waiting is a test of patience

August is now just a sigh in the wind. Hello September. I'm looking forward to a blue moon in November (they don't happen very often, next one's in 2013) and so there it is. Still publisherless. But not worrying. Not counting seconds minutes or days. Not at all. Never. Who me? Just, well, you know, I'm here. Trying to write, trying not to get a case of the blanks.

Did a writing session on the moon yesterday. Well not actually on moon (just shows you how careful we need to be when we claim things!) though it would have been nice, I'm sure. Nothing like getting into the subject, researching thoroughly. Anyway, it was with a lovely group of people who don't normally write and who gather together in a fab Day Centre which is so up for the arts it's heaven. And I've been delighted with the results of our weekly efforts so far. Thought I'd share yesterday with the ether and you. Whoever you are. Wherever you are. So it goes: 'Sweeping slowly across the sky, the moon, the moon, like a silvery eye, gazes as we kiss and sigh.' I like that. Romance was not in the air at the beginning of the session, but hey, what with the moon and all and pics and discussion and moonshine and moon dust and you saw me standing alone, blue moon, well it sort of drifted. Nothing wrong in it. Writing's like that.

So here I am drifting once again.

old guitars and

For no reason at all, it was old guitars yesterday. Now, those who know me will realise that I mean something from Woolworth's or some body's garage, rather than anything notable or priceless, like a Stradivarius equivalent. We were having breakfast with my friend and fellow singer and guitarist, Michael, and spun back to when we were young (took a lot of spinning) and remembered our very first guitars. Mine was donated to me by some well-wisher with a sense of humour, a friend of one of my brothers, who may (no may about it) have used it for cricket practice at one time. A battered twelve string, it was, with only six strings, which, if I'd known anything about guitars or had any money (more to the point) I might have replaced. But they weren't rusty, they didn't jangle too much, they seemed to be in the right place and tuned up OK, so they stayed with that guitar for some time. It didn't have a case. I constructed one out of a black plastic bag which was easy, you just bung the thing in and throttle the neck with an elastic band so that it doesn't let in the rain. It didn't protect it from the bus journey to practices, of course, the thrusts and jolts, the wheelies round corners, nor did it protect from the slings and arrows, the mockery from fellow passengers. But when the rain fell, boy, that plastic bag was something else. That guitar saw me through years of songs. It was the colour of dog-do which probably matched my playing, so it suited me down to the ground.

all to pot

You know sometimes I amaze myself. My last post wasn't in July at all. Grief! This month is being peppered with posts. If there's a chance that you are reading any of this, then it would be good to hear from you.

Anyone.

So here's the thing

Yes, I realise mid-August and my last post was whenever ago in July. But, I'm the only one reading this so, hey, gimme a break...know what I'm saying? This august month is when, rumour has it, I may get a publisher. Not from my horoscope, by the way (which I'm sure if I read it in a certain way would tell me exactly that, and in any other way, that my dog was about to die) but from my agent, who is as keen as I am to get Megan published, to get her out there on a shelf for a week or so in some well known bookshop. If that ever happens, by the way, then I want you all to promise to at least have a look at it. Buy it even. Move it about on the shelf so it looks as if people are intrigued by it. That sort of thing. If it ever gets on a shelf, I'll be doing that...or should I really stoop that low?

Yes. Low as it takes.

The twinlets are bursting out of their minuscule-tot baby wear I'm happy to say, so now I want them on a bus with their suitcases to come down for a visit. Is that too much to ask? Oh right. Feeding tubes. Well. maybe next month. Come on girls, you can do it!

Done the spell check, but if it's missed any, sorry.

twinlets

So now I have pictures of the twinlets from when they were all tubes and beating-machines to the twin cot they now inhabit, with only the basic equipment to keep them from harm, like doll sized hats and mitts and a nice warm quilt. Their limbs look less like pink pipe-cleaners than they did and more like the real thing. I trust that the wide-eyed, tube-clutching twinlet is the aforementioned Jessica, who seems to seize everything she can and give it a tug, so watch out everyone...hope there are no cats in the place...and the sleepy one is Ailsa who seems to doze through everything, storing up her energy for later, I imagine, for when they're scrapping over a fluffy dinosaur, or the computer, because, of course, they'll be utter whizzes at absolutely everything, though Jessica may simply want to pull the plugs out or something, to see how it works, rather like someone else I know... Anyway, can't wait to see them. There you go! How happy I was just to want to see the pics. Now it's gimme the real thing!! Never satisfied.

All this makes the rejection of a story seem like nothing at all. And it really is nothing at all, in the scheme of such wonders as twinlets and parents and things that go lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, all on their own. However, I shall diagnose this story's faults. I shall tube feed it, monitor it and then send it back. Besides, the pennies could come in handy, what with dinosaurs to buy. Not without a struggle will I bin this one. I like it. So, stethoscope on...
If I had that editing eye I was rabbitting on about, earlier, I could just whizz it over this and publish. As it is, Ihave only my own, limited version. So pelase exusce eerros.

drowning in froglets

Just come in from the garden. It's hopping with frogs. After all the rain fall, which has filled trays full of herb pots, and weighed down the sweet peas, I've been rescuing plants in that ham-fisted way of mine, i.e tipping out the water from the trays, moving one or other from here to there whilst a thousand more freckles emerge on my pale but interesting skin. Yes. The sun is out again, as is the washing. And five minutes later it's cloudy. Ah well. That's England. Maybe it wasn't just rain yesterday. Maybe it was plague of frogs. Maybe I should be worried that next it'll be locusts. Mind you, they're lovely little things. Frogs. Not locusts. And if baby toads are lumpy then maybe these aren't all froglets. Which makes me think, I don't know why, about Jessica (the tube puller) and Ailsa (the forgiver of all things done to her). Why aren't they called twinlets? Like triplets and quadruplets etc? In fact they're more twinlets than anything. They were born at exactly the same time, in the same lift-out. No 'I'm the oldest', or 'I'm the youngest' tousle here. Twinlets. Yes. I like that name. Or twoplets. Tuplets even. That would do. Twins is so...what is it? Dated? I don't know what's got into me. Yesterday I was grumping about this and that and today I'm championing froglets and twinlets. if there's anyone out there remotely interested, I need diagnosing I think.

editorial

Look at this! Two posts in one day! Unheard of. Wouldn't it be nice to have an editorial eye secreted about the desk which you can plug in, switch on and say, fix that? I think it would. Imagine time saved, the angst avoided, the...well just imagine! Mind you, my desk wouldn't be the safest place for it, nontheless, what an addition to my tiny writing world, which no-one in particular is interested in, unless, of course, I get a publishing deal and everyone and their granny (at least those who write) might flicker a little and those who don't might mutter something about how long it all takes, and do real writers take so very long to get established...?It's a funny old thing. If I was a stone wall builder would it be any different? Or a chef? Or still a nurse. Who knows? Are we all just nothings in the scheme of things. Writers, I mean. No matter what we do or write. We might change a few things along the way, along a tiny thread-like path, but does anybody actually use that path? When people ask, how's the writing going, I wonder if they really want to hear or if it's just something they think they ought to ask, because well, that's what I do. Write. And maybe once the question's asked they can move on to what they really want to talk about. Grump, grump. I know. But then. Do I ask them about their work? No. So why am I complaining? It must be the rain. It must be wanting to get going on another big thing and I can't, a publisher might want me to go in a certain direction. Apparently. So hang fire for now. And all that. Anyway, that editorial eye. I wonder what colour it should be.