As the saying goes, most people have at least one novel in them. I have been fiddling around with a piece of writing, on an optimistic day it pertains to being the start of a novel on a bad day it’s a collection of witticisms that are so secular in their appeal it’s untrue. I nearly always have a word document open on my screen, trying to pencil certain ideas and observations that I think, sometimes, may add to the characters I’ve known/developed for a few years.
These characters are as familiar as friends and quite often I will have a blindingly obvious connection (usually in Sainsbury’s) between our everyday life and an imagined day. But in truth I’ve lost confidence in the idea of somebody reading what I’ve written. To counter this I’ve started dropping abstract scenes into conversation with the ‘Art-man’ or Mum and oddly they’ve liked what they’ve heard up to now, which is such a thrill.
These dual approaches, coupled with a lack of sleep (I drink too much caffeine) often results in odd scenes in my day. Imagining a protagonist’s activity within my daily routine helps with the writing but doesn’t aid my consciousness. This sounds terribly pretentious, and please believe me it’s not. Rather, it is a confusing set of scenes that I take home with me each day, wondering what happened and what I imagined…..yes, after typing that I agree I need committing.
But on a linked point, I seem to have developed an already simmering interest in Biblio-fiction recently and when going to ‘Blog-press’ I have a beautiful gift of: The Night Bookmobile by Audrey Niffenegger winging its way to me…eek, can’t wait!