The Big What Now... 30.11.14

The problem I always have with finishing anything, be it a book, tv show, computer game, foolish relationship (just saying!) is that once it's done, I feel like I'm at a loose end.  Having finished writing letters to November, I can't help but feel that way again.  The thing that's annoying me ever so slightly is that it's not like I don't have things to be doing.  I'm part way through reading four or five books, I'm half way through writing a novel, I've just started watching Arrow (Oh good god!!); It's not as though I'm short of things to fill my time with.

The problem is that I wanted to keep up with my blog at least once a week.  Doing the letters I've shown myself that's possible... If I give myself something to write about.  I'm not going to do Hate Mail to Christmas/Letters to December, no matter how tempting that may be.  I don't know what to do.  

But at this precise moment, I must go to sleep.  If anyone has any ideas, leave me a comment.  All helpful idea-donations gratefully received!

And also, big thank you to any one who read any of my letters or blog posts over the last month.  The page views have soared through the roof and it shocked me, so thank you for the traffic and support. 

Lots of love.  Michael x

Letters to November 30.11.14 - Goodbye

Dear November

It’s strange to me that this is going to be the last letter I write to you.  I can’t believe that I started writing these to you a month ago.  It feels like things have changed a lot in that time, even though I’m not quite sure.  There are the obvious things; I’m a year older.  The weather has shifted towards the cold and the nights last for what seems like forever; it was hardly light at all today.  So dark and broody.  Maybe that’s the part of you that appeals to me – the inner tortured artist… Oh, how cliché!

It occurred to me last night whilst I was out for works Christmas do that it felt for me, less like a celebration of Christmas and a celebration of this month.  The night out became for me like a birthday night out; I didn’t do much for my birthday and maybe that was a mistake.  I’ve never been a big fan of that but perhaps I ought to try and do something next year.  I don’t know.   All I know is that it felt good to go out and celebrate, whatever the reason.  I wish I could afford to do it more often!  I was so nervous before I went but so glad I did, almost straight away… Well, after I’d had a drink, said hello to the people I knew and found the toilets!  We were on a mezzanine level of a bar so I got to do some people watching.  So strange how looking into the crowd and seeing how young they all looked!  I know I’m hardly old, but maybe my ‘youth’ is behind me now.  And whilst I was sat there nursing a beer, I couldn’t help but wonder if that’s even a bad thing! 

Things have changed a lot for me in so many ways.  When I look back over what is nearly 30 years, it feels ridiculous to say that.  Of course things have changed a lot in 30 years.  In the last century, 30 years encompassed the break out of two world wars; things can change a lot in that time.  It’s so hard to look on what I can remember of that time and feel confused – how can things have changed so much but still for everything to feel so… consistent?  Maybe it’s the flow of continuity.  Thinking about it, two of the biggest changes that have ever taken place in my life and I wasn’t awake of conscious for either of them!    I’m going to include a photo I took a few days ago.  It’s the old hospital building that was closed years ago.  They’ve demolished most of the site now and are building houses there.  Looking at it today, curled up on the sofa with my aching head from one too many drinks last night, it made me sad to think they’re knocking down the building where I had my tonsils out.

Blackburn Royal Infirmary from the canal, taken 26.11.14

Anyway, I digress. 

What I really wanted to say to you today, November, is thank you.  I know that I haven’t written to you every day like I hoped, but the older I get the more I realise that things seldom work out how we hope they will.  But I’m still happy that I did this.  I’m happy I posted them on my blog so that people could get to read my ramblings.  I’m happy that I started working on NaNoWriMo even though I haven’t finished it yet.  I’m happy that I’ve been out twice this month.  I’m happy with so many things.  And writing to you has helped me feel more grateful for what I do have and how lucky I am.  It’s also helped me to really appreciate what I’ve lost.  It’s sad to lose anything or anyone, but not if you get to remember them, even if it’s hard.

I shall sign off and go to bed now.  Thank you for listening to me and keeping me company.  I’ll see you next year.

With all my love.  Michael xx

Letters to November 27.11.14

Dear November,

Today was my first day back at work after being off for a week.  Something has really changed for me and it was never more obvious than today.  I wasn’t happy to be going back after being off; given the choice, I don’t think there are very many days where I’d leave the house if I had enough milk and tea bags!  But I wasn’t filled with dread as I walked up the hill.  I had lots to do after being off for a week – same as usual.  But that hasn’t even stressed me out.    I’ve known for a long while that I get less done the stressed out I am; I flap.  I get little done and I just flap and get none of it done, which is more stressful.  None of that today, November.  And I got so much done!  Don’t get me wrong, I still have more to do, but it felt good.

All of that said, taking up communion with my sofa cushions and watching some TV, with a brew in one hand and the remote in the other… Ahhhhhh sweet Sanctuary.  It never feel more wonderful to be home than after being at work for the day.  But something about being curled up the TV on just hasn’t hit the spot tonight.  I’ve done some rearranging of playlists on Spotify and now, I’m quite happy to be listening to music and writing this to you, even though I know I’m really not saying anything important.  I suppose it’s more for me that I’m writing this.

The thing that sort of worries me?  I’ve not kept up with writing this every day, but I’m made a good job of trying – the best that can be hoped for in my book!  But I worry I won’t keep up with my blog when I don’t feel like I ought to write.  I’m more lazy than I would like to admit, November.  That’s the true.  I get made at myself for being that way and then things happen.  But it would be so much easier if I didn’t have to be frustrated with myself for not doing something and just crack on and do it instead. 

I don’t want to stagnate again; doing NaNoWriMo and this… it makes it easier to write, just though writing more.  Maybe it’s the discipline of just writing, even though I don’t know what to say.  The thing I’m appreciating more and more is that every time I don’t know how to say something or what to say at all, it’s a lie – I do, I just can’t find the words to sat it right.  And that’s the wonder of editing.  Why stress out about the few words that I know aren’t right when I can go back and fix it later? 

Anyway, I’m out of tea and it’s getting on for bed time.  Take care and sleep well, November.

Letters to November 25.11.14

Dear November.

Today’s letter come’s to you from my dining room table.  I know, novelty of variety in my working space! 

I was going to write this to you when I’d made my dinner but the mince I removed from the freezer more than 24 hours ago is still not defrosted…  So whilst that does its thing in the microwave, I thought I could send you a little catch up.

I haven’t done an awful lot today.  Most of the time I’ve been awake has been on the phone to my mum or my sister.  Nothing wrong with that!  I quite enjoyed it.  When I wasn’t proving the worth of my limitless minutes contract with O2, I have been doing little bits around the home.  Going to my mum’s to hang her new net curtains for her and clean her windows yesterday has given me a bit of a push.  There is nothing wrong with my house, but were several little things that really needed doing; things that I’d been putting off doing for reasons I can’t even offer!  Realising this pissed me off somewhat so I decided to crack on and do it.  I’m now in the space where I want to do everything all at the same time, hence typing whilst I wait for the meat to defrost. 

Just to let you know, November; after I finished writing to you yesterday, I didn’t do any writing.  However, I did do something just as good – planning!  I sat down with my pin-board and a block of memo notes and started writing things down and pinning them on my board.  I have 4 questions that I need to answer and a loose end in the back story I need to tie up.  Granted, one of those questions is a big question mark over what is going to happen at the climax of the story, but I know how I’m getting to the end now, which I didn’t know before.  I still feel a bit guilty knowing that I’m going to have to kill off one of my characters… Even worse, one that I like, but never mind.   Has to be done.  When I’ve finished cooking my dinner, I fully intend to do some writing before I let myself curl up and watch a DVD.

Oooh! Ding, defrosting is done.

I hope the day has you in as good as mood as I am today.

Letters to November 24.11.14

Dear November,

I’ve done some very productive things today.  I walked to my Mum’s and helped her with some manual labour she’s not well enough to attempt, including cleaning her windows in the kitchen… I cleaned out under the stairs and found some curtains which will go nicely in my back bedroom…  I watched a DVD that arrived that I’d forgotten I’d bought…  In short, I’ve done very well at not doing my writing all day.  I’m not blaming my Mum for that.  I’m blaming the hours around the productive things, where I watched 5 consecutive episodes of Judging Amy instead of writing.  Or watching a DVD instead of writing. 

I walked along the canal to get to my Mum's and saw these two having a paddle.  Blackburn Canal 24.11.14

I had a bit of a breakthrough in regards to my writing whilst I was sat there not doing it.  The only way I can think to explain it… Have you seen Stranger than Fiction, starring Emma Thompson?  No?  Well, that’s the problem.  I need to kill a character.  Given his age – he’s an octogenarian – and the time of year, as stupid as this sounds, I feel guilty.

The problem I’m having with writing without a plan, not even a loose one, is that I don’t really know what’s going to happen.  It’s all very impulsive and I’m very unsure of where the story is going to go next.  I know it’s going somewhere, I’m just not sure exactly what’s going to happen along the way.  And then, I crash land into having to kill off a character.  And I really don’t want to.  I was thinking about it, curled up under a warm blanket, around episode 3 of my Judging Amy marathon and I realised I have to kill him off.  I’ve set it up that way.  That’s why I have to; I wrote it that way.  It’s sort of like Dick Hallorann in The Shining; as soon as he sets off back to the hotel, it’s a done deal – he gonna die!!  And the audience knows it’s coming and before you know it, there was Jonny with the axe, adios Dick Hallorann.  Thanks for playing.  Be sure to play again in your next life…

I’m off on a tangent. 

The point is that I’m struggling, November.  I’m not going to get anywhere by not even trying but it’s a lot easier not to feel guilty if I don’t write him out.  I am aware I’ve been talking like the keys I’m typing are going to stop someone’s heart beat; I know this isn’t the case.  If anyone is responsible, it’s the guy in the story doing the murdering who is going to be to blame… who I wrote.  You see?  This stuff is hard!!

The problem, further to this and most pressing at the moment, is that I’m using writing this to you and picking which photograph to use as a distraction from doing the writing of the story…  And I don’t even feel guilty.

I’m losing momentum.  And I know if I don’t pick up with it again soon, I might get lost and never go back again.  I don’t want to leave it unfinished.  Even if it never goes any further than a first draft.  Even if I don’t finish it in time for the end of NaNoWriMo.  Even if it sucks and I don’t like the fact I killed someone off.  I need to finish it.  And I will… And I’m going to get a start on that as soon as I’ve made another cup of tea…

Speak tomorrow, November.

Letters to November 23.11.14

NB:  If you are my Sister and it's in the days around the 23rd November, please don't read this post.  I love you and that is said for your own good.  Love you. x

Dear November,

I started to write something for you yesterday.  I was going to tell you it was crap.  I was reading it back as I was writing it and constantly going back and editing and changing things because I couldn’t make it make sense.  So today’s letter is from yesterday and today.

Today is one year since my Gran passed away.  I don’t understand how that can be a year ago, but sure enough, my calendar reliably informs me (just let me double check), yes, it is indeed.  I don’t understand where all that time has gone. 

More than that, November, it’s hard to not feel it all over again.  I think my mother and sister would agree; I did an okay job of keeping my face straight for the time I spent with them.  The relief I felt when I got home and shut the door was so unbelievable; my face could do whatever it liked.  And nothing happened until a little while ago.  I don’t know why I felt the need to keep a pretence up.  Don’t misunderstand; I wasn’t an inch away from tears throughout.  Except for one moment…

My Gran was cremated and scattered over my Grand Father’s grave.  We planted a bush there for her – I forget the specific type of bush… but it was beautiful! – And in the cut back for winter, the gardeners of the cemetery have ploughed over it.   My sister was visibly distraught.  At the time, I wasn’t; it struck me as sad and thoughtless.  The day has wound on.  I’ve busied myself with other things (mostly distracting myself with the Batman).  But it keeps coming back to me and every time it does, I feel angrier and sicker than I did before. 

I don’t think I’m that upset about the bush – there was part of it still sticking out of the ground and, to borrow a very good Yorkshire saying, they were still wick [Thought occurs, November.  Wick, derived of quick… Like the Iron Maiden song, be Quick or be Dead?] and that means it might make it through and start growing again in the spring.  It’s not the lack of respect that is really bothering me.  It’s not even the fact the bush is gone. 

I keep a picture frame on my living room table.  I don’t have a single photo of the four of us together as a family, so I keep a smaller picture of me and my Gran in the same frame as one with my Mum, Sister and Me from when I was a child.  It looks “right” and has done ever since the day I did it… One year ago today. 

It’s hard to miss someone that you know you can never have again.  People would love to remind me, I’m sure, that I still have my memories.  The thing is though, a lot of the ones that are more readily available are the not so nice ones from the last decade.  I don’t know if it’s from when my brain broke when I was a teenager or if it’s just a symptom of getting older, but there seems to be so many spaces in my childhood.  Huge great big gaps.  I can’t even ask my family to help me fill in the blanks because I don’t really know what’s missing.  I do have some incredibly fond memories of my Gran and I am trying to keep hold of them, gripping with both hands so hard I think my might break my fingers…

Like dancing around her living room to Abba with my sister one half-term day when we were kids.

Like her telling me she was proud of me when I got my GCSE’s and my A-Levels.

Like the day my sister and I went to visit her in the care home and she knew something there was no way she could have known about me and when I asked her how she knew, she tapped her nose, winked and said “An old lady has her ways.”

Like the day the photo was taken that sits looking at me now from my table.

The best photo I have of me and my Gran.  I think Laura took this... or my Mum.  Someone did anyway.  

Terribly sorry this is late and a bit soppy November.  You’re a melancholy month and I’m in a melancholy mood.  I’m sure you’ll forgive me my tardiness, my sentimentality and if I just excuse myself for a while.

Speak to you soon.

Letters to November - 21.11.14

Dear November,

It’s been a few days and for that, I am sorry.  Between finish up work for my time off, my birthday and spending time with my family or catching up with friends, I’ve lost track of the time…

Ok, fine, most of today has been spent playing on my Xbox, but I’m writing to you now, November.  You aren’t cross with me are you?  I didn’t think so.

It’s been a strange few days.  Or maybe I’ve been strange over the last few days.  I don’t feel like I’m lacking in enthusiasm so much as … content with not having any?  Does that even make sense?  I’ve been excited about being off work – who wouldn’t be? – and I’ve enjoyed seeing my family, speaking to a dear friend who I’d fallen out of touch with on the phone, even getting a very early Christmas present.  But somehow, I feel very out of sorts.  Maybe even so far as to say lost?  I don’t really know what to do with myself.  I know I could (even should) have been writing to you or keeping up with my NaNoWriMo, but I’ve not wanted to.

I think that it’s obvious why… At least it is to me.  Is it to you, November? 

I’m going to do some writing with a cup of tea now.  It feels like the right thing to do, even though in truth, I don’t want.  That usually means the best thing for me to do is to get on and do it, no matter how much I don’t want to…

I’ll speak to you tomorrow – promise.

Letters to November 18.11.14

Dear November,

Continuing the theme of the week as it seems to be, keeping balance is hard.  I've had a very productive day at work, but it’s left me listless and lethargic to doing anything else.  I cooked something for my dinner, crashed onto the sofa and that has pretty much been the end of my evening.  It’s hard to feel bad for enjoying some quality butt-on-sofa time. 

I don’t know if I have it in me to do my words for NaNoWriMo, but I feel like if I don’t try then I’m letting myself down.  Also, because of how behind I got last week, I'm never going to catch up if I don’t get on and do something. 

I have given myself quite a lot of excuses previously about my writing.  Now that I have the idea to work on, I feel ridiculous if I don’t try and get something done on it.  That’s the thing about inspiration.  It’s so fleeting, I feel like if I don’t keep with it whilst I have it…  I could turn on my laptop tomorrow and find the moment has gone and I really don’t know where to go with the story or how to develop it at all.  That scares me.

How wonderful to have fear as a good motivator.  I'm going to call this quits now, make a brew and get cracking on my piece.  You haven’t ask, November, but I'm at just short of 24,000 words now so, at this moment, I'm 6000 words behind schedule… 

Think I need to do something about that.  

Letters to November 17.11.14

Dear November,

I realised today that I seem to be taking more photos to make sure I have something to show you when I post you this letter.   I don’t really know why, but I'm really proud of today’s offering.  I hope you like it too – you helped make it what it is.

Walk to work this morning. Taken 17.11.14

I've had a good day today, but I've lost track of my evening (again), so this is coming to you thick and fast to make sure I get everything done that I need to before bed time...

I've made contact with a friend that I haven’t spoken to in a while.  Not years, but I think it might have been months since we had a bloody good chat and chin wag about everything.  I missed her more today for no particular reason at all.  We've scheduled in a catch up for later in the week and I'm already looking forward to it.  I don't know why I find it so hard to break a silence.  Maybe it's a British thing; who knows?

I've written in my blog before, but never in a letter to you, November – I'm really bad at keeping in touch with people and keeping all the areas of my life in balance.  I'm getting better as time goes on.  I'm making more time for my writing, trying to write every day.  I don’t know if I can say that it’s making me a better writer, but I like doing it.  I suppose that I can call progress.  I'm working at letting work bother me less and not to get so on top of me.  I'm seeing my family regularly.  I just need to master that keeping in touch section better and I’ll be on top of everything.

Oh, and regular reading.  I need to make sure I do that too…

Balance is hard.

Speak more tomorrow. 

Letters to November 16.11.14

Dear November.

Apologies for the delay.  Once again, this attempt to write to you every day isn't going very well, but I am trying.  I hope you love a trier as much as God supposedly does.

Anyway, I've had a lovely weekend.  Yesterday, I went to see some friends that I haven’t seen in a while.  Whilst I was waiting for one of my connections at Deansgate, I took this.  I don’t know why - I've seen the Hilton building in Manchester many times - but yesterday it looked… I don’t know… New?  Like I’d never really seen it before. 

Waiting for trains and hopelessly hunting for toilets 15.11.14

Today, travelling back and housework have been the aims of the game.  The last load of tumble drying is… well… tumbling as I type.  I've got somechilled out music that reminds me of my childhood playing. 

And despite that and having had a good day, I'm feeling incredibly melancholic.  I'm acutely aware that it’s probably the time of year we’re coming towards – nothing personal, November, but after  last year, you’re a bit of a downer, whether I like it or not.  Then deciding to play music that reminds me of being a kid…  Maybe nostalgic is a better word for how I'm feeling than melancholic.  You know the word nostalgia really means homesick?

With that thought, I'm going to leave you with a song.

I'm sorry for missing writing to you yesterday, November.  I know we’re over halfway through the month so this is already coming towards its close, but writing to you so often… somehow, it gives me hope?  I don’t know if that makes much sense.

Letters to November 13.11.14

Dear November,

I wasn't going to do any writing at all today, of any description.  I got home from seeing my family, put on my computer and resigned myself to watching some TED talks, drinking some tea and eventually crawling into bed without having done anything with my evening other than that…

I chose to watch an innocent enough looking TED Talk… This one:

And, Oh fool me!  It mentioned NaNoWriMo. 

I'm struggling with my piece because I don’t know where to go with it.  I don’t really like to discuss my works in progress, but for you, November, I'm going to make an exception.  It’s semi-biographical.  A lot of the particulars are relevant to the last year of my life.  Writing all of that was incredibly cathartic and has got me more than 15,000 words into the piece.  It makes it my longest ever work in progress to date.  That in itself is a massive achievement. 

But now the story has hit the point at which it needs to have very little to do with reality.  It’s where I talk about something that frightens and scares me.  But I need it to unnerve the reader too.  I need it to build through the story, hitting a crescendo where they’re terrified to put the story down not knowing what happened…

Basically, November, I want this piece to be scary shit… I want to be Stephen King.  Don't worry, I know I'm no where near becoming Stephen King!!

The thing is… I don’t know how.  My hope for tonight is that I will pick up a rhythm and flow with it and the rest will “write itself” as I start talking about what scares me…

The bigger thing is… I'm scared to write it.  Not because I think I'm going to scare myself.  Because I'm faced with my fear of failure.  What I've realised tonight… in the last 10 minutes in fact… is that if I don’t write it, I'm failing.  By the end of this month, technology and fingers willing, I will have my first working manuscript by the end of the month.  And that terrifies me.  It’s already on its 28^th page and I'm dreading what I'm going to find when I got through and revise it. 

Unfortunately, whilst I enjoy our chats, it’s time for me to sign off.  If I don’t write something today, I'm going to feel guiltier that I already do.

Speak to you more tomorrow.

Letter to December - 12.11.14

Dear November

I'm feeling as though I've neglected you a little.  I didn't get to writing to you yesterday and today… well… I'm filled with a terrible sense of apathy.  Not towards writing per se but towards doing anything that doesn't involve me turning on my TV or starting at TED Talks.  Watched a cracker about the Gay Agenda whilst I had something to eat.

I've come to get in bed and write this to you, just to me more comfortable.  I don’t seem to be able to settle for the last few days.   I'm feeling slightly on edge, more so today.  I had some exceptionally good news today about the health of a loved one.  And whilst this news is more than welcome (Any time the prospect of bad news is beaten down and triumphed over by good is a welcome time indeed *clink glasses*) I can’t help but feel edgy.  The horrible thing about secretly wondering and shunning bad news is that when I don’t get it, I don’t know what to do with myself.  I can’t stress enough that I wouldn't ever want the bad news; that’s not it.  I hope you understand me, November.

You of all, I would hope would understand being misunderstood; you’re my month after all.

I’ll leave you with a song.

Letters to November - 10.11.14

Dear November

I saw something on my walk this morning that made me think of you.  It wasn't anything particularly extraordinary.  But it did make me think about what I expect of you, November.

Not the greatest of photo quality - I blame this on the light at 6:50am this morning.  Retouched on my iPhone.

 Seeing birds swimming along the canal is not a strange thing, but at this time of year?  It seemed very strange.  You don’t see many birds at this time of year.  I carried on walking after I took the picture and I continued to wonder for some time – most of the day actually – about why people dislike winter so much. 

Since last year, when my Gran died, I've looked ahead on the calendar, dreading November.  I can’t help it and I don’t mean to, but I do.  It’s less than two weeks away and I can’t help but count the days.  So for me, November, you’re a herald of death.  I ruminated on that thought as I was walking to work; maybe that’s why so many people don’t like winter as a season.

I walked on a little way.  I thought about what happens in December, Christmas.  Another event that it’s more and more difficult to get excited about the older I get.  I’m going to try for once this year.  I remembered that Christmas is a celebration of birth for Christians, and for pagans, it was the celebration of the on-coming spring.  It occurred to me whilst I was thinking about this that maybe it isn’t the idea of Death that seems to close in winter; the dark skies, the early evening and nights, the trees shedding leaves and hibernation; it’s the lack of life we seem to see that makes it so difficult.

But at lunch time, I saw a wasp.  And another thought came to me.  It’s not that everything is dying or hiding its life for us to see.  It’s almost like Nature has a rest during the winter for all the hard work its done in Spring and Summer that we’re so keen to celebrate and enjoy.

More than that, there is a lot of life to see in winter.  Grown men and women turn back in to children at the first sight of snow!  Children play in the snow, make snow angels and snowmen ignoring the inevitable melting when it rains.  And then I got thinking about Christmas, ignoring all the expense and more miserable aspects of being a grown up at this time of year.  Who really feels more alive in this world than when they’re celebrating something with their friends and family? 

Sorry for the wandery thought trail today, November.  I've been in a sombre mood today and but I’ve ended the day on happier thoughts than I started.  I call that progress.

Letters To November 09.11.14

Dear November.

I’ve been neglecting you for a few days.  I can only say I’m sorry.  Friday, I didn't get home until very late in the evening and Saturday, mostly, all I did was sleep and nap for most of the day.  In a way, I don’t feel bad.  I got to go to a lovely birthday party, meet some fantastic people and have a fantastic night.  I suppose that’s the problem I have with writing, NaNoWriMo included; if there are good reasons for not doing something, I still feel guilty for not doing them.  I've been sat today, procrastinating from starting writing my story, because I'm 3500-ish words behind target for the end of November.  I suppose I even feel bad because I haven’t kept up my commitment to doing something that I really want to do; like I've let myself down.

Though this is true November, the past is in the past, and looking through the photos on my phone, I can remember that I had a wonderful time last night and the relaxation with a bottle of wine and a takeaway on Friday night in front of the TV was very well deserved.  It’s been a rough week and Friday was a really rough day.  I just don’t want you to feel neglected though.

If you squint carefully behind all those balloons, you might see Sue... At Bradley Wood, Brighouse 08.11.14

I'm sat in my living room, looking out of the window.  It’s not even 4:30 yet and I'm going to need to put a lamp on.  Your nights are starting earlier and earlier and soon enough, I'm hardly going to see anything else all day – it’ll be dark when I go to work and darker still when I get home.  No wonder I just want to sleep all the time!  Maybe it’s genetic memory of being a bear or a badger; something that hibernates through the winter, emerging in the spring, groggy and hungry but ready to start the year anew, full of hope and optimism.

I'm struggling with my NaNoWriMo.  It’s not just the word count either, November.  The problem sometimes with my writing is that I know what I want to do, I just don’t know how to do it.  Basing it on my own experience has made it a lot easier to write; its so easy for me to relate to because it really happened to me.    But now I need to move out of the experience that’s mine; I need to make one that can belong to the readers.  I need it to be scary and original.  And just to add in to my thoughts, including my target for today, I need to write 5000 words.  That’s half again on my current word count.

I'm tired at the thought of it.

Letters to November 06.11.14

Dear November.

I took a photograph this morning when I was almost at work.  The morning was so gorgeous and I know there won’t be too many more.  I will be walking to work in the dark and coming home in the dark within a few weeks and I wanted to show how beautiful you can be… when you’re in the mood.  The mood didn't last all day though.  I loved the wild winds, even if it was chilly. 

I've come home and crash landed into my writing chair with a cup of tea and some chocolate after dinner with my mum.   I've come home, feeling glad of the time I've given myself to write to you.  I don’t have much to say today so I won’t find things to write to you about. I just wanted to say hello more than anything else.

Letters to November 05.11.14 - Bonfire Night

Dear November

I let work run away with me tonight and got home so late.  I still feel robbed by the early nights and can’t help but wonder if I haven’t got used to it by now, coming on 28 years old, if I’m ever going to get used to it.  How do people cope who hardly get any daylight at all in winter?  Do they cope? Or do they go mad and stir crazy?

It’s bonfire night.  I can’t help but notice it because even after 9pm, there are still fireworks going off.  Living in streets that back on to streets, the sounds bounce around like tennis balls through the night.  The air is thick with the smell of burning.  I must confess, I don’t like fireworks really.  At a distance, I’m a big fan.  But up close, they scare me.  Bonfires however, those I adore.  The smell of the wood burning, the crackling sounds and the way you wear the smell home with you is so heart-warming.  In the summer, pit fires or BBQ’s don’t have the same feel.  It’s almost as though we’re trying to fight away the cold nights and darkness with bright oranges and reds that burn.  The fires even look more beautiful. 

Do you remember a few years ago, November?  When I can stand at the little window of my flat that looked out over Blackburn and I could see all the fireworks and bonfires burning away the night?  I’ve always noticed that Blackburn looks much nicer in the dark than it does in the light – hardly surprising.  But particularly in the glow of bonfire night, even Blackburn looked glorious.

I suppose for you, November, this must be the biggest night of your month.  I hope you enjoy it.

Letters to November 04.11.14

Dear November

There’s something about the ever earlier darker nights that makes me more tired but stops me from sleeping.  Summer months and the constant daylight make me want to stay awake longer.  You and your brother and sister darker months make me want to curl up in bed under a blanket and stay there until you've passed.  I can’t do that though; there is so much to enjoy and I don’t want to miss it.  I don’t feel as alive in the summer months as I do in the winter.  There is something about the shock of the cold that sharpens all the senses.  It’s not just that.  It’s the warm coats, the scarves, the gloves and the sweet relish of walking inside that offers no solace in the summer, but really does in a month like yours.

I've promised myself to write to your everyday this month and today is the first day - so early in the month - that I've found it a challenge to sit down, turn on my laptop and find something to say.  I think if I can prove to you (and myself) that I can do this today, maybe it will help me with the rest of the month.

I need a real rest, November.  I have some time off coming up and I really need to enjoy it by doing very little.  Last time I was off work, I did work on my house.  It made me feel better and I can’t pretend that it didn't, but when what I really need is some time with my bed and maybe a book (or two).  Decorating couldn't be further from my up-and-coming agenda.

Sorry to cut this short, but bed time is calling and I have a lot to do before I can go to sleep.

Letters to November 03.11.14

Dear November

For the first time this month, I’ve felt the cold.  I mean really felt it.  Soon, I’m going to need to get my gloves out for the winter and put on a scarf for my walk to work.  The leaves are falling more now, even though the sky is blue and the sun is shining.

I feel out of sorts today, November.  I don’t quite know where to put myself.  I can’t get comfortable and I feel... agitated.  Somehow, knowing I have things to do when I get home makes me more eager to get there when I’m sat at work, but as soon as I arrive, I feel the pressure I’ve put on myself.  It’s a funny thing, setting myself a goal; as soon as it’s there, I’m instantly convinced I’m going to let myself down or fall short.    It’s a ridiculous thing to fear but I worry all the same.

I want a holiday.  I think it’s long overdue.  I need to see some different skies and see some different places.  I don’t want to end up one of the cliché northerner who never leaves the country and complains constantly about how miserable it is in the UK.

Maybe I won’t come back.

Whilst doing my first walk home from work in the dark since the clocks went back, I remembered how afraid of the dark I was as a child.  A car was headed towards me and there was hardly any street lights.  It struck me then how much light can stop you from seeing; how our eyes get used to the dark and we become blinded by the light.    It started to rain and the wind blew my hood down.  Walking in to the house, it never felt more like home to me.  I feel guilty for not stopping to enjoy the moment a little more.  I realised then how some gifts – like the feeling of really being “home” – don’t come so easy in the summer months and how home never feels more like ours than in the winter.

That doesn’t mean I want it to stay forever.

Back Tracking Part 3 - Jealousy, Unfair Comparisons and the Bloomsbury Group 22.06.14

One of the reasons I keep a diary is in an attempt to grow and develop.  I can look back and see where I was a year ago; emotionally, physically, mentally, geographically and it helps me see the changes.  When we don’t see a friend or a loved one for months or years perhaps, by the time we see them again or speak to them again, you can see the ways in which they’ve changed.  Part of the problem with being us is that we have to be with ourselves all the time.  I feel pretty much the same as I did when I was 12 or 13.  I don’t feel massively different.  I’ve been very much present for all the developments and changes in my life; it’s only natural that I wouldn’t feel different.  I’d pay good money to read back the diaries I kept when I was a teenager and see how far I’ve come.  Recently, I’ve had the grand misfortune of reading some of the “poetry” I wrote from that time period of my life.  I have indeed changed.  Mostly for the better in a hundred different ways. 

I also try and work through things in my diary.  Things play on my mind a lot – ideas for stories, things at work that are bothering me more than I ought to let them, concerns about my family, my future.  Anything that might be playing on my mind, I try and put away on the page.  It helps. 

Sometimes, the process can be frustrating and tedious.  Most often it is frustrating when there is a truth nagging me which I just don’t want to deal with.   I’ve ranted before about how I don’t let myself off with things as much as I used to.  The diary, though I offer it petulant resistance, forces me to accept truths I don’t want to acknowledge, examine them and “put them away”; process them, deal with them, whatever they may be.

There is one I don’t often write about; a side of me or a part of me that I’ve been confronted with today; a side of me I don’t like; a side of me – given the chance – I would remove completely.

I want to write.  More than anything in my life that I get to do, I love it.  If it be in my notebook and keeping my diary, sharing my endless crap with you lovely people, or a shorty story I’ve been working on, I want to write.  I don’t necessarily want anyone else to read it – particularly not the short fiction, but that’s another story entirely.   I get a great deal of satisfaction by “making shapes”.  It can be drawing, painting, doodling over a side of A4 for hours, writing and blogging, anything.  I like to fill a blank page.  I find it daunting.  I find it intimidating.  I’d go as far as to say I even find it frightening on occasion.  Once you start, revealing the truth of yourself to a screen it can be difficult to stop.  To me, that can be frightening. 

For that reason (mostly), I’m never keen on going back and rereading something of my own.  I know I have to; I babble too much for starters.  There are phrases I repeat too much as I’m writing – they need to go.  I have a terrible habit of mixing my “there” and “their” when I type, but not when I use a pen.  Anyone who can answer me why I do this, answers on the back of a self-addressed envelope please. 

Studying English Lit, it came to my attention that it is not uncommon for writers throughout history to have run in packs.  They had writing groups.  C.S. Lewis and Tolkien founded The Inklings.  Woolf, Sackville-West and Forster has the Bloomsbury Set.  More recently, it doesn’t take a great deal of effort to connect a number of artists and musicians, actors and producers all together in a nice Artsy Bundle.

Cliché and convention would have us believe that, writing more than any other art, is a solitary one.  Writers sit alone.  They agonise over their type writers (or shiny red Toshiba laptops…), yearning to find that one word; that one expression that can paraphrase a feeling; a feeling so deep and complex that thousands of men and women have tried.  We want to give it a different spin or interpretation.  We want to show the world how we feel with those few words that sum it up in a completely different way to any other way the world has tried.  And we do it alone.  In a cabin in the woods…  No, wait, that was Johnny Depp in Secret Window.  The point is, I can name you many examples in art of artists struggling alone.  Often, when collaboration or group efforts are explored, you get the question of ownership and even theft; whose idea was it?  Who does it belong to? 

I was visited this weekend by a friend; an aspiring writer.  We’d shared a few snipits of our work with each other, but not much.  For me, sharing work is an embarrassing experience, unless I know for certain that it’s good.  That might sound arrogant.  Another way to put it better might be that I only want someone else to see it when I’m happy with it – for me, that’s what makes it good.  For the first time, he let me read some of his work; a large labour, ongoing, on his part. 

He’s good.

He’s really good.  In fact, incredibly talented.

Bastard.

The reason I would suggest that many artists like to be alone with their work is not to avoid tainting their imagination with someone else’s ideas or worry that someone might steal them.  They’re worried about their ego.  They’re worried about being shown up by someone else’s talent.

We compare ourselves all the time.  We compare our face to our own face in a mirror.  We examine how we looked in a photograph five years ago then look for how we’ve changed.  We look outwards to actors and yearn for their physique (come on now, I can’t be the only one, surely?) or their hair style, or their wardrobe.  More likely than not, we’re being misdirected and what we really want is their makeup artist and photoshopper.

I digress.

What has a friend coming to stay thrown up for me that I felt the need to rant about?  Jealousy.  I’m a jealous person.  Of all the things about myself I wish I could alter, I’d take the jealousy dial on my personality and turn it all the way down; mute it even.  Whilst I sat and read his work in progress, I was moved and impressed. 

Whilst all of that is true and I do wish he would hurry up and write more so I can read it all together, it was incredibly hard for me.  I can separate the talent and the skill of Stephen King or J.K. Rowling or F. Scott Fitzgerald from my emotions in my head quite easily; I don’t know those people.  Why should I envy them?  Talented role models to me they might be.  But I won’t ever have them round to my house for a Chinese and wine night.  Having someone sat on my sofa, watching me read his arrangement of words on a screen and knowing how incredibly talented he was made me so happy.  At the same time, it made me jealous.

Rationality descends.  He is a different man to me.  He has a very unique and different style to me.  He draws on very different influences and writes about very different things.  Whilst it’s natural for us to compare ourselves, it isn’t always an accurate basis for comparison.  If he wrote a piece about bullying, it would draw from his own experiences of that given situation.  Comparing anything he writes to mine is chalk and cheese.  You could compare Ann Rice to Stephanie Meyer because they’ve both written about vampires but the analogy is lost in translation.  There wouldn’t be any point.

All of that I know to be true.

All of that is the case.

All of that isn’t helping me right now. 

I’ve come to the point of starting a new piece.  I know some of the ins and outs (I don’t like to plan too rigidly when I write).  I know the major events.  I also know how it’s going to end.  That makes a massive change for me.  Sometimes, at the beginning, I hardly even have a clue about how it’s going to go, let alone how it will end.   Having read my friend’s work and then trying to start something new of my own, I don’t feel inspired or enthused.  I feel jealous.  Even though I don’t want to, it’s still how I feel.

One good thing about my evolution from a 15 year old, who would have given up, thrown down the pen and paper, swearing never to take it up again, into a 27 year old male is that – despite being jealous – I know that I won’t get anywhere being jealous.  I won’t improve in the skill I want to develop.  I won’t ever write a novel if I sit and dwell.  I won’t even make a cup of tea if I slip into a full on sulk.

We’re complicated.  We’re multi-talented.  We are who we are.  We’re human.  We’re different; from moment to moment we’re changing and growing.  I’m jealous, yes.  Will I always be?  No.  Should I be?  Definitely not.  Where’s the point in envy?  It won’t get me writing.  Neither will putting on the kettle, but that isn’t a negative emotion, so I’m going to let myself get away with that, call this a day and enjoy a good cup of tea… Then, maybe, I’ll bite the bullets and make some new shapes.

Wish me luck?

Back Tracking Part 2 - What’s wrong with me? 25.08.14

As it turns out, nothing a good walk wouldn't solve! 

It’s a Bank Holiday weekend in England.  I didn’t feel the need to join the other throngs at garden centres or DIY superstores.  Before you judge, I can be quite handy – not all stereotypes are true; I do love decorating.  I didn’t go out on the lash or pick up a random stranger.  I’ve been at home for most of it.  I had a friend over for wine and Chinese (and maybe to obsess over the new episode of Doctor Who… BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN, MOFFATT???).  It’s been quite a relaxed affair.  I’ve done some reading.  I’ve watched some films, written in my diary, listened to some new music.

[Recommendation:  If you like something quite chilled out and easy listening, listen to Paolo Nutini’s Caustic Love Album  - fantastic.  Really loving it.]  But today, having a free day off work, what have I found myself doing?  

Nothing.  Well, I got up and wrote in my diary.  I had a few cups of tea and ate some of my baking from yesterday.  I pottered about and cleaned my bathroom.  I looked to see if anyone interesting was about on Grindr.  I put my feet up and had several brews.  I wanted to do something but I hadn’t got a clue what this something was. 

I’ve been a little annoyed at myself lately for watching too music Netflix and hardly picking up a book at all.  So I did some more reading… but I wasn’t really concentrating.  I read the same page 3 times when I gave up and sulked.  I sat staring out of the window for a good ten minutes.  This wasn’t going well.

A little voice chirped up in my head and said to me “You need to get out of your head for a while.  Go for a walk.” 

“Where to?” I asked.

“Wherever!  But you’re doing your own head in, so anywhere is better than this.” 

Hard to argue with that.  So I changed into some comfy walking shoes, pulled on a fleece and off I went.  Before I left the house, I did something I hardly ever do… I turned my phone on to airplane mode. 

There is a world of difference between getting out of your head and turning your head off.  I spend too much time with my headphones on, ignoring the world as it is.  But I wanted to go for a walk and see the world.  Listening to it tends to annoy me anyway, so some chilled out Caustic Love and a stroll seemed like a great idea – clear my head but not disconnect and slob out in from of more Ru Paul’s Drag Race… Not that I’m dissing Ru Paul, but everything in moderation.

And off I went.  Having no idea where to go or where I wanted to end up, I headed down to the canal and took the walk.  I use the canal to get home from shopping, to town and back – it’s a lot more direct than walking down streets and it’s also a lot quieter.  But I took the foot path along from where I normally come off, just to have a look.  I went all Robert Frost on its ass; I will take the footpath less travelled by and it will make all the difference. 

That’s a total lie.  I didn’t.  I felt that way as I walked.  I kept going just to see what was around the next corner or bend.  I knew in a general way what was ahead… if I went far enough, Liverpool!  But I had no idea what I would see.  I’ve live in this town for most of my life and I don’t think I’d ever been down this route. 

It’s not warm today, but it’s far from cold.  The wind was blowing at my back, gently.  There was plenty of wildlife.  See? 

Later note – there should have been a picture of a swan to go here, but it would seem I’ve lost it.  That’ll teach me.

I won’t bore you with all the details of my traversing the road out and my route back. 

But…

I did have a thought as I was nearing home again.  I was feeling calmer and refreshed for having left the house and done the walk.  If I hadn’t, I might not have done anything at all for the rest of the day; rest assured, the TV would have gone on and that would probably have been me until bed time.  I began to wonder about what words you’d use to describe that state of being and how I was feeling.  I walked in through the door to my house, made a brew and Googled the words I’d been feeling, all together, right before I’d left the house:

Irritable

Agitated

Lethargic

Apathetic

Lack of concentration

I was pretty sure what I would get.  And sure enough I did.

This has given me 2 issues…

First of all.  I am not depressed.  I have had some issues with depression in my life and I can firmly tell you that I do have down days; I am human after all, who doesn’t?  But this was a down day.  This confirmed a belief I came to a long time ago.  DO NOT GOOGLE ANYTHING TO DO WITH YOUR PHYSICAL OR MENTAL WELL BEING!  If you weren’t sick or crazy before you opened the browser, you will be by the time you’re done.

Second of all.  How easy is it for the world to convince us that we aren’t well?  We can be our own GP and shrink in the click of a button.  An intelligent search engine doesn’t know that I’ve been slobbing around doing nothing all morning.  It doesn’t know me as a person; the search engine hasn’t asked me if I have any thoughts about ending my own life (not my own, but other peoples for sure!... Whoops, shouldn’t have said that) or day dream about running away.  Even those questions need contextualising.  After my Gran died, I started looking at how much it would be to buy my own funeral – they’re expensive, I can’t afford to die – and what events might lead me there.  It wasn’t a happy time and morbid thoughts weren’t far from my mind.  Did I intend to instigate any of them myself?  No.  GP’s look for anyone exhibiting suicidal tendencies in the form of escapism; day dreaming about going away and coming back.  Anyone who has seen Shirley Valentine will know this not abnormal behaviour.  A lot of my leisure activities are all about escapism.   

Am I mentally unwell?  All humour aside - I could quickly find you a few people who would tell you that I probably need medicating because they don’t like my sense of humour – I very much believe I am not depressed or crazy.  But one quick Google search would have me think I need to consult a medical practitioner as soon as possible. 

I am very glad I didn’t Google this BEFORE I left the house.  I was in a bit of a slump.  And it was nothing that a walk along the canal couldn’t solve.  I am not saying that any mental health issues can be cured by walks around lakes or through Woodland.  What I am recommending, other than Paolo Nutini’s album is this:

1.       Turn your phone on airplane mode and go for a walk.  It will really change how you feel.  It gets you out of your head.  Look around and see how beautiful the world is.  Did you see those swans?  Get some space form anything and everything that might be bothering you.  Even social people need their alone time.

2.       Don’t Google your ailments.  See a GP, Practise Nurse of Pharmacist.  If you’re really worried, even consult a telephone service like NHS Direct, but for the love of sanity, don’t search for your symptoms.

3.       If you’re in a bit of a grump, find something to do.  It doesn’t have to be a walk, but I really do believe that the more we do, the more we want to do… like going for a walk and coming home to write a blog about the evils of searching for your mood.

I hope this post finds you in the best of health and happiness.  Lots of love.  xx

Back Tracking Part 1 - Shut the window - 24.07.14

WARNING!  This blog is about the physical act of love. 

  It’s not a rude one exploring the (very few) notches on my bed post.  

It’s not seedy and is intended to be funny and amuse.  

If you don’t want to read about this, you have been warned.

As a modern homosexual man, I don’t like to judge the heterosexual orthodoxy.  Their ways are alien and confusing to me.  Truth be told, the whole mystery of relationships, intimacy and romance have always been a bit confusing to me.  

One thing I really do believe in, not only in physical relationships, is the importance of intimacy and privacy.  One of the reason’s I’ve never liked to go anywhere with my exes is because I was terrified people would see me with them… So many reasons for that bundle of shame and such little time; it will probably be the content of my memoirs.  Beyond that, the time you spend cuddled up alone together, watching a film and hugging are the intimate moments that lead to grander physical intimacy.  To me, that should be kept between the two people concerned, behind closed doors… and… closed windows.

Not everyone who strays on to this blog will be in the UK, so its summer here.  Far too hot for me, but I think I’m meant for colder climates.  I haven’t shut my bedroom window in weeks due to the heat.  I get quite frustrated at my neighbours when I’m trying to sleep – it’s always the way that when you need people to be at their quietest, they’re always at their loudest.  Sod’s Law 101.  This particular occasion (last Saturday in fact), I didn’t need the world to be too quiet.  I didn’t need to be up too early - The more pressure there is to get up, the harder I find it to get to sleep so I always welcome knowing I don’t need to get up and go on a weekend.  I was outside in my yard, with a cup of camomile tea in hand, basking in the quiet starlight and staring at the moon.  My phone was playing me music from my pocket and I felt incredibly at peace.

That was when I noticed it.  The it.  The “it” of why windows ought to be kept as closed as doors.  Moaning.  The worst kind of moaning – lady porn star, incredibly loud and obnoxious moaning.   I hear them talking through the walls often and know for a fact that English is not their native tongue so why is “Oh God” and “F*ck yeah” the same, or is inappropriately-loud-fornication-vocabulary a universal language? 

I like to think of myself as a grown up.  I fail myself often in this regard.  I don’t know what exactly it was about this event and hearing these people going hell for leather at their mattress springs that set me off… but… for shame… I started to giggle.  Was it the moaning?  Was it the universal language of love?  Was it the dog that began to bark into the night?  I really don’t know.  But it tickled me.

The following event turned a giggle to full laughter.  Across the yard, I saw a light come on in a neighbour’s bedroom, the curtains flew open and, once again, I saw another open bedroom window.  This time, one singular and incredibly loud declaration was made to the neighbourhood:  “Where the f*uck is that racket coming from?!”  They carried on regardless and so amused, I had to come back inside to fully laugh.  

I set the kettle to boil again and began to think in my new found quiet.  My conclusions ran as follows:

1.       Call me old fashioned, but if you want to make that much noise in a dense population zone, use a pillow as a muffler to control the sound.   At a cabin in the woods, make as much noise as pleases you, just so long as the rest of the world doesn’t have to hear you.

2.       God doesn’t care.  Shut up.

3.       I know it’s hot outside.  I know it’s uncomfortable.  But please, consider those of your neighbours who have ears and keep the windows shut. We’re uncomfortable enough without having to squirm because of what we can hear.

Maybe I’m a bit more of a prude than I like to think – I have a terribly crude mind and enjoy the squalor my mind dabbles in.  I don’t like being forced into voyeurism because some people in my local vicinity cannot keep their fake orgasms to themselves.  For all you happy couples making the beast with two backs, I plead you – No, I’ll beg! – please, just keep the windows shut until you’re done? 

Thank you, on behalf of all the single and sexy-time-less people in the world (also, the lady across the way who was joined in my dismay).

Back tracking - 02.11.14

Brief explanatory note.  I'm going to post the blogs I found yesterday on my desktop.  It feels silly leaving them there, unread and unloved.

Enjoy.

Letters to November 02.11.14

Dear November,

I'm surprised myself that I'm writing to you for the second day in a row.  I did as I promised and started NaNoWriMo yesterday.  In the process, I started clearing through the documents and pictures I had saved on my computer desktop.  I've been struggling with writing for months now and it annoyed me a little to find that I had three possible blogs, sat on my desktop.  2 of them, I even finished and just haven’t posted. 

My new chair in my disorganised work room. 

When I talk to people about my writing, I tell them that I struggle to find the words for what I want to say.  I realised yesterday that it isn't true.  My struggle is believing I haven’t found the right words for what I want to say.  The difference is massive.  The difference is a dictionary to a thesaurus.  If I pick the wrong words, I can go back and change them later – that’s why editing exists.  I've been living in a state of “Bad Faith” about my writing.  It won’t get me writing to declare that I have nothing to say, especially when it isn't true. 

Worst of all, November, writing – no matter if it’s my blog, a poem, a short story – it helps me.  I feel more like myself when I'm doing it.  So why avoid it?  Why not do something that makes me happy?  I won’t be happy with the quality every single time, but find me any sort of artist that is always 100% happy with everything they put out in to the world.  Surely it’s the act of doing it that matters?  To create?  To make something new?

November, pessimists would have me believe that everything has been said before.  There are only seven basic story lines that exist in all of writing.  How many times can we re-hear the same stories over and over again before we get bored of them?  I don’t want people to read anything of mine and be bored of it.  But I realised something else today.   Even if I do tell the same story that someone else had told, it will be my way of telling it.  I’ll show them something else, or at least I hope to.  I’ll give them something else to see, or at least I hope to.

Hope.  Such a fickle thing.

I have a new chair to sit and write in.  Hopefully, I’ll be encouraged to write at my desk, where I’m more productive now I have something very comfy to sit on.  I've enclosed a picture for you.

I hope your month is going well.