A friend just contacted me via camp NaNoWriMo’s internal mail to give me a progress report on her own novel and tell me that writing a novel from conclusion to prologue sounded awfy disorientating. Which it is. Well spotted, Madam – Oscar! A balloon for the wee lady with the indignant expression!
My strategy of getting up at four in the a.m. is certainly adding to my own sense of unreality just now – and a fucking funfair has sprouted in town – right under my bedroom window, in fact – with horrible, bass-heavy pumping chart music filling my bedroom until about 23:00 each night.
The only thing I hate more than happiness in others is being forcibly exposed to it myself.
I finally gave up on “Fifty shades” last night. After two hundred pages, Anastasia and Christian were eating these really boring oysters whilst discussing this dull-as-ditchwater slave contract when I realised – again – that my mind was wandering. I was thinking about new software I want to teach myself, about having another barleycup, about what to have for lunch the following day. All of which were far more alluring than this ‘literary sensation’.
So this’ll be my last reference to that immensely crummy book. Consider it consigned to the same dustbin as the equally execrable ‘Twilight’ series and the dread Lady Gag-Hag.
So anyway, up at four once more and another almost-a-couple-of-thousand words of ‘dystopian’.
And to return to my earlier disorientation, I’m using that to power the telling of the tale. The plot itself is disorientating, communication is a massive issue for the two central characters, the feeling of being a fish out of water.
I’m not sure how much of this is autobiographical – the concept of a couple who share no common language could have come straight from the pages of my life!
And I am eating a lot of fruit just now, storing up the tastes and feelings for the strange imaginary vegetable matter that comprises most of their diets.