Holy Jesus: a poem, a tidied house, and now a blog post. If this keeps going, people might mistake me for an actual person.
I'm looking around my sitting room (for those of you who haven't been, it's big, very 70's looking and one of those rooms that looks dirty even when its clean, due to weird butter lighting and a permeated sense of decay) and I'm feeling all nostalgic, because my lease is up in a month or so and I'll have to move and find somewhere else.
It's not that I'm much of a nester, because I'm not. I pride myself (rather strangely, and probably because I'm not terribly fond of where I'm from and how long I was stuck there, and like the idea of being able to run away) on being a traveller, a person untied to material possessions and indeed, any kind of place at all. At the same time, as someone who has lived on friends' couches and slept in internet cafés and benches, it's nice to have a place that's yours, a place that's unconditionally always there for you to drop your stuff in, have a shower, or just sit and stare at your ceiling. And now I have to find somewhere new. I do like the idea of actually investing some time and care into making the place my own (it usually takes me a month even to unpack) but I've had fun here, and it's weird to think of somewhere new.
I'm also wrestling with the notion of writing some poetry. I'm a prose man usually, and I usually stick to my fantasy, my sci-fi, my horror... but I quite like the idea of doing what my fellow writer and fellow adventurer Sarah Griff does, and doing real writing with real stuff and real people, and not obscuring things as much as I usually do. I've done one poem, 'Smoke,' and the experiment shall continue.
(and fuck me I am trying to organise the horrible graveyard of half-started stories that infest the crevices of my laptop, from where I've saved, moved, duplicated, saved bits, left in places, renamed, and blardyblardywankness, and IT'S KILLING ME. Why have I twenty all-different-all-unconnected stories saved under assfasdf? That's not a word. I hate words.)
My aim, somewhere a thousand years ago back when I could stand the sight of my own stuff, was to sort out what I could send away to publishers and what I couldn't, and see was there anything salvagable and fun from my scrapyard. In case you're wondering, I'm no closer to knowing that. I just want to cry at them until they go away. I've just finished my first 'long' short story in a couple of months, Senescence and it's going to be sent away soon. My next one (working title Heroes and Dragons, which will change, if you've read this before you will know that I hate naming things, hate it with a passion.)
I keep making to-do lists. It's a masochistic passion of mine, and the pain of looking at them ranks somewhere above cigarette burn and somewhere below coping saw. So far, I have Mother Meat, my unpleasant (and slightly Tugwellian) novella about a quarter finished, and plots and plans for half a thousand more kicking about my cranium.
On a wholly more pleasant note, I will be performing tomorrow at the Milk & Cookies Storytelling Night in the Exchange in Templebar, (starts at 6.30, finishes at 10, free tea, where else would you be going) trying out a rendition of an old Norse legend, and may also be helping my compadre Graham in the telling of one of his macabre tales. That should be fun, or at the very least, less stress than cleaning up my laptop and its messy half-library of unadulterered nonsense.
Right. No more procrastination. Once more, dear friends, into the breach.