I’ve been trying as hard as I can to stick to the one story over the last couple of weeks, and, as I have written elsewhere, I have done better than I usually do, sticking pretty much not only just to the one story, but also to the one book, The Looming Tower by Lawrence Wright. I don’t know how far Modafinil has helped me in this, nor how far I will continue in this vein. I have had such spurts before, finishing the first drafts of a few stories by dedicating myself to them for a while to the exclusion of as much else as possible.
Inevitably when I do this I come across my own weaknesses. Since though my flitfulness has given me something, developing my judgement in terms of story ideas, donnees, themselves, as I pick and choose and refine the stories that constantly force themselves forward again and again, still, it has done nothing for my realisation of those ideas. I have learnt nothing about structuring a story, pacing, ellipsis, still less - since those times I do persist in a story I am ever conscious of the moving of time and so, conscious of not frittering it away or pausing to think of my approach, and consequently too often push on when I am tired or pursuing some less than ideal line - what to leave in and what to include. Read the rest of this entry »
My priorities have shifted around again and I may be downgrading my blog-writing activities to times when, like now, I am too tired to write anything important (or remotely coherent). This has been brought about by my frustration with not writing, and, possibly, Modafinil, which may have lessened the clutter of impulses, the invitation to struggle of my executive function (only time will tell to what degree this is so, but certainly the timing tallies for now).
The last couple of days I have stuck to coming in from work and settling straight down to reading my one nominated book. I have tried to do this numerous times in the past but found it then impossible to adhere to. That I have adhered to this for three days may seem little enough. (It is little enough, of course.) But that for years, this was not possible. Read the rest of this entry »
I am currently tying myself up in knots working on a commentary for my last attempt at a poem - my Asperger’s side took over last night and I got into some lengthy philosophical debate about the nature of knowing! I think this was in large part due to not wanting to rewrite the single short paragraph, or two or three at most, that I lost at the beginning of this week trying to write the same tricky section in which I describe my comparison in the poem of the myths at work in the state’s use of 9/11 and the moon landings; in re-writing it, I had to make it more complex to keep my focus.
I can’t concentrate now, something I put down either to writing late last night, to the cigarettes I had, which also contributed to poor sleep, or to the onion bhajis I’ve been eating and the Ginseng I’ve been drinking all day. Whatever it is, I can’t go out and run because it’s pissing it down, and know that if I played guitar for a while, I would later regret having done nothing when I have to go to my Mum and Dad’s for my mum’s party, something which will be a real challenge for me. And so, I’ve decided to try and do something to work towards a second poem using the same method as the first, only to comment on it this time from the off, if possible, and certainly to show a few workings out. Read the rest of this entry »
This post has been written in pieces. I made notes on the first section so I could get on and write the rest, but of course, with my mind changing so often in terms of both context and mood, it’s always difficult to piece together something after the fact. This is one of the reasons my novels die so often in my mind as I move on to something new, but because this very difficulty of expression is the subject of the post it is only right that I go on to try and expand my original notes.
When I was in my late teens and first seriously getting into writing as a way of expressing my increasingly tormented mind, and as a future career, I wrote a poem, called, Black Hole Son. This was a period in which I was moving away from the focus on music I had as a teenager towards something more substantial which could support my mind, and this is evidenced in the very title, which is in part taken from a popular grunge song by Soundgarden, and part influenced by Steven Hawkings’ early beliefs (since revised) about black holes. At that time Hawking believed that nothing could escape the gravitational pull of a black hole. I had read his A Brief History of Time and struggled to take it in. The poem was an attempt at describing my feeling that I took in everything, observed everything, felt everything, and that yet, nothing escaped my mind which crushed up together inside itself. It was a time that I felt a lot of physical pressure inside my head. My thoughts would build up to such an extent that I could feel the pressure. Read the rest of this entry »
I’ve thought of a perfect story for Pumpkin Positive, though I’m going to need a lot of help. Prague, 2004, and my laptop packs up just as I’m planning to spend the summer - which will be slack for teaching - writing the novel I thought up hungover from a night drinking with my beginners students (what a tough class that was) the end of that first academic year I had begun when my friends were visiting shortly after I finished my CELTA when a former dentist, former stripper (she stripped with knickers she had knitted herself) teacher at the school had been sacked for bringing in bottles of vodka (or Slivovice or something) to class every morning. I had got the job through Ondrej whose wife Ema had contacted Blanka, their former teacher, for me when I was living at theirs - Ondrej had invited me to stay at theirs, taking me from the Prison Penzion, literally a former STB jail with the solid metal doors still intact, now painted an array of primary colours, it was listed as being run by nuns in my guidebook, but things had changed once again; Ondrej had been the most colourful character in our first class of students who paid far below the usual asking price to learn with novice native English speakers, and he was a serious anglophile. Read the rest of this entry »
I’ve just gone down for a smoke, rolled it while listening to an all-too familiar uninspiring rock song, the kind I flick away from while driving in to work or to go for M, usually flicking through several such desperate to get something out of the moment. I was feeling like I needed one. Needed a break from the computer at any rate having just finished the last post on The Crop. I had two breaths this time before recalling a brief thought this morning, an idea about structuring and organising my life that I have had numerous times before, that I would write down every day the number of days I have been without gluten, without dairy, without alcohol, smoking etc, a simple string of numbers that would not then allow for lapses and those little exceptions and get-outs I give myself, that avoiding wheat, for example, is not unanimously considered a part of an anti-Candida diet, or that green tea wouldn’t count for one day, or that smoking will help me see it through. I stubbed it out and came back up. I remembered too the thought that came to me on driving back from the airport where I dropped off M yesterday for the expensive few days back home she has opted for to get away from things here when I was going for my second fag that evening, tired as I was, that the highs that come from smoking drop down to lows and precipitate them, soemthing I have always known, but rarely acted on. Read the rest of this entry »
Chutzpah is the latest easy-to-write novel that I’m going to just churn out. It’s more autobiographical than I’m happy with, being basically an extension of the original conception of yeswehavenobananas.net, the sister blog of masterkidderminster.net.
It will concern the writing of a couple of stories, and the shifting of my priorities in the process, my reveries, ideas and moods.
I would need to document some reveries and the like to do it. I’ll try and note a few now.
Billy Liar type disquisitions, sending in the SAS to brothels, and answering questions in foreign countries about how a brothel owner was shot in cold blood by saying that any brothel owner or anyone working in the industry who is concerned about the health problems associated with their profession should go to their nearest Job Centre to discuss the possibilities for training.
Inventions for Dragon’s Den. A range of sockets with timers and key locks to prevent use of such devices as Playstations. This after a productive meeting with a students’ psychiatrist.
We’ll give you the stars. The slogan of a political movement that cuts out light pollution.
Ringing round Prague for a hotel for the head chef, who was upset over a deal falling through.
The usual secretaries. The sex blogger at a literary awards ceremony giving me a blow job under the table as I’m called up.
But I’m tired and my priorities have been shifting round all day.
I got back a little while back and as usual I have searched for something to do, picking up my guitar to practise for a while the 12 bar blues I learnt last Wednesday. Of course, each day has gone past since then with me finding no time to practise. Almost a week and I’ve spent a total of an hour practising what I learnt. I spoke a little with M____ in the car, and congratulated myself on it, but it was scarcely a few minutes. We barely live together at all. Read the rest of this entry »
It’s amazing how quickly things can turn around. I’ve been feeling depressed for most of today, and ratty this morning, as I do intend to relate (I might even get around to it), but my mood began to lift a few minutes back. It may have been upon reading a completed e-mail I first drafted on paper for a student a year and a half ago. Read the rest of this entry »
Had a meeting after work today and then went to the gym with []. I enjoyed it, but came back completely unable to concentrate. Certainly, I was that after the chili I had on my return.
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