Mean As Custard (calico_pye) wrote,
Mean As Custard


I lie here in my room and my lamp is golden orange and fairy lights round my mirror are set to purple. I do this to create my own sunset, especially when days have become dark and cold again, when the rain is angry and the wind is high.

I have been pondering on why I'm not writing my own stuff for a living, why am I training to proofread other people's work and then I'm reminded that at least if I'm successful at it, I won't be going back to jobs that make me feel less than human. Before my degree, I wrote reams. I have barely written a word since. Well, maybe fanfic - a dirty limerick here, a twisted fairy tale there, oh and a 'The Prisoner' epilogue. Most of which was a rehash of stuff past and never as prolific as before.

What happened along the way? Did I just dry up somehow and forget how to write? Or did I just put my heart and soul into it, but found that even if I have kudos to show for it, it was still love unrequited? I am good at writing 2,000 word flash fiction - should I write 50 separate thoughts in 2,000 word bursts and call 'em chapters? Make a book that way? Just how the hell can I get started?

For the Straight A Student here has low self confidence when it comes to writing her own stuff. I once wrote about a stranded sea mammal floundering on a shoreline and a fisherman came to catch it. When he got near, it was motionless and quite dead. He admired its bejewelled fins and dark eyes, its skin with the smooth sheen. He noticed a hook in her mouth and when he removed it, she gave a gasp of air and sat up as a woman.

It was surreal, the closest thing I have written to magical realism and I wrote it while in recovery. I was processing something and when I gave that script to a friend, she didn't expect to be hooked herself. She thought it was beautiful, profound and couldn't understand why I shredded it all and erased all the files linked to it. Because I wanted to heal. Because I wanted the hook to be removed from my mouth.

The hook remains...

I have writer's mags stacked high, unopened, I have random plot generators abound. My father was a writer who was out of his time. He wrote short stories and a play that was going for a reading on R4. It got shelved. He never wrote again. I don't want that heartbreak. Being married to or a child of a man, who is a would-be writer, is a complicated thing. I have a childhood full of shut doors and a father who was an archipelago, with no easy access. My parents eventually split up. My own marriage is stable, but has prerequisites to remain that way. We all make sacrifices and I don't know how Hubby would tolerate just leaving me to my own devices. He's not very good at that - none of my family are. During my degree, we had several arguments about this.

Forgive my present writing style - it is late and I am now typing this on a phone, with the lights at another preset - a blue lamp and a string of yellow LEDs. It is dusk, with a rising moon, or maybe a cathdral at Evensong, candles burning on an altar.

I hope I'll resolve this. I will have to proofread this tomorrow and with extra thick curtains now attached, I may just get my 7+ hours in.

Goodnight :-)
Tags: ramblings of a frustrated writer, the black dog, writing

  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.