Procrastination as an art form

So – after a period of unproductive procrastination which has compromised of many hours on social media, many hours contemplative navel gazing and an inordinate amount of just plain faffing about I decided to write again.
Let’s face it, for an author procrastination is not so much a hinderance – it’s more of an art form really isn’t it?
Now I should perhaps say that I am waiting for the third ‘Misty’ book to be published, so there could have been a pinch of resting on my laurels thrown into that little mix just for good measure.
So, with my typing finger in hand – in truth it was always there, I was just using it to pick my nose – I set about editing my sci-fi/ fantasy novel.
I never liked the ending, I must confess, so after ten long years of deliberation I decided to change it.
Well you can’t rush these things, can you?
The trouble though with doing that is that there are parts of this weighty tome which allude to what the ending might be much earlier in the manuscript.
So those have to change too.
This is where the ‘writing’ as opposed to ‘editing’ comes about.
Well I’d forgotten what a pain in the arse it was, especially with the one finger keyboard poking affliction with which I am saddled.

Oh how I wish that I could type as effortlessly as Jerry Lewis in that scene from ‘Who’s Minding The Store?’ Remember that? No? Look it up on YouTube. (It’s not procrastination, it’s research).

Incidentally I notice that the poor old bugger recently popped his clogs – no doubt we’ll be mourning his passing for many a long year. Confused? Then you haven’t read my blog, ‘Doctor Who and the Lazarus Effect,’ have you. Do keep up!
Anyway, I printed out a rainforest of paper (this is going to be an eBook after all, so it doesn’t really count, does it?) and slashed at it with a red pen. Then, satisfied that the affected parts had been cut away, except for that bit – I really liked the way I’d phrased that, oh, oh, and that bit – that was really funny.
Pardon?
Yes you’re right.
They have to go too.
Root and branch.
Into the bin.
It’s not too late though, I can still fish them out…
Oh, all right.
Jeez, you’re ruthless you lot aren’t you.
See, now look what’s happened. That bit is now where that other part should be, the one in chapter two; or was it forty seven? Hmmm!

Don’t worry, I can get around it.
Trust me, I’m an author.

We’ll make him a her and have her do this instead of that.
Better?
That doesn’t sound quite right, does it?
Nor that.
And does this tie in with that scene I wrote in chapter three?
I didn’t think so.
Am I showing or telling?
If only I’d written it from a different perspective.
Set it in a different time.
And place.
Perhaps with other characters?

Yes, that’s it!
Of course the plot line will have to change.
And the outcome.
Thinking about it, you’re right.
It is a little bit darker than before.
And you think that it’s what?
A different genre!?
Do you really think..?
You know I think you may be right.
Now I need a new title!
And a different sodding cover.
I’d virtually sorted the synopsis and the blurb for the back.
Now I’ll have to…
Do you think that dedication is still appropriate?
No, nor me.
You know what – now I’ve got two bloody books to edit!
FFS!

Pass me that box set of Game Of Thrones.
I need to chill out.
Watch it for the third time from – well, from the beginning I suppose.
All seven series.
See you later.
Much, much later!

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Dr. Who and the Lazarus effect…

Yes I know – I haven’t blogged for a bit have I? Sorry, what with being in the final of The People’s Book Prize and putting on the play wot I wrote, I’ve been a bit busy.

No doubt I’ll blog about those two newsworthy events in the near future, but just to show that I’m not averse to cheating here’s one I prepared earlier and posted on the blog page that time forgot.

Just a few thoughts on the timelessness of social media. Normal saftness service will be resumed as soon as possible – so here as a booster shot is, ‘Doctor Who and the Lazarus effect….’

Cue intro music – Numa num num, numa num num, numa num num, numa num num, numa num num, numa num num, numa num num, numa num num, ooo wee ooo…

I’m afraid to tell you all that I have extremely bad news.
Brace yourselves.

Thingummyjig is dead.

Yes, sorry to break it so bluntly.

Old Wotsisface.

Remember him crooning that old song?
What was it again?
No, I can’t remember now either, but still, eh..?
Tut!
Those were the days.
Didn’t he marry that old slapper; you tell me, what was her name?
Yeah, that’s the one.
I think!

Sorry?
No, I don’t know. Probably cancer. It usually is.
But he did rather live life to the full. Perhaps he just wore out.
Must be right though, I just saw it on Facebook.
Shame!

Really?
Are you sure?
Hang on, give me a minute. I’ll Google it.

You’re right, you know!
Two years ago according to Wikipedia.
Heart attack in a hotel bedroom following a night of kinky sex with a prostitute dressed as Tinky Winky.
Who knew.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Tellytubbies.

I mention this because I have this morning seen this happen. Not the Tinky Winky bit obviously, I made that up.
Although thinking about it…
I forget who it was exactly. And if you think I’m scrolling through all those posts of kittens being cute, children being sick and photoshopped cloud images looking like angels then please think again.
Obviously not someone as ‘big’ as Bowie, Prince or any of the rest of the ‘A’ list crew who have so sadly and publicly popped their clogs recently and had a whole evening of News at Ten devoted to their demise.
Let’s consider the case of Jimmy Ruffin, the guy who sang ‘What becomes of the broken-hearted,‘ played at the end of so many seventies disco’s, for two reasons. 1 – there is a very nice short story about him on my website, you might enjoy it after you’ve read this over at https://www.weebly.com/editor/main.php  and 2 – I remember that it did actually happen to the poor old sod.
Yes, poor Jimmy sadly passed away, no doubt mourned by many, only to rise like Lazarus a year or so later to go through the whole process again for the people who had been too busy to notice his passing at the first time of asking.
So, bereft and saddened we share and retweet for all we’re worth to our friends. They do the same until it triggers a memory in one bright spark who says, ‘hang on a minute, isn’t he dead already..!’
Strangely this knowledge of his passing back in the mists of time assuages our mourning instinct and we do feel a great deal better than had we gone through the process when it actually happened.

Hold up a bit.
What’s this now?
Your pussy has gone missing madam?
Someone’s knicked your car, sir?
Does anyone know this bastard that has been filmed kicking his dog?
No, they’re not very good photographs are they, but hang on and I’ll see if I can find out.

Turns out that all that occurred some time back.
​
Apparently madam only wanted to do some heavy breathing as she called out the hunks from the local fire brigade. Her pussy was up a tree as it turned out and was rescued six months ago.
Sir’s car was recovered after being spotted floating down the canal. Apparently the lad who pinched it was the same bastard who kicked the poor dog. Well done to whoever posted that by the way, obviously it’s far better to film this stuff rather than intervene and prevent it in the first place. Fortunately scummy was recognised though and was given a very severe telling off indeed. I’m pleased to report that he is a reformed character and lives happily with his wife and six kids in a bedsit in Chipping Sodbury.

But here it is all over again, as fresh and as good as new. And people are sharing and tweeting and bending over backwards to help what has already been accomplished.

And that’s what technology has done for us. Time used to be linear.
One day followed another.
No longer.It loops around on Facebook.It retweets itself on Twitter.
It replays endlessly on catchup T.V.

No wonder Doctor Who always looked so confused, skipping around in time like that.
Keeping up with who’s dead and alive is like trying to remember whether Jon Pertwee or Tom Baker had the assistant with the shortest skirt.

Be honest lads – it never was about Daleks really, was it!?