Book News:
Much to my surprise, A Dangerous Man briefly found itself at No 25 in the Amazon UK charts, so that was nice. In addition, The Hit List gained a 5-star review at Goodreads, so many thanks for that, Chris - much appreciated.
On the sales front, there's 25% off all my Untreed Reads titles until the end of the year, so shop early shop often, and start your New Year with a bang. As it were.
Only one meditation this week as I slowly slowly get back into the habit again, and here it is:
Meditation 475
Sometimes the best victory
and the one
you remember
is simply to outlive
the one
you hate.
Life News:
A bit of an up-and-down week really. We've had a lot of nice outings, including visiting The Egyptian Book of the Dead exhibition at the British Museum, which is well worth it especially if you're into death rituals and bodies, as I am. We also enjoyed seeing the Lewis chessmen, which are wonderful - much smaller than I thought they'd be (silly me, eh) but absolutely exquisite.
We've also visited Wakehurst Place in the fog, where the gardens were interesting but ... um ... foggy and we probably need to go back when we can actually see things. And today, we've had a lovely time at Savill Garden, which I love and which is just as beautiful in winter, with some amazing winter displays and trails, as it is in the summer. The shop's good too and I've finally managed to buy some decent new soapdishes, which I've been looking for for ages, and a nice big happy mug too. So I can aim to be happier in 2011, ho ho.
On the way back we popped into a garden centre to look for candles, and I managed to smash one of the displays and cut myself with glass whilst doing so. Good for me, eh. The staff were lovely though and I didn't have to pay for the chaos I caused, for which I am hugely grateful - it was probably the look of total shock and the blood dripping from the finger that brought out their compassionate side. Anyway, I've calmed down now, thank the Lord, and next time I want to look at anything breakable, I will get K to lift it up for me.
Meanwhile, I've also had another physio session and the frozen shoulder is definitely on the mend, though it makes itself known every now and then. And I've bought a really lovely winter coat in the sales at Debenhams, with which I am hugely happy.
This week's drama has been the Crisis of the Missing Glasses. I attempted to watch the Rolf Harris (I have a soft spot for dear old Rolf) art show last night and realised I couldn't find my tv watching/driving glasses anywhere. Cue frantic searching of the flat, weeping and sobbing (the latter two being mine, naturally). And cue recording of Rolf. I felt really stupid and assumed I'd somehow lost them in Guildford yesterday whilst meandering round the sales. So this morning I spend 45 minutes ringing round shops I can remember being in to see if they had found them. Everyone was really lovely but sadly no glasses. I then did some more weeping and rang the optician's to make an emergency appointment to get replacements. Bearing in mind you never know how long they're going to take and I do take a while choosing new ones anyway, I decided to chance it as it's only a short trip to Godalming and take the car in myself rather than make K wait around while I faffed about. I got in the car and there the buggers were!!! What joy and bliss abounding!!! You can't imagine the relief ... especially as I've just saved myself c£300 replacement costs, double hurrahs and put out the bunting.
Anyway, K has now made me put my phone number in both my reading and my "missing" glasses cases so if they do genuinely go astray at some point then I have a better chance of getting them back. And, when I rang the optician to cancel the appointment, they were hugely pleased that their long-distance customer service skills were as top-notch as ever, gawd bless 'em. How I love a happy ending.
As a result of all that, K and I have also had a discussion about how much of a stressed-out drama queen I'm becoming - though as he freely admits that when he first met me I was stressed-out and hugely unhappy way back then, then perhaps it's not as much of a shock to him as I always assume it is when I get myself in a state now. But I do think I'm getting much worse as I get older - is it my hormones?? Or perhaps the general lack of the sort of hopeful attitude I had twenty years ago that I most definitely don't have now? I'm sure I used to assume in my twenties that things would improve no matter how bad they were, whereas nowadays I just assume they'll probably get worse and I get very angry and frustrated about it. Lordy, what a delight I am to be with indeed ... Anyway, as a result of all this deep thought, I've bought myself an anger management book and a set of bible reading notes to start in January to see if that helps. I should also do more meditation too, I think, as I'm not really very committed to it these days, particularly as my church life went downhill earlier in the year. I'm wondering about going back to the gym too, maybe, as in the old old days beyond recall I used to get rid of a hell of a lot of steam there which helped with the aggression levels, but let's not get too over-enthusiastic. Bloody Rome wasn't built in a bloody day, eh. And I don't want to set myself up for too much personal failure before the year has even begun - there's plenty of time for that yet!
Happy New Year, in any case, to all.
Anne Brooke
ANNE BROOKE BOOKS: Independent writer of modern fiction
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anger. Show all posts
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Friday, February 20, 2009
The invisible writer and putting the boot in
God, what a day. It's really been one moment of crap followed closely by another moment of crap. On the whole. And ooh look another will be joining it shortly. Oh what joy. I am seriously pissed off. I don't know but people have been getting on my wick today, and irritating me beyond measure. Is it Let's Piss Anne Off Day and I missed the national email telling me so?? Deeep sigh ...
Anyway, first off, the ruddy hospital send me another letter telling me to come for a scan in March. Well, I've only just had a ruddy scan last week - what do they want me to buy? A season ticket?? Are my bits just so incredibly fascinating that they must scan them on a monthly basis? Naturally I rang up to sort it out first thing this morning, and the woman on the other end of the line told me there must be something wrong for them to want to bring me in again so soon. Well, that made me feel cheerful, I can tell you. However, after a few moments of hyperventilating and wondering how many days (nay minutes) I might have left to live, she came back and said there was nothing untoward on my notes and it must just be an error. Well, phew. All's well that ends proverbially, but I could have done without the ride. To be honest.
I then attempted to squeeze out some words for Hallsfoot's Battle but Lordy it's a total struggle today and I can't seem to raise any interest in it at all, let alone inspiration. Whatever that is. I've stretched it out to just (barely) over 94,000 words but that's quite a stretch and I suspect what I've attempted to add will have to be ditched in the eventual edit. And some. Sigh.
My headache really began to build up when I hot-footed it to golf and of course it's half-term so (reasonably enough) there is a plethora of young people on the course. So it took so much longer to trudge round. Added to that the fact that I can no longer open my car boot and therefore cannot get to my golf trolley, which meant I had to lug the damn bag round myself. Totally exhausting, my dears, and my arm aches like anything now. It was gone 1pm before we actually finished.
I then leapt desperately into Godalming to do some shopping I've been putting off for weeks, and then found when I got back that I only had half an hour to eat lunch before going to my Alexander Technique lesson. This gave me just enough time to (a) eat, (b) add another 100 sorry-looking words to poor old Hallsfoot, and (c) ring the garage to ask if I could bring the car round so they could look at my boot lock problem. To which the answer was: yes, anytime up till 6pm and they'd be sure to look at it for me.
I then went and had my AT lesson - which was okay but I wasn't sure I was relaxed enough to take anything in. Let alone how to be relaxed. Even the two calming pills I've taken today aren't helping me there. After that, I got to the garage (Lord, but Guildford traffic is serious crap) at just before 4pm. Only to be told that all the technical people leave at 4pm and can't look at my car until next week anyway. Then why the hell didn't they tell me that on the bloody phone when I rang???!!? God, but sometimes I think I'm totally invisible and nobody pays me a blind bit of notice. Are my perfectly valid questions simply the distant sound of soft bleating to them?? But fear not - I expressed my disappointment in reasonable yet firm terms and did not (as I longed to do) fall screaming to the floor in the ruddy showroom and start biting the tyres of the nearest sales car. Maybe I should have done. The upshot is that I've booked an appointment for the car to have its boot opened in a couple of weeks' time when we're back from holiday - on a day that Lord H can take me in as I couldn't have hired an alternative car apparently until the end of March. God, but it's so bloody complicated. Till then, at least I know the bloody things in the bloody boot are safe, even if the ruddy car gets stolen. Deeeep sigh.
Meanwhile, back at the work ranch, I see the very sweet lady from the Arts Office has sent an email round to the University Book Group telling us that when we're making our choices of the next tranche of books to talk about, we can't choose self-published books, even though last year they looked at "Anne Brooke's self-published novel, A Dangerous Man, as she is a staff member." Self-published?? A Dangerous Man?? I don't think so. Or, at least, it's the first I've heard of it. I'm sure Flame Books would be delighted to find out that their whole company is in fact run by ... me. Even deeeeeper sigh. I sent back a (rather less reasonable, but hell it's lucky I can still put words together in any kind of calm order at all) reply saying that while half of my novels are self-published, A Dangerous Man actually isn't and so was never part of any special dispensation to the rules, and I wouldn't expect to be treated differently anyway. As I has said at the time. Though in actual fact, it's also true to say that all of my available novels bar one are now commercially published, whether by paperback or eBook, and the next one off the press will also be a commercial production. Not that any of this will matter of course, as it now appears that anything I say is disregarded as random witterings or thought not important enough to remember - good to know my invisibility continues to widen its remit - at least something is working in Anne's World then, if only in a negative way ... In the meantime, it would be terribly refreshing if the facts about something I said or produced were actually listened to or regarded as remotely memorable - just once in my ruddy life!!...
In addition to all this, I've just had to speak to the middle neighbour (always tricky at the best of times) who somehow seems rather more tricksy than usual. He said something that particularly irritated me (and believe me my irritation levels are off the scale today, as you can probably tell) and instead of saying something jolly or soothing as I usually do (which is I know what I'm expected as a woman to do and which again he doesn't listen to, as a matter of course), I just didn't reply and stared at him. I think that took him by surprise, and I managed to escape earlier than anticipated, thank goodness. Any more conversation with people of any shape or form and I might just have to punch them, scream loudly and run away. God but that seems like a plan.
And here's today's meditation - the writing of which frankly seems a damn long time ago. Really I am pissed off with the whole of this day already and I want no more of it. I'm tired, that damn headache won't let me go, nobody listens to a word I say, I have the housework to face and I can't even open a bottle of wine any more to take the edge off. Bloody hell.
Meditation 74
The land breathes riches
for six years
and sleeps across your senses
for the seventh.
What you have not planted
will nourish you
and what you release
from your hand
will lighten your weight
upon the earth,
help you to dream again.
But do not fear, people - astonishingly, all is not lost. At the end of all this sludge and existential misery, Lord H has come back from work (hurrah!) and allowed me to pummel his chest in order to get rid of some of the angst - an essential duty which really should be performed by every husband. And I do feel a bit better now. Thank the Lord. Oh and I've had my third chocolate of the day - so my insulin levels will be crap but at least it raises the happy hormones ...
Today's nice things (um ...):
1. Chocolate
2. Lord H
3. Chocolate
4. Lord H.
Anne Brooke
Anne's website - if you blink you'll miss it ...
Anyway, first off, the ruddy hospital send me another letter telling me to come for a scan in March. Well, I've only just had a ruddy scan last week - what do they want me to buy? A season ticket?? Are my bits just so incredibly fascinating that they must scan them on a monthly basis? Naturally I rang up to sort it out first thing this morning, and the woman on the other end of the line told me there must be something wrong for them to want to bring me in again so soon. Well, that made me feel cheerful, I can tell you. However, after a few moments of hyperventilating and wondering how many days (nay minutes) I might have left to live, she came back and said there was nothing untoward on my notes and it must just be an error. Well, phew. All's well that ends proverbially, but I could have done without the ride. To be honest.
I then attempted to squeeze out some words for Hallsfoot's Battle but Lordy it's a total struggle today and I can't seem to raise any interest in it at all, let alone inspiration. Whatever that is. I've stretched it out to just (barely) over 94,000 words but that's quite a stretch and I suspect what I've attempted to add will have to be ditched in the eventual edit. And some. Sigh.
My headache really began to build up when I hot-footed it to golf and of course it's half-term so (reasonably enough) there is a plethora of young people on the course. So it took so much longer to trudge round. Added to that the fact that I can no longer open my car boot and therefore cannot get to my golf trolley, which meant I had to lug the damn bag round myself. Totally exhausting, my dears, and my arm aches like anything now. It was gone 1pm before we actually finished.
I then leapt desperately into Godalming to do some shopping I've been putting off for weeks, and then found when I got back that I only had half an hour to eat lunch before going to my Alexander Technique lesson. This gave me just enough time to (a) eat, (b) add another 100 sorry-looking words to poor old Hallsfoot, and (c) ring the garage to ask if I could bring the car round so they could look at my boot lock problem. To which the answer was: yes, anytime up till 6pm and they'd be sure to look at it for me.
I then went and had my AT lesson - which was okay but I wasn't sure I was relaxed enough to take anything in. Let alone how to be relaxed. Even the two calming pills I've taken today aren't helping me there. After that, I got to the garage (Lord, but Guildford traffic is serious crap) at just before 4pm. Only to be told that all the technical people leave at 4pm and can't look at my car until next week anyway. Then why the hell didn't they tell me that on the bloody phone when I rang???!!? God, but sometimes I think I'm totally invisible and nobody pays me a blind bit of notice. Are my perfectly valid questions simply the distant sound of soft bleating to them?? But fear not - I expressed my disappointment in reasonable yet firm terms and did not (as I longed to do) fall screaming to the floor in the ruddy showroom and start biting the tyres of the nearest sales car. Maybe I should have done. The upshot is that I've booked an appointment for the car to have its boot opened in a couple of weeks' time when we're back from holiday - on a day that Lord H can take me in as I couldn't have hired an alternative car apparently until the end of March. God, but it's so bloody complicated. Till then, at least I know the bloody things in the bloody boot are safe, even if the ruddy car gets stolen. Deeeep sigh.
Meanwhile, back at the work ranch, I see the very sweet lady from the Arts Office has sent an email round to the University Book Group telling us that when we're making our choices of the next tranche of books to talk about, we can't choose self-published books, even though last year they looked at "Anne Brooke's self-published novel, A Dangerous Man, as she is a staff member." Self-published?? A Dangerous Man?? I don't think so. Or, at least, it's the first I've heard of it. I'm sure Flame Books would be delighted to find out that their whole company is in fact run by ... me. Even deeeeeper sigh. I sent back a (rather less reasonable, but hell it's lucky I can still put words together in any kind of calm order at all) reply saying that while half of my novels are self-published, A Dangerous Man actually isn't and so was never part of any special dispensation to the rules, and I wouldn't expect to be treated differently anyway. As I has said at the time. Though in actual fact, it's also true to say that all of my available novels bar one are now commercially published, whether by paperback or eBook, and the next one off the press will also be a commercial production. Not that any of this will matter of course, as it now appears that anything I say is disregarded as random witterings or thought not important enough to remember - good to know my invisibility continues to widen its remit - at least something is working in Anne's World then, if only in a negative way ... In the meantime, it would be terribly refreshing if the facts about something I said or produced were actually listened to or regarded as remotely memorable - just once in my ruddy life!!...
In addition to all this, I've just had to speak to the middle neighbour (always tricky at the best of times) who somehow seems rather more tricksy than usual. He said something that particularly irritated me (and believe me my irritation levels are off the scale today, as you can probably tell) and instead of saying something jolly or soothing as I usually do (which is I know what I'm expected as a woman to do and which again he doesn't listen to, as a matter of course), I just didn't reply and stared at him. I think that took him by surprise, and I managed to escape earlier than anticipated, thank goodness. Any more conversation with people of any shape or form and I might just have to punch them, scream loudly and run away. God but that seems like a plan.
And here's today's meditation - the writing of which frankly seems a damn long time ago. Really I am pissed off with the whole of this day already and I want no more of it. I'm tired, that damn headache won't let me go, nobody listens to a word I say, I have the housework to face and I can't even open a bottle of wine any more to take the edge off. Bloody hell.
Meditation 74
The land breathes riches
for six years
and sleeps across your senses
for the seventh.
What you have not planted
will nourish you
and what you release
from your hand
will lighten your weight
upon the earth,
help you to dream again.
But do not fear, people - astonishingly, all is not lost. At the end of all this sludge and existential misery, Lord H has come back from work (hurrah!) and allowed me to pummel his chest in order to get rid of some of the angst - an essential duty which really should be performed by every husband. And I do feel a bit better now. Thank the Lord. Oh and I've had my third chocolate of the day - so my insulin levels will be crap but at least it raises the happy hormones ...
Today's nice things (um ...):
1. Chocolate
2. Lord H
3. Chocolate
4. Lord H.
Anne Brooke
Anne's website - if you blink you'll miss it ...
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Bitchy doctors and Loose Women
God, what a day. Another of those ones where I've felt extremely fragile and wondered why the hell when you interact with people face-to-face, they always have to come with knives. Is it just me or is everyone getting pricklier these days? Great title for my next book, eh ...
Anyway, I'd had way too much of people in all shapes and sizes last night so emailed the Counselling Centre to cancel my appointment with Kunu today (the phone being far too scary to contemplate and me feeling far too depressed to talk - which is probably like tidying up for your cleaner, but there you go ...) and wrote a letter to Gladys explaining why I haven't popped into see her in two weeks (sick) and why I won't pop in next week (hols).
Simple enough, you would have thought - though I know that with the postal strike, Gladys probably won't get her letter for weeks anyway - but no: this morning, Kunu left a message on my ansaphone wondering where I was, which really stressed me out. I just didn't want to have to deal with all the social crap of it really. So I deleted the message and sent another apologetic email back. Hell, I'm doing my bloody best over here in the stressed corner - why can't people cut me some slack once in a while?? This resulted in a distinctly sniffy email from the Counselling Centre receptionist telling me I really should have phoned as they don't look at emails regularly and they're often deleted by their scam software anyway. Well, slap my thigh and call me a luddite, but that's not my fucking problem. That's their problem for not having decent customer service or a good email provider. Bloody well let them sort it out and stop bitching at me then. Honestly! I doubt I'll be attending any more appointments this side of the next millennium. At least not there.
For the rest of this morning, I've struggled away with The Bones of Summer, attempting to squeeze out a few more words, but really it's been a bloody hard slog. Thank God for online Solitaire is what I say. Lord alone knows what Craig is going to do now. He's all over the place. Well, snap then. Thankfully though, I took time out at lunchtime to watch the utterly wonderful "Loose Women" on TV. That show is a real lifeline sometimes - it actually made me laugh. Hurrah. I do love it. I then caught up with my video of last night's "Will & Grace", but that just made me cry. All that stuff about Will's dead father and Karen leaving Stan - I was blubbing like a child on the sofa. Which isn't easy to do when you're trying to eat rice & tinned fish with a fork, I can tell you.
Anyway, I psyched myself up for going to see the new doctor at 4.10pm - who turned out to be Dr Pidgeon and the prissiest schoolgirl type you could ever imagine. In the words and intonation of Catherine Tate - What a bitch!! I'd written a list of things I'd wanted sorted - only 6 of them and mostly quick to deal with, for God's sake - but she got very sniffy when I sat down and told me I'd have to hurry up as the appointments were only 10 minutes long. She then proceeded to tell me that (a) No, I couldn't have my usual flu jab as she didn't see the point of it (I've had one for the last 2/3 years and they do help ...); (b) No, I couldn't have anything stronger for my catarrh/sickness problems as the stuff I'm currently on is fine and anyway I should try to cut down. Well bloody hell, madam, you try and see if it's "fine" when you're up all night trying not to be sick and hardly able to breathe and then feel like shit for two weeks - see if you like it; (c) No, she didn't have any advice on whether or not I should be taking more of the Vitamin B pills the previous doctor had put me on for depression as it was really up to me; and (d) No, she didn't see the point of sending me for a "how are your hormones and while we're at it are you approaching the pre-menopausal state?" test, in spite of the fact that the two weeks before my period has become almost utterly unbearable now with bouts of utter rage interspersed prettily with bouts of weeping. Hey ho, what fun we have here in downtown Godalming!... Instead she suggested Evening Primrose Oil and frankly by then I couldn't be arsed to tell the snotty-nosed bitch that yes I've tried all the stuff and, no, it doesn't help much.
The only good thing to come out of it is that my blood pressure is fine (a fact which astonished me, as I was almost incandescent with suppressed rage by the time she took it!!) and that I only took up 4 minutes of her bloody precious time. And there's one slapper I won't be making another appointment with again. Really, I was quite weepy in the car home - always a danger when attempting to drive through Godalming, but I don't think I actually killed anyone ...
At home, I've emailed Steph in the University Health Centre asking if she can suggest helpful nice and loving people to discuss flu jabs and hormones with me. Here's hoping, eh. But God only knows what I'm going to do when the next of my all-night bouts comes round. In the meantime, I'm battening down the ruddy hatches, uncorking the sherry bottle again and anticipating an evening of sudokus and TV. And more calming pills.
Today's nice things:
1. Loose Women
2. Getting out of bloody Dr P's consulting room
3. Calming pills.
Anne Brooke
Anne's website
Anyway, I'd had way too much of people in all shapes and sizes last night so emailed the Counselling Centre to cancel my appointment with Kunu today (the phone being far too scary to contemplate and me feeling far too depressed to talk - which is probably like tidying up for your cleaner, but there you go ...) and wrote a letter to Gladys explaining why I haven't popped into see her in two weeks (sick) and why I won't pop in next week (hols).
Simple enough, you would have thought - though I know that with the postal strike, Gladys probably won't get her letter for weeks anyway - but no: this morning, Kunu left a message on my ansaphone wondering where I was, which really stressed me out. I just didn't want to have to deal with all the social crap of it really. So I deleted the message and sent another apologetic email back. Hell, I'm doing my bloody best over here in the stressed corner - why can't people cut me some slack once in a while?? This resulted in a distinctly sniffy email from the Counselling Centre receptionist telling me I really should have phoned as they don't look at emails regularly and they're often deleted by their scam software anyway. Well, slap my thigh and call me a luddite, but that's not my fucking problem. That's their problem for not having decent customer service or a good email provider. Bloody well let them sort it out and stop bitching at me then. Honestly! I doubt I'll be attending any more appointments this side of the next millennium. At least not there.
For the rest of this morning, I've struggled away with The Bones of Summer, attempting to squeeze out a few more words, but really it's been a bloody hard slog. Thank God for online Solitaire is what I say. Lord alone knows what Craig is going to do now. He's all over the place. Well, snap then. Thankfully though, I took time out at lunchtime to watch the utterly wonderful "Loose Women" on TV. That show is a real lifeline sometimes - it actually made me laugh. Hurrah. I do love it. I then caught up with my video of last night's "Will & Grace", but that just made me cry. All that stuff about Will's dead father and Karen leaving Stan - I was blubbing like a child on the sofa. Which isn't easy to do when you're trying to eat rice & tinned fish with a fork, I can tell you.
Anyway, I psyched myself up for going to see the new doctor at 4.10pm - who turned out to be Dr Pidgeon and the prissiest schoolgirl type you could ever imagine. In the words and intonation of Catherine Tate - What a bitch!! I'd written a list of things I'd wanted sorted - only 6 of them and mostly quick to deal with, for God's sake - but she got very sniffy when I sat down and told me I'd have to hurry up as the appointments were only 10 minutes long. She then proceeded to tell me that (a) No, I couldn't have my usual flu jab as she didn't see the point of it (I've had one for the last 2/3 years and they do help ...); (b) No, I couldn't have anything stronger for my catarrh/sickness problems as the stuff I'm currently on is fine and anyway I should try to cut down. Well bloody hell, madam, you try and see if it's "fine" when you're up all night trying not to be sick and hardly able to breathe and then feel like shit for two weeks - see if you like it; (c) No, she didn't have any advice on whether or not I should be taking more of the Vitamin B pills the previous doctor had put me on for depression as it was really up to me; and (d) No, she didn't see the point of sending me for a "how are your hormones and while we're at it are you approaching the pre-menopausal state?" test, in spite of the fact that the two weeks before my period has become almost utterly unbearable now with bouts of utter rage interspersed prettily with bouts of weeping. Hey ho, what fun we have here in downtown Godalming!... Instead she suggested Evening Primrose Oil and frankly by then I couldn't be arsed to tell the snotty-nosed bitch that yes I've tried all the stuff and, no, it doesn't help much.
The only good thing to come out of it is that my blood pressure is fine (a fact which astonished me, as I was almost incandescent with suppressed rage by the time she took it!!) and that I only took up 4 minutes of her bloody precious time. And there's one slapper I won't be making another appointment with again. Really, I was quite weepy in the car home - always a danger when attempting to drive through Godalming, but I don't think I actually killed anyone ...
At home, I've emailed Steph in the University Health Centre asking if she can suggest helpful nice and loving people to discuss flu jabs and hormones with me. Here's hoping, eh. But God only knows what I'm going to do when the next of my all-night bouts comes round. In the meantime, I'm battening down the ruddy hatches, uncorking the sherry bottle again and anticipating an evening of sudokus and TV. And more calming pills.
Today's nice things:
1. Loose Women
2. Getting out of bloody Dr P's consulting room
3. Calming pills.
Anne Brooke
Anne's website
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
The seven dwarves and an overwhelming need for sherry
Ye gods, but it was all stress city at work this morning – several emails about the appalling inappropriateness (is that even a word??) of my poor little event flyers. Heck, and I was only trying to be helpful! Still, it managed to piss me off from the start of the day, so one hopes it can only get better. I sent back emails saying that at least I was moving from being “disappointing” to being “inappropriate”, which showed some kind of progress. Perhaps the next response to anything I did would be “shocking”. One lives in hope, eh …
Actually, I think people were surprised by the strength of my response, but heck, let them be surprised. Sometimes the university can be so nitpicking and bordering on anal, it might as well be an Olympic sport. Deep deep sigh. Still, since then, people have been nice - relatively - so here’s hoping that lasts too. In the meantime, I have rejigged the bloody flyers until I’m sick of the sight of them and will attempt to get them off my hands this afternoon. I’m also flicking through catalogues looking at free pens we could give to students, so that’s nice.
And poor Ruth has gone home sick, so we’re all living in the twilight zone here. Is that rustling I hear in the undergrowth?... However, the good news is we’ve successfully managed six of the seven dwarves today: I am Bitchy, Grumpy and Cross, and Ruth is Dopey, Sleepy and Sick. Almost the full set then.
This lunchtime, I went to my back exercise course – as I’ve done nothing over the summer at all, this was something of a shock. Should be good for me though – and at least it took me away from my desk for an hour, where anything could happen. And frequently does. Which it did – I’d already got rid of the ruddy flyer’s “inappropriate” content – allegedly, but people really have to take their tongues out of their own bottoms sometimes and live a little, to my mind – and then the boss (who knew perfectly well that I had changed the darn stuff) had to have a final little dig about it. Badly done, I thought – very badly done. I certainly wouldn’t have stirred things up for my staff (when I had staff) like that – just letting things go is a perfectly good managerial strategy on occasion. Trust me. It just goes to show that you can’t really rely on anyone to behave in a humane fashion these days. Least of all the so-called "naice" people. God, they're the worst. And oh how I long for a new job – now ye gods that would be nice.
In fact I was so pissed off that I simply left work at 4.30pm. I just didn't want to speak to any more people, so I told the Dean I was going - and for that reason. And then left. First time I've ever done that but if anything happened between then and 5.30pm, well bloody hell they can sort it themselves. Thank God I don't have to go back till 15th October - and double bollocks but I'm dreading it already.
Tonight, I’m hoping to do some writing, if I can somehow raise the emotional energy for it (don’t wait up then …), and I’ve “Heroes” lined up on TV. Plus a good strong sherry in my sights, thank God. No, make that two.
Today’s nice things:
1. Getting those fucking flyers off my hands!!!
2. TV
3. Sherry – large quantities of …
Anne Brooke
Anne's website
Actually, I think people were surprised by the strength of my response, but heck, let them be surprised. Sometimes the university can be so nitpicking and bordering on anal, it might as well be an Olympic sport. Deep deep sigh. Still, since then, people have been nice - relatively - so here’s hoping that lasts too. In the meantime, I have rejigged the bloody flyers until I’m sick of the sight of them and will attempt to get them off my hands this afternoon. I’m also flicking through catalogues looking at free pens we could give to students, so that’s nice.
And poor Ruth has gone home sick, so we’re all living in the twilight zone here. Is that rustling I hear in the undergrowth?... However, the good news is we’ve successfully managed six of the seven dwarves today: I am Bitchy, Grumpy and Cross, and Ruth is Dopey, Sleepy and Sick. Almost the full set then.
This lunchtime, I went to my back exercise course – as I’ve done nothing over the summer at all, this was something of a shock. Should be good for me though – and at least it took me away from my desk for an hour, where anything could happen. And frequently does. Which it did – I’d already got rid of the ruddy flyer’s “inappropriate” content – allegedly, but people really have to take their tongues out of their own bottoms sometimes and live a little, to my mind – and then the boss (who knew perfectly well that I had changed the darn stuff) had to have a final little dig about it. Badly done, I thought – very badly done. I certainly wouldn’t have stirred things up for my staff (when I had staff) like that – just letting things go is a perfectly good managerial strategy on occasion. Trust me. It just goes to show that you can’t really rely on anyone to behave in a humane fashion these days. Least of all the so-called "naice" people. God, they're the worst. And oh how I long for a new job – now ye gods that would be nice.
In fact I was so pissed off that I simply left work at 4.30pm. I just didn't want to speak to any more people, so I told the Dean I was going - and for that reason. And then left. First time I've ever done that but if anything happened between then and 5.30pm, well bloody hell they can sort it themselves. Thank God I don't have to go back till 15th October - and double bollocks but I'm dreading it already.
Tonight, I’m hoping to do some writing, if I can somehow raise the emotional energy for it (don’t wait up then …), and I’ve “Heroes” lined up on TV. Plus a good strong sherry in my sights, thank God. No, make that two.
Today’s nice things:
1. Getting those fucking flyers off my hands!!!
2. TV
3. Sherry – large quantities of …
Anne Brooke
Anne's website
Monday, June 18, 2007
Anger management and a big welcome to The Gawain Quest
Woke up feeling really tense and bad-tempered today. Must be the after-effects of having such a nice weekend. Mind you, I’m still cheered by the fact that Lord H rescued me from a bathroom spider last night – he wrapped it in kitchen towel, squashed it and then placed the kitchen towel plus dead spider on the floor. When I asked him why he didn’t just put it in the bin, his answer was that we still needed to have the fun of jumping up and down on the darn thing, whilst yelling. Which we duly did. And, yes, it is very cathartic. Though possibly not very good for the neighbours. Spiders? Bah! Death to the enemy, I say!
This morning, I have fiddled around with emails and a thousand and one minutes (again!), and attempted to look professional and concerned when asked anything to do with work, but frankly, m’dear, right now I just don’t give a damn. Must be Monday – can you tell? Oh Lord, when oh when will retirement arrive?? How I long for the day! It’s also rather dull here at the coalface without Ruth – she’s doing her accountancy exams this week, so I’m unlikely to see her. Or at least not for long. So it’s very quiet. Sigh.
But today’s Good News by a long chalk is that our next Goldenford (http://www.goldenford.co.uk) book, The Gawain Quest by Jay Margrave, is now available from our website to purchase. It’s a medieval thriller about a charismatic hitman who goes on a royal mission to find the author of a very rebellious poem. Can he complete his mission in one piece? And what exactly is the mystery of the castle?? Find out more at http://www.goldenford.co.uk! Go on – you know you want to … After all, it’s this year’s big summer read! And a very classy novel to boot. And I should know – as I had the pleasure of editing it. Besides of which, I know a good book when I see it. Buy early! Buy often!
Thank goodness for reflexology at lunchtime though – it really helped the tension thing, and I feel much more relaxed now. I think I fell asleep several times, so I must have needed it. Took me an age to get back to the office afterwards though – as the builders have blocked off even more paths – but am I bovvered? Um, no … And if the builders go on in similar vein over the next few days, we shall be cut off entirely from the outside world and forced to scale over barbed-wire fences and scaffolding in order to reach our desks at all. Please send food parcels. Groan.
Tonight, Lord H is at theology – doing the 19th century and the Oxford Movement, which is one of his favourite eras of the church history. All those bells & smells – it brings out his inner Drama Queen, you know! And I intend to stare at my computer screen and work out what on earth Craig is going to do next in The Bones of Summer. He’s just had one shock, and now he has to work out what to do about it. Poor guy. And where on earth does that leave Paul?? Ah, the plot thickens … Or it would if I had the faintest idea what I was doing.
Oh, and I also need to draft some questions about gay fiction for the very talented M L Rhodes (http://www.myspace.com/mlrhodeswriting) to answer – as she’s kindly agreed to help me with my article. Many thanks, ML – it’s very much appreciated!
The bad news is that the relaxed feeling has worn off and I now feel as riled as hell. Again. Bloody hormones - bollocks to them is what I say. Could really do with punching someone or taking a boxing class, but that's not possible, so I had to be content with mashing the potatoes really really hard, until even Lord H began to look worried. I suspect he'll be glad to be out of the flat tonight. God, it's like having a very angry little person in my stomach and I can feel the waves of tension radiating outwards from said person even as I type. Damn and bloody damn. No bloody wonder I don't write much feelgood stuff.
And I've just finished Carol Shields' Unless. I suppose it's probably a work of genius, but frankly I found it all rather tiresome, and I have retitled it Unless I'm not Mistaken, This isn't Really a Novel but just a Series of Vignettes Linked Randomly Together. Though even I realise that's not the catchiest of titles. Anyway, it's a shame as, normally, I quite enjoy Shields' novels - though I think her short stories are where she really seriously rocks. But there you go: can't win 'em all. And I do think it's a shame that the MC's husband, Tom, was such a shadowy, meaningless figure. And yes I do know it's a subtly feminist work, blah blah, and all the men in it are therefore prats, blah blah but really all that's a bit old hat, isn't it?
Hmm, time for some more Pimm's, I think?
Today’s nice things:
1. The publication of The Gawain Quest
2. Reflexology
3. Writing.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.pinkchampagneandapplejuice.com
This morning, I have fiddled around with emails and a thousand and one minutes (again!), and attempted to look professional and concerned when asked anything to do with work, but frankly, m’dear, right now I just don’t give a damn. Must be Monday – can you tell? Oh Lord, when oh when will retirement arrive?? How I long for the day! It’s also rather dull here at the coalface without Ruth – she’s doing her accountancy exams this week, so I’m unlikely to see her. Or at least not for long. So it’s very quiet. Sigh.
But today’s Good News by a long chalk is that our next Goldenford (http://www.goldenford.co.uk) book, The Gawain Quest by Jay Margrave, is now available from our website to purchase. It’s a medieval thriller about a charismatic hitman who goes on a royal mission to find the author of a very rebellious poem. Can he complete his mission in one piece? And what exactly is the mystery of the castle?? Find out more at http://www.goldenford.co.uk! Go on – you know you want to … After all, it’s this year’s big summer read! And a very classy novel to boot. And I should know – as I had the pleasure of editing it. Besides of which, I know a good book when I see it. Buy early! Buy often!
Thank goodness for reflexology at lunchtime though – it really helped the tension thing, and I feel much more relaxed now. I think I fell asleep several times, so I must have needed it. Took me an age to get back to the office afterwards though – as the builders have blocked off even more paths – but am I bovvered? Um, no … And if the builders go on in similar vein over the next few days, we shall be cut off entirely from the outside world and forced to scale over barbed-wire fences and scaffolding in order to reach our desks at all. Please send food parcels. Groan.
Tonight, Lord H is at theology – doing the 19th century and the Oxford Movement, which is one of his favourite eras of the church history. All those bells & smells – it brings out his inner Drama Queen, you know! And I intend to stare at my computer screen and work out what on earth Craig is going to do next in The Bones of Summer. He’s just had one shock, and now he has to work out what to do about it. Poor guy. And where on earth does that leave Paul?? Ah, the plot thickens … Or it would if I had the faintest idea what I was doing.
Oh, and I also need to draft some questions about gay fiction for the very talented M L Rhodes (http://www.myspace.com/mlrhodeswriting) to answer – as she’s kindly agreed to help me with my article. Many thanks, ML – it’s very much appreciated!
The bad news is that the relaxed feeling has worn off and I now feel as riled as hell. Again. Bloody hormones - bollocks to them is what I say. Could really do with punching someone or taking a boxing class, but that's not possible, so I had to be content with mashing the potatoes really really hard, until even Lord H began to look worried. I suspect he'll be glad to be out of the flat tonight. God, it's like having a very angry little person in my stomach and I can feel the waves of tension radiating outwards from said person even as I type. Damn and bloody damn. No bloody wonder I don't write much feelgood stuff.
And I've just finished Carol Shields' Unless. I suppose it's probably a work of genius, but frankly I found it all rather tiresome, and I have retitled it Unless I'm not Mistaken, This isn't Really a Novel but just a Series of Vignettes Linked Randomly Together. Though even I realise that's not the catchiest of titles. Anyway, it's a shame as, normally, I quite enjoy Shields' novels - though I think her short stories are where she really seriously rocks. But there you go: can't win 'em all. And I do think it's a shame that the MC's husband, Tom, was such a shadowy, meaningless figure. And yes I do know it's a subtly feminist work, blah blah, and all the men in it are therefore prats, blah blah but really all that's a bit old hat, isn't it?
Hmm, time for some more Pimm's, I think?
Today’s nice things:
1. The publication of The Gawain Quest
2. Reflexology
3. Writing.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.pinkchampagneandapplejuice.com
Sunday, March 18, 2007
An angry day
Woke up this morning feeling blank. A feeling which rapidly disintegrated into anger, with the odd wave of depression. Great start to the day then. Lord H went to church, as he was doing the prayers, but I cried off, as the thought of the Mothers' Day jollity was beyond bearing. I got so frustrated during the morning that I resorted to taking two calming pills. Thank God for Lane's Quiet Life remedies, eh?
There are really two things which have been upping the rollercoaster levels of my blood pressure today but God only knows why they're preying on my mind together. Lucky me, I suppose. Not. The first thing is the church. My specific (ex-) church rather than the generic one, though that's not so hot either. It strikes me that I spent most of 2006 being increasingly depressed and withdrawing from all kinds of church activity. I gave up going once a week to the daily Evening Prayer service held by the Lay Reader, I withdrew from the prayer rota, I gave my notice in as Sacristan and I stopped going to church every week. And when I did go, more often than not I didn't take communion. During that time, I've had a couple of church people tell me that if I wanted to talk I was welcome (a) to phone them, or (b) pop round for a chat. Which might seem nice on the outside, but you try asking someone suffering from depression to take any kind of action whatsoever in relation to the outside world. Believe me, it just wasn't possible. It was more than enough for me to (a) go to a counsellor and (b) talk to the doctor about it. I couldn't have done anything else. So, in all that time, not one person from my ruddy so-called caring bloody church has either popped round, rung me or left me a note. And, yes, I am bloody fucking angry about it. I'm beginning to see I have a right to be. I'm not sure I'd treat my dog (if I had one or even if I liked dogs) like this. Surely if something is sick, it's up to the healthier people to do something about it. Well, hell I've been sick and no-one's done a damn thing. Yes, I feel let down, yes I feel hurt, and yes I feel angry. The last straw today was when Lord H came home bearing a little gift of Mothers' Day flowers for me and conveying the good wishes of the church. I'm afraid my answer was (a) to chuck the flowers in the bin, and (b) say bollocks to their good wishes. I don't believe them and I don't want them. Not Lord H's fault, I know, and we did have a good talk about it today - which is a blessing which has been a long time coming. I've been wary about raising my feelings about church as I know how much a part of his life it is. My cowardice - I should have trusted him more. I think now that if anyone from the church did come round (with the possible exception of Paul, the new and very strange priest, who has been the first person there in a long time to treat me like a real human being with opinions and feelings that might be important ...), I wouldn't let them in. I also think that when I come back from our holidays, I'm going to cancel my monthly direct debit to the church, which I've been running for ages. And I'm not going to bother telling the treasurer either. I mean fuck it, why should I be proactively caring when not one other bugger has been? Bollocks to them, I say.
The other thing is that I'm not, I don't think, actively looking to find another church. I'm not sure I want to. It's way too difficult and too hurtful. If push comes to shove, or if my feelings change, I might think about the Quakers, as they've been good to me in the past when I was "between churches", but for now I think I just want to lick my wounds and be still. Hell, it's a plan. Of sorts.
And the second thing that's been making me wildly angry (and very hurt) today is my so-called old University friends. These are people I don't see very often, but have known for twenty years. Yes, I know I've blogged about them before, but this is the first time I've had this wave of anger about them. It feels as if for a long time I've been doing a lot of the running and since I made the decision last year about not organising so many group social activities, it all seems to be drifting away. It seems as if when I hear about any good or bad things that have happened to them, I'm first to respond with the appropriate celebrations or sympathy, but the same thing does not happen, in any sense, in return. Last year, one of them was in severe crisis and I drove over her way several times to have chats about it, and kept in touch by email/phone. Yet when I'm in trouble (as last year indeed), there's nothing in return - just once again the invitation to ring them if I need to talk. Well, once again, bollocks to that. It doesn't work. What I need is someone on my doorstep/on the phone/email being proactive about it. That has never happened. I've also sent emails telling them the good news about my books and, in one or two cases, how difficult things have been. Response on both counts: zilch. Surely, if someone emails you with good or bad news, it's just a matter of courtesy to respond?? I make sure I always do. It feels very hurtful, and I feel very empty, that this isn't happening from them. And, God, I think: what is it about me that makes people use me when they need a shoulder to cry on, but disappear to the fucking hills when I need the same from them? Do I have the label "Social Pushover" tattoed to my head? Bollocks to my old university gang, I say. I can do without you tossers. Everyone I know is a bloody better friend than you. So go screw yourselves.
So. What a morning that was, eh? The rest of the day I've spent doing the cleaning, stuffing sliced lemons up a chicken's arse (which has been extremely satisfying and I really must do it more often, especially when I can imagine it's the bloody church or my bloody so-called friends - though no doubt some of them would enjoy it ...) for lunch, cleaning the car, chatting to the neighbour and napping. The latter for two glorious hours - bliss! Oh, and I've rung mother to wish her the usual happy returns of today and to sound like a normal daughter with a normal life. God, what a consummate actor I indeed am.
And I've just finished reading Wendy Cope's "Serious Concerns" - poetry that always makes me smile and she's so damn clever. I've also given up on Carol Anne Davis' "Shrouded", as I couldn't bear the characters and I'm deeply uninterested in fish tanks, a subject which seemed to take up most of the first few chapters for reasons known only to her.
Tonight, I'm going to watch Billie Piper (who I think is a lovely person) in "Mansfield Park". I must admit to being in two minds about it, as I really really don't see her as Fanny - she's too blonde, too bosomy and too uncontained. Fanny is more of the quiet, slow-burn, brunette type, in my opinion. Still, we'll see.
This week's haiku (and probably appropriate for today in some strange fashion ...) is:
I speak of childhood.
Inside me, a door opens
and darkness spills out.
Today's nice things:
1. Being angry about the crap thrown at me (strangely)
2. Having the "church talk" at last with Lord H, and we're still hugging (thankfully)
3. TV.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk
There are really two things which have been upping the rollercoaster levels of my blood pressure today but God only knows why they're preying on my mind together. Lucky me, I suppose. Not. The first thing is the church. My specific (ex-) church rather than the generic one, though that's not so hot either. It strikes me that I spent most of 2006 being increasingly depressed and withdrawing from all kinds of church activity. I gave up going once a week to the daily Evening Prayer service held by the Lay Reader, I withdrew from the prayer rota, I gave my notice in as Sacristan and I stopped going to church every week. And when I did go, more often than not I didn't take communion. During that time, I've had a couple of church people tell me that if I wanted to talk I was welcome (a) to phone them, or (b) pop round for a chat. Which might seem nice on the outside, but you try asking someone suffering from depression to take any kind of action whatsoever in relation to the outside world. Believe me, it just wasn't possible. It was more than enough for me to (a) go to a counsellor and (b) talk to the doctor about it. I couldn't have done anything else. So, in all that time, not one person from my ruddy so-called caring bloody church has either popped round, rung me or left me a note. And, yes, I am bloody fucking angry about it. I'm beginning to see I have a right to be. I'm not sure I'd treat my dog (if I had one or even if I liked dogs) like this. Surely if something is sick, it's up to the healthier people to do something about it. Well, hell I've been sick and no-one's done a damn thing. Yes, I feel let down, yes I feel hurt, and yes I feel angry. The last straw today was when Lord H came home bearing a little gift of Mothers' Day flowers for me and conveying the good wishes of the church. I'm afraid my answer was (a) to chuck the flowers in the bin, and (b) say bollocks to their good wishes. I don't believe them and I don't want them. Not Lord H's fault, I know, and we did have a good talk about it today - which is a blessing which has been a long time coming. I've been wary about raising my feelings about church as I know how much a part of his life it is. My cowardice - I should have trusted him more. I think now that if anyone from the church did come round (with the possible exception of Paul, the new and very strange priest, who has been the first person there in a long time to treat me like a real human being with opinions and feelings that might be important ...), I wouldn't let them in. I also think that when I come back from our holidays, I'm going to cancel my monthly direct debit to the church, which I've been running for ages. And I'm not going to bother telling the treasurer either. I mean fuck it, why should I be proactively caring when not one other bugger has been? Bollocks to them, I say.
The other thing is that I'm not, I don't think, actively looking to find another church. I'm not sure I want to. It's way too difficult and too hurtful. If push comes to shove, or if my feelings change, I might think about the Quakers, as they've been good to me in the past when I was "between churches", but for now I think I just want to lick my wounds and be still. Hell, it's a plan. Of sorts.
And the second thing that's been making me wildly angry (and very hurt) today is my so-called old University friends. These are people I don't see very often, but have known for twenty years. Yes, I know I've blogged about them before, but this is the first time I've had this wave of anger about them. It feels as if for a long time I've been doing a lot of the running and since I made the decision last year about not organising so many group social activities, it all seems to be drifting away. It seems as if when I hear about any good or bad things that have happened to them, I'm first to respond with the appropriate celebrations or sympathy, but the same thing does not happen, in any sense, in return. Last year, one of them was in severe crisis and I drove over her way several times to have chats about it, and kept in touch by email/phone. Yet when I'm in trouble (as last year indeed), there's nothing in return - just once again the invitation to ring them if I need to talk. Well, once again, bollocks to that. It doesn't work. What I need is someone on my doorstep/on the phone/email being proactive about it. That has never happened. I've also sent emails telling them the good news about my books and, in one or two cases, how difficult things have been. Response on both counts: zilch. Surely, if someone emails you with good or bad news, it's just a matter of courtesy to respond?? I make sure I always do. It feels very hurtful, and I feel very empty, that this isn't happening from them. And, God, I think: what is it about me that makes people use me when they need a shoulder to cry on, but disappear to the fucking hills when I need the same from them? Do I have the label "Social Pushover" tattoed to my head? Bollocks to my old university gang, I say. I can do without you tossers. Everyone I know is a bloody better friend than you. So go screw yourselves.
So. What a morning that was, eh? The rest of the day I've spent doing the cleaning, stuffing sliced lemons up a chicken's arse (which has been extremely satisfying and I really must do it more often, especially when I can imagine it's the bloody church or my bloody so-called friends - though no doubt some of them would enjoy it ...) for lunch, cleaning the car, chatting to the neighbour and napping. The latter for two glorious hours - bliss! Oh, and I've rung mother to wish her the usual happy returns of today and to sound like a normal daughter with a normal life. God, what a consummate actor I indeed am.
And I've just finished reading Wendy Cope's "Serious Concerns" - poetry that always makes me smile and she's so damn clever. I've also given up on Carol Anne Davis' "Shrouded", as I couldn't bear the characters and I'm deeply uninterested in fish tanks, a subject which seemed to take up most of the first few chapters for reasons known only to her.
Tonight, I'm going to watch Billie Piper (who I think is a lovely person) in "Mansfield Park". I must admit to being in two minds about it, as I really really don't see her as Fanny - she's too blonde, too bosomy and too uncontained. Fanny is more of the quiet, slow-burn, brunette type, in my opinion. Still, we'll see.
This week's haiku (and probably appropriate for today in some strange fashion ...) is:
I speak of childhood.
Inside me, a door opens
and darkness spills out.
Today's nice things:
1. Being angry about the crap thrown at me (strangely)
2. Having the "church talk" at last with Lord H, and we're still hugging (thankfully)
3. TV.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk
Friday, January 05, 2007
Whisky and words
Have been feeling like I've been drained of all energy today (query: is it Torchwood's revenge?) and am hovering delicately on the edge of a cold. Hell, and the year had been going so well - up until yesterday, that is. I decided last night to drown my sorrows in whisky (and consequently have thrown my new alcohol-lite regime into the roadside bushes with merry abandon). This helped a surprising amount - which just goes to show that the Scots are right after all. Och aye, the noo (or similar). As a result, I wrote a poem about it which - equally astonishingly - is longer than my customary three lines. Here it is:
Whisky song
Sometimes alcohol is the only way:
when you’re hunting the wild dogs,
or being hunted by them,
or when the blue day
you were stepping into
turns black
after all
and just when you thought
you’d cracked the bloody secret
of how to be happy.
Don’t believe it.
That’s when the dark rages roll,
those hours, days,
you can’t control
and when it happens
there’s no way on earth to do
what your precious gurus recommend:
walk away; procrastinate;
drink water or calming tea;
meditate.
No. Instead
do what your heart’s need tells you:
take the secret bottle of heathered gold;
pour long and deep; breathe in
the warm satin richness;
let its fierce kiss
burn crimson on your tongue;
swallow down that longed-for surge of happiness
into your body’s constant, clamouring
ache;
and medicate.
So there you go. Maybe poetry only turns up when I'm spitting feathers or in the black gloom. Or both. It's a mystery. But, hey, it's more than three lines - hurrah!
And, talking of writing, it's interesting how today's 1000 words of "The Gifting" have been full of poor Simon getting enraged and doing a lot of yelling. Perhaps my novels should be read purely as a diary exercise to see what mood I was in when I was writing them. Or, more accurately, what mood I was in the day before. But where does that leave the sex scenes? Hmm ...
Meanwhile, the march of time has journeyed onwards ... I picked up my new (name drop alert!) Armani glasses today (which look fine, thank you) and at once the world became significantly larger and more in focus. And there was I thinking that everywhere I went the world was slightly misty. Much like the Queen Mother, who must have imagined that England was terribly clean and strewn with rose petals. Bless her. Still, it meant that the residents of Godalming were far safer on my journey home. And Lord H has already emailed to say I look lovely. What a smoothie, eh? Though actually Lord H has gained at least a hundred brand-new Husband Points from last night - when he spent a long time listening, nodding sympathetically and hugging, even though he'd only just arrived from work and had yet to take his coat off. And he didn't even frown at the amount of swearing going on. What a hero. I can see I shall have to do extra cleaning and (perish the thought) even perhaps some home cooking in order to balance the marital niceness scales once more. What's that? Did someone say I'm overly competitive? Ah, surely not ...
This afternoon, after hammering out Simon's latest trauma, I gave in to the siren call of the sofa and have had a glorious two-hour nap. I can see myself becoming more and more like Lydia Languish who, from memory, spent most of her theatrical fictional time swooning on the sofa and taking smelling salts. Hell, don't knock it. It's a career after all.
Which brings me to thoughts of professionalism. There seems to have been a lot of talk about this on various writing sites recently, but I don't think that on a personal level I can subscribe to its unnatural demands. Rest assured that, whatever happens in the Curious World of Brooke, I shall never turn into a scary professional anything. Please God. I hope I shall always be me - a small corner of the virtual world which shall remain forever determinedly amateur, threateningly unprofessional and (hopefully) as searingly honest as I can be. Please God I never turn into one of those authors who (if I ever make it anywhere else but where I am now, ho ho) smile and smile, and say how wonderful the publishing world is, dahlings, and how charmed their life is now, and how absolutely awful those other wretched would-be writers are. And have one of those cut-glass accents too, even though they came from Bognor and spent most of their childhood in a caravan. Why do they all sound like that? Ye gods, is there a Stepford Authors club out there? Do you have to have your personality removed if you make it into the hallowed corridors of a mainstream publisher? And don't even mention those irritating airbrushed photographs which make every author look the same. I mean, I ask you! Perhaps it is after all a cunning plot dreamed up by a Government marketing department with way too much power and time on its hands. It wouldn't surprise me.
Today's nice things, then:
1. Writing
2. Getting new glasses - Armani! Hey, babe ...!
3. Still having a personality. (You might not like it, but at least you know what it is!).
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk
Whisky song
Sometimes alcohol is the only way:
when you’re hunting the wild dogs,
or being hunted by them,
or when the blue day
you were stepping into
turns black
after all
and just when you thought
you’d cracked the bloody secret
of how to be happy.
Don’t believe it.
That’s when the dark rages roll,
those hours, days,
you can’t control
and when it happens
there’s no way on earth to do
what your precious gurus recommend:
walk away; procrastinate;
drink water or calming tea;
meditate.
No. Instead
do what your heart’s need tells you:
take the secret bottle of heathered gold;
pour long and deep; breathe in
the warm satin richness;
let its fierce kiss
burn crimson on your tongue;
swallow down that longed-for surge of happiness
into your body’s constant, clamouring
ache;
and medicate.
So there you go. Maybe poetry only turns up when I'm spitting feathers or in the black gloom. Or both. It's a mystery. But, hey, it's more than three lines - hurrah!
And, talking of writing, it's interesting how today's 1000 words of "The Gifting" have been full of poor Simon getting enraged and doing a lot of yelling. Perhaps my novels should be read purely as a diary exercise to see what mood I was in when I was writing them. Or, more accurately, what mood I was in the day before. But where does that leave the sex scenes? Hmm ...
Meanwhile, the march of time has journeyed onwards ... I picked up my new (name drop alert!) Armani glasses today (which look fine, thank you) and at once the world became significantly larger and more in focus. And there was I thinking that everywhere I went the world was slightly misty. Much like the Queen Mother, who must have imagined that England was terribly clean and strewn with rose petals. Bless her. Still, it meant that the residents of Godalming were far safer on my journey home. And Lord H has already emailed to say I look lovely. What a smoothie, eh? Though actually Lord H has gained at least a hundred brand-new Husband Points from last night - when he spent a long time listening, nodding sympathetically and hugging, even though he'd only just arrived from work and had yet to take his coat off. And he didn't even frown at the amount of swearing going on. What a hero. I can see I shall have to do extra cleaning and (perish the thought) even perhaps some home cooking in order to balance the marital niceness scales once more. What's that? Did someone say I'm overly competitive? Ah, surely not ...
This afternoon, after hammering out Simon's latest trauma, I gave in to the siren call of the sofa and have had a glorious two-hour nap. I can see myself becoming more and more like Lydia Languish who, from memory, spent most of her theatrical fictional time swooning on the sofa and taking smelling salts. Hell, don't knock it. It's a career after all.
Which brings me to thoughts of professionalism. There seems to have been a lot of talk about this on various writing sites recently, but I don't think that on a personal level I can subscribe to its unnatural demands. Rest assured that, whatever happens in the Curious World of Brooke, I shall never turn into a scary professional anything. Please God. I hope I shall always be me - a small corner of the virtual world which shall remain forever determinedly amateur, threateningly unprofessional and (hopefully) as searingly honest as I can be. Please God I never turn into one of those authors who (if I ever make it anywhere else but where I am now, ho ho) smile and smile, and say how wonderful the publishing world is, dahlings, and how charmed their life is now, and how absolutely awful those other wretched would-be writers are. And have one of those cut-glass accents too, even though they came from Bognor and spent most of their childhood in a caravan. Why do they all sound like that? Ye gods, is there a Stepford Authors club out there? Do you have to have your personality removed if you make it into the hallowed corridors of a mainstream publisher? And don't even mention those irritating airbrushed photographs which make every author look the same. I mean, I ask you! Perhaps it is after all a cunning plot dreamed up by a Government marketing department with way too much power and time on its hands. It wouldn't surprise me.
Today's nice things, then:
1. Writing
2. Getting new glasses - Armani! Hey, babe ...!
3. Still having a personality. (You might not like it, but at least you know what it is!).
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
End of year and publishing blues
God, what a day. Felt reasonably okay when I got in, but rapidly went plunging down into feeling totally depressed and worthless. And yes, I know the year has on the face of it been good, and people have been positive about my last book – but to my mind that has absolutely nothing to do with how up or down I feel. Unfortunately. Hey, it’s an internal thing. Damn it.
So, I struggled to write up yesterday’s minutes – at a speed of approximately one page per hour and a half, as a lot of that time I spent surfing, staring at the screen and generally feeling tearful. Some secretary I am, eh?...
And the thoughts going through my head were: (a) hey, another year nearly done and still “A Dangerous Man” (yes, it is the novel I really, really want to be published, even though I know the rest are fine – please don’t confront me on this or get cross, it’s just the way it is …) is stuck in non-book form. In spite of promises to the contrary. I’m wavering between being incredibly upset and angry with Flame Books about it and just incredibly depressed and resigned – the “oh well, that’s just my luck – even my publishers don’t want to print it” mental scenario; (b) I can’t even get my latest poetry collection published, in spite of winning/being placed in awards for it and the stuff it contains, and I shall no doubt have to self-publish it next year once again, as the small press I’ve sent it to won’t bother replying to me even though it was they who requested it in the first place; (c) rage (yes, that is the right word) at the fact that 90% of the other writers I know all seem to have publication dates for their latest novels coming out of their ears. And of course they’re all with hugely well-known and mainstream “ah darling, aren’t you brilliant? Let me throw you a party” publishers. And I know that these are all good and wonderful people, with novels which will last the test of time and win loads of awards, but please, please don’t tell me about them again until they are actually out. I just can’t bear the pain and am liable to print a picture of your novel off, tear it to little pieces and burn it. Though of course I will buy it in the long run. Probably. But hey give me a break now, people ...; (d) In any case, why can’t my publisher or agent even bear to see me? I am fed up with people telling me what wonderful people their publishers/agents/editors are and what excellent lunches they give when I haven’t even met mine. Any of them. And I’ve been promised lunch twice by my current agent, and been stood up by him once at another event too. With a fairly okay reason, but even so ... I’m beginning to assume that I’m simply not good enough actually to meet anyone face-to-face, and I’ll never be good enough. (e) Even at work, I can’t escape the agony of it all – some bloody punter from the Language Centre has produced his first novel (or rather novella – it’s only 100 pages) and the publicity for it is emblazoned over the intranet. Every time I see it, I’m giving it the good old two fingers. Naturally, being the sweet and generous person I am (ha!), I have emailed my congratulations, but have also written to the internal PR people to ask why the fuck they told me they wouldn’t advertise people’s novels as it was “too commercial”. Just because the Language Centre boyo is with HarperCollins (oh, dahlings, how super …) and I’m with Goldenford, eh? Bloody tight-arse PR losers. (f) Finally how much I hate Christmas and the New Year – I have ten whole days to face when there’s absolutely no chance of getting any good news in my email or by phone from any writing contact about any of my work. And to be honest the thought that this time when I go home my agent/publisher/editor might surely have contacted me – even just to say they’re still there and working on things – is the one thing that keeps me going from day to day.
So right now, I feel I just want to curl up on the bed, have a really long tearful session and give up being a writer entirely. So my advice to anyone wanting to publish a book via anyone apart from themselves is much like the good old advice to those about to get married: Don’t. It’s not bloody worth it.
In spite of this, I did have one or two nice points in the day - the Pro Vice-Chancellor emailed to thank me for my help on various committees throughout the year. Obviously the words most likely to appear on my gravestone are: Good secretary; failed author. Bollocks, eh? It's not what I want. Oh, and Julia from UniSWriters popped in to give me a Christmas present - which I shall save until the big day. So that was nice. And I finally got the first draft of those ruddy minutes done. Hu-bloody-rrah.
Today’s nice things:
1. Apart from some of the above, sweet FA, to be frank.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk
So, I struggled to write up yesterday’s minutes – at a speed of approximately one page per hour and a half, as a lot of that time I spent surfing, staring at the screen and generally feeling tearful. Some secretary I am, eh?...
And the thoughts going through my head were: (a) hey, another year nearly done and still “A Dangerous Man” (yes, it is the novel I really, really want to be published, even though I know the rest are fine – please don’t confront me on this or get cross, it’s just the way it is …) is stuck in non-book form. In spite of promises to the contrary. I’m wavering between being incredibly upset and angry with Flame Books about it and just incredibly depressed and resigned – the “oh well, that’s just my luck – even my publishers don’t want to print it” mental scenario; (b) I can’t even get my latest poetry collection published, in spite of winning/being placed in awards for it and the stuff it contains, and I shall no doubt have to self-publish it next year once again, as the small press I’ve sent it to won’t bother replying to me even though it was they who requested it in the first place; (c) rage (yes, that is the right word) at the fact that 90% of the other writers I know all seem to have publication dates for their latest novels coming out of their ears. And of course they’re all with hugely well-known and mainstream “ah darling, aren’t you brilliant? Let me throw you a party” publishers. And I know that these are all good and wonderful people, with novels which will last the test of time and win loads of awards, but please, please don’t tell me about them again until they are actually out. I just can’t bear the pain and am liable to print a picture of your novel off, tear it to little pieces and burn it. Though of course I will buy it in the long run. Probably. But hey give me a break now, people ...; (d) In any case, why can’t my publisher or agent even bear to see me? I am fed up with people telling me what wonderful people their publishers/agents/editors are and what excellent lunches they give when I haven’t even met mine. Any of them. And I’ve been promised lunch twice by my current agent, and been stood up by him once at another event too. With a fairly okay reason, but even so ... I’m beginning to assume that I’m simply not good enough actually to meet anyone face-to-face, and I’ll never be good enough. (e) Even at work, I can’t escape the agony of it all – some bloody punter from the Language Centre has produced his first novel (or rather novella – it’s only 100 pages) and the publicity for it is emblazoned over the intranet. Every time I see it, I’m giving it the good old two fingers. Naturally, being the sweet and generous person I am (ha!), I have emailed my congratulations, but have also written to the internal PR people to ask why the fuck they told me they wouldn’t advertise people’s novels as it was “too commercial”. Just because the Language Centre boyo is with HarperCollins (oh, dahlings, how super …) and I’m with Goldenford, eh? Bloody tight-arse PR losers. (f) Finally how much I hate Christmas and the New Year – I have ten whole days to face when there’s absolutely no chance of getting any good news in my email or by phone from any writing contact about any of my work. And to be honest the thought that this time when I go home my agent/publisher/editor might surely have contacted me – even just to say they’re still there and working on things – is the one thing that keeps me going from day to day.
So right now, I feel I just want to curl up on the bed, have a really long tearful session and give up being a writer entirely. So my advice to anyone wanting to publish a book via anyone apart from themselves is much like the good old advice to those about to get married: Don’t. It’s not bloody worth it.
In spite of this, I did have one or two nice points in the day - the Pro Vice-Chancellor emailed to thank me for my help on various committees throughout the year. Obviously the words most likely to appear on my gravestone are: Good secretary; failed author. Bollocks, eh? It's not what I want. Oh, and Julia from UniSWriters popped in to give me a Christmas present - which I shall save until the big day. So that was nice. And I finally got the first draft of those ruddy minutes done. Hu-bloody-rrah.
Today’s nice things:
1. Apart from some of the above, sweet FA, to be frank.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Nutrimetics, counselling and party readings
An action-packed day today - my head is spinning! First off was tea & chat with Jane Hide, which was great (see, Jane - I mentioned you!). She's just settling down into her new career as a part-time Nutrimetics (http://www.nutrimetics.co.uk) consultant, so I have ordered some products (all of which smell wonderful) - which will, I hope, make me into a new woman with a perfect look. Will Lord H recognise me is the question? Hmm, I'll come back to you on that one. By the way, if anyone is interested in Nutrimetics (cheaper than Clarins or Clinique, and all natural ingredients - see, Jane, I was listening!) and is in the Guildford area, then I can pass your details on to her. She won't mess you around and won't force you to buy things you don't need or want - and you might even pick something up for Christmas!
Next stop was my counselling appointment with Kunu (http://www.castlestreetclinic.com). God, it took me fifty minutes - fifty minutes!! - to find a bloody carpark space in bloody Guildford and by the time I found one in the carpark I'd originally looked at, I was just about ready to do myself in, and take a few ruddy town councillors with me to the great beyond at the same time. Would have served them bloody right - but there's only so many people you can run over in a Ford Fiesta. I only just made my appointment on time. Think it was worth it though - I talked about my angry weekend, my "anger box" - which I perhaps need to make bigger - and we discussed how it's okay to see people I enjoy seeing, and not worry about the rest. (Don't worry, Jane H - you're still on my nice people's list, so you haven't got rid of me yet!...).
Back home I'm preparing for tonight's Goldenford (http://www.goldenford.co.uk) readings at the Barclays Christmas staff party. Oh God, how I hate doing these things - I've been stressing it all day (well, 2 or 3 days actually), and will be so bloody glad when it's over. Would be nice to sell some books though - but I'm not optimistic. Am I ever?
Today's nice things:
1. Seeing Jane
2. Counselling.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
Next stop was my counselling appointment with Kunu (http://www.castlestreetclinic.com). God, it took me fifty minutes - fifty minutes!! - to find a bloody carpark space in bloody Guildford and by the time I found one in the carpark I'd originally looked at, I was just about ready to do myself in, and take a few ruddy town councillors with me to the great beyond at the same time. Would have served them bloody right - but there's only so many people you can run over in a Ford Fiesta. I only just made my appointment on time. Think it was worth it though - I talked about my angry weekend, my "anger box" - which I perhaps need to make bigger - and we discussed how it's okay to see people I enjoy seeing, and not worry about the rest. (Don't worry, Jane H - you're still on my nice people's list, so you haven't got rid of me yet!...).
Back home I'm preparing for tonight's Goldenford (http://www.goldenford.co.uk) readings at the Barclays Christmas staff party. Oh God, how I hate doing these things - I've been stressing it all day (well, 2 or 3 days actually), and will be so bloody glad when it's over. Would be nice to sell some books though - but I'm not optimistic. Am I ever?
Today's nice things:
1. Seeing Jane
2. Counselling.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Church hell - again
Decided to be noble and actually go to church today. Big mistake. I would have been better off staying at home and not wasting my morning. Still, with Lord H doing his head server duties, it did mean I was able to skulk at the back and not go up to Communion. Or pretend to sing any of the hymns or say any of the words. So I suppose it wasn't all bad news, eh? And I know everyone's very well-meaning, but was it really necessary to crowd round me post-service like children exclaiming over a sick animal?? Hmm, I think not, people! It's enough to send me screaming for normality to the Buddhists ... Though, that said, Hilary was nice, and did say some sensible things about useful drugs - so thanks for that, Hilary. However, the way things are at the moment, I doubt I'll be going again for a while.
And none of this was helped by the struggle of getting through yesterday's dinner with my old university friends. Nice food though, Jane M - but I'm not really up to it right now. At one point, I felt very railroaded into agreeing to have yet another (oh God, no!!) pre-Christmas gals' social event shoved into a week where I actually want to be (a) at home with my loved one on our own and (b) quiet. It made me feel incredibly angry that they assume I'll want to do things I would have wanted to do twenty years ago. Well, frankly, I can't be arsed to have yet another social evening when I pretend to be something I'm not (which is how they seem to prefer me to be) and make them laugh a lot. Hell, find your own jokes, gals! Actually, I think the way forward is to back out at the last minute. It's what everyone else does after all. That said, I am looking forward to the dancing classes Keith W and I have decided to book for next year. And I think I've managed to get us out of going out on New Year - hurrah!
All this made my dreams last night very, very angry ones. In fact I woke up, shaking with it. It felt way too big to fit into my "anger box" - Lord H said I could always squash it into the corners, but will I be able to close the lid? It's a mystery! At one point in the dream, I remember I was a man at work who had suddenly flipped and was beating up someone I know, and then having to bring it all back under control again and think how to apologise and explain it. Hell, wouldn't it be good if you could beat people up in real life? Without the bloody repercussions. Bliss!
This afternoon, I've been cheering myself up by watching the video of "Strictly Come Dancing". Hurrah - Mark & Matt are still in! I was sorry to lose Claire & Brendan though - I really liked them. I soooo wish that ruddy tosser, Vincent, and his no-brain partner, Louisa, would go. I really can't stand them. And I'm not convinced their dancing is all that good either - and neither is Baby Bunton's, to my mind.
This week's haiku:
Spaces in my heart
let the poems through. They bleed.
Sunlight destroys them.
(Hell - on a day like today , what did you expect - sweetness and light??!!)
Today's nice things:
1. Getting out of bloody church - at last!
2. Strictly Come Dancing
3. Being at home with Lord H.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk
And none of this was helped by the struggle of getting through yesterday's dinner with my old university friends. Nice food though, Jane M - but I'm not really up to it right now. At one point, I felt very railroaded into agreeing to have yet another (oh God, no!!) pre-Christmas gals' social event shoved into a week where I actually want to be (a) at home with my loved one on our own and (b) quiet. It made me feel incredibly angry that they assume I'll want to do things I would have wanted to do twenty years ago. Well, frankly, I can't be arsed to have yet another social evening when I pretend to be something I'm not (which is how they seem to prefer me to be) and make them laugh a lot. Hell, find your own jokes, gals! Actually, I think the way forward is to back out at the last minute. It's what everyone else does after all. That said, I am looking forward to the dancing classes Keith W and I have decided to book for next year. And I think I've managed to get us out of going out on New Year - hurrah!
All this made my dreams last night very, very angry ones. In fact I woke up, shaking with it. It felt way too big to fit into my "anger box" - Lord H said I could always squash it into the corners, but will I be able to close the lid? It's a mystery! At one point in the dream, I remember I was a man at work who had suddenly flipped and was beating up someone I know, and then having to bring it all back under control again and think how to apologise and explain it. Hell, wouldn't it be good if you could beat people up in real life? Without the bloody repercussions. Bliss!
This afternoon, I've been cheering myself up by watching the video of "Strictly Come Dancing". Hurrah - Mark & Matt are still in! I was sorry to lose Claire & Brendan though - I really liked them. I soooo wish that ruddy tosser, Vincent, and his no-brain partner, Louisa, would go. I really can't stand them. And I'm not convinced their dancing is all that good either - and neither is Baby Bunton's, to my mind.
This week's haiku:
Spaces in my heart
let the poems through. They bleed.
Sunlight destroys them.
(Hell - on a day like today , what did you expect - sweetness and light??!!)
Today's nice things:
1. Getting out of bloody church - at last!
2. Strictly Come Dancing
3. Being at home with Lord H.
Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)