And A Goldfish

As of Saturday, I’ve been blogging here for three years.  I wasn’t online much over the weekend, I was kind of busy eating baked goods in an art gallery and then laughing because I know during this show.

I planned to write when we got home, but I found myself watching Breaking Bad instead.

I got up at 5 am on Sunday, and was depressed for the rest of the day.  I needed ice-cream and a stupid movie so I twisted Neil’s arm for Red 2 and Ben & Jerry’s.

And then, at the pub, Neil dumped a beer on me. By accident.  I called him a sonofabitch.  Maybe not by accident, but with all the love in the world.  Because it was refreshing.

I planned to write when we got home, but found myself reading crime fiction set in Iceland instead.

I figure now is a good time to talk about avoidance.  Or something.  See, I have issues.  Or at least one.  The others I’ve been to therapy for.  And then I graduated.  From therapy.  One issue left.  Maybe.

See all those plans to write?  All those incomplete sentences  in half finished, but nonetheless colour-coded notebooks?  See that new-found fondness for Subway Surfers?  Yeah.  Best laid plans of writers and Lorn.

The issue of the issue, or the thing I tell myself to make it OK, or not, is that if it sounds like writing, I stop doing it.  If my characters stop talking to me, I don’t put words in their mouths.  If the story stops playing out like a movie in my head, I change the channel.

The next idea is going to be THE ONE book I finish. The next app I find is going to be THE ONE that leads me to THE END.  And then another one.

And then I get the bright spark that if I smush plot 5 with character 68 and story arc 20-never, I’ll get something new.  And I just shuffle stuff about and don’t actually write anything new.  Except that thing about thunderstorms.

Yesterday, while sitting in Starbucks with a coffee and without a notebook, Neil asks me to tell him a story.

‘Oh, y’know.  Mother issues.  Sibling issues.  And a goldfish.  Discuss.  Maybe.’

You’d think it would be be easy for me to sit on my ass and write.  But I need to do laps around my house.  And organise my sock drawer.

Maybe I should write about socks.  Is there an app for that?

Do you believe in writer’s block?  What do you do about it?  Next time, add a goldfish and see what happens!

Bubble Eye Goldfish
Bubble Eye Goldfish (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

 

 

 

 

Nostalgia and Beards

While visiting Dad and Anne for Dad’s birthday, I spotted a basket of Polaroids, kind of electric in the corner.  ‘Oooh, photos!’ I said.

Now.  I have always known that nostalgia is an actual condition.  I embrace it.  I use the ache for old times to spur me on every day.  My past helps me live in the present.

I’ve been feeling particularly nostalgic recently, more than the sparks that happen all the time, anyway.

Sitting there on Monday morning, I searched my 80s face, wondering if that kid knew she’d go from that brown Levittown living-room to an office/living-room/kitchen in Leith, with a bunch of stories in between.

This was the kid I found in a wicker basket:

me sparkle motion 2

 

 

Did she know that her heart would break and break and break and mend again? And again?  Did she know that someday she’d be writing some words and listening to music while her bearded husband made dinner?

Maybe she did, but if you’d asked her back then she would have said, ‘He will not have a beard!’

The kid in that picture wanted to be a singer.  Obviously.  A singer with a clean-shaven husband.

And then I grew up.

A girl can change her mind.
A girl can change her mind.

 

What makes you nostalgic?