Wordsmith

Writing is tough. I’ve basically spent the last eight days writing or thinking about at writing. I get up early and stay up late so that I can do it and squeeze in life.My brain is constantly working and I didn’t even have an episode of Glee that I could switch off with this week. I couldn’t be happier.

Since NaNoWriMo started last Monday its been hard to think of the last thing I’ve done that wasn’t related to the creative organisation of my vocabulary. I had planned that Thursday was going to be my day off. This was a day off where I worked the job that pays my bills. When I clocked off I went and enjoyed a delicious, laughter filled, Indian banquet with some friends. But when that was over I went home and did my homework for the Take Me There travel/blog writing workshop. Did I say a day off?

This is not me complaining, honestly. I’m just trying to give you an idea of what I’m doing. So far for the novel I have written just under 12000 words out of 50,000. Saturday night I was one thousand words ahead of schedule. Today I am 2k behind. In the space of two days. Its an interesting project and I’m loving the process.

For those of you who missed my shameless whoring on facebook and twitter, you will be pleased (or indifferent but definitely not enraged) to hear that someone else has thought my writing is good enough to stick on the internet. My first short story has been published in Wordlegs. A very proud moment. And judging by how I feel about the story now, I may actually make it as a temperamental artist yet.

In non writing good news, did you see Pulp have reformed. Generally I oppose to bands getting back together or doing reunion shows, but I will make an enormous exception in this case. Pulp have a catalogue of some of the most real songs you will ever hear. If you can listen to a Pulp song without actually seeing the evocative image they have painted in song, you need to switch of your TV and go and read some fucking books.

Lyrically they talk about sex and heartbreak, drugs and misspent youth, the futility and joy of life without ever resorting to cliché or condescension. You either get it or you don’t. If Jarvis Cocker where ever to write such a horrific lyric as “My Sex is on Fire” you can guaranteed it will from an encounter with Janice who works in the local bookies and he will be visiting a free clinic promptly

I’ve said here before that if I ever have a dog, I’d name him Jarvis as a tribute to Mr. Cocker. Unlike Michael Jackson’s 1996 performance at the Brits, I think he might appreciate the ridiculousness of that.