Great Panjandrum with the little button at top

Oh to be a writer, now that autumn's here.

Autumn is traditionally the time of year in England when everyone gets very busy.

Most discretionary activities tail off about mid-June, go into stasis for July and August, and ramp up again with a roar on September 1st.
It's a season that makes you energetic - the tang of winter in the air, the exhilarating beauty of the trees wherever you turn, the sense that the year is running out, but there's still time to catch it.

I would very much like to be writing - the Grand Tour that was our summer holiday is over, Tiggi has been dispatched to Cambridge and seems likely to stay there, Christmas planning is not yet upon us. The household is orderly and more or less clean; the bills are paid; there are no Major Feasts of the church.

But because of the Great Autumn Flurry, I am completely run off my feet.

We have our new premises at Sumpter Yard to transform from a room with weed-strewn yard attached, into a little theatre. This alone would be a delightful if time-consuming project. Unfortunately I am also directing a play at Dunstable Little Theatre, which would also be fun on its own. It is not a case of A Lot of What You Fancy does you good, cos it doesn't.

I have committed to directing my Faustus play in March, which means I ought to be working on the next draft. Also I have found a short story which I thought I might slip into a competition, just for the hell of it. But there's no time for either. Unless I stop work, in which case I could not afford to live.

Sooner or later, I will have to make a decision, and something will have to go, or my obit will read "once thought promising..."

 

No buses today

February 2nd.
Wonderful snowfall today - the heaviest in almost 20 years, and the transport system grinds to a halt.
We decided to stay home and are working side by side quite amicably.
J did up the temperature a bit by throwing a pathetic little snowball at me and then skulking inside rather than come outside and face his fate like a man. Just as well Jon with his legendary snowball abilities isn't around.
It was charming when, walking down to the shop, I passed the slopes of Batchwood Hall ringing with the laughter of tobogganning children. But it puzzles me that so many families should have toboggans when it hardly ever snows in England. They must sit disconsolately in attics waiting for the one day in every two years when they are hauled out and up a snowy hill. And not one toboggan per family, I passed troops of them.
Have started Chapter 2 of The Bus - and so far (not very, to be honest) really rather good.
Still pondering on how/whether to post Chapter One.

Practically a taxi now..

January 29th
One month into the new year, and the first chapter is complete.
Spent a cheerful hour this morning putting pictures into the text, as I firmly believe that age of the illustrated adult novel has come; I just have to get Tiggi drawing for me relentlessly, and find a way of publishing it.
I want to put it up here, or at least a link to it, but it has to look nice - Ah - time for advice from beloved rellie Emma, with all her layout and publishing skills.

Thinks: Beloved agent Anne might not like chapter being published on the web.

The bus in gear

January 27th
The plan seems to be working - partially anyway.
Made it to bed nice and early, but was successively woken by:

• Jeremy bringing me the cat
• Tiggi texting
• Jeremy coming to bed
• Tiggi & Critch coming in
• Jeremy snoring
• Tiggi & Critch watching a movie in the loft
• Jeremy waking me up to say I was snoring
• The cat deciding it was Sitting on the Boss Time
• Unknown forces which decide that 5:15 is the time to party

However in spite of this, did get up at 6:00 and was on the road by 6:22.
Unfortunately freezing fog turned  the motorway traffic into a sludge, and it took my 90 minutes to get to work.
Fortunately I was able to sit straight down and work on The Bus.
Unfortunately I had forgot the good old mainframe boys who like to come in at 7:00 and rag one another loudly across the intervening desks before any of the dot net puppies arrive to cramp their style.
Fortunately I discovered that I had a whole CD of nice music (St Saviour's Give Me the Wings of Faith) on my phone and a new set of headphones, so I could blot them out. 
So writing was done and it is not yet 9:30.
Nietzsche figured in this morning's work, so here he is.

In bed

Monday January 26th
In the course of a thoroughly pleasant weekend, (very cheerful Tiggi home for the weekend, Jack & his parents for the day, lunch out, playground, swings etc.) since everything seemed to be going right, I decided on an enhancement to the scheme.
I played hookey from church in order to work on the novel, reworking Chapter One, creating a nice list  of sanitary products etc., and apart from being a little frail after a very good night out on Saturday celebrating Adrian Strain's birthday at Carluccio's (not good food any more - do not recommend), the session went well.
Walking to the local for milk and paper, like every other non-churchgoer in England, I decided it would be a good thing now to add two things to the scheme.
So as well as writing a bit everyday and reading a bit everyday, I would add

•     walking a bit every day
•     declining one drink every day.

With this in mind I went to bed early (it had been such a pleasant, social and productive weekend (two in a row) I felt cool about this) and set the alarm for 6:00, so I could get in early and write first, thus leaving time at lunch for a walk.

Alas it was not to be so. At 3:00 am I was awake, and remained so until 4:05. I know this, because I can tell you exactly what was on the BBC world service between those times. I then was awake again between 4:19 and 5:20, but not listening to the Beeb as it was all about Congolese war crimes. At 5:19 I turned off the alarm, on the grounds that I am no good to art or commerce as a zombie.

I wonder why circumstances so conspire against me?

So here I am at lunchtime writing this, even though it would be pleasant, if wintry, day for a walk. This could then be logged under Whippet, not Bus.

It's lucky that there is always another day on the horizon, and I haven't failed on the second goal (yet).

On the train

Jan 22nd
On the train to Manchester, which is inexplicably bumpy and difficult to write upon. I am convinced that it has always been smooth and comfortable - perfect writing territory, no chatter, no cats, no distracting things in the fridge or on television, but it is proving less so. However there is much to be said for writing in the morning (it is 07:18 am) before the brain turns to an alcoholic stew. How to contrive? Early start for work with an hour at the office desk? Also useful is the painfully slow internet connection which does not tempt me away.
Point of construction in the novel. Got to the end of chapter one and needed a hook, which in turn needed a new character, a young man, whose death kicks off the plot. Did not like the idea of introducing a young man who is important but whom we never meet, so cunningly decided to change the young person in Chapter Oe with whom our hero, Stephen, discusses the existence of God, into this young man. It had been a girl, a flatmate of his daughter, and it's very interesting to see how the conversation changes when one of the interlocutors changes. Which is of course exactly how it should be if it's prperly written, but is re-assuring.
Aayway this is a displacement activity, so on with the reall writing.
I'm putting this pic in because I like it, even though it's from the Daily Mail (anathema sit)

Back on the bus

January 20th
Hard not to be distracted from the minutiae of the writer's life by EVENTS
My favourite image of Obama, (of whom incidentally I am in awe simply because of the eye-watering organisation and chutzpah that his rise implies) has been fairly well suppressed, so I have to air it here.

In the shadow of this glory, the daily slog of the writer faced with a blank space and a new "arc" of story to contrive pales into insignificance.
I have noticed yet again, how my novels are really plays masquerading as novels - there are of course some nice passages of descriptive text, and some very tasty metaphors, but the substance of the books are always conversations and drama. I'm finding this more and more with the new one - it's a play godammit, so I had a notion when I have finished chapter one, to post it here for you my dear  readers - all 3 of you - ah, but I do appreciate you so much! - and then post the play version, just for fun (my fun, mainly).

Not on the bus

Saturday 17th
It's amazing how hard it is to write anything at all when (a) hungover (b) the infant grandson is crying.

(a) arose because I am stupid. We went to the Jolly Sailor after choir practice. Phil Elson, on the loose because Jackie had gone to see Slumdog Millionaire, was in fine social form. It was Mike Chambers birthday, so he and Simone turned up later and joined us, and they were in suitably jolly mood too. Then Mikey full of good cheer. Too many rounds were bought for my health, and I seem not to have the capacity to say no.

(b) happened because Jack, just back from NZ via San Francisco, and therefore out of kilter, tried to stroke the cat and she responded in classic feline manner. This gave him a terrible surprise as nice furry cat turned out not to be so nice after all. He began to wail and would not be consoled.

Now all is peace and I have an hour or so before I need to start cooking for tomorrow's lunch guests, and then we are going to the movies with Fran Eridani-Ball to see Gomorrah.  I'm not a writer, I'm a social butterfly.

Unbelievers' bus - two

January 15th
A great deal of amusement in our household over the great EU spoof artwork
Entropa

I've always loved tricksters and forgers of every hue - from the great 19th century J P Collier who confused the hell out of Elizabethan scholars for decades, to Shaun Greenhalgh who made an idiot of the art world. Pity the great novel on the subject (What's Bred in the Bone - Robertson Davies) has already been written. The original Great Panjandrum

Managed  to write some more of the Bus last night - coming along well for Chapter One. I'm even seeing a story take shape.

Unbelievers' bus - one

Jan 13th
Well, I did it.
Sat down last night and started to write - something, anything, just to prove that I could, and so far (not very far, I admit) so good. Lots of ideas. I want it to be serious/funny, and see,s to be shaping  up that way.
Starts with a priest catching sight of the Atheist Bus. No idea where we're going from there, but I can't wait to find out.
 And naturally the weeks are filling up with pleasant calls on my time, as they always do. I confess I'd rather be working on the play of The Metamorphosis of Ajax, but the magic word "accomplished" in conjunction with the word "novelist" in Anne's email (see Metamorphosis - five) has worked its magic.
So vain a creature after all....