Apology

I thought I should apologise to anyone who has come to either this site, or Progressions in search of updated work. I'm not posting it, because I have developed an irrational fear that, despite no one ever reading them, someone may steal it for their own. If any of The Group were looking for it, leave me a comment or an e-mail, and I'll forward it to you.

There was or there was not, in the oldness of time...

Once more, the wanderlust has taken hold, atop a kind of deflated misery of unknown source. Usually the season grips me, pushing me through the months in a kind of grinning trance, but now, I cannot find the slightest smile.

I have not written a word all week. My fingertips and muse feel fat, and lazy. I have ideas aplenty, but not the inclination to spit them out onto the page. I’ve worked less than I should have, and my bank account is feeling it, but I have no energy spare to work the extra hours. And I’ve spent far too much money in the last few weeks, but I just can’t seem to stop.
But, it’s Biz’s birthday on Tuesday, which, oddly, feels more of a milestone for me than either of my ‘key birthdays’ ever felt for me. Perhaps this, and the childish traditions that we hold so dear shall shake me from this indolent state and set me free. Or, perhaps if I force myself to write, and work, I'll find my groove again. Whatever; I’m letting it all go for the party, anyway.

I have a new itinerary for travel, which I shall disclose another day. Suffice it to say for now, that I shall be delving into fewer places, but leave a deeper groove in each. I bought a new book; my favourite book all year, I think - ‘PALESTINE, A Guide’, which looks at every facet of this fascinating culture. I think I’m going to try to write a folk-tale that fits the Palestinian style. Perhaps I’ll alter Homecoming to fit.

Changing of the Seasons.

There’s a definite excitable hint of winter in the air; the buzz of Halloween, Guy Falkes and Christmas all rolled into one as your feet snap along the pavement or swoosh through fallen leaves. This is the best time of the year, despite the rain and wind, and ice. I cannot help but bounce through daily chores. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help me write gut-wrenching grieving scenes for Blood Omen. It is going well though, hence a much neglected blog, again.

I have reverted to winter listenings, such as John Williams’ Harry Potter scores, which feed my mood and fit the weather perfectly. There’s just something about it.

A little over a week ago, I stayed at Mark's, for another 2 days writing, which was, as always, a great success. And we rewarded ourselves with a trip to the cinema to see David Cronenberg’s A History of Violence, staring Viggo Mortensen and Maria Bello. If you have not seen it, then you must. It’s the first movie in a long long time to treat violence as the serious creature that she is. The cast was perfect, the script clever and poignant, and Howard Shore’s score as snug a fit as you'd expect. A lot of people seemed irritated by the ending, but… well, go see it. It’s amazing. I went to see it twice.

I have yet to see Howl’s moving castle, Domino, Lord of War, and the impatiently awaited Corpse Bride. That’s just the beginning of my list. It’s no wonder I am always skint.

The Ultimate Question

"How do you know how many words?"

She laughed. "I count them all… no, I use the automatic word count on my word processor."

"But… It is not accurate. It contains not real words."

"No, it doesn’t count symbols."

"But… like ‘a’.

"‘A’ is a word."

"Not real word. I never count."

"But," she huffed "you can’t say ‘a’ is not a word? How is it not a word?"

"It makes nonsense. It has no… no meaning ."

"Of course it has meaning - the English language doesn’t function without it."

"What then, what it mean?"

" it signifies an indefinite object. It’s an indefinite article."

"Like what?"

"Well, you can say ‘the mouse’ if you are talking about a specific one, but if it is not a particular mouse, it’s ‘a mouse’."

"So, it means, ‘any’?"

"No. ‘any’ is different. It can be used for one, some, or all of something. ‘A’ is more specific. It talks about one unspecified thing."

"but, it does not mean anything, really."

"It does!"

"But, it is only one letter. It’s not proper word."

"You can’t say that! That’s discriminatory! If you can’t have one letter words, can you decide not to have long words one day? Besides, there are some scripts where one character is interpreted as a whole phrase. They’re necessary!"

"No. I am talking only of the English language. It means nothing."

"But… if ‘a’ is not a proper word, what about ‘an’. That’s got two letters!" she smirked triumphantly. "and it means the same thing."

"So you can just use it instead."

"No, you use ‘a’ with words that start audibly – the way you hear it – with consonants, like the letter ‘c’, and you use ‘an’ with words which start with vowels, or sound as though they do. Although there are exceptions."

"Still, in my head, is not a word!"

"Look, I spend half my time writing, and reading, and editing people’s work. I love semantics. I work with the English language every day; it is my tool! You will not win this one!"

"It’s not word!"

Stolen Moments: A Tale of Autumnal Bliss.

The morning was hazed with frost and cold wet air, but the mist broke away before the shock of orange streaks across the sky.

The bus was heaped with bodies fighting equally for seats and oxygen; damp clothes steamed, their musty odour leaking from the bus at every stop. Finally, flustered, I stepped into the icy outside world once more, with time to spare. Beside Place Around The Corner, is a beautifully quiet neighbourhood, and the forested park of a stately home.

Most people, with 25 minutes to spare, would hurry to the comfort of a conversation and a mug of tea. Not I. Meandering between the trees, into golden light-filled spaces, and cool pine-needle shady spots, I look up at the canopy. The light paints highlights on the leaves, turning steadily into their autumn shades. It’s beautiful. So, breathing freely for the first time in a week, I carry on, the fellowship of the Ring drifting to my ears. It’s so serene and awe inspiring. And I wish that it could last.

Foremost, Writer.

Isn’t it strange how single moments can change you, change the way you think, or pull back into line a purpose which, though hidden from view, has been apparent through all of your remembered life.

There were several of these moments, for me, in the last week; ‘The Week that They Were Writers’.

The first, came at the climax of our 12 hour drive, where, sitting at the end of the garden, by the tumultuous loch, shadowed by the ridge of the escarpment, we stretched, and breathed, and laughed.
Picture the frolicsome writers, here, as they realise that they are free to be themselves. This manifested itself in a peculiar way, even for us:

“I spy… Something beginning with ‘S’.”

“Seaweed?”

“Nope.”

“Swimming seagull?”

“Nope.” After several minutes of this, Rachel sighed. “It’s everywhere. Look up!”

Sarah bounced in triumphant inspiration “Clouds?”

(It was at this point, amidst the peals of laughter, that I thought ‘Fuck! There’s no hope for the world if a writer cannot even recognise the phonetics of her alphabet’, and suddenly, I relaxed, more than I have done since Borneo)

--
The following morning, awaking to perfect Scottish rain, and the sea lapping at the window (almost), I looked out of the window and I knew. I am the luckiest person alive.

--
Writing was slow, to start, as I was ashamedly rusty at actually responding to the muse with more than scribbled notes. But then, I constructed a mini-tale entirely on the act of eating cake, entitled: Don’t mess with the Crazies, You Never Know What They Might Do, Or, The cake is evil as well as masochistic, it forces us to eat it with its domineering frown. And I saw that it was good. I may post it at Progressions.

--

The Day they Let the Writers Loose.

The day they let the writers loose was a dark, and dismal day. The wind did howl, and trees did bend, and small sheep blew away. The writers they did gambol, exultant as they breathed fresh air, and stories rested for a while; though their fingers found it rather odd that the laptop keyboards were not there. And as they gazed out through the trees, at choppy waters far below, the locals spied them standing there and longed for them to go. For the crazy writers were a sight they did not wish to see; with wild hair, dishevelled looks and crazed expressions in the eye. The locals hid behind their doors, until the writers passed them by.

The writers, as they walked, they talked their cares away, barely noticing the clouds, which barraged them with drops of grey. The day they let the writers loose, they had a lot of fun; all singing and all dancing until their walk was done. The day they let the writers loose, was a dark, and dismal day; but to them it didn’t matter, as they wandered out, to play.

--
Upon this escapade, I heard this tale. (Credit goes to Joe Knowler, in his infinite wisdom, and to Rachel for passing it on.) It is, quite possibly, the best story known to humankind…

Mum collected Rachel and Ed from school, with Joe in the buggy beside them, and the two excited children began swapping stories as they walked home.

Suddenly, a voice sprang from the buggy.
“Once ‘Pon Time.”

This hopeful, solemn voice was met with joyous wails. “The baby’s telling us a story: Tell us a story, Joe!”

“Once ‘Pon Time…” Joe began, in his best storytelling tone, “was a mummy, an’ a baby, an’ a monster…” long pause. “Munch. Crunch.”
--
I rediscovered, during our return, that Rachel and I, when together, can make a joke of anything. For instance… Where are the houses? Why, where the houses are, of course. It was also on this day of adventure, that I decided I must return, for a much longer period of writing, somehow. Ardaneaskan’s good for me, and even better for my concentration and my style.

--
It was not all fun and games however,(although much of it was: we even provided Pythonesque Comedy Hour for the Waterside café in Lochcarron) and we did do serious writing, honestly. I doubled the length of Blood Omen, and made plans to further it, thanks to helpful criticism from my fellow yarn-weavers. And I made Rachel cry. I do feel slightly guilty that, upon realising this, I did a victory-jig in my head, whilst chanting ‘I made my best friend cry. Woohoo!’ (Sorry, Rach!).

Markulon, Prolific Writing Superhero that he is, wrote, 36,000 words, nearly all of them brilliant, and all from reputable sources. He scratched off several short stories, one of which forced a lump to my throat as I read. And he tactfully avoided working on his novel.

And Rachel: She Who Could Not Write, produced from nowhere an onslaught of 50 word story-cards, each with the week’s theme… eaten, and then proceeded to write an awesome creepy tale; the longest(twice as long as the previous longest piece), best thing she has ever spawned. It has everything! I still have to pen it for her.

--
It occurred to me during the week, that I am, first and foremost, a writer. And perhaps, the stressful job I hold in order to save for my travels, is not worth it. I may have to find a boring, undemanding job and take the longer route to gaining money, just so that I can concentrate upon my work.

--

There was plenty more, but it shall remain undisclosed, for the sake of you, the reader’s sanity. Suffice it to say that it was the best week in a long time. Due thanks must go to both Rachel and Mark, who made it what it was. And, more so, to Mark, who single-handedly drove us there and back,(thanks, Mark, for all the effort and stiffness and pain!).