The writeathon that never was.

BITING MY TONGUE/WHY I AM NOT WRITING.

I'm not averse to 14 hours of scrubbing at sticky orange kitchen cupboards (once white) and removing dog-fur from the saucepans, but when my mother, daytime-tv whore (bless her) pokes her head around the door at 15minute intervals, either smirking or rolling her eyes at me, then snorts, slams the door, and proceeds to ignore me until her next visit, the cheerful diplomat inside me starts to wither.

I know she gets insulted and defensive when people clean, or shop, or anything she believes she's doing - so before I started, I set it up as a favour because I know that 'she's really busy, and it shouldn't have to be her that does all the cleaning'. And I've tried to include her by asking her what she wants keeping, or where she thinks the best place for stuff would be. The most response I've had all day is an aggitated "Whatever!"

There's only so many times a girl can say things like 'I KNOW you've only just done it" and "Don't worry, you don't have the time to do it all yourself either!" convincingly.

Now, after a whole day, and the prospect of a repeat tomorrow, no amount of coffee, noisy upbeat rock, or ben and jerry's cookie dough can lift the cloud of unappreciated gloom.

I sacrifice my weekend off, and does it matter to anyone except my Muse? Does it bollocks!!

A Curse so Precious it Won't be Denied!

Sometimes, when you've got some virus impersonating flu as it line-dances in spiky heels across your limbs; when you've been mauled at work, and up for hours, all you want, all you really, really want is a good book to take to bed. And then, as you scurry about in icy sheets, desperate to warm up your cocoon, it happens again.

A small, whinging voice pelts from the shadows in your head...
"Write. Write now. The Legends need you... You need them!" More persistant it grows, until you can hardly hear the silence, and your inner skull feels filled with wasp-venom. Futility hits, and shell-shocked by the prospect of another day at work on little sleep, you stumble to the keyboard, dragging the duvet behind you, toes curling squeamishly against the cold wood floor. Settled roughly in the chair, your head itches as you wait for Windows to awaken.

Then you begin.

Bend over, bitch!

Well, I’ve just reawakened the Infant Blood Omen, and it seems that the good-for-nothing contents of my spawn have sat around motionless, waiting for instruction from their creator, in a bar no less – alright for some! Whatever happened to initiative? And what would become of us if we waited for some Supremacy to guide us through every little thing?

I sense a little butt prodding is in order - Think cattle. Big, fat, disobedient cattle beleaguered day in, day out by a short, fat farmer, chewing grass in an uncouth, cud-like fashion. Or, think sultry leather-clad mistress, lovingly honing her slaves for Life as it Should Be, with her sharp silken edge. Whichever you prefer.

The Wanderer Returns!

Ok, so I've been ridiculously slack, and not just with the blog - I've done hardly any writing except journal stuff, which doesn't really count. At first, I admit, I was Embodiment of Sloth. Then I discovered The World and some semblance of a Life - Hey, it can only help me in the long run, right? And spent almost a month in the depths of Borneo and changing my perspective - scary isn't it! And when I got home, well, I kinda moped about wishing I hadn't.

I've been plotting a new chapter for myself - StoryBoards R Us - and at the same time, putting the new me into old situations without somehow losing myself, and am now residing with my folks - long story, which could no doubt sell but is not for public viewing yet. And I've just set up my pc, dug out a new notebook, and a little willpower and spent an hour putting rusty thoughts to paper.

Blood omen may be stationary, but the Creator's back!

...And suddenly everyone wants a go! Me & Biz. 

I get to be the cool one!!!