I’m moving to an Apple Mac so am tidying up the files – or is that just another excuse for procrastination? But I am writing and editing while I do it, so everything is getting a quick splash on the face with a wet flannel, which is good. I’m even thinking of counting all these things in the Fiction file – what a horrifying thought…I’m off to do it. Back soon.
83! And that’s just the fiction file. Wait while I go check on the Novels; there are 11 at various stages, from thousand-word notes to 45k. 75 poems, in all stages of undress, wait to be tarted-up, bejewelled and polished. Wow. I had no idea there was so much. Why do I languish like this? I’m not ill, depressed or dejected; if I don’t get a move on I’ll pop my clogs and leave behind a complete state of unreadiness – just call me Irene-the-unready.
Perhaps I should outline the life I’ve got (or might have) left, like a novel. I figure that because my family are not long-lived, there’s only about fifteen years ahead of me – that I can probably count on…if we can count on anything, which we can’t. So I’d better hurry up if I want the publishing of the prose on this side of the arc. A lot of poetry was published in the early years, then a flash in the late 90s. During this spring-clean I must prepare the poems for a postal summer.
I popped into the Apple shop last week and had a nice little play with the new laptop, asked all the questions I’d been harbouring and came home counting money in my head. Soon, very soon the lovely white machine will be mine and all the work I’ve refreshed and tidied can have another shower and perhaps be moved one step nearer to finished – only talking about the fiction and poetry, not the novels; I don’t dare touch any of them right now in case I’m dragged off the WIP.
The WIP has had a very serious operation on its first chapter; I stripped it down to the skeleton by cutting over a thousand words and have only just laid some skin back on it with a light padding of muscle. It was at 37k but is barely 33k now from all the recent editing. I need to get back and get the middle written so I can write the end; I know that sounds strange but I’ve only just worked out what happens and that re-ignited the spark. So, on with it Cunningham.