Declaration of deadline

So. I’m a bit weird.

Like I don’t like even numbers. So I count stuff. Like I can have one cocktail (which anyone who knows me knows would never happen) or three but not two. And if I have one cocktail of something and then two of the something else I may have to have another one of the one I’ve had two of to make it three and count it one and three. Not four.  (Until I get drunk and lose count). And my tattoos – I have four and one that’s been covered up but I still have five tattoos. Until the day I get the next one, then I won’t count the cover-up any longer. But still have five tattoos.  And one covered up. Five and one. On top of this, I don’t like order – I find what I need and make sense in chaos. And I’m a little obsessive compulsive. Like last year I went from the idea of running 500k in a year to piling up 1503k. Because I got completely obsessed with seeing the kilometers increase.

And what’s this got to do with writing? you ask.

Well, I’ve set a goal to finish the first draft of my novel by September 10 2013. This is not an arbitrary date picked out of one of my fabulous hats – oh no! This is the last day of my planned writing retreat and also the last day before I’m getting locked in the office to play with the REF for three+ months. I reckon there’ll be no time for writing then, but second drafting should be ok.

But how am I going to do this? I guess I'm hoping I'll be able to trick my little obsessive brain into overdrive and for every day I write, or for every 1000 words or for whatever it’ll take the obsession to finish this one step closer to just that. But the tricking of the brain is difficult. I’ve tried to get obsessed with running again because right now I don’t quite have the flat stomach of last summer .And despite my strong adverse reaction to the idea of spending lots of time at work, 11-13 hour days are sneaking back in. So I'm slightly worried about how to turn the obsession on. Which is why I figured blogging about it might help. Or not. At least it will fuel my procrastination - because I need more of that for sure. Although I’d like to think a structured one but alas not always). 

So it’s going well so far [she said sarcastically]. I’ve spent the evening running and then writing this blog post in between a bunch of work emails. Never mind I have a deadline to send a chapter which is not quite finish to my mentor (another incentive which has worked well so far) tomorrow. Please brain, let the obsessive compulsive need to add more words kick in!

Just words

It stings, does it not? They trickle into your conscious. Then, like hot oil they burn slowly through the layers of defence, get under your skin and linger. Fester. You can claw at them, but once said they dig deeper and deeper until they discover the softest and most vulnerable spot.

And they are just words.

I watch you now, as the edge of my voice breaks you. It feels good to be able to knock the air out of your lungs just by using my vocal cords. You may think it is not taking any effort on my part, that I like doing this. But it is as painful for me as it is for you. Yet, there is satisfaction as I watch the impact of my words reach your eyes. Flickering uncertainty.

If I wanted, I could turn a single syllable into a weapon, a sigh into an insult, my lips into hatred. I chose this one sentence with care. The words I knew would injure you most, make your life falter. See, I know how to get you, where to get you, when to get you. I bet you wish you had not let me this far in.

You stand there, silent, as if I have deprived you of air, placed you in a vacuum. Your arms cling motionless along the sides of your body, the wine bottles sit in front of you on the mat like abandoned children, and the one lace you had time to undo before I demolished your world looks like a dead vine that has lost all its leaves.

But they are just words.

I love you. 

The Saint Annabelle

Alcohol (preferably rum, bourbon, whiskey or gin)

3 oz impudence

3 oz sarcasm

3 oz hussy

1 ½ oz incorrigibleness

1 ½ oz trouble and troublemaker

1 ½ oz sweetness

½ oz manipulation

½ oz madness

½ oz inappropriate flirtation

3 inch piece wit

1 inch piece total disregard for authority

Stick of fresh shamelessness for garnish

No modesty

Served straight up in anything that can hold it.

Lips

Here I am, Saturday night, sober (still/again - sigh), listening to the Cure, massive candles (black and purple) the only source of light apart from this screen - which is turned down low, writing a long paragraph about lips. Not like lips for kissing but for words. And I suppose a little bit for kissing too.

I do look at lips when people speak. I don't like George Clooney's mouth for instance. He's got thin lips. But I don't like full lips either and there's nothing more disgusting than wet lips. But of course our mouths say so much about us and our feelings.

I don't like my lips. They're uneven. Makes it hard to use lipstick. Gloss is fine, but when you use lipstick you need good definition. Wearing that plum colored lipstick to the Halloween Ball in 2010 was quite freaky actually, but the show had to go on.

I only have one picture in my apartment with people in it - me and, of course - who else? I love that picture of us. It's in front of me on my desk. You can only see the more even side of my mouth and my eyebrows look amazing. As does he, and his mouth and his cupid's bow. Perfect lips. "Kiss me kiss me kiss me" - the Cure.

It's interesting how intimate lips are even though they are on the outside and on constant display for the world to see.

But I wonder what else I can write about M's lips and if B would really be so fascinated by her mouth - or is it just me? This is where writing becomes tricky - just because I all of sudden think this is a great way to bring out her character doesn't mean it works on the page. Time well tell. As will my critics.

I need my lips to meet with some burning alcohol - thank fuck I'll be having at least one cocktail tomorrow. I will have to make sure it's the most potent one on the menu.

Harlem Nocturne

The flash of skin through the zip of a dress

A shoe falling to the floor

Luxurious stockings sliding down a thigh, a calf, toes

Noir

I only strip on Thursdays

Fin

So sweet the scent of dejection.
Like honey mixed with caramel.
And white lilies at the funeral.
To not dream to not hope to die.
End what never began.

It's cinematic.
Fin

Your Bed

This bed.

Where you lay sleepless in the dark, tracing imaginary outlines of a body you once knew so well, listening to occasional sounds of footsteps and fragments of conversations drifting through the open window, hoping to hear her voice.

Inside is your silence.

This bed.

Too big for one. In a house, with dust-covered memories. Before the dust, before the silence, this bed was made for two. Now you sit on this bed, trawling Facebook for pictures; wondering if the guy next to her is someone she's fucking.

Inside are your shadows.

This bed.

Its posters covered in cobwebs of what once was your truth; a game where the pieces disintegrated each time one of you made a move. This bed is haunted by fragments of conversations, the heat of her body, as you lay sleepless inside your darkness.

Ugh! Been working on this for weeks now and can still not get it right - all I seem to be doing is shift sentences around. I'm just not a poet (though some nice lines in there, which is why I couldn't let it go - will plagiarize self and use in novel!) so I give up - fuck your bed!