DECEMBER 2004
Friday 7th January, 5pm - New Blog
This is no longer the main blog. This is just where old posts are stored - for now. At some point the archives will be moved over to the new blog. Click here to access the new blog.
If you're having trouble viewing this archive, paste this into your browser: http://www.boobpencil.co.uk/Blog_archive.html. Hopefully that will fix it. If not, bear with me - should be sorted soon. Sorry!
Tuesday 4th January, middle of night - More Good News
I've finally seen the error of my ways. I accept that I'm simply not skilled enough - and don't have time to get skilled enough - to write my own blog code from scratch. Or even my own website code. So I'm letting others do the hard work for me. Here is a sneak preview of my brand new blog. I'm quite happy with it. And I think it should work in most browsers. Yay! And it has comments. Which may or may not be a good thing. We'll see. Feel free to leave me some comments. You'll make my day.
Friday 31st December - Good News
No, not the birth of Christ. Don't be silly. He wasn't the son of God anyway, he was a very naughty boy. And he had sex! With Mary Magdalene! Well, he did according to Dan Brown. I'm loving the Da Vinci Code. It has all the flaws everybody says it has. And then some. And I'm gripped.
No, the good news is that yesterday I received my very first royalty cheque. For £42.96. Now this may not sound like much, but let me tell you it is Very Exciting. Because I truly didn't believe I was ever going to earn back my advance. But according to the piece of paper that landed unassumingly on the doormat, 1400 copies were sold between publication and 1st Nov '04. And that's not including Christmas! What's even more mind-boggling is that 917 of those copies were sold in "the rest of the world", i.e. the US and Australia. How on earth did these people even know I exist?? I keep thinking it's a mistake. I must have got someone else's royalties.
That actually happened to my friend Michael Harding, who received a royalty cheque for the Rochdale Cowboy, also called Mike Harding. Funnily enough Mike (Rochdale) Harding is also an old email pal of mine, after I met him at a book launch one time.
I've been meaning to mention Michael for ages, because we've got a really exciting project on the go at the moment. I wrote a lullaby for Felix which I sing to him every night, and to cut a long story short I've made a recording which Michael is planning to make into A Proper Piece Of Music. Michael's a really talented musician, so it's very exciting. This kind of collaboration is ideal for me - all the reward for none of the effort! Bargain.
P.S. Happy New Year!
Friday 31st December - Theme of the Season
I rarely comment on world events here. Mainly because I never believe I have anything to think or say that won't have been thought or said already. And to presume that the rest of the world cares about my opinion feels, well, presumptuous.
And when it's something Unfathomably Awful such as the Asian tsunami, it just feels a little selfish. How can I be saying "Listen To Me Because I Have Something To Say About This" when I'm so utterly unimportant compared to all the suffering?
This has become something of a theme for me this Christmas. The Self. Being selfish, self-absorbed, self-obsessed. I'm all of these things, and it worries me, although not enough to do anything about it because, well, I'm too selfish. Even when I do apparently selfless things I suspect it's for selfish reasons. I mentioned a Top Secret project just before Christmas. What I was actually doing was creating this for these babies**, and the result was this, which is brilliant. I was really busy but still I made time to do it. How nice of me. Except that throughout the whole thing I was dying to say "Look everybody! Look what I did! Aren't I clever? Aren't I generous? Aren't I lovely?"
On Christmas Day I gave a carefully selected and prepared stocking to our friend, who has had a bit of a tough time lately and took refuge with us on the 25th. She was delighted, and really grateful. I was a bit taken aback, cos me and Ally always do stockings for each other and mostly we take them a bit for granted. Was I being generous? I didn't feel generous. And anyway I kept saying tactless things. Because I don't think before I open my mouth.
The weirdest thing about all this is that in principle I approve of people giving attention to themselves. I think selfishness is a good and necessary thing, with the obvious proviso that it shouldn't be to the detriment of others. We can't look after others unless we look after ourselves, and if you want to increase the amount of happiness in the world then it makes sense to start in the area where you have the most influence - yourself. I used to be much happier about focusing on myself, and much less guilty. And ironically I was probably more selfish.
I read another blogger write very sensibly about focusing on oneself at Christmas, and giving up the futile struggle to please everyone else. Before we had a child we were quite bolshy about Christmas being for us, and not making ourselves knackered and miserable by frantically flying up and down the country. But since Felix's arrival we've been much more amenable to the idea of spreading ourselves about at this time of year. Which is of course even more knackering and stressful when you throw a child into the equation.
Interestingly, I put off having kids for years because I resented the possibility of having to devote so much time and effort to someone else. But even though I now have significantly less spare time and have to do all sorts of tiresome things like getting up in the mornings, I don't resent any of that. Felix is an extension of me, so if he needs stuff doing it's just natural that I should do it. I was shocked to discover that Ally, on the other hand, does sometimes resent the commitment required from parenthood. Don't get me wrong though - he also delights me daily with what a brilliant and committed dad he is.
So what's going on?
Maybe parenthood makes you automatically selfless in a way you don't even question.
Maybe it makes you prone to guilt about being selfish.
Maybe women really are hard-wired to look after others, and feel bad if they don't.
Maybe it's just conditioning.
Maybe it's not selflessness at all, because doing things for your children and wider family - particularly at Christmas - is actually rather rewarding.
Maybe children really don't count, because they are essentially an extension of yourself, so doing things for your kids is the ultimate in selfishness.
Anyway, what is this post other than an exercise in self-absorbed noodling?
Ho hum.
But on the good days I think the following: The best way to counter bad news is to create some good news. If millions of people are suffering after the tsunami, it doesn't help humanity if I add to the misery by suffering on their behalf. A couple of people feel better because I made some lettering for a playmat. I feel better too. I feel proud of myself. That's all right. It doesn't help if I ruin the pride with instant mortification at how selfish I am. I can donate some money to Asia and I can try and keep my head up. That's more helpful than whingeing and whining about how selfish I am.
My next post will be a positive one. I promise.
** More info on the premature twins can be found here, here and here.
Saturday 25th December - Haha
I really wanted it as well. And when I told Ally I wanted it, he said there was no way anyone was going to catch him walking into a bookshop and buying it. And I told him not to be so elitist. And he said it came of working in a bookshop all that time.
But he bought it for me anyway. Well, he says Felix bought it. Call me ekptical, but...
[well, you can call me ekptical if you want, but I guess you might not have been thinking of that. You were probably going to call me skeptical. Fair enough, if that’s what you want. Personally I think ekptical is the better word, but hey, who am I... no, no, you go ahead, you use boring tired old words that have been used a million times before, don’t mind me, I only went to all that trouble to make up a brand new special cool word that’s not only hard to spell but hard to pronounce, but hey, no, you go ahead and use the crap old unimaginitive cliche. Well yes, OK, I didn’t exactly invent it. Well, not me as in the thing here in the brain, but it was my fingers that came up with it, and if my fingers are not me then who the hell are they? Maybe it was some kind of Freudian slip, or maybe it was automatic writing, yeah, it was the spirits talking through me. They made up a brand new word. It was probably a really cool ghost, like John Peel maybe, or Ivor Cutler, yeah, Ivor Cutler. Except he’s not dead. I don’t think. But so what, maybe he has the power to convert himself into spirit form and go whizzing around the internet popping out in the odd keyboard here and there and influencing people’s fingers to type brand new words that noone’s ever used before. Yeah. I bet that’s it.]
Saturday 25th December - Tee Hee
Hahaha, I got The Da Vinci Code for Christmas.
Tee hee.
Saturday 25th December - SNOW! In Manchester!
It's been snowing off and on all day, sometimes proper thick heavy snowdrops.... and our garden now looks like a really cheesy Christmas card. You know, the ones you look at and think, "Yeah, right. Like it ever really looks like that on Christmas Day."
The moon is almost full, the snow has coated every last little twig and branch and is standing up along each bough, almost an inch thick.
It's really rather gorgeous!
Happy Chrsitams everyone.
You don't know what Chrsitams is? Well, it has something to do with woine. wihe. wine.
Friday 24th December - Afterthought
Hmmm, it's only just occurred to me that this site isn't exactly 100% work-safe any more. Which has implications both for the casual skiving browser... and me. Cos I sometimes update the site from work. I s'pose I could just say sod it. But I often get frustrated that I can't access, for instance, Emily Dubberley's blog from work, because the porn filters block it.
I wonder if those filters would be clever enough to spot that hand-drawn nipple? Surely not? Although they might spot the word nipple. Nipple nipple nipple. Tassels. Nipple.
Hmmm.
Some kind of virtual elastoplast over the offending area, maybe?
Hmmm.
Thursday 23rd December, late at night - Revamping The Site
Haha, guess what I just spent the evening doing. It's not at all what I was supposed to be doing, but [smug] Christmas is more or less sewn up [smug smug] so I had some spare time. For making this site look pretty.
It's very blue. Partly because I like blue, and partly because I don't have clever software, so I can only get colours by guessing what their code might be. In hexadecimal. Which - if you don't already know - is Something Complicated And Technical (Scat for short, because scatting is a cool fun jazz thing).
The background picture is a self portrait, which I once drew to illustrate the pencil trick... because someone didn't believe I could hold 17 pencils under one boob (I really can).
There's tons of other stuff I'd like to do to this site. I can't decide whether I want comments, though. Most other bloggers seem to have them, but I'm not convinced they add anything. And I know what I'm like. I'd just end up obsessively checking them every five minutes. And then being disappointed when there was nothing there. But people expect/like the internet to be interactive.
Well it's not an option at the mo, cos I haven't a clue how to do it. But please DO email me if you feel like saying something. I know it's more daunting than anonymous commenting, but I'd really appreciate it. I love getting emails.
The rest of my evening was spent on a Top Secret project, which I can't tell you about - what with it being Top Secret 'n' all. But it was very satisfying, and I'm pleased with the results.
Ally spent the evening building the self-assembly bike his parents have bought Felix for Christmas. It's green, called something like "Frogmobile", and unbearably cute. With dinky little stabilisers. He's going to love it. Aww. He's being extra extra sweet this week. I took him round to a friend's house for mince pies last night and he had all the assembled company eating out of the palm of his hand. He invented two imaginary friends on the way there (a big shark and a little shark, both wearing hats), and when we got back in the car he delightedly told me they were still there, waiting for him. Aww.
Thursday 23rd December, 1.30pm - Red Hot
Ooooh, look at this:
Five copies of "Va Va Voom - Red Hot Lesbian Erotica" arrived on our doorstep yesterday. Or maybe it was the day before. Funny how time distorts at this time of year.
Anyway. My story is there, proudly... at the very back of the book. Which prompted much discussion about whether this was A Good Thing or not. Experience has taught me that if you are performing - singing or performance poetry - at any kind of cabaret event, by far the best slot is the last. All the quality acts are saved for the end. The last act often gets the biggest vote too, if it's a slam.
But what about red hot lesbian erotica anthologies? Well I honestly don't know. Ally's theory is that the first and last stories are Important, and my story has a strong ending so it's a good way to finish the book off. Well, it's a nice theory.
Apparently the British library has copies of everything that's ever published. So when I'm 98-and-three-quarters, I can toddle on down on my walking frame, ask to see it and then wave it belligerently at passers-by. "That's me, that is! Look! Red hot, it is!"
Don't look at me, mad biddy lady.
The big question, of course, is this: Does lesbian erotica constitute an acceptable standby Xmas pressy for unexpected uncles or antediluvian aunties?
Tuesday 21st December, 3pm - The Last 24 Hours (and a Bit).
The weekend is good. A little fraught at times, negotiating London with a 2-and-a-half-year-old and a pushchair, but Hackney City Farm, Santa Claus in Stratford Shopping Centre, the Big Chill Bar and lots of general family loveliness more than makes up for any niggles. Felix has a lovely time playing "What time is it Mr Wolf?" in the street outside BC Bar, and gets so high on chips he doesn't fall asleep in the car until we're almost home. Every time we think he's finally dropped off he pipes up singing again: "ABCD, E not G..."
We also discover many good car games, such as:
(a) Guessing what Cousin Joseph might be doing ("swinging from the stars!" "putting pancakes on his head!" "starting a revolutionary sect!"),
(b) Staging spider fights and
(c) Playing hide and seek with the moon (only works if it has clouds to hide behind).
Then the last 24 hours happen.
First Ally catches the 'flu. Which means I have to drive into Cheshire to fetch Dipsy (the dog) from Torin and Kathryn's house. And take Felix with me. Not a problem. He likes Torin & Kathryn, and is excited about seeing them. But he falls asleep five mins after leaving the house. And simply won't wake up when we get there. Ah well. Never mind, he's obviously tired, so off we go back home again. But he wakes up as I'm carrying him up the stairs... "I wan' see Torin Kafrin! Waaaaah!" Oh well, that was to be expected...
Half an hour later (with no let-up): "I wan' see Torin Kafrin! Waaaaah!"
Half an hour later (with no let-up): "I wan' see Torin Kafrin! Waaaaah!"
10.30pm. Boy is finally asleep. Ally is languishing on the sofa, too ill to move. Time to cook tea. Eat tea at 11pm. Watch a bit of telly. Then make a start on the housework, which is supposed to be what I was doing tonight, because tomorrow night is the company do and Wednesday is Ally's birthday and half of Levenshulme is coming round to our house to celebrate...
2am. Get in the bath, to commence the customary Biannual Armpit & Leg Shaving Ritual (once for summer hols, once for Xmas do).
2.40am. Bath is covered in surface layer of fluff. Eeeuuuwww.
2.45am. Redistribution of the fluff brought about by the dictatorship of the prolerazorat. Whole body now covered in fine film of relocated fuzz.
2.50am. Fall into bed.
8.30am. Get up. Knackered. Pre-menstrual. Somehow manage to cobble together some form of breakfast, get boy ready for nursery (with heroic help from the be-flued one), open front door, start to move down steps... wonder why Ally is pointing at car and making horrible faces and weird panicky noises... oh. We have a Flat Tyre Situation.
Oh.
"No no no, you go back inside into the warm, I can manage..."
Five minutes later. Ring the doorbell. "I can't work out which way up the jack goes." *
Get the jack going. Wow, look, I just lifted a car up! Jacks really are marvels of engineering, aren't they?
Five minutes later. Ring the doorbell. "I can't get the hubcap off."
So Ally comes out and gets the hubcap off for me, then starts having a go at the nuts. But the car is in the air. Which is Wrong, apparently. "You're really not very good at this, are you?" he says.
Now look. I don't care whether you've got 'flu. I don't care if you are a sweet little old lady with a walking frame, you simply do not say things like that to a woman with PMT and not enough sleep. Particularly not a control-freak-woman with a bit of a thing about being able to turn her hand to anything. I think I deserve points for only saying "PLEASE don't make comments like that" and marching into the house, rather than bashing him over the head with a tyre iron (Aha! That's what a tyre iron is).
Fidget around inside for a while, fretting about the fact that I've left the ill person to do a nasty manual job in the freezing cold. Felix, meanwhile, has discovered the bag of old toys given me yesterday by Torin & Kathryn's mum. He's very excited. There are cows, pigs, foxes, even a helicopter! A helicopter which looks suspiciously like the one I bought in the Early Learning Centre last week as our main Christmas present to him...
The doorbell rings. Ally can't get the nuts off. They've been tightened on with a machine, and all he's managing to do is wear down the corners of the nut. He has a theory that if I lie on my back on the freezing pavement and brace my foot against one arm of the tyre iron while he jumps on another... I oblige. The pavement is cold. I wonder whether my work trousers are getting dirty.
It doesn't work.
We ring the AA.
One hour later we're on our way to nursery, Felix clutching his beloved new (old) helicopter. We arrive at nursery, where Felix has an enormous tantrum because I won't let him take the "aycopter" in with him. I hand him over, screaming.
But that's not the end of the saga. The flat tyre could have been the last straw. It wasn't. The last straw happens when I finally get to work, then nip out in my lunch hour...
It hasn't even been raining. I just happen to be walking by the only puddle in Altrincham. Not only is it the only one, it is a very small one. Small, but deep. But right at the very edge of the road, where no car would normally be. They wouldn't be there unless they spotted the puddle, spotted the poor unsuspecting pedestrian, and then swerved specifically with the one single purpose of catching a wheel squarely in the puddle and showering me from head to toe in extremely muddy water. They would, of course, given that it was their express intention to provide a free mudbath, ensure that my glasses, clothes, face and hair were completely splattered. They would also pick a moment when every other single bugger on the pavement is an unfeeling posh bastard who absolutely refuses to acknowledge the bewildered "What the fuck just happened?" expressions being broadcast out in a general plea for human sympathy and understanding with anything other than a "Don't look at me, mad muddy lady" scowl.
I love Christmas, I really do.
* I am actually very good at gadgets and things. It's my job to do all the DIY. I'm good with my hands. I have good spatial awareness. Stop looking at me like that, I really do! It's just that this morning I was in a particularly incompetent state, that's all. Normally it's me showing Ally how to do it. I'm not a helpless little woman. I'm NOT. [stamps foot a lot]
Thurs 16th December, 16:30, Publicity.
We're in the Big Smoke this weekend, and Ally is DJing at the Big Chill bar on Sunday, 2-4pm. It'll be a proper family outing, and I'm hoping for a hefty compliment of Londoners to play hide and seek with Felix while I sip... oh bollocks, I'm driving. Oh well.
Thurs 16th December, 16:30, Christmas Postscript.
I rather like Christmas though. In fact I like it a lot. And I like winter, too. All snuggled up inside, the coldness and darkness of the outside making the warmth and light of the sitting room all the more pleasurable. My garden, which smells lovely in winter. And looks all right, because there isn't any weeding to do. Well not much.
And I like stockings. And Christmas dinner. And carols. And hymns. It's such a shame I'm an atheist. Still, I've taken to singing 'Little Donkey' to Felix at bedtime every night. And he has a really cute do-it-yourself advent calendar with little wooden doors. And I have such a luscious stash of Stuff To Bust My Diet With on Christmas day. Some of it's in the bedroom cupboard. So far I've resisted the temptation to tuck in early, but I don't think I'll last much longer...
I just don't like Christmas cards. And I have PMT.
Wed 15th December, late at night. I Hate Bloody Christmas Cards
I Hate Bloody Christmas Cards
...and each year I think “I’m not doing this again,” but I always do. WHY? Particularly as I send about twice as many as I receive, so others clearly have no compunction about opting out (and I am not complaining here - I really don’t want any more of the bloody things - it’s hard enough finding places for the ones we do get; only clutter-free houses are any use for Xmas card placement, and you know we ain ’t got one of them).
I’m sorry, but it’s no fun. I’m especially sorry if you’re one of the poor unfortunates who actually receives one of the damn things from me, but It. Is. No. Fun.
What’s not fun? What isn’t fun? Well, let’s see now, there’s writing cards, choosing who to send them to, wondering whether to include the millions of relatives that we Catholics tend to accumulate like raisins in the kitchen drawer, whether to give them to people you’re going to see tomorrow anyway, whether to give them to colleagues (argh, the horrendous slippery-slopeness of “If I give him one then I’ll have to give her one too” and before you know it you’re having to include the whole damn office), all of the fun of getting back in touch ruined by the fact that you have to do it with 45 people all at one time and you run out of things to say after the first four, worrying about who should get kisses, wondering whether you can say the same thing, and send the same card, to people who might see each other and compare notes...
Should you try and be funny? Should those who don’t reciprocate be crossed off the list (for reasons of tact rather than revenge)? Is anyone pleased to receive them? Should you lick, stick or tuck? What if you miss the post? Does it even matter - isn’t there more pleasure to be gained from the late arrival, particularly as you then don’t have to find a place to display it? Do the designs matter? Is it worth spending a fortune on nice ones? Will anyone notice that you bought a bumper bargain job lot with only three designs five years ago and are still sending out the same bloody cards every year because the box is some kind of weird bottomless tardis-box? Should you make a note of who gets which design so you don’t send them the same one as last year? Are they making a note, so they can laugh when you send identical cards five years in a row? How can it possibly use up three hours of precious life to write the same thing repeatedly in 45 cards? Should I leave them unopened and get Ally to sign them too? Will anybody notice if I forge his signature? Should I just make it balatantly obvious that I’m signing on his behalf? Should I add Felix to the list of signatories? Should I include the dog? If I leave a space for Ally, should it look like this: “Lots of love from Clare xxx Felix and…” or this: “Lots of love from Felix, Clare xxx [space]” or this: “Lots of love from [space] and Felix and Dipsy and Clare xxx”?
And what do you do with the ones that drop through the door? Should you thread them on a string? Balance them on an already-overful mantelpiece? Leave them in a pile of unopened post on the kitchen table? Hang them from the ceiling? Use them to construct a fiendishly complicated and impressive Christmas decoration? Should you keep them after Xmas? Can they be recycled, as roaches, birthday cards or coasters? Do they have sentimental value? What should you do if you get one from somebody you didn't send one to? Will they be more annoyed to receive an obviously-hastily-dashed off guilt card in January, or just not get one at all?
It’s just all too much. It’s no fun. And it’s very bad for the environment.
I Hate Bloody Christmas Cards.
(Apart from the one you sent me, dear reader. That one was special, and different, and lovely, and I am not an ungrateful cow at all. Not in the least bit. In fact I’ve framed it, and when the season is over will be depositing it in a safety deposit box. Because you’re different. And special. Am I forgiven yet?)
Fri 10th December, Postscript
It's OK, I didn't die. My legs were very very sluggish for the first ten lengths, but that's cos it was ludicrously early and I am NOT a morning person.
Thurs 9th December, late at night. Eating Before Swimming - Cramp or Crap?
It's one of those things we were told when we were little: don't eat before swimming, because you might get cramp and then die from being drownded.
But...
(a) have you EVER met anyone who got cramp whilst swimming, and
(b) if you got cramp, so what? Why on earth should it make you drown? Surely you can still drag yourself to the poolside or the shallow end - it would have to be ludicrously painful to stop you. And I've never heard of cramp paralysing you or anything. It's just a bit painful, innit?
Anyway, I shall be going swimming first thing tomorrow morning. Immediately after breakfast.
If I should suffer Death By Drownding, I want Sia to sing at my funeral. Oh yes.
Thurs 9th December, late at night - Faffing, Farting and Fiddling About
Isn’t it amazing how faffing about with computers can suck eons out of the space-time continuum? It’s fine for all you slackers who have nothing better to do of an evening than sit in front of a computer for hours on end... I’m a busy mother-writer-software-engineer, I haven’t time for re-organising hard disks, updating address books, fiddling about with websites... I have other important stuff to do.
What do you mean, what stuff? You know, stuff. Like, well, like cooking. What do you mean, Ally does all the cooking?
Well, all right then. Vaccuming. I wouldn’t know one end of a vacuum from another, you say? Ah... ahem, uhurrr, ah... aha! Children. They never go to sleep. You have to keep jumping up and down to sing soothing lullabies.
Who told you he sleeps 12 hours a night? OK. Ironing. I have ironing to do. Looooads of it. Oh bollocks, I knew that interview was a bad idea. Look, I was lying. I’m an inveterate ironer. I am. These trousers are supposed to be crumpled, and those just-been-retrieved-from-under-the-cat folds are the latest thing. Catch up.
Oh, all right then. Rumbled. I’m an incurable computer slacker and I’ve not even bothered to keep up with my favourite soap operas cos I’d rather spend the evening tinkering with electronic data.
Oh dear.
Mon 6th December, 2.30pm - Flummoxed
Software Engineer & Published Author Flummoxed by Tropical Fruit.
Mon 6th December, 11.30am - Schizoid
Argh, I'm going to have to do something about the front page of this site being in the third person. It was originally done because the site was designed to plug my book, and it looked more professional like that. Or something. But every time I update it I start to feel like some kind of split personality.
Mon 6th December, 11am - 24-Hr Story-Writing Challenge
Stop Press. Just to let people know I'm planning another 24-hr story-writing challenge, on Sunday 23rd January 2005. You get 24 hours to write whatever takes your fancy. If you want a more detailed brief I'm happy to give you one. Date to be confirmed, but probably in the new year. I organised one via the Big Chill forum in February, and the results are here. I'm doing this one via the BC forum as well. The idea is that several people all do it at the same time, and then we can email / post forum messages to each other to cheer ourselves on. Full details here.
You don't have to be a member of the Big Chill forum to join in (you can post as Guest), but if you want to join it's easy - applications aren't vetted or anything. Just click the "Register" link in the top left corner after "Welcome Guest".
Sat 4th December, 11.30pm - Job Breeding
Jobs breed jobs! The less you do, the less needs doing. The more you do, the more needs doing. I’m going to go back to being a slob.
Sat 4th December, 11pm - Internet Stalking (Again)
I was reading someone else’s blog (little red boat - highly recommended) and came across the following: "I've always wanted to be pale and enigmatic and interesting"... well, me too. I've always wished I was quiet. Mysterious. Intriguing. Instead of a big loudy gobmouthed shite. No, I mean a loud gobby shitemouth big. No, that's not right either. Well, something like that anyway.
This whole thing of reading other people’s blogs and thinking “me too” is a weird old business. For a start I find myself poaching their writing style - like those people who sub-consciously take on the accent of the person they’re talking to. And then I go into internet-stalker mode and email them saying “Hey! We’ve got loads of stuff in common!”
Of course, part of my not being enigmatic is the tendency to wibble on in great detail to total strangers in a way that sometimes makes people go, "Aaaargh! Madwoman! Run away!" After all, it is a bit odd to write to someone you’ve never met, shouting "I’m just like you!" But that's one of the strange things about blogs. And various other forms of writing. Certain types of novel. Well, many types of novel. And some magazine columns. The thing their writers have in common is that they are (or appear to be) opening themselves up, and the writing style encourages the reader to feel they have a personal dialog with the writer. It’s a bit like when you're in a club and you get talking to a random stranger in a corner and suddenly you're telling them all your secrets. The difference is the club conversation is a two-way street, where both parties are fully consenting and aware of what is happening. The blogger on the other hand, has no idea who is reading their blog, or what conclusions they’re reaching.
In fact, that whole "having stuff in common" thing is a powerful, but often misleading, human impulse. It can get you into all sorts of trouble in the world of the internet. What we tend to do is look for points of connection. So you read someone's posts on a forum and think "Oh, I like them. They're just like me." Then you arrange to meet up and find out that they're not only an axe-wielding psychopath, but rather a boring one who now wants to be your busom pal and won't leave you alone*. Because you only paid attention to the parts you related to, and ignored anything else. Including the obvious fact that they’re only choosing to reveal choice chunks of themselves online.
I have a confession to make. This is a recycled blog post. It was originally an email. Is it morally reprehensible to recycle emails here? Like stealing back someone's Christmas present and giving it to someone else? I like to think that (a) most people don't read my blog anyway, so they'll never know, and (b) if they did, they'd be flattered. I’ve got a vague basis for assumption (b), cos of something that happened a couple of weeks ago. In Emily Dubberley’s editorial for this month's issue of Scarlet magazine, she quotes from an email received... and it was from me! I was well chuffed, I can tell you**. Particularly as it was quite rude, and I was reading it while walking down Stockport High St (I don’t know why that added to the whole experience, but it did).
And Emily is only a friend because I emailed her out of the blue. After reading her blog and thinking, “Oooh, she’s just like me.” And the only reason I found her blog in the first place is because Mil Millington directed me to it. And how do I know Mil Millington? Because I sent him a random email, and he responded***.
In fact I can tell you that the world divides roughly into people who love getting long rambling emails, and respond enthusiastically... and those who don't. The latter are the majority. Given that they don't respond, I can't tell you why not. But being me, I have several theories. One is that they think I'm a mad stalker woman and are now living in fear behind locked doors. Another is that they're intimidated/confused by my wordiness and don't know how to respond. Or they've put me in a pile of things "to do", but considering they feel it would oblige them to write a several thousand word essay, they never quite get around "to do"ing it.
Which brings us right back round to the point of this post (there was a point). It's the oh-my-God-it's-a-madwoman-run-away-quick response to my verbocity that makes me sometimes wish I was quiet and enigmatic. And then people would seek me out, instead of the other way round. But then I wouldn't be able to talk to them, because I'd be too busy being quiet and intriguing. And where would be the fun in that?
* I should say this only happened to me once, I’m exaggerating, and the person in question has no knowledge of this blog - before all my internet friends go paranoid on me.
** OK, so seeing an email from you quoted somewhere isn't quite the same as having an email to you re-used somewhere else, but, erm, well, oh all right then I'm a terrible human being and I regularly steal babies' dummies in the street.
*** If anyone wants to email me in a verbose shouty jumpy-up-and-downy way about how much they relate to what I'm saying, I shall of course barricade the doors and assume I'm being stalked by a mad person.
Thurs 2nd December, footnote
(see below) I got quite a lot done in the end. Hooray! It's definitely coming together, just like the stage in pastry-making when you stir the mixture with a knife. Of course nobody except me makes their own pastry any more, so that comment will have to remain enigmatic for most of you. Wow. Me being enigmatic? Surely not.
Thurs 2nd December, 11am - Inner Demons
Writing always surprises me with how hard it is. The hardness of it doesn’t make any logical sense to me, so I resist the truth of it - I can’t believe I’m really that crap. Because it’s not the actual writing that’s hard - it’s the motivation. And the reason it makes no sense is that I really do want to write.
So when I recognise patterns in my motivation, I refuse to accept them as being fundamental to the way that I write. I’m convinced I must be able to overcome them with just a little more discipline. And maybe I can. But here’s the way it works:
There seems to be a little switch in my brain. After faffing about for however long, I finally reach a point where I can (have forced myself to?) sit down to work. I make a start. It’s looking good. I feel good. This is it. I’m doing it. I made it here. Then after a very short space of time (but feels like more), I find a very strong force is tugging me away again. In my head this gets rationalised as “Aren’t I doing well. In fact I’m doing so well I deserve a little break. I’ll just pop off and have a look at...” This urge is very strong. It’s this very urge which has just pulled me away from Novel II. After an hour of “gearing myself up” by surfing the net, I think I managed five minutes on Novel II before I was pulled away to write this blog entry. It might have been less.
What is wrong with me?! I do want to write this novel. I really do. The days that I can’t write because I’m busy with all the other myriad of things in my life, I feel frustrated because I can’t write. And then a lovely blank clean slate of a Writing Day arrives, and what do I do? Surf the bloody internet.
Grrrrrrrr. Get back to work, wench.
Actually, I’ve just remembered what happens next. Why does it take me so long to spot these patterns? This is the crucial part of the day. It’s at this point that I either give in to The Urge and surf the internet for another couple of hours, OR I manage to defeat that nasty inner demon and get back to work. So which will it be?
I’ll let you know.
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Clare Sudbery
