Most writing advice goes like this:
Write till your fingers bleed and paramedics avoid you for fear of drowning!
Write till your backside is number than a paralysed octopus!
Write in the face of a Godzilla / alien horde team-up — but make no reference to this in your writing!
And so on, and so forth, and bleurgh.
I did try to follow this advice on Monday morning, really I did.
I did try to ensure that the Abysswinksback Family Online Writing Advice Facility failed to default on its commitment to splonk forth something vaguely wordy at 9.59am every Monday and Thursday.
But you know how it is sometimes with necks and waking up and swellings and pus and spider-like fish things that crawl from open wounds above your jugular notch and writhe, writhe, writhe: there’s only so much you can do with cheeks blown out to Kim Kardashian proportions and an Adam’s Apple the size of a tumour bulldozered from a fat guy’s stomach during an episode of Bizarre & Disgusting Ailments & Afflictions.
I haven’t so much nursed this condition as wrestlered it.
Fuck writing — I couldn’t even brush my teeth or see my willy to piss straight.
As for my volunteer hour at the old people’s home down the road, let’s just say that when I phoned to cancel, my voice was so gurgly and weird that they evacuated (then torched) the place, fearing Satanist attack.
That’s why nothing got written on Monday.
No blog posts, no fiction, no sonnets praising Victoria Coren-Mitchell’s sensational hair.
But none of this means that my writerly brain failed to work.
Behind the wall of pustulent fish-flesh masquerading as my face and neck, sufficient synapses flickered on with the delayed zeal of damp fireworks.
Ideas came, links were made — some of which were completely unrelated to my neckular tumescence and its associated throbbing agony (and spider-fish bunjee displays).
So the hard part of writing continued — the plunge into the dread pool of uncertainty, the kiss of idiosyncrasies, the (ok, so, yeah, this sometimes happens) farting.
Now that I’ve more or less recovered (bar the odd red lump and the occasional random pinhead-thin fountain of clear yellow liquid), it only remains for me to w-r-i-t-e-i-t-o-u-t.
So maybe that’s my writing advice for the day:
Speculate! Incubate! Speculate! Incubate!
The marks on the paper will come in the end.
Sorry #197 — on Monday, I won at Neck