Tag Archives: Writing

I feel weird


I’m outside, in the shivery cold, wearing two shirts, my ‘smoking jacket’, sweats, socks and slippers. The moon is bright and directly in front of me, and I hear nothing but car tires whispering in the distance, an occasional bird who hasn’t realised that it is dark out, and a few thumps and bumps from the neighbours’ house.

It’s quiet because iDJ isn’t here and so there is no music playing – for a change. You have no idea how much I appreciate a non-musical interlude. He’s off buying me cream for my coffee and taking a brand new PC to its new owners – he does computer work on the side and fuck me but it took hours to set up a brand new Dell out of the box. Crazy. Hope he gets some cash for this. (Edit – he did)

Thumps and bumps are because we live in a semi-d. I share a wall with strangers. Well, not that we don’t ever talk but we have SFA in common, other than a dislike for the new neighbours in the estate who leave their yappy dog out all day and all night and never ever make it shut the hell up.

I smell the smoke of fires, mine and theirs – mine is coal and turf briquette, theirs is wood. The air is still enough that the smoke sifts down to me where I sit in the patch of light coming through our sliding glass doors. Shivering.

I don’t want to go in, even if I have a fire waiting. Outside it’s dry, and not windy, and my back feels ever-so-much better if I sit up straight in my Coleman camp chair. Sitting properly is something I do not do when huddled in front of the fire trying to blow my nasty cigarette smoke up the chimney.

I think I’m getting something. A cold, the flu, a bad reaction to having infected teeth. I haven’t been ill in over a year – I forget what the signs are. I feel weird. Stuffed up, but totally able to breathe through my nose. Achy, but just my neck. Headachy, but I’m used to that. We will see. I have another cold sore. This makes two in three weeks. A sure sign my resistance is low and I’m fighting off some horrible nastiness. For me to admit I don’t feel ‘right’ at all probably means I have something seriously wrong. Heh. Not. Heh.

We got free fish today. A friend of iDJ’s brought us cleaned and filleted mackerel. I don’t cook fish, I haven’t the talent. I leave eggs and fish to himself; he has the touch. I was mostly annoyed that I have to wash a raw-fish smelling bowl, and felt a bit odd that we were getting free meat out of the boot of a taxi. I guess that’s my do-something-for-the-first-time observation for the day.

A not new thing I’ve been wanting to mention is something that happens daily on my drive in to work. Same road, same time, every morning, I meet a school bus coming the other way. The bus-driver lifts a hand from the wheel and greets me. Every day.

How cool is that? I don’t know him, I don’t live in that town, and I don’t have kids on his bus. He knows my car and knows I’m there, and gives a little hello. I love Ireland. I would never get that in the States. I give it back, of course. Two ships vehicles passing in the night morning. It cheers me as I sit in my little blue and white box, music (that I love, a rarity) so loud I can’t hear my own engine, on my way to another day of work. I look forward to seeing that bus coming at me.

Himself is home, and the dog is tap-dancing in glee and the cats are talking to him – because he talks back, of course. I expect the music to start any second now, he’s standing at the Mac…

Back in the saddle again…


I don’t think I’ll be posting as much in the future. I have plans…

Tuesdays I’ve got KIBIS and there’s always Oirish Tirsday – both days I that I don’t get to play online as much as I usually do. And of course, the job takes up a huge chunk of my day (I worked an hour late today and feel pressure to go in early tomorrow as I still didn’t get everything done).

But that’s not why I think that I should step away from doing my usual one or more posts a day. I still could, but they would be small things like terribly cute cuddling cat pics or whatever dead leaf I found interesting enough to photograph.

I think I need some more ‘free’ time: not for the drawings, but the writing! I love the drawing, and after the excitement about King over the weekend, I really do want to do more of it. I’m waiting for inspiration to strike there, however. I can be a bit slow to cogitate over important things.

Which brings me to the point – after leaving it aside since October 2010, I’ve picked the book back up.

The Book. The one I’m writing. Or was writing, and am now revising and playing catch up with and getting back into the fun groove of my characters. I’ve over 25K words, so catch up takes a while.

I think I’m ready. I know I’m ready. My writer’s block was 100% guilt about playing and having fun while I didn’t have a job. I felt so guilty that my funny bone went to sleep, and my characters got bored and wandered away from me. Because for me, they write the book. Not me. I just listen in.

This blog’s entire original purpose was to get me back in the habit of writing. It did so much more than that! I found people I like and respect and I would welcome into my house without question. I found artists and writers and photographers and people who care about politics and good causes and so very, very many people who love their furry kids as much as I do. You are all fantastic, and I wouldn’t ever be able to ‘go away’ from you for more than a day or two! You have given me back my voice, my words, my funnybone, and my drive to finish what I started. Thank you!

It’s still in there, The Book, and it wants to come to life again.

Inspirational writers


I’m finally following up on an idea I apparently foisted upon a fellow blogger. I asked him in a comment about writers that inspired him, and his response was prompt and impressive. Being as I am someone with very little formal education – I just read a lot – I won’t be sharing some of his choices that are traditionally considered literature. I will read just about anything that is fiction, with the non-negotiable stipulation that romance novels are totally out of the question. (I found a Barbara Cartland novel in the trash when I was about eight. I was shocked that anyone could treat a book that way, and rescued it. I did read it, and that was enough for me to put it back into a bin.)

I’m also an American, so some of my choices might be considered too popular to be taken seriously. I am sorry if anyone does feel that way, however. Especially for my number one influence:

1. Stephen King. I love this man, I love nearly everything he has written, and I’m a collector of his work. A little history, bear with me; my parents were avid readers and did not censor what my sister and I read. Thank you, thank you. Mom volunteered at our library, and one of her jobs was picking new books for the shelves. She would consult with us girls, and we would know what would be coming in and when, and we would put our names on the reserved list. I clearly remember when King’s new books Firestarter and Cujo were bought as I was so excited to read them. They were released in 1980 and 1981 respectively – I was nine when Firestarter came out.
So, I have a love of Mr King’s work that is over 30 years old. He does inspire me, especially his book On Writing. I could go on and on, but I’ll shut up now. He will get a whole post one day, I do have a few criticisms as well as accolades.

2. C.S. Lewis. The Chronicles of Narnia, obviously. I wrote a lot of rubbish when I was a kid because of him. His religious undertone failed with me utterly, I just wanted talking animals to be real.

3. Dean Koontz. I’ve gone off him a bit now, he’s way too Christian for my tastes and it is getting annoying. But he’s on the list for sheer perserverance, meticulous editing of every sentence, and the staggering volume of his work. Lightning, Midnight and Watchers were the first three books of his I read, and I still think they are the best of his enormous bibliography.

4. Madeline l’Engle. She wrote for what would now be considered ‘tween-age’ girls, but she wrote about science, time travel, and history. Another one whose religious undertone failed to affect me – now I can’t even imagine how or why she could link god to a book that explains, quite well, the first through sixth dimensions. Sigh. On the list as she taught me you don’t have to write about romance and rainbows when you are a woman writing for girls.

5. Dr Seuss. I don’t know if I would love words as much without him having so damn much fun with them.

6. Charles Bukowski. Wow, what a drunken, hateful, misogynistic loser. Wow, what a mind that allowed him to spill everything on paper. An inspiration because I learned that nothing is too horrible to write about. I’ll even read his poetry. Not for everyone, but if you like my next entry, you’ll like Bukowski.

7. Chuck Palahniuk. He’s disgusting and creative with it. A quick and bizarre mind, he taught me that nothing is too strange or sickening to write about – very liberating.

8. John Irving. I read The World According to Garp when I was about 13, and despite being shocked by the infamous car accident scene, I didn’t really appreciate the novel. Much later in life I read A Prayer for Owen Meany and The Cider House Rules, and fell in love. I’ve not read all of his works yet, but will. I love how he is so adept at immersing me in the world he has created. A kind of ‘I’m not worthy’ feeling hits me when I finish one of his books.

9. Kurt Vonnegut. If Irving makes me feel not worthy, Vonnegut makes me feel as if I shouldn’t even bother. Not exactly inspirational, is it? He just blows my socks off: style, language, humour, story, technique. I am a latecomer to Vonnegut, and I am sorry we lost him recently because once I read everything, there will be no more. I parcel his works out to myself like rare expensive chocolates, savouring each one.

I’m sure there are tons more, but I’ve run out of playtime and need to get ready for my job interview!