Swallow - Music to read by

While finding new ways to procrastinate, instead of editing Headliner, I made this little playlist of songs I listened to while writing Swallow. Some are songs characters liked, others were ones that helped me get into the zone while writing certain scenes. I've added them in no particular order.

Enjoy!

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=videoseries?list=PLC523441HRHArdNjPZfjaJ3hpAERrzVcE&hl=en_GB&w=560&h=315]

¡Hola, todos!

Hi!

Just a quick update to let you all know I'm not dead. I'm in Spain, living the infant expat life and loving it, and coming close to finishing my final edit of Headliner, yay! I have whittled the book jacket design down to a choice of three and shall post them up at my site or one of the forums I frequent (probably KindleBoards) in due course.

IM x

New review for Swallow

Big thank you to Craig Hansen for his generous review of Swallow at Amazon.com. Us fledgling authors appreciate feedback, good or bad, as it helps to know how our books are being received by you, the readers!

A bad review is useful for showing us where we went wrong, what we could have done better, etc, so we can apply the newly-learned information in our next project. A good review cheers and motivates us, especially when – like me now – we’re at that midway point in writing a large piece that feels like the finish line keeps running further away.

I shall remain steadfast! Headliner will be available for publication in autumn.

Anyway, here it is. Thanks, Craig! Oh, I do like your actor suggestions

Ilyria x

-

“It took me a long time to finish SWALLOW by Ilyria Moon, but I read a lot of things at once, and with a longish book like this, that was to be expected.

The most important thing to point out here is that Moon’s confidence and skill as a writer permeate the book from the opening chapter to the closing one. Although her book is longish, rare are the passages that feel stretched out or lacking in that “moving the story forward” synergy that all good reads possess.

Her tale of a rehabbing British rocker and the unexpected romance he finds on his way to sobriety is entertaining on both the romantic and comedic levels it is striving for. Wolf and Luna appeal and transfix, even in their odder moments.

Clocking in at around 140,000 words or so, Swallow might seem a bit longish for a rom-com; but that’s before you begin to read it and get swept up in the journey of the characters, and the lean skill of Moon’s prose. Despite the time it took me, the book never feels like it’s dragging things out that much, and instead casts its scope around a slightly broader cast than the average rom-com.

By the time SWALLOW concludes, the read ends up feeling satisfying and complete, rather than a thin slice of life. While some readers may prefer a slimmer tome for light reading, SWALLOW delivers a generous tale, told well. While not without the odd niggling flaw, SWALLOW ended up being a better read than I ever anticipated. And I challenge anyone who’s seen GET HIM TO THE GREEK and the remake of ARTHUR not to envision Russell Brand fitting into this role quite nicely, should it ever become a movie. Not sure who to peg for Luna… Karen Gillan, perhaps? Or maybe even Evanna Lynch, already well familiar to roles involving characters named Luna.

In any event, count SWALLOW as an unexpectedly good read. Then swallow your aversion to longer books and get to reading. Well done.”

- Craig Hansen

Charity, latte, and a flip-flop

I’m still trying to figure out this Windows 7 speech recognition software. It seems when I am wide-awake and sitting up alert, the program works just fine. Oddly, if I employ a slightly condescending tone, it works competently, too. However, when it gets late at night and my voice begins to crack or my accent becomes more pronounced through tiredness, the program types gibberish. Given that this is the time I’d be most likely to use it because I have no desire to sit up, it’s a shame it has such a hard time deciphering what I tell it. And everyone used to say I had a lovely speaking voice when I was little. Overall, it’s a useful piece of software and I’ll probably use it now and again, but with a typing speed of 70wpm, it’s counter-productive, really.

Anyhoo, today was a big bag of stress punctuated with small pleasures. Moment #1: ordering the largest caramel latte on the menu and editing in internet-free bliss at the coffee shop; and Moment #2: getting my flip flop fixed. While this may seem a small pleasure, I loved those flip flops! With feet as big as mine, when you find shoes that fit and look pretty, you want to hold onto them. I bought them last September for a week in Mallorca and they were soooooooo comfy. I wore them again a month later in Barcelona and slapped my way down to a rock bar to meet Australian friends who were playing a European tour to publicise their new album. One of the guys with the band, who I already knew, was whirling me round everywhere and stood on my flip flop and the leather thong came out. I was devastated – at least, I would have been, had I been sober. Fortunately, I had a change of clothes with me; I wasn’t even meant to stay in the flip-flops and sun dress and had sexy rock chick gear in my bag.

I digress. The cobbler fixed it with a few stitches and my pretty, beaded flip-flop is good as new. I just hope I actually put it in my bag when I left the cobblers…Before I went back for my shoe, I treated myself to a large latte at Costa and set about editing Headliner (my second novel). It was rather pleasurable to sit in a window seat and watch the world go by while I worked, rather than being side-tracked by Facebook or emails. If I had more self-discipline, I’d simply unplug my wi-fi router and make my own coffee, but I freely admit it, I’m weak-willed.

Oh yeah, the stressful parts of the day. The main one was taking all those dearly loved books to the charity shop. I am the biggest hoarder. I don’t hoard junk, per se, but I find it hard to part with possessions I see value in and books are high priority for me. Books are my friends, open doors for me, allow me to travel and have adventures. However, with this real European adventure looming on the horizon, I have to be ruthless. I HAVE TO BE. I replaced the classic literature with Kindle versions, so I’m not completely bereft, and as for the text books and contemporary novels – well, I just had to grit my teeth and not think about it.

One of the women at Barnado’s swiped my Ikea bag and shoved a nearly identical one into my hand, but it was NOT my bag and the handles were frayed. I’m still pissed about that. It was hard enough parting with the books, but I’d steeled myself for that. I’d even bagged them into plastic bags inside the strong Ikea bag, so the staff could just take them out, but no, they stole my bag. When I walked back after collecting my shoe, I had to pass the charity shop again. It took all my will not to run inside and ask for my stuff back.

Anyway, I had one of my violin students come over for a lesson after that, which was fine. I like teaching this one; he’s disciplined, works hard, seems to enjoy his lessons with me and makes good progress, so I’ll be sad to lose him as a student. I did some more editing after he left and then whipped up some scrambled eggs, vowing to record vocals after dinner.

Sod’s Law, Neighbour From Hell showed up seconds after I pressed the On switch on my computer. I swear he either has this place bugged or a demon that guides him to torment me. I haven’t written about NFH and his girlfriend in any of my blogs before, because I get too worked up, but those of you in my FB friends list will know my regular rants about their fights, parties, him stealing my organic food deliveries, the wet dog smell (that I don’t actually think originates with the dog), did I mention the fights? Any woman who goes back to a guy who fractures her jaw needs her head feeling. And I’ve put up with them for a year; can’t do it for much longer, so I’m overjoyed to have an escape plan. But the main thing that drives me round the bend is EVERY TIME I set up to record, he waltzes home. It doesn’t matter whether it’s morning, afternoon, early evening, or late at night. He comes home either as I’m setting up or just after I’ve warmed up my voice up and am ready to give a good belt and get some takes worth keeping. Every bloody time, I end up with no recordings. He makes me sick. Thieving, girlfriend-beating bastard.

So yes, his return meant I couldn’t record vocals and this is stressing me out. Singing is how I make my living. If I don’t get decent vocals over to the studio asap, I lose the gig, and the track will get signed as an instrumental. If I supply them something they like, I get to raise my profile, earn royalties, get performing work out of it, some nice little trips to hot places, etc. I am not going to have some scrote ruin my career; it’s not him who looks unreliable for being late with submitting material that people are waiting for. The producer flies to Miami to finalise everything the week I fly to Rhodes and so if I don’t do it NOW, both I and the producer will be OUT OF TIME.

This was as big a stressor as parting with my books, actually; I feel like I’m having palpitations thinking about it. I’m going to stop typing about it, ’cause the combination of thinking about that horrible ‘man’ downstairs and the fact I can hear him snoring like a truck under my bed is making me feel murderous. I just hope I get the recording done tomorrow and the studio like it. They liked the verses I wrote and I recorded them already, but we just need a belter hook. I’ve written four, but they don’t like any of them, pfff. Let’s leave that rant for another post.

Urgh. Which leads me back to packing. And the hoarding gene. I can’t make decisions. Do I keep it, do I throw it, do I ebay it, blah blah blah, and al the while, it just piles up on my bed and on the floor and then I forget if I wore it, so I throw it in the laundry and then it ends up back on the bed. I need to pack what I’m taking, but ’cause I’m taking my favourite clothes, I keep pulling them out of the bag to wear them. I’m fully aware of how few non-black/summer items I actually own, so I tend to wear the same stuff year round.

I’m carrying on like Greece is another planet, but if I forget anything, I can always send for it or buy a replacement (and there goes the hoarder trigger). Makes me laugh, though. Only I could have no work lined up in my birth country and get offered work in a country that’s collapsing. I’m talking to the voices in my head and they’ve started answering back.

I’ve got to laugh, albeit hysterically.

Van Gogh: Patron saint of the unpublished, neglected, and insane.

Rummaging through old blog posts in various places, I came across this wonderful piece. One of my favourites from a site called the Idler (link at bottom). If you feel it, you’re one of us.

—

Van Gogh is the patron saint of the unpublished, neglected, and insane. Which is why Mark Manning loves him so.

‘Hes always there for us. As we sit in our hovels, banging away. Flat broke, thin, hungry and drunk in our unshaven underwear.

Loving it.

A small picture postcard of the death of Chatterton lurking somewhere in our tortured art school souls. Us men of our unfortunate breed, anyway. I think you women carry a small image of Frida Khalo: Frida as a bleeding fawn, the wicked arrows of this oh, so terrible life hanging from her back. A bit like Bambi, sort of. Only more serious.

But we all revere the man. That rugged amelioration of failure, that glorious patron of neglected genius: Sweet Dutch Vincent. Those intense, burning eyes, staring out beneath that flat Arles sun, straight into our souls.

You can almost taste the mistral, its wild hot breath bending the cypress trees and curling the sky into the writhing shapes of dread that permeate and threaten to engulf our martyrs later paintings.

That visceral, desperate anxiety that has transformed his entire perception of the world around him into a swirling turbulence of juddering insanity.

Take his night cafe painting and compare Gauguin’s painting of the very same scene. The two artists sat side by side and painted the same smoky room. For Gauguin (first pic), it appears to be a pleasant place, somewhere to spend a few convivial hours of an evening. A smiling waitress looks over her shoulder and flirts saucily with the French artist.

Gauguin’s version

But for poor old Vincey baby (second pic), it’s a blood red, skew-angled shithole, stinking of murder, madness and death. A smudge-faced waiter lurks beneath the sickly gas lights, a gun, or maybe a cut throat razor, hidden in his pockets. Theres a huddle of absinthe bums, drunk or asleep at the small tables. Its quite obvious from this painting that the poor Dutch bastard would eventually top either himself or some poor innocent French whore that got in the strapped, razor-toting maniac’s way.

Van Gogh’s version

Shivering, sweating, headaches, dry mouth, bad wanking, absinthe, fear. Raging and loathing. Tell me about it Vince, echo his heirs amongst their obscurity and naked light bulbs.

That trembling visionary church at Auvers, yellow against the Prussian blue infinity of the star mad sky. And of course that terrible, terrible Starry Night itself, truly awesome in its wild intensity, those alien suns burning like catherine wheels spinning out of control, an animistic universe teetering way to close to the edge for the over emotional increasingly confused ex-church minister.

Weve all been in that blood red murder room, played pool on that sickly beige, experienced that scary waiter, last seen hanging around with an equally sinister friend in the background of Edvard Munch’s 19th Century masterpiece, ‘The Scream’. Similar to Munch in the fact that both artists painted from something deep inside themselves that lurks just beneath the surface of everything. Even that tragic fucking chair. Especially that tragic fucking chair with Vince’s only luxury, his pipe and tobacco. And possibly even sadder is his only friend Gauguin’s chair with its candles and books. Gauguin who had just fucked off to Tahiti because he couldnt stand his friend’s increasingly demented behaviour, chopping his nob off and everything.

Those overbright sunflowers, painted to brighten up their small rooms. Those coruscating, writhing, insect-like flowers. Their desperate cheerfulness, like a mad woman laughing and scaring children in the street.

And how pathetic is that lonely night, where our dear friend sits alone in his night cafe feeding his insomnia with absinthe.

And that other scary area in Vincent’s solitary existence, a deeply weird painting of a skeleton smoking a cigar. An odd memento mori, reminiscent of Holbein’s ‘Dance of Death’ woodcuts, where Death frolics jestingly with all his eventual victims. A strange painting, it is not often reproduced and is obviously found to be overly unsettling by many critics. I personally find it rather amusing, as if our hero is mocking his own mortality, laughing at death, whistling in the dark maybe, but with a jaunty swagger none the less.

Of course it was not until the end that his muse swung completely sinister, but even in the mid-period paintings the happiness expressed with his cherry blossoms and smiling hoteliers and postmen, theres a desperation about the jollity. Like when you frighten yourself by laughing for too long about what it is you cant remember.

“And now I understand…”, sings Don McLean, not understanding at all. This world was never meant for someone as shit scared, manic and completely fucking insane as our ameliorating Saint of hope and inspiration.

Our Vincent.

We artists, poets, writers, whingers, musicians and masturbators. We madmen, sodomites and landscape gardeners. All of us undiscovered geniuses in our misunderstood fields. Suffering, deeply suffering in our blasted chaotic worlds. Feeling sorry for ourselves – yes, but with what style we whinge. How we perform it only for ourselves, desperately demanding attention and telling it to fuck off whenever it appears, making ourselves even more interesting in the private theatres of our twisted and battered egos. One eye permanently on the mirror, the other on ourselves.

It is we that understand Mr Don McClean, you bad Bob Dylan with your chevy and your levy, whatever the fuck that is. “I knew you were in love with him when I saw you wanking in the gym?” sings the perverted folk singer in Bye Bye Miss American Pie. And equally insanely in Starry Starry Night, This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you. Mr McClean, Im afraid youre quite mad sir. Vincent was many things, but beautiful? What, like a volcano with its rivers of molten rock is beautiful? Im sorry, Mr Tambourine Man, but Vincent belongs entirely to us! We unpublished, unpublishable, forgotten, ignored martyrs upon the various altars of our art!

We understand! We alone understand our mad prophet!

Our Vincent Van Gogh!

Like our patron Saint, for us immortality is all!

All or nothing! Death AND Glory!

This life, this shitty insignificant spunk up a venereal whores suppurating cunt of a life is not wasted! A flea’s fart in the unknowable massiveness of everything maybe, but some flea farts resonate with the universe and are remembered forever. Bottled and stored in museums and libraries, thousands and millions of resonating flea farts. It is written! bawls the mad Jew, head- butting his wailing wall. This angry life, this very ungentle life indeed, stumbling blindly through these dark nights, can not, must not, be squandered. My brother madmen and geniuses, we who vow never to submit, to bend the knee to the unholy Cosmosodomistic trinity of materialism, commerce and commodity.

We refuse to drown beneath the electronic black magic of deeply stupid rulers of men, storing up their treasures on earth and dying of colonic cancer of the arse. With their blatantly invisible conspiracies whose only goal is to keep all of us in bondage. Duped into desiring things that we dont need and paying for them with money that we dont have. Credit? What the fuck is that, if not indentured slavery by stealth? Master Card and Visa slave. Oh yes master! We cannot live without that turbo, four-wheel drive Adidas, Nike, widescreen surround sound, eight wheel drive, blow job washing machine, with wings! Killing ninety nine percent of all known germs. It is beneath this brain crushing submarine pressure to conform that Vincent gives us comfort.

One fucking painting.

One fucking painting the poor bastard sold.

And even that was to his long suffering brother, Theo. Poor. exasperated, kind hearted Theo who kept all his mad brothers letters. Vincent probably wiped his arse on Theo’s letters; none of his brothers correspondence, not one single letter survived, so self-absorbed was our man.

Its in these letters that we learn about the imperfections of our raggy arsed Saint.

In reality, which is why art should never, ever – this is important – be judged by the man who produces it, Vincent was as deluded, vain, selfish, and as much of a complete fucking, wanker arsehole as the rest of us.

This is what truly helps us through our naked lightbulb, Tennants Super, loveless nights. This is when our imperfect Saint gives us much needed succour.

Even arseholes like us, ignored and desperate, can eventually be recognised as great artists. Join the Pantheon of shimmering, flea fart immortals.

Theres even hope for a cunt like me.

And how incandescent is Vincent’s glowing immortality. Bathed in the light of billionaire imbeciles, flayed on the black altars of the cold cash civil religion in their towering bank cathedrals of Arms deals and Blood Money.

You can see these fools chasing their tails in palaces of ignorance. Making mad hand signals and wearing stupid blazers. And eventually when they are crippled by avarice, shame and the inevitable colonic arse cancers, their ignoble white bones will be tossed on to the piles of all the other forgotten irrelevant millionaires who make their fortunes flogging underwear, Porter, cigarettes, Coca Cola, baked beans, corn flakes, pornography and newspapers full of lies. Silk hat, Bradford millionaires, the lot of them. Small souled tax dodging twin turds living on private islands shivering beneath the black demons of fear and paranoia, unloved and unlovable.

Better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven, Milton says in Paradise Lost, with his sexy Satan as damned hero. You tell em, Milt baby.

The mind is its own place and can make of Heaven a Hell or a heaven from Hell. To achieve a state of grace like Vincent achieved is priceless, and quite free. It is not easy and requires a determination and a will that needs must stray dangerously close to the very antipodes of sanity. But it is possible and there are as many paths towards that palace of wisdom as there are pilgrims willing to risk all for some assurance of the future life.

How else do you think us lowlife, alcoholic, autodidactic, council hovel dwellers are able to ignore the conceits and temptations beamed down upon us from the cosmosodimistic satellites of the rich and powerful?’

Written by Mark Manning, posted at The Idler

(from one of my favourite websites The Idler. Go read it, it’ll keep you busy for hours) http://www.idler.co.uk

Lansbury Publishing - Inception!

I’m now officially a publishing house with a business banking account, yay! I will be considering third party manuscripts once my second book, Headliner, is available for retail this summer, but I initially thought about setting up the company to enable me to manage my different compositions from the same place. I’m figuring things out as I go and will only begin working with other authors when I can be sure to give them and their manuscripts the attention they deserve.

Headliner and its predecessor, Swallow, are contemporary fiction, perfect for reading on the beach or lounging by a pool. I’m writing two method textbooks for beginner violin and piano (and keeping them under separate author names for branding purposes). The second novel has some of the same characters and some new ones, different story.

Back to the bank – I didn’t even have a business plan or financial forecasts or anything! Just my trade paperback, royalty check and internet tabs showing my Amazon account and websites (so they could tell it was me under the nom de plume). I’m over the moon and motivated to write faster!

Swallow now at Smashwords

I finally uploaded Swallow to Smashwords, which makes the novel available through the following e-channels: Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble, Diesel, Kobo, Scrollmotion, and Sony.

You can purchase the book for $2.99 by visiting this link > http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/27240?ref=ilyriamoon

If Luna were to write a song...

...it would start like this:

VERSE 1
Looking-glass people with black eyes
Despair of the way that I want to be
Anyone can see that I'm only trying to be myself again
But yesterday told me that I wasn't perfect
That I'm not enough for someone like you and your crew
I'm the fool who sits and bleeds and waits for you...

BRIDGE 1
To feed me a morsel, drop me a breadcrumb or two
As if it could keep me from eating my insides

CHORUS
Just get away from me! Don't touch my skin, 'cause I'm hollow
From all the pain – you're a bitter pill to swallow
Just get away from me! I'll be a good girl tomorrow
But today, I'll go insane - I'm a bitter pill to swallow.

VERSE 2
I laugh it all off, but sometimes
These secrets wanna break out of my head
What you gave to me was a burden I didn’t deserve, yeah
And yesterday told me that I was just useful
For when you wanted to offload your pain and your problems
You never reciprocated my love for you

BRIDGE 2
I’m a ghost in your house and I’m a thought without a consequence
No one explaining these things, now you’re absent

CHORUS
Just get away from me! Don't touch my skin, 'cause I'm hollow
From all the pain – you're a bitter pill to swallow
Just get away from me! I'll be a good girl tomorrow
But today, I'll go insane - I'm a bitter pill to swallow.

© 2011.

Swallow - Kindle Edition $2.99

Swallow excerpt - Wolf arrives at rehab

Wolf explored his surroundings. Jacks could eat a dick. He couldn’t believe he’d been pushed into this. Not only pushed, but wedged between Spacey and Kev in the back of a BMW 4x4 like a prisoner being driven to Holloway. He was surprised Jacks let him out at the motorway services for a burger and a slash.

However, once they crossed the Welsh border, even Wolf enjoyed the drive. He announced to the others that when he was filthy rich he’d buy a big pile in the country, bigger than his parents’ gaff in Sussex. As much as he loved the rock’n’roll lifestyle, the beauty of all the greenery around was alluring and he daydreamed about his countryside mansion, butler and all. He wondered how long it would take to get used to the smell of manure, the only thing ruining his lord of the manor fantasy.

By the time they arrived in the village, the boys were drowsy, and dying of starvation. When they tipped Wolf out of the vehicle at Hope, he was adamant he wanted feeding, or was calling a cab. After snooping around, he reckoned it wouldn’t be bad, as long as they weren’t all freaks and weirdos. And by the time he’d left Luna’s room, he was open to the idea of freaks and weirdos, as long as they were as pretty as her.

He stopped in front of a notice board in the downstairs hall and stood for a moment, thinking about business. This could turn out to be an adventure, and if it got the band extra publicity, translating into sales, he was a happy martyr.

Wolf wondered, were martyrs allowed to be happy? Truth be told, he knew getting plonked in rehab was a shrewd move but he liked complaining. Wait until he got out. The lads would be sick of hearing about it.

“I was looking for you.” One of the admin staff touched his elbow. “We need to check your bags. Where have you been?”

Wolf gave her a disarming smile. “Ah, I was nowhere special.”

He picked up his bag and guitar case and followed her to the office, thinking how tight her arse was. He wondered if she was single. It wasn’t professional, losing him like that, naughty girl. Fortunately for her, due to the manner in which he’d been manhandled into the car, he hadn’t had a chance to bring anything with him. Not even a bag of grass.

He sighed, contemplating a month’s sobriety.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0047GMHGI

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0047GMHGI

http://www.amazon.de/dp/B0047GMHGI

'It's genius level. People with such an IQ are capable of great discoveries, but are also prone to underachieving, because society cannot cope with them. Schooling systems do little for the extremes of IQ. Higher IQs often learn things so quickly, they get bored and become discipline problems. They also have a tendency to learn things quickly and by half, rarely getting the full skill.'

Memoirs - moi?

I've decided I'm going to write my memoirs - some of them, anyway. Partly because I don't remember much of the past decade and what I do remember, I have to be careful about revealing. Haha, let's just say life's been interesting.

I'm a rolling stone and my vocation takes me here and there, up and under, meeting and losing people along the way. There isn't anyone to remember everything, just bits 'n' bobs. I occasionally see a few people who accompanied me partway along the journey, and they've been instrumental in filling in some of the blanks and we've had a ball reminiscing. Unfortunately, most places have gone, swallowed up by 'progress', and people have moved away or slipped off the mortal coil. Everything changes...

I laugh when I think of this - better to die laughing than die, period - every decision I've made has been the wrong one - isn't that something? I deserve a medal for that accolade alone! If I had my time over, with the benefit of hindsight, would I choose differently? My head says Yes. But if I step back for a moment and think about all the experiences I've had that would never have been possible had I taken the right paths in life, I might be richer and more successful now, but I'd be bored as hell. With no hint of exaggeration, some of the situations I've found myself in, you couldn't even make up.

I have no clue how to structure a 'memoir', so what I'm going to do is start blogging more. Eventually, I can pull my posts together into some semblance of a long piece.

Vive la fille dans l'espoir d'un nouvelle vie!

-

I'm reading this article at the moment. Check it out x

Writing A Memoir

Don't let the bastards keep you down!

I've nothing to add. Dave says it all for me :)

Ennui

ennui [ˈɒnwiː (French) ɑ̃nɥi]
n
a feeling of listlessness and general dissatisfaction resulting from lack of activity or excitement
[from French: apathy, from Old French enui annoyance, vexation; see annoy]

Collins English Dictionary – Complete and Unabridged © HarperCollins Publishers 1991, 1994, 1998, 2000, 2003

---

I woke up today feeling so bored - more than bored. In the short-term, can't go out anywhere today, because I have students coming later and need to prepare lesson plans, and I'm blocked creatively, so I can't write anything constructive for my novel. On a grander scale, I have no ambition whatsover - ambition is what drove me through life until a few years ago. Now I just fill up time with hobbies, but I'm even bored of them today! The dreary drizzle outside, and thick cloud cover isn't helping either.

I was born a musician, but I feel I wasted my life on music. As soon as I could hold an instrument, every waking hour was dedicated to the pursuit of music, for thirty years. As an adult, I've always worked as a musician, working the club scene ('til the government destroyed musicians' earning potential with the smoking ban), and - quite lucratively - for record labels and studios, providing vocals to cover up for so-called talented celebrities' lack of skills, all the while hearing the bleating "Why don't you go on X Factor?" blah blah blah from the idiots. The masses harp on about how talented pop stars are, when the truth is their lack of talent is hidden by excellent production and real musicians and vocalists, both in the studio and onstage, hidden behind stage sets.

I can't even be bothered seeking new opportunities in that field right now, because it's soulless; like knowing I have to be a prostitute for the foreseeable future, bleh. Sure, the money's nice - and much needed - but I see music as an art, not a commodity, and don't respect myself when my creativity is a commodity. I need to live passionately. I was never one to think 'get good qualifications, well paid job, rich husband, two children, buy house, two cars, etc. But because I DIDN'T do that, I'm starving for a holiday and financial means to change my circumstances. I think it would be more pleasant to see someone else struggle beside me, hehe, a problem shared and all that jazz.

I have no other skills to speak of, having dedicated my life to music for the past 30yrs, so I can't get hired for a 'real' job - not that there are any jobs atm for anyone - and so I fill my time with my hobbies. It's fun, living in the moment and doing what I love, but sometimes I get bored, like I am today. Okay, saying I have no skills isn't true. I have numerous skills, just no paperwork to back them up.

I guess the main thing is knowing everything is an illusion. We're playing a game I didn't ask to join, and the other side are manipulative cheats. This knowing takes my ambition away. Success in the 'matrix' is irrelevant, really. But necessary in order to put food on the table. If I had ambition, I could strive for success, but it's of paramount importance to me to seek Truth, to explore Consciousness. My dream is to magically earn a large amount of money and buy a farm/chateau to renovate, with some livable space (or a caravan in the field!) and start a community there...somewhere warmer than England, with a stream or lake, and a well, and plenty of land to grow food on.

What to do, what to do...maybe I should seek solace in food. A full English sounds appealing.

Stuck in the middle with you, Brett!!!

I usually approach a novel as a series of vignettes that have important information about participating characters and devices to push the plot forward. However, when it comes to linking said scenes, I occasionally run into a wall. My characters are on different, equally important paths; paths which occasionally cross over or run parallel for a period. Their back stories have nothing in common, and they don't always arrive at the same destination.

I sometimes find it tricky when I need to introduce two or more for the first time. Maybe I'm pressuring myself in trying to force the issue and that's why my well of inspiration is dry. I know what the scene needs to accomplish, who needs to be there, how they need to interact, but somehow, it's not coming together. I have the parameters, but I'm all out of content.

I need Brett (the new kid on the block) and Wolf (the established musician) to meet at Brett's gig, in order to spark off the rest of their interweaving journey of hate, sabotage, and one-upmanship. Wolf's only there because his friend/roadie Alex invited him, and their other friend Jimmy is the promoter for the event. Wolf and Brett also meet a third, lesser character, Roxanne, at the venue, which sets her up for future scenes with both of them.

I've sat in front of my computer for months, trying to tackle this scene, and every time, I give up and move past it, and work on something else from a later chapter (I don't write in order). I'm a working musician; it's not like I don't have plenty of gigs to draw from! I wonder if this sinking sand rut is my subconscious' way of telling me the scene is not going to work, or if it's because I'm allowing recent negative exchanges with musicians cloud my creativity...

I find sharing a problem always helps one to look at it through fresh eyes, even if no one has a solution. A blog I read suggested I haven't thought the story/exchange through sufficiently, which could be true, or that I don't know my characters well enough. Wolf is a close friend, surviving into Headliner from my first novel, Swallow, but Brett is another animal. I'm still getting to know him.

While thinking about this latter possibility, it occurred to me. I really don't like him.

My book needs him as the antagonist in several characters' journeys, and he has a great story arc, but I don't like him. When Wolf was the antihero in Swallow, he had something likeable about him, so even when he was doing the most despicable things to other characters, the reader could still empathise with why he acted like that, even if they didn't agree with his behaviour. Swallow, being my first novel, cooked on a low heat setting for years. I don't want to take years to write each book, to get my ideas on paper! But I knew my characters inside and out by the time I developed the skills required to write a great novel. I have to find ways of getting to know my new characters intimately in a shorter space of time, if I am to overcome this obstacle.

Perhaps I shall write out a biography for him, like I did with my Swallow characters. And if I can think of someone I've encountered along the way in the 'real' world, that might help, too. The importance of getting this scene right is counterproductive; I've written all I can in separate scenes and now I need to start tying it all together in a linear fashion, so I can fill in the blanks, and direct the important choices.

Let's finish with a song. This pretty much epitomises a LOT of gigs and musician social circles I've endured - oops, I mean, enjoyed...


Stealers Wheel - Stuck in the Middle With by halxman

I play the social butterfly when need be, say, I’m doing a show at a nightclub or promoting my music, but I'm actually pretty introverted. I like my own company a lot of the time, and the friendships I keep have grown slowly but surely. I'm not one for fairweather friends, and while I have acquaintances, I often default back to hanging out with me.

I missed a lot of rock shows and movies over the years, due to not having anyone to go with. Few of my friends share my interests - which could beg the question why we are friends at all, hehe, but it's mainly because I have a strange collection of likes.

Anyway, I eventually told myself to go and see whatever band I wanted; once in a gig, no one can tell if you're alone or separated from friends anyway. So, in 2008, I booked a flight to my favourite city, Berlin, to see Whitesnake and Alice Cooper, my two favourite bands. It was the best thing I ever did - the floodgates opened!

Next stop, Brussels, Belgium. Not only did I get to see Whitesnake up close and personal again, I got to meet the support band the next day, who were pretty down to earth, and made some new Belgian friends.

Today I tackled the lone cinema outing. I woke up at 11:22 and it was gloriously sunny. Usually, I hide indoors, regardless of the weather, and emerge under cover of darkness, like a phantom. But today, I was itching to do something with my day, for a change, and everyone I know works a 9 to 5 or lives out of town. I’d been looking forward to Salt since Angelina Jolie was pictured on set last year – call me a fan, or whatever, but I enjoy her performances, and love action movies, particularly with a political or conspiratorial slant.

Since it started showing, I couldn’t think of anyone who would come, so today I thought, "Sod it, I’m going.”

I hopped in the shower and called a cab, so I didn't have enough time to worry about what others would think about the pathetic Billie No-Mates lurking in the shadows. Fifteen minutes later, I was at the ODEON at Liverpool One, queuing for my ticket, and wishing I’d remembered the kids are still off school. Fortunately, they were there to see something else, and once inside the viewing room, there were plenty of seats and I was mildly surprised to see about half of the small audience were lone viewers. Though why one man bothered to pay and then spent over half an hour outside on a phone call is beyond me.

I’ll leave it to Sony to write the blurb:

As a CIA officer, Evelyn Salt swore an oath to duty, honor and country. Her loyalty will be tested when a defector accuses her of being a Russian spy. Salt goes on the run, using all her skills and years of experience as a covert operative to elude capture. Salt's efforts to prove her innocence only serve to cast doubt on her motives, as the hunt to uncover the truth behind her identity continues and the question remains: "Who is Salt?"
Written by Sony Pictures



There were enough twists and turns to keep me entertained and the only problem was the effect the huge drink had on my bladder – why do cinemas serve refreshments in such huge sizes? Seriously! I struggle, and I’m 6ft2; I don't know how children manage. I spent the last half hour in discomfort, not daring to visit the toilets - this is where a friend comes in handy - "What did I miss?" I suffered in silence and as soon as the credits rolled I was out of there and into a stall.

I enjoyed Salt and would likely see it again, but most of all, I enjoyed crossing the barrier of doing things people usually do in company. I’ll do it again! I like going to the cinema with a friend, but the good thing about going alone is I could get completely engrossed in what was onscreen. Afterwards, I picked up my mic system that I’d left at the music store for over a month, and then treated myself to a Long Island Iced Tea before heading home.

Why does this blog entry suddenly read like something I wrote in primary school....

Sometimes, I have to remind myself, what others think isn’t important. Now I have a cinema club card in my possession, it seems a few more visits are on the cards. I’ll take a lunchbox next time. I found the experience liberating. Now I've done it, I think I'll check out some of the arthouse and foreign films at FACT. And I'd quite like to see Inception again.

Sometimes, this spinster wishes she were a dolt...

So, I've decided I shall bemoan my singleness while I'm hormonal. It's better to feel sorry for myself than be bitchy...although, sometimes I'd beg to differ with myself.

Anyhoo, tonight's complaint is this. I probably shouldn't aimlessly surf so much...

Apparently, only 0.003% of the British population share my IQ. I just read a post on a forum that says exactly what I'm thinking!

---
"The truth is, intelligence, being smart, really truly smart, is a horribly lonely affair. It is soul-crushingly lonely. For someone such as me with an IQ as a stupid, naive, child was last measured at 142. That's roughly .14% or 14 / 10,000. Now restrict that sample to agiven location and there may be (if you're lucky) a few hundred people in the area you live in (this depends of course on where you live, I'm speaking for my current situation). Now how many of those are roughly your age? How many are of the opposite sex, emotionally compatible, attractive, and single? In many to most cases the answer is nearly nil. What are the odds of meeting such a person? Imagine how lonely a situation that is, and it's just simply arrived at by simple analysis."
---

For me, that percentage works out at approximately 1500. FIFTEEN HUNDRED PEOPLE. Of these people, how many are male and single and possess all the other attributes mentioned in the excerpt above?

No wonder I'm a spinster! >:(

One might say choosing a mate on intelligence is unnecessary, but even if I were not attracted to the mind, more often than not, men date women less intelligent than them. And shorter than them. And less bossy.

*sigh* I guess I could sell my eggs...at least I'd get some recompense!

Don't drink and dial!

Wolf called Jessica again but it went straight to voicemail. “Hey,” he said, sighing. “If you’re there, talk to me. I’m tired of playing games. I just wish you’d pick up.” He slid down the wall and cradled the handset between his jaw and shoulder, resting both arms on his knee. “I know I hurt you. A lot. But…I love you.”

There. He’d said it. And he couldn’t take it back.

“I love you,” he repeated, growing confident on Jack Daniels. “I know I didn’t handle things properly…I’ve got issues and I took my frustrations out on you. I guess I felt safe venting to you, but I didn’t think about how it affected you. What can I say? I’m selfish. But I do want the best for you and that’s why I was horrible, ‘cause I thought if I pushed you away, you’d go off and find someone who’ll treat you like you deserve to be treated. I know that sounds stupid, but it made sense to me at the time. I was wrong and I can’t deal with letting you go. You’re amazing. I just hope you achieve your dreams.”

Wolf paused, suddenly feeling foolish instead of brave. “Anyway, if you want to call me back, we can talk properly,” he rushed. “If not, fine. I’ll respect that. I’m leaving on Friday, so…just call me.”

He hung up and dropped the handset to the floor. What a whiny idiot. He should have learned by now not to drunk-dial.

“What’s done is done,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle and taking a slug.

* * *

Over in Santa Monica, Summer and Jessica stared at the answering machine.

“Girl, call him!” Summer nudged her. “He’s just bared his soul to you – what are you waiting for?”

“His drunken soul,” Jessica said cynically.

“Aw, he needed Dutch courage. I think it’s cute.”

“A whisky-soaked rock musician clogging up the voicemail is hardly cute.”

Stop forcing me to smell the flowers, dammit.

I hate it!

I put Headliner away for a few weeks, so I can come back to it with renewed vigour for setting the scene. While I am a chatterbox, as are my characters, I am often concerned I don't have enough descriptive narrative in my novel; that's what the blogs and articles tell me, anyway. As a reader, I don't care what the author tells me a room looks like. If they've done a good enough job of shaping their characters and said characters' journeys, I can imagine how their room would be furnished without any help from the author.

However, it does seem this is an important feature of the novel (even though I tend to skim past descriptions longer than a few lines on a page when reading). The key is balance, but chucking a descriptive passage here and there for the sake of balance is not going to work. And my characters fly so fast through life, I'm not sure they even notice their surroundings. Being on tour, playing shows in different cities each night; one doesn't get chance to stop and think, let alone appreciate one's delightful hotel rooms.

Okay, that's my complaining done for the afternoon. When I get home after my show, I'll consider ways to address my predicament. While I write primarily for me, I do want to please my readers, too. Waaaaaa!

Why I don't often blog

I often thought I didn’t blog because I have nothing to say; now I realise I have far too much and my inability to easily organise my thoughts into cohesive separate topics is why I don't bother at all.

I pulled up a chair this morning and wore my earnest writer face. Shall this blog entry be about what’s on my mind today? Shall it be about serious issues? Sex? Work? Writing? My plants? My pets? My social life? My Americanisms?

Ah, sod it. I'll go eat something instead. A romp through my unhinged mind, visiting locked-up hiding places is a road trip I didn't prepare lunch for.

I need to give this more thought over steak. Which reminds me, I should write a post about my vegetarianism.

"I hope they like us."

After a two-hour delay, six-hour flight, and half an hour held up at passport control, Sapphic finally set foot in NYC. Travelling with an entourage afforded them the luxury of not dealing with baggage claim; fortunate, as there were foul moods all round as hangovers caught up. Five grumpy musicians collapsed in Arrivals area and Gemma went to see if the car had arrived.

Wolf grinned at his band mates. “Well, we’re here.”

“This is gonna be a blast,” Kev said, looking at the hustle and bustle.

Shane fingered his prayer beads for reassurance. “I hope they like us.”

“Course they’ll like ya.” Jacks cast an eye over his scruffy brood. “They loved ya last time.”

“I need a cigarette,” grumbled Spacey.

“Yeah, me too,” Wolf said. “Another bloody city with a stupid smoking ban. Sooner we get to the hotel, the better; I’m gonna smoke five at once.”

Jacks checked his Blackberry for emails. “Let’s get settled in and then we’ll go to Drill. Smoke all ya want there. I ain’t been back in a while, the place could be razed to the ground.”

“How come we didn’t go last time?”

“Ya did,” Jacks said wryly. “Ya were too wasted to remember.”

“I need a few hours kip before we hit the town.” Wolf yawned. If he didn’t get out of the airport soon, he’d crash. He switched his phone on and turned the handset round in his hand, thinking about the argument with Luna. The wedding couldn’t really be off. He cleared off to give her space, but now he wondered she’d mistaken his lack of contact for disinterest. Why couldn’t he keep his dick in his trousers? He flicked the handset open and speed-dialled her number.

Jay kicked his foot. “We’re off.”

Wolf looked up and saw the others following Gemma. He disconnected the call and stuffed his phone in his pocket. “Where’s our stuff?”

“On the trolleys.” Kev pointed to crew pushing luggage carts towards the exit. “Car’s outside, let’s get out of here.”

“Sweet!” Shane whistled, seeing the stretch limousine.

“Don’t get used to it,” Jacks said. “You’ll be slummin’ it in vans and buses. But it’s good to make a grand entrance.”

On cue, a swarm of girls rushed over. “Omigod!” screamed one. “You guys are that British band, right?”

“Yeah, Coldplay,” joked Spacey.

“No you’re not!” giggled another girl. She thrust a pen and piece of paper forward. “Sapphic! I saw you on MTV. Can I get an autograph?”

“Sure.” Spacey signed his name with a flourish.

“You guys are so freakin’ hot!”

“You’re the singer, I recognised you straight away.” A girl flung her arms round Wolf. “The album rocks. Can I get a photo with you?”

“Sure, babe.” Wolf grinned, Luna momentarily forgotten. “What’s your name?”

“Danni.” The girl pushed her phone into a friend’s hand and wrapped her arms round his waist. “You’re tall! And sexy.”

“This is a wonderful welcome, I must say.” Wolf posed for the picture.

The girl exchanged places with her friend, and then they all squashed in for Jacks to take a group shot of the band and their new fans.

“So are you guys in town to play a show?”

“Yeah, we’re at Club Europa tomorrow night – where’s that, Jacks? - and then we have a show in New Jersey the night after.”

“Greenpoint.” Jacks eyeballing the growing crowd.

“Oh, we are so coming!”

“You old enough?” Kev said.

“We’re twenty-one.”

“Of course you are.” Wolf laughed. “Listen, get IDs sorted, and we’ll see you at the show.”

The crowd grew excitable. Concerned for the band’s safety, Jacks signalled to security to get them into the car. Wolf stuck his head out of the window as the vehicle moved off.

“Club Europa, tomorrow!”

The crowd cheered and screamed, and a few girls tried to chase the limousine, but were soon left behind. With JFK not yet out of sight, the boys already had the minibar open.

“Fuck, yeah!” Wolf climbed out of the sunroof and blew a kiss at two women on the sidewalk. He bent down and grinned at his friends. “I love this.”

“How long ‘til we get to the hotel?” Kev handed Wolf a glass of champagne.

“An hour.” Jacks flicked through the documents on his knee.

“To conquering the States.” Wolf slotted in beside Kev. “World domination next!”

* * *

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