One small step...

You may have noticed over the past several months that I found my last OU course something of a challenge. More accurately, the kind of challenge that results the inability to string two words together, coupled with overworked cranial matter dripping slowly from the ears. I chivvied myself along with the delightful notion that once the hell of study was over, I could spend a happy few months writing before the next course (in creative writing - insert appropriately hysterical noise here) begins, but I was thwarted by the aforementioned brain dribble. Even when, as recently, I had an idea, I just couldn't get the words out: I would sit, ignoring the blank screen and inwardly screaming I can't be arsed!! Frankly, this was disturbing, as I had never conceived that it could be possible for me to get any lazier.

However, by the cunning application of self-bribery ('write for 10 minutes, then you can play all the spider solitaire you want'), I finally managed to finish something. 5,000 words of pretty mediocre stuff isn't much to crow about, but it is a relief to be back in the land of characters and dialogue rather than in the scary real world. Besides, this story got me back in touch with Tyrone, and it's always a blast to spend time with him. Just don't tell him I said that.

Another Tommy Atkins

October 18th, said Tommy’s handwriting. Had it really been three weeks since his last letter? Molly Atkins settled into her rocking chair, and set it into gentle motion. She knew it was silly to worry; Tommy was so busy out there, and of course he would see to his men first, censoring their letters and tending to their needs just as she had taught him to take care of his little brothers.

She tried to read a few lines, but the words swam before her eyes as she recalled an image of Tommy newly decked out in his uniform, looking tiny and lost like a boy in a new suit that must last him several years yet. But as she clucked and exclaimed over him, Tommy’s blue eyes had filled with calm purpose, and Molly felt sure he would get through all right. It didn’t matter that the letter now blurred before her; she knew its contents by heart. Tommy’s cheerful descriptions of the wonderful, motley assortment of lads around him; jokey remonstrations against army food, and a little list of the things he hoped she would send.

Of course, she had scuttled into the village immediately and bought all the cigarettes and chocolate she could, then she hurried home to finish knitting those warm grey socks. She knew he’d love them.

A barely-glimpsed shadow passing the window startled Molly. She half-raised herself from the chair, then sank down again. The doorbell rang in unusually sonorous and respectful tones, and a gush of anguish speared through Molly’s stomach as the certainty flashed into her mind. It was Bobby Stewart, the telegraph boy.

She heard Martha clattering down the stairs to answer, and gripped Tommy’s letter more tightly. Suddenly the words leaped out at her with all the clarity and solidity of life.

Cigarettes, please – as many as you can send. And chocolate too; it cheers the lads up a treat. And you know how I am with socks!

A list of futile little comforts that had not helped him at all. Then, a line below:

Lastly, my dearest Mother, send me your prayers.

Molly shook her head slowly. Not even this last item had reached her boy in time.

A write mess

It's fair to say that things have not been going altogether swimmingly of late. You may have surmised from the slightly hysterical limerick below that I managed to get into a car accident (less than a month after passing my test - I assume this is some kind of record), and while I fully accept all the platitudes about how the only important thing is that nobody was hurt, it nevertheless left me feeling pretty disillusioned about how whole driving business. Now, I say that nobody was injured, but my fellow prangee is claiming all sorts of sudden and debilitating illnesses, all of which will, I assume, be miraculously cured by a wad of notes from the insurance companies. All most irritating. As Radiohead would say, Karma police, arrest this man...

Writing hasn't been going well either, largely because I can't do it. Every day I sit eagerly before the PC with the sincere intention of rattling off a few hundred words or editing a chapter or two of Tyrone's novel, but even as Word lumbers to life, my attention begins to wander. Next thing I know I'm lazing around on Facebook fussing an imaginary dog or playing infuriatingly addictive word games, or I'm succumbing to my crippling spider solitaire habit, or buying useless tat off Ebay. Anything, it seems, other than do the one thing I yearn to do when I'm at work or otherwise unable to write. Then, before I know it, the evening has gone, and I'm left feeling thoroughly narked at myself and my lack of application. Sigh.

I have, however, managed to complete one writing-related task: I have booted my gorilla-y kids' novel off to try its luck with another agent, as the last bunch of guttersnipes I tried didn't even bother to reply - which I find intensely irritating, having enclosed the stipulated SAE. Fine, they don't have to like the story, but there's no need to be so goshdarned rude.

OK, I'll put an end to this aimless rant now. I know it's particularly long and self-pitying, but it has been a while.

A peevish limerick

A van driver (I won't say his name)
is playing a quite roguish game.
He ploughed into me,
and then skipped off to see
about filing his false whiplash claim.

GRRRR.

Argy-bargycue

‘That’s the ticket!’ he garbled through his mouthful of burger and spittle. ‘Nice and simple.’
He looked pointedly at her over the top of his shades and wiped his greasy fingers on his greasier apron. Of course, it was one of those specimens depicting the outline of a basque-clad woman – he thought it hilarious.
She stretched her mouth into a submissive smile as she pushed a morsel of burger around her plate with her fork, silently drooling for the aromatic pinkness of rainbow trout or a nicely-seared king prawn, perhaps with just a touch of sweet chilli dipping sauce. But no, it was her birthday and he had insisted on treating her to his speciality – the traditional British barbecue. Her burger fragment beached itself on a slope of thickening grease, and she suppressed a gag.
‘Filling, innit?’ He smirked approvingly, taking her disgust as a sign of satiety. ‘Not like your arty farty nouvelle quizzy stuff. Much nicer than them burgers you made, ain’t they?’
She recalled her steak tartare haché and his pained and prolonged retching as he took his first mouthful, and memories of her other attempts to interest him in real food stung to the surface. The hours she spent making that cassoulet, and the seconds it had taken him to fork it into the bin and then microwave a plateful of Heinz beans. She swallowed.
‘You’re quite right. This is delicious. Do let me get you some more ketchup.’
‘Attagirl!’ he crowed from behind his barbecue as he flipped his third burger.
She padded inside, and extracted the red bottle from the cupboard. She glanced furtively towards the window, and then took a second bottle, decanting most of its contents into the ketchup. He may not care for her French food, but perhaps he might get a kick from her imported Wasabi sauce.

A flash from the past

I was rummaging through my memory stick last night, and found this. Gawd knows I've lost all ability to write new stuff, so here's something from a few months ago:

Gazing down the length of her body, she knew she had done the right thing. The fur was divinely beautiful; she would have been insane to let it go. There was something gently nurturing in its soft warmth, a plush luxury that reminded her of when she was tiny, snuggling up to her mother and her comforting, familiar scent. The symmetry of the markings delighted her – perfect black rosettes against caramel background.
She paced slowly back and forth, revelling in the thick ripples of the fur as she walked. She knew, some day, that her determination to have the coat would lead to repercussions; even now, she was privately ashamed of the cost. She didn’t even particularly want to be seen in it – it was enough for her just to possess it.
Turning, the leopard pawed absently at the corpse of the hunter, before bounding sleekly back to her den to feed her cub.

Beep beep!

Well, well. Who'd have thunk it? After just over a year of juddering, stalling and screaming (and that's just from the instructors), not to mention a frankly horrifying amount of cash spent, I can now drive! On my own, and everything! I can exclusively reveal that my examiner from this morning is without a doubt the most generous man in England - he seemed to view my rolling gracefully backwards on a hill start as nothing more than a pleasant diversion from the dreary business of proceeding forwards, and he accepted that stalling needlessly at junctions merely adds to the interest of the drive. What a lovely chap. I hope his team wins the DSA Euro 2008 sweepstake, and more especially I hope that the sour-faced harpie who glowered throughout the whole of my first test has got Switzerland.