I’m writing this in a notebook, because my computer is still suffering from its case of dustitis, and I have yet to locate a pressured-air canister with which to make the problem go away. After work tomorrow (which will actually be today) I’ll head to the library, probably still in my uniform and type this up on one of the computers there, which incidentally, is what I am doing now. I’ve found myself a nice little tuck in the corner, away from the rowdy teens using the machines near the help-desk. Apparently, computer-rooms work in the opposite way to school-buses, where the get-on-with-it types, like me, dwell at the rear, and the chatty, maybe-we’re-up-to-mischief kind, stay towards the front. Only yesterday did I realise the schools are off-session for Easter-holidays. We’re nagging on the cusp of Easter, and, as usual, I’m behind on the writing front.
Writing, I haven’t discussed that in detail for some-time, and I have a few hours before the librarian hoists me from the uninfected computers in my world, and so let’s talk writing for a while. With my trip to my parents, and getting an out-of-season illness, and the sudden dysfunction of my PC, writing has wained. Not stopped, but come to a significantly slow speed. Pen-to-pad has the uncomfortable associates of wrist-ache and the lack of a spell-check. I’m pushing on with novel chapters, a little behind than my schedule allowed for, but catching up again. Furthermore, I’m churning out an unplanned short-story about a man who wishes he were a goat. These things appear to me at the oddest moments. Maybe I’ll post it here when I’m finished. A few big competitions are coming around the corner including the Aesthetica magazine Creative Works Competition, which I’m endeavoring to enter this year despite being unsure about what I should throw into its fray. And that pretty much sums up the writing side of life. Not as success ridden or fascinating as I’d like, but that’s often how the proverbial cookie scatters to the carpet.
I’ve almost broken free of the constraints of an overdraft, earned during my four-years studying. Once I manage to pull out from under the pressure of the banks to pay my dues, I’ll be able to start saving to pay for a masters, or a post-grad course, hopefully at UEA. That might also class as writing news, but that paragraph already seemed balky. I’ll be living this week on nothing but potatoes, peanut-butter and rice-cakes. Cheap and filling, so I can save the money earned last week, and finally be out of the financial struggle by the end of the month. And then I can eat properly again. If you’re reading this in the future, with a degree in creative-writing and I’m somehow a success story, just know that the writer’s life is fraught with periods of little work and own-brand peanut-butter and rice-cakes. My house mates seemed to have cottoned on to my unusual eating habits, since fruit has been appearing outside my door on occasions. Thank-goodness for Buddhist kindness, or I’d probably get scurvy, and the world would be a lesser place also.
At work today my colleague introduced me to a creature called the slow loris. It looks like this:
There isn’t really an anecdote or anything to tag along with this, but,I mean, look at it.