Experiment Part I

A sample of my Twitter experiment. Started at 2 pm, finished at midnight.

Go ireland!
Talking to michelle about barcelona and crochet flapper hats
Broke the seal!
Eddie o.sullivan is surely halfway out the door by now...
We'll all take a sick day from our respective jobs to drink - skiving day 14 may
Talking about ugly people with sexy voices
Apparently i should have got an onion ring bracelet when i was in las vegas
In fxb's, everyone is schmanzy in here but we are very drunk
Just spilt wine all over drew
In the front lounge!
Terrible farts in here
Oh me oh my you make me sigh
Just talked to some randomers
On our way home can't hack it!

If that wasn't exciting enough, I will be repeating the experiment tomorrow after a day spent on the sofa.

Paddy's Weekend

Paddy's weekend has arrived and I'm ready for the onslaught:

Later today we're watching the England vs Ireland rugby match and then heading off on a pub crawl.

Sunday is our day of rest - vegging in front of the tv.

Monday is Paddy's Day, a bank holiday here, and we're going to a party on the parade route. Then oblivion. (Dublin on Paddy's Day is one big drunken orgy. Unless you like getting hammered or are interested in a reinactment of the excess that brought down Ancient Rome, maybe pick another time to visit.)

So I won't be blogging regularly but I will be twittering from the bars. Expect concise observations of great philosophical and social profoundness.

Have a great one!

Perfect

The last two weeks have been...tough. Like I said in a comment, wrestling with this first story has sunk my confidence to rock bottom and hiked my anxiety levels to insomniac.

Every night I'd go to bed exhausted, but I'd just lie there, my brain turning over the problems with the story, the editing I still had to do as I'd started it afresh, how to inject pace and tension without killing the style, the fact that I still had loads of work left to do and should really be doing more, why was I so lazy? Taking time off work to write and not doing it eight hours a day. Get it together, I'd hiss at myself. You have to do a great job, first time around. You don't have the time or money to fuck it up. Your writing has to be perfect.

After a fitful sleep I'd wake up exhausted and bully myself into writing, hating what I was producing because it wasn't really going anywhere, just going in circles because I didn't have the guts to finish it or go back and fix what I wanted to fix. As the rain was slamming against the windows and the wind banging the doors I'd sit in the gray dusk, too defeated to turn on the light, and stare at the wall while my head fretted and fidgeted until The Ours came home to mark the end of the working day but I only wanted to watch the same old programmes on tv and complain about how I just wanted to sleep and be productive and why couldn't I do it, perhaps I wasn't cut out for writing because I felt so lonely and dejected and why couldn't I get it together? Then I'd go to bed exhausted and the scene would play itself out again, stuck in my own Groundhog Day of Hell.

But by Thursday morning something had changed, perhaps the colours shone a little brighter or I'd slept a little deeper, and not only did I write 1400 words but I printed out what I had written and made notes on how to change things, and I realised that it wasn't actually that bad, actually some of it was...good! Some scenes needed to be moved around and the dialogue needed more to and froing, but I wouldn't have to scrap it. It was a relief.

And at the end of this week I'm proud to say that even though my mood was the pits I was still able to produce an average of 1100 words a day. Perhaps I am cut out to be a writer after all. I am back to great form again, looking forward to spending a long St. Patrick's Day weekend with The Ours and my friends. I still have a long way to go but I think I can do it.

Saving Me From Myself

Reading about Debi Apner's request from a stranger for her book sales and Conortje's date announcing he needed his head shrunk, I was reminded of a recent discussion of my own.

Recently I was drinking on the first floor of the Stag's Head which is not unlike sitting in someone's front room with 100 other people. (Like a wake, but without the food and weird distant relatives.) I'd been collared by a friend of a friend I'll call Dave about the progress of my novel. He fancied himself as an expert about the path to publishing so he was full of questions and suggestions. I had the measure of him; I was armoured with a trusty layer of thick skin I'd nutured after the last time we'd spoken. The conversation turned to:

Dave: So what's your market?
Me: Well the structure of my novel is very like David Mitchell's The Cloud Atlas-
Dave: *Frowns* Never heard of him or it.
Me: It was shortlisted for the Booker Prize.
Dave: Hmm, the Booker Prize is quite niche you know. You need to be careful of these limited markets, people can be put off.
Me: Oh no, it was on the bestsellers list for ages, it's still a very popular book-
Dave: *Frown deepens* The populist market is full of pratfalls. Better to set your sights higher if you want to be respected.
Me: Sorry there Dave, the bar is calling. Cheers.

(Dave by the way is doing a PHD in Art and has never written a book let alone published one.)

I was more amused than annoyed by the above exchange, and perhaps it was just idle curiosity from a bit of a know-it-all. But I did get the impression he was testing my mettle for the road ahead, even trying to catch me out. Perhaps he was trying to save me from myself?

So here's the question - why do people do this? If, for example, I met a musician I wouldn't dare interrogate or lecture them about landing a recording contract but perhaps that's just me. I have the CV of a serial job-hopper but I have never had this reaction until I started telling people I was writing a book. Are writers a greater target than other professions? Or have I just been lucky until now?

From Mum Who Is Up To Her Eyes At The Moment But Still Takes The Time To Remember

Hello Yvonne,

Hope you’re feeling happier today. Is this the day for your new writers group? Whether it’s today or tomorrow, I’m sure you’re stressed out about it, I know I would be. So I thought I’d give you some support, I know it’s easy for people to say don’t be nervous, but if you can remember that all your family & friends think you have something worthwhile & important to say as well as being talented-not just because we love you-but because we know you very well & respect & admire you. No matter what, you work through the doubts & the fears & that takes a lot of courage & determination. So keep your chin up & believe in yourself.

Lots of love,

Mum

Stuffed

My head feels like it's stuffed with cotton wool today, ready to pop all over my dark green duvet. (yes, I'm in bed again, hurray for writerhood!)

Perhaps I'm a little under the weather that is having a tantrum of nuclear proportions outside?

Or maybe it's because of the documentary about Stephen Hawking last night, which I could follow until they started talking about String Theory and stretched my gray matter to breaking point?

Whatever the reason, I'm feeling a little sorry for myself. But I did manage 956 words so far. Not my best work, but it's still something.

I also finished Maggie O'Farrell's After You'd Gone which I really enjoyed. I found the style and colour of her writing to be so original and emotive. She really let the characters speak for themselves and I couldn't help but care for them. Incredibly well-paced too - I couldn't believe it was her first novel.

One minor quibble, I found the dialogue stilted and unrealistic at times, it reminded me of the dialogue in my first draft which actually gave me hope. If I could produce something in my first draft that reminded me of a published novel I enjoyed, I might have a chance in the publishing wilderness!

Howl

After a fun but tiring weekend I was all set to pass out in bed last night, but was kept awake by a storm that swatted the fire doors, peeled tiles off the neighbouring roofs and dropped debris through the glass panelled extensions at the back.

This morning the wind had died down and The Ours brought my laptop to where I stayed, in bed. I wrote 1140 words of my second draft, then completed an article about Las Vegas and sent it into BootsnAll.

Now all I have to do is stay awake until tonight. Where's that howling wind when you need it?