When I first decided to start writing (in earnest) a number of years ago, I limped off to Woolies (R.I.P.) in Camden High Street and parted with some cash in exchange for a spiral bound notebook. It was cheap, and it was certainly cheerful (as denoted by a selection of brightly coloured circles on its plastic cover), it would do the job; so job done.
I remember it fleetingly crossed my mind at the time – that to mark the occasion of finally flexing my Bic biro, it might be in order to get a bit heady and reckless and to splash out on some poncy, handmade effort, featuring ancient parchment paper and a cover made from soya bean pulp, mashed moth turd (or the suchlike) from one of the many independent shops in Camden that caters for the complete twat.
But just as I pictured myself sat on a crowded tube train, looking suitably smug and full of self-importance as I briskly flicked the ancient pages back and forth, pausing only to jot down (with sudden flourish) my latest earth shatteringly important note (or jaw juddering witty) that would leave awestruck onlookers thinking, “Just who is that incredible bird?” my Guardian Angel, Joe Hunt, swooped down, rested a firm hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, “Don’t be a bellend, love”.
And you can’t say fairer than that. So Woolies it was.
So now the notebook’s full of stuff. And as it should be. There’s over 60,000 words of my semi-autobiographical misspent youff bleatings, ‘The Big Banana’, (which I’ll tease out of its trailer one day, and finish). Plus the notes for all my stories from my book, ‘Tales from Around The Bend’ and the gumpf for other competition stories, monologues and sometimes, just random thoughts that come my way.
And I find the more I write, the more my head gets full of ideas. So I write the fuckers down. In my pad. And sometimes when I get these ideas, it’s because I’ve been sitting up late and having a marathon slurp, and unless I write them down – there and then – they’ll be gone from my head, forever.
Never doubt how much vodka can stimulate the old grey matter...
This was re-worked and ended up in my 3-part story, ‘Funny Old Life’ as ‘…dancing’s all about pretending to be someone you’re not, or remembering the someone you once were.” So there you go. Idea. Pissed. Pad. Sweet as.
Or maybe not.
The problem arises when I blearily grope my way downstairs in the morning, have a butchers at my notebook and see words I have absolutely no recollection of writing (and furthermore no meaning) and immediately fear that the men in white coats will be coming for me due to not being the ‘full shilling’.
'I want to go to America. I want to leave my house.'
A few points here; I like my current house and although I have nothing personal against America,
I would (given the choice) only leave my house to go to Australia (they like rugby more there and tend to cook dead things in their gardens - or anywhere, in fact).
A load more of ‘this kind of thing’ has (sadly?) been consigned to the bin by my husband, who sometimes does a ‘sweep’ of the lounge before I get up and disposes of any ‘nuttiness’ as he calls it.
There. You heard it here first...'The sea is no one's mama'...
The game is definately up with this one. Check out the meaningless
words and ropey handwriting.
No small wonder why my short story collection got its title…