NaNoWriMoWeUp4

Day Twenty-Two: 1,314. Still not doing well to recover my lost average, but this wasn't bad. I would've stuck with it, but I've got an early dentist's appointment tomorrow.
   Almost thought I was going to start in the evening, rather than at night, and then I wouldn't have had this problem, but it's an ongoing process... I'm trying to find consistent will power [or a way of living that'll support whatever sleep cycle I want would be nice!], so fingers crossed.

Day Twenty-Three: 3,543. Nice! Two big bursts [steady now...] have seen me take a chunk out of my deficit [still euphemistic?]. Did the wine help or hinder? Is this the start of better, prolonged practice?
   Who knows!

Day Twenty-Four: 2,042. A bit 'meh'. I was treading water for a bit, struggled for motivation halfway through and had sneezing fits just as I was finding mojo...
   Still, not bad. Only about seven and a half thousand words to go now. Seems the end is in sight...

Day Twenty-Five: 540. More done on the bus. Not ideal.

Day Twenty-Six: 937. I let football take precedence. I feel that going ahead so early with my word count has diminished my drive, which is exactly what I didn't want to happen really.

Day Twenty-Seven: 2,169. Despite a lovely trip to Liverpool [hopefully more on that to follow], found time to crack out a decent amount of content. Hey ho.

Day Twenty-Eight: 376. Wrote with TV on and a phone game being played... It's no wonder I felt like I was banging my head against a wall [please don't try that at home kids. Or anywhere else for that matter...]. Now have to write over my original daily aim [1,667 words] each day to reach the overall goal.
   Down to the wire!

An End

Today I handed in my MA dissertation ('manuscript' as it is better known in Creative Writing...). It represents not only the culmination of many years of work and thought, but also probably the final university assignment I'll ever hand in. I love education and 'the' educational process, but for me a PhD represents going on to teach, so, aside from the money argument, I don't think a PhD is for me. Plus, if you're wondering, though I love the idea of teaching, I'm not responsible enough. Or talented enough, lol.

I've written before about how certain times of year, representing for us Western further-educationeers beginnings and endings of major cyclical significance, bring to mind past memories as well as future hopes and anxieties. Well this time, as I handed in my collection of poetry titled 'Ontolangue', I didn't really feel the heaviness of the situation. I mean, sure, there was the anxiety of the fact that I've handed in a big part of my life and I don't think it's of a great standard, but for the future that I can be in control of, there's nothing. There's just 'freedom'.

Aside from the household/personal issues I'm dealing with, and searching for a job, I have a degree of freedom that's unparalleled since before I started my MA two years ago. Back then, I surprised myself how professional I was, reading regularly and writing often. I'm keen to get back to this 'open plan' living. I have to catch up on my diary project (that I intentionally suspended while Ontolangue was finished), but am looking forward to my 'itty bitty poetry', my sci-fi fiction and, y'know, all the stuff that pops up when you think you're in control.

Socially this means a lot of meeting up with friends (so beware! If I know where you live I'll be paying you a visit), watching all the footy I can and hopefully re-going to readings, especially Storm and Golden Sky, which I was enjoying before certain shits hit certain fans.

Hey, the future's pretty bright. Let's look forward!

Peace and love,

Martin x

[Dated 1.9.2014]

I'm Not Literary

And it disgusts me...

Yes I'm feeling this, rather than trying to cement my position as a snob. But it's all I have.

I don't know - this isn't even a proper post... I just wonder sometimes why people do things. If you're not literary then you are (based on my limited perceptions) looking for popularity or money. What else?

And what's wrong with that? Nothing. Inherently at least. I have friends who are already making their mark in the world of plottish-series fiction, and doing a good job. But where is the reach out to poetry, the thing that links everything to humanity? Not human interest, but humanity?

I've written pages and pages on single elements within this rubbish post, but I don't think they'll find the light of day. The main thing I want to do is stimulate discussion (or at least thought).

Sorry, this is a poor attempt.

Sorry, goodbye.

Honestly Lacerated Love-Bites

Taunt wraith-like sabotage,
Ungodliest bonehead ponce.
Beef hot death-bed hen,
Suck off homiest sprung rhythm.
Good! Inconstant, burbling,
Warm disenchanted dungeons –
The pedophile up her legend.
Tidy convivial wrencher cheapens
Useful capricious sedition.
Fool! So true, fury.
Hallowedly nauseate slick vanity,
Innovate. Outlast tube.
Moth-eaten, thrashes hotter –
Shhh! I am wise, if offend,
Mightiest, meriting blooding.
Witch watch, grow plot,
The exact, pottiest lush.
Adore hot stuff (of hung thug),
Duteously, honour devotee,
Ship. And spit. In Satanist,
Faultily idle by cow hand,
Suffocate or armpit.

Enchant, five hack thug!

Ha ha! Bed-wetting atheist –

Evildoer of fearful moron.

I’m the handsome wages.