Try turning life off and on again.

Work (ie boring day-job work) has completely taken over at the moment, and, despite the best of intentions, have not written anything for over a month. (You A-Zers? How do you do that?)  The first draft has been rattling at the drawer, demanding attention, but I have simply been too busy and / or too tired, lost in a rut of my own making.  Without making light of it, I think S.A.D. may have had us all in it's melancholy grip lately whilst we await the return of spring.

However, Spring finally put it's foot in the door. and I got an unexpected day off this week, my first in ages, and took myself 'up-town' for a mooch around the galleries.  Hell, it's free, the only benefit to civilisation modern democracy has brought.
The background noise that is real life only ever goes away if I'm writing, or standing rapt in front of a work that really reaches into me. On this occasion, it was 'Turf Cutters' by Thomas Wade, a rather discreet, dark work, almost lost on a wall full of Pre-Raphaelite colour and fantasy.  But it whispered to me, reminding me of the tales of hardship and toil that my parent's generation still tell with such pride.  And it shone a light on the ease of my life now.
Anyway, I was happily lost for half an hour sketching, remembering, re-connecting.  Reset button pressed.

And, as a result of this meditation, the Swiss-cheese that was the plot to novel one, is slowly maturing into a firmer, more robust cheddar. (To continue the cheese analogy, I'm sure that by next week the mice of doubt will have nibbled it back into a holy mess.)

But the drawer is open.  I'm going in.....................

'If you want something done, ask someone busy.'

Been a busy couple of weeks, despite being in virtual interwebnet exile.  Just changed broadband provider, the new company letting me sign an eighteen month contract whilst neglecting to inform me that there was a fault in my box that would not be fixed until August (not a typo).  I'll give them a fault in the box.

Anyways, back to the good stuff.

Psychologies magazine writer's workshop.
Firstly, a tip.  If attending such events, spurred on by wife, hosted by a woman's magazine, don't be surprised if you find that you are one of two men in a room full of women, wondering if you have intruded, and looking for an excuse to leave.  Thankfully, the other fella latched on and anchored me in the room because I found the all too brief evening very encouraging.
The first exercise was a bout of random speed writing / stream of consciousness-stuff, which I have not had the confidence to do in a long time, and which may have actually given me a draft of the opening of my next drawer-sitter.
Surprisingly, I really enjoyed the evening, my first foray into the literary world, 'outing' myself as a writer in a room full of strange women.  I'd recommend it.
Was actually congratulated on the way out for 'having the courage to attend' and that 'it was great to see some blokes, for a change.'  Was not sure if that made me feel better or worse.  Decided that the lady in question was obviously just hitting on me.  Manliness restored.

Weekend in Ireland.
Immediately after workshop, I had a glorious weekend in Ireland, the first dry weekend they have seen in six months according to my sage-like uncles.  It was great to get out into the middle of the country and be truly alone for a few hours atop a hill that was bathed in warm spring sunlight, with a view that was restricted only by the stretch of my eyesight.
Sound like bliss?  It was.  Did I do any writing?  Not one word.

Manet.
Went to see the 'Manet' exhibition at the Royal Academy.  Despite the hype, or maybe because of, I must say I was disappointed.  The various portraits said little to me, leaving me feeling a little lost amidst a room full of disinterested strangers.
It was great, however, to swan past the queues with a flash of my 'Friends' card.  Best £100 you can spend, if you ask me, and worth it just for the Hockney exhibition last year.
(No one hit on me, peculiar arty types...)

You know, this blog is a lot easier to write if I go out and give myself something to write about rather than sit and home and wonder what I am going to write about.........

So, here's to keeping busy.

And happy St, Patrick's day......

----------oOo----------

The Voice.

Had a weekend in Donegal recently, for a family birthday.  It was my first time in that particular corner of Ireland, the homeland of the in-laws, and I enjoyed it immensely.  It was not the furthest north I have been, but it was definitely the most exposed to the north I have felt. 
The scenery was magnificent, the town sitting right on Loch Swilly, a massive, choppy sea loch surrounded by mountains that retreated to the ever ominous clouds. It was an ancient place, but I felt no real connection, very much a soft, modern townie exposed in a primal landscape. 
And the weather was truly painful.  The wind, arriving unimpeded from the north, was sharp enough to peel the skin, the rain falling violently, impatient to join the party in the loch.
The family themselves, large and long lived, were scattered randomly about the town in houses that ran the spectrum from homely to palatial, each house burning coal faster than the 'Flying Scotsman'.
We had a great time, welcomed and treated like returning kings, and the party broke up late, after the customary fight between some of the young bucks.

SUN!!

 

 

 

Back at the desk, the recently finished first draft lies in the drawer, stinking up the place like three day old fish.  I finished it just before the new year, spurred on by a competition that I had entered purely to give me an aiming point, a deadline, the motivation that had been missing to finally drag my hero through to the end. 
And having done so, I put it aside, as everyone advises, to gain a fresh perspective.  Instead, I think I have grown to hate it. 
I realise, with the competition in mind, I have written a turkey, my natural voice lost, exchanged for flowery exuberance in an attempt to impress some anonymous judge.  Despite myself, despite telling myself the competition was no more than a means to an end, I lost sight of the reader.

I'm back in Ireland at the end of the month, this time to the soft, wet, welcoming midlands, to the very spot where I have based my grand opus, and I plan the re-write for when I return.

This time, I write not to impress, but to stir.

----------oOo-----------



Ever since school, I've always wanted to be a writer. 

My English teacher, a huge, angry Irishman whose monstrous, precipitous moustache struggled to muzzle the f-ing and blinding, inspired me to write with his joyous love of language.  Unfortunately, on leaving school, I found real life waiting for me outside the back gate, large and fragrant, and dismissive of any of my high-falluting ideas of doing anything that was not utterly practical and sensible.  Timidly, I let it drag me off down the road and hurry me into a job.

However, twenty years later a wise woman said to me, "If you want to be a writer, just sit down and write.  All you need is a pencil and paper." (When I say 'wise woman', it was actually Sandi Toksvig, and when I say 'said to me', she actually said it on the radio while I drove through a foggy Chatham docks.)

Well, anyway, it struck a chord, and that was what I did.  And now, having finally finished what may loosely be described as a first-draft*, I am starting to call myself a writer. 
*(first-draft n, an ugly, ponderous, creeping vine that bears neither fruit nor flower)

But now, it seems, a writer no longer needs only pencil and paper, a writer needs a blog.  A writer needs an audience, the lonely garret must be opened to the public gaze.

And so here I am, riding the high stool, making up a conversation with people I'll never meet, whilst manfully avoiding all contact with the ejits, with the real life, that surrounds me.

 

 

----------oOo----------