Being an author doesn't leave much brain space for other things. Sometimes my mind is so full of my characters and what they are up to in fiction land, I wonder I have enough room in my mudulla or brain stem thingamee to even breath. Let alone buy a house in another country and yet this is what I am endevouring to do.
It is clearly madness because if I buy a house my protaginist in my latest ouvre will have to buy a house and as she's only sixteen the whole story will collapse. Oh life what couchemar. She's meant to be turning her life around - making her real life as fabulous as her facebook life. Real Life is such merde. As are affaires de coeur I'm afraid.
I truly think that when I'm writing I should do nothing else (apart from keep breathing). It was a stupid idea to buy a house. So there I was having my photograph taken and banging on about all this flim flummery and one of my ex-husbands I never got around to divorcing or was it the ex-husband I never got around to marrying? Honestly it's not nearly as confusing as you might think if you've had a cocktail or two. Either way this chap decided to be all madly artistic or pervy depending on how you look at it. He'd love to be all ferishly artistic and wonderful but he went bald at a young age which rather limited his social life.
Yesterday he told me he fears he disappoints me. 'Darling authors are very demanding dull people who write in bed and imagine exciting vistas. Everything disapoints me darling! Sometimes even Dom Perignon if I drink too much.'
It is true. I struggle to meet basic challenges like getting out of bed. Of course I can write from bed so no excuses there. But life, where to go, what to wear, how to open mail? I am flammoxed. No wonder I can't do men. What on earth would they want with a girl like me with no skill set anyway? Nothing that's what.
Writing books is only vaguely interesting the first time a boy watches you for an hour and says "aren't you amazing that you can be so disciplined?" After the next few hours their attention and interest wains. They want to make plans. I don't. I want plans to make me.
I'm a really bad getter-readier. I can choose the perfect pair of shoes, lingerie and sunglasses but what to go with them? The entire wardrobe contents has to be emptied on my bed and then of course I can't be arsed and pull on the standard jeans and tee teamed with killer shoes and lashings of diamonds and end up doing wonky makeup in the taxi. No boy wants to go out with a girl with wonky make up. Even if she is "disciplined".
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the next book. Being an author doesn't leave much brain space for other things. Sometimes my mind is so full of my characters and what they are doing I wonder I have enough room in my mudulla or brain stem thingamee to even breath. Let alone buy a house in another country and yet this is what I am endevouring to do. It is clearly madness because if I buy a house my protaginist will have to buy a house and then the whole house of cards that is my book will collapse because I didn't plan for him to buy a house. He's an arsehole and broke so you see if he buys a house it adds a whole new dimension to him, but alas not me. Life is such merde.
I truly think that when I'm writing I should do nothing else (apart from keep breathing). It was a stupid idea to buy a house. So there I was having my photograph taken and banging on about all this flim flummery and my photographer wrapped me up in typed sheets of my own words. He's a very artistic chap and hopes to find more in his subjects that meets the eye. I fear I disappoint him. Authors are very dull people. I struggle to meet basic challenges like getting out of bed. Of course I can write from bed so no excuses there. But life, where to go, what to wear, how to open mail? I am flammoxed. No wonder I can't do men. What on earth would they want with a girl like me with no skill set? Nothing that's what. Writing books is only vaguely interesting the first time a boy watches you for an hour and says "aren't you amazing that you can be so disciplined?" After the next few hours their attention and interest wains. They want to make plans. I don't. Plans muck my characters about. And also I'm a really bad getter-readier. I can choose the perfect pair of shoes, lingerie and sunglasses but what to go with them? The entire wardrobe contents has to be emptied on my bed and then of course I can't be arsed and pull on the standard jeans and tee and end up doing wonky makeup in the taxi. No boy wants to go out with a girl with wonky make up. Even if she is "disciplined".
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