After two weeks living according to “the new regimen” I've come to the conclusion that I'm in desperate need of good luck and for my life to change. Tickle an Oddie by the chin and you have a happy man. Only not every man can be pacified so easily. We Madeley men are of bulkier intellectual stock. As Judy and I compete for the literary honours, I've taken an early lead. My new novel is 20,000 words long and Judy is lagging far behind. Yet in the time I've been away from you, I've been feeling utterly miserable. It's been going on for too long. I need to vent.
You might have noticed my silence on the blog and the less-than-stellar performances I've been putting into the afternoon show. I'm finding it difficult to blog. I lack the usual spark. Does it have something to do with the ongoing problems of my one-handed assistant? Oddly enough, I don't think it does. Is it Stephen's absence from my life or the solitary habits of Oddie when spring approaches? I think it more likely. But I also suspect that my 7AM starts are destroying me. 'Eye of the Storm 2' has the mendacity of a flesh eating virus. I find that I struggle through days caring less and less about the world around me. There's a grim satisfaction in climbing in bed at night, so tired that my worries won't keep me awake and happy that the virus has left me with my limbs.
I suppose there's no disguising the indignity of the work, of the place where my talents have brought me. I want to get back to being the old Richard, writing too much and telling you all about my days spent in celebrity adventure. I really do. Instead, I've taken to secluding myself at night in the garage where I've started to hatch plans. I'm slowly turning into Elberry but without the intellectual vigour to accompany my moods. This work breeds solitary men with grievances who bookmark the addresses of mail order retailers who sell hunting knives and crossbows.
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8 comments:
Yep, work sucks. But paradoxically, I find that the more you have to do, the more you actually get done. Between two jobs and a novel plot that won't quit, I've had to relegate my Finnish to spare moments and bus rides. And yet I'm finding that I'm actually devoting quite a bit of time to it - at the expense of blogging and aimless internet surfing, it seems.
Still, if you need to bitch at some specifics - inept coffee girls at the Eye of the Storm or somesuch - don't hesitate to email me.
Signing off with "bzngbeqk",
Ax.
Dick...it sounds like you need a break...why not take the night off and go to the cinema....I hear the new Rambo film is good for putting you in the right frame of mind for work.
My new novel is 20,000 words long and Judy is lagging far behind.
As the bards once said - it's not just a question of the number of words, it's getting them in the right order.
Oh dear, you are in a state. Normally I would fashion an impromptu poem to cheer you up, but it's really early and I've a full day ahead. Maybe later. Until then, look forward to the time when you can return to your celebrity lifestyle, this interregnum (is that the right word?) won't last for ever.
My new novel has been accepted for publication - in all humility I have published a synopsis on my blog. Perhaps I can give you a few tips? Are you ding anything for Sports relief Mr Madeley ? I think you are such an icon of our times that you would inspire people to join in were you to do so...
Ax, a plot that won't quit. I have a plot that won't begin. It's much worse.
Twitch, I saw the new Rambo film and it's quite the merry jaunt. It was even more gory than I expected but it seemed to cheer Judy up.
Bretwalda, I thought it was Eric or Ernie who said that. However, you can be sure that all 20,000 words in the wrong order.
Lola, I think I'm out of it now. I'm about to embark on two days 'in the office' but I'll be scribbling all the time.
Mutley, I swear you've nicked Judy's story about abortions set among the Irish peat bogs. My own isn't. Which is probably why it won't sell.
Work is not for men such as you and i, Dick. That is why we suffer as others do not. And why, as you say, we start typing 'melee combat weaponry' into Google and amassing deerhorn knives and brass knuckles and going to martial arts classes every spare evening.
Only way to get through it is not to care but that in itself is a sacrifice for a writer to make, a man accustomed to working at real work, at crafting words with skill & purpose & the maker's rage, to order words of the sea and of ourselves & our origins, in ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Well, I don't mean that I have a really long novel that I can't wrap up.. I haven't started it either. I can't start a plot until I know exactly what happens in every paragraph.
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