Friday, July 20, 2007
Wet feet
Sitting in my office with damp socks, having just been out for lunch. Fridays are like that sometimes.
Good things have been happening recently. Beloved is considerably better, and has shed his old boss permanently. Son finishes school today so we don't have to kick him out of bed in the mornings for a whole 6 weeks. I extended my weekly visit to London this week, sneaking in a quick overnight visit to Reading (entertainment mostly up to scratch, but "Free Enterprise" was unwatchable- maybe if you're a male geek it's OK...) and then meeting up with a very good friend who I haven't seen for ten years due to continental (and hemispheric) separation and his rather delightful family (I spent some time teaching the baby to bang her spoon on the table, so I shall be fondly remembered).
German campsites now booked, despite some language difficulties- we ended up at one point with a Komfort Travelwagon, when what we really wanted was a small patch of ground to put tents on. I hope all is now sorted.
Jekyll has turned into compulsive viewing, rather to my surprise.
Contemplating the midnight run for Harry Potter tonight. Depends on how much it keeps on raining.... I'd really like to finish the book before being told the ending, but my hopes aren't very high.
Been writing again. Thought I'd stopped for a while, but the BBC printed the cutest picture of John Barrowman and James Marsters and it sort of went from there. On the plus side, writing when less high was more controlled- I felt I had at least some say in what was happening, and it got a complete rewrite at the end, unlike earlier stuff which somehow seemed as if it would break if I changed a word. Still very obsessive though- 24 hours in which I really wasn't able to drag my mind away to anything else- I had the day off yesterday and apart from the occasional hanging out of washing, I did nothing but lie in my hammock in the sunshine typing away, cursing my optical mouse and squinting at the laptop screen, for about 8 hours, then the same indoors all evening.
The other problem of course is that, controlled or not, there is no getting away from the fact that my plot range is considerably smaller than that of David Eddings. All I seem to do is gnaw at the same damn relationship from different angles; what does it feel like, what does it do to you, how does it end and how do both of you survive it? Twenty five years to think about it, and I'm still trying to create meaningful answers out of throwaway lines in TV shows, and pretending the result is entertainment or even art. No wonder the idea of therapy scares me witless.
Good things have been happening recently. Beloved is considerably better, and has shed his old boss permanently. Son finishes school today so we don't have to kick him out of bed in the mornings for a whole 6 weeks. I extended my weekly visit to London this week, sneaking in a quick overnight visit to Reading (entertainment mostly up to scratch, but "Free Enterprise" was unwatchable- maybe if you're a male geek it's OK...) and then meeting up with a very good friend who I haven't seen for ten years due to continental (and hemispheric) separation and his rather delightful family (I spent some time teaching the baby to bang her spoon on the table, so I shall be fondly remembered).
German campsites now booked, despite some language difficulties- we ended up at one point with a Komfort Travelwagon, when what we really wanted was a small patch of ground to put tents on. I hope all is now sorted.
Jekyll has turned into compulsive viewing, rather to my surprise.
Contemplating the midnight run for Harry Potter tonight. Depends on how much it keeps on raining.... I'd really like to finish the book before being told the ending, but my hopes aren't very high.
Been writing again. Thought I'd stopped for a while, but the BBC printed the cutest picture of John Barrowman and James Marsters and it sort of went from there. On the plus side, writing when less high was more controlled- I felt I had at least some say in what was happening, and it got a complete rewrite at the end, unlike earlier stuff which somehow seemed as if it would break if I changed a word. Still very obsessive though- 24 hours in which I really wasn't able to drag my mind away to anything else- I had the day off yesterday and apart from the occasional hanging out of washing, I did nothing but lie in my hammock in the sunshine typing away, cursing my optical mouse and squinting at the laptop screen, for about 8 hours, then the same indoors all evening.
The other problem of course is that, controlled or not, there is no getting away from the fact that my plot range is considerably smaller than that of David Eddings. All I seem to do is gnaw at the same damn relationship from different angles; what does it feel like, what does it do to you, how does it end and how do both of you survive it? Twenty five years to think about it, and I'm still trying to create meaningful answers out of throwaway lines in TV shows, and pretending the result is entertainment or even art. No wonder the idea of therapy scares me witless.
# posted by Louise H @ 12:26 pm 
