Friday, July 31, 2009

Even A Wacky Title's Drawing A Blank

I am tapping this out at work, which I am rather pleased with because I am on my own in the entire company. Some might say I’m ‘running the place’ myself, because I am. Thus I am able to do at work that which I never normally do; my own shit.

I sit with my back to the office. My monitor can be viewed by everyone, which has forced me to become diligent and conscientious every fucking minute of the day. With ringing phones and a constant stream of customers just turning up, as they are wont to do, even my lunchbreaks are brief and sporadic - so trust me when I say how therapeutic writing this is right now.

But it’s more than therapeutic. It’s also something of a rarity. You see, over the last week, something strange has happened. It’s extremely aggravating but I’m taking it in my stride, convinced that it’s all part of my natural, fucked up brain chemistry and ultimately I’ll snap out of it. I think it’s popularly known as writer’s block. I’d always thought that a respectable, bona fide creative obstruction was a maddening stare at a blank page or computer screen but in my case, it’s that with a strange dash of peace. I can’t quite explain it. It’s like watching someone lead a marathon and, just as the end is in sight and they’re about to cross, they come to a standstill and just look around, thinking.

I should be mad at myself for spending last weekend throwing beige food down my throat as I watched anything on Youtube, spending every waking minute in front of my computer doing absolutely no writing at all despite opening my 230-page document only to immediately ignore it. I should even be annoyed that all this week after work, I’ve written the collective total of just one paragraph but strangely, I don’t care. I really can’t explain it. In fact, I’m rather amused by it, as if my subconscious wants to punish my positivity and taking charge of my life by obstreperously making me stop.

However, it’s Friday morning. I love Fridays. They are your golden teenage years, when you were thinner, and less cynical, and less wrinkly, in day form. Fridays beckon in long lie-ins, and gentle ambles, and bestow upon you your own time to do with as you please (unless you work in a shop). And with mine, I’m choosing to give myself an ultimatum; If I cannot use this weekend to reverse this bizarre writing rut, if I cannot slap myself around the head, crack on and just finish this, then I may as well give up. And if nothing gives and everything's as good as over, I should just accept that and give in to that strange thought that’s popped back into my head whenever life has got too much:- Leave. Run. Flee.

This has taken the form of a daydream where I tell my boss I quit, tell my flatmate I’m leaving, and get on my bicycle and pedal away. I have pondered this for some time now, thoughts of filling my rucksack and cycling to France, then Italy, then central Europe, and never stopping until I attain nirvana or get laid, whatever comes first, although I strongly suspect neither.

Yet I’m well aware that I’ve run away from myself before, only to find that the fucker’s gone and followed me.

So yeah. There we go. One big existentialist burp of nothing.
Hey ho. I guess I’d better get back to my day job.
Have a good weekend, all.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The Tunnel At The End Of The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

For fuck's sake...

I've written those 5 new chapters, and I'm still not finished.

So I've stopped writing to take stock of myself, only to realise I've gained enough weight for other people to notice, and I'm smoking like a laboratory beagle.

And in this absurdly slow literary process, I've realised that I'll be 70 by the time I finish which, as a smoker, I'll be lucky to get to but if I do, that makes me middle aged right fucken' now.

How the hell did that happen? I've achieved absolutely bugger all with my life, sired zero shitting machines forced out from the once-tight chuff of a beautiful woman I don't actually have, and I still live above a fucking chemists in a crappy rented flat with a fat, bald man.

I read an article yesterday about Jim Fixx, the man who made the insanity of jogging look normal, and discovered that it wasn't jogging that killed him (directly), but a blocked artery due to years of smoking.

So I've stopped cycling in case I die. The weather's gone all shitty, plus I'm finding it hard to breathe anyway.

And thus, I'm in stasis again, a self-imposed limbo that has me staring at supermarket displays for dinner options and pacing around until I plump for a shit yellow disc with cheese on it, for the third day running.

Plus I really wanna quit my job.

In other news, I've been hanging out with the lavender folk, attending Gay Paul's birthday party and meeting yet another Jewish New Yorker broad in the street outside (I managed to offend her by saying there is no god, while the gay chaps I had been chatting to got her number instead), I woke up at 4am the night after that, convinced I was about to die (I'd gone to a BBQ in East Anglia and consumed enough booze, cigs and meat to kill a herd of elephants on crack), and I spent last weekend alone - that's alone - in my room, writing til stupid o'clock, as I downed a bottle of wine, four beers, and some left-over cocaine I found.

It felt all rather Hemingway minus the talent, until I woke up the following morning with the shakes, a Eurasian-seized sense of shame and self-loathing, and a really shit book.

If this damn thing ever gets finished, it'll be a fucking miracle.

Monday, July 06, 2009

Light At The End Of The Tunnel

All I do now is write; write when I get home from work, and write all weekend (once I've managed to snap out of the Youtube reverie of watching anything rather than eek out a painful story that'll never get published.) I'm now 35 chapters in, with about 5 more left to write, my original NaNoWriMo 50,000 word draft now upped to a current 95k. I hope to have this damn fucking albatross of a novel finished later this month, upon which I intend to go on an ether, opiates and crack binge for the next 25 years or until my heart packs in - whichever's sooner (my money's on the latter, after about an hour).

In other (non) news, it took me about two or three days to snap out of my Lovely American Ex-Girlfriend delusion. I've spent the better part of two years dropping hints (i.e. asking outright) to go back and see a frankly indifferent and slightly bitter ex who only seemed eager to 'forgive' me a couple of months ago, re-establishing contact as we bombarded each other with emails, photos (two) and phonecalls (one apiece), only for her to casually drop the new relationship bomb in passing as I tried to negotiate a trip to her home town.

If anyone can get hold of an original folio of 'The Mourning Bride' by William Congreve (1697), please do let me know, because next to the line; "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned", you should find an etching of her prodding me in the arse with a pike.

She's now been downgraded to ex-girlfriend (American).

As for my recent road accident, my bike vs. some cunt in a car, I've still yet to hear from the Metropolitan Police. It would appear that they don't help the public anymore, burdened as they are by said whinging bastards and their fucking paperwork. I've phoned them a couple of times only to be told it's 'in hand', and furthermore, the number plate the PCSO took down might be wrong.

Oh good.