I feel a little big groggy, and I suspect that that's all to do with my body holding off the worst of the illnesses and fatigues for the past fifteen weeks, and waiting for a period of time where I'm not constantly dashing from one place to the next, and taking that as a signal that I can just shut down. I'm determined not too, however, and to still make good use of the time that I have off, knowing that it will be over all too soon. I had intended to do some writing, but my main computer has died. I do most of my writing in cafes and suchlike, finding that if I try to write at home, all too often I'll get distracted by the lure of a DVD, a sandwich, a book, or equally often, the chance to doze. So I'll come out to a cafe, and try to write as much as I can that way. I'm not always good at avoiding those cafes in Brighton that have a free wifi connection, but at least I'm making an effort. I'm aware that there are a great many writers who are unable to write unless it's quiet all around them. I'm not one of those writers. I quite enjoy the hustle and bustle and muttering of people around me, music playing that I'm not familiar with (even if the Mad Hatter, where I am now, has a seeming over-fondness for the oeuvre of Gloria Estefan). It's even better on a day like today, when the weather is miserable, and all you have to do is write out a few words, fuelled by decent hot chocolate. I almost remember what being human feels like. If I could get paid to do this every day, then I'd consider myself very lucky.
However, as I said, my computer has died. I forgot to keep it charged, and it has no power on it. It means that I'll have to move on to another cafe very soon, and plug it in there. I would try to plug it in here, but the usual spot has been taken up by something like fairy lights (you see, once again, Christmas leaping out at me unawares). I am running the risk of being one of those people in coffee shops who sets up camp at a table with their laptop and a mocha for a couple of hours at a stretch, writing absolutely nothing of any value whatsoever.
Last night, I was at Brighton's Burning Of The Clocks, which sounds a lot more traditional and paganistic than it actually is, whereas in fact it's only been around for five years. It marks the winter solstice and is mainly a children's festival. Thousands of people (it certainly seemed like thousands last night) gather with paper mâché lanterns which are lit, and finally end up on a huge bonfire on Brighton Beach, followed by an impressive fireworks display. Oddly enough, I was there partly because of research, since there's a sequence in a book that will take place during this event. I can safely talk about this scene on this blog with little fear of somebody else stealing it, because - if I'm honest - I'm reasonably doubtful if this particular book will get started, let alone finished. It's book four in a series of six, and so far I've only had vague ideas about how to put them together. I'm certainly in danger of becoming (or continuing to be) one of those people who talk about their upcoming projects as a way of avoiding actually doing them, but things have started to lock in a different way. The NaNoWriMo book was one point. The book itself might be awful (it actually might be; I haven't dared read it in the past month), but it was a extraordinarily useful tool in learning how to discipline my writing methods. It's a tool that's easily forgotten about if you're not careful, but it's still there for grabs. The other thing, of course, is the sending off short stories for competitions. Now, it remains to be seen if those stories actually get anywhere - the best method once they've been posted is to simply forget about them - but the whole process of completing the stories and sending them off to some kind of destination is incredibly useful - it gives you some kind of closure, rather than having to constantly return to them, or even worse, have what's more - much more - than a half decent idea - and, by not doing all that much about it, allowing it to wither and die.
And therefore, there's another thing worth noting. Aside from the fact that I'm generally quite a morose person, I've been very encouraged by the amount of - well, encouragement - I've received from so many people on my writing and directing and even acting this year. It's these kind of voices in the darkness, particularly after you've had a tough nine hours at the day job - that really give you the strength to carry on writing, to carry on trying, and - most elusively, most magically - give you the strength to occasionally consider the possibility:
"I can do this"
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