StreetSweeper

StreetSweeper

On Saturday the 23rd of July my darling partner lost his fight with cancer.

I'm too numb to write or think.

Freshen to force 4

After too many weeks in the writing doldrums I've finally caught some wind in my sails.

This week so far I've written the first draft of a short story, a poem (see below) and I've half done two crucial scenes in 'The Novel'.
One scene is the major turning point for my hero . It comes about midway through the book. It's the point where a terrible event shocks him into re-evaluation and change.
The other scene deals with the failure of his hopes in the last pages of the story.

I shall now have three strong pegs to hang this novel on. I already have an outline, but that's a vague and changeable entity.
With these scenes I have an opening situation (a Hook, I hope), a crisis (with loads of dramatic effects cascading over the reader) and a satisfactory resolution(please God).

This may not be quite as significant as Virginia Woolf's
"Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.",but it feels GOOD.

I'm hoping for things to freshen up to a force 4.

“Seventy-six per cent of Finland is covered in trees.”

One vast firry blanket. How many trees is that?

I can’t do the maths. I never could, too many variables.

But I looked on a map and all the rest is wet.

So where would you find the folk?

Do they stand amid trees, arms pressed close at their sides, listening as the forest falls? Do Gnomes make sport and haunt poor woody Finns?

I don’t know. Can this be?

The map says people live in the South, where the water is.

Maybe up to their necks in lakes, catching fish in their mouths? While runic eels entwine their legs ?

Then again, perhaps not.

Whatever did happen to the humans; now, maddened Moomins work the factories, drink vodka and plot ‘The Doom of Europe’.

Nokian ringtones taking revenge for the lumber industry.

It's the little things

I've changed my template AGAIN!

I like this one because of the ancient, yellowed vellum look. It think it gives me gravitas and makes me feel like a right Pseud.
It's akin to the way that a new pair of shoes used to make me feel sexy; back in the days when I could wear high heels.
Expect more pretensions in the days ahead.

Just-a walkin' the Dawg

When I was working in daily thrall to frustration and stupefaction, dogwalking gave me energy. We lived in a busy seaside town so walking the empty coastland gave me space, the literal space of wide skies and 30 mile horizons. The dog seemed to find it life-enhancing too, although his view was concerned chiefly with bitch location. We'd find golfballs, chat to friends and fetch the papers. Both of us would return tails wagging, fit for the fray again.

Now, retired from the world but within sniffing distance, another dog and I totter over cretan hills.Walking here is more hazardous, you must skirt sheep shit and pick-ups to get off the tracks and explore through wire-locked fences. We get our kicks watching mobiles of clouds and light and chasing lizards. We imagine mythic creatures come to life and say 'Kalimera' to all and sundry, then we come home to rest.

Sometimes I get writing ideas while we walk, more often my mind empties the recycle bin. One morning will be calm and cool, with birdsong everywhere, another day will be dessicated by hot winds and dust gets in our eyes and noses.
Just recently we've had unseasonably late rains. For three days the dog and I splashed through puddles and watched the garden drown. Zeus came and roared from Psiloritis. When that was ignored he struck hard with lightning and power cut out across the island.
All this has greened up dead grasses and encouraged another round of mating and nest-building. Today we have warmth and light and flourishing weeds in the garden. The dog is catching up on her sleep.

I’ve done something useful.

The planning stage of my writing resembles one shakily planted footprint followed by another wobbly tread, rather like a drunk’s homeward trail through mud. It lurches along, but now and then I get to put the next step down on firm ground. Today is such a day.

I’ve been fretting over my hero’s character for three months. I know a lot about him, but I couldn’t decide what made him tick. I needed some episode in his life before he comes into the book that would rationalise his behaviour.

I tried various motives on him for size, but none of them fitted. I tried to change him into someone different, but then he wouldn’t fit in with any of the other characters.

It came to me this morning, and it was so bloody obvious that I nearly didn’t see what had happened then. My hero needed to have been hurt as a child, but he also needed to have erased that because he couldn’t live with it as an adult. He doesn’t know he’s damaged, that’s why he’s such a difficult person. No wonder the other characters don’t understand him or like him much.

But now I understand him; so I can love him and I can write him. That makes everything worthwhile. I'm a happy Bunny.

Chemo Crusader

The knight in rusty armour, fists clenched in pain, lies on his back, exposed.

His folfox’d shield upon his breast, the mighty sword Avastin at his side.

Fetched low by the monster, hobbled by the weapons handed him.

Not skilled in aggression, sometimes despair wins.

Grendel roars within and he has no answer.

It should be me on that embattled bed.

My teeth and claws are itching for the fight.

Does it weaken him if this frail damsel, leads the charge to rescue him?

My ferocity transfused would surge victorious through his veins.

But this fight is his alone, Poor Lover.