Wednesday 1st January 2025
Happy New Year. Me and Jenni watched an hilarious Cunk on Life programme this morning. Full of ridiculous stupidity, profanity and cynicism. I ate chicken jalfrezi with rice, chips and naan bread for dinner. Jenni had a vegetarian curry. My heavy meal made me a bit sleepy, so unfortunately, I didn't see much of Nativity 3 this afternoon. I keyed in this morning's pages then had cheese and crackers and saw Christopher Biggins get emotional after winning twenty grand for his chosen charity on a repeat of Tipping Point best bits but found the penultimate episode of Vera hard going. Little action save five minutes at the end. Police procedural, you say. Not for me. 11.08pm.
Thursday 2nd January 2025
Eaten a lot more food. Going to need great abstinence in the next couple of weeks. Me and Jenni went out to Gateshead this afternoon. Not as cold as forecast. Got some ace bargains at Heron Foods. Cheap chicken slices, mini pork pies, cheese and onion pasties and bananas at way less than half price. Morning pages took over an hour to type up. I've eaten all the pork pies, all the chicken slices, and my cheese and onion pasty. Big Fat Quiz on TV now. Quite funny, but I'm really drowsy. OK. 10.40pm.
Friday 3rd January 2025
An eventful night. I'm in the job centre and the person tasked with quizzing me about employment is Suzanne, the ex-Theatre Cap-a-Pie facilitator and novelist, who is more interested in the dandruff on my patterned socks than my efforts to find a job. Then I'm walking up The Grove bank and Shaun Joyce says he has a bit of casual work I might be interested in. I end up watching people doing a stunt show on really outdated heavy BMX bikes and I do a poetry set afterwards then get quizzed by a few locals who aren't impressed with my response to their praise. So that all goes downhill rather quickly.
In another dream me and Aaron Wright ride plastic scooters from Annfield Plain to Stanley in a hurry. This dream happens twice.
In another dream I'm at a gig and someone has a horrid doll like Jack Gardener’s ‘Betty Blue Eyes’ which is repulsive and scary.
In a follow-up I'm at the Soundroom seated at a round table near the front and the show is repeated but the doll is close up and gets in my face and I react audibly.
Jenni hears it and I wake up.
Then there's one more dream in a big old house. Lots of the poetry crowd are having a party. Jenni, on the stairs in a pink dress, directs groups of students out of the house. They all return carrying bags of cement. Jenni gives me a big liquorice chew and says Linda needs one of these, every thirty minutes or she'll get a migraine.
I looked through the free-range writing book, but nothing struck me for this morning. I'm wondering how the month will go. I am in bed, Jen is up and eating a breakfast of stollen bites, a peanut butter pretzel and an iced mince pie.
The Radio is on. 500 miles by The Proclaimers, Sometimes by Erasure, and a song by Jennifer Lopez. Weather updates. A loud bus outside.
I don't want to write this morning. I knew it wouldn't take long before I started metawriting. I will do some good little writing exercises in the coming days.
Yesterday I wrote about downstairs in the house I grew up in. My current house is smaller. I like the living room which has hardly changed in 28 years, but I don't like the cracks in the skirting boards or the stone floor. The curtain rail needs fixing. I've still got the dropleaf dining table that came from Bridgehill. I've had a replacement settee. No room for armchairs. But no worries, I'm mostly only in the room to make books.
Jenni paid neatly two quid for a box of stollen bites. Hopefully in a couple of weeks Barry's Bargain Superstore will have loaves of the stuff for about 75p. And I will take full advantage of the price reduction… 9.50am.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to Jenni for company, warmth, big laughs and good food. Enjoyed our trawl around the shops of Gateshead this afternoon. OK. 11.03pm.
Saturday 4th January 2025
I got all the typing done by eleven this morning. Me and Jenni had a Fray Bentos fake steak and kidney pie with veg for dinner. We watched the first series of sitcom Here We Go about an unemployed former Olympic archery competitor and his unruly family. Great cast including Alison Steadman, and Katherine Parkinson from The IT Crowd. Bus to Consett tonight was swift. No bread in Tesco. Plenty sweet mince pies. Bedding changed. Pretend pot noodle. 11.00pm.
Sunday 5th January 2025
The weather man was right. The song of the silent snow is in full flow. Very fine powder and no wind. Just the steady fall of white particles. It's set to continue all day with temperature forecast to stay around zero for most of it, rising little above two degrees for the whole week. I'm hoping that I don't need to put the big computer on for anything. I think I've got a copy of the Acknowledgements page printed out already for the Writing Marathon booklets and can just use the photocopier to run off a dozen for next weekend. The covers were done before Christmas, and I've got plenty paper and staples to make them up.
Today I think I'll mostly be focusing on prep for the first Washington Writers workshop. And I’ll try to get some guests booked for the February edition of Poetry Jam. I have my headliner, Catherine Ayres, from Alnwick. I need a male guest for the middle slot and a female opener. So I am going to need the big computer on at some point to make a flyer for the gig. Unless I'm able to do it at Waddington Street Centre. I think on the days when I'm home I'll probably try some writing exercises during the afternoon and evening; and just ramble in morning pages. It's too much of an ask to do writing exercises from prompts upon waking. Dream stuff, sure. And reflections on the previous day, maybe. I reckon a large percentage of the words will be plans and diary. And that's alright, it's what I do best.
I'll feel a lot better this week once I've made a list: writing marathon prompts, check blue and black biros coz I need six of each with caps. Remember to buy some chocs for the prompts. Phone Arts Centre Washington to enquire about access on Friday afternoon for some of the set-up to make Saturday less frantic. Copy up all the workshop options from the previous season that didn't get used last term. Read some opening chapters of How To books to reacquaint with start of term and start of year. Fish out January writing mags for inspirational quotes on kickstarting creativity. Road test a few warm-up exercises, try to pull together standalone sessions with each exercise complementing the next. Book some Poetry Jam guests. Send out food requirement request to all writing marathon participants. Take two days to buy and prepare all the food for the workshop. Buy fresh bread buns on Thursday. At least 24, pre-sliced. Amend the food list to suit requirements based on what people ate last time. Get a shave today so the next one won't be until Thursday or Friday. Check all the paper plates, cups and cutlery for Saturday. Read some fiction and poetry. And try to pace myself and stay away from contagion. Try to hit the supermarket at quiet times on Wednesday and Thursday. Ensure there are decent clothes for Friday and Saturday. Remember to check bus times and tickets since price rises. Keep keying in material daily.
That little lot should just about cover it for the week. And remember to go to Docs for annual checkup tomorrow morning. I'm pleased I said I could only go to the local surgery and not Shotley Bridge, coz that would be a hell of a trek in the snow. One of the prompts I pulled out of Jen's WRITERS BLOCK yesterday was write about your first encounter with a celebrity. Then write it from their point of view. The first one I met was Wayne Hussey of rock band The Mission. It was March 1987. Stephen Clark had won a competition in the Evening Chronicle to see and meet the band at Newcastle City Hall the day before we were due to travel up to Glasgow for their gig at the Barrowland ballroom. A group of comp winners and close friends of the band watched the soundcheck on the Friday afternoon from the stalls, then we were invited backstage to meet Wayne. I don't remember what happened, other than girls swooning over him, photographs being taken, and Stephen swapping a bangle with Hussey. Stephen's bangle was clearly visible on Hussey's wrist in a photo of the singer on the cover of Melody Maker shortly after. And Wayne signed the back of my denim jacket in black marker pen. I think it was the same jacket that Sinead O'Connor signed three years later, but I can't be sure.
If we use that prompt I might write about meeting Rollins at Leeds Poly in 1989 instead. Of course, the prompts are open to interpretation so I could do a list of famous people I've met and just do one-liners. It's probably best not to think about it too much. Mood and inspiration on the day of the marathon will be a lot different to now, so anything might happen with ideas and intentions. I've been jotting down workshop ideas and opinions in rough books and drawing boxes around them. I want to take these pithy little pieces and laminate copies so I can pull them out at random during workshops as talking points.
Regardless of what I do in the first workshop next Friday, I think I'll spend quite a bit of time today just reading and making notes. I think I'll start on the marathon books tomorrow. It's quite possible that I spend a considerable amount of time today in bed. Whatever I do, I'll be trying to avoid using the desktop computer.
I need to think about poems for my pamphlet as well. I think I'll launch that in March. Unless there's time to get it together for the Durham County Council library date in February.
The writing marathon is logistically tricky due to venue location. I want it to go 100% well. No tech problems like last time. If Jenni hadn't been there to sort things out, we'd have had no hot water for participants' tea and coffee and I'd have lost my temper if the no talking rule had to be broken.
And this time, don't forget the Alpro milk. Anyway, that's enough forward thinking for one Sunday morning. I need a bowl of porridge. OK. 9.20am.
Monday 6th January 2025
In the doctor's for over half an hour checkup. Lot longer than usual. Questions on diet, mental health, sexual activity. Exercise? Do you have a carer? As well as the weigh-in and blood samples. The snow is horrible and slushy and still covering lots of side roads on housing estates. Hopefully better midweek. Back home to a brutally cold stint in the bedroom working away on the typing, prepping the sessions. By the time I'd done online admin this afternoon it was too cold and dark to be making up booklets and trimming edges. I'll make them tomorrow. This evening, I spent three hours selecting 15 of the 26 writing prompts for Saturday. I finished about ten and was back in bed by twenty past. I reckon I'll spend most evenings till mid-March just tucked up in bed, reading, typing and listening to music. Temperature is currently one degree, but web says it feels like minus five. 10.32pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to nurse at surgery for thorough checkup this morning including mental health stuff. Thanks to Jen for political updates. Thanks to writers for food responses for marathon. Chuffed to get prompts sorted. OK. 10.40pm.
Tuesday 7th January 2025
Pretty full on again. Moving about quite a bit making up marathon booklets, so not too cold. But they took a while. I then checked stock for Saturday, listed what doesn't need to be replenished so I can deduct the cash from my budget. I ventured out for a mince pie to have with vegetables for tea. Did potatoes, carrots, peas, and Yorkshire puddings with gravy. I was supposed to take a bit of time off afterwards but got straight into the workshop prep for Friday, my first session of the year. Always a challenge to come up with stuff for a new term with repeat participants. But I think I've got enough stuff for three sessions. Steam coming out of the photocopier running off a dozen of everything. I'll begin with mini fictions. And journaling stuff. Autobiographical poetry too. I felt a bit rough around midday but chuffed I kept going. I'm out to buy all the buffet food tomorrow and Thursday. OK. 10.14pm.
Wednesday 8th January 2025
Adam punched Ben on the nose while Carrie cried in the corner coz Deborah was being cruel about Eve's sister Fiona. Nope. It's too early. I'm too tired and I just want to free vent. I got most of the workshop stuff ready last night. Thought I had more than enough but forgot to find similes. As fast as a whizzed-up priest. As slippery as a greased hog on a glass roof. Like hot shit off a chrome shovel. I find most similes and metaphors, if artificially forced, are crap. If they come from sheer emotion and exasperation at not getting the message across, striving to be understood, they will usually be good. I think similes and metaphors for the sake of it are shit anyway. If they don't come naturally, I don't see the point. It's why I occasionally turn my nose up at really well-crafted literary poetry coz it's not a genuine epiphany. It's a Lego kit at worst and a slow gestation at best. I prefer stream of consciousness. I prefer the emotion to well up and the weight of expression to carry the piece. I don't want it to be pretentious. I like direct hard-hitting stuff. But I'll take some samples of similes in an exercise from the book I got at Jarrolds department store in Norwich in 2014. It's a lovely little pebble-grained A6-ish hardback with narrow lines that I filled in a couple of months with the usual workshop notes, diary entries, gig lists, etc.
This morning, I will find good clothes and pack them along with all the stuff left over from last time that I don't have to replenish for the writing marathon. I don't think I'm going to be able to write anything substantial in pages until this week is out the way. My mind is elsewhere. I've got access to The Granary on Friday afternoon after the workshop with my regulars, so I can set the table and save a bit of time for Saturday so I don't have to race around, get wound up and write shite for the first three prompts like last time when the electricity was off. I want to get out on the bike but there's still loads of snow everywhere. Soon as I get some dry clear patches of tarmac, I'll go out on the Rockhopper but not until at least next week. My handwriting is atrocious this morning. My brain wants to go quickly but my pen can't keep up. I'll struggle to type all this but I'm going to coz I said I would. It’s my main New Year's Resolution: to just get everything word processed so I can trawl through it all easier at a later date and see how I feel about it. Much easier to speed read typed words than scrawl.
I aim to be done and good to go by about lunchtime. Maybe a bit earlier but I need a shave. I could wait until I'm at Jen's. But I wanted to get done with two pre-used razors and keep the final good one for Friday. I won't be getting shaved the day of the writing marathon. I will be getting a shower though. I aim to have clothes and non-edibles in the case by ten this morning. Then I'm getting a big ticket on the debit card and a bus into Consett. I'll go to the bank and withdraw a hundred. I don't intend to spend anywhere close to that on food this time, but I want backup. Then I'll just get less for weekly allowance this weekend. I spent quite a while doing the books yesterday. It's harder to make books in the cold but sweaty finger marks are easier to avoid.
I had a bit of a headache around midday but took some ibuprofen and carried on. I intend to avoid interaction with people until Friday's workshop. I just want to get the shopping done and get everything sorted. And I need to remember RECEIPTS. I forgot the big one for last buffet spend in November. Luckily, I remembered the total amount and having paid on card and used club card someone was able to find it in the system and give me a printout.
I need a list of What Could Go Wrong? examples for the workshop. Actually, I’m never sure what to do first one back, coz I never know who will be there. I just have to be armed and ready with a load of options and see what feels good on the day. It's not a proper course and no-one commits to being there every time. So continuity isn't easy. Likewise at Waddy and elsewhere. Oh, can we do X and Y? So okay, you prepare X and Y and the requester doesn't come in on the day you intend to run X and Y so you have to decide: do I go ahead with it and they miss out, or do I save it till they are next in and wing the current session for other people and risk it being poor and off-putting for any unexpected newcomers. It's really tricky sometimes.
I just found out yesterday that we don't have the Community Room for reception before the writing marathon. Really disconcerting. Brenda at the Arts Centre said she'd email Daniel to ask about it. I never heard back so I've emailed him. I'm going to phone again before I leave for Gateshead. I want everything to be brilliant on Saturday. I want everything to be brilliant on Friday. And I want a nice relaxing ride into Gateshead as well. Then I'll start the big food purchases. We have at least four vegans taking part on Saturday. (Domestically, I can't afford a moral conscience where food is concerned. And am partial to a bacon buttie and a steak pie and fish fingers and chicken drumsticks. No, sorry, I'm being callous.) It's my duty to provide and serve, so I'll check the labels and get Alpro milk and think of savouries. Anyway, I'm done here. Typing next. 7.43am.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to Daniel for getting us a pre-writing marathon reception room. Thanks to Jenni for company and buffet suggestions. OK. 11.06pm.
Thursday 9th January 2025
Back at Jen's place. The gas was off last night so it's pretty chilly. I've got most of the food for Saturday's writing marathon. Just need milk, crisps, and maybe some sweet mince pies. Initially I thought it was going to be really expensive. Then I tallied up the first haul to only about forty-two quid. But last night's savouries, including more vegan stuff has pushed the cost up to about sixty-five pounds. And I'll need another tenner’s worth today. I forgot to mention the bread, which will be over a fiver. But I'm not doing much today. I’ll nip out after breakfast, get things, have a rest. I'll get notes typed up then I think me and Jenni are going to see Wicked this afternoon.
I was chuffed to get my Friday workshop all sequenced on the bus into Newcastle yesterday afternoon. Also, Daniel got back to me. We've been given the art workshop as a reception space for Saturday morning. With tea and coffee. At some point I'm anticipating an increase in the hire charge, but for now all is pretty good. I will actually make some money from this session. Which is as it should be. I don't have a lot to report and I'm finding these pages a big struggle at the minute. I just want a week of not having to prepare much or go anywhere. Of course, it would be nicer if where I live wasn't buried under snow and ice. It's probably going to last a couple of weeks. Coz even if we don't get more, the low temps are keeping what's here pretty solid. The snow peters out around Sunniside and there's none in Gateshead. But up on the hills...
Meanwhile, in Hollywood the wildfires are taking the homes of veteran entertainers and recent golden globe winners as well as thousands of regular residents. People have been seen fleeing their homes, carrying possessions under a blanket of smoke as the fires devour their livelihoods. Nature can be a bit of a bastard, can't it. All the elements.
I was mainly staying indoors until yesterday. A couple of nights ago I ventured out for a pie and the sharp cold hit my chest and head. It feels good, invigorating for a couple of minutes but too much and you start to wither. My little wheelie case was packed to bursting yesterday. I could hardly get the zip closed. I may have brought too many clothes. I often do, I think, just to be safe. I bring multiple shirts and pairs of socks and rarely use more than one change of clothes. But I'm here till Monday so it's just as well I've come prepared. And it's just as well that I'm able to drop off a load of stuff on Friday for Saturday, coz I doubt me and Jenni would be able to carry everything in one trip. She reckons there won't be any snow in Washington. That's good to know. Fingers crossed we don't get any more. She says the Metros are off and even though it's only between Heworth and Gateshead it's still a pain. And people keep risking life and limb to steal overhead cables.
I am tired. I feel a bit under the weather and hope I'm okay. It's probably not a good idea to book many public engagements for January. I have Waddy on Tuesday. Then there's Jen's Word Bank spoken word event next Friday (17th Jan) and then I have my place on Amanda Quinn's writing workshop on the 19th at The Biscuit Factory. The following week I'll have Waddy and Washington sessions. Then it's my 55th birthday.
It's King Ink in Sunderland tonight but I really need to keep out of the way of people until after the workshops. I don't want to catch anything nasty. I just want an easy ride. A lot of people would say what I do isn't work. And just as many would say what I subject myself to is more trouble than it's worth. Right now, Jen's fridge is packed out with fresh veg and vegan savouries for Saturday. There's a lot to prepare on site and it can't be done the day before the event. I'll be able to set up the actual writing table. But bits of veg need chopping and all the rest of the food needs to be laid out in an attractive manner.
I'm just treading water here. I'm tired with little to say. I will get some jam on toast. Maybe a couple of Lebkuchen Hearts and a Beechams honey and lemon. Then go up the road to Tesco for my bread buns. They should be okay on the chilly landing in the attic until tomorrow evening. They will take a few hours to fill, so I'll need to start them by about half six. At least Saturday morning should be easier to do set-ups if I have a little head start tomorrow afternoon. These all-dayer things are very time consuming when relying on public transport and a two-night stay at someone else's house.
I think I've done pretty well over the last two decades. I remember starting out at Waddy in 2003. Petrified. Then a year later, I facilitated evening sessions in Ferryhill Comprehensive. It was a seven-hour round trip to do a two-hour session. My friend Stephen said no way would he entertain such a long shift for a mere forty quid. How about 30 hours for at best £150. Still better than warehousing. OK. 7.55am.
Friday 10th January 2025
WORK LOG: Morning Pages, email checks, bag pack, off to Arts Centre Washington for my group workshop then stayed back two hours to set up some of the room for tomorrow. Then three-and-three-quarter hours making sandwiches and packing boxes. Journal. OK. 11.25pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to all at Arts Centre Washington for help with the workshop prep. Thanks to all who attended my session today. OK. 11.26pm.
Saturday 11th January 2025
I remember Mei-Heng Tan telling Mrs Blendall that I was lazy coz I played truant from primary school and went back home before the first lesson started. I remember Gloria Earnshaw coming down from the big school to see what the matter with Andrew was and deemed her son fit for class, despite protestations about a headache and tummy upset. And I remember feinting in school assembly and Mr Patterson had somehow caught me before I hit the floor and whisked me away out of the school hall and down the corridor to the staff room.
I remember another time leaving a little placard on my tiny desk in class ten with the statement I HATE WORK on it. And thinking nothing of it, was totally taken by surprise the morning after parents evening – which mine didn't attend – when Mr P grabbed me by the hair as I was running out to the playground and said “YOU EVER PULL A STUNT LIKE THAT AGAIN, URWIN, AND I'LL BRAIN YOU!” – Whatever brain he was talking about is for the birds. I remember Steve Austin, a man barely alive but we can rebuild him. And his boss Oscar Goldman. I remember Jamie Summers, another bionic fictional character. I remember after The Six Million Dollar Man thinking that ordinary human beings were a bit of a let-down by comparison. I remember finding an old television between two garages at the bottom of our street. Me and Philip Bell pulling little bits of circuitry out the back and wedging it in the torn cuffs of our tracksuits. Pretending to be bionic.
I remember when I couldn't pronounce the word asylum when I saw it in the Batman annual. I don't remember the story, but I do remember thinking Ahh yes, it's A SILE UM not Arsey lum – when a real Batman fan showed me some comic books in Forbidden Planet in my mid-teens.
I remember red and yellow Raleigh Burners. And blue tuff burners with yellow Skyway Tuff II mag wheels. I remember BMX Action Bike magazine on the back shelf in S & K Services in Blackhill. Keith was the mechanic. Shirley was the shop assistant who told me not to teach my granny to suck eggs when I reeled off, at the age of fourteen, the names of UK distributors for shiny bicycle components – that I thought she should stock and display in the front window for me to gawp at on my way to and from Blackfyne Comprehensive School....
GRATITUDE: Thanks to Jenni Pascoe for helping me to pull off another successful writing marathon today. And to all the great people who came to Arts Centre Washington, wrote and read around the table this afternoon. Cheers! 10.01pm.
Sunday 12th January 2025
I wish my belly matched my skinny arms. No matter how much weightlifting I did in the noughties, I never put much meat on the bones. But dieting took the flesh from my face before I could tighten my belt a notch or two. I think I've put on about a stone since Christmas. And now, all the excess writing marathon food.
A writing marathon is the only kind where you put on more weight than you lose. But it still has health benefits. We produced over 160 first drafts at the Arts Centre Washington yesterday. I'm looking forward to hearing some of them again in the coming months at events across the region. I can't remember any of mine as stand out pieces. There were some great ones from other writers: Helen Wilko's OXY tales, Sharon Milley's ‘He was a building site’. Dob Jenkins train encounter with David Bellamy. Helen Alexandra's poignant piece about her brother and another about meeting The Stereophonics on holiday. Jenni did a clever take on He's Got The Whole World in His Hands. Ivy wrote a piece about a gifted ring. Aaron Wright explained the world in reverse. Ian Williams's encountered a disgruntled actor. Lisette Auton gave us nine minutes to write at least ten sentences of stepping stones fiction. Lian Maltas wrote about a boy she met at school. James Whitman's series of uncouth poems and vignettes included one about Adam's rib cage and the fall of man. I got a good one about a fictional bed. I've told the tale of meeting Henry Rollins at Leeds Polytechnic loads of times. I should have done the time I recited Snow to Tyne Tees weather girl Lara Rostron instead. But never mind, if I use that prompt again, that’s the encounter I'm going to write.
The day went really well. We left the house in good time. All the buses were super swift. We were in the Arts Centre by quarter to nine. And pretty much set up by ten. Just a few final tweaks - like extra spoons and cutting quiche and opening packets. We had no absences. No tech issues. And twelve out of twenty sandwiches were eaten. The vegan quiche went, most of the veggie one, and I polished off the last of the all-day breakfast one when everyone had gone.
It took me and Jenni about an hour to tidy up and put away the tables and chairs. Then out for the bus back to The Galleries. Jen needed stuff at Gateshead Tesco, so it was about ten to six when we got back. I unpacked my case to get the remains of the perishable food back in the fridge. And I ate a few more little meaty bread buns for tea and supper. I think I slept for most of the time in between.
I came to bed about half eleven and was checking messages and updates till midnight. I told Jen I wanted to lie in till ten this morning, but I was awake about eight.
Today I will do type-ups of previous entries and will send copyright prompt info to the writers. Not many of the prompts relied on previously published material.
If I thought Ivy Hudson would see her messages and emails, I'd offer her the opening slot at next month's Poetry Jam. She was the only person present yesterday who hasn't done a guest slot at Waddy and has been doing open floor there for years. I hope she can get in touch by Thursday which is when I intend to do the publicity. And before February I need to know how to handle cash for tea and coffee in the cafe. Coz there's no more Fergus for hospitality. We might get another member of staff willing to do it. Or a Centre volunteer. Or maybe I'll just do it.
Anyway, before all that, I want to get up to date with my typing. And have I got enough suitable material for Ways with Words? Of course I have. I'm just going to repeat Friday's session on Tuesday. I have a work meeting next Wednesday and probably some sort of response to my health questionnaire on the mat when I get back tomorrow. And according to the weather forecast it's about minus six at my place. I hope it's all okay. Jen says the temps are up to double figures tomorrow, so I'll be fine putting the big computer on.
Me and Jenni fancied the cinema today but maybe the icy conditions will keep us in the attic. Jaene Fitzgerald says that Stanley is still under a blanket of snow. So Consett is sure to be. I hope all the snow fucks off in the next few days. I need to get back out on the old Rockhopper bike. I need to get back on track. I need to submit some bits of writing somewhere soon. But I might wait until I've been to Amanda Quinn's workshop at The Biscuit Factory.
I'm going to gift Amanda a copy of September Scrapbook. I'm hoping she'll deem the contents to be flash fiction. A lot of the pieces are flukes. Most of my best poems and vignettes are flukes. They come in single sittings and get tweaked later on. But I don't construct them like I'm using Mechano or Lego. ‘He Is A Building Site’ does not apply. He is a magician, a dream catcher, a muck spreader, a doomsayer and a piss taker. He is a grafter and a fixer, a facilitator, an encourager, a mover, a motivator. But all the best bits just fly out of the ether. Or the depths of my subconscious.
I'm so chuffed the marathon went well. I've been offered a half marathon off the back of it. Also, Lian Maltas has offered me free room hire which I aim to take her up on later in the year for an extended marathon, if we can have the space all day. That would be awesome. 9.30am.
WORK LOG: Morning Pages, email checks. Bits of feedback for the writers from yesterday's writing marathon. Keyed in some notes. OK. 11.02pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to Jenni for company and screening the opening day of the Masters Snooker live from Alexandra Palace. Enjoyed our marathon picky meals. And hot chocolate. OK. 11.03pm.
Monday 13th January 2025
What is it about Consett that buses hate so much? Why is it that many journeys involving my hometown are marred by delays and no shows, or breakdowns. Three and a half fucking hours to get from Jen's to mine. I stood at Victoria Road for 70 minutes. Seventy bastard minutes coz the 2.03pm didn't turn up and I didn't want to drag my wheelie case back up Bensham Bank and risk RSI in my left wrist so I stayed out. For an hour. Then ten minutes more. Finally, a woman, who came for another bus, told me there's no X70 this afternoon. She showed me her mobile. I'll get an X32 to Stanley then. “They're off till 20 past four.” Reluctantly, I dragged the case back up the hill and down to Askew Road. I got a 47 through Chopwell. I waited ten minutes in Consett for the Moorside bus. It didn't turn up. Fuck it. I got a Weardale bus at ten past five to Moorside. 10.25pm.
WORK LOG: Morning Pages. Email checks. Unpacked all the marathon stuff at home. Responded to invite for Lanchester meet the author gig. Finances. Booked Ivy Hudson for Poetry Jam. Prep for Waddy session. Journal. 11.25pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to Jenni for the bigly love. Thanks to Weardale buses for getting me back from Consett tonight. Thanks to all who commented on my bus post. Thanks to Ivy for getting back to me about doing Poetry Jam. OK. 11.20pm.
Tuesday 14th January 2025
I wrote down a lot of observations in the bus to Durham this morning. A whole workshop of material for next week, I reckon. Today’s was a repeat of Friday's session but with an assessment quiz tagged onto it. Afterwards I read an article about Neil Gaiman's fall from grace. And as Jenni said, Amanda Palmer doesn't come out of it looking very good either. I stayed back at Waddy till six talking about it with the Centre manager. And about some of my own hassles regarding employment. I got the long bus back via Stanley. But caught the X15 at the station. Home by quarter past seven. Fish fingers and grilled potatoes for tea. Then a bunch of copy ups. I've fallen behind on the typing but will get up to date later in the week. Very sleepy now. OK. 9.45 pm.
Wednesday 15th January 2025
Really hammered. Only got a fraction done today. I'm way behind and want a day when I don't have to go outside. I tried to do work, but other things got in the way. Fucked up the trimming of a new morning pages booklet and had to start all over again. I fell asleep whilst trying to watch the Marilyn Manson documentary that I fell asleep through last night. On the plus side I got some positive feedback for the promo info I sent to Durham libraries for upcoming participation in a County Durham local authors festival taking place next month. My ears are really fucking buzzing tonight. Cathedral cheese and crackers with Branston snack pack reduced to 25p for supper tonight. Big catch-up day required. Sleep now. 10.26pm.
Thursday 16th January 2025
Mostly just keying in previous entries. I've taken to using the mobile device coz I can focus more with a small screen and just one finger. Sure, it takes longer, but on the desktop I always find some distraction online or incoming messages. I could turn the net off I suppose. But the pocket device is handy. I think I've keyed in six or seven thousand words. With all but one of last weekend's marathon pieces still to do. And all the bus observational comments that came out of my pen on Tuesday morning. My feet are numb. But the rest of me is okay. I'm going to bed early tonight. I really must try to do desktop admin and picture edits/uploads tomorrow. Salmon paste sandwiches for supper. Maybe hot chocolate. 9.44pm.
Friday 17th January 2025
In the dream the little people are visited by celebrities as a sort of goodwill initiative after a political national catastrophe. Bono from U2 is in the chair nearest the telly in the far corner of our living room at West Road in Bridgehill. He has black jeans on, cowboy boots, and a bluey-purple paisley patterned shirt. His hair is shoulder length like in the late eighties. We still have the old stereo in the corner by the window closer to the door. I'm looking for stuff for him to sign. I have The Joshua Tree album but it's all water damaged and we can't find any marker pens. Ideally gold or silver. I’m sure there was a copy of Under a Blood Red Sky. Bono is quite content just sitting drinking a cup of tea. Mam’s in the kitchen baking cakes. But after ten minutes of my rummaging in drawers, I return to the front room and old B is on his feet now and he's made some sort of collage art. It's blue and grey splodges with crepe paper on it like an infant school frieze. It has torn bits of copier paper stuck on it, one with my name on and one that he's signed in blue biro. He's itching now to get away. We aren't really fazed by his visit. We just wanted to have something for him to sign, something to give him a purpose. I've never really enjoyed much by his band since Rattle and Hum anyway. But we don't want to hurt his feelings. Eventually, time is up and off he goes on the mini-link – that has come from Chopwell – to Blackhill, just a few minutes up the road from us, for his next goodwill appointment...
WORK LOG: Morning Pages, email checks, keyed in more stuff. Formatted pages. Uploaded writing marathon pix. Co-hosted Word Bank for Jenni with Emma Surtees. Journal. OK. 10.25pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to people for great feedback on marathon. Thanks to Emma Surtees for co-hosting Word Bank for Jenni. And all the people who came. OK. 10.26pm.
Saturday 18th January 2025
Last night's Word Bank was good, but I wasn't happy with my delivery. Me and Emma Surtees took on hosting duties for Jenni. Four of the North East scene writers/musicians were at WORD BANK last night. Gaeran Southern, Ross Punton, Marie Lightman and Ian McGregor Hart. It was a good night. We had Emma Surtees reading one of her poems about the local landscape. And a man called Ali reading a couple of his favourite poems for kids plus a run through of a new composition. “It's simple, stupid!” was the refrain about school difficulties. A man called Jo rapped to one of his own recordings. Jake, Marie's partner, played inspector gadget on the flute. I did Six Reasons to Stay in Bed, Bono Dream, Glasgow Riverside plus ‘And Another Morning Is Brittle’…
Very early pages at six then typed up. Then back to Consett for five or six hours. Got my workshop sorted for Tuesday. Then bus back to Gateshead. Me and Jenni had some sweet potato chips and watched the snooker. Kyren Wilson is 5-3 up on Judd Trump and overrunning the schedule. I've slept a bit as well. Good stuff. 10.25pm.
GRATITUDE: - Go North East for good bus connections. And to Jenni for reminding me of passwords for the computer to do my Word File key-ins, for sweet potato chips and all the bigly laughs. OK. 10.29pm.
Sunday 19th January 2025
Long day. Attended Amanda Quinn's workshop at the Biscuit Factory with seven other writers including Jen Wilson. It was a fiction session with a lot of discussion. I did three exercises. Surprised myself by putting a bunch of characters in a room. I gave Amanda a copy of September Scrapbook. Me and Jenni watched the masters snooker final. Shaun Murphy beat Kyren Wilson 10-7. OK. 10.56pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to Amanda Quinn for restoring my confidence for writing mini fictions. Thanks to Jenni for screening the snooker. Thanks to people for enquiring about next writing marathon. OK. 11.00pm.
Monday 20th January 2025
Day off. Me and Jenni went to see Nosferatu at VUE in Gateshead this afternoon. Good film. Pretty faithful to the Dracula narrative but set in Germany, not England. The cinematography is ace. Count Orlak has a bit of hair and isn't as grotesque as the 1922 vampire. I bought a shitty pasty for dinner and some reduced-price Eccles cakes. The networking event for North East freelancers is next Monday, not tonight, so we went back to VUE cinema for Wicked. I didn't think much of it at first, but it grew on me. Had a reduced-price Tesco cheese and ham sub then keyed in more notes. Watched two episodes of OUT THERE starring Martin Clunes as a farmer whose son gets into bother with drug dealers and people casing his property. Good stuff. Quite tired. 10.45pm.
Tuesday 21st January 2025
Yeah, today was pretty good. Morning pages at five o'clock. Back to sleep. Had some laughs with Jenni then out to Waddy for a workshop. We did more fiction stuff today. Overheard dialogues. What can go wrong? Stepping Stones for Stories. Using My Father Howled in his Sleep by Don Bajema. I stayed back after the session in hopes of formatting my 2025 Word file but couldn't get blue background off my copy and paste text from Messenger on the Waddy computer. It reformats automatically on mine at home. Two young men who sounded like ex-cons living in sheltered accommodation intrigued me all the way back on the bus but not enough to write in their voices. I had a cheese and pickled onion toastie for tea. Tonight, I just keyed in more notes in bed. It's the best place when you live in an unheated stone-floored house. I might read something before lights out. Seriously smoky cheese spread on toast for supper. Oh yeah! 10.25pm.
Wednesday 22nd January 2025
Cold day at the computer. Good to get the first Poetry Jam of the year promoted online. And the local authors festival that I'm part of next month. I'm told the weather is going to be really bad on Friday so our next Washington session might get cancelled. I've been struggling to piece together some good activities and reading material. Been in bed reading from various sources. Finding it difficult to stick with sustained fiction. I'm a poem and vignette type of guy. Or sustained nonfiction. I can stay with news articles and essays all day. But if the fictional prose doesn't grab and hold, I don't really care what the story is about. I'm in the process of listing a load of flash fiction for future use. I'm drinking hot chocolate after smoky cheese spread on toast. Hope to get a good sleep so I can crack on with workshop prep tomorrow. And if Friday is cancelled, I'll have a session in hand for February. OK. 10.34pm.
Thursday 23rd January 2025
Tom doesn't knock off till six. He's been at the factory a few months now. Said he'd only stay a couple of weeks at most, but his resolve is softening. Most of the gang on the factory floor are canny crack. One or two idiots, mind.
It's hard to be dismissive sometimes. Hard to bite your tongue. Especially when they start on the anti-immigration nonsense. The ‘coming over here stealing our jobs’ lark.
No, you've got a job, Sparky, and you hate it. I didn't know your aspiration was to be a rocket scientist or a brain surgeon. Go boil your head you ninkompoop.
But best not to cause bother.
The pendulum swings back and forth all day. The orders are picked, checked off the invoices, packed and despatched, repeat ad infinitum. Sometimes the atmosphere is light, sometimes Tom wants to strangle people. The pranksters in particular; little Robbie and his tartan paint brigade.
Tom thinks about people worse off than him. Using food banks. Eat or heat. Other privations. Those without a regular roof overhead. He wonders if he could hack night after night on the streets. He’s sent out a ton of applications for office jobs, his efforts unfruitful.
Tom knocks off at six. He prefers nightshift, when the big bosses are away. On the bus home he sees a gaunt reflection in the blackened windowpanes. Tired, hollow-eyed. Once he had fire in his heart, but an accident extinguished his dreams. You can't escape domestic necessity.
The bloke sitting opposite is reading the Metro. A docile puppet from across the pond is on the front page and outrage over a Nazi salute. Tom is thankful things aren't as bad round here. But it's a small world. One wrong tweet and it’s murder. Everyone knows your business. It's why he avoids owning a mobile phone.
Tom thinks about a chip shop supper, then remembers minimum wage doesn’t stretch a full five-week month. Beans on toast it is then. Those who escape the daily grind are magicians or criminals. God is a sadist.
WORK LOG: Morning Pages, email checks, key-ins. Marathon poster for April. Mega workshop prep for tomorrow. Fiction, memoir, poetry. Copy-ups. Journal. OK. 9.48pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to Daniel for setting up the next writing marathon link on Arts Centre Washington website. Thanks to Don Jenkins for requesting a Poetry Jam slot. Thanks to people for liking Poetry Jam and Marathon posters. Chuffed to find some ace self-generated memoir triggers for workshop. OK. 9.50pm.
Friday 24th January 2025
Another long day. Awake from about four this morning. The weather has been pretty wild but not as bad as I expected. Some of the regulars didn't make it to Washington today. I ditched the prepped workshop and winged the session with some basic exercises, and it went okay. So now I still have the mint session that took ten hours to prep in hand for next time. I stayed back at the Arts Centre this afternoon to do some typing. Bought some bits and pieces in Gateshead afterwards then off to Jen's place. Had red pepper soup and watched Corrie. Fell asleep during Gogglebox. And after the big rhubarb and custard supper, I am really tired and reckon I will be in bed well before midnight. Looking forward to a big sleep. OK. 11.05pm.
Saturday 25th January 2025
“You're more than a number in my little pink book; you're more than a...”
“YOU NEED THE TOILET.” Me and Jenni both laugh heartily.
Eventually I get out of bed after straining something in my ribcage and I don't know what.
“Imagine that,” says Jenni. “How did this happen Mr Urwin?”
“Well, doctor, I was saying little pink book, a bit too strenuously, and I think I've broken myself.” I stand up and laugh, look out of the window and see that the skeletal trees are no longer moving. The sky is a beautiful icy blue and the traffic is sparse. The place quite quiet.
I look down at my grey-black-blue-striped Wednesday Addams style gothy socks that seem to have slipped so the toe spaces are empty, and I say, “Something's happened to my feet.” Then laugh again and pad across the red carpet to the dark brown door and turn the sketchy handle.
The table on the attic landing still has kitchen roll sellotaped all over it from one of the month's earlier creative episodes. There's a cardboard box with several plastic beakers, bowls with lids, and a tin of cheap Tesco custard. Next to it is a black can of Tesco deodorant. The can has a grey logo and the cap is missing. I scoot past all this, make a left turn, and instinctively grab the dark brown wooden handrail to prevent my buoyancy from tipping me down the very steep and narrow green attic stairs.
At the bottom, the flimsy hardboard creaky door is ajar. Not wanting to make a noise, I turn sideways and squeeze my still-bloated-from-Xmas-X-cess self through the gap and onto the middle floor landing. There are no sounds coming from the rooms opposite. No hair dryers, no music, no lively chatter from young friends after a sleepover. I pass the big red steel drums that take up much of the space and see that the toilet door is closed tight with light visible through the small glass panel at the top. Someone surely busy with toilet business or a shower, so I keep moving past the door, past the little shelving unit dotted with cleaning products and a lonesome toothbrush and push open another door.
I slow down now coz the floor might be dodgy. And as the door swings open I am greeted by a small pool table leaning against the wall with the legs folded away. The door misses the edge of the table by about two inches. I wonder if somehow the table were to slip from its current position sideways and jam the door what would happen. How would people get in? How would I get in when needing to use the second toilet when the first is occupied? The second toilet is situated beyond a doorway at the far side of this room, which is choked with all sorts of boxes, bags, stacked lengths of laminate flooring, a girls' shopper bike. The floorboards are uneven, and I don't want my socks to snag on anything. There is only a two- or three-foot tramline the whole width of the room to the next doorway with the door removed.
And there, through the doorway is a white toilet with a wonky lid. I stop in front of it, I reach into the waistband of the charcoal shorts I wear nightly to cover my so-called dignity and aim my shrivelled appendage at the deep white bowl. There is a warm tingling sensation, and the jet of liquid goes into the centre of the water in the bowl and, surprisingly isn't very dark. I don't have to wait long for the yellow to stop completely. My right hand reaches back to the side and grabs at the loose end of a toilet roll. I pull and the paper unravels. Then my left hand steadies the roll on the low window ledge, and I tear off a length a few sheets long and use this to dry myself. I return my appendage to the inside of my underwear. I then run the tap next to the toilet. There is a swivel mirror above the sink basin spattered with toothpaste. I fire a little soap from a dispenser bottle into my right palm and wash my hands. After the soap suds have all rinsed away l, turn off the tap then reach for more toilet roll to dry my hands. Some of the paper sticks to my skin and I have to peel it off. When I'm dry, I drop the screwed up soggy lump of toilet paper into the toilet bowl and flush it away with the little silver handle on the right front corner of the cistern. The handle is loose, and I wonder how long before a plumber or DIY person will be required.
I turn and walk back through the storage space, past the leaning pool table, through the doorway. I see Jenni approaching. I look to my right to see that toilet number one has been vacated. Jenni looks at me, laughs, and goes in.
I come back up the steep green stairs to the attic and the kettle. 9.31am.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to all the people who wished me a Happy Birthday. Over a hundred of them. Thanks to Jenni for the snooker philosophy book, the original history of punk book, Frank Skinner's How to Enjoy Poetry. Reese chocolate bar and pretzels. New comfy slippers, the powerpack for recharging mobiles, and a bear head razor. Thanks to Mam and Ernie for the lovely card and cheque. Jenni for the Nosferatu card, lovely quiche with chips and beans, and treacle sticky toffee pudding. Thanks for telly screenings, including San Francisco Bay Area thrash metal documentary. Thanks for all the bigly love. OK. 11.30pm.
Sunday 26th January 2025
Big lie in. Then two and a half hours of typing. Nice chicken and mushroom pie with veg for dinner. Then afternoon some sports comedy quiz show. More game shows and two episodes of county lines drama Out There starring Martin Clunes. Been tired. Mainly lazing and drinking lots of hot squash. Think me and Jenni are going to watch the rest of Out There. OK. 11.00pm.
Monday 27th January 2025
Our There. Six bloody episodes, no conclusion, and no guarantee of a second series. Jenni cooked us a lot of vegetables and rice. I got some bits of typing done. This afternoon I went out to Gateshead for the freelance networking event at the library. Very good. Enjoyed the presentations by Bethan Laker and Sarah Raad. Bought milk and steak bakes in Tesco on the way back to the attic. Watched a bit of Coronation Street and did more typing. Second steak bake for supper. Jenni is screening episodes of The Fast Show. I need to be off to bed soon for an early start tomorrow. OK. 11.00pm.
Tuesday 28th January 2025
Long day. I'm pleased the workshop prepped for Washington last week worked at Waddy this afternoon. I stayed back and had to shift to another room to make way for a meeting, so it took me an hour to resort all my papers after the quick get out. I got home about half past six to a lack of food so had to go back out for a full week's grocery shopping. I got a reduced-price bag of two festive bakes at Morrisons for a quid and had them with Stockwell beans from Tesco at nine fifteen for tea/supper. I bought copier paper. And a copy of The People's Friend coz it had an Amanda Quinn story in it. I've read a few pages of Vanessa Gebbie's games for writers, but I'm behind on my typing again. It's gone eleven and I've done no proper work since getting home. I'm hearing bad things about America wanting access to the NHS in any future trade deal with the UK. Trump is not your saviour. OK. 11.02pm.
WORK LOG: Morning Pages, email checks, bag pack for Waddy. Room set-up. Photocopying. Student feedback notes typed up. Session was Stepping Stones read backs. Freewrite speed runs. More microfiction. Golden cups – dramatic scene-setting one-liners. Anaphora in flash fiction. I Shall Paint My Nails Red. Journal and morning pages text formatting. Fiction research. Journal. OK. 11.06pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to all at Waddy for workshop, Jenni for laughs and cuddles, Morrisons for reduced price (two for a quid) festive bakes in late January. OK. 11.05pm.
Wednesday 29th January 2025
Spent most of today in bed. Not due to fatigue or illness. It's purely down to economics. Much cheaper to stay warm under cover and just work on a tiny mobile device rather than heat a room and sit at a desktop PC all day. I've keyed in morning pages and other notes. And I've read some of One Chord Wonders – Power and Meaning in Punk Rock by Dave Laing. The forward is by TV Smith. The intro that follows it reads like a PhD thesis and is a little off-putting, but possibly done deliberately to prove a seventies music subculture is worthy of academic investigation. Thankfully, the subsequent text is a lot more accessible. It will be good. I've prepped next week's workshop for Durham Carers Association. And I have one to hand for Washington Writers. I just need to sort stuff for Waddy by next Tuesday. But now, more One Chord Wonders. 11.08pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to Ivy Hudson for enquiry about two places for next Writing Marathon. Thanks to people on Facebook for links to political updates. To Glen Matlock for drawing my attention to All or Nothing by The Small Faces. To Jenni for getting One Chord Wonders punk book by Dave Laing for my birthday. OK. 11.13pm.
Thursday 30th January 2025
Today didn't go as expected. I thought the online training for Equality and Diversity, Health and Safety, and Safeguarding would only take a couple of hours. Half eleven till half six. Hassle with remote access to college system, unable to get through on the phone, wrong passwords for new pay log, etc... Training material took ages to read. I don't remember much of it. But somehow, because I could guess from multiple choice answers I got one hundred percent correct on first course assessment. Eighty something on my second attempt for Health and Safety. But Safeguarding took four attempts coz they changed the questions every time. I only got seventy percent. All of it was excruciating. Horrible. I hate being put on the spot. Hate being told what to do. And it's hard to learn in a foul mood. So I got very little of my own stuff done. Sometimes I can be too honest for my own good. At least I had a canny Messenger chat with Jenni about an online Valuing our Creative Worth workshop. And I enjoyed Losing My Faith, the new single by Jeff Mantas from Venom. Sleep soon. 10.43pm.
GRATITUDE: Thanks to New College Durham IT staff for remote access passwords. Thanks to Jenni for link to Valuing Your Own Worth workshop video. Jeff from Venom for Losing My Faith new single. And thanks to the chicken that made the ultimate sacrifice for my tea. OK. 10.52pm.
Friday 31st January 2025
Happy for me, Happy for you. Unhappy for me, unhappy for you. A place I found something, a place I lost something. I liked Weardale. Or Sheer Gale, as we called it, due to the invariably high winds up on those rock fields, regardless of how calm it might be a couple of miles away. In summer we would spend alternate Sundays training on the grippy light grey rocky outcrops, hopping our little seatless aluminium bikes up onto boulders and off again, timing out manoeuvres between gusts, choosing the sweet moments to lift our front wheels above terra ferma so as not to be blown away spectacularly, risking fatal injury. I loved it up there. Out of the way of work worries. Far from domestic chores. Just me and you, and our little trials bikes. Me in my mid-thirties, you in your late twenties. Such a pity that repetitive strain injury spoiled everything.
In recent years, almost two decades after our regular adventures, I've thought about trying to get there myself on the old Rockhopper 27-speed, but the risk of a mechanical out there in the hills is too great. We used to go in your little yellow car. I'm an old man now, just the ride there and back on two wheels would be enough to wear me out without attempting anything challenging. The visit would be pointless. And even if I booked a taxi at great expense, either of my bikes could still get damaged in the first five minutes. Yes, I am an old man. And daydreams often lead to disaster.
I mostly ride local now. You live in another place. And no longer drive. We rarely see each other. Last March for the Hans Rey spoken word bike show was our first meet-up for almost a decade. No-one is getting any younger. I haven't done any proper physical exercise since the turn of the year.
Today I have much work to do. And have only now remembered the electricity bill is to pay. Maybe I should do it before I start work. I think that might be a good idea. A slow walk up the hill to The Grove to hand over £183.30. Then a slow walk back to type up these pages on the mobile. Maybe a late morning snack. And then the big computer. And hopefully, today, no nasty surprises, no external obligations. No jarring protocol.
Yesterday I spent about five or six hours doing college training so I can continue to run one workshop a week at Waddy. Is training factored into my earnings as holiday entitlement? Last night I watched a video of a recent zoom workshop explaining how to get better at charging higher rates of pay for freelance work. No-one of my stature consistently earns the recommended artist day rate of £250-£300 for putting words on paper. Who gets paid for reflection and recharging the batteries? Some people live in a fucking dream world. You have to laugh, don't you. Laugh or you'll cry. But hey tomorrow is the start of a new month. Tomorrow we can say, Don't worry, the clocks go forward an hour next month. Longer days, lighter nights. The promise of lively outdoor pursuits. But for the meantime, things will remain mean, lean, difficult. I'm lucky though. Still doing better than a lot of people – even as I like in my old single bed, in three layers of clothing, with a beanie on my head. Working now to my own schedule.
Thirty years ago, I hadn't a clue how to get out of the rat race. Some would say a total mental breakdown and bipolar affective disorder diagnosis is too great a price to pay for escape. And sure, it's not the way I would have liked to effect change. But sometimes, life takes matters into its own hands on your behalf.
So, I'm bipolar. I'm avoiding conventional employment by ducking and diving, getting paid creative work when I can. Plotting and scheming for the weeks, months, years ahead. Oh yes, I am in this for the long haul.
Today I will pay my electricity bill, and I will boot up the big machine, and I will edit myself into presentability. I will get the first SCRIBBLES FROM THE BRINK OF INERTIA online. Will it be clipped phrasing, reportage, just bare facts. Or will it include lyrical extracts. Bits from morning pages and workshops. Will anyone read it? Sometimes when I meet people for the first time they say, I read your blog – but they don't acknowledge it online. How many people see what I say and keep quiet about it? If you only do things to impress people you're risking a lot of disappointment.
I hope some people continue to like my stuff, but I don't expect a big applause every day. You just have to buckle up and knuckle down and make your way. Do it for you. Or at least I do. I do it for me. And hopefully, good things will come of it. Okay. 9.12am.
The opening lines of this final entry paraphrase a writing prompt by Vanessa Gebbie from 51 AND A HALF (Ad Hoc Fiction, 2023).
