Talking about fragments; I’ve lived through, and got out of, many phases so I’m sure I don’t have an addiction gene – for the simple reason that I’ve obviously moved on every time to the next one. But, is writing and art addictive in the same way as drugs and alcohol? I watched, Am I Normal? last night, and had to pause when someone pushed forward the idea ‘Just stop’. At first he sounded a bit belligerent and unsympathetic but by the end he’d caught my attention by saying that most people move out of one phase and into the next...and that a lot of addicts stop and move on, eventually too. This is true. And, we are definitely a nanny state.

If being creative is addictive then I’m very happy to be that addict. I’ve had many fun phases where I drank a lot but haven’t become an alcoholic (and we’re talking about waking up in hedges here). There was also the sex;

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http://members.cox.net/joneve/poetry%20perforemed. html

http://waterforestpress.com/Books/EndOfTheVoyageJanOHansen.htm

http://wwwYouTube.com/user/345bambi
http://oskr.podbean.com/2008/04/29/endof voyage/

http:// oskar.aucklandpoetry.com

And if the YouTube video in the previous post wasn't enough, the Literary Rejections on Display blog drew my attention to this post by writer Steve Almond on his website, entitled "Are Agents Necessary?". He says:

after all, the role the agents play is fundamentally parasitic. They do not do the dogged, lonely work of writing, or editing. They merely usher art into the gilded halls of commerce. They broker.

Thus, agents profit by the illusion that, without them, writers would be helpless; and, whether consciously or otherwise, they foster this illusion.

These words speak to me, as someone who "had" an agent for almost two years, but that agent did not do anything for me.

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Gosh, more rain. What a surprise. Or possibly not. I'm not sure we'll ever know sun again. Anyway, have spent most of the day thinking about completely redoing our Personal Tutors’ handbook, which is severely showing its age now. Heck, aren’t we all. We’re hoping for something tighter and jazzier that people will actually use, rather than just admire for a while. Here’s hoping anyway. And actually I’m getting quite enthused about the whole project – at last, my chance to get my evil secretarial hands on a document and cut it to pieces, mwa ha ha! Still, perhaps I’ve been showing a tad too much enthusiasm – the boss was also making noises about me actually presenting the issues at the next meeting of the Personal Tutors’ group – Lordy, no! That would be awful beyond belief! So I’ve managed to negotiate him down to the concept that we both present things together. I couldn’t possibly do it on my own – I’m a secretary, for goodness’ sake, not a real person ...

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I’ve been on the road for years, well the best part of five, and the idea of settling on solid earth is fascinating; my mind is running with streams of images and the possibilities are endless – there will be no patterns on my walls; I want to be surrounded, in that new place, with memories. I also dream of organisation and industry...from me. Hope lives here.

19th April 2005
On a Virgin train to Bristol

Grey clouds under white; the sky is thick with British summer-time. I’m travelling backwards; there’s more time to think about what’s before you, like tiny lambs that are just a crumb on the landscape, and screaming fields of rape blaring at you. Across the world a grandson is stomping around beneath a blue sky and I’m on my way to join him. This trip, I’ve learned to tell the difference between the songs of the robin and the blue-tit, and a larch tree from a birch (not silver – I’m not that bad). Also I was reminded how to make a white sauce; I haven’t done that since I was in school. I come away from this month in Devon a wiser woman.

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I was just racking my brains for something interesting to post last night, when the rain stopped. So I went out for a walk instead. It had been one of those dull days in all senses - hence the lack of bloggy inspiration - much taken up with post offices, photocopiers, supermarkets and misbehaving computers. So even though it was dark by then, and still damp, and there was only time for a quick loop of one of my usual walks where the terrain and the timing are completely familiar, it was good to get out with no more paraphernalia than a house key and a fiver in my pocket.

Sometimes, on such a duty walk, I take with me something to think about, (similarly my father used to take a couple of Times crossword clues in his head to work on) but I had no particular knot to unpick last night.

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Managed to get my emails fairly well sorted this morning, and am fiddling around with marketing bits and pieces. And we’ve been busy moving printers around to try to accommodate the new person we’re getting in the office at some stage. Goodness knows where we’re going to put them though – we’re pretty packed as it is. And new people – gosh, scary …

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I'm six chapters off the end of the WiP and I can hardly believe it! Ok, so these chapters are honestly pretty intense (it's a complex plot) and I'm writing almost at a snail's pace to get them just so, but all the same, it feels like I've been on a rather long journey. A highly enjoyable journey at that.

In the real world, I'm gearing up for a job interview tomorrow. It's a 3rd stage one too, so it's the biggie. Feels like time to at least start thinking about rejoining the rat race. My jeans are falling apart!


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Yesterday was spent doing this:

Yes, we made sushi. It is not as easy as one might imagine.

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I'm still reeling from the excitements of the weekend, by which I do not mean the agent contact but the epiphany which was my seven year old tomboy Discovering Dresses.


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