Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
My feminine side
What was the name of that film in which a TV anchorman encourages everyone to lean out of their windows and shout something like, "I'm as mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"? Well, that's sort of how I felt last night.
Once the church bells (beneath the Peregrine Falcon which is beneath the golden chicken) had stopped ringing at 9.00 pm, the heavy lifting equipment dropping large quantities of metal onto concrete floors about 50 yards away took over, despite being supposed to finish by 7.00 pm, and they were still clanging away at 12.30 am when I went to bed.
It is a rather strange and unsettling time around our little part of the city right now - we are surrounded by building sites, and noise levels are destined to increase as the summer waxes on. Yesterday, I was out of town when the Bath representative ran past our compact b. a. c. a. carrying one fragment of the Olympic Flame (TM) but H.I. was at home to witness the national hysteria.
Later, at around 7.30 or so, I was looking at all your posts on the iMac, when I heard a massive crunching impact accompanied by a shout or scream down in the street, so I looked out the window expecting to see the mangled remains of a stricken pedestrian.
Instead, I saw a small black car being driven by a young woman, halted in the middle of the road with a white bicycle jammed underneath it's front end, and there were bits of black plastic strewn around the area of impact. The car was leaking some sort of fluid.
A group of youths were standing on the pavement looking at the wreckage, and laughing loudly. It took me a few moments to realise that one of the youths was the rider of the bicycle, and he was laughing louder than anyone. Maybe he was euphoric at finding himself still alive. He must have been thrown over his own handlebars when the car hit, and rolled in the road where he stood up and walked away very quickly. He was definitely on his feet by the time I looked out.
They had to reverse the car away from the bike to pull out from underneath, and despite the car being quite badly damaged, there was not a scratch to be seen on the bike - not even a flat tyre. They just don't make cars how they used to these days.
I've just read a post from a blogger who says that they are suffering from 'writer's block', and somehow they have managed to create about 5 long paragraphs explaining that they cannot think of anything to write about. That's not what I would call 'writer's block'.
In it, the blogger puts the cessation of creativity down to saving him/herself for a thesis which has to be written in the next week or two as part of a university diploma pitch. That is not the way it works in my understanding, but I did not tell him/her so, for fear of being accusative, arrogant, curmudgeonly, or all three at the same time.
There is no such thing as 'writer's block' - you either write or you don't. If you do write, you have to decide whether or not what you have written could be of any use (for entertainment or other) to anyone else, and - if you are me, for instance - the remote possibility that if even one person reading tosh like this and finding it worth the effort has any chance of becoming a reality, then you publish. Full stop.
Of course, it takes real talent and it's recognition to make any money out of it (Australian fisherwomen spring to mind) but - to use a simile - I have always enjoyed looking through ordinary people's holiday snaps just as much as looking at a good professional photographer's. If you get bored, then there is no law which says you must carry on. (I think I have just lost about 50 readers with that last line).
Also, writing is like sex (if I remember correctly) - the more you do it, the more you want to do it. The energy actually increases with expenditure - unless you write for yourself alone... In any event, you can always imagine an audience, even if it doesn't exist.
Personally, there are only so many cushion-covers that I can take in one day, and the same goes for cup-cakes, but I do not begrudge the enjoyment of millions who cannot get enough of them. I don't understand it, but I don't begrudge it. Maybe I am just out of touch with my feminine side?