So London survived the Tube Strike and normal service has resumed. The trains are once again the everyday cluster fuck of Michael Kors bags and passive aggression. There is no eye contact and we all stick to the axiom: Thy neighbour is an asshole.
Greatest city in the world.
I make myself a coffee and the two most boring bastards in England (it was a tie last time they held the competition) talk about football, standing just close enough to the machine for it to piss me off, but not close enough for me to ask them to move out of the way. It’s their morning ritual. ‘Torres’ this and ‘Messi’ that. My footballing knowledge starts and ends with Bend It Like Beckham. Which is fine by me.
For a split-second, I pine for a coffee machine friend. ‘Asimov’ this and ‘Greene’ that. ‘Look at that sad bastard,’ the football twins will say. ‘Standing in the kitchen talking about books.’
I guess what piques the interest is subjective. Which is a shame.
So I mope back to my desk, sans early morning chubby from some simulating conversation about whether Amis will ever hit the heights of Money again and I try to think of something interesting to Tweet.
“Enjoy” would be too strong a word, but I am starting to “get” Twitter. I have over 700 followers now, most of whom I think might even be genuine people. The odd retweet or favourite gives me the metaphorical pat on the back I need to persist, but whenever I promote my blog I always feel a little dirty. Like I’ve walked out of backstreet massage parlour in broad daylight.
The one thing I have discovered about Twitter is that people are really into coffee and God. This could explain why my initial bio that read “Fisting and Warren Zevon” was not terribly successful.
But I find the coffee love a bit of a cop out. ‘Oh, you like caffeine, do you? You’re an addict? You crazy motherfucker.’ It’s hardly Renton and Sick Boy. Tell me something interesting.
And the God thing? Well, it’s nice that people believe in something. It really is. I don’t judge. I’m kind of envious, to be honest; I am a theological husk. Personally, the only thing I truly believe is that it is possible to complete every level of Angry Birds using only one bird. Scientists have yet to find any concrete proof of this theory, but I’m pressing for it to be added to the UK school curriculum nonetheless.
I resume the never ending slog of writing. Well, I guess it seems like a slog at first, but it’s really rather beautiful when I eventually pull my nose out of Facebook and get started.
Some guy I hate from my hometown has bought a secondhand Renault. Lovely.
Novel update: The first two-thirds have had their initial edit. A few weeks and I’ll be on the third draft. It’s darker than I planned, which is no bad thing in my opinion. If he were a character in another person’s novel, my protagonist would be the villain. I always root for the bad guys anyway. They’re sharper, more complex and they dress better. I’ve given him enough likeable traits so as not to make him repulsive (thanks for the advice on that one, internet) and I’ve introduced a real villain. That guy makes the protagonist look like Mother Teresa.
Yesterday I wrote a sex scene. Three-way in a steam room. Unfortunately, not based on personal experience. Well, the steam room is based the one I visit at the gym, but the most erotic thing to ever happen to me in there was accidently sitting on a girl’s thumb. Vision obscured. It was a Tuesday morning and the weekend was still lingering. These things happen.
But enough. Spoilers!
I use my short stories as a palate cleanser. When the novel becomes too much – and it often does – I work on a short. Keeps the creative juices bubbling away and it feels fresh and exciting to boot. Last night I finished the first one (in a set of about 10 – they’re interconnected because I like that kind of shit). I’ll send it to an editor to rip apart, then I’ll probably quit this blog on the back of the feedback.
I jest. It’s a masterpiece.