On Writing...

I've been incredibly frustrated this week trying to finish an article. Circumstances (and people)have conspired against me, so on Saturday I set off to an anonymous cafe where I could drink tea, and be undisturbed enough to finish my project.

The food queue was long and impatient. While we waited for chips to be fried, and bacon to be grilled, I got chatting to the bloke behind me. Just a normal, trivial exchange of pleasantries, nothing exciting at all (although he was quite cute, and I really wanted to run my fingers through his gently curling hair). But I digress. As I waited to pay for my bacon roll and mug of hot, builder's tea, words and sentences started streaming through my poor brain.

I rushed to a free table (slopping my drink en route) and pulled out a notebook. My bacon grew cold and greasy while I frantically wrote a short story based on our Brief Encounter. Words, and phrases flew from somewhere onto the paper, until the staff started throwing me funny looks. I left the cafe with the first draft of a story, and a still-unfinished article.

I've spent a good three days this week trying to write this damned feature, unable to find the hook, the right tone, or a decent angle for the piece. And that's how the process seems to be. For me, at least. Some days I have thirty-seven words to show for my efforts, and others are spent trying to prevent the sparks that are flying from my pencil burning holes in my clothes.

It's a bizarre way to spend your life.

I don't believe that any writer chooses to write (it's far too much like hard work); I think that writing chooses you. I may sound batty (I am), or pretentious (I'm not), but I write because I have to. Simple as.

Multiple choices...

Sorted! I've grasped the spiky horns of my dilemma, wrestled and tugged them into a manageable shape that now point the way forward. I am now, simultaneously, writing two books. Well, two versions of the same tale. Both with a modified plot, but one with farcical humour and the troublesome fairy, and one without. Voila! When an agent eventually reads one and cries, "Loved the story, dahling, but where's the magic/introspection/plot?" I can whip out the other version with a flourish and a grin, "Here's one I prepared earlier!"

And writing in first person is fun; 'I' can be thorough, thoughtful and threatened in one version, and a flirty, fanciful fairy-lover in the other!

I may even publish one under a pseudonym, and then sue myself for pinching my idea. Think of the publicity, the money I'd make...

Is this what a multiple-personality disorder feels like?

What's a girl to do?

My course has finished and I now have my MA - I've got a letter to prove it so they can't change their minds and demand it back! It's been like learning to drive: the seminars, workshops and assignments were the driving lessons, the final project was the 'test' and now we've all been cast out unsupervised onto the motorway where the real learning takes place. And by God, it's scary out there...

Suddenly there's nobody directing you through a series of one-way streets, or guiding you the right way around a roundabout.

Or preventing you from crashing into an oil tanker...

I'm definitely in a curious position right now. My part-novel has provoked conflicting opinions from the professionals involved in the marking process: The Fairy has to go versus The Fairy has to stay/ The plot's all wrong vs The plot's right for the genre/ The pace is too fast vs The pace has to be fast in this kind of novel.

I know these are only opinions, not holy commandments etched in stone, but one way may lead to publication, the other will leave egg on my face.

I guess the answer lies in trusting your own judgement. Using everything you have learnt from the course and everything you know about the genre. God knows you've read enough similar books. But where does this self-confidence come from? Can I find some on ebay?

Now, I know certain truths about the world: bullies will get their comeuppance - it's the law of the universe; too much chocolate makes your clothes shrink; only men with deep-rooted psychological problems find me attractive, but, strangely enough, none of these concepts are useful in this situation. What's a girl to do?

On a more positive note, Mr Bubonic Plague hasn't been back to torment me!

Knee-lenth boots from now on...

Okay, I have two addictive and unhealthy habits: one is smoking and the other is watching X Factor. I've had the therapy, tried the willpower method and even used the patches (one on the arm for nicotine and two over my eyes to block out the telly), but to no avail. I remain addicted.

I have a designated smoking-room - well, it's more of a front doorstep really, and I quite often share my space with the local wildlife. There's been a badger grubbing around for food, several snuffling hedgehogs and most of the neighbourhood cats. Once, I was so engrossed in the book I was reading, I almost stubbed out my fag on a coppery slow worm coiled lazily at my feet. And I thought that incident was terrifying...

This morning I was out there with the usual book in one hand and a ciggy in the other enjoying the winter sunshine and the waft or newly hacked grass when out of the corner of my eye, I spied movement. Not flippy enough to be reptile, but too small to be badger cat or goat. There, in my front garden, looking me squarely in the eye, was a rat. Yep! A rat! It wasn't even an alpha-rodent but a scrawny, scabby furred, chewed ears kind of creature. I leaped to my feet, hopped around a bit and let out a banshee wail whilst flicking my book ineffectually towards the beastly bastard.

It stopped, bared its sharp ratty teeth in a gesture of contempt and slowly turned before ambling its way down the path. I, meanwhile, was still doing the hot-coal shuffle on the doorstep and hyperventilating so much that even the black spots before my eyes had gone all fuzzy.

Oh, God, oh God, not again! I can't bear it!

Heart beating wildly, I stumbled inside gasping for breath. Suddenly the sound of click, click, click surrounded me - the sound of claws clicking on the laminate floor! On God! It's inside! My poor heart ricocheted around my rib-cage as I turned, wide-eyed, to face my tormentor...

That bloody dog!

Honestly, how much more stress can one person stand? Why can't those damned rodents keep to the drains where I don't have to see them? I'll be jumping every time I see a spider, or hear a scraping noise. They'll be carrying me, stiff-limbed, to the looney bin, because abject terror will have me flat-packed against the wall, glassy eyed and drooling mouth frozen in a Munch scream.

Buy One Panic Attack, Get One Free...

I don't know what I've done to piss them off, but ASDA cashiers hate me with a passion. And what's more, they do it with great chuffing smiles on their faces.

Yes, I was in there again today. A normal weekly food shop - trolley overflowing with bread to be toasted and smeared with peanut butter at midnight, crisps to be snaffled and thrown on the floor and apples to decay in the fruit bowl before being lobbed in the bin next week. Dog food, loo rolls, ham, cheese, seventeen packets of pasta, twelve boxes of cereal and chocolate digestives to be hidden under my bed. When do teenage boys stop eating everything in sight?

Eldest son is seventeen tomorrow so I was also lugging a huge birthday cake, candles, banners and enough beer to floor a small army.

As I started to pile my goodies onto the conveyor belt, the smiley cashier said, in a sing-song voice, "Can I help with your packing?"

"Lovely, thanks. I'll take over when I've emptied my trolley."

Very slowly, she began to pack my shopping. Everything stacked neatly, bags not too heavy, nothing squashed. Three perfectly organised bags.

And then I took over. Within seconds, she'd whizzed half the trolley load through the scanner. The dog food was perched on top of the salad and my beautiful chocolate-drizzled cake was somewhere beneath the bleach and washing powder. Sparks were flying off her fingers and I just wanted to cry.

Why do they shove everything through at full pelt while you're still grappling to open the friggin' bag? Call me anally attentive, it's fine; I've been called worse, but I always load the groceries onto the belt in sections - tins together, cleaning stuff in one pile and fruit and veg in another. Why, oh, why do they dip in the sections and grasp the bananas and then the shampoo and finally, a lump of cheese? And do it all faster than the speed of light?

It drives me demented. By the time I need to pay, I've developed great sweaty patches under my arms, my breathing's all shallow and I'm having palpitations. There's a queue of seventeen behind me and I've run out of bags.

Grocery shopping's more stressful than being married. And just about as sexual.

Old Boiler Needs a Good Servicing...

Yesterday, I discovered water dripping through my living room ceiling. Again. In exactly the same place as before. It's easy to spot; the artex is bulging beautifully and the decorative brown water mark is acting as a fuck-off great red arrow.

So I rang for a heating engineer. Again. He turned up, shook his head and said, "Sorry love, it's too late to lift the floorboards tonight. I'll drain the system and be back first thing in the morning." Well, I wasn't expecting that response. Much.

So here I sit, at eleven am, snuggled in my yellow fluffy blanket, waiting. Again. No heat, no hot water, a-bloody-gain.

At least this time, there's a positive note floating on the edge of my Carry-On world; he was bloody gorgeous - dark, brooding, tortured eyes, and a mane of silky black hair tied up in a ponytail, with only a few loose wisps that I just wanted to smooth back into place...

Y'see, that's the trouble with being single at my advanced age - all the equivalent men went bald years ago. Not that I have anything against the more follicular-challenged members of the species; bald is beautiful and intimate, but I just harbour this long, flowing locks fantasy. It's just one of my things, okay?

Maybe if I offer him a bacon sarnie, he'll let me play with his hair for a bit.

A Box of Black Magic...

Ooh, am all excited; I've found a new button! Click on the Black Box, decide from the choices and find yourself whizzing around the blogoshere onto a perfectly random person's blog.

It's a little bit like delving into a box of Quality Street, having a good old rummage and coming out with an orange creme. Well, I expect there's an odd one or two nutty ones in there as well, but what's life without taking chances?

Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling...

Oh my God! I've lost three readers in twenty-four hours. Am I just not entertaining enough for you anymore? Come back!! I'll try harder, I promise...

I wouldn't mind, but this is my bestest writing. It's official: I'm doomed...

Welcome To My World...

Let me give you a quick precis of the last six months of my life. In September, I lost a stone and a half in weight stressing about starting this course. Doc diagnosed Stress-related Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and prescribed these lovely Valium-type tablets to relax my tummy muscles.

Next, I developed migraines - averaging one a week. One morning I woke up with no sight in my right eye. After being checked out at Treliske, it turned out to be a pain-free migraine. Go figure.

Two weeks later and I developed shingles. A week after that, the nasty shingle virus went into my eye. Yep, you guessed it - back to bloody Treliske where I saw the same doctor. And yes, that was the mistaken identity day when I almost got zapped with the laser gun to treat somebody else's cataracts.

And the most recent health catastrophe? Well, I won't go into too many grisly details, but let's just say that thirteen periods in the last six months is roughly seven too many... So now I need an ultrasound scan and blood tests, just to be on the safe side, but it very much looks like I'm heading for the old menopause. Yep, not to put too fine a point on it, me old ovaries are shrivelling up and me 'ormones 'ave gone 'aywire.

Take my advice: don't even contemplate thinking about returning to Higher Education; it's bad for your 'ealth.

Happy Birthday To Me Next Month...

I was conceived on or around Wednesday 13th July 1966. (Actually, I know this bit is inaccurate; I was conceived on 30th July 1966. If England hadn't won the World Cup, I wouldn't be here. May God bless Bobby Chartlon for his contribution to humanity.)

I share my birthday with Bette Davis, Spencer Tracey and Gregory Peck.

I'll be 42 on my next birthday. I'll be able to boil 4.80 ounces of water from the heat generated from all those candles...I am 503 months old. I've been alive for 2,188 weeks. I've spent 15,313 days on this God-forsaken planet.

My fortune cookie reads, love always and deeply. Ha!!

My birth tree is the rowan. This means I am 'full of charm, cheerful, gifted, without egoism, keen to draw attention to myself, a lover of life, and I do not forgive. Ever.' It's hard to argue with the facts...

And how do I know all these amazing details? Check out http://www.paulsadowski.org/BirthDay.asp Plug in your birthday, and away you go...

A Self Fulfilling Prophesy...

Did I or did I not predict that this novel option was going to finish me off? Was I right or was I right?? Yes, yes and yes again. I am officially demented. Manic. Lost the plot. On the 'at risk' register.

All week I have slaved, sweated and cried into the damned thing. And what do I have to show for my efforts? Ten miserable, measly, minging pages. Two months' work, no less. I have just over a week to produce another fifty f&*%ing pages!!

How do people do this every day? Where's the fun? The joy? The sleep? This course has already taught me a valuable lesson: I have learnt that, when I finish, I don't ever want to write another word again. Ever. Seriously, when I need a shopping list in future, I'm gonna take a pink wax crayon and draw a picture of every bloody thing I need.

I Surrender...

It's official; I surrender. I give up. I've just spent the last three days sitting at the laptop typing. A feature, a film and character outline and my Industry Analysis proposal. I've worn an inch off the end of my fingers and my body has seized into sitting position. I've got a yellow, fluffy blanket wrapped round my legs because the my blood ceased circulating thirty-seven hours ago.

My comfort blanket is scorched in several places from the sparks that have back-fired from my (now stubby) fingers flying over the keyboard. Seven old teacups, in various state of mouldy decay surround my space. I've fed the kids pasta for the last three nights because it's so quick. God alone knows how they're still growing and scurvy-free...

I wouldn't mind (so much), but even after all that, I'm still behind bloody shedule!! And now, I've got to start on the piggin' novel. Oh, dear God, give me a break. I'm all worded-out...

Down a Dark Alley...

My youngest son and I sat in the car this evening awaiting the return of eldest son from his guitar lesson. Blinding lights in the rear view mirror, a last-minute swerve and a police car swung in beside us. Two cops leaped out and belted off down the alley way in front of us. Youngest son and I exchanged raised-eyebrowed looks and surreptitiously locked the car doors.

Forty minutes later, bored to the back teeth, because neither eldest son nor the police officers had returned, we decided to have a walk. Actually, that's a lie; Matt's lessons can drag on for days if I don't poke my head in the door and shout, "Three minutes and I'm leaving without you, darling!" (It's the term of endearment that always get him moving...)

Well, youngest son and I had exited the car, stepped in front of the cop-mobile about to walk down the alley, when from the darkness, a deep voice yelled, "Get away from the car. Move back against the wall where I can see you. Do it now!"

Son and I, limbs all a-tremble, leaped three feet into the air and flattened ourselves against the wall. The growly voice, dressed in police uniform, threw himself towards us, and stopped dead. "Oh, sorry, darling. You all right? I thought you were kids messing with the car."

"No," I squeaked. "Just walking past...innocently..."

"I'm really sorry for scaring you."

"S'allright," I squeaked again.

He leaped into the car, reversed and screeched out of the car-park. I sneaked a look at youngest son, who was still pressed up against the wall, eyes wide, mouth open. When I was sure my legs could carry my weight again, we un-peeled ourselves from the wall and scurried back to the car.

I tell you, those streets just ain't safe anymore...

Grubby Nets and No Knickers...

It's official; I've turned into one of those women. I collected fourteen loo-roll tubes, seven empty shampoo bottles and an assortment of decaying insects from my bathroom today. I wanted to bathe, but the bath was dirtier than I was. Amazingly enough, the bleach bottle was still full though...

I've had to buy the kids new clothes because they've nothing clean to wear, and my fridge is home to E-coli, salmonella and something furry with ears. Bending to retrieve a black, balled-up sports sock from the floor, I realised it wasn't a sock at all, but a nub of mouldy bread. It must have been sitting there on my terracotta-grey tiled floor for hours, if not weeks.

I've never been meticulously house-proud; preferring, instead, to subscribe to the Only Boring Women Have Immaculate Homes school of thought, but even I can see that things have gone too far. I have become a slob, a slovenly sloth and a slattern.

Do all would-be writers live in this perpetual state of decay, I wonder?