, either, if I'll be able to come up with anything remotely interesting for each theme. We'll see. Or rather you will. I couldn't possibly comment.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Reboot
I've been inspired by a conversation with Nat today to engage in a writing challenge. So you can interpret the title of this post as a reboot of this blog, if you like*, but its main meaning is a reboot of my writing which is, after all, what the blog is supposed to be about. Not decorating. Or fish.
Does my writing need rebooting, I hear you ask? Or at least, I like to pretend I hear you asking. Google stats say I'm still enjoying a steady stream of visitors each day despite the cobwebs around the place, so that means (a) my readers are unbelievably tenacious and (b) you're bound to be asking something even it it's only "where the fuck are you?"
Well yes it does. Despite noodling around with an idea for a new novel over the past few months, I haven't done any of what I'd call Serious Writing since finishing War. That's... um... four years. Even at my less-than-snail's pace I could have had half a novel by now. Scary. And recently the exposure of my poetry in downloadable form and the positive feedback I've had as a result have given me enough new impetus to enter this year's Manchester Poetry Competition, for which I had to write a couple of new bits (as well as having two in my back pocket).
The challenge will take the form of "do 100 things in 100 days" which has become something of an Internet meme in its own right, but more about that tomorrow.
(*)Yes, here we are almost at the end of July and with a post count of 8 for the whole of 2012. Around one-eight of what it was this time last year and less than a 20th of what I'd written in my most prolific year.
It's not like there's nothing to write about. We set ourselves a target at the beginning of the year to finish the house in 2012. And although we probably won't FINISH, exactly, we've done loads. I haven't written about any of it. Tsk.
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