A return (of sorts)

I'm writing again - this time properly, and hopefully in a way that will lead to something happening a little way down the line... But the most important part of this isn't that I'm hoping it goes somewhere - it's that this is happening at all.

I stopped writing for various reasons - I'd always turn my hand to a poem or two if the moment took me (or allowed it), but with the exception of the (currently dormant) Ood Cast, I hadn't done anything for a long time - something approaching four years.

I started up again thinking that it might be a nice distraction and would get some of the half-decent ideas out of my head. So I began taking notes for an idea. Just sitting down and brainstorming an idea re-awakened something in me that filled me with some kind of joyous light. Creating a character, and planning their journey through the story that was taking shape in your head is something wonderful and sacred to me - learning about the characters too. In this case, to my utter confoundment, I found that these characters are already formed in my head.

In amongst the joy of writing about these people, and seeing whether I can tell their story to a level that does it justice, I wondered where they came from. The answer is simple, but complex: they spring from people I know - some very well, some less so - and also from music. Some of you reading this may well have been reasons I've got these people in my head. Some of you I know precisely, some I think may be a mixture.

What bits and pieces of the puzzle I choose to write on a particular day always tend to spring from what kind of music I've been listening to... I'll write another post about some of the music affecting me at the moment soon - but if I'm in a Paul Simon kind of mood, I know what sort of scenes I'll be working out later that day. And that isn't always predictable - love songs don't always mean a scene about love, for example. Something very odd happened when I was listening to "Rocky Racoon" by the Beatles, for a start...

The long and the short of it is that I'm rediscovering what I thought I'd never lose... the joy of writing something. Maybe its more true that I didn't lose it, but more sort of buried it somewhere and remembered where that was. But with a lot of other stuff in turmoil round me, this is my one little safe harbour. And its not even important in the slightest if anything I do gets into print or onto a screen - its the joy that I want to hang on to. Although success would be great - I would be lying if I said I'd hate that.

And now that little door has opened again, more are being left hanging wildly off one battered hinge:
I have more ideas in my head than I can cope with - too many more projects I want to start and more impatience than a ravenous dog in an unattended butcher's shop.

For all of this, and for all the other things going on, I'm really and unreservedly happy about that.

And they say kids have bad attitudes...

I was thoroughly patronised by an old woman on the bus this morning. She got on just before I got off at the station, and proceeded to stand in the aisle to talk to someone, despite the seats next to and behind her friend being free.

When it came to my stop, I pressed the bell and moved forward as far as I could. I said "Excuse me" twice and was ignored. So I said it again, and without bothering to look up, she said "I'll move when the bus stops, dear - otherwise I might fall flat on my face. It comes from being 85 years old, you know."

No, IT COMES FROM STANDING IN THE SODDING AISLE AND BLOCKING EVERYONE'S WAY WHEN THERE ARE FREE SEATS.

I don't know why it bothers me. Maybe its that she ignored me twice before being rude. Or maybe its because I pay over £1,700 a year to use public transport in and around London while people like that get it for free.

Yes, maybe that's it. Stupid old cow.