I’ve been staying with my parents for a week now, and I have discovered it’s difficult to write under certain conditions. For example, it’s not easy to focus on sentence structure when blood is no longer flowing into your foot, and it’s also difficult to write with a folder at an angle on your thighs, and with various resources 230 miles away. Another limiting factor is having the garden landscaped, and several rooms in the house prepped for decorating. For the last couple of days I’ve been emptying my sister’s bedroom of her possessions so that my mother can paint the walls over the weekend. My sister has a lot of ornaments, some very large and equally heavy, and they all have to be wrapped, boxed and labeled so nothing goes array – and then they are stacked in my old now-a-storage-facility-bedroom.
And then there’s the TV. I’ve mentioned before how the allure of my folks large plasma television, and the channels and programmes denied me at the centre have tugged me away from working on my novel; recently I have discovered a show called Ace of Cakes on a food channel, in which a team of highly talented cake-decorators construct fantastic party-cakes for special occasions. An episode yesterday depicted a working R2D2 cake presented to George Lucas at Skywalker studios, and another detailed the creation of a 7 tier extravaganza balanced on a ball for the members of the Cirque du Soleil show Kooza. Look at me, I’m blogging about a TV show about cakes. As you can probably tell this doesn’t bode well for the writing front.
I’ve done a slight bit of writing, but not much, and nowhere near my estimated goal of two-chapters. Having said this I’m not too put down by the notion of being behind – while the TV and lack of room have played their roles, I’ve also been helping my folks out with the housework, and the decorating and such. A few days ago, my father put dinner in the oven and left a bread-board atop the heat-extraction vent, and subsequently melted the plastic into the vent. Fathers have their moments too. I spent the majority of yesterday scraping solidified blue plastic off the hob. Meanwhile, pages are less filled with words than I would like, but today has been more successful. I’m simply using paper and pen while I’m here, so I can’t judge word-count until I manage the type-up upon my return to Plymouth.
Reading has also taken a back seat. I finished an easy-read not-so-great fantasy novel on the way back from my grandmothers, and ready for a step-up I took to D.H. Lawrence’s classic Lady Chatterley’s Lover and I’m enjoying it. However, the cover art depicts a naked woman gripping her … private lady part, and I’m trying to avoid my parents seeing it. Not entirely sure why; my folks aren’t particularly prude, especially my mother, but there we are. Perhaps I want them to think me prude.
Anyway, I’ve managed to wriggle some space for myself at the table, having photographed the layout of documents so that I can replace them afterwards, and before my father returns in an hour or so. The TV is a door away, and I have a snippet of time to get some writing under my belt. Off I go!