Wednesday, March 26, 2008

The final chapter

Oh sweet jesus, I never thought three thousand words would look so appealing.

My hands are cramped into claws so my typing speed is slowing, and my back is hunched like a question mark. I haven't seen daylight in two days and the house has got overrun with mice while I wasn't looking. As you can see, grammatical/logical speech is deteriorating. Took me ten minutes to remember the past tense of 'rip' yesterday.

Next time, for sure, I shall map out my time more carefully so that I don't end up doing this marathon 2k-a-day race to meet the deadline.

Okay, onto the final chapter before I lose the ability to speak or the power of sight or sense or whatever the hell it was I had back when I started this book. I'll leave you with this ...

"Very few blind people join the nudists"

Monday, March 17, 2008

Instrument of the week


I need a bass or a tomtom or a big mothafucking drum, the kind that makes a deep boom booming noise.

For an analogy.

At last I'm getting to the big scenes in the novel, loaded with emote and hopefully tension. And for that you need the big drums. I think it might be the sexiest instrument. Pounding, thumping, banging, etc.

On youtube, you can find Sandy Nelson's awesome 'Let there be drums', or this number, unaccountably decorated with various pin-up girls.

'Specially for Janine, Buddy Rich does a drum duel:

I also found some half naked men hitting drums, which is always good.

Maybe if he hit them really hard his pants would fall down completely.

Sexiest of all, though, is this.

Damn. I think it's the way they all sway slightly, very tight, side to side. In sync.

Imagine standing there with five big Russians marching towards you relentlessly.

Boom, boom, boom.

UPDATE: Oh, oh oh, how did I forget? One of my favourite bands ever, Bongwater, did a gorgeous song all about drums:

Yes. They win. Forever.

Bang bang bang.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Two thirds done

So that's good. But what if none of it makes any sense? What if the writing nightmare is true, and when I print off the final manuscript ...

Note to self: Grit teeth. Plug headphones in. Keep going. Do not fuck around on youtube, it will not help your cause.

Monday, March 03, 2008


Right now, life is running in a pretty small circle. Write daily target of 1600 words, flail helplessly in paperwork for an hour, cook, eat, stare at a wall for an hour, sleep.

Weekends are mostly recovery from above routine, but I'm determined this year come hell or high water to Walk a couple of hours every weekend - up a hill, along a beach, anywhere, just somewhere out of the effing city that drives me nuts all week.

I take my camera and make a lot of pictures of puddles and leaves and lichens. Tres therapeutique. Last weekend, though, I found something a little disturbing.

Dirty trees.

First, walking in a forest, I came across a grove full of smokin' hot beeches.

They're obviously bumping and grinding. Look at the sweat running down their backs.

One couple were really getting into it.

On the other side of the ditch, however, they'd abandoned dancing altogether and gone straight for some hot stump action.

I know.

I hardly knew where to look.

But there was a happy ending. Afterwards, they shared a very tender kiss, bark-to-bark.


Okay, now I've amused myself by perving over a hedge, time to go and write more about urban hipsters fucking every which way but loose.