Been a hectic week at work so far, mainly because I extended my Christmas break. Unfortunately others didn't, so I returned to a pile of emails even after my lot had gone through my inbox deleting the crap. Still, a couple of evenings' work and I'm more or less back on track. When I retire or win the lottery, I'm staying well away from my professional world and letting others enjoy its pleasures . . . .
Listening to Big M's requiem on the radio and enjoying catching up on internet stuff. I suppose I should be slapping paint on inanimate lumps of lead, but can't be bothered. I know people who spend every spare moment painting their figures, but to me that's a virtual cottage industry. I much prefer the relaxed approach, which is probably why I don't get too much done.
Did I ever tell you I was going to write the great British novel one day? I'm not a professional or even frequent writer; in fact I don't write at all. However, I will write this millenium's block buster. Being totally unskilled, I thought I'd better pick up the major techniques and so bought a couple of 'how to' books and boned up on the appropriate sections of the interweb. Unfortunately, the only writing skill I seem to have acquired is writer's block. Can't think of a bloody thing to write about. Not a story line, not a bleedin' character, not bugger all. However, undeterred, I intend to persevere. I've done all the important inspirational stuff like drinking to excess (Dylan Thomas), locking myself away (Camus) and sitting for hours in cafes (Rowling) so something should come to the surface soon even though Chris insists it's most likely to be a boil.
I want to write a 'clever' novel, filled with references and allusions so that my book can be put on shelves away from shite like the Mills & Boone or pulp stuff or those unending, almost identical books by scribblers such as Georgette Heyer or Judy whoever. Umberto Eco would be a suitable shelf companion. It could be used as a status symbol like the great works that lots of people own, but have never read or read but not understood. It'd be carried onto trains (first class only) and left on the table while the traveller reads his or her complementary Times or plays on their laptop. Useful to carry round parks and suitable brasseries to impress nice young women (or men).
Unfortunately, I'll probably end up like Sallinger or Harper Lee and only write the one novel, which puts dreams of fortune in a bit of a dim light. Of course, if I write it after I retire, I'll have a nice fat local government pension so won't need any money anyway. Wonder how much an author makes on an earnings per copy sold basis?
Oops. nearly forgot - time for today's toy . . . .
A couple of Vietnam era Yanks.
Righto, on with something of little benefit, but greater interest.