It’s another rainy night typical of a Sydney winter, except that it’s still autumn and rather stupidly I’m sitting here in cargo pants and a rugby shirt.
Influenza pending. And yet still too lazy to get up and go put socks on.
Dinner sits done and dusted. I’m quite stoked with that actually – I blew up the schnitzel I was making last night, something I did not think was possible until I had to dispose of it.
I blew up veal. My veal did perhaps what no veal has done before.
Lesson here? No more pioneer veal meals.
Less for my sake and more as a neighbourly peace gesture to those poor souls living downwind.
But I’m digressing.
I’m a bit worried really.
My greatest fear in writing a blog is that I will never be interesting enough and that maybe the five people who visit my site in the space of…oh, I don’t know, ten years, will come here, discover how boring I am and then go off and tell their friends that it’s official: they have discovered the boringest person in the history of bordem, and that even at the world super convention for boring people (I don’t know – Boring-nova? Ooh, oxymoron. Lovely.) all the boringest of boring peoples would vote this boring person the most mind numbingly boring creature in the history of ever.
Pop that neuroses back in the box.
So maybe I’ve over thought that, but you get the picture.I don’t know you, but I worry if you’ll like me or not.
That’s the real source of my trepidation.
Hah. How crazy does that sound. But today, like most days, crazy is sort of what I do.
Today, my characters are having a full-on, all-out row in my brain about how to preface my novel – the one I have been working on for the last eight years; I am having these disgusting runs of bad moments in the strangest situations and then having boom good moments smattered in between. Also, I’m not entirely sure I’m not being stalked but that is a whole other kettle o’ fish.
The first concern – the inner celebrity death match I have going on between Stella, my heroine and Frontal Lobe, my…frontal lobe – is a phenomenon that if you are a writer, you with understand without reservation.
To us, our characters are as living and breathing as any creature that walks this earth.
They are not just words on a page. If anything, that’s the least offensive of their make up. They form and reform, evolve and revolve a thousand times over, each of their own momentus, and in each of them you will find a part of the author who puts them on paper.
And being thus, they forge their own stories of their own accord with a frightening independence inside the writers head, at all hours of the day and night (or in Stella’s case in the precise moments in which I nothing to write, which is why you’ll find most of my ideas written on dinner napkins, and in foggy shower screens and bathroom mirrors).
Why do I mention this? Well, its from my writer existence that I draw the title of this blog.
Apart from the fact that it’s really fun to hear smug, smarty pants people pronounce it – and to see the uncomfortable grimace on their face afterwards – it sort of fits my life.
Writing my novel. Trying to navigate the craziness of the twentysomethingapproachingthirty life. Trying to commit more. Trying to commit less. Without getting committed to an institution.
In truth, where did the world come up with all these ideas of who we should be, what we should do? And why are almost all these expectations more misshapen than the Vegetablesthatlooklikeworldlandmarks entrants at the Easter Show?
So…that’s the name explained.
It’s still cold.
My toes are numb. To the point at which I don’t know if they’re all still attached to my feet.
Whoever you are, wherever you are, even if you never come back – thanks for reading.
I’d love to hear your thoughts, your ideas. I don’t know you, and already your story fascinates me.
As does this inate hope that you’ll keep coming back to read…