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Life in Bloomsbury:  Pigeon Man

1/28/2018

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Even on the coldest day in January, Pigeon Man never wears a coat.  In summer, he wears a black T-shirt;  when it's colder, the sleeves are longer.  When it's very cold, he might stoop to a second layer.  Today under his black sweatshirt, I noticed a red T-shirt peeping out;  his black one was (hopefully) in the wash.
The pigeons adore him.  They must know him, though how, I can't be sure.  Does he smell of pigeon?  He smells but it's mostly BO.  His long, wavy, grey hair hasn't been washed for decades, possibly;  he also has a long grey beard, so that he resembles a slightly grubby wizard.  He has "local character" stamped all over him.  When the pigeons land on him, he stands very still, though I've seen them cling on happily if he strolls about on the grass, his arms outstretched.  They land on his head, shoulders, arms and flock about him with much flapping of wings.  This morning I heard him say, "hello, my little friends."  It was rather sweet.  He's utterly harmless and I don't think he has lost a single marble.  He's not a tramp or a nutter and he looks as if he might actually be capable of interesting conversation.
Sometimes accompanying him is a small woman in a smart but very old suit, whom I presume is his wife/partner.  I've seen them in the supermarket together on occasion, reduced to the ordinary but not ordinary at all:  he has a distance in his eyes that makes me think he suffers in a supermarket the way I do.  Too many people, too much noise, too bright, too grasping.  As I've recently started talking to the squirrels I feed, I suspect that I may be heading in the same direction as Pigeon Man.......though hopefully better groomed and washed, and possibly better at pretending to be normal.  It goes without saying that the squirrels love him too, and climb up all over him.
There are several characters in Bloomsbury whom I see around the squares, feeding the wildlife.  I once had a conversation with a tall woman who carries several shopping bags around with her, resembling - slightly - a bag lady, though she's certainly not homeless.  She has rather wild white hair that she dyes an occasional pinky-orange.  I once had a long conversation with her on a smaller square where she was feeding enormous walnuts to squirrels.  She called them "darling" (I call them "sweetie") and they knew her well enough to rummage about in her bags looking for the nuts they knew were there.  What surprised me about her was the poshness of her accent.  She was clearly educated and intelligent and made me think of that phrase "gentile poverty."  We discussed squirrels and trees and Kew and though she told me her name, I've since forgotten it.
She's also friends with Pigeon Man and if I was a better person, I would get to know them more.  I wonder what they talk about?  Squirrels?  Nuts?  Pigeons?  Trees?  The meaning of life?
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Is it worth looking for a publisher?

1/24/2018

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This diary began on the first day of writing what turned out to be That Difficult Novel.  I can still remember the joy I felt, going for a walk afterwards in the winteriness of Russell Square, all hyped on coffee and Great Expectations.  That first page that I managed to write, so proudly, had to be hammered at several times before it took any shape and all the joy soon left me as the immensity of novel's premise dawned on me.  Does anything you write ever turn out the way it's mean to?
But now it's done.  I can't think what else to do to it to improve it.  It's the best I can do, for now anyway.  So what do I do with it?  The short, commercial, lighthearted novel I wrote last year is currently sitting in an agent's cyber slush pile.  Do I try and find a different agent for this one?  Would it be really weird if two different agents took on two different novels?  
Is that ever likely to happen???!!!???!
I had thought to find a publisher instead.  Virago, I thought.  They're perfect.  They'll like this.  It's right up their street.  But they don't accept anything that hasn't gone through an agent.  Is it worth my while to keep looking?  Most publishers' doors are closed nowadays.  I remember running into this problem a thousand times long ago, doors obstinately closed in my face because I wasn't enough of a celebrity - let alone a human being - for any publisher to bother with.
So why don't I just self-publish this one too?
Because I've failed as a self-published author - not because my writing is bad (it isn't brilliant but the most successful self-published authors, I've noticed, write utter garbage) but because I'm not very good at the marketing side of things, it would seem.  I would love some help and that kind of help would come from an agent.
And in the end, really, I just really, really want my books in a pile at the table near the door of Waterstones.  I want people to read my books.  I think This Difficult Novel is worth reading. I worked my bloody arse off on it. 
​The magic of that first day, when I wrote the first page, eventually wound up in the novel.  The magic is there.  I just wish others could find it too.
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A million and one things to stop you from writing

1/6/2018

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Pardon my swearingness but I have to say this out loud:  I fucking hate Windows 10.  I miss Vista.  I miss the way it was neat and tidy and attractive.  I miss being able to find things easily.  I miss actually knowing where my documents are.  Vista was pretty.  It had a big fat start button in pretty colours.  Everything about Vista was big and fat and round.  I love that.  
But fucking Windows 10 ....... all I wanted to do this morning was edit my goddamn gigantic novel with its Easts and Wests that have gotten all mixed up (no, I don't know how that happened either).  First I had to spend 45 minutes hanging about while Windows did a HUGE update.  I mean, what the fuck.  Why can't it update in tiny increments, you know, like 5 minutes a day.  Why does it have to do everything at once?
And when it was finally finished, it had CHANGED MY DOCUMENTS.  Bastard!  WHY would it do that?  I had a violent panic attack trying to find them.  HOURS of work.  Not only my writing stuff but also finances - all those Excel sheets.  All the important documents I had downloaded.  I howled at my daughter through the bathroom door and she came running to rescue me.  We searched and searched until finally she said, just open Excel.  I did and it came up with the most recent Excel files I had used.  And where had ALL my work (hundreds of folders and documents) been moved to?  Somewhere weird on the C Drive, stashed in a folder name I didn't recognise.  What the fuck was that about?  I've only just started learning how to use this computer when it goes and messes it all up again.  Is this going to happen every time there's an update?  
I fucking hate Windows 10.  Or the complete brainless nincompoop who invented it.  Arsehole.
I'm now on my second KitKat break of the morning and STILL haven't started sorting my Easts from my Wests.  
​Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
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