Author: admin

I’m going to come back to this website because it turns out that none of my ‘writer friends’ ever actually write, or talk about writing. I don’t think I’ve met a single writer who ever wrote, in fact.

But let’s ignore this for now and get on with my own shit.

I am currently around two-and-a-half chapters towards the end of Part One (really, it’s all one book, but I’ve split it into the three major time shifts so that it makes sense in my brain), and I’m about to complete one of the scene blocks in that half-chapter today.

What’s a scene block?

I’ll maybe get into that later.

For now, all I have to do is add a few more transitional sentences, clear up the mess I’ve made into real-life English, and then save and back up that file. And buy more printer ink, because I like to have the physical draft beside me while I work.

Last night, I was reading a book about a guy who is a writer (and I won’t say who it is, or what the book is, because he’s still alive), but it wasn’t very good, if I’m honest. That being said, it was recommended to me by a friend, so I’ll shuffle my way to the finish line – just very quickly this time.

Thinking back to my own writing now.

Why am I still here? Why am I still alive? Is it to write this agonising crawl of a book just to say that I’ve finished a book? That’s the problem I’m facing. For better or worse, I am here whilst others (who are ultimately better) are not, and my aim or goal or whatever cannot be to ‘write a book’. It has to be a bloody good book, or there was no point to any of this at all.

Ha, you may say, you’ve discovered your own meaning of life, or maybe you haven’t.

I would say that I haven’t, to be honest. I’m just trying to make it to the end. Just like my book.

The difference being that I actually enjoy the journey of my book.

I’ve got a race to run on Sunday (I’ve gotten into cross-country running, didn’t you know?), and will need some proper trail running shoes, but after that I’m going to get this half-chapter out and spend the rest of the day either exercising or reading. Or both.

Okay, I’ll be honest – my skin is scrawling after reading that title. I swear I don’t want to make this into a clickbait-y thing, but we’re running out of options for material and I forgot about this website for a while.

1. That it’s okay to be a bloody-minded purist about writing and literature.

Who cares, right? Life is short and you’ve got to give a shit about something.

2. That you can learn from just about any book.

Please don’t ignore the classics. But also, you’ve got to read the fun, written-in-3-days, grammatical-errors-all-over-the-shop, nightmare novels about a love triangle that you’d never want to be part of in real life. Those are the best: it’s like taking a slightly dodgy car out on the back roads for a joy ride.

3. That there are no ‘rules’ specifically, even if other people claim that there are.

I don’t know what it is, but there’s a whole community out there that I don’t really fit into, and it’s all “10 rules for writing”, blah blah fuckin’ blah.

4. That the whole point of writing is trial-and-error.

So this turned into a list of four, and that’s the whole point of trial and error. I think I’m just frustrated about how clean and tidy people (well, writers, really) try to make an incredibly messy act (i.e. the act of writing a book), and then we all wonder why we get so many difficulties on the way to actually finishing it.

I’ll say it again (please, God, prove me wrong). I’ve never met another writer who I’ve actually liked.

I was saying something about a decision tree.

This is pretty much how I think on everything, with every way planned out as far as willingly possible. Sometimes if I’m really gripped by something, that tree can turn into 400 or 500 (I’m not being exact) different outcomes and events, and it gets absolutely insane. Apply this to the routine and often depressingly human condition of pattern spotting (fashion choices, speech patterns and accents, and other tiny, insignificant linguistical details), and I can single-handedly drive myself crazy without even trying. But it’s fine.

Anyway, I sort of use an intuitive thing like this when I’m writing. It’s not something I’m always fully conscious of, and a lot of the time my brain just seems to ‘know’ where to go. So what do you even call that?

That’s not a process.

Cambridge Dictionary says this:

“1. a series of actions that you take in order to achieve a result.

2. a series of changes that happen naturally.

3. a method of producing goods in a factory by treating natural substances.“

But there’s this as well (for the ‘writing’ half of our phrase):

“1. a person’s style of writing with a pen on paper that can be recognised as their own.

2. something that has been written or printed.

3. the written work, such as stories or poems, of one person or a group of people.

4. the activity of creating pieces of written work, such as stories, poems, or articles.

5. the skill or activity of producing words on a surface.“

I don’t know about you, but suddenly, that creates a much wider definition of the idea of a ‘writing process’ compared to the one we all know and love (i.e. get butt on seat and type, little monkey, type!).

We’ll continue this tomorrow whenever I’m not exhausted.

I’ve decided to continue whatever thoughts I had earlier in a separate thing.

Today has been an interesting one. I’ve spent the whole week in this state, and I’m having to cling onto that Steinbeck statement of “twenty hours of preparation for three hours of writing” because, Jesus.

I’ve spent the whole week trying to get Scene Block 33 (that’s what we’re calling it these days) into some presentable shape or form. I wrote the original idea for this section in 2020, and now I’m having to live with the awful consequences of my awful actions. Hartree is staring at me typing again, and I’ve decided to try and win the contest by looking straight back at her and going, “What?”.

She always hates being asked that question.

Scene Block 33 is an absolute disaster. That’s the real, First World source of my problems. It’s basically, Character goes from A to B, over several miles and two countries.

I’ve had to change the original thing from being too linear – it doesn’t seem to work well that way, and I’ve just done a whole swathe of a section of the main group of people where it’s been told in a way that’s “A then B then C”. The thing is screaming for some sort of change, so I had a little introduction sentence or two and then basically went “well, she’s already on her way to B, fuck you”.

Maybe this is something I come back to edit later on. I don’t like the idea of her scenes interleaving every other scene with the main storyline when, really, it’s not that significant. I sort of want to be done with it in one, two, or three blocks that are spaced sparingly.

This is my problem with the “just write” brigade. Sometimes it’s a significant structural problem, even when you’ve worked on it for so long, and what’s really needed is to sit for a week and think the whole thing through.

What the hell is a writing process? I have no idea. It rhymes with abscess, and to my brain, that’s pretty much the same thing. I hate restrictions, and I work reasonably well in spite of them.

I know all about the one where you’re supposed to wake up at 5am, do God’s work by putting your inner thoughts to paper, and then leave for the gym at 9. I’ve tried that. It’s horrific. I end up ever so depressed waking up before daylight, even if it does come with the side-salad of feeling better than everybody else who’s still sleeping. The moral superiority complex just isn’t worth the maintenance.

With that being said, I’ve decided that my New Year’s Resolution is to have no goals at all. Not only am I lucky (?) to be alive, I’m at the point now where, if I keep pushing further and further, I’m going to have no space left to go, and at some point, the bubble will burst and I’ll fall fatally ill with some infectious condition. I can feel it in my bones.

So it’s going to be a slow one, this year. If I do exercise (I like to call this ‘gymming and swimming’ to make out like I’m one of those rich 1950s New York spinsters), I’m just going to run, or swim, or do whatever. Fuck it. Fuck setting goals for every modicum of interest in your life.

Where was I? Alright.

That’s kind of my point with the ‘writing process’. If I don’t slow things down enough, I end up sitting at my desk to write as if I’m a cocaine, Red Bull-infused, hyped-up motivational speaker. I may write awfully here (I’m allowed), but the actual book I want to dedicate all that insufferable work to is something of a higher-class individual who needs lengthy pampers and spa days out at Knightsbridge. That stuff is all in old-man voice, where he requests a pipe and a fresh pair of slippers on the hour, every hour. I give him a warm fireplace and buttered toast, and he gives me interesting things to say. It’s a happy marriage so far, and at least he won’t leave me.

Let’s be honest, we all know that the second you search for “writing process”, all that comes up is stuff like “schedules” and “yoga” and “mindfulness”. Eugh. I bloody hate mindfulness. Why the hell would I want to know why I’m thinking what I’m thinking, while I’m thinking it? I’d rather leave that stuff to my family. They can work out for themselves why I’m no longer talking to Aunt Agatha.

Do I have a writing process? Do I even know what a process is? Something like a chemistry experiment, with procedural steps that you only deviate from in decision-tree format.

[to be continued]

Hi everyone! This is my first post, and I have no idea what I am doing.

Would Hemingway write a blog? I doubt he’d read mine. I’m supposed to be writing something long and intelligent here, while my dog stares at my lunch.

I decided to race through the goal of whatever 26 pages I have going on, in reading Toilers of the Sea last night. Race, not rush. We’re not psychopaths. Anyway, I ended up staying awake until about 2am because of that, and that is why I am so damn tired today. Hemingway wouldn’t put that, either.

I’m off to do the dishes. Maybe I’ll come back and write some more awful stuff.

13.29. I’m back. To be honest, I’m not sure what this bloody blog is supposed to be about. I think I’ll talk about writing or something, and hopefully I can do it in a less abstract way than what I’ve seen elsewhere.