It's only words and
words are all I need to give you a really nasty glutinous earworm for the day. Buahahaha.
It is raining maliciously, a great day to get an email saying 'Greetings from sunny Goa'. It did contain some useful friendly advice about how to get one's money out of some bastards who are ignoring one's requests to pay one. I small claimed their collective ass in November, slapped warrant on yesterday. So far it has cost me £135 and I've heard nothing. Obviously they are all dead. Or if not now, then soon. Soon.
So, I'm embroiled in writing half a book (the lower half). It's only two chapters, but one of those is such an enormous beast that it takes up that much more of the word count, and is likely to be broken up and scattered throughout the finished book so no one has to sit through all of it in one go. I'm not really thinking too much about the word count - waffly as I am, there will certainly be more than enough of the little blighters, although whether any of them will be the right ones is another matter. Deadline is roughly analagous to Paul's, but unlike him I am so far doing it clean. No caffeine or nothing. Just sheer low-level mania and dog cuddles.
Mr Carr lovingly blogged about his every day, a feat which makes me blink, because, well, it's like writing even more on top of the huge amount of writing you're doing. I just don't have the stomach for it myself, or to put it another way, I am in no way sufficiently organised to fit in blogging as well as sleeping and occasionally eating. Or to put it yet another way, I can't think of anything to say other than 'It'll get done and probably won't be complete arse'.
I was until the day before yesterday happily breaking up the evening with The Simpsons at 6 and Big Brother at 9, oh it pains me to say it, but I think the low viewing figures for this series vindicate me. Then yesterday the telly died, or rather the Sky box did. Me telly faltered before Christmas, so I swopped it with the one my mate left behind months ago, and then that was even worse, and so I got a new one with a DVD player in it which is awfully cute and space-savey so that's fine but now the Sky box has died which is exactly what happened to another bloody Sky box about three months ago and I'm really quite fucked off about it especially as you can't get More4 or E4 for free on Sky despite the fact that they are FREE FUCKING CHANNELS, MURDOCH.
Isn't blogging great? You might never have known that.
I suppose it's a good thing I am telly-less, but you need to take breaks and switch off, and I hate not being able to get the depressing news about imminent dog amnesty in which hundreds of perfectly healthy and non-aggressive dogs are going to get snuffed. I'm probably too full of telly, though, need to learn how to (shudder) entertain myself. If I can't get it sorted by next week though I'll be forced to go round someone's house to watch 'The Trial of Tony Blair'. It'll be like the olden days, when people went round each other's houses.
Where the book is concerned, I think it's something like 7,000 words so far scattered like a load of bollocks over about five different documents. Part of the problem is that all of it wants to be first. It's like being a primary school teacher on a class trip. I'm relying on cheap gags and even cheaper figuratives to get me through. I've got a week today.
I hate, by the way, that the 'This Life' special had Egg the slightly unconvincing best-selling novelist come out with the quote "Asking a writer about the progress of his novel is like asking a man with cancer about the progress of his disease". It annoyed me. Partly because lovely as the quote is I've heard it a gazillion times. It's a shame how some quotes just succumb to becoming hackneyed without much pressure.
What I love though is Wikipedia vandalism. I happened upon some at about 2 this morning in the course of looking up something obscure which wasn't going to help me get to the end of the paragraph but optimism is always good, and it's still there this afternoon. I'm preserving it here because some dope with nought better to do is bound to excise it sooner or later. And it deserves to be seen.
John Leslie Prescott MP (born May 31, 1938) is a British Labour Party politician, Deputy Prime Minister, First Secretary of State and Member of Parliament for the constituency of Hull East in the north east of England.
It is raining maliciously, a great day to get an email saying 'Greetings from sunny Goa'. It did contain some useful friendly advice about how to get one's money out of some bastards who are ignoring one's requests to pay one. I small claimed their collective ass in November, slapped warrant on yesterday. So far it has cost me £135 and I've heard nothing. Obviously they are all dead. Or if not now, then soon. Soon.
So, I'm embroiled in writing half a book (the lower half). It's only two chapters, but one of those is such an enormous beast that it takes up that much more of the word count, and is likely to be broken up and scattered throughout the finished book so no one has to sit through all of it in one go. I'm not really thinking too much about the word count - waffly as I am, there will certainly be more than enough of the little blighters, although whether any of them will be the right ones is another matter. Deadline is roughly analagous to Paul's, but unlike him I am so far doing it clean. No caffeine or nothing. Just sheer low-level mania and dog cuddles.
Mr Carr lovingly blogged about his every day, a feat which makes me blink, because, well, it's like writing even more on top of the huge amount of writing you're doing. I just don't have the stomach for it myself, or to put it another way, I am in no way sufficiently organised to fit in blogging as well as sleeping and occasionally eating. Or to put it yet another way, I can't think of anything to say other than 'It'll get done and probably won't be complete arse'.
I was until the day before yesterday happily breaking up the evening with The Simpsons at 6 and Big Brother at 9, oh it pains me to say it, but I think the low viewing figures for this series vindicate me. Then yesterday the telly died, or rather the Sky box did. Me telly faltered before Christmas, so I swopped it with the one my mate left behind months ago, and then that was even worse, and so I got a new one with a DVD player in it which is awfully cute and space-savey so that's fine but now the Sky box has died which is exactly what happened to another bloody Sky box about three months ago and I'm really quite fucked off about it especially as you can't get More4 or E4 for free on Sky despite the fact that they are FREE FUCKING CHANNELS, MURDOCH.
Isn't blogging great? You might never have known that.
I suppose it's a good thing I am telly-less, but you need to take breaks and switch off, and I hate not being able to get the depressing news about imminent dog amnesty in which hundreds of perfectly healthy and non-aggressive dogs are going to get snuffed. I'm probably too full of telly, though, need to learn how to (shudder) entertain myself. If I can't get it sorted by next week though I'll be forced to go round someone's house to watch 'The Trial of Tony Blair'. It'll be like the olden days, when people went round each other's houses.
Where the book is concerned, I think it's something like 7,000 words so far scattered like a load of bollocks over about five different documents. Part of the problem is that all of it wants to be first. It's like being a primary school teacher on a class trip. I'm relying on cheap gags and even cheaper figuratives to get me through. I've got a week today.
I hate, by the way, that the 'This Life' special had Egg the slightly unconvincing best-selling novelist come out with the quote "Asking a writer about the progress of his novel is like asking a man with cancer about the progress of his disease". It annoyed me. Partly because lovely as the quote is I've heard it a gazillion times. It's a shame how some quotes just succumb to becoming hackneyed without much pressure.
What I love though is Wikipedia vandalism. I happened upon some at about 2 this morning in the course of looking up something obscure which wasn't going to help me get to the end of the paragraph but optimism is always good, and it's still there this afternoon. I'm preserving it here because some dope with nought better to do is bound to excise it sooner or later. And it deserves to be seen.
John Prescott
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
John Leslie Prescott MP (born May 31, 1938) is a British Labour Party politician, Deputy Prime Minister, First Secretary of State and Member of Parliament for the constituency of Hull East in the north east of England.
Environment
The UK played a major role in the successful negotiations on the Kyoto Protocol on climate change and Prescott led for the country during the discussions.[4][5].
However due to his enormous appetite for baked beans, his own personal contribution to green house gases (his farts) and thus global warming means that this fat man, whatever agreements are made at Kyote, will destroy the world in 32 years.
Trivia
His favourite food item is a sugar and chocolate coated doughnut served with french fries with a side order of pig. He would sell his own mother for a doughnut.
Labels: art of scribbling, book, fuck you pay me, politicians are funny, this life
posted by rabbit strike at 12:34 pm
3 Comments:
you're going to have start listening to Radio 4. The Archers are very good for providing diversion at 7pm. So I'm told.
Now, get back to work.
Good luck with the small-claiming. I have done this and won, and still bask in the warmth of the knowledge that I was right, dammit!
inspiration, we’ve created this event kit, complete with a myriad (that means a whole
bunch) of suggestions, reproducibles, giveaways.
dentist in san diegoreplica rolex
Post a Comment
<< Home