Devoid of ideas

I rather fancy the idea of being an author. More specifically, I fancy being a published author. It would be nice if that brought with it a substantial income, but to be honest, largely having a bound book with my name on the cover would do the trick. Anything else would be a bonus.

The trouble is, I think I like the idea of writing a book rather more than I like the actuality of it. I am not by nature a novelist: I may be a diarist, but I am not a novelist, or even a novella-ist; neither am I a journalist, though I might be a columnist. I like writing, but in short bursts, which is why you get to see so much drivel on my Live Journal and why I am fast approaching 3,000 entries in around five and a half years of using Live Journal. That’s what, about an entry and a half each day for all that time?

When I sit down to write anything that isn’t actually me chatting to the computer via the keyboard, it becomes a great deal harder, though even then there is a range of difficulty. When I was involved with NWO some characters just flowed into place and were a complete joy to write. Others needed to have every word ground out of the keyboard, often to be deleted and replaced many times over (the choice of words, not the keyboard) and towards the end especially, it became far more of a chore than a pleasure.

Equally, while I derive some fun from hacking out the occasional snippet under the flag of Dimpler Towers, these tend to be more work than pure enjoyment. I almost never have a story in mind when I sit down to write and if I do have an objective it is to get to a punch line for that particular instalment. The hope is that in getting to that punch line, anyone who reads it finds it fun; hopefully more fun than I gained getting to the same place. It would help no end if I had a plot and sub plots to work to, but really I don’t. I have a series of vignettes and character studies in my head, which occasionally come together to suggest something bigger, or to open a window onto an odd little world of eccentric Englishness that never existed, never will exist and where you wouldn’t be remiss in looking at the drinking water with grave suspicion.

I have been thinking about this more recently simply because some of the odd happenings of the warped little world of Little Whittering-in-the-Stubble have started to link hands and prance around in a slightly bigger and more complicated, if still aimless dance, with more characters intruding but not developing beyond a cameo. I still have no idea where it is all going or if there is any point to it at all, but the population of odd little county freaks is growing and they are bringing their odd preoccupations and activities with them.

The trouble is that is all a long way from having a plot.

I think that this has all started coming to a head in my head (!) because a number of my friends have, over the past couple of years, written books. Four of them have managed between them to produce two factual books, one polemic and two novels. I already have the first three and have today put in an order for the other two. Given the respective attitudes of the authors of the two novels, it will be interesting to see if the books make it to my doorstep unscathed. I should not be surprised if they fight each other in the parcel, if they are wrapped and posted together.

I need a plot and a couple or three subplots. Then I need the drive to sit down and weave it all together so that I can at least put it all in a folder and say “I wrote that!”

And I should draw and paint more. By which I mean 'at all'.

Devoid of ideas

I rather fancy the idea of being an author. More specifically, I fancy being a published author. It would be nice if that brought with it a substantial income, but to be honest, largely having a bound book with my name on the cover would do the trick. Anything else would be a bonus.

The trouble is, I think I like the idea of writing a book rather more than I like the actuality of it. I am not by nature a novelist: I may be a diarist, but I am not a novelist, or even a novella-ist; neither am I a journalist, though I might be a columnist. I like writing, but in short bursts, which is why you get to see so much drivel on my Live Journal and why I am fast approaching 3,000 entries in around five and a half years of using Live Journal. That’s what, about an entry and a half each day for all that time?

When I sit down to write anything that isn’t actually me chatting to the computer via the keyboard, it becomes a great deal harder, though even then there is a range of difficulty. When I was involved with NWO some characters just flowed into place and were a complete joy to write. Others needed to have every word ground out of the keyboard, often to be deleted and replaced many times over (the choice of words, not the keyboard) and towards the end especially, it became far more of a chore than a pleasure.

Equally, while I derive some fun from hacking out the occasional snippet under the flag of Dimpler Towers, these tend to be more work than pure enjoyment. I almost never have a story in mind when I sit down to write and if I do have an objective it is to get to a punch line for that particular instalment. The hope is that in getting to that punch line, anyone who reads it finds it fun; hopefully more fun than I gained getting to the same place. It would help no end if I had a plot and sub plots to work to, but really I don’t. I have a series of vignettes and character studies in my head, which occasionally come together to suggest something bigger, or to open a window onto an odd little world of eccentric Englishness that never existed, never will exist and where you wouldn’t be remiss in looking at the drinking water with grave suspicion.

I have been thinking about this more recently simply because some of the odd happenings of the warped little world of Little Whittering-in-the-Stubble have started to link hands and prance around in a slightly bigger and more complicated, if still aimless dance, with more characters intruding but not developing beyond a cameo. I still have no idea where it is all going or if there is any point to it at all, but the population of odd little county freaks is growing and they are bringing their odd preoccupations and activities with them.

The trouble is that is all a long way from having a plot.

I think that this has all started coming to a head in my head (!) because a number of my friends have, over the past couple of years, written books. Four of them have managed between them to produce two factual books, one polemic and two novels. I already have the first three and have today put in an order for the other two. Given the respective attitudes of the authors of the two novels, it will be interesting to see if the books make it to my doorstep unscathed. I should not be surprised if they fight each other in the parcel, if they are wrapped and posted together.

I need a plot and a couple or three subplots. Then I need the drive to sit down and weave it all together so that I can at least put it all in a folder and say “I wrote that!”

And I should draw and paint more. By which I mean 'at all'.