Saturday, 25 February 2012
I recently likened my situation to a scene in Inception where a 'city' two of the characters created starts to crumble like sandcastles around them. That's what it feels like for me at the moment.
I'd spend hours sat at my desk in the spare room, or curled up on the sofa hammering away at my keyboard, but now...
I don't have a chair to sit on.
And I don't have a sofa.
In fact, I don't have much of anything anymore. Every night see's a new buyer knock on my door and take something else away while I prepare to move out of my unfurnished city pad to take on a more humble abode in Liverpool's 'characterful' suburbs (like the way I phrase that?).
"Aww, poor you!" Someone uttered in work, while they bit their lip and cocked their head to one side.
Okay, as a little side issue - anyone who's been through any emotional turmoil in their lives will fully recognise the head-cock. I feel I'm viewed by some people on a permanent angle...
Anyway, I've been getting a lot of sympathy about the furniture thing.
"Oh, but what will you do without a television? You won't be able to watch the Brit Awards!"(That one was my particular favourite. I told them I'd survive.)
In truth, it's been liberating. I always thought I quite liked having stuff and bloody hell, Dos and I accumulated a hell of a lot of things while we were together. However, I was sat in the flat one evening a few weeks ago and started getting a feeling of mild panic that I was utterly trapped. It was like someone had placed every little piece of furniture I owned on my chest and I couldn't breathe.
So, on a whim, I decided to sell the lot and move out. Every buyer who takes something else away seems to increase my lung capacity that little bit more.
What's this got to do with writing? My head is getting clearer. What every good writer needs is a clear head. Something as bloody simple as furniture was making me cloudy and now, as a result of my new found 'freedom', I have a Blackbrooke trilogy planned which will keep me busy in the spring and summer, while I grab a coffee at one of the lovely cafes or bars around the park.
By that point, my six-month lease will be up on the new flat and then what shall I do? Who knows?
Blackbrooke is still with two agents who I hope are enjoying it and I have my fingers firmly crossed that I'll receive good news.
Until then, I have bathroom cabinet and a sideboard getting collected so I'd better haul ass.
I'll blog more soon as I'm just launching into writing Blackbrooke II and already face the dilemma. When it comes to horror for young adults - how much is too much? Just throwing that one out there. Answers on a postcard....