weequizzie

I created other worlds.
I carried speakers across sand dunes to bring them to your party.
I wrote a letter to the Principal explaining why I didn’t want to be a prefect.
I stopped eating for a while.
I typed an essay about the words used by Eugenides, Winterson and Salinger.
I wore Puma Supersuedes to the dance.
I heard you knock at the door and I pretended not to be in.
I laughed out loud listening to recordings of Robert Frost reading his poems. Birches.
I wore a key around my neck.
I wasn’t ready.
I watched My So-Called Life and sighed.
My cat died and I cried while making cheese on toast.
I had flowery silk pyjamas. I miss them.
I read poetry by Bukowski and pulled out strands of hair.
I hid cigarette butts inside a soap dish.
I thought everyone was smarter than me.
I thought everyone was better than me.
I pushed my ear to the ground so I could hear.
I listened to Surfer Rosa. A lot.
I drank carryouts with my best friend.
I couldn’t tell you how I felt because I was forgetting how to feel.
I climbed in windows.
I wrote letters and posted them.
I didn’t think about what was on the outside.
I wanted to hide inside something.
I was figuring it all out. I still am.

or just plain old National Novel Writing Month.

November is sodden and weighed down, like me wearing my school uniform in the bath when I was 12, but it brings it’s own sparkle, it’s own little bath bomb to fizz away under the deluge of rainy metaphors that I’m not going to insert here because you know what I mean.

What is NaNoWriMo? You write a novel in a month, that’s it. Well, it’s unlikely you’ll write a masterpiece but it’s a structured and a finite period of time to bash out 50,000 words that could eventually be a novel, or the beginnings of one. They say it better than I could:

Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing programme for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It’s all about quantity, not quality. This approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

So, I’m going to give it a whirl because I need the structure otherwise I fall into procrastination, which is hell for me. Hell = procrastination. The devil is a procrastinator. People who procrastinate are the devil’s children, or the children of this ghost. Can ghosts have children? Has anyone looked into that?

Wish me luck. I wonder if anyone who reads this old blog is a writer. If so, do you have any tips? I tend to be all about the characters, letting any idea of plot dwindle.

Also, if you are a writer you should check out Advice to Writers, I find the tweets can help to depress those keys a little faster.

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Not for the first time I woke up thinking of these words:

“This is Plan B. Every day for the rest of your lives, all of your living moments are to be spent making others aware of this need – the need to probe and drill and examine and locate the words that take us beyond ourselves. Scrape. Feel. Dig. Believe. Ask. Ask questions, no, screech questions out loud… Grind questions onto the glass on photocopiers. Scrape challenges onto old auto parts and throw them off of bridges so that future people digging in the mud will question the world, too. Carve eyeballs into tyre treads and onto shoe leathers so that your every trail speaks of thinking and questioning and awareness. Design molecules into question marks. Make bar-codes print out fables, not prices. You can’t even throw away a piece of litter unless it has a question stamped on it – a demand for people to reach a finer place.”
Douglas Coupland, Girlfriend in a Coma

Ask questions, procrastinate less and use the interrobang more‽

Also, woke up to find a dead mouse on the floor. Again.

My Goodreads review of One Day is here. It was cobbled together whilst in a fit of pique so the punctuation is even more wayward than usual.

Sometimes I think I’m too harsh and then I catch myself and think, ‘People, step up to reality. Reality is your friend. Reality wants to make you happy so let it. Ok. Just let it.’ I love dreaming as much as the next dope but my dreams generally involve winning awards and I’m usually in the bath, or in the house all alone, looking in a mirror, fingers tangled around a glass of red.

So, writers, please write hopeful, beautiful books, not self-indulgent delusional tosh that doesn’t fill the empty spaces but instead brims and hisses inside eked out cavities that ache, growing more decayed with projections and delusions that really should be folded up, pocketed and left to disintegrate in the washing machine like old 3ply. JOY, I want JOY and reality, not a book about a man who makes stupid choices, gets the girl, is redeemed by the girl, loses girl. BORING.

“I was sentimental about many things: a woman’s shoes under the bed; one hairpin left behind on the dresser; the way they said, “I’m going to pee…”, hair ribbons; walking down the boulevard with them at 1:30 in the afternoon, just two people walking together; the long nights of drinking and smoking; talking; the arguments; thinking of suicide; eating together and feeling good; the jokes; the laughter out of nowhere; feeling miracles in the air; being in a parked car together; comparing past loves at 3am; being told you snore; hearing her snore; mothers, daughters, sons, cats, dogs; sometimes death and sometimes divorce; but always carrying on, always seeing it through; reading a newspaper alone in a sandwich joint and feeling nausea because she’s now married to a dentist with an I.Q. of 95; racetracks, parks, park picnics; even jails; her dull friends; your dull friends; your drinking, her dancing; your flirting, her flirting; her pills, your fucking on the side and her doing the same; sleeping together.”
— Charles Bukowski (Women)

“So Matilda’s strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone.” – Roald Dahl

I never knew he wrote a poem about her.

Carson McCullers by Charles Bukowski

she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
steamer.

all her books of
terrified loneliness

all her books about
the cruelty
of loveless love

were all that was left
of her

as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body

notified the captain

and she was quickly dispatched
to somewhere else
on the ship

as everything
continued just
as
she had written it

I read books. I bet you do too. At least I hope you do. I hope everyone does as they’re completely essential in creating the pictures your brain makes inside your head, and the words that get pushed out of your mouth. Words are THE SHIT. I know what a chifferobe is because I read ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’. I know that fanny pads used to have belts because I read Judy Blume. It’s the small things… Judy Blume also taught me about lox and blinis – there wasn’t much of either in N Ireland.

So, I’m writing some very thoughtful reviews on Goodreads. Here’s my most recent on Tom McCarthy’s ‘The Remainder’:

Hello, is that Borges? Hi, it’s me Tom. Listen, I wrote this book and I think you’ll like it, it’s a bit fucked up and stuff but totally legit. Would you mind reading it and giving me some feedback? Kind regards, Tom McC.

Hi, this is Borges. Tom, your stuff is good but don’t beat your reader over the head with your authenticity trip. They get it. They’re pretty smart so stop punching them in the face with the same old same old. Also, if you’d lost about a 100 pages I would have liked it much more. Better luck next time and holler if you need a decent editor, I know some good people, all my love, Mr Borges.