somewhere else in Skeleton City

02Mar10

This is a snapshot of Caolan’s story. I took it a while back. I hope he won’t mind. He has probably moved onto many other things (many other volumes and tomes and actionpacked hits) since he wrote this.

Last time I hung out with him he was working on a monster stick figure animation, frame by frame. The monster tousled with baddies and writhed all over the place. I am sure I am doing the ‘monster’ (the green monster, I seem to recall) a disservice by calling him a monster. It’s just that I have forgotten his name. It was pretty cool.

Right now I am at a bit of a loose end. I was going to call this post something like too much of something and not enough of nothing. Then I was going to call it too much of nothing and not enough of something. So in the end I stole a line from Caolan’s story and called it somewhere else in Skeleton City. Problem solved, at least for now.

I think my hairdresser might know me nearly as well as anyone else in the world, just about. In a way.

I just did a useful thing and purged the fridge of half-finished bottles of flat tonic water.

I think it might rain. I am not sure whether to turn the light on or not.

DIY french polishes are not advisable unless you’re ambidextrous. It looks like I have dunked the tips of my fingers very unevenly in twink.

The cleaner forgot to take his money. Again. I think he might want to clean the house for free or something. He has stopped writing me elaborate notes and he has stopped taking money.

I look like I just stepped out of a salon (possibly because I did just step out of a salon).

I don’t really know what to do with myself. In case you hadn’t noticed.

It is really quiet here, and a little bit dark (i.e. dark enough to start thinking about turning the kitchen light on). No music. No real agenda.

Frankie is unfinished but out in the world. She is out in the world four times over. I am on a Frankie break for the next three nights and everything feels weird. I want to keep writing, just for something to do, but I can’t. I’m 85,000 words in, approximately 92.5% of the way to the end and I can’t clock up any more words just for the hell of it. So it’s hands off for a bit.

Soon the edits will come in and the rewrites will begin and I will write the final chapter (two chapters, actually). There will be plenty to do. But it’s the writing – the pure, unadulterated writing – I miss the most.

Last night I went to bed early, watched TV, read a book. It felt like something was wrong, like I was supposed to be doing something else. I woke in the night and thought about getting up and writing. Which was stupid. And I didn’t.

Since late last year I have worked days, written nights, played catch-up in weekends. A bit of discipline never hurt anyone, but I am tired now, and all out of annual leave. Frankie is more complex (the book, not the girl) than The Linoleum Room was. There are more characters and there is more going on. I’ve written everything back-to-front and out of sequence and now I don’t know what the hell is going on. Well, I do, I’ve just lost all objectivity. And I’m caught in the middle of something I can’t shake off. Even Serial Killer Sunday cannot fully preoccupy me, and that’s saying something.

All I can think to do is take warm baths and deep breaths. I could even have a Bejewelled marathon. I was looking forward to the respite, and now I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t really want to do any of these things.

I was going to start excerpting a bit of Frankie here and there and sharing her here. I might still do that, but she isn’t really lending herself to dissection. We’ll see.

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