counting words

Miles Davis's Sketches of Spain seems to go down quite well while writing about Catalan country. I switch my phone to airplane mode and turn off the wifi and data on my iPad. In the back of my mind I remember my undergraduate dissertation and the mountain research that needed distilled into a mere 10,000 words, handed in so late that I was just given a passing grade for it. Then there was my novel, 77,000 words written in fits, starts and then gushing flows, the manuscript still sitting in a box next to my desk. Of course, there are my blogs and whatnot; I've not bothered to count all the words I've posted since January 2005, but I imagine it's some count. Nearly 25,000 tweets over the last 4 years, which when viewed as such could be counted as a tremendous waste of time as well as a tremendous amount of words. Regardless, I to need to write quite a bit more. 

My writing partner at the moment is the cat. He sits on the chair next to my desk and sleeps while I type. Not the trumpet from the speakers nor my fingers on the keyboard seem to shake him from his snooze. Just the odd time when I get up to get some water or a cup of tea does he look up and sometimes follow me, hoping that my mission might be in part to feed him. When discovers it isn't, he narrows his eyes disdainfully and returns to his sleepy perch. 

I'd forgotten the loneliness of writing somewhat. It isn't there all the time; it's like falling asleep and just waking up. When the words come, it's like dream time and there needn't be anyone else there, not even the cat. But when getting started, or drawing to a close, there's too much awareness of where I am, that I'm the only one here and the only one that can be here. A solitary dropped pin. And the only way to escape that is to enter dream time again, to lose myself in the writing time and time again. Not counting words but writing them, because that's the only way they'll ever add up. 

 

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due date

I can fill my lungs without doubling over in a fit of coughing, which can only be considered an improvement. I've run 40 miles in the last two weeks. Winter's grip still holds tight, and snow floated about in a lazy fashion this morning in West London. It's an early wake up call tomorrow; a trip to Manchester to show some folks some wine. 

I decided out of the blue to restructure my book, Salt & Old Vines, this afternoon. I don't even remember how the idea came to me. I think I was choosing a playlist for getting started with writing and was thinking about some of the troubles I was having with some of the bits and not really knowing how to tell the whole story and then I had a moment of clarity. It startled me somewhat, because I wasn't really worried or thinking about structure at all. The structure seemed obvious from the beginning. And that's probably why it bored me. 

So I dropped my publisher a line and was like, um, I'm changing the book structure. 

And he asked: how?

And I told him and he was like, um, well, if it still works?

And I told him it would be better and so he didn't respond to that because obviously I had utterly reassured him.

With my deadline for a first draft March 6th (or 8th - it could be 8th… can it be 8th?), I'm mildly panicking. I finished the first draft of my novel on New Year's Eve 2006. I didn't want to go into 2007 still needing to finish it. An enormous party, great Champagne and friendly adulation accompanied it. Fireworks burst above a house in the middle of nowhere in Scotland and I went to bed drunk and knowing I'd written a whole book. 

That book is sitting in a box at the moment, changed but still needing a rewrite. 

This book won't have fireworks on completion, nor will there be '85 Dom Perignon to slurp in celebration of emailing it to the nice chaps at Unbound. I'll just hit send and set about rewriting what I know needs changed already. I might crack a beer or two while I edit. But getting it finished is just the beginning of something else. Something I'm not familiar with and quite looking forward to.

 

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hubris

It serves me right. I was getting cocky. Oh, sure, I knocked on wood when I mentioned it, and rolled my eyes in the I-hope-I'm-not-jinxing-this kind of way. But I thought I got away with it. I believed this winter would leave me alone. But no. I'm on the lemsip and sudafed. My chest feels of sandpaper and sinuses are gripped by a vice. I've not spoken yet today, but feel I'll be all Louis Armstrong when the words come out. 

I'm still going to work. There's wine to taste. Just hoping I can taste it. 

snow puddles

So last week I read from my book at The Arts Club on Dover Street. I've seen my fair share of grandiose establishments, some even by invitation, but this place pushed the boat out a fair bit, I won't fib. Unsurprisingly, the crew of Unbounders were sent down to the bar in the basement to peddle our wares. I'm better at reading Shakespeare than my own stuff. There's a character to be when reading something else. I've not worked out how to do that with my own words. It's just me reading me to people who don't know me and that's a lot of me out there. Still, they clapped, seemingly of their own free will. Afterwards we went to a far less posh club and drank and ate and folks fell into the last tube/cab home debate. Most took cabs, but I wandered from Soho to Green Park to grab the N9 night bus, which could be described as the Piccadilly Line for the damned. 

Work is busy in the way that things get busy when you think things are sorted and they aren't.

As a sort of follow-on to my 'writing in the mornings' post, I'm running in the evenings. I carry a flashlight. Last night it was pointless, as the puddles of melted snow were too large to dodge, so I just ran through them. I got home caked in mud to my shins and fearing frostbite. It took 15 minutes in the warmth of the house to feel my feet again. It still felt good.

Tonight I'm getting a massage because I need one. 

 

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words in the morning

I’ve been up early, but to write instead of run. I read somewhere about a pulp writer who didn’t allow himself his first pee in the morning until he’d written a thousand words. That’s dedication my bladder won’t allow, I’m afraid. I fear it may lead to a somewhat strained and impatient prose style, as well as the odd mess.

It’s just me and the cat at that hour. The house is quiet but for the cat’s impatience. Not content with my lap, he’ll leap to my desk and cross in front of my laptop as I try to type. I throw him aside a couple of times and eventually he gets the message.

The words come though, some mornings faster than others. I don't know where they come from. My legs don't even work yet, and my fingers couldn't tie a shoe, but they find their keys and letters and words and phrases and sentences appear. Hemingway said to write drunk and edit sober. I'm having a go at writing while still asleep.

My editors are going to love it. 

Or kill me.

 

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be de plage

There was this one night in France. It was the first night. We sat around a table, dinner finished, tasting some wines and chatting about whatever. We were the last ones in the restaurant. It wasn’t bad, as seaside *** hotel restaurants go. The colour scheme, with its luminous orange napkins and waterglasses, may have been ill-suited to January. The orange may have clashed somewhat with the battle-ship grey upholstery adorning the chairs, but the food was decent and the wine list good. My bavette was chewy, but bavette is supposed to be a bit chewy. 

I was tired but relaxed. I think we all were.

I watched him walk through the door. Fashionable and drunk, with exaggerated movements of all limbs. I knew he was English, though his look had a Gallic edge to it. I could see the barrage of profanities swelling inside, seeking some poor member of staff to pour forth upon. As he entered further into the restaurant, someone at my table recognised him and called him over. We all shook hands. He wasn’t quite sure whether to speak in French or English. He swore the restaurant was shit. Told us we needed to go to this place.

‘The B de Plage, man. I’m sure there’s something funny going on there. Must be loads of coke in the toilets. It’s the place to be. What are we drinking? More fucking Grenache?’

‘Syrah.’

‘More fucking Syrah, then. I’ve lost the key to my room. I think I left it at the B de Plage. We’ve got to get there. It’s the place be.’

We sipped our glasses as he patted his pockets again and again, looking for the keycard to his room. Every few seconds there came a shit or a fuck as he failed to locate it.

‘So we’ve got to get out of here. Got to go.’

‘Go where?’

‘B de Plage.’

‘It’s the place to be, apparently.’

‘Yeah, but there’s something on going on in the toilets. Have you seen my key?’

We all fancied a beer. The sober one of us offered to drive. Where to go?

‘B de Plage.’

We piled into the rental. My search for B de Plage on google maps failed. The one way system of Le Gau du Roi confounded us; we wound up driving in all manner of circles. Drunken directions erupted from our guest from time to time. Often just ‘no, no, no... it’s just over there’ or ‘I’ve no fucking idea where the fuck it is’ and often 'it's by the fucking beach, obviously, it's the B de fucking Plage'.

Doubt spread among us. It became Cortez’s city, or de Leon’s fountain. We aimed for the beach, and frequently missed. Still my map showed no prize. We were driving blind, guided by a howling drunken lunatic whose ravings could well have been that of the ancient mariner for all we knew. All attempts to apply logic to our course failed. We hit the same roundabouts and took different exits, only to find they led to the same places and yet more roundabouts. The rental car took some speed bumps a bit too fast and we hooted as the car leapt; cringed when the undercarriage simply scraped along.

Another circuit and we admitted failure. Decided the ancient mariner had imagined it in a booze-tinted haze. The car pulled up to the hotel and as we tumbled out I heard him say,

'I found it.'

'What? The bar? It's not fucking here, is it?'

'My key.' 

He wandered inside, sanctuary rediscovered. We decided to drink on the beach under the stars. The January air was mild and the sea lapped quietly at the sand as the constellations twinkled and we drank our wine. 

Glasses empty, we wandered back to the hotel, into the empty lobby. One of us picked up a black business card from a table covered in fliers and such things for local venues.

There was a gold 'B' emblazoned on it, and, in smaller text beneath, 'de plage'.

It existed.

pale light

Limping from bed this morning. My calves hurt because I ran yesterday; for the first time since the last time I wrote about running. I woke up early enough to do it again today, but the ache has caused pause. I'll take a day off. 

The day's pale light starts a littler earlier. Not early enough be useful, not yet. It doesn't hang around too much longer. It will still be dark when I walk home from work. 

Two weekends in a row of old friends, good food and too much drink. I discovered that the Red Socks Carignan 2010 that I made is a perfect match for haggis one week and that Fuller's ESB goes great with guinea fowl pie the next. At one point there was a great jukebox and a pub in Essex rang with the tunes of our university days. It had the curious effect of making the beer slip down faster and in perhaps greater quantities than normal.

I'll shake the rust off and get ready to face the week. Should be a good one.

 

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no hot water

I was sound asleep when February started in Western(ish) Europe, but not for very long. I was in a strange hotel in the town of Vienne, just south of Lyons. It looked, from the outside, like a grand townhouse. On the inside it was more of the student hall of residence circa 1978 sort of decor. It had an odd odour and I saw not a single female guest in my brief stay. I tried to shower at 4am (early flight) and there was no hot water.

Finishing January and beginning February on a whirlwind wine tasting/buying trip of Southern France and the Rhône seems to be as good a sample of the year so far. Moving quickly, a lot to do, not much time to pause, but fun while it's happening. There were bad wines and good wines; wineries seemingly at the end of civilisation and the odd revelation. I wrote only tasting notes and read only descriptions of cuvées and wineries and regions and yields and grams per litre of residual sugar and not much else. 

So I've drunk beer today. And a small sip of wine someone forced upon me, but mostly beer. I'm writing this and other things. I'm going to watch a cheesy movie and eat curry. I'm going to think of things not wine for the rest of the night.

 

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smoked tea

I smell of wood smoke at the moment. One of the fireplaces in my local pub has some venting issues, and so my jumpers smell like bonfires. It could be worse. James at work tells me I reek of a mixture of lapsang souchong and pepperoni.

I remember losing my last remaining respect for a particular wine writer when she was asked what wine went with kedgeree and responded ‘lapsang souchong’; that’s about a poor a wine recommendation as you can get.

I like lapsang souchong. It’s good for the mornings you want to be drinking Laphroaig or Ardbeg but still need to function beyond breakfast.  

The snow was supposed to start at eleven but actually started about quarter to nine. It was small flakes to begin with, no more than an icy dusting. It got thicker as I walked to work. I paused at the entrance to Chiswick House; the entrance with the obelisk. The icy dust lay unbroken, like the thin frosting on a cake. I wanted to turn in and wander the empty snow-covered grounds but instead I stayed my course. The growl of revving engines and shriek of slamming brakes reminded me that snow in Britain brings out the worst in drivers. I was happy to walk.

 

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getting over the firsts

I'm not sure how we're already halfway through January, but we are. A 24th of 2013 is complete. It's disconcerting in that I've got quite a lot to do and instead of doing it, I'm sat marvelling at how slow the days go and how quickly the weeks pass by. 

I've only noted two firsts of the year - my first curry of the year and my first run of the year. Neither killed me. The former was something of a disappointment. There are dozens of good curry restaurants within delivering distance and yet I've found none that I like as much as the ones I left behind in Scotland. 

The latter felt great, and were there more light in the day I would be out there first thing, dodging the swampy puddles on the pathway by the river on the south bank. It's not the mud or the wet but the cold. The involuntary sucking in of air when that icy water charges through the thin webbing of my running shoes throws off my breathing something rotten. 

Cornwall sits relegated to memory now, though it was only a couple of weeks ago I was there to bring in the new year. It was a good trip, with a lot of laughs, good company and a sense of coziness that seemed taken straight out of a hollywood ideal. It seems now like stolen time; a brief week without worry, heading from cove to cove in search of pirates, antique shops and decent pubs (of which there were several). 

I'm off to France next, though that's for work. I would say it's my first trip of the year, but I started the year on a trip.

I'm not sure why there's a tendency to mark the first - it's not as though I'll be counting afterwards.