A Writer's Life: Moments from the Life and Work of a Self-Underemployed Writer
Good evening yesterday – couple of beers with Peter which took my mind off things and stopped me feeling horrible. Swimming with Daniel in the morning – he began treading water and swam in the deep pool from corner to corner which meant he didn’t have the side to grab onto. He also swam four widths without stopping, so he’s really coming on. He had also uploaded some photos which we think are really good. Take a look:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=249602&id=558819755&page=2
Here are some of today’s words:
Leuka: Old age is like a foreign country etc etc. There’s a sense of unravelling, no matter how well you take care of yourself. After all, you don’t want to be merely preserved, like some specimen in a jar; you want to live, in spite of the pain and the stiffness. I find that if the mind is supple the body follows – although of course I do my tai chi movements every day to ‘oil’ the joints. It’s strange to look at my face in the mirror each morning and see the echo of the past there. I don’t see Leon when I look, though I saw him for a while after he left.
I say ‘left’ because it helps; not because I’m in denial.
I didn’t think he’d go before me.
There’s a sense of things being done, work being accomplished. If that sounds pompous, I can’t help it. Was it CS Lewis who said? No – I can’t remember who it was – maybe Germaine Greer. Odd to confuse those two – anyway, that we imagine long life to be a blessing but it may not be. Look at Mozart: look at old Mrs Dorn in the home we sometimes visit, sitting in the same chair all day, complaining about what Aunty Nora said fifty years ago.
Sad.
Of course when you reach this stage of life it’s natural to turn around for one last look back, a bow before the final curtain. I picture the curtain that came across when Mum and Dad were being cremated, so that you didn’t see the flames. She was dressed in the gown she’d made for an exhibition and embroidered herself; hours and hours of cross-stitch and complex knots. All burnt.
I don’t know what they dressed Dad in.
43,784 words altogether
I will be trying to get round all of you today, to wish you a Very Happy Thursday. It’s very cold here in blogland but we have not had the promised snow. I have agreed to go swimming with Daniel since Mark refuses to swim (he hates swimming and blames his last trip for triggering a tooth infection) which means I shall be novel writing in the afternoon. But that’s OK since the momentum is now well and truly going – I am now up to 41950 words. Due to finish next Tues.
To the Phoenix yesterday to see what turned out to be a truly depressing film, The Arbour, which purported to be about a writer but focussed instead on her dysfunctional family on a Bradford estate. She was the author of three plays including ‘Rita, Sue and Bob Too’ which I remember seeing as a film and not liking at all. She apparently had her first play performed at the Royal Court but was an alcoholic and dysfunctional parent, having three children by different fathers. The beginning was interesting but it went downhill into a long, despairing series of testimonies involving drug addiction, domestic violence, child neglect and racism. Steve could barely contain his desire to be gone, and I think had I not been there, he would have escaped. The most bizarre feature of the film was that the actors were lip-synching to the recorded words of actual people, which gave it an uneasy, out-of-focus feel. I don’t know why they did that and I suspect it was for the sake of novelty.
Anyway, it was an enjoyable trip out and we had a drink afterwards and speculated on what was about to occur in the cafe which was involving a number of people bustling about with an unfeasible amount of equipment.
So that was Wednesday. Only four more days of the novel to go.
Kirk out
bringing the total up to 41495. Only 8 thousand to go! Here’s a taste:
Leuka: The millennium had gone as it came, without incident. No apocalypse, no triumph and no tragedy unless you count the millions of ongoing tragedies in life. More than two – far more than two.
How many bodies back from Iraq? That was Richard chanting on the anti-war demo. London, 2002. The socialists shouted the loudest, the well-meaning Guardian readers (us) walked quietly in the middle. We had a ‘socialist worker’ with a megaphone blasting his tedious slogan in our ear.
Who let the bombs out? he growled. His cohort replied: Bush, Bush and Blair! It took me a while to work out why he’d repeated the name ‘Bush’. Of course: senior and junior. All Prime Ministers are democrats until they are elected. Who said that? Maybe it was me. All Prime Ministers become autocrats after they are elected, regaining a passion for democracy once their time is up. ‘Come in, number 75, your time is up’. If only it were so.
If only.
No, that’s not a misprint – the laptop keeps beeping as the connection is dodgy and the lead keeps disconnecting. I sound like a Sainsbury’s till. Speaking of which…
Had a Sainsbury’s order come yesterday, which was good as we had run out of everything. We had even run out of the ingredients of everything.
The novel is progressing and I am on track to be finishing next Tues. There will then be a celebration at Mirch marsala with Peter and Andy. And apparently Noel. And Mark.
Now writing the third section, which is about the war on terror. Each section has a war – the first is a class war, with Thatcher as a would-be Churchill; the second is the actual war with the actual Churchill; the third is Bush and Blair and Iraq. Lots of parallels emerging.
Electronic chat with Chris yesterday. He has been to Cagnes, near Nice, which I thought rang a bell and turns out it’s connected to Renoir (and also Escoffier but I don’t care about Escoffier).
So that’s the news. I shall start thinking about Xmas next month – as indeed we all should.
Kirk out
Forgot to mention the talent show at church on Saturday. A good evening – I did two poems, Green Eggs and Spam, and The Ballad of the Bowstring Bridge – both well-received.
Here’s a selection of today’s words:
Blair: Before I did this job I thought I knew what pressure was like. I thought I could handle anything the opposition or (worse) my own side threw at me; I knew the answer to anything the press might say about me or any googlies John Humphrys might bowl in my direction, should I occasionally grace that programme with my presence. But I was wrong. Until I came against the US machine on a full war-footing, I had no idea of the meaning of the word. It wasn’t that I thought of us as ‘equal partners’ – I wasn’t quite naïve enough for that – but I had thought to retain some sort of dignity; I had thought there would be some recognition, some – dare I say it? – gratitude: yes, gratitude! for the part we had played in the formation of their great nation. But the enfant terrible that America once was, is now an overgrown teenager wanting its own way in everything and not listening to reason. Conversations with Bush were, frankly, humiliating; his aides left us in no doubt as to who was in charge and who was pulling the purse-strings. I began to wish I’d listened to Gordon and left well alone. Then I recalled the phone conversation on the evening of 9/11.
Like anyone I had been shocked by the news; the pictures endlessly repeated as if to burn the images into our consciousness. The symbolic nature of the attack did not escape us either. I got our people to get onto Washington straight away but even so it took half an hour before the message came through that the line was open. I picked up the phone: George’s voice sounded cracked and distant.
I began to express my condolences but he cut me off. ‘Yeah, that’s fine Blair.’ (I registered the use of my surname.) ‘Let’s cut to the chase – what are you gonna do?’
I said that of course any support we could give would be given. We were old friends and allies; the debt we owed to America… again, he cut me short. ‘How many?’ he demanded.
I hoped I had not understood him. ‘How many what?’ I said.
‘Troops. Come on – you must know how many you’ve got. Don’tcha?’
‘Yes, but – ‘
‘But nothing. Wise up Tony – we have intelligence.’
Ah. Here was the rub.
‘That’s fast work,’ I observed. How could they have gained intelligence so quickly?
‘We’re fast people, Tony, so keep up. We know where this originated.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. No question.’
‘Where?’
He laughed, a hollow sound. ‘I know this is a secure line but you don’t really think I’m going to say over the phone, do ya? Come to Washington. Fly out soon – tomorrow. Then we’ll talk.’
And he hung up. Typical power-play – I’ve used it myself. I sat back and considered the tangle of emotions I was experiencing. First, anger. Then sorrow – and finally, fear. Whichever way I turned there was danger. There was danger in alienating a very touchy US administration, not to mention the American people, whom we needed to keep on our side. There was danger on the other hand, at home, in seeming to pander too much to the US. But the British people needed to feel that we were protecting them; and there was danger in neglecting that. On the other hand, George wanted a commitment of troops – and that meant putting some of our people in the firing-line. That was four separate levels of danger – and without even thinking of the very real and present danger that the terrorism might spread to our own land. To support the US was all very well; but too-open support might – almost certainly would – lead to reprisals at home. I closed my eyes and for a moment saw a picture of St Paul’s cathedral rising vividly above the debris and smoke of the air-raids. Then I saw it destroyed by suicide bombers. I saw Nelson’s column with a tail-fin sticking out. I saw Trafalgar Square a wasteland; I saw the Palace…
The palace! What would the Queen have to say about this? She wouldn’t advise directly, of course she wouldn’t – but she would listen. We had forged some kind of relationship after the Princess Di affair. She would make connections with the past. She would talk about the time we stood alone; about her conversations with Churchill as a very young Queen. I decided I would wait until after our next audience before I made my decision. But then events took over and I was forced to fly out to Washington and to send her majesty a regretful message. If only she knew how regretful! As I strapped myself into the plane and took the briefing that was handed to me with a smile. I sat in the plane surrounded by aides and colleagues, on my way to meet our greatest ally in the world, and I realised that I had never felt more alone in my life.
Off now to do a pathetic and half-hearted jog round the park.
Kirk out
Though it is rather damp this morning, I am feeling generally on top of the world. Slept well and send a very clearly-worded email (not angry, just laying it on the line) to someone who has been bugging me. That feels much better – it’s something I’ve been needing to do for a long time. This person’s behaviour (don’t worry – it isn’t any of you!) has been niggling for a long while and has just now reached the stage where I really needed to tackle it. So I have – and it feels good.
A good weekend. Saturday failed to do Braunstone Parkrun but will aim to do it next week; then had a blissful afternoon at home making curry and watching Four Weddings and a Funeral (yes, again!) and drinking wine. I realised just how rare it is for me to watch something from beginning to end without interruption. It was bliss!
Then yesterday had a pleasant afternoon at Peter’s for an Italian meal and some wine followed by a video of ‘A Christmas Carol’. Slightly disappointed as it was an animation and not live action – a Robert Zemekis film which seems to work by filming the actors and then doing some kind of thing which Mark said looks like rotorscope but wasn’t. I decided that Jim Carrey (Scrooge) was doing an Alistair Sim impersonation. Judge for yourselves:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZ3lr3urgDU
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1l1_82x2BO4
Blog editing went all weird and deleted my content. Can’t remember what I said anyway – so have a good day. I shall be continuing with novel-writing (last full day!) and editing stories.
Kirk out
It was really hard work today. First, the laptop died – or refused to wake up from a coma into which it had lapsed the night before; then the other laptop crashed, obliterating all my words for that morning so that I had to recreate them from scratch; then it got harder and harder to write anything at all, so that I was practically checking the word-count after each sentence.
Can’t give you some of today’s turds – I mean, words, because the pen-drive is upstairs.
I was vaguely thinking about doing Braunstone Parkrun tomorrow but I am unsure just how far a pathetic individual running at just below the speed of a manic slug, would be accepted. The website carries alarming words such as ‘finish’ and ‘circuit’. I think I’ll probably give it a miss. Not to mention also that I’d have to get over to Braunstone for 9 am. Ain’t gonna happen!
Anyway, today I wrote about Spain and getting married and stuff. It was really, really hard – like hitting the wall in a marathon.
Oh, and Daniel went to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows today – he said it was very good.
Kirk out
– no, I haven’t got a Presidential complex, it just makes a change from saying ‘peeps’ all the time. So – it’s been a bit of a mish-mash of a day but generally fine with cloudy episodes, and thankfully, no flooding.
Sorry, Cornwall.
So what happened with the body in Berkshire? That was a bit disturbing, wasn’t it? Also, I only caught up with the Royal Wedding (yawn, yawn) yesterday (OK that’s enough, I’m bored talking about it already.)
Also, someone suggested (since I had a bank statement yesterday and the statement read: ‘You Have No Money and No Prospect of Money’) that I should look into becoming a driving instructor; however, I’ve been put off it by reports from people actually doing it, that it is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Now, there’s a surprise.
The novel is rattling along like a train in full steam – the only problem is that I’m going to run out of plot before I reach 50,000 words so I will have to go back and add some more to previous sections. When it’s done I shall perfect the first chapter and write a cracking synopsis before sending same off to agents. Who will no doubt fight over it like seagulls over fish.
Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!
(Have you seen ‘Finding Nemo’? If not, do so immediately.)
Watched ‘The Lovely Bones’ last night with Daniel – he liked it enormously. I thought it was a little long, but still gripping. Also very upsetting.
Anyway, here’s a taste of today’s words:
Leuka: It’s a game of two halves, my life – and I don’t mean chronologically. A brain of two halves; a personality of two halves. I haven’t paid attention to astrology since I was a teenager but like Sartre’s politics, elle s’occupe de moi. It won’t leave me alone; it whispers in my ear, every time I ask myself, ‘What did I do that for?’ or ‘What sense does that make?’ or ‘Why do I do one thing and then go back on it?’ the voice whispers: Gemini. Gemini.
It’s like trench warfare, my life. One step forward, ground regained at huge cost, thousands of lives lost – and then back again, driven back by my other half. But there’s no time to dwell on that: history is happening.
It’s 1997; the long reign of the house of Tory, begun by Queen Maggie, is finally ended. It’s like the end of a war; there’s rejoicing, dancing, practically parties in the street; the optimism even wipes out the gruesome sight of Prescott trying to dance. It’s bizarre, it’s wacky, but you want to believe in it. You want to, so much, you can’t help yourself. You put an X next to LAB, doing so with confidence for the first time in years. Decades, almost. Chapter one of a new order. Things can only get better.
Leon: I wasn’t so convinced as Leuka. I didn’t think much of Blair – we were all uneasy about him but everyone wanted to believe in him, they shut their eyes to all the dodgy stuff. I was still doing the same things; Green politics, the peace movement, veganism – it is my proud boast that even now, I have never in my life voted Labour. Not once.
Leuka: Leon is a born cynic – or else he made himself one, I can’t decide which. It beats me how anyone can be so negative about life and still get out of bed in the morning. Leon says it avoids disappointments. ‘It avoids a lot of other things, too!’ I retorted. Such as zest and joie de vivre and seeing opportunities. I tease Leon and call him ‘Eeyore’. He gives a grim smile, then pulls me onto the bed…
Remember the speaking clock? Sometimes I used to dial it just for company. I can’t recall the number though – was it 123?
Have spent the morning writing about the war. Section 2 is now finished and I am ready to jump forward to 1997. Phoney Tony is in charge, Princess Di is about to be killed and Iraq waits around the corner. There are a lot of parallels between the sections.
The futuristic nightmare story has gone off for a competition. Had a bank statement this morning and panicking slightly about how we are going to manage. I’m not sure we can do Xmas at all this year. Eating may be a slight problem. Send us prayers/positive thoughts for the future.
I hate how everything depends on cash. Really hate it. If it wasn’t for the children I don’t think we’d do Xmas at all this year. Apart from the spiritual stuff, that is. And a few cards.
On the plus side, the novel is proceeding. It would be good if I could make some money from writing though. Day after day I wait for the post and nothing comes. Except the bloody bank statement.
Bah!
Here are some of today’s words:
Winnie: I was quite determined the war should not drag on another year. This was the year we would end it. We needed to pull together – one last effort and the thing would be finished. The Axis powers were weakening, as I always said they would; Hitler’s regime was crumbling from within, as all unjust systems do. Mussolini was, and always had been, a joke. These undemocratic leaders were a stain on the modern landscape. Like Stalin – ah, Stalin. There was another story. We would have to do some kind of business with that old fox. A shudder went through me at the very thought. But I knew we’d have to bring him on side – it was no good leaving him out. Like the phrase has it, better on the inside kicking out, than on the outside kicking in. Except the word isn’t ‘kicking’.
Teddy was dead set against it, of course. These Americans have a total blind spot when it comes to Communism; if there were one Communist left alive in the world, they’d still see him as a threat. But I bore down on Roosevelt; I got at him through any means I could. One or two of his aides were amenable (though not many, it has to be said) and they all helped. In the end it was the pragmatic arguments which won the day. You can’t win people like that with speeches: they make speeches too. They may even write them. You have to put it to them practically. What would happen to a post-war Germany if she were left uncontrolled? I asked him. In the end, I played on his fears to such an extent, painting a picture of a Germany rising stronger even than after the First World War, that he came round.
I suspect he has an agenda of his own, though. The man is a fox.
But then Teddy is a hound.
And what am I?
Sarada Gray 