I wrote nothing before work yesterday, having far too early a start to countenance this. By the time I’d got home, I was a brain-dead jellyfish; which is useful for certain sexual possibilities, but absolutely no use for squeezing out this novel I’m currently constipated with.
I managed maybe four hundred words before conceding defeat and taking to bed with Philip Kerr’s ‘March violets’ – it’s noir Jim – but not as we know it. Set in Berlin in 1936 just as the Olympic games kick off. It gets a hearty thumbs up from me anyhoo.
I’ve mentioned the in-skull movies before, I think. I’d like to look a bit more closely at this particular double-edged sword.
Does everybody day-dream? Certainly, I spent my formative years being told not to.
Puberty brought with it a whole new class of imagined interactions and, as I was by then, long used to lying in bed, imagining stuff, I threw myself into these with both hands.
Later, during a fairly negative period, I noticed that when I felt aggrieved, I could brood for months over some slight or other, returning to it again and again, like picking at a scab with a rusty nail.
With increased maturity (it says here) I loosened my grip on that pish and now use my powers for good.
So yeah, I spend time every day, wool-gathering, staring into space, letting the remains of my mind wander where it will.
My single favourite thing about the writing experience has to be those moments where I’m simply transcribing the movie playing in my head.
Where I’ve done the spadework beforehand, I have a fair idea how each character will act in a given situation.