Something Different

I'm finalising Italian Knight number 3. That has been almost six months in the writing, discounting the fact that I stopped and got distracted with a Zombie and hella distracted by Christmas and totally off kilter with a vanishing 'rest yourself woman' Hank. I'm starting to get very excited about this. It's challenged me, opened my eyes, made me cry. So let me get back to weaving the final threads together before I can type the end and get it all edited and perfect and ready. Gosh it's really weird because this time last year, I was just starting edits for Windows and trust me when I thought I was done with all the characters. I missed them, but I was finished. Obviously Hank lied to you all.

Islands

I know I shouldn't blame Hank for stuff but I am starting to get really cross about the non writing issue. I've finished a story I absolutely loved. Last year. Now I look at it and think it's 30,000 plus words of junk. I've written 50,000 plus words of the next Italian Knight - I have no ending for it. None. Nadda. Gone. The whole point in having a muse is that you have a prod from a magical source who gives up the goods to allow an author write. Hank apparently is telling me to chill. I don't wanna chill, I want to write. That's what makes me chill. I'm giving all my tried and tested things a go for help. Reading my family's books (BTP ladies are so freakin' talented, it makes me want to up my game!), listening to B.o.B, Calvin Harris, T.I., Florence and the Machine and Adele, taking long bus journeys. And nothin'. I've tried shopping - physical and internet, cooking, washing up. My characters are all apparently in Antigua without phone reception or WiFi. Selfish bastards. Well fine. I'm getting good old fashioned pen and paper. And stamps. And a sticker that says: RSVP FFS. Try and ignore me with Royal Mail and stickers on my side.

Hank's suggesting anger management. He's not funny.

Different Directions

Positivity is the name of the game. Yes my tummy has a mind of it's own. Yes I work full time in a rather demanding job. Yes, I am daughter, friend, sister, carer, sexbot, author and resident sark detector. I am different things to different people. But there was a rather lovely bit of time over Christmas, whilst Daddy and I were drinking our way through a ridiculous sized bottle of Morgan Spice that my Daddy reminded me that I can't be everything. "You are an amazing young woman" (obviously I started welling up like a pansy) "but don't let people make you into what they want. Remember to put yourself first. Now go get me some more trifle. Good gel."

Safe to say that my Daddy is always right. Except when he's trying to pronouce Darth Vader. Too good to be anything but a blessing from God. I'm not a role model, or spokesperson, hell, regardless of what I've got after my name, I don't even think I'm that clever. I cannot be all things for all people because one is unfortunately very human and easily distracted by a pair of sharp heels, tight buns on a bloke and a salt crusted martini. Given my changeable nature, you're probably not going to like everything I write. And that's okay. It's not because I've got big headed, or I love myself, or it's all about the benjamins, writing always has and always will be too personal for that. In one form or another, everything my characters have been through is because I've been through it too. (Not all the illegal stuff - just a few) I write because I feel. To cheer myself up, to make myself laugh, to purge all the bad, to work through the really, really god awful and to envision the light at the end of those dark tunnels. And while I thank you for being there and sharing the journey, it's not really for you. It's to save quite a lot of time in a counsellor's office trying to work out if I'm schizophrenic or not.

And breathe...