Fecketty feck

Okay, writer's block.

Having banged away on the keyboard (oooo-er, missus) like billy-o at this historical gothic thing I have skidded to a complete halt. I am trying to write in the M & B house style and frankly, I am having some deal of difficulty.

I think part of the problem is that in trying to stick so closely to an accepted format, I have lost the passsion for the plot and the characters. I am so focused on the technique that I seem to have misplaced my rhythmn. When I began writing this thing, it consumed me -- I loved the setting, the heroine and the dark, difficult hero. Now it's tiresome, trying to make sure it fits the format. I think I need to just write it as I want and then revise for format.

The really annoying thing is that I can see the setting and the characters so vividly that writing this ought to be easy. Drat.

Wannabes

I was listening to a programme on Radio 4 this afternoon. It's that one about numbers and stuff, that I only ever hear by accident, but every time I do I forget that I disliked maths at school. Anyway, they were talking about means and medians and the like and somewhere in the middle of all that was a fascinating bit about how we all think we're much better than the average bear. These over-inflated expectations of ourselves lead some of us to believe we can sing/dance/model or whatever. Hence the cringe-making auditionees at the X-Factor. (The best bit, in my opinion.) As I was scrubbing the sink ( I was cleaning the bathroom at the time) it occurred to me that when you look at (most) of the people who actually win those talent show contests, they're people who have actually tried to learn a bit about singing and the art of performing and so on. It's the ones who only warble to their deluded relatives at weddings that are the loopers who think they have talent.

Which led me to wonder about would-be writers and if there are loads of X-Factor type wannabe scribes floating about who really, really think they can write, like, you know and if you don't just really really, like get their stuff, then you're just so wrong, like. Indeed, I have run across some of their badly written stuff on the internet. And it is teeth-clenchingly bad.

There are bound to be loads of letters on fiction editor's desks, telling them just why they were so wrong, like, you know, to, you know, reject their NOVEL and, like how they're just going to SEE, right, when they sell gazillions. Probably lots of them on perfumed notepaper and written in pink ink. And just like all those scary X-factor wannabes, surrounded by their adoring family -- the ones who run in and shake their tattooed fists at Simon Cowell* -- somebody must have fed the delusion that they had talent.

The thing is, I've written loads of stuff and about 90% of it has been published (all non-fiction, alas). I can spell and construct long sentences and use big hard words, but I would never, ever expect that my fiction would get published (and so far, it hasn't). I have a had a few rejections, most of them very helpful, in terms of improving what I write. And I pay attention to the advice and try to apply it. So why is it that people who can neither write nor construct a story nor seem to have had any practice at writing, other than rambling on the internet (okay, a bit like this) send stuff in to editors? And then get volcanically annoyed when they get rejected?

Now I no longer think that editors take far too long to get back to you. Now I am amazed they manage to get to any of the half-decent stuff at all. Er, not that my stuff is necessarily half-decent. It may be, someday....

*I actually like Cowell. Most of the time he tells people the truth about their performance. I just hate the way the process has made stuff ever more bland than before.

Happy New Year.

Resolutions:

1. The Usual (weight, exercise, detox);
2. Abstain from Alcohol and Chocolate for the Month of January;
3. Get Through January As Fast As I Can;
4. Acquire No More Speeding Tickets;
5. Use Public Transport More;
6. Get Summat Published.
7. Find A More Suitable Man.

Theme For The Year:

We Might As Well Dance.

(From either: "We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we might as well dance" (Japanese proverb) or "Life may not be the party we hoped for… But, while we are here, we might as well dance!” (Maya Angelou) I like the sentiment of both...

He's Fired....

Sitting in the departure 'lounge' of an airport surrounded by itchy fellow travellers. We're ringed with shops, like a pioneer family circled by wagons, all trying to entice us into parting with our credit-crunched dosh. Lots of us do. Anything to lift the boredom of the wait for the gate.

In order to be able to sit down at a table and use my laptop properly, I have had to buy a skinny latte from Starbucks. The alternative is to slump in one of those rows of sling seats, fine if you want to practise contortionist typing, but not if you want to work. Behind me, tinkling faintly, is the sound of truly execrable covers of 'Christmas Classics'. Sung by what appear to be Pinky and Perky's tenor nephews. On crack.

I'm on my way home from a weekend tryst with the Part-Time Boyfriend. Great weekend, usual parting. He's been separated for a year-and-a-half and is wary of saying anything other than "be great to do this again, sometime." By the time I get to the airport I have decided that it wouldn't be so great, really.

Can you do P45s by email?

Free at last...

After much manoeuvring I am no longer a wage slave. I have officially given up my nice salaried prison of a job.

In the middle of the the biggest economic crisis since Jesus cleared the temple. Yes, I know. My timing has always been fab, I feel.

I aim to keep body and soul together by freelancing a bit, by consulting, in the things I used to get paid a salary to do and by not listening to Robert Peston anymore.

I have not done this, I hasten to add, because I have delusions of grandeur about my capacity to earn a crust as a writer. Perish the thought. (Although living in hope has always been one of the things I was best at. Or should that be "at which I was best"? Anyway.) It has been with a view to escaping the rat race. Downshifting. Living simply. That sort of thing.

I have been practising this downshifting thing for the last two years, saving as much as I could for the glorious day when I had enough to take the risk. It's amazing what you can do with a bit of budgeting, thrifty living and buying all your clothes on ebay. I did waver a bit, back in August, when markets were crashing all around and city financiers were fleeing to their summer homes in Barbados. However, faint heart never won fair lady, or something like that. Make lemon omelettes whilst the sun shines. That sort of thing.

I may be completely mad, or just unlucky, but I have to try to do this. The alternative is just not very pretty, really. I've been working full-time since I left college twenty-two years ago, without a break and something had to give. It was either the salary or my sanity and I'd rather be poor than unhappy. Of course, being poor is no guarantee of being happy, which is why I had better become the JK Rowling of romantic fiction. Or else.

Meanwhile the evil fuzz have given me a speeding ticket, which nearly caused me heart failure, when I thought I was going to be up before the beak. Had to phone a friendly brief, who chuckled at my failure to interpret the fixed penalty notice as a licence to print money for the boys in blue. He didn't relieve me of any cash, but he got a nice single malt nonetheless. I am the sort of a girl who knows how to do these things.

Even if I am on my way to the workhouse. In a handcart, via hell.

Falling Down

Note to self: get back yard powerwashed this weekend.

I went out to the bin yesterday to dutifully recycle some glass bottles. I took one step out the door and skidded into a clumsily executed crouch. Ten out of ten for degree of difficulty, but not so much for artistic impression. I remained on my knees for a good few minutes after I fell. Mainly because I had caused myself a fair degree of pain in my right knee and my right wrist and getting up from that position was requiring some serious concentration. Is this a sign that I am getting old? My knee and my wrist are still throbbing, 24 hours later.

The cause of the acrobatics was the slimy patio which hasn't been washed down this year and is consequently wearing the latest in green algae. No doubt my nosy neighbour, who seems to have a high definition telescope trained on the back of my house from her bedroom window, will have put it down to the empty bottle of wine I was clutching at the time.

If she saw me again this afternoon, she'll be on the phone to Alcoholics Anonymous. I took the dog out, between thunderstorms, or so I thought. Five minutes down the hill and another downpour began. Dodging under some trees, I missed my footing -- again -- and went down on my backside in a less than graceful slide. I now have a lovely skid mark on my green skirt and the abiding memory of a knot of sniggering schoolkids as they passed.

I wonder can I get fitted with stabilisers?

A Romantic Heroine Writes...

It would, as they say, take the skin off a badger's backside out there. I have just taken the dog for her daily bark and widdle and it is cold enough to almost make one forget about global warming. I wore my russian-style fur hat which usually only gets broken out in December and I spent the walk wishing I had dug out the woolly gloves as well. I haven't really worn a coat for about five years: the winter hasn't been really cold enough to merit more than a couple of fleeces and a chunky jumper. Yet already this feels like it might be time to get that new lining put in my decade old cashmere number. It's one of my favourite pieces of clothing -- floor length grey cashmere wool, bell sleeves and a hood lined in black velvet. It makes me feel like a romantic heroine, or at the very least, that dame from the Scottish Widows ad. All I need is the dashing hero to go with it and I'll be set.

Ah well, you can't have everything.