Underwear: The breakdown of the Nazi-Soviet non-aggression pact.

We have had this absence in our head of late… no, we’re not talking about the usual absence, the one the wifey likes to point out at such times when we (clearly) need some time in the corner to think about what we’ve done (or haven’t done, as the case may be), but thank you very much for pointing it out… we’re talking about an absence of something to say, something to say. Of course, any of you lovely (possibly imaginary) friends out there who are fool enough to read this here ‘blog on a regular basis, will be more than familiar – tiresomely so, perhaps – with our lack of having something to say.

Now, according to Martin Conaghan, no one is interested in our having nothing to say, any more than they are interested in how many words of our [whatever] we have written today, or yesterday, or will write tomorrow, and certainly no more (as in, not at all) than they are in the frequency of our bowel movements, which while we’re on the topic, have been having really quite enlightening lately. Really, exercise kids, exercise! It gets more than the blood flowing. By the way, if you don’t know who Martin Conaghan is, don’t worry, neither do we. But we like his sharp tongue. He goes on:

Do you have something to show the world? No? Well, go away and come back when you do.

Every word you post on Twitter is one word fewer on your script – unless your script is about what you’re saying on Twitter – and, if it is, I probably don’t want to read about it.

Now,we might like his tone – we do like being told what to do after all… apparently… but more on that another time – but what we really like is that he’s basically telling us to stop nattering away in this fucking ‘blog and go and do some real writing… which, as you might have noticed, is what we’ve been telling ourself all along.

It’s a conundrum to be sure, balancing the desperate longing to write stories, with a natural and dread sense of apathy. Don’t doubt us for a moment wee perusers of tinterwebs, we really are a dichotomous being, this is not just some histrionic little whimpering about how tough it is being a writer. We are not, after all, being a writer are we?

As my old pal Warren says… ok, ok, he’s not an old pal… he’s not even a new pal… he’s just this guy who writes great comics, and we like his work, and would probably like him if we ever met him, and he has a great beard, like the one we would grow if it were more acceptable to the Wifey. Anyway, as he says, a writer who doesn’t write isn’t a fucking writer is he? That’s like calling someone a gardener, because they happen to have a yard, and some things grow in it without any attention from them whatsoever, and they don’t even have a spade… Yes, ok, we recognise the failure of that analogy, given that nothing grows for us, without our attention… but you knew what we meant didn’t you?

On another note entirely, it seems that given recent news of funding set backs – don’t you hate it when corporate arseholes decide, immediately prior to squiggling their little mark on a legally binding document that would make them pay out a (not very) significant amount of money, that they’re not going to – that the launch of the previously alluded to magazine, for which our services had been conscripted, has been put back until… well, until whenever the fuck they can manage to procure more funding.

We have a feeling, given our recent lack of meaningful output – Jesus! just look at our last fucking ‘blog post… banality at its finest – coupled with the God-knows-how-long a wait until we have another deadline from the potentially (but hopefully not) defunct magazine to light a fire under our arse, that before long, we might be creeping shamefaced into the basement at London Court Arcade, with a pair of tightey-whiteys stretched over our jeans, and giggling geekishly with the other comic nerds until we get slain by an elf… oh, wait, that’s with the D&D nerds… but then it seems that the over-undies wearing super geeks have recently taken to meeting in the gaming/military bookshop, so we could well end up slain by d20 wielding half-elven fighter/mage after all. By the way – I love by-the-ways, by the way – the entire reason for the military section of gaming/military bookshops to exist is so ageing D&D nerds, or GURPS geeks don’t have to slink out of the place with a concealed, matching set of dodecahedral dice, but can stride out, with an analysis of the 1941 break of the Nazi-Soviet non-aggression pact proudly diverting attention from the dicey bulge in their back pocket…

Perhaps, thinking on that, we won’t be going anywhere near the London Court Arcade basement, but instead, we’ll just go back to being I instead of we, and fucking off now, rather promptly to work on being a corybantic producer of fiction in as many media as we can get our head around… once more unto the breach, etc, etc…

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~ by Gethin A. Lynes on June 21st, 2011.

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