Writers block . .

My third post and already I'm struggling with what to put up here.  Well, there is so much to write, the question is where to start, what with, who with and the nagging doubt that anyone would find it interesting.

The best place to start, apparently is at the beginning but the beginning requires much more to write about than I have capacity for today.

So today I'll start with a book recomendation http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Write-Dirty-Story-Publishing/dp/0743226232/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1298821379&sr=8-1. I haven't written a dirty story, yet, but I'm sure there's one in me, before the menopause hits and the desire all but dries up.

And I thought I'd also post the one poem I'd written which should be the starting point of telling my story and why it leads me to want to write a fictional story in the future with specific aims which are not just to try and get rich!

Dad
So Glad We Found Each Other

I've never really known you,
But I love you with all my heart
It's a cruel twist of fate, that kept us far apart.

Hate used to fill me like a tightly coiled spring
It was only adding alcohol that freed the beast within.

Then one night my Dad phoned from far, far away,
Then you told me that you loved me and the hate began to sway.

In its place new feelings formed, something far superior
A feeling of deep love which was almost scarier.

Many hours together we spent on the telephone
Laughing, reminiscing, imagining each others home.

I knew I had to see you, to believe that you were real,
And when I met you for the first time, I didn't know how to feel.

I never had a vision that you were a superstar,
Or even really rich driving a silver Mercedes car.
I just never thought you loved me,
How could you from afar?

But now I know differently and the hate is just a scar,
Never to be seen again dragged up in a bar.

I hope life lets us know each other more fully than before,
And our father/daughter relationship will prosper even more.

Fear and love replace the hate and insecurity,
But now it's just enough to know that you've always loved me.

Oct 2002.

That's all folks, until next time.

Drink and write if you dare . . .

Today, is, by all accounts, day two of practising my writing abilities, or lack of them, so that one day I may have the ability to write a whole story that people will actually want to read without throwing it on the nearest bonfire or donating to the nearest charity shop regardless of what charity it's for.

I'm sure that a couple of bottles of beer and a large glass of wine should potentially steer me away from doing this, but I fear, that it's having the exact opposite effect.  Bugger. This could be bad.

Trying to find time to write is . . . a challenge.  I work full time, have set up a business (primarily to give me time to write), have a boyfriend (sounds like a toyboy, unfortunately he's not), have a cat, have a house to run and now as, if anyone is reading this will know, have started a blog.  Madness I'm sure, but then I'm not allowed to give blood anymore as I may have CJD, due to a blood transfusion in the 90's.  And, no I don't have HIV, or Hepatitas A, B, C, D or whatever, or any other blood disease that you may get from a transfusion.  But my brain may turn to CJD wallpaper paste due to said transfusion?  So if you are unfortunate to be reading this, and by some miracle, enjoying it, suck it up while you can as it may not last forever.

Anyway, I've kind of kept this blog secret.  There's a part of me that thinks I have no ability, and there is every chance that this is the sanest thinking I've had in a long time, there is a tiny part of me of course that thinks I may have a little bit of something to write a little bit of a story.  Tonight I made the mistake of mentioning to aforementioned boyfriend, what I'd started.  Now he's intrigued and wants to read what I've done.  I'm not entirely comfortable with this as he has a PHD, is slightly OCD with his obsession with grammar, and is a writer himself, having given up the day job for a large sum of cash to write and direct a low budget zombie movie.

Part of not publicising this is that, maybe, some people may come across it and read it, by accident?  Rather than knowing that friends and family have to try hard to be polite about it, if I push it their way. It means that by maybe 'being public' I have more incentive to push forward to do something day by day, rather than give myself an excuse of 'tomorrow' if just in Word on my laptop.  And it feels a little bit exciting to think that maybe someone I don't know might read this and like it.

So aside from all that, I haven't been home tonight, I've had curry, beers and wine and am at my fellas house (still not a toyboy) on my laptop, endeavouring to practice writing.

Shoddy so far. I have a couple of books about writing a novel and a book about writing dirty stories. With the menopause looming, dirty stories seem to be more about mud than bodice rippers and multiple orgasms. In due course I shall refer to them after reading them and share the knowledge.

For now I have to tell you about my apalling memory.  I finished reading a book last night, there was a word I didn't know the meaning of and thought 'I must remember that and look it up'.  I forgot, and still haven't remembered.  If you've read the previous post you'll know this is likely to be the first of many half stories, nearly stories or just a plain old fact dressed up as a story, to come. You have been warned.

Sweet dreams to any poor soul who happens upon this blog.

Can you look like an anonymous arse?

And, so, I continue into the great unknown of knowing whether I have any ability or just bundles of wishful thinking and the ability to daydream without the aid of any artificial imagination enhancers.  Does an ice cold beer count?  So where to start on practicing writing to create my novel?  I've really no idea.  Many years ago I paid for and attended, at least twice a Creative Writing course.  Twice was enough to realise that the course was really about listening to what everybody else had written. It felt very self indulgent.  Well, it might have, if I was any good and wanted to share my masterpiece.  I'm not and I didn't.

So the humiliation starts here.  If this blog gets public, it's not because I intended it to, it's sheer social media witchery, which I've had bugger all influence over.

Oh, and if you should happen to be reading this, there's a crucial fact you should know.  I'm crap at telling stories.  Great half stories, stories without a punchline, even forgetting most of a potential story after the first line has left my mouth.  Story telling is not one of my skills. So be warned.  I'm not convinced my grammar is great and my Mother repeatedly tells me how crap I was at spelling when at school.

Here's to  . . . improving?