Thursday, May 17, 2007

One of my not very said out loud new year's resolutions was that I was going to write more this year. I was going to start / finish 'the novel' - whatever it was about. (Probably a plotless ramble about a middle-aged man with an unhealthy fascination with cheap bad science fiction movies which he watches endlessly instead of doing something constructive).

I have never wanted 'To Write' (in a capital letters, reading A S Byatt sort of way) but I enjoy it. Apart from anything else, it makes me appreciate what bloody hard work it is to get clarity on the page, and how difficult it is slide things into a story without waving a big red flag with LOOK! HERE'S A PLOT POINT! written all over it. There's nothing quite like trying to do something for yourself to make you appreciate the skill and hard work that goes into making something look easy.


That was the sound of my brain collapsing as I listened to Ella Fitzgerald singing Cream's Sunshine of Your Love. It's about 15 minutes in on this archived program of MFWU's Incorrect Music show if you want to suffer a similar short term synaptic short out.

Good god!

I now have absolutely no idea at all what I was going to say.

I'll come back to this.


Phoebe said...

This entry really tickles me because it's like we were having a conversation and then you wandered off.

Junk Monkey said...

Which I do a lot. I have no idea what I was going to say - I remembered the next day - but forgot again under the relentless onslaught of "Daddy why...? Daddy when...? Daddy how...?"
Deep thought (or even sustained thought) and fullish time childrearing are inimical. I what I do remember thinking was "Ella, stop. Just stop. You don't have to prove anything... leave the stage now! Please..."

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