confession number one

Photo by Chris Craymer Romance

How many of you have ever tried to write a romance novel?!

I have!

Of course, it was when I didn't have the faintest clue what romance was.

And not that I was all that familiar with mainstream popular romance, like Mills & Boon's and some such - I'd seen the lady next door reading them, she always seemed to have her head in one while her husband was off fishing. The raciest thing on my parents bookshelf was Shirley Conran's Lace!

When I was a child, my grandmother to get the weekly ladies magazines - New Idea, Woman's Day and occasionally an Australian Women's Weekly - and when she had finished with them, she would give them to me and I would fall on them, often making my own magazines out of them. But I remember that once there was a coupon, where you send it in and get a free book. I don't think I even noticed what sort of book it was, I just liked the idea of a free book, and more to the point, a parcel addressed to me coming in the post! You were probably supposed to be over 18, but that never stopped me with anything :P

When it arrived, it was a Mills & Boon novel, and I can't even remember what it was called or who the writer was, but to my surprise, the novel was set in Tasmania (where I lived)! I thought Mills & Boon's were only set in fast, sexy, exciting cities like Sydney, New York, London, Paris, and so on. It never occurred to me that the Tamar Valley, or the little colonial village of Richmond, or Mures Upper Deck restaurant could be just as sexy!

And so with this instant common ground with the heroine (!) I rather enjoyed the book, more for the local connections than anything! Then I thought to myself that this romance writing seemed like good fun, and I thought I'd give it a go! I was a rather romantic young thing, but the nearest I'd come to it in real life was a not-so-secret crush on a boy on the school bus!

I wrote two, in the end. Borrowed heavily from the plotlines of Danielle Steel, another writer I weirdly loved when I was around 13.

The first one was about a beautiful Italian girl, Romada, who emigrated to Sydney after a horrific accident in her village that had killed her parents and brother. At that point in my life, Sydney was the only city I'd been to and of course I thought it was the sexiest, most cosmopolitan city ever, where loads of romantic intrigue was bound to happen!

She was a lawyer, and started work in the only suburb of Sydney I had any knowledge of - Bondi! They were so amazed with her that she was made partner within a few months (as if!). In the meantime, on the other side of Sydney, a handsome young art gallery owner, Thomas Bishop-Banks (named after my second cousin who had just been born!) had just been screwed over by one of his partners - he'd reneged on a painting deal or something - and he decided to sue them. He waltzed into the Bondi offices and who takes the case but the dewy-eyed red-lipped Romada. It was love at first sight!

But, of course, heaps of things happened to keep the lovers apart - her old lover turned stalker from Naples tracked her down, which led to a bust-up in a very fancy restaurant on the Rocks somewhere (!), Thomas's ex-wife showed up, and then the business partner got sneaky and led Romada up the garden path a bit, taping their conversation and then showing it to Thomas, who promptly stormed out of court! But all was not lost, as it never is. The bad guys got what they deserved, and Thomas took Romada back to Italy where, with the strength of his love, she could finally lay the demons of her past to rest, and then they eloped to the Amalfi coast.

The manuscript might still be in a box in my parent's garage!

The second romance I tried my hand at was a few years later, and I wrote a family saga about a wealthy, mysterious woman who dies very suddenly, leaving behind three daughters, all of whom had different fathers they had conveniently never met. The mysterious sudden death brings them all out of the woodwork. The first daughter, Catrin, is won over by her wealthy, handsome Welsh lord of a father and then forced into an arranged marriage, which she of course defies; the second daughter, Bethwyn, is a model with a terrible eating disorder, engaged to the mayor's son. Her father was a real 70s playboy, but twenty years later is a bit of a deadbeat, with his hey-day well and truly over. He reveals to Bethwyn that he had an affair with the mayor's wife about thirty years ago. It turns out that Bethwyn's fiance is her brother! Whoops!

The third daughter, Sheridan, is the black sheep of the family and a brilliant art student. She elopes to Sydney (again, what was it with Sydney?!) with her boyfriend, and they conveniently happen upon an old beach cottage the family used to stay at when the girls were all young. She finds diaries written by her mother and sisters, revealing a terrible truth that must finally be revealed after twenty years of silence! Her sisters tried to kill her!

Perhaps I should give Days of our Lives a call and see if they have any openings?!

Those were the days! :P Cliches and stereotypes abound, but I recall having a really good time writing them.

But you know, it's funny - back in those days, I just wrote for fun. I didn't care if it was believable or made sense. I didn't care how far-fetched it was. I didn't worry about whether people would want to read it or would think it was good - in fact, I hardly ever showed people what I'd written. If it was entertaining, and fun to write, I was happy. And, most of the time, I could tell whether it was any good or not.

I think I could learn a lot from my 13 year old self, who built castles in the air and retreated often into her own little world, but had a deep conviction that what she was doing was good and worthwhile. And fun.

Please do share, what funny but now somewhat embarrassing things have you written?!

the green ink manifesto

Picture by TS.

Inspired by a dear friend.

~~~

I am no longer allowed to be ashamed of who I am, how I choose to live or may have lived in the past. I will express my wants, needs and opinions freely without fear of reproach or judgement.

I will not spend time with people who do not enrich the quality of my life, in whatever way that may be.

I will embrace the professional choices I have made but not allow them to take over from what it is I really want. I will work hard at my art and never give up on making a living from doing it.

I will celebrate my achievements, and feel genuine pride in them.

I will make my art the priority that it deserves to be.

I will stop letting my mind and my emotions get in the way of me achieving my true potential.

I will create for the right reasons. I will ask questions from a place of love, not of fear.

I will learn to stop being so frightened of criticism, and develop the maturity to stop taking things so personally. I will stop looking for universal approval and acceptance. Instead, I will develop the confidence to know that I am ok and it is ok for me to do what I want to do and say it the way I wish to say it, even if others disagree.

I will find a way, rather than find an excuse.

I will support and give back. I will try to help and inspire others to follow their dreams.

I will accept the consequences of whatever decisions I make.

I will have a stronger and more secure outlook on the world and the people I come into contact with. I will allow my mind to open and my perspective to broaden. I will also allow myself to feel every emotion for itself, and not disguise it or suppress it.

I will use my strength for good, and in doing so, I will grow stronger.

I will never stop believing.

~~~

Let the right one in
Let the old dreams die
Let the wrong ones go
They do not, they do not
They do not see what you want them to

–From “Let the Right One Slip In” by Morrissey

blue plaques

Dovegreyreader has drawn my attention to a new book that's just come out, dedicated to one of my favourite things about London - blue plaques!!


Here's a little about the blue plaques. This is something I absolutely love about London - how every corner, it seems, houses a literary treasure. I love how this city celebrates it's history and culture, including the literature that it has inspired and the residents that created it.

Interesting that you must be dead to have a blue plaque erected in your honour. How did Monty Python get around that then?!

This was a coincidental and well-timed find, but whilst convalescing from the flu last week, I found a non-fiction piece I had started writing about eighteen months ago, which happened to feature some blue plaques. I never ended up sending it anywhere, so I thought I might as well hack up the carcass!

So, here are two stories, featuring how I discovered three blue plaques in my early days in London. The original piece was about me searching for my favourite writers who lived in London, including some for whom, when I found their places of residence, there wasn't a blue plaque in sight. But more about that later.


~~~

July 2007

I have a few addresses scribbled on the back of a tube map. Fitzroy Road, Chalcot Square, Tite Street, Kensington Court Gardens, Keats Grove. I have been in London eight days. I haven’t got a job, I haven’t got a place to live, but I have been swimming in the Serpentine, seen a play at the Southbank, become a member of the British Library, and I know exactly what I’m going to do next.

I want to visit a friend of mine.

I emerge from Regent’s Park tube and walk, and keep walking, until I see greenery, greener than I could ever imagine for practically the centre of London. A stone church on the corner, covered in ivy, looks like it could be standing in a Yorkshire field.

I turn right and walk down Fitzroy Road.

I try to set the scene in my head. It’s February 1963. The coldest winter to hit London in nearly one hundred years. Pipes frozen, the streets smothered in heavy snow. Dark. Freezing. Imagine a young single mother with two tiny children, suffering from severe depression, but also writing the best poems she’s ever written in her life, the poems that would make her name.

Yes, I’m going to visit Sylvia Plath.

Initially, Plath was delighted to have moved into this flat on Fitzroy Road, following her traumatic separation from Ted Hughes. She had learned that W.B Yeats, a poet she much admired, had lived in the same flat and she believed it was a “good omen” and would augur well for her future output as a poet. When she moved in there, in October 1962, she was at the peak of her craft, churning out a poem a day, each one more dense and beautiful than the last. The poems we all know – “Daddy”, “Lady Lazarus”, “Edge”, “Medusa” – were all written in that flat, as the pipes were freezing and the snow was falling around her.

Even though it’s summer, a shiver goes through me as I walk closer. In this flat there was strength. There was creation, and beauty.

It was also the flat where she died.

I’ve waited a long time for this moment. I can only imagine the slipperiness of the icy stairs, the clouds of cold breath as she laboured away at the desk, where the first pages of Ariel were born.

I have to stand, and gaze, ignoring the scaffolding that’s there, obstructing the blue plaque paying homage to Yeats’s residency in this building. Originally, English Heritage were going to put one here for Plath as well, but her daughter, Frieda Hughes, quite rightly pointed out that the blue plaque should commemorate her mother’s happier moments in London at the house in Chalcot Square, where Frieda herself was born in April 1960.

So, next stop, once I’ve fully absorbed the moment at Fitzroy Road, is Chalcot Square. It’s an exquisite cul de sac, every house painted the colour of an Easter egg – pink, yellow, lilac.



It’s not something you’re ever prepared for, I don’t think. Some people eagerly await the day they might meet their favourite football star, the day they might catch a glimpse of a Hollywood movie star in the line at Starbucks or sitting in some impossibly chic bar. For me, this was the ultimate. Standing at Sylvia Plath’s front gate. Feeling my footprints melt into hers, where she would have stood over forty years ago, baby Frieda on her hip, groceries and flowers in a wicker basket, a kerchief knotted about her shoulders. And possibly the lines of “Morning Song” forming in her head…..

I sit in a pub later, with a dear friend, drinking Pimms and dipping crispy whitebait into a tangy Bloody Mary-like sauce, and we drink a silent toast, to Sylvia.

October 2007

I have met someone wonderful. No, not a dead poet.

Tonight, he’s taking me to meet his parents. It’s been a while since I last met anyone’s parents, and I’m rather nervous. He senses this, and gently places a comforting hand on my knee, or holds my hand as he changes gears, as the car glides through the streets of Chelsea. Well, stops and starts would be a more accurate description of our journey. It’s bedlam on a Saturday night.

The traffic is, in fact, so slow, that my love’s face lights up with a plan, and immediately he takes another turn, away from the jam, and into a rather secluded street, where everything is veiled with rosy twilight. There is hardly anyone around. And then I see a blue plaque on one of the rusty bricked terrace houses.

“Do you know who we’ve come to visit?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.

Immediately, I know. This is a writer we both love, and whom we bonded over the night we first met in Notting Hill just over a month ago. I revealed that I had, ashamedly, left my copy of his complete works behind in Australia, such were the restrictions on the weight of my backpack.

We’re at Number 34 Tite Street. The home of Oscar Wilde.

The sky darkens as we get out of the car and stand outside, gawking. I love it when people leave their curtains open at night – I see floor to ceiling bookshelves inside number 34, of which I think Oscar would have approved. I run my hand along the bricks, and can see quite clearly in my mind’s eye Oscar on the threshold, with his new bride Constance Lloyd, when they first moved into the house in 1884.

This is the house where he wrote, with the exception of The Ballad of Reading Gaol and De Profundis, the works that he is best known for, including The Happy Prince, The Picture of Dorian Gray and, of course, The Importance of Being Earnest.

The image that haunts me the most about 34 Tite Street is the one of Oscar’s lover and friend (and later literary executor), Robert Ross, racing up to the house upon hearing the guilty verdict of “gross indecency”, and desperately salvaging as many of his papers as he could, knowing that as soon as court was adjourned, the house would most likely be pillaged of such treasures.

Again, it is a surreal moment for me. Somehow, in their words, writers seem so real to me, and yet so elusive. Regardless of whether they’re long dead or still walking around, their words bring them to life for me. Some of them I consider, in a strange psycho-literary way, friends, as I’ve read everything they’ve ever written or that’s been written about them. I even wrote a play once about this phenomenon, about a girl who is convinced Sylvia Plath is her best friend (and no, it’s not based on a true story!).



But when I am faced with bricks and mortar, the very place where they stood, lived, loved, and wrote - it’s like I’m hovering in a space where time no longer exists.

I am there, and they are there.

the time has come, the walrus said

A short story finished tonight. My first reader read it, and laughed so hard he cried. Which is a good thing, as I had intended the story to be funny!

It felt so wonderful to write something just for fun, like I used to as a kid. I'd been thinking about that a lot lately. Something good did come out of my exile due to the wretched flu, after all.

We agreed that writing things because I want to write them, not for something, or because I feel I should, is the way to go.

Funny how the desert is now full of little oasis ponds for me to drink from.

A good night's work I'd say.

PS: A big thank you to the Novelista Barista for my Kreativ Blogger award! Love your work hon!

bloomsday

Will I ever finish Ulysses?

The flu is back, unfortunately, so now might be as good a day as any to restart it!

Today being Bloomsday, I thought I'd share one of my favourite passages from it - and weirdly enough it was also the passage that was featured in today's Writer's Almanac email!

I wish I were in Dublin today, as they celebrate Bloomsday with a range of activities such as Joyce readings and dramatisations, pub crawls retracing Bloom's route around Dublin and apparently even marathon readings of the novel, lasting up to 36 hours. Now if there was ever a way to get the novel read once and for all, that would be it for sure! A bit hardcore, but maybe an option for me next year.

Viva Bloomsday!

~~~

"O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the
glorious sunsets and the
figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets
and pink and blue
and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and
geraniums and
cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the
mountain yes when I put
the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a
red yes and how
he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well
him as another and
then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked
me would I yes to
say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him
yes and drew him
down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his
heart was going like
mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

- from Ulysses by James Joyce

UPDATE: Dovegreyreader has set up Team Ulysses! Head over if you want to join in.

cake solves everything

Hello everyone - sorry for my longer than I planned absence. I've had a little holiday in Portugal, which was followed by a bout of flu (if one more person asks if it's swine flu, I will scream! I even had a test for it at the GP on Thursday, wherein they opened a scary sealed box filled with masks and sterile swabs...ugh!). Anyway, I think it was more exhaustion than it was flu. I normally run the 3.5 miles to work each day, but on Thursday last week I just couldn't do it. I could barely leave my living room. Hence, I've been keeping a low profile.

I've written a few posts, but didn't post them....again, out of fear that they were boring, stupid, etc. But I realise that is wrong, and my project here on Green Ink is to share what's inspiring me but also to hopefully be inspiring. In order to that I think you need to show people that you're human and you have your days when everything is hard and you wish you'd used your head and finished your law degree so you'd have a real career/more money, etc. by now. The last thing I want to be is one of those "all talk" people. So I'll probably post them later, under the dates I originally wrote them.

I've been dryer than the Gobi Desert lately in terms of writing inspiration - as you'll see from this post - and was feeling very down about it. Nearly every night TS and I waxed lyrical on our mutual creative barrenness (initially with Super Bock or a Hendricks in hand, over the last week it's been Night Nurse). Yesterday, feeling alert for the first time in four days, I was washing up and thought about making a cake. Having subsisted mostly on Lucozade and soup over the previous 48 hours, cake was an alluring prospect indeed.

But I imagined the kind of conversation that might ensue between TS and myself if I did ("Cake? When we have sore throats?! Are you crazy?") and found myself laughing at the possible scenarios. Then, when the dishes were draining, I sat and wrote a monologue about an elderly couple beset with the flu and the various goings on (ie: the wife decides to make cake when they're both ill because, like me, she thinks cake solves everything). That monologue has now turned into a short story, which I've nearly finished. It turns out that the wife thinks an eminent recipe writer has stolen her favourite cake recipe, and she goes to extreme farcical lengths to get the acknowledgement she thinks she deserves. It was fun to write.

Here's the cake that I ended up making, and which inspired the story:

Lemon-Syrup Loaf Cake

from Nigella Lawson's How To Be A Domestic Goddess

Cake:
125g unsalted butter (I used Pure dairy free spread)
175g caster sugar
2 large eggs
Zest of 1 lemon
175g self-raising flour
pinch of salt
4 tablespoons milk (I use soy)

See here for conversions

Syrup:
Juice of 1 large lemon
100g icing sugar

23 x 13 x 7 cm loaf tin, buttered and lined, preheat the oven to 180 degrees or gas mark 4.

Method:

• Cream the butter and sugar
• Add eggs and lemon zest, mix well
  
• Add the flour, salt and milk, folding in gently but thoroughly
• Spoon into loaf tin and put cake in oven for 45 mins, or until golden and a cake tester comes out clean
• While it's cooking, dissolve the sugar in the lemon juice, over a low heat or in the microwave
  
• Remove the cake from the oven, puncture holes all over the top with the skewer, and pour the syrup on to let it soak in.
  
• Wait until it's completely cold to take it out of the tin. Although I did cut two slices and served it warm-ish with Green and Black's Vanilla icecream.

Best cure for the flu, don't you know, all that lemon!

for the curiosity of red bird

Red Bird tagged me a few weeks ago. I like reading these kind of things but I very rarely do them. For Red Bird, I make an exception.

**The rules are: Respond and rework – answer the questions on your own blog, replace one question that you dislike with a question of your own invention, and add one more question of your own. Then tag others if you wish.

What is your current obsession?
Soup.
Trying to find a rug for my living room.
Plants, especially climbers.
Frasier.
John Ashbery.

I always have more than one current obsession.

Do you like your hairstyle right now?
I'm happier with it than I was when I last had my hair done, which was December. Fringes do not suit me and I looked about twenty years older. Thankfully it's now grown out and I've left the seventies. I'm trying to go the whole year without getting my hair cut. As such, it is extremely long and I love it.

What’s for dinner?
Anything someone with a sore throat can eat. Pizza maybe?! :P

What’s the last thing you bought?
Set of 4 climbers (2 honeysuckle, jasmine and clematis) from the Guardian Reader Offers, and a Frasier DVD.

What are you listening to right now?
Storia Storia by Mayra Andrade. I picked this up in Porto and I love it.

What do you think about the person who tagged you?
Aww..dear Red Bird! I think she's an incredibly gifted writer, with soul and warmth and nothing but goodness to share with the world. Her poems are like little peeks into keyholes. I hope to meet her one day.

If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be?
Primrose Hill, London, with space for chooks and a garden.

What are your must-have pieces for summer?
An easy to put on (and take off) sun dress, flip-flops, Vaseline's Rosy Lips.

If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Back home to visit my parents and sisters.

Which language do you want to learn?
I would like to improve my French. If I were to learn from scratch....I'd have to say Portuguese! I loved Portugal and it would have been so much fun to say something other than "obrigado!" and other things I put together with my basic bastardised Spanish.

What’s your favourite quote?
Oh, there are so many... but we'll start with these...

"When you really want to do something, in your heart of hearts, you will find a way. But if you don't really want to do something, you will always find an excuse." - Pat Farmer

"This above all: to thine own self be true" - William Shakespeare

“To think is easy. To act is difficult. To act as one thinks is the most difficult of all” - Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

"It is never too late to be what you might have been." - George Eliot


What food would you want with you on a desert island for a period of indefinite encumberance?
If there was no limit to what I could take: spicy tuna sushi from Plush Fish in Melbourne with extra wasabi and pickled ginger, goats cheese, kalamata olives, a toasted mature cheddar and homemade apple and green pepper chutney sandwich, Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Brownie frozen yoghurt, chips from Leo Burdock's in Dublin, brie, manchego, strawberries, raspberries, passionfruit, Total Greek yoghurt, haloumi with fresh mint and chilli, almond croissants, raisin bread, ricotta pancakes, homemade "chicken", spinach and risoni soup, homemade lentil and mixed bean soup, yoghurt and pistachio icecreams from Pozzetto in Paris, M&S low fat hummous and fresh pitta, homemade pizza with marinated artichokes and basil, the swordfish and chocolate and pistachio tart from The Forge, Nutella crepes, mangoes, coconut yoghurt, fresh bread, chilli oil dumplings from The Shanghai Dumpling House, dense and moist homemade chocolate cake, felafel, almond butter, oatcakes, crisp apples, kumara fries from Burger Fuel, spinach and feta boreka from Victoria Markets, miso soup, Cinnamon Grahams, TS's famous omelette, homemade muesli, eggs florentine, cauliflower dhal, guacamole and tortilla chips, potato cakes, portugese custard tarts, peach jam. Gee that was a longer list than I thought. Now I'm hungry.

Who do you want to meet right now?
A literary agent that will propel me to dizzying heights of fame and fortune?! Ha.

I'm assuming we mean living people, if so I would like to meet

Nigella Lawson

David Bowie

Doris Lessing

Kate Morton

Natalie Goldberg

Elizabeth Gilbert

Paolo Cohelo

Sharon Gannon


What is your favourite colour?
I'll give you one guess.

What is your favourite piece of clothing in your own closet?
I love my new Topshop boyfriend jeans. I also have a vintage dress that I bought in 2006 and have worn almost to its death but cannot bear to part with it. It makes me feel like a million bucks when I wear it. I wore it on the Sex and the City Tour I did in NYC and the tour guides loved it! I have a picture of me on Carrie Bradshaw's stoop wearing it....oh, here it is....!


What is your dream job?
Writing. For myself or someone else, I'm not fussy at the moment.

What’s your favourite magazine?
I have lots - ambit, the london magazine, smoke, dujour, frankie......

If you had $100 now, what would you spend it on?
$100, that's about £50, so.....probably a new rug, or plants for the garden. I am a bit domestic right now.

What do you consider a fashion faux pas?
Oh, there's loads of things I think are incredibly daggy - shoulder pads for example - but I think if people are comfortable and wearing something that suits them then they should wear whatever they like, no matter what others might think.

Who are your style icons?
Sylvia Plath




















I found this on this site - how cool is this?!

Jackie Kennedy



















The House of Eliott

Image from this beautiful blog




















Kate Moss
















Pretty darn strange combination, if I do say so myself. But the things I tend to wear most are dresses, retro t-shirts, cardigans, big sunglasses and ripped jeans. And I'm nearly always carrying a book.

Describe your personal style.
I wear what I like. But lately I had my style overhauled by a Topshop Style Advisor! More on that later. But it was the best thing I've done for ages.

What are you going to do after this?
Go home and rest.

What are your favourite movies?
Two Days in Paris, Amelie, Little Women (with Winona Ryder), Broken Flowers, Love Is The Devil, The Sound of Music, In Her Shoes, Legally Blonde - anything girly, arty, funny or all three!

What are three cosmetic/makeup/perfume products that you can't live without?
Vaseline (especially the Rosy Lips, it gives a lovely colour and sheen), sunscreen and Coco Mademoiselle. Eyeliner is good too.

What inspires you?
Strength, courage, seeing people follow their dreams.

Give us three styling tips that always work for you:
Oh lordy...style tips....apart from making sure I have deodorant in my backpack before I run to work every day?!

1. Moisturise, all over, every day.
2. Get lots of exercise - the glow you get from that is better than any makeup.
3. Book an appointment with a personal shopper! Worth it!

What do you do when you “have nothing to wear” (even though your closet’s packed)?
Go nude :P

Coffee or tea?
Tea.

What is your secret indulgence?
Oh, aren't guilty pleasures always the best? Going to museums or art galleries, and then getting some kind of cake in their cafe afterwards. Depending on what time of the day it is, I might have champagne with it.

I also love icecream, spooned directly from the tub, while watching old comedies I loved as a child, while it's pouring with rain outside.

And sometimes, just sometimes, I will stop on the way to or from work, at my favourite coffee place in London and get a hot drink and walk with it, slowly, while looking in the windows of all my favourite shops. It is the part of London where I cannot afford to buy anything :P

and the new question:

What is a poem you could recite from memory at the drop of a hat?

Sonnet 116 by Shakespeare.


~~~

MZ , Lauren, Betsy and Weeny, you're up, if you so wish.

This is one of my "I'm worried this is stupid/boring" posts which I've been encouraged to share! One comment on my last post said as much:

"To censor for fear of inducing boredom or stupidity with your words, that you might alienate your readers, that you might not be the Phil that you want to come across as, is not healthy thing. Some of our best posts ever are the ones we thought were stupid or boring. Funnily enough, because they are often the most honest."

I love her for saying that.

Ok, so here goes. It's been hard for me to write lately.

I got my momentum going again at the beginning of May, when I started doing a bit every day, and for a while I felt immersed in the story again. But then, just as it had started, the motivation stopped. I worked on a couple of other projects, and my characters went back into their cupboard.

On Friday night we had some friends around for a few drinks before we headed out for Vietnamese in Old Street, and one of them asked about my novel. My heart sank when I realised that they didn't know what it was about and I was going to have to tell them the plot and I just didn't want to get into it because it's so complicated but I'm worried that people think it's boring - hence my telling of it wasn't particularly engaging and the conversation was quickly switched to something else. I've been grappling with this whole "perhaps you should have a break from it" thought ever since.

And perhaps I should. It hasn't been fun lately. It's been torture. A story I was once so passionate about, and so convinced needed to be told, is as cold and unappetising as the soup I made yesterday, still sitting on the stove.

I wish I could write the way I used to when I was a teenager. I was never at a loss for words, nor ideas for what could happen next. I never worried too much about "is this boring? Is this believable? Would anyone want to read this?" - I just wrote. As a teenager I was prolific, in terms of both ideas and output, but still criticised myself constantly that I wasn't doing enough! Once I "grew up" and life was full of adult responsibilities where I no longer had a limitless amount of time to devote to my stories, my imagination seemed to dry up. I was no longer in school or university, places where I was encouraged to be creative. For a few years, I didn't write at all. Not even a journal. It was a time in my life I didn't particularly want to remember. Life then was about being analytical, serious, forward-thinking, future-planning. I was parched and withered. And getting my momentum back has been a constant struggle ever since.

Reading Julia Cameron's The Right to Write has really helped. Of course, there is the advice everyone knows - the Morning Pages. Most of mine are done in the afternoon though, and maybe that's the problem! The more I read of this book, the more compelled I feel to start taking myself more seriously and make more of a commitment to the writing life that I want so badly. Every piece of advice in the book comes back to this simple truth - Just. Write. Don't worry about networking and getting published and all that jazz, if you write and write well, the 'right' people will eventually want to know you. Every piece you write and finish makes getting read and published more likely. If you write regularly and easily, without thinking about it too much, then whatever you're trying to write will be written easily, and without you having to think about it too much.

Sounds simple. Probably because it is.