Strange, these walls, they do not want to shift, not even brick by brick.

There seem to be more questions than actual writing at the moment... I would just like to point out to those awaiting it, that Part 3 is almost Done - it has been 'almost done' for a while, but, I can almost let go of it. All the parts are written, and wait to be strung together.

Now then. Stories. I'm having difficulty figuring out whether to tell the stories Alex hears, or not. It's part of the experience, and will be more so when we're Out There, but it might cause problems, if for example, the story came from a published book.

Opinion, anyone?

*aside - has anyone else heard 'At Dawn in Rivendell'? If you're a Tolkein fan and haven't heard it, find a copy!

Call of the Wild

Can anybody tell me whether it's possible to contact Clarissa P. Estes? And how? I've tried to find a website with a comment box or e-mail address, but Google does not like me this evening... And I desperately want to ask her something (and hope she spares the time to answer).

Colours.

Friday lunchtime, I step out from the orange-box building where I play all day for stupid money, amidst the stormy purple clouds, and head over to the shop in search of lunch. The air is thick with thunderous heat, but somehow it's still cold enough to make me shiver, and everything around me is that simultaneously light and heavy rained-on hue.

But when I leave the store, two minutes later, the sun has sprung from nowhere. Everything glistens, a warm honey colour oozing from the ground, the lilac cloud-punctuated sky, the grass... even the poster-painted playground shines in new, exciting colour.

Thursday, I'm sure this would have slipped unnoticed, through the broken web of writer's word-net (it's like a butterfly net, only the weave is tighter). But now, after a day filled with cuddle-requests and honest open conversation, handprints painted over everything, jelly cubes, and those rocking on-a-spring playground thingeys, I cannot help but smile, and notice things again.

There are a thousand reasons that I love my job - I shall not bore you with them here. Suffice it to say that me and the under-fives, we're of the same mind. I'm saying nothing more.

The World's a Stage.

I don’t know what is going on inside my head right now. I mean, usually I can see its workings, particularly where writing is concerned, like actors testing scripts and props upon a stage. Literally, people hanging about in Shakespearean, or scrubby-stylish thespian attire when the characters are not in costume (It’s a beautiful, mostly open-air stage, too. I wish that it tangible, so all could see). Do you think I jest?

And then, without warning, it all, even foundations of the stage, has gone, leaving a cold, empty cavity inside my skull. And suddenly, there’s nowhere, no one, to test my words and images, and I cannot write…

It’s strange then, that I think my characters are back, creeping out of hiding now that the monstrous stage-eraser has passed.

Without a stage, they cannot help me out so readily, but the child-like part of me which is in love with everything – every flower, every rain-cloud, and each emotion, however full of gloom – is back, and seeing the world as it should be seen once more. For that I’m happy. At least I can write in abstract, and I can play at moulding words, but what about my words, and my winding, tangling tales? When will they return?

The Writer, She is Gone.

I cannot do it. I simply cannot write. I proclaim the artist dormant – for no matter how I try, the vision and the act don’t meet. My words are clumsy, my plots are inexcusably confused, and my style – which comes mostly from strange and matchless description (apparently – these are not my words, I don’t feel at all that I deserve such praise) is patched and faded throughout my work.

Nothing matches, nothing flows, nothing fits, and I do great injustice to some brilliant ideas with every word I try to place.

I Give Up. Nothing anyone can say will convince me of otherwise. For now, I Am No Writer :-(

The inexplicable things.

How does one explain the telepathic bond between girl and rat? Coz 'suddenly, Alex heard Ginger's words inside his head' and similar variations, sound so pathetically melodramatic. It has to happen after/ as they bond I suppose, because it only happens for kids with their special toys who have developed character. But when? And how?

Stumped again - seems like I always am. Not feeling much like a decent writer this morning, or much of a writer at all.

I Think It's Elves.

I swear there's something wrong with this family. Something not quite right; something one might say were almost fantastical.

I mean, we've all been running hard and fast, so mess accumulates, as it does in any other House of Chaos, in the corners and the deep shadows of cupboards, sprinkled on the surfaces and floors in a proud show of filth.

But as I start to chip away at it, I notice something strange; there's a limited spray of your usual packaging, clothing and grime, but mostly, there is stuff. Some of it, I admit, is left-out stuff, but half of it, is not. Half of it is stuff that serves no purpose, ugly, space consuming stuff and stuff that's downright weird.

We don't know where it comes from. None of have been out to buy a fresh supply of stuff, we haven't had the time. And the old stuff that no-one dares to throw away, not knowing its origin or whether it belongs to someone, a momento of an age that's passed, stuff I know has not been used, is everywhere again... No-one has removed it from its safe and tidy box, or shelf, and yet here it is, in daylight, posing as ornaments or books, or kitchen knick-knacks. Weird. I think it's elves.

Trouble in the Play Pen.

So, I sit at the computer, Alex beside me, to make sure I get the details right, and we start to write Part 3. The trouble is, there's so much to put into it to get it up-to-date, as such that it's hard to know how to begin. And everything we've tried seems oddly self-indulgent. It seems I'm having trouble with describing the onset of that Companion-Person bond. It just sounds fake, every single time, like one of those really bad kids books that I resented being forced to read at school. This is not the image we desire - it's not a key-stage book, or indeed a SATs English paper task.

I need my fix of random, wonderful writings. Mark & Vicky have kindly supplied me with some, but much as I love penning things alone, I wish there was a group-thing this week (read: NOW). I'd be busy anyway, on Monday - Rudy, a Slovakian ex-colleague's in town - but that's not the point, and the following week, the 16th, leaves me with sorrofully few fortnights left before I fly the nest.

I shall update properly at the weeked, there's a half formed polari/ Obligatory New Year's post in the making, and there should be one about the sandpit wars of the week - as soon as there's a ceasefire!