Oblomovka

2023-03-13»

I remember reading at some impressionable age that there was “no such thing as writer’s block”. I don’t recall the context, but I’m guessing it was the same as my friends who said “there’s no such thing as jetlag”: a small crucifix to wield at the devil itself, rather than a statement of fact.

I don’t know about a “block”, but I have traumatic amounts of writer’s procrastination. Apart from it taking a starring role in my bio, I spent a lot of life devising increasingly byzantine ways of handling it — mostly through invented draconian punishments, and commandeering friends or co-workers to execute on them. When I wrote stage shows, my sinister manager figure, Ed Smith the VIII, literally locked me in a room to write them. When I wrote NTK, I would stay up all Thursday night until five (AM or PM) and I could feel the hot glares of its readers on the back of my neck. My columns were extracted by force. My various writing gigs were gently prised out of my hands by family who never wanted to see me suffer again.

And yet, shit got written. I just spent a few minutes procrastinating by looking through Oblomovka’s back catalogue — ostensibly to find other times I complained about all this, and a) that I remember none of this nor how it got done, and b) it’s fine. Even the 2008 Nanowrimo is okay in retrospect!

Anyway, the point of this is that I’ve been feeling some heavy back-pressure in my head to start writing things down. For the last few years, I’ve been mostly pursuing a role as oral storyteller, where I give (largely unrecorded) talks about what I think, and then people constantly harangue me to document it more permanently. I have slowly realised that I am leaning a little more heavily on my charming British accent than actual facts in my statements, so just for everyone’s safety, I should probably switch to structured text.

Secondly, back at the day job, as our duties and responsibilities have grown, so has my ability to keep it together in my head, shrunk. Processes must be recorded. Atittudes explained. Yelps of discontent justified. The Sumerian brainhack must be reactivated, Socrates be damned!

So I’m writing again. 200 words at least a day here, other wordage elsewhere. Forgive me the heavy drinking, the bouts of undirected anger, the weeping and the sleep deprivation. Onward!

(400 words)

Tags: public, writing
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2008-11-01»

Here’s the link to where I’ll be dumping my Nanowrimo novel. I managed to do 1969 words in the first day. Suggestions for plot developments and new barely-disguised cameos gratefully received.

I realise that not everyone is as glued to the election as I am, so here’s a selection of fun (or disturbing) video that you may or may not have seen:

Charles meets Obama. Will make Obamatrons cry, especially the young and old.

Democrat attack ad uses Palin. For Democrats who want their party to get dirty, but also like tweedly Apple ads.

Palin fans explain why they’re voting for John McCain. Depressing for almost everyone.

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2008-10-22»

If there’s one thing in my queue that I’m absolutely dreading doing, I tend to clatter to a halt for days while I steadfastly refuse to do it. I’ve had one of those for the last few days, and finally somehow tricked my subconscious to actually finish it (which took all of five minutes).

The funny thing is that when I have a few things on the boil, this seems to happen less often. I’ve certainly noticed that since blogging dropped off my daily schedule, I’ve found it harder to get other matters done quite so punctually.

Clearly, I need more distractions. So, I’m going to start up blogging again, and then I’m going to double-down and try this year’s nanowrimo. There’s five other people in the office having a go, so we’ll have some camaraderie.

My last attempt was a terrifically gloomy science fiction novel in a future where libertarian cryptopunks (a recurring theme, no?) have suffered a catastrophic collapse in their plucky sea-based micronation, and now have to survive, gypsy/ashkenazi like in a puritanically zero-privacy secular environment.

It was fun to write, but absolutely no fun to read. I hope to reverse that equation this November, when I’ll be adopting the most potentially humiliating possible literary form ever mishandled by amateurs: the contemporary satire. Don’t ask me why. I have also been insulting petty bureacrats of late. I have been seen wearing a hat and some bright colours. My bourgeoisie instincts are failing me. I smell an imminently awful turn of events.

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