Warning: Cat below

Ketchup, sister to HP (of the headless rabbit saga) needed to go to the vet. Daughter wanted to take her so I agreed to go too. The family chuckled and told us some tales which we did not heed. ‘She’s bitten a vet’ we were told; when she was spayed they couldn’t give her anaesthetic so they had to stick her in a box of chloroform.

Still, we didn’t heed the warning.

Ketchup is the laziest, most docile pussy cat ever. She should be called ‘Sloth’ as she’s a dumpling that allows my daughter to maul her, she doesn’t hunt, she eats, sleeps and poops (if she can get away with it, in a corner of a room rather than going outside.)

We took her to the vet and in the waiting room I put my finger in and stroked her paw. She growled at me.

I withdrew my finger fastish, but I didn’t heed the warning.

We took her through in the basket to the surgery. I told the vet that my folks told me I should warn her, but I didn’t believe it. The vet said ‘she’s got a warning on her records.’

We opened her basket; she cowered at the back. ‘She should be called Apathy’ I said, putting my hand towards the open basket, ‘I don’t mind a nip.’ She screamed at me and made to open several of my arteries.

She is Jekyll and Hyde cat. Thank god for the vet. I’ve come home for a lie down.

This is post vet visit. She's a bit pissed off.

To talk or not to talk

After Leigh’s recommendation at the weekend, on Monday I found a copy of ‘Teach Yourself: how to write a Blockbuster’ by Lee Weatherly and Helen Corner. I’m not sure I’m aiming exactly at the blockbuster market, but I reckon some things - great storylines, ace hooks etc - go down well in any genre. Not to mention of course, that I’m utterly addicted to ‘How to’ books… and you can always learn something.

In it, Weatherly says that one shouldn’t talk too much about what you’re writing – new writers tend to, and professional writers don’t. Inexperienced writers, having talked to all and sundry, sit down to write it and ‘they’ve talked it out of their system.’ I so understand what she means, and I don’t, on the whole, talk much about mine – though you’ll all know I’ve dropped little snippets on my blog lately. But I had something I wanted to talk to Leigh about on Sunday (will the reader accept this?) and I’ve talked to my Mum since I’ve been in the UK and I’ve found it helps to talk a bit. While I talk, I realise things … and it does help that they don’t mind when my face glazes over and I say ‘Oh my god, she thinks the baby is his…’

And then I’m all inspired again and I have to disappear to write some more …

I just wish I could bottle this feeling - how much money would I make? And I could use it for the next time I'm in dumpsville.

Brain blurt

• The UK is doing its best with the torrential rain storms to persuade me that I’m still in the tropics.
  
• Just as I said ‘I’m having some days off …’ I start writing again. Bizarre.
  
• It’s my Dad’s birthday today. He’s 79.
  
• I didn’t blog about the third funeral I saw in four days. These are villages with a funeral every now and again … apart from the last week it seems.
  
• In the post this morning I got a totally gorgeous ‘artist card’ from Rachel. I love it. I’m reciprocating when I get back to Thailand.
  
• Lovely Leigh came to lunch yesterday with her beautiful children. She read some of my words and I told her the bones of the story and I’m feeling all fired up again. (Although I have to say, I’ve been feeling mostly fired up anyway…)
  
• I opened the Sunday Times ‘Culture’ supplement this morning, and saw the mother of my MC staring back at me: Wyndham Lewis’ portrait of Edith Sitwell.

Easy does it...

Right, I’m trying not to castigate myself about ‘my words.’ I have had a couple of days off – I might not get them done today, and I might not tomorrow as I have someone coming over for the day.

I’m struggling a bit with family politics … I’ve found it interesting that living overseas I am a long way from doing things for family. It might be expected that you ring once a week or whatever, remember birthday cards, but you can’t DO all the things for people that you would if you lived locally. But when you come back, you are expected to pitch in; and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Of course I want to do things to help, but so do I want to write, and wander about in a bubble of nostalgia. In Bangkok I run my life without thinking of those things – intrinsically selfish perhaps.

I will try to get back to the words. If I haven’t by Tuesday, will someone appear here and give me a big shove up the backside? Thank you.

In the meantime, I’ve moved my computer to my bedroom, and I leave you with the view through the window.

Another funeral and my contact lenses

Thank you for your comments. I’m feeling a little happier today. I have an article due so I will think about that and apply my words to that instead of the novel. Then I will do some research on the novel. When I am stuck I often find that research is the answer … for me; I don’t think this works with everyone.

So update to my spooky funeral story from Tuesday: the village to which my MC returns is an amalgam of several villages/small towns that I know here in Kent. The town that my opticians is in (do you remember the saga of my contact lenses?) has leant itself to my fictitious place – particularly the road layout. Yesterday I returned to the opticians for her to check the contact lenses that she fitted back at the end of April (the saga is ongoing… I was wearing my lenses in the wrong eyes! I am such a klutz. Not trusting myself to keep the right one in my right eye, we are sending them back to have a ‘ler’ (L) and a ‘reh’ (R) engraved on them.)

Anyway, I’m in this lovely little town with Sister, and we’re walking along the very road that in my story I’ve put the church in which the father’s funeral takes place. The MC walks from the station, around a kink in the sloping road to see the silhouette of the funeral procession about to move into the church. So there I am with Sister, and WHAT do I see? I see another hearse, in the midst of a funeral. I am now officially freaked out.

Uh oh

I’m having the day off 100 words … I hope that’s not a mistake. I’m an ‘all or nothing’ kind of person and I’m a bit worried that if I give myself the time off it’ll be easier to do that again.

However, yesterday was a terrible struggle and today is proving to be too. There’s too much upheaval of coming home – family etc. I feel panicky and anxious about writing today so instead of trying and getting more and more upset about it, I’m giving myself the night off. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Hi honey; I'm home

The weirdest thing happened to me today but first I have to tell you how my book opens:

MC lands in the UK after approx 10 years self exile in Thailand. She’s come home for her father’s funeral and although her mother and her sister know she’s coming home she hasn’t let them know when. She walks into the village to the church where the funeral has just begun.

Today I landed at Heathrow airport from Bangkok and took a train to Paddington, a taxi to Charing Cross and the next train from there to the village where I spent my childhood. I phoned ahead to tell them the train was on but no-one could meet me (sniff, sniff, I’ve only flown 6,000 miles to see them…) so I got out at the station to walk home. I walked up the hill past the graveyard and outside the front of the church was a hearse, four undertakers and the vicar in robes.

Freaked? Me? Nope; alright yes a bit. Spooky timing eh?

Anyway, I leave you with some lovely architecture at Paddington Station. I love train stations.

I barely slept on the 'plane and my eyes are propped open with matchsticks, but I've got to go and do my words because I will not let a day go past ... Ah, dedication.