Of Weak-Willed Wibbles February 26, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal , 16 commentsOk. I have a confession. After a midweek catflappery incident, I did what I’d promised I wouldn’t do. I opened a bottle of red. Even before it was poured, I felt disappointed in myself. But there it sat, glowing richly in its glass, catching the light with its beautiful temptingness. I eyed it up warily, as you would a lover after a fight, not wanting to give in but relishing the inevitable. Then I poured it back in the bottle. The wine was French. It still is. You’d guess this if you could see it pouting petulantly on the kitchen worktop.
It’s shrugging off its rejection with a Gallic shrug. ‘So ziss ees it? You believe you will do wizzout me now?’ it asks, like a character from ‘Allo ‘Allo.
My grandfather was French. I can shrug with the best of ‘em. ‘Sorry love. It’s been fun, yeah?’
I wanted to write about the pain, torment and wranglings of avoiding the wine department in the supermarket. The utter hopelessness that has previously been the case when I’ve tried to give up. Stuff like that. But I can’t. It hasn’t happened. I even went to a party last weekend and enjoyed a single glass of champagne without crumbling out of control.
What I have learned though is that I like being a control freak even more than I like a glass of wine.
So. The writing? I’ve been struggling with shorts (the stories, not the clothes). I find them harder than novelling, since each word needs to perform properly. With the novel, well, I sort of think that churning out 500 words before work is good, since they can be polished up at the distant end. So long as I’ve produced something, I’m achieving something positive. Control-freak me has gone off this approach now. It’s a bit like when you walk around the office wearing an earnest expression and holding a piece of paper. It looks good but doesn’t *actually* achieve anything. (Carrying a torch when halfheartedly looking for something is another top tip. Even if it’s not dark, the torch makes the whole process just that little bit searchier somehow?)
I’ll have to carry on with the fiction in my bid for fame, won’t I? Channel 4 will have to stick with their plans to serialise some out-of-work soap actor battling the booze. Having me wander about with a cuppa, shrugging, however Frenchly, that I’m not really that fussed isn’t going to get the ratings.
My inner drama queen’s having a huff. ‘It’s all so utterly dull,’ she wails. She has even stamped her foot.
Right then. Things to do. Like deciding what to wear to The London tomorrow. I’m meeting someone for, ahem, drinks. Someone I went on a date with, er, 22 years ago? Today, I shall be practising holding my tummy in. I expect he’s busy with his comb-over. It’s not a date but, still, it’s never good when people think we’ve gone to seed, is it? Even 2 weeks on the wagon haven’t made me look 18 again. Oh dear. Pass the blue sherry.
Of Reckless Reinvention February 16, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 28 commentsI used to be terribly quiet you know. When I started work I felt perpetually sick, my stomach lurching every time the phone rang, so nervous was I of ever having to speak to anyone. I realised, somewhere along the line, that I was embarrassed about being so shy, so introverted. It wasn’t sweet, it was pathetic. So I pretended. I looked at how the other girls I worked with interacted with people and I copied them. I did it so much it became a habit. It became who I am.
Also, I used to smoke. A lot. I started when I was 15 – I thought it would make me cool. It didn’t. It made me cough. Trying to give up the fags after 40 a day for 5 years was a killer. Especially when combined with endless nights out. The new gregarious me took socialising to Olympic competitive levels. I did give up the ciggies though, not by ‘trying’ but getting up one day and telling anyone who’d listen that I didn’t smoke anymore. Instead of a cajoling ‘oh, go on’ they looked impressed and put their packets away. That was another new me. A me who was a non-smoker.
I don’t know why I’ve suddenly started thinking about all this stuff. It was, after all, twenty-odd years ago. I’ve been thinking about life too much lately. Making decisions. Mostly wrong ones, it seems, since I’m not that keen on them. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Being a practiced procrastinator, of course, tomorrow always marks the start of the rest of my life. But it’s time now. I decided on Sunday that tomorrow would indeed be the start of the rest of my life. If I could become a braver me, a non-smoking me by pretending and adopting those facades, then I can become a writer by doing the same. 6 weeks. That’s long enough for new habits to become traits. That’s how long I’ve given myself. There are other departments of myself I want to change too. There will be no wine, for a start. Oi! Stop laughing! There won’t. I mean, there isn’t.
Reinventing yourself in 6 weeks? Can it be done? Who knows? I’m doing it though. It appeals to my obsessive nature. And, best of all, it’s vital research into Novel II. I can’t tell you more than that or I’d have to kill you. And that would be a shame, wouldn’t it? Murderous urges weren’t on the list of ingredients for the new flavour of ‘me’.
Of Existential Excuses February 3, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Allergic to Children, Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis , 14 commentsI had an email yesterday. ‘You blog needs updating, Honey,’ it nudged. Another last night asked ‘Have you dropped off the edge of the planet or just the edge of reality?’. Hmmm.
I’d like to inform you, dear reader, that I have spent the last month immersed in my writing. Sadly, I can’t do that, ‘cos it’s not true. Bugger.
I don’t think it’s *actually* possible to drop off the edge of reality. Reality isn’t flat, for a start – if it is, you’re doing it wrong. My reality, it seems, is a deep, dark well. The drips of real life are fermenting, becoming viscous in the gloom. The droplets stick to me and smell a little bit manky. I can’t describe the smell. It’s sort of the opposite of Jelly Tots, if that helps?
There has been children stuff to contend with, amongst other things. Son No. 2 must choose his GCSE preferences by Friday. ‘I’ll have to take the higher level ICT course if I’m gonna be a games designer,’ he informed me wisely. ‘But if I’m no good at that, I might be an archaeologist instead.’ Er… what? Yes, that’s great, Son 2. I’d like to be a lion tamer and a hot air balloonist. I’m not though. Here, have a go in the Well of Reality. I do realise, of course, that lobbing your offspring into the pit of dashed dreams isn’t in the parental job description. Hmmm again.
Son 1 is choosing his A Levels. He is being very sensible, drawing up lists and combinations of amazing academic cleverness. In between these moments, he is studying hard for his GCSE’s. People of Sussex, if you hear the demented screams of ‘You’re not going to get an A-star in MSN chatting you know,’ that might be me. Oh, good God. When did I become that person?
Novel 2 is… well, I like the idea so much, I actually want to live the main character’s life. That’s a bit sad, isn’t it? This means one of two things: I’m just terribly excited about writing Novel 2 OR I’m sooooooo on the verge of a mid-life crisis.
*Goes off to weave daisies into her plaited hair…*
Yes, my brain is in a pickle. Oh dear. So long as the good and exciting bits at least manage to make a dent in the ‘reality’ and ‘plain daft’, it’s probably going ok though. Isn’t it?
