A series for Lent.

I'm grateful I have a roof over my head.  It tends to leak.  It gets baked by the sun all summer which means the flat is insufferably hot.  It slopes and I hit my head periodically on bits that I should know are there.  I have to paint all the ceilings every year to cover up the black mould.  There's a hole in the kitchen ceiling the council won't fix.
But it's a roof.  
Consider not only those who don't have one but don't appreciate the one they have.

What do you do when your head is full of novels?  There are so many I want to write.  And I want to write them all now.  
I want to write the fifth and last novel in the Fleet Quintet so that would be, at last, a quintet and not a quartet (though for many years it languished as a trilogy....)  Ideas for this keep popping into my head.  The problem has always been how to tie up all the lose ends.  There are quite a few!  And no part of what is remaining of the story is linear.  I have finally hit on the idea of a Storyteller.  This in itself probably isn't very original but it leads to several twists and revelations.  In fact, the revelations are what draw me to the story.  I am, quite frankly, just dying to reveal them!
I also want to write the next Exodus Sequence story.  The main character has appeared fully formed in my head and man, does she talk a lot.  I can hear her voice, her accent, what she has to say, who she says it to and why.  There are two other characters, both instantly recognisable from an Exodus Sequence story called "Crashed."  This isn't particularly a sequel (the stories aren't constructed that way) but it does explain an awful lot.  In fact, there is quite a lot of explanation in this story but because it is done by this brilliant character (the one whose voice I can hear in my head), it sounds great.  I really need to start writing these conversations down.
I also want to write the next fantasy novel.  I've been trying to get the first one published for a year now, so far in vain.  It's created something of a dampener for me but I decided I just had to get going on the second one otherwise the series will never get going and I'm really keen that it does.  So out of all my choices, I picked that one and am into Chapter 2.  Commercially, it makes the most sense, despite an agent not yet picking it up.
And then there are the short story spin-offs from this "low fantasy" series.  The short stories take place in the fantasy-type realm, while the series of novels are set in the real world, so to speak.  I've loved creating both.
And then there are those present-tense literary style short stories, snippets from my own life told in the third person, a very strange experience which is proving to be amazingly cathartic.  I've written one so far and it was wonderful to get it all out - truly turning aspects of my life (which bother me) into art.  There are quite a few more where that one came from too.
And then there's that strange novel I want to write which was my first ever screenplay.  Fortunately I abandoned the screenplay idea (I'm no good at it) but the story is well-developed and would make a great novel.
And then, finally, there is That Difficult Novel, where this diary began way back in February 2015.  Has it really only been four years since I started it?!  How is that possible?  It feels like decades ago.  My Great Literary Work, this has turned into an albatross and it weighs heavily around my neck.  I know I can fix it up.  I know I can turn it into something spectacular. 
But, dear God, when?  I've got enough work to keep me busy for the next ten lifetimes.  It doesn't seem to matter that no one is reading my work.  I am more fuelled than ever.  It just doesn't die.  The fire is burning so high it's lighting up the whole sky.
It's overwhelming.
​

I am lightheaded with joy and relief.  At last my novella is finished.  This is the one that got lost several times.  The one that I started last January and abandoned.  The one that turned out to be so long I thought I'd have to divide it in two.  The one I thought I could rewrite into a serial.  The one that I thought was terrible.
It wasn't.  It's bloody brilliant. 
Of course, one always thinks the most recent thing one writes is the best ever, so that feeling may go away, but for now:  I'm just going to run with it.  It's lovely.  It makes me remember why I'm a writer.  I created this thing, this story, out of absolutely nothing.  It has people.  They have lives.  They do things that have consequences.  And behind it all is a vast backstory that would take a million years to tell.
I love it.  I love being able to do this.  I think I might just actually take off and fly.
​

The words "cold" and "London" don't often go together - not at the centre of London where I live, anyway.  But this morning it was COLD.  Deliciously cold!  It had rained so the ground was damp and fresh.  The sun came out and was brilliantly blinding.  And my face went quite numb.  God, it was lovely.  I love London like this.  It's so rare, like a precious jewel.  A diamond, in fact. 

I've been editing my new novella "Shattered."  It began life last January but I failed to finish it, a rare thing for me.  Got caught up in all those Neanderthal facts, which weren't, after all, very important in the end.  It's a bit patchy - some bits are bloody brilliant, others are rather weak and rushed, so I'm doing my best to fix it up.  I had hoped to published it this January, but it may take longer than I'd hoped to finish it.  Not that it matters.  It's not like there are hoards of people waiting for the next Exodus Sequence story.

But the combination of a wintry day and doing some writing is just lovely.  Nothing else matters much at the moment.  

​ 

My daughter told me the other day that music of the Eighties is now a Big Thing.  My response was of the "what the fuck" kind until I remembered how much I'd loved the music of the Eighties.
Joy Division.  New Order.  Siouxsie and the Banshees.  The Cure.  The Birthday Party.  The Bad Seeds.  Nick Cave.  Einstürzende Neubauten etc etc.
But of course these are not the bands that turn up on current playlists.  "Take on me,"  said my daughter, trying to think of an example, and I realised it was all pop.  The kind of pop you really want to forget.  Pretty much like the whole of the Eighties, come to think of it.  It's the one decade of my life that I would like very much to fold up and shove into a black hole, given just how truly fucking awful it was.  Everything bad that ever happened to me and everything bad I ever did happened in THAT decade.  The scars I still bear today happened in THAT decade.  Everything about myself that I'm still trying to escape happened in THAT decade.  
Except, perhaps, the music (but not the pop music).  By chance, when I turned on the telly last night, an ancient episode of Top of the Pops was playing......."Take on me."  By chance, when I walked into a shoe shop this morning on Oxford Street, they were playing......."Take on me."  
Aargh.  Was I being haunted?  Was this silly song going to follow me everywhere?  Then I walked into another shop on Oxford Street and they were playing New Order's "Blue Monday" which was so goddamn cool that I stayed for longer than I'd meant to and spent too much money.  
I still have the original 12" extended version somewhere.  I used to blast it out on the speakers whenever my parents went out for filter coffee (they were probably trying to get away from me).  Instead of rushing off to dig it out (I hardly need to thanks to YouTube), now all I can think is:  how much could I get for this ancient piece of vinyl.
And continuing with the Eighties theme, I then went to a branch of Costa I didn't know well (Rathbone Place) and discovered they have filter coffee.  Wow, rare find!  I was so delighted I had a giant cup and will now no doubt be awake for several days.
"How does it feel..........."
(And yes it does take over two minutes for the vocals to kick in!)
​

Last night I dreamed I was trapped.  I dreamed this three times and have already forgotten two of them, but the middle dream, the worst one, I can't forget.  I was in the most appalling awful building.  Raw concrete, windows of plastic-glass that could not be broken.  The view was desolate:  a wintry, industrial landscape of barbed wire and more concrete.  Others were with me, young men that looked familiar.  We were tasked to dig into the building.  I have no idea why other than that there was a huge back story to all of this I'd already forgotten in the dream itself.
But the floors were had to dig into had veins of radioactivity.  Terrified, I tried to escape by breaking the glass windows but my arm just bounced off them.  I ran through all the floors of the building until I found a broken elevator shaft and managed to climb down precarious debris to the outside.  The last bit was high but I jumped anyway, realising I could slide down on a curtain of fabric that was part of someone's stall at a Christmas market.  
It was all very jolly but I had to keep running.  The girl who ran the stall came with me, terrified too.  We ran and just when it seemed safe - we were out in the open - she turned to me and smiled, a friendly, kind sort of smile - and a cage snapped around both of us.
An ally had suddenly betrayed me.  The snap of the cage's appearance was like a silent explosion of invisible light, a change so sudden that I almost died with fright.
​It was a huge cage,  plenty of room for others.  And the others came:  rich, privileged people, all dressed in their best finery, all looking up with wonder.  I had seen these people before - at the market?  In another building?  Had they been watching us digging in the radioactive building?  At first they had just come to gawp at us in the cage but then they were trapped too, hundreds of them.
It seem were all there because someone.....

Well, who knows.  The next dream probably explained it all but I have no memory of it.

Listening to someone relating dreams is unutterably boring.  It makes fabulous sense to the person trying to describe it, I mean, you can still SEE the images so clearly.  You can FEEL the emotions (in my case, it's almost always terror or ineffectual rage).  You can see the colours, the people, the weirdness, all the laws of physics broken, the Alice in Wonderland effect in full force.  But in describing it, all is lost.  

I've turned many dreams into stories.  None of them, upon completion, resemble the dream in any way.  It's almost impossible to recreate the surreal events of a dream in a way that is interesting to others.  And you only have to witness what passes for dreams in movies or books to realise that you never dream like that.  So don't even try.

However, for inspiration, there can be no better source!
​

I saw this tweet this morning and had an answer without any hesitation:  yes, of course.  More than ever.  Because I would be living in a tower in the middle of nowhere, in the peace and quiet, with my own forest to walk in every day, and my own sky to look up into.
There would be no people to bother me.  No neighbours.  No noise. 
No student parties.  No drunks.  No slamming of doors. 
No cars.  No car alarms. 
No helicopters hanging stationary for hours, ready to pounce.
No sidewalks.  No filth.  No pollution.
No time wasted by jobs I don't really want to do.  No bills I'd struggle to pay.  
No pressure.
I would set my own publishing house and publish my novels as proper books that I would PAY SOMEONE ELSE to market, get into shops etc etc etc.
I think about winning the lottery a great deal.  I also dream a great deal.  I make time in a day to stare out of the window and dream because if I don't, then my life is just a downhill skid to death.
I should really buy a ticket occasionally.

My favourite day of the year is when the clocks go back.  Unlike the rest of the universe, I don't want an extra hour in bed.  I want to be out walking before everyone wakes up.  For a while I was anxious that the gates to the square may not have been opened early enough, but they were;  I didn't have to walk all the way down to the river instead.
There was no one out except a jogger, two walkers and a dog, and the cafe opening up.  The fountain was high, the drizzle light, the plane tree leaves pale and gold everywhere.  Car and traffic lights  were like jewels in the damp.
It was bliss. 
For the first time since the horror of summer (the heatwave appears to have scarred me for life), I feel normal.  I feel energetic and hopeful.
And all that waiting I was doing is done.
I got the job.
My daughter has settled in well at university.
Those two short stories are finished.
I'm deep into the notes and pre-writing of my next novel, the second in the Everlast series.
Summer is also done, at last;  well into October, it seemed as if it would never go away and if I don't see it again until next July, I'd be quite happy.  Next summer, I may have to leave the country.  Unless it rains all summer.  Then I'll be out dancing in it instead.
But right now I've got Christmas to look forward, my most favourite time of year.   

I'm waiting for summer to end.
I'm waiting for autumn.
I'm waiting for cool weather and rain.
I'm waiting for my daughter to go off to university.
I'm waiting for the building works next door to end so that I can think again.
I'm waiting for my frayed nerves to recondition themselves.
I'm waiting to stretch.
I'm waiting for a good time to polish and finish my last short story.
I'm waiting for inspiration to rewrite the failed story I wrote before.
I'm waiting for a good time to start making notes for my next fantasy series novel.
I'm waiting for the day I can go for a walk without collapsing with heat exhaustion, being crushed by tourists, reeling from sickening weed fumes, poisoning my lungs with car exhaust pollution and trying to avoid the mountains of litter.
I'm waiting for fresh air.
I'm waiting for the feelings of humiliation I felt during an interview for a job I really wanted to go away.
I'm waiting for the email to say I didn't get the job.
I'm waiting for the email to say I did get the job.
I'm waiting to jump up and down with joy.
I'm waiting to put my head on my desk and feel grim, unable to cry because I've been trying for so long and so hard, all without reward and without respite.
I'm waiting for the end so that I can begin.
I'm waiting for a beginning.
I'm waiting and I hate it because I want to be active, not be a blob.
I'm waiting for this depression to lift because it has become intolerable.
I'm waiting for a friend.
I'm waiting for love.
I'm waiting for success.
Sometimes I don't want to wait at all.  I just want to be a happy, energetic me.
I'm waiting for energy.
I'm waiting for happiness.
I'm waiting for an angel to put his hand on my shoulder and say "everything's going to be all right."
When I stop waiting, I stop hoping.
So I'm hoping.
I live in hope.
If not much else.

My new short story is not going well.  And with every subsequent draft, it seems to be getting worse.  All I can think to do now is to do something drastic like changing the third person past tense to first person present tense – but should I do this in separate drafts or at the same time?
The first drafts look like this:

• Handwritten:  This was, at the time of writing, the best draft.  The story felt new and fresh and exciting and the words spilled easily onto the page.
• Copy typing:  This was the draft I typed into my computer.  While not really an editing draft, it did give me a chance to see the story as a whole.  It was while typing it that I realised how awful it was:  duller than ditch water;  unbelievably unexciting;  and just unbelievable.  I began to make notes on screen saying things like “drop this” and “this doesn’t work” and “change this.”
• First edit:  Armed with notes and a carefully worked-out sequence of events, I began the first edit.  I was barely halfway when I realised that it wasn’t working.  It didn’t matter what I did to the story, it was always going to be a non-starter.

It was while I was working on this last edit that I thought perhaps it would work better in the first person.  Being right inside the protagonist’s head might make it more personal, more intimate……and also freer.  The writing is tight and stale.  Technically, it’s fine.  But it has no soul.  And since it’s all about soul, it feels to me that I’ve forgotten how to write.
You have to wonder how this could happen to someone who has been writing for donkey’s years.  You’d think I’d know how to write by now.  And yet (I keep reminding myself) some of my best writing has come from painful rewrites, agonising edits, and even major style changes.  This is not the first time I’ve decided to change the third person to the first – I did it several chapters into a difficult novel and again in a novelette when I realised I couldn’t find the “voice” of the character.  In fact, I struggled so hard to find the “voice” that it eventually became part of the story:  the character had no voice.  He couldn’t (or wouldn’t) speak.  It was a brilliant decision that gave the plot the resonance it needed.
 
What bothers me more than having this current short story fail on me is that it’s the second time this year.  Two* short stories have failed in a row.  I’ve left the last one to “rest” and intend going back to it after this one is done.  But I no longer feel confident that I can fix it up.  It’s been through several edits and each time the plot failures become more apparent.
 
I hadn’t planned to write short stories this year.  I had planned to edit That Difficult Novel.  I had planned to write the next novel in my new fantasy series.  I had been so sure that I would have found an agent by now for the first novel in the fantasy series.  I thought I would have made some progress.  Instead, I’ve ground to a halt.
 
This is about as bad as it gets for a writer.  Everything you write feels crap.  No one gives a flying fuck about your writing anyway.  And it turns out you are Sisyphus at the bottom of the hill again.   

*Realised later that I've actually had three stories fail on me this year:  I forgot the hugely long and complex Exodus Sequence two-part story I was working on.  So traumatic was that failure that it slipped out of memory.....