I've been rather amiss with my course this week. Finding it very hard to get a wiggle on, as my concentration is all over the place. I've been trying to catch up this morning. I'm not greatly happy with either of these as yet but, it's been a few days and I feel the need to post something. My friends don’t call it my ‘womb’ for no good reason. It’s red. Very red. What can I say? I find it stimulating and, beyond that, it’s mine. I flat-share. It’s not ideal but the rent is cheap and that in itself gives me more time to spend writing. Something in me changes when I pass through the bland magnolia living room, take a turn down the even blander magnolia hall and enter. I can feel neurons firing. The PC is never off, just a quick wireless mouse click and the 32 inch flat screen flashes up the image of my project folder, just as I’d left it, one document taking up the centre pane. An interrupted sentence trailing off with an ellipse immediately grabs my attention. I hold it in my head as I cross to the other side of the room, where the kettle sits. Two scoops of Mt.Kilimanjaro in the French press and a flick of a switch later, I’m reading back a paragraph. I remember now what it was I was trying to impart. Steaming coffee beside me, I sit cross legged on my bed with my keyboard slung across my lap, mouse to hand. Ugh. Those last few lines, I’d been trying to evoke a mood of place and time but failed miserably. Tiredness had clearly caught up with me. I get up again, light a few candles and kill the centre bulb. My room comes alive, flickering, breathing. Better. Now something olfactory, some incense, perhaps? Sunset. That should do the trick. The quietness is nearly deafening. I need a quick burst of music; something organic, suggestive of warm breezes and dry earth, spices and silks, something… medieval Middle Eastern? I go to my music folder and choose a fitting piece and sit, eyes closed for the duration, letting my mind soak up the beats and tones, feeling the warmth on my skin just before the sun sinks below the horizon line, its delicate blush accenting ornately carved dhows berthed in the harbour. The warm wind gently sandblasts my cheek, while spices from stalls selling spit roasted lamb and other local delicacies assault my nostrils and make my mouth water. My fingers reach for the keys. And the second: I couldn’t resist a peek over his shoulder as I returned from the Ladies. Any time I see someone writing, curiosity nearly overcomes me. I suppose it’s a bit like my interest in other peoples sex lives, or taste in food, or how they rear their kids—every detail imparts more than at first meets the eye. Judging by his sober dress, I’d taken him to be an office worker, an accountant, something along those lines. I might have been right about that but, rather than showing a spreadsheet, the laptop screen was displaying a word processor doc, titled: Chapter Twenty Three - Come Hell or High Water. Accountant, or not, that man was a budding novelist. From my seat by the window, I slurped the foam off my cappuchino and watched as his fingertips danced across the keyboard. He appeared to be watching the beardy barrista like a hawk. How could he even hear himself think over all the chatter, clinking of cups, whooshes of steam and crunching of amaretti? My thoughts that direction were cut short as I realised he’d turned his attention on me. His smile grew ever wider as my cheeks burned red. He pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and started scribbling. An audible change of pace came as Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi, belted out from the wall mounted speaker. Jeez, if I was listening to that while trying to write, my characters would all end up talking in broad Brooklyn accents in the middle of the Dark Ages. A sound of crunching metal, nearly caused me whiplash as I triangulated the source. Outside was a flurry of activity, as one driver cast aspersions on the parenthood of another, steam leaking from underneath a crumpled bonnet. A gentle tap on the table drew me back inside, my accountant all packed up and ready for the off. He sat a small lined notebook page face down on the table and strode off, no doubt to wring every last detail out of the fender bender. I flipped it over as he vanished into the amassing crowd: Her eyes take on a look of curiosity, interrogation of my method. She sees the common ground, the delight in detail, cheeks rouged with her embarrassment as I turn my discerning eye on her. Can I see into her very soul? Is that why I’m smiling, or is it because she’s so busy watching me, she fails to realise that she’s wearing a foam moustache. Don’t say I didn’t tell you so. And... as a late addition before I knock off and treat myself to some grub: You like the bustle of the coffeehouse. How can you concentrate with the clinking of cups, whooshing of steam, and crunching of Amaretti punctuating every thought? A great place to people-watch, no doubt, but in terms of splendid isolation it leaves a lot to be desired. But then again, you can't understand how I can lock myself in my room, away from the world, from inspiration, as you see it. I guess we're inspired by different things. You suck up ambiance like a sponge and use it to your advantage. Me, I need to create it, to put myself in a particular frame of mind, or time, or place, by stimulating sight, sound, and smell on demand. Most of all, I need no distractions. I mean, c'mon, I'm hardly going to be able to authentically describe a medieval market place while listening to Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi, am I? Try describing an elegant banquet while watching Ms. Lawyer To Be at the next table, ravishing an apple Danish, or while Mr. Accountant across the way squirts American mustard in wiggly lines across the pastrami and pickle of his lunchtime sub. How about the smell of Chanel No.5 while sniffing a rag soaked in petrol? Oh... you can, can you? Must be just me, then.
Last nights attempt at a 200 word character study could have gone better. I was pooped and I couldn't get myself in the zone. Despite my grandson being a gargantuan pain in the butt this morning, (we're off to the museum later. I really should have kept it under my hat) in between washing, dressing him and breakfast and nappy changes, I've managed to rattle off a paragraph. Still not entirely happy with it but at least it's a step in the right direction. Immaculately plastered in palest pancake, her features conspired to form an unnatural rictus, her hollow eyes appraising me from behind a pair of 1950s librarian spectacles. A harpy's talons blooded with Rouge Noir polish drummed a tattoo as I tested her patience. I was clearly beyond her help. I only wanted new eyeliner, but it became rapidly obvious she intended me to exit her cosmetic domain with a posh carrier bag containing an aesthetic cure for every flaw, not to mention a depleted bank account. Who the hell did she think she was, picking on my very imperfection? She wasn't fooling anyone. Those strategically coiffed wisps of hair did nothing to hide the tell-tale scars behind her ears, nor the lack of character lines creasing her forehead. I'd half a mind to call her out for false advertising. For all her efforts to appear younger, her hands betrayed her. Bulbous finger joints hinted at arthritis. Poorly concealed liver spots told a tale. Not maid, not mother but crone, despite her surgical efforts. Whatever happened to the notion of growing old gracefully? Maybe once we get back from our trip out, he'll have a doze and I can do a bit of polishing.
Just started the taster course in creative writing I signed up for a few months back. I was given a testing exercise this morning. My lack of brevity and inclination to waffle, is something of a burden I need to learn how to deal with. I tried my best to fulfill the criteria while not over shooting the word count. My efforts aren't wonderful but they do tell a story in as few a words as I could muster. I believe the given prompt is copyrighted so I'll desist, but this is what I ended up with. Number One: Word Count - 81 Yes, Yes… I’d forgotten to pack the torch but I’d hardly done it on purpose, had I? What possible motive could I have for losing our friends, effectively stranding us in the back side of beyond with nothing but the moonlight and chills to keep us company? How on earth were we going to stay warm? I suppressed a laugh as he put his arm around me and drew me close. Of all the boys, I’d always liked him the best. And this is its companion: Number Two: Word Count - 95 Fixing the flat would only take a jiffy, he said, as he reached into the trunk and removed a tyre iron. He’d also told me he knew a quicker route to the beach and we could get a fire going by the time my friends showed up. I exited the car and went round to take a look. No flat. Then it dawned. Why the tire iron? He started to slowly advance. I took a faltering step backward. "Like I was saying," he said, as he held the iron aloft. "This’ll only take a minute." Well, look at that! I did what I was told.
My daughter has made the decision to go back to work, part-time. Minding my grandson, D, has been fun, if a little distracting. He was getting very clingy and I think it's healthy for him to spend time away from Mum. He's been no bother really, just needs his mind taken off the fact she's at work. Easy enough, his curiosity knows no bounds. He's been very interested in the sky of late, prompted by seeing a huge full moon recently, so I thought I'd boggle his little brain just a tad. I asked him, "So what's up above the blue sky then?" His wee face screwed up, confused and he said, "But Nanny, that's it. That's all." "Really?" I said. So I trawled about the internet for a while and found a nice bit of CGI that showed the planetary movement in our solar system. Now, obviously, he didn't quite 'get it' so, I asked him what he sees when he looks at the sky. He mentioned the moon, so I used it as a frame of reference for him. I said, "We can see the moon from here but imagine, if we were sitting on the moon looking this way, what we would see?" He shook his wee head. "Nanny, I dunno." "Ready for this?" I said and cued my next vid— a satellite image of the Earth from space. He balked, his wee mind trying to get to grips. I pointed to the blue areas and said, "What do you think that is?" He shrugged his shoulders. "What if I was to tell you it's water?" I continued. He spotted the problem at once. He went and got his football, shook his head and said "But Nanny, the water would fall off." "Not so, " I said and went on to explain the concept of gravity, which he took to like a duck to water. (He does love that football.) I pointed to the land masses and showed him a global map. I then referred back to original vid and showed him Earth and told him that's where we live. He wasn't convinced. Oh, no? I used satellite imagery and took him on a little trip, explaining that what we were seeing were increasingly magnified photographs. He's watched me zooming and cropping pics so he understands. I zoomed in from space and showed him our planet, our continent, our country, our city. The very last image was that of his own front door. The expression on his face was priceless. Suffice to say he's now changed his mind about what he wants to do when he's grown up. He's decided there's not much point being a dinosaur hunter as they are extinct. (I've explained extinction already, so that he understood there was ABSOLUTELY no chance of running into a T Rex when playing footie in the park. ) He now thinks being an astronaut is a much better career option. NASA here he comes! I love being a gran.
This came to me as I was drifting off to sleep last night. Not much effort put into it... it just tickled my funny bone. "You're procrastinating." I didn't turn round, continued staring at the screen, the right hand side a mass of swirling, spectral shapes. I tried closing my eyes, wishing the ghostly images away. Harsh sunlight turned the insides of my eyelids the colour of fresh fish gills, but the shifting images remained. "I can't even see what I'm typing," I said, "and, besides... who asked for your opinion?" I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. No reply but a smug, knowing stare. "Perhaps another cup?" I ventured. "Are you deranged?" "But—" "But nothing. You know caffeine will only make it worse." "But, I thought..." I stalled, looking for an appropriate excuse. "...a bit of extra sugar might pep me up." A look of disdain. "Have you forgotten what it took to lose all that weight, and while we're on the subject, have you paid that dental bill yet?" I started to feel a bit rattled—who did he think he was? "Of course. I paid it at the start of the week," I lied. Sounded defensive, even to me. "And what about making an appointment to see the doc?" Tiresome, very tiresome. "Now, hold on a minute!" I felt my cheeks firing up and that little vein in my temple starting to throb. "I let you stay here, ask for fuck all in return, and you set yourself up as my bloody guardian angel. Where do you get off telling me what to do?" "I'm your voice of reason and you know it." "You're nothing but a grey-haired geriatric, with nothing better to do than poke his nose into other peoples' business," I yelled, with more vitriol than I thought possible. Again with the knowing stare. "Quit that. You're freaking me out." He rolled his shoulders, arched his back and gave his head a shake. "I'm only trying to look after you," he said, his eyes wide with innocence. "Hmph!" "And what's that supposed to mean?" he said, heckles raised. "Look at yourself, sitting there acting all wide-eyed and innocent. Do you think I don't know what you're up to?" Every muscle in his body tensed, but he maintained a cold, hard stare. "Thinking of me, my arse! You're thinking, who's gonna cook my dinner, and who's gonna check the t.v. guide, so you can settle with your tartan blanket and watch the snooker. Do you think I'm stupid?" He dropped his stare and flexed his paw, claws unsheathing like a Mexican wave. At length he looked up. "No," he said, as he raised up on tippy toes, and jumped onto my lap. "I don't think you're stupid, I think you are paranoid, delusional and hallucinating." The realisation flooded me, as I stroked behind his ears. "Please," he purred, "If not for yourself, for me. CALL THE DOC."
So, I was sitting in the wee smalls hours, trying to get to grips with a tricky paragraph. My brain was being its usual ditzy self, and being particularly uncooperative due to a lack of caffeine. I was on the verge on putting on my coat and taking a trek to Tesco 24 hr, when my Facebook notifier pinged. One of my friends is a taxi driver and given the time, I figured it was probably him, so I hit the tab to see what interesting tidbit he'd posted. http://www.humanleather.co.uk/index.html Seriously, bespoke human leather? Of course, I've seen examples of human leather before, most of it upsetting. Although no actual items were produced, the military tribunal held at Dachau in 1945 comes to mind. The following is from the trial transcript of Dr. Blaha’s testimony, as quoted in Justice at Dachau by Joshua M. Greene: Truly horrific. Where am I going with this, you may be asking? For those reading who like myself are tattooed, you'll no doubt be used to people expressing the opinion that you'll live to regret them. I can safely say, in my own case, that'll never happen. I love my tattoos. I remember when my daughter was little, we had a silly conversation about having my left upper arm turned into a lampshade. As young as she was, she wasn't as repelled by the notion as one might imagine. I was only jesting, but the more I thought about it, I figured, why the hell not? I've spent more hours than I can count under the needle, sweating blood and occasionally tears. It seems a bit of a waste to allow my artwork to revert to worm food upon my death. So I looked into it. Not feasible. For one, if I was going to be flayed, it would have been better to do it twenty years ago. I'm not getting any younger, and I can already see what the ticking clock has in store for me. Secondly, the piece in question wouldn't provide enough leather at any rate. Not even enough to bind a small paperback sized book. The preferred technique makes use of the skin on the back. I have a nice back piece but it's not the bit I want preserved. It is also an incredibly time consuming process, and therefore, even if I did manage to find someone capable of tanning it, (it's incredibly delicate to work with) the cost would be prohibitive. I guess I may just content myself with the assortment of professional photos that have been taken over the years. They can be placed in the family memory box along with the lock of my baby hair, a hand impression, the primary school report cards, the ring pull of my first legally acquired beer, the remains of my daughter's dried up umbilical cord, (what can I say? I'm sentimental... well, a bit mental) the ticket stubs of every play, concert and gig I've ever been to. My life will be well represented after my death. So why then do I still find the subject of tanning my hide so appealing?
My brain is dithering big time. I've been looking at my attempts at a novel and I hate it. I know I'm being overly self critical. I also know it will pass. Gotta keep writing though. I checked out one of the writing prompts, and started to write up a piece for it. When I went to post I realised I'd somehow managed to reply to the second prior prompt, and it had already been answered. So I deleted. The original piece, written this morning, was a much longer affair, which I managed to cut down to 100 words above the word count ideal. This is the piece in its entirety. It's also the first piece of actual writing (not musing) I've posted publicly. “There isn’t time,” he growled. “Look,” I said, “You called. I’m here. We can sort this out.” I stared at the mass of twisted polymer ribbons, piled up in irregular mounds on the floor. “ETA?” “It’s supposed to be on-screen, for 10.30.” He sunk down onto the plinth supporting the weight of Ernemann 15, No.1, and buried his face in his hands. “They’ll fire me for this.” “Nonsense,” I said, in as convincing tone as I could muster. Looking at my watch, then back to the serpentine coils, I tried to formulate a plan of action. “Half an hour—we can do this. On your feet soldier!” Looking up at me with disbelief, I realised Barry was about ready to sound the retreat. “Now!” I pushed past and stepped up onto the plinth, squeezing my head between the lens and the porthole. Dammit! They had already arrived and were taking their seats. I flipped the main light switch, and returned to the mass. First things first. Where the hell was reel Number One? Typical! Buried under everything else. “Ok,” I said, as I started to separate the film into manageable bundles. "I think this is it.” Following a length, my assumptions were proved correct as the perforated dark green gave way to a leader of solid sky blue. The heart of it. “Here you go. Track forward and see if you can find the first splice. I’m going to enlist some help.” “No. Don’t. No one can know.” “Don’t be a dick,” I said. “If we had a hour, perhaps, but this is three hours worth of film we’re looking at. I’m going to find Shaz. Do you want to keep your job or not?” Without waiting for an answer, I exited the projection booth, giving the door a slam. The staff room was too close for comfort, and Barry the Tactless had made enemies who would only be too happy to land him in the shit. Noticing the office door was closed over, I gave it a push. Locked. Thank heavens for small mercies. Halfway down the stairs, my nostrils were assaulted by the sickly sweet smell of popcorn. I raced down the rest, two stairs at a time, until I came to the door of the kiosk, and popped my head around it. “Shaz?” I shouted over the din. Nadine looked briefly up while handing over a soft drink, almost as big as the little ginger haired, pig-tailed girl, eagerly grasping for it. “Screen Number One,” she answered, looking at me quizzically. I rushed through the loitering masses, bolted up the steps, and through the first set of double doors, my sight adjusting to the red halogen spots, readying my eyes for the darkness inside. A few seconds of scanning, and I saw Shaz talking to an adult, who seemed to be the organiser in charge of the eight hundred strong throng of noisy, excited school children. There was much in the way of hand animation going on. “I’m sorry, “Shaz was saying, her tone pleasant but firm. “We can’t make time for an Interval. There is another large group arriving to see the film immediately after this screening is over, and we’ll need the extra time to clean up. It is a very long film and the screen is packed.” The woman went to protest. “Actually,” I butted in, giving her a smile. “I’ve been checking the timetable, and I think we may be able to accommodate.” Shaz looked to me, eye movements asking, Where did you spring from? and What’s the silly git done now? She followed my lead and promptly left. “What in the name of good… Seriously, what the hell are we going to do?” Shaz shook her head, gasping at the mess in front of her. “There’s no way you’ll be able to work out all the twists and kinks.” “No choice in the matter. Besides, that’s why you’re here… another pair of arms. Barry,” I said, “did you find that splice? The Interval will give us another fifteen to twenty minutes.” “An Interval? But we don’t…” “We do now.” “Got it!” he said, holding the splice up so I could see. Hunkering down, I gasped the film firmly on either side of it, and tore it apart, the tape holding the two ends together yielding under the brutal force. As luck would have it, Reel One was mostly intact, save for a few coils, which had pulled free from the supporting collar. “I’ll prep the first reel, you two find the rest of the splices.” I headed for the old wooden workbench, it’s pitted surface standing testament to many hours of boredom, and the desire of those who’d come before to leave their impression upon it. I grabbed the splicer, and a torch and set to work. I checked the loose inner end, the torch beam illuminating the content. A frame of the ad intro, as it should be. I opened the jaws of the heavy, metal splicer and, counting back four perforations, slid the length of film inside, the mangled taped frame hanging over the edge. With a swift tap, the cutting blade bore down, and the segment fluttered to the floor like a stunned butterfly. Now the hard part—getting the reel back on a collar. Reaching under the bench, I pulled one free, that and a drop cloth. Dust was my enemy. I fitted the wooden mount onto the winding gear, and fed the end of the film into the metal band that would keep it locked in place. The rest I dumped onto the cloth on the floor. Biggest problem—the film fed from the inside of the reel, and as I turned the handle it spiralled continuously. I wound what I could until the twists became too much, then let go of the handle, to shake loose the pile on the floor. I repeated the process over again, and over… and over… Times had changed. Back in the day not only were films shorter, but they were fed through the projector one reel at a time. Efforts to give the patrons more choice, and maximise profits, had seen the lowly Picture Houses turn into sprawling, twelve screen Mutli-Plexes, the familiar choice for film-goers today. Did you think there was one projectionist per 35 millimetre film? Think again. One projectionist per six screens was the norm, and sometimes not even that. The pressure of the workload was heavy at times. When films arrived, a projectionist would go about ‘making them up’ adding the advertisements, trailers and finally the reels, one by one, All ran onto a three tiered metal device known as a cake stand. The result looked like an over-sized, long playing record. The inner part of the film was threaded through a metal centre, up and across a series of smooth plastic runners, fed through the projector, and returned back to the receiving platter by yet more runners. Those annoying scrapes that made you want to complain? The result of a lazy projectionist who’d rather sit on his butt than clean them. Adult films don’t do well in the afternoons. So, again with the intentions of maximising profits, films, by necessity, would need to be moved from one set up to another. When first I trained, the thought of it scared the living daylights out of me. A large film could be as big as the span of my arms, and heavy with it. My lithe frame, over time, had taken on the appearance of a squat power lifter, in order to cope. If there was an Olympic medal to be had, I’d have won the Light Weight Film Lifting category, hands down. Wound films look solid. They are not. As soon as you go to lift, they wobble, and only by maintaining perfect gait and posture do they stay firm. If even so much as one frame has a kink, it unsettles the pressure that holds it all together, and if you were to stumble walking the length of the booth… well, ask Barry. The winding of Reel One nearly complete, I looked up. Both Barry and Shaz were hard at it. She stood motionless as Barry did a dance around her, untwisting the next reel and lopping the film around her outstretched arms, in much the same way one winds skeins of wool. A shriek of hinges, and the booth door opened. We all turned around expectantly. There was a collective sigh of relief as Jordie, my other Juniour, walked through the door. “What the…” “Stop standing there gawping.” I said. “Give us a hand. What are you doing here anyway?” “Stopped by to check the rota,” he replied, closing the door swiftly, and rolling up his sleeves. “It’s as well I did, please don’t tell me that’s…” I nodded. “Shit!” “Exactly.” “Does She Who Must Be Obeyed know?” I laughed at the filmic reference and shook my head. “Nope, and I’d really rather it stayed that way.” Barry was an ass, but a harmless one. “So what can I do?” Jordie said. “Take over from me and I’ll start piecing it all together.” By the time I had Reel One on the outgoing platter of the cake stand, Jordie handed me next. I checked the ends to be attached to make sure I wasn’t fitting the reels together in the wrong order. Relief. They matched. Having spliced the ends together, I poked two fingers into the second reels plastic spool, and hit a button, the platter lurching to life. It rapidly sped up, taking the donkey work out of the winding. I watched as it spun, the external part of the film growing outward by the second. Seven more reels to go. Time was pressing, but with another set of arms, I figured we’d be ten minutes late at the most. When, finally, the last reel was connected, I laced up the Ernemann, navigating the film over the runners, down through the gate the bulb shone through, past the series of cogs, across the soundhead, and finally back to the cake stand. I let out a sigh of relief. Turning round, I saw the colour had returned to Barry’s cheeks, at long last. “Coffee?” Shaz...
I took a walk this morning. My cat woke me at the scrake of dawn, mieowing and purring in my ear. To any one else, it might have looked like a show of affection but, in truth, he was complaining. Didn't take me long to figure out his food bowl was empty, my flat-mate having tipped the remainder of his kibble into his bowl last night. I knew there was absolutely no chance of getting back to sleep—he's a perseverant beast—so I quickly got washed, threw on clothes, and exited my apartment building to buy him some more. Within seconds, I could feel it. Summer has passed. Despite some unseasonal, sunny weather at the start of the month, today is dull and overcast, not cold exactly, but when I took a deep breath, I had to smile. There was a chill to it, and both my lungs and my nostrils were delighted. I despise summer—the heat exhausts me, and the bright sunlight triggers migraines. As if the aforementioned isn't bad enough, there's the smell to contend with. It might be worth explaining that I live by the docks. As I type, I'm looking out my bedroom window at the urban sprawl. When it comes to the unpleasant, seasonal odour, four main sources come to mind—the sewage works, which the town and county planners saw fit to hide from view by encircling it with trees and herbaceous borders; the animal feed plant, the smell from which simply defies description; the incinerator, which in the past was used for the 'sanitary' disposal of cows from all over—they'd been culled in order to lessen the hysteria over BSE; and finally, Belfast Lough itself. Even in summer, the weather here is unpredictable. Seaweed gets thrown up along the tideline, becomes dessicated, and the next shower of rain re-hydrates it releasing an aroma. Whilst not exactly unpleasant in itself, it just adds to the olfactory unpleasantness. It doesn't affect the rest of the city, just the part I've chosen to live in. I'm making my environs sound less than ideal, but I actually rather like living here. I live 8 floors up and I have a great view. I've witnessed much in the way of change in the past few years. For so long Belfast suffered due to the Troubles, and companies were unwilling to take a chance, fearing their investments would be blown to smithereens. And with good cause. It wasn't unusual in the past, to hop off the bus in the City Centre, to see yet another building leveled by semtex. Despite the economic crisis, Belfast seems to be thriving. I need only look out my window to see it. From my vantage point, I can see all the major landmarks—the verdigris dome of the City Hall, the geodesic semi sphere of the Victoria Centre, the stark modern steeple of St. Annes Cathedral. And construction cranes—a lot of them. The docks have changed too. Belfast used to be well regarded for two things—shipbuilding and linen production. Sadly, these industries have faltered, but it's good to see others taking their place. Several months ago, I first noticed some strange yellow uprights I'd not seen before. Turns out they are the supports for the building of huge wind turbines for offshore fields. They sit close to the slipway where the Titanic was first launched from. The Harland and Wolf Painthouse is now a thriving film studio, the Kings Landing sequences of HBO's, Game of Thrones are being filmed right now. I also regularly see the comings and goings of cruise ships, hinting at the tourist boom that has occurred now that people feel safe to travel here. When in town, I regularly see people with suitcases and backpacks, and hear them speaking in foreign tongues. Numerous hotels have sprung up, and it seems forgotten that the Europa was once the most bombed hotel anywhere on the globe. It gladdens my heart to know that visitors are getting to view the city and its people, without the threat of getting caught up in the violence. Black taxi drivers are now making a decent living by giving personal, guided tours of the sights, and it's common to see open-top tour buses trundling along the roads. Even in terms of entertainment much has improved. Bands and touring productions used to avoid Belfast like the plague. Established acts would skip the city on their tour schedules, and the populace would have to travel down to Dublin to have any chance of seeing their favourite acts, or big musical productions. Now we have the Odyssey Arena, which regularly attracts the big names that people want to see. Despite the fact I am reasonably well traveled, and have lived and worked elsewhere, I've always loved my home town. If only the powers that be could do something about the smell.
I'm sitting here, bleary eyed, staring at my screen. I've already wolfed down one cup of coffee and I'm seriously considering another. Fire up brain—damn you! I joined the site in the middle of July, and since then I haven't written a fresh sentence. Not a one. I have the strangest feeling of being in stasis, right now. I'm not altogether sure how I fell into writing... boredom, perhaps. I worked for many years as a 35mm Projection Chief and loved my job, despite the shifts being long and the hours anti-social. It was perfect for someone like myself who, to put it mildly, is insular. Last summer, the projection booth was unpleasant, the machines venting out so much heat. It was often the case that, by the end of a shift, I was physically exhausted but mentally stoked. All my jobs for the day completed, I'd just sit trying to conserve energy, and from time to time, my mind would wander. At some point it must have occurred to me that, perhaps, it might be an idea to start writing some of my thoughts down. It was around this time that I purchased a netbook. I'd tried erasable pen on paper, but my notes weren't easy to read back having been committed in near darkness. Hurray for the back-light! I started to write regularly when time and circumstances would allow, and so it continued for several months in slip-shod fashion until I was handed my redundancy notice. Losing my job was a bit of a shock to my system. There's nothing quite like the feeling of being replaced by a machine. Deciding it would be good to take a few months out and having so much free time on my hands, writing seemed like the obvious way to fill the void. I started to outline conventions for my created world, populated it, and as soon as I started to flesh out the main characters, potential story arcs and subplots started to insinuate themselves. And that's when it started. I was becoming aware that Word was taking great exception to much of what I was typing. Having left school at 15, my understanding of the English language was basic at best. Fragment, consider revising. Eh? And don't even get me started on all the red underlines. I did know how to spell those words correctly... once upon a time. This is what happens when you let the written word fall into disuse. In my defence, since I'd left school, I'd never had cause to write anything down other than invoices, worksheets, payroll and health and safety data. The more I scrutinised my text, the more I realised it was badly written—childlike, almost. I could tell that it was reading badly but couldn't really specify why. My scenes just weren't coming across as I envisaged them. I tried looking into punctuation and grammar sites and although some of my basic questions were answered, I found I'd opened up a whole new can of worms. So many rules. So much wiggle room. The questions I found myself asking were not likely to be found by tapping a query into Google. What to do? It occurred to me that I wouldn't be the first person to run into these kinds of problems and that's how I came to join Writing Forums. It's been revelatory... disturbing... ego crushing... wonderful. I've been reduced to lurking of late—so many questions but little to say. Reading others' work and critiques has helped me immensely. Now when I read my own work, I can just tell what type of comments more notable members would make about my punctuation and grammar. Now that the most basic understanding has been achieved, I'm starting to look at the whys and wherefores of my text and how stylistically I want to proceed. To say I'm feeling overwhelmed would not fall too far from the mark. It's not the same kind of overwhelmed I felt to start with when I initially put pen to paper. It goes so much deeper. I'm still no closer to putting up an excerpt for critique. At this juncture, I don't see the point—I'm not remotely close to finding my voice yet, but I'm okay with it. For first time, I'm feeling free to consider more than the nuts and bolts. I'm starting to understand how the things I've learned can be applied to create something that is uniquely mine. All these weeks of scrutinising other authors' work, examining and re-examining my own attempts, have left me mentally worn out. To start making sense of all the flotsam and jetsam, I've downloaded a trial of some writing software. Best decision I could have made at this point. I can see numerous advantages and have tentatively started to storyboard my overhauled scenes. But... even after my second cup of coffee, I still feel vacuous, dumbed down... empty headed. Never occurred to me to write a blog before now, but in the absence of a 'Eureka!' moment, I find I simply have to write something. To write something is better than writing nothing at all.
