Belinda Blinked

What would you do if your dad wrote a porno? My dad reads sci-fi, so, interplanetary boning? My book had limited details in the sex scenes and my mum was probably disappointed when she read it, but I digress.

I heard about a podcast called My Dad Wrote A Porno. It’s a few years old and has it’s own comedy special on HBO. It’s the funniest thing ever. It’s based on a novella called Belinda Blinked, written by (pen name) Rocky Flintstone, and Rocky’s son reads a chapter per episode to his friends. Wow.

I recommend caution when listening and operating heavy machinery, specifically driving or doing anything, really, with your eyes open. I think I strained a tendon or some fascia or something, on the back of my skull from grinning so much. Enjoy.

Dog Ate My Homework

When I moved out of home, I dumped my folder of writing in the bin. At the time, I deemed it too precious to share and I was moving in with the boyfriend. I didn’t want him to read it. I knew that he wouldn’t appreciate it and yet, I moved in with him, anyway.

I watched a movie the other night and the dog ate the guy’s writing, which reminded me of my own wasted papers. Such forlorn waste.

My book is on tour this week and I’m petrified of figurative bulldogs lurking around figurative corners. But I’m not letting the dog eat my homework, anymore. Nor should anyone else let anything stand in the way of their creativity. Paterson recovered and so shall the rest of us.

mmm, Paterson

Make Time to Write

I had high hopes of writing in NaNoWriMo this year, and I did get down 30k words or thereabouts, but I didn’t get close to churning out prose like I did last year or even earlier this year. And it made me glum. Of course, there was other stuff in the mix that slowed my churn, like the fucking election, and Thanksgiving was at our house and probably a bunch of stuff that other people deal with every day and still manage to write.

Kids for the last ten years has also been an excuse of mine. And now I have a day job, so I have less time to cram in the things that need doing, let alone the things that want doing, but I have been good at sneaking time. I’d still like more time but I’ve been taking what I can get. Of course, even when I have time, there’s  stuff to do like laundry and lunches and  a thousand other things.

But the bottom line is I have a story to tell and you do, too. Make time to write.

 

Second Chances

Rejection is tough, as always, in all its forms. Second chances might feel like miracles, today is one of those days. Maybe miraculous is a strong word but I’m feeling the love!

A while back I had an opportunity to submit my work to an agent and it got lost in the ether, but today I was able to resend and that is a great feeling. It makes up for the blurgh and boohoo that’s been going on this week, to the point that I pretty much gave up on #nanowrimo2016 because my soul shrivelled up a little bit.

But hoorah! Second chances sprinkle magic pixie dust on everything they touch, so I managed to tidy up the motherfucking kitchen, and sweep the goddamn floor and when I look around at the COUNTER I can see it and find stuff. That’s a good feeling, too.pixie-dust

What A Difference A Year Makes

I get the facebook photo reminders of years passed and I like seeing all the widdle babies in my newsfeed, but there was something else going on a year ago this month. NaNoWriMo. I did it last year after not doing it the previous year. And I finished a book that I’d been writing for more than a fucking decade, and then I finished one that I’d started even before that after a few minutes of wringing my hands. Cut to now and I’m writing again but in a little bit of a lackluster fashion, I must say.

I’ve got a day job – not with cops – and the laundry is still piling up, so not only do I have less time, but I have less time in my head. Boo! Wah! I hear you cry. First world problems – totally. Welcome to the real world – I agree. The real world blows. Which is why I make up my own (very small) worlds in print, full of heartache. Why?! Why do I do this to myself, the weeping and the hurting and the painful love. I said to Husband that I must try and write something a bit happier next time, that doesn’t involve cheating spouses and people pining for forever lost loves. But oh pooh! That is what I live for, the beautiful heartache and the rending of aortas in chests.

My #wip is getting there slowly, whereas a year ago I was getting thousands of words a day on the page. And I can’t pull the midnighters anymore because I’m tired from living in the daytime. Ho hum. But the flipside is, of course, that this time next year I will have my very own words on the page everywhere good books are sold! E V E R Y W H E R E. Amazeballs.

‘Kay. Must go and (google myself) procrastinate some more.