The pornographic stapler, and a wee nomination.

First of all, an apology. This was supposed to be with you days ago. (Incidentally, this is how most of my correspondence begins.) Two things account for the lateness:

(a) we’ve only just begun… (if you could imagine this sung by Karen Carpenter, it would help) the teaching term, and I’m knee deep in exciting things called Schemes of Work;

(b) I’ve been working a lot in our lovely library (the busiest in the country, I’m told) and although the library is lovely it won’t let me access my blog (as I mentioned here) for reasons of PORNOGRAPHIC CONTENT. At some point I need to get off my ass and walk to the desk a few paces away and ask them how I might reinstate access to my blog, owing to the fact that IT ISN’T PORNOGRAPHIC, but that would involve taking action (albeit of a very limited sort) and I’m not great at taking action (although I am getting better at it). And the business of getting the best table to work at (the one with the view of Norwich’s spiry skyline) always, immediately, becomes the most important thing when I enter the room. (Although I rarely do get it, just FYI, and yesterday I surrendered it because I was making too much noise with my stapler and I could see the woman next to me would have told me to go away if she hadn’t been English.) (Being English I decided to preempt a possible ‘scene’ and scurry away to a distant table.) One day in the near future I will give up on my dream of A Room Table With a View, and go straight to the desk and sort it all out.

Most days (not all) the library does great things for my writing. Yesterday, having finished my stapling, I sat down to treat myself to a bit of the novel. I put my headphones in (for these are essential for working in public), reminded myself not to talk – or even mutter – whilst working, and opened the latest scene. And then

 

Yes.

A moment’s respectful silence.

The scene was dead.

It was stiff, bereft of life. It definitely wasn’t pining for the fjords, and it wasn’t exhausted after a long squawk.  

It was all, to be frank, a load of bullshit.

I’d already scoffed my blueberry muffin, and ordinarily, being at home on the sofa, I’d have taken emergency action by boiling the kettle (which really ought to be a service provided by an AA-type organisation, do we not think? A network of Emergency Kettle Putter Onners for when you’re feeling a bit limp and defeated). Anyway, what was I saying? Ah yes. When one’s working at the library, one cannot simply Put the Kettle On. So I was forced to sit there, at my distant desk, with nothing but my stapler for company – but here’s where the library environment comes in useful. A woman wandered in, using the end of my enormous desk as a resting place for her bags, and I looked at her face (thinking: get your bags off my bloody table) and something, IDK what, about her general demeanour or the navy windcheater she was wearing or perhaps just the smell of her, gave me a bit of a pulse again, and I was able to dive in with my CPR and my paddles and bring the scene back to life.

As I was telling a class last night, you need to put yourself in the way of experiences. This, above, what I’ve just gone on about, is perfectly adequate as an experience, small as it was. If you feel that 2015 is the time in your life to experiment with attending a rubber wear dungeon party or navigating Niagara Falls in a barrel then knock yourself out (in the case of the latter, you probably will). But the sort of experiences a writer needs needn’t even be new. They need only remind you of something you’ve already done. All the neurons (?) will fire excitedly in your brain and you’ll find you have something to write about. Ah. The Holy Grail. What we’re all searching for. Having something to write about. 

A writer in the field, searching for Something to Write About.

A writer in the field, searching for Something to Write About. She saw something an hour ago, but it was a teenage vampire. Best left alone.

In other news, I’ve been nominated for a blogging award! For which I would like to thank Inger at The Viridescent Consumerwho very kindly named me, and also blogs honestly and movingly about her writing life, and some recent sadnesses, at So You Think you’re a Writer? The latest posts have been genuinely awe-inspiring.

images (2)

So the rules for this award are:

  1. Show the award on your blog
  2. Thank the person who nominated you.
  3. Share 7 facts about yourself.
  4. Nominate 15 blogs.
  5. Link your nominee’s blogs and let them know

SEVEN FACTS ABOUT ME

  1. I’m trypophobic. Which means I have a fear of clustered holes. So trypophobic that you’ll have to google this one yourself because I can’t go near any links in case there are images.
  2. I speak to my rabbit in German and my cats in French. When I ‘do’ their voices replying (which I do do: bonus embarrassing fact for you there, a kind of 2(a) if you will) they have Mexican accents.
  3. My idea of humour: the bit in A Clockwork Orange where Alex is naked, being admitted to prison, and there, of course, is the handily-placed box to cover his meat-n-two – and then suddenly, ha, it’s whisked away. And there you have his willy. This makes me laugh.

    Not a job I'd care to do. Although I could make an exception for a young Malcolm McDowell.

    Not a job I’d care to do. Although I could make an exception for a young Malcolm McDowell.

  4. For the first 15 years of my life I was a Mormon.
  5. I’ve danced onstage with Wayne Sleep.
  6. When I was seven my favourite song was the Beatles’ Revolution, because of its chorus: You know it’s gonna be all right… and I’d sing it to myself when I was scared at night. (The actual meaning of the song passed me completely by at that tender age.)
  7. Aged twelve, I did an ad-lib in a school play rehearsal (I was Miss Silicon – laugh it up – the deputy headmistress) that used reincorporation of a symbolic object (and was also, though I say it myself, very funny) and, although the director called me back onstage for a bollocking, the geography teacher (Mr Kent) who had written the play reinstated my change. Stories are in my blood, I think. Writing the novel has helped me remember that, yes, I love fannying about with words, but I love telling stories the most.

My 15 nominees for this awards are…

Actually I’ve only done 7. Seven seemed more appropriate, since I’ve shared seven facts. Also I have to go to work.

This is work-work, of the stapler-requiring variety, but tomorrow, oh hallowed day, I’ll be back in the library. Back to rewriting Part One of the novel. If you have an interesting face that you think might assist me in this matter (or a blue windcheater, or you smell particularly interesting… er, on second thoughts…) please arrange to pass my desk whenever I’m looking droopy*.

*Which is pretty much all the time, since turning forty.

30 Days of Nano: Praise the Lord, it’s Day Thirty!

Am I sad or happy that NaNoWriMo, and hence my 30 Days of Nano blog challenge, comes to an end at midnight tonight?

I’m a mix of the two: I’m shappy.

I didn’t do any writing at all yesterday. I’d already locked and loaded the day’s blog post ahead of time, so I didn’t even write a blog. (Boo! Hiss!)

Statler: I hear they're calling this the Medium Blog.  Waldorf: Well it certainly wasn't rare or well done!

Statler: I hear they’re calling this the Medium Blog.
Waldorf: Well it certainly wasn’t rare or well done!

But the day before that, I finished the first draft of my novel.

I don’t think you heard me.

I FINISHED THE FIRST DRAFT OF MY NOVEL!!!!!

Oh yeah. Go me.

Oh yeah. Go me.

 

I had my headphones in when I ‘validated’ on the nano site, and was promptly deafened by their cutesy recorded cheers. But I get to call myself a Winner. Hurrah! I like being a winner. Although it’s possible I’m only a winner for the remainder of 2014…

Winner-2014-Twitter-Profile

But at least I’ll have a month off from being a loser!

What have I learnt from this year’s nanowrimo?

We could really do with a Team America montage round about now.

 

Instead, have some bullet points:

  • The more often you write, the easier it gets.
  • Dorothea Brande was right: the subconscious will provide, if you let it.
  • The more you write, the more frequent your typos.
  • The more you write, the less inclination you have to amend those typos.
  • Sometimes, when you’re writing a lot, your brain attempts to reread, reflect, revise with every random thought you have, and this is almost as annoying as an Agadoo ear worm when you’re trying to sleep.
  • An insight scribbled in your notebook at four in the morning is better than two insights in a bush.
  • Two years of planning and writing and failing and writing and failing and tearing up plans and despairing and agonising and shredding and howling at the moon are all worth it when you’re not even writing your final scene: you’re following it, like a child in the Pied Piper’s wake, and you eat dinner because you have to eat dinner (you’re a human being, natch, and human beings need dinners) but you are eating with your left hand so you can carry on typing with your right.

Over the coming weeks and months it will all go pear-shaped. Of course it will. Bliss is fragile. I’m enjoying it now, because I can. I haven’t read my first draft yet. Why would I? I’m enjoying my honeymoon. You don’t go checking your new husband’s internet history when you’re on your honeymoon, do ya? No siree. You leave that for a rainy day in the future.

It’s not raining today (yet). And it’s too soon to go back to it yet. Fireworks and first drafts: leave ’em alone, for the love of God! 

But I have got a nagging awareness of the ‘project notes’ in my Scrivener file, where I noted down inconsistencies as I thunk of them. And I’ve sent Nancy Drew on the case of The Missing First Four Chapters and she’s presently teaming a rib-knit sweater with a pair of capri pants and enjoying a morning coffee with her kindly-eyed housekeeper Hannah Gruen, but she’s made some preliminary observations already:

  • At 8.04 a.m. the chapters were seen to be partially assembled.
  • They seemed not to be written in English, but gibberish.
  • Consultation with relevant sources suggests that it’s easier to write the beginning once you’ve got the end.

So, mainly because I find that I want to be writing today, and every day thereafter, I’m heading back in to the war zone with my dictaphone and my camera to start fiddling around a bit. (NB: Not to read the draft. Oh no. I don’t want to blow my face off with an unexploded rocket, thank you very much.) Expect further dispatches at some point in the future:

Novel is shit stop send reinforcements stop wondering if I should just stop 

And what have I learnt from my 30 days of daily blogging?

  • I should never compose a post in public, because I find myself quite funny sometimes (and that isn’t socially acceptable).
  • Some posts are bigger than others. (As Morrissey almost said.)
  • If I had to blog every day for the rest of my life, I probably could. But I don’t, so I won’t.

I do like blogging, though. And I like it when folk like my blogs.

This is me in the internet pond:

4496504859_3e846f5198

Image source

This is not me:

That's me holding the fish. Kidding.

That’s me holding the fish. Kidding.

Image source

But that’s cool.

Sometimes a few people stop by. They get snagged on some click bait in a tweet I wrote, or they google a search term that whisks them my way, or they (just occasionally) set out intentionally to come here. They put on their shoes, and coat, and gloves and they strap their binoculars round their neck and they brave the harsh winds of the internet in winter to peer through the fast encroaching fog for the faint glow, up ahead, of lynseywhite.com, where legend has it there are comfy chairs, hot tea, fluffy slippers for frostbitten feet, and a roaring log fire full of clichés. Not to mention willy jokes.

Excuse me a second while I just open the door to let these folks in...

Excuse me a second while I just open the door to let these folks in… they’re cold and tired and mightily in need of a joke about members.

Blogging gives me something (an outlet for my lunacy) that I don’t get from fiction – or don’t get so quickly, and easily, from fiction. So, whether or not there’s anyone out in that snowstorm searching, there’ll always be a brew on at lynseywhite.com (tea only; I don’t do coffee). It’s just I’ll be boiling the kettle slightly less often from December 1st…

We’ve had muppets, and fireworks, and insights in bushes, and weary travellers, and tiny fish… and if that ain’t enough confusing analogies for ya, then let me point you to some of my favourite posts from this whole 30 Days of Nano experience:

Day 18: in which Nano comes of age.

Day 10: my homage to Lorrie Moore’s How to Become a Writer

Day 28: on being an older writer. (The internet liked this one the best.)

Day 6: something quite sensible about finding your ‘seed word’ (as Scarlett Thomas calls it).

Day 29: in which nanowrimo reports on my progress. 

December, here we come.

30 Days of Nano: Day Twenty Seven

How to Be a Blogger.

First link to the companion piece, How to be a Week-Two NaNoWriMo Writer that ‘inspired’ this post (by which you mean ‘gave you an excuse to recycle something you’ve already used’).  

Sit down at the keyboard to write today’s blog post. Seconds later, find yourself standing, instead, in your kitchen in front of the kettle.

Sit down again at the keyboard. Armed with a nice cup of tea, you will definitely now start writing.

Very quickly check your blog traffic. Fall into the gaping maw of an existential crisis (if nobody reads my blog, does it really exist? Do exist?) Compose funny lines about writers shitting in forests and nobody hearing them.

Drink tea.

Reconsider your ‘funny’ lines about writers shitting. Reach for the bloggers’ friend: the delete button.

Attempt to stroke your cat; get scratched.

Check blog traffic again; get scratched – inside your soul.

Feel quietly pleased, surprised, confused (while realising that if you were German you would have a single word to describe all three of these functions simultaneously, and that word might be Verklockenblockenknocken) by the occasional site views in countries you’ve never even heard of. Wonder what they might be gaining from your blog. (Whilst secretly knowing, deep in your soul, that they wound up here by accident and went straight back out again, like you do in a public toilet when somebody’s left you a shit in the pan).

Feel shame for your xenophobic German joke. Mention your German ‘A’ level. Write for a bit about how you’re one of those rare folk who actually likes the German language; that you’ve actually read The Catcher in the Rye in German (or at least, the whole first half of the first page) and the opening line of Heinrich Böll’s Das Brot der frühen Jahre is one you will always remember: ‘Der Tag, an dem Hedwig kam, war ein Montag…’

Decide you will appear both more intelligent and enigmatic if you leave these lines untranslated.

'Hallo, ich heisse Hedwig.'  'Verklockenblockenknocken.'

‘Hallo, ich heisse Hedwig.’
‘Verklockenblockenknocken.’

Das Brot der frühen Jahre (1962): so good they filmed it

Realise you’ve backed yourself into a bit of a corner. Where can one go from a xenophobic joke?

Leave the wasteland of your blog traffic behind, and head into the London-Congestion-Charge of your spam queue. Wish everyone was as keen on your blog as ‘nike pas cher’ in:

{Idaho|Carolina|Ohio|Colorado|Florida|Los angeles|California}! 

who was:

{bored to tears|bored to death|bored} at work

so decided to:

{check out|browse} your {site|website|blog} during lunch break.

Learn from ‘clashofclanshakez’ that you’ve ‘ended his 4 day hunt’. Remain unenlightened as to what he was hunting for.

Rather like this one from ‘air max pas cher’ (while also enjoying the fact that you know this means ‘cheap air max’ in French, thus affording you an opportunity to show off your French A-level):

Typically the feathers seem splendid.

Congratulate yourself on your splendid feathers. Scroll down to the foot of your last three posts and find yourself, all three times, invited to ‘be the first person to like this!’ Have a cry. Or some tea. Or some wine. Or some heroin.

Hope people who’ve read How to Become a Week-Two Nanowrimo Writer will get that you’ve repeated that line deliberately, the way Martin Amis says it’s all right to repeat things, and not because you’re lazy (even though laziness is partly the reason you used it).

Wonder if more, or fewer, willy jokes is the way to go.

Glance up; see the bright orange glow of the new subscriber box, like a bottle of Perrier at the foot of a Saharan sand dune. Somebody likes you!

You’re on a roll now. You’ll cast your net and catch some more followers… With this in mind, tweet your blog for the twelfth time in seven minutes. Fiddle about with the tag line:

This nanowrimo writer posted a blog! And then THIS happened…

Here be words and willy jokes…

Wonder if all this is the twitter equivalent of Father Ted’s Mrs Doyle with her tea tray…

Ah go on, ya will ya will ya will ya will ya will... read my blog.

Ah go on, ya will ya will ya will ya will ya will… read my blog.

Decide that, since you’re on twitter anyway, you might as well click on that link to another writer’s blog…

Laugh smugly to yourself. This is balls of a magnitude rarely witnessed. As if anyone would willingly read this pile of—

See that the post has 359 likes. 1.5K tweets. 972 comments.

Consume tea, wine, and heroin all in the same cup.