Tag Archives: writing

The Fog on the Window

The glass in the window is foggy. There are bushes and a street somewhere beyond it, evidence of a world beyond the walls that protect us from the elements – torrential rains and unsettling and powerful gusts of wind.

The apartment feels like a bubble. A pleasant bubble, at least. There are tables, beds, a kitchen, food – even a friendly grey cat. But it is still a bubble. Beyond the bubble, the world has vanished. The only proof of its existence is the occasional burst of noise against the glass panes – of bushes thrashing against the window, and in the spaces between the leaves, a faint, circular glow of a street lamp bleeds through on occasion.

The bubble provides quiet time, a sense of peace; granting us the necessary downtime so desperately needed following two animated days of ping-ponging between assorted locations for company functions and meetings. The world beyond is gone away. The bubble is a luxury. No one expects us. Our time is ours.

Rain and wind sweep through Brisbane’s streets, driving pedestrians off the footpath. Need supersedes desire; must – not whimsy. There is an element of the apocalyptic to it. What might be gone in the morning? A macabre thought to have, surely. Would cats still treat the world as their kingdoms if there is little kingdom left to feign a feline reign upon?

The light of the world will slowly return, the fog will clear away, reality will slowly reassemble.

But for now, we have our bubble.

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Filed under Ruminations and Musings, Telling stories

Wherein Author Begins a Gloriously Stupid Plan

Tomorrow morning I’m going to wake up and not have to go to work because the Queen Has Spoken, and declared that all shall party because it’s her birthday. Mind you, I’m not sure which Queen, nor when a policy of rocking out to her birthday during the work-week was initiated, but I’m honestly not going to complain.

It’s also my thirty-second birthday, which really isn’t that big a deal when you’re a baby-faced monstrosity like me, who has to maintain a beard to keep from getting carded and not be asked if my parents accidentally abandoned me at Toys R Us. But it’s still a birthday, and I’m still going to have to remind myself that I’m not 22, which is what I actually feel like most days.

So I’ve decided that Monday will used as the launching pad for yours truly to begin work on a novel that I’ve long let lie dormant because, well, life put a few fucking crimps into my path (you savvy?). First I was sitting around waiting for the government to decide whether or not it was going to drop-kick me beyond its borders, then moved house, and then I started a new job. Shit got real, yo. Who the hell can write when life’s one giant, angry super-squid trying to pull you down into the murky depths of social and emotional oblivion?

But that’s all better now. There’s stability now. Citizenship looms jovially, with stubby cooler and meat pie on a plate with my name engraved on the rim, sparkling not at all like certain vampires I know under a cloudless mid-day sun. And the new job seems to have become stable, and I’m not moving any time soon.

Which means it’s time to treat this writing thing seriously. And fuck, I’ve already done some preliminary outlining work on the damn thing anyway, so there’s no reason to not commence with Step (writing), so that come June 9 2014, when my lanky Slavic arse is on the precipice of rolling into its 33rd year of vaguely human existence, I’ll be able to say: “Shit yeah, I’ve actually written this novel and gotten it out of my head and can now continue onto the next book”, because there are just so many stories that have built up over time in this little grey-matter nuthouse, and they deserve to be put down on paper so that they can be shared with the poor, unsuspecting populace out there beyond the confines of my skull.

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Filed under My relentlessly fascinating life, Ruminating on fiction, Telling stories