Oh, man. I am absolutely knacked bloody-well out. I have been chased around by the black dog for so sodding long now, my legs ache. In fact, everything aches: my limbs, my eyes, my thoughts. I do wish I could just chase him back, growl a bit, perhaps even bite him on his great big hairy arse. But black dogs don’t seem to work like that. They just chase you unto you collapse into a corner, where you gibber incoherently, grab a
glass bottle (ha! just typo-ed ‘blottle’ which is a little bit ace: ‘OMG, I was absolutely blottled’) and let the bastard eat you up.
I suppose I’m lucky that I do, and always, know he’ll spit me out again. I wish the whole rigmarole would make me a bit thinner though. All that being chased. It’s just not fair.
In between bitings on my increasing arse, I have been writing. No, really! I have! Like driftwood on the tide, I’m intermittently drawn forward to where I should be before being sucked under, unable to breathe. Go with the flow, that’s what they say, isn’t it? But what if the flow drags you under for too long and spits you out somewhere strange, bloated and disgorged, beyond hope? Beyond recognition?
On those wild seas, escaping Black Dog, there has been another beast: the green-eyed monster.
So many people I’ve admired for an age are doing brilliant stuff. I don’t mean celebs or TOWIEs or whatnot. I mean real people.
The super-fab Carol, for example, has had an amazing year. She just keeps surpassing herself in all manner of things. I love the work she produces though, admittedly, even with a billion years’ training, I could never even begin to emulate her. You should check out her work on Art is Autobiographical here.
And, differently, someone I met years ago through the fabulous Novel Racers has a new endeavour too. Lovely Lane has been painting some really tantalising beauty. You can have a little look here. I am a little bit excited to have bought one of her paintings to hang in my new writing room, but a lot excited that she will practically be my neighbour when I move to that there Suffolk.
And to boot: I recently spent a heavenly weekend devouring the first novel – The Cornish House – by another of the Novel Racers alumni: the scrummy Liz Fenwick. I’d been looking forward to her novel forever. I’ve met Liz in Real Life at writerly things and had hoped with all my heart that I’d love her novel when it was born. As a Novel Racer baby, I didn’t want it to look like Winston Churchill or have funny ears. But it was a beautiful baby. You can buy it here. And you must. It’s terrific; a good story, great characters and well told. Liz deserves her success, not least because I know how very hard she’s worked for it.
Though I am dying of envy at all this amazingness, it really is most oomphy. Inspiring. Ace.
My fave thing is the painting I’ve bought from Lane, though. It’s magical. When she posted a pic of it on Facebook, I joked that it would become my novel cover. She doesn’t know it but I meant that. I shall hang it in the writing room that’s still a figment of my imagination, but gaze at it in the meantime as I scrawl my words in cobwebby corners filled with cardboard boxes and dreams. I seriously plan to write words that deserve something so beautiful to envelop them. And that’s not a bad goal at all.
Luckily, to offset such extravagance, I’ve won a couple of comps on the super-scary flash-writing site, WriteInvite. It seems the perfect way to fund further inspiration – it also whispers, like white horses on a wave, that maybe I can do this writing thing. Just maybe.