And what did I do during the summer? The parties...oh the parties. Decadent, prodigious and sweaty beyond belief. Where the young and the old rubbed shoulders and teased hotdogs. My, how I enjoyed imagining them!
Me? Well I just didn't write for a bit. Everywhere I went - National Trust properties, swimming pools, soft play, Eastbored - I didn't write a thing. The whole time as I just wandered and floundered about aimlessly, pretending to fit in I did not write anything at all. Even when I was changing into my trunks in full view of everyone I didn't jot down a single letter. It was lucky too, I was ejected quite swiftly from THAT soft play centre. Not really...I just said that for a cheap laugh. And to BLOODY WRITE SOMETHING.
Which I am now doing and not just here. The second draft of Seething Fury has arrived. I felt it would be a little easier but I'm finding it a struggle. It's almost like going to the gym. If I don't do it regularly then a load of other people will and they'll become incredibly fit and everyone will go on about how fit they are and they'll go to fitness parties and win awards for fitness and rub hot dogs with the fittest people in the country and when I talk to them they'll just be name dropping other famous fitties while I sit there eating a cucumber shaped like a tuba. Then their fittie friends will come in and laugh at me and dare me to play the tucumber (as they call it) and I'll get all embarrassed and start crying but they'll just laugh harder until I blow the tucumber with all my might until my heart dribbles pitifully out of the end and shatters on the beer stained floor.
Well, I certainly don't want to be like that. I told someone who I work with that my friend, the famous writer (see how I keep things on the level? No need to bloody name drop) had written the latest Doctor Who episode 'Under the Lake'. She was most impressed and looked up his prodigious other works. She then turned to me and said "Why haven't you done anything like that?". I know she was trying to be encouraging, of course. I tried not to take it the wrong way and I just gave her a sad little smile and shrugged my shoulders, mumbling something about Fatima Whitbread. But as she turned back to her work it really got me thinking. I needed to face up to my frailties and start trying to make a difference. So I took a deep breath and said "Is this office soundproof?". She turned to me, curious. "Yes" she replied, "Why?". Then I backed away, pulled the door shut, locked it and marched off home. That was six weeks ago. I suspect she's dead now. Nobody has rung to tell me otherwise. They needn't bother either...my phone has been broken for ages. Also, I now live in a burnt out car.
Sleep deprivation doesn't help with writing AT ALL. The other day I felt pleased that I'd worked out a tricky issue with one of the main character's best friend's mother's Irish ancestry. I sat back, pleased with myself, then looked at the page again to see that all I had written was 'CATS JUST GOTTA CHEESE SHOP' five thousand and seven times. I thought I'd finished the book! I turned to my fellow commuter who was also staring at the page. To my amazement they turned out to be a five foot tall Siamese laden down with several bags of delicious smelling produce. And do you know what they said to me? "Mate. I think you're mental'.
So I'm trying to work through the insomnia. I thought it would pass once the fractured baby nights were over but now I just wake up at 3am thinking the child is going to come in and kill me. He's told me he'd like to, on occasion. Oh, how we bond. His favourite kid's song is The Imperial March. I'm trying to sleep with one eye open. At least that way I'll get half a good night.
But anyway, I'm going to try and do this and get this second draft done by January. Then I'm going to reshape Mythomania a bit and decide what to do with it. I'll have to do something I guess. It needs tidying and a bit of a rework in places but I'll sort it out somehow.
Apologies to friends, by the way. I'm not ignoring you. I am so very tired as you can tell by reading this blog. If I have a night out I suffer the consequences when I'm woken by a murderous, giggling dwarf at 6am. Give me a little more time and I'll be in touch properly.
Yours lovingly, Cheese Cat.