Older, but none the wiser.

On Writing...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 18:25:00 +0000

I've been incredibly frustrated this week trying to finish an article. Circumstances (and people)have conspired against me, so on Saturday I set off to an anonymous cafe where I could drink tea, and be undisturbed enough to finish my project.

The food queue was long and impatient. While we waited for chips to be fried, and bacon to be grilled, I got chatting to the bloke behind me. Just a normal, trivial exchange of pleasantries, nothing exciting at all (although he was quite cute, and I really wanted to run my fingers through his gently curling hair). But I digress. As I waited to pay for my bacon roll and mug of hot, builder's tea, words and sentences started streaming through my poor brain.

I rushed to a free table (slopping my drink en route) and pulled out a notebook. My bacon grew cold and greasy while I frantically wrote a short story based on our Brief Encounter. Words, and phrases flew from somewhere onto the paper, until the staff started throwing me funny looks. I left the cafe with the first draft of a story, and a still-unfinished article.

I've spent a good three days this week trying to write this damned feature, unable to find the hook, the right tone, or a decent angle for the piece. And that's how the process seems to be. For me, at least. Some days I have thirty-seven words to show for my efforts, and others are spent trying to prevent the sparks that are flying from my pencil burning holes in my clothes.

It's a bizarre way to spend your life.

I don't believe that any writer chooses to write (it's far too much like hard work); I think that writing chooses you. I may sound batty (I am), or pretentious (I'm not), but I write because I have to. Simple as.

Multiple choices...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 10:56:00 +0000

Sorted! I've grasped the spiky horns of my dilemma, wrestled and tugged them into a manageable shape that now point the way forward. I am now, simultaneously, writing two books. Well, two versions of the same tale. Both with a modified plot, but one with farcical humour and the troublesome fairy, and one without. Voila! When an agent eventually reads one and cries, "Loved the story, dahling, but where's the magic/introspection/plot?" I can whip out the other version with a flourish and a grin, "Here's one I prepared earlier!"

And writing in first person is fun; 'I' can be thorough, thoughtful and threatened in one version, and a flirty, fanciful fairy-lover in the other!

I may even publish one under a pseudonym, and then sue myself for pinching my idea. Think of the publicity, the money I'd make...

Is this what a multiple-personality disorder feels like?

What's a girl to do?

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 10:00:00 +0000

My course has finished and I now have my MA - I've got a letter to prove it so they can't change their minds and demand it back! It's been like learning to drive: the seminars, workshops and assignments were the driving lessons, the final project was the 'test' and now we've all been cast out unsupervised onto the motorway where the real learning takes place. And by God, it's scary out there...

Suddenly there's nobody directing you through a series of one-way streets, or guiding you the right way around a roundabout.

Or preventing you from crashing into an oil tanker...

I'm definitely in a curious position right now. My part-novel has provoked conflicting opinions from the professionals involved in the marking process: The Fairy has to go versus The Fairy has to stay/ The plot's all wrong vs The plot's right for the genre/ The pace is too fast vs The pace has to be fast in this kind of novel.

I know these are only opinions, not holy commandments etched in stone, but one way may lead to publication, the other will leave egg on my face.

I guess the answer lies in trusting your own judgement. Using everything you have learnt from the course and everything you know about the genre. God knows you've read enough similar books. But where does this self-confidence come from? Can I find some on ebay?

Now, I know certain truths about the world: bullies will get their comeuppance - it's the law of the universe; too much chocolate makes your clothes shrink; only men with deep-rooted psychological problems find me attractive, but, strangely enough, none of these concepts are useful in this situation. What's a girl to do?

On a more positive note, Mr Bubonic Plague hasn't been back to torment me!

Knee-lenth boots from now on...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 12:09:00 +0000

Okay, I have two addictive and unhealthy habits: one is smoking and the other is watching X Factor. I've had the therapy, tried the willpower method and even used the patches (one on the arm for nicotine and two over my eyes to block out the telly), but to no avail. I remain addicted.

I have a designated smoking-room - well, it's more of a front doorstep really, and I quite often share my space with the local wildlife. There's been a badger grubbing around for food, several snuffling hedgehogs and most of the neighbourhood cats. Once, I was so engrossed in the book I was reading, I almost stubbed out my fag on a coppery slow worm coiled lazily at my feet. And I thought that incident was terrifying...

This morning I was out there with the usual book in one hand and a ciggy in the other enjoying the winter sunshine and the waft or newly hacked grass when out of the corner of my eye, I spied movement. Not flippy enough to be reptile, but too small to be badger cat or goat. There, in my front garden, looking me squarely in the eye, was a rat. Yep! A rat! It wasn't even an alpha-rodent but a scrawny, scabby furred, chewed ears kind of creature. I leaped to my feet, hopped around a bit and let out a banshee wail whilst flicking my book ineffectually towards the beastly bastard.

It stopped, bared its sharp ratty teeth in a gesture of contempt and slowly turned before ambling its way down the path. I, meanwhile, was still doing the hot-coal shuffle on the doorstep and hyperventilating so much that even the black spots before my eyes had gone all fuzzy.

Oh, God, oh God, not again! I can't bear it!

Heart beating wildly, I stumbled inside gasping for breath. Suddenly the sound of click, click, click surrounded me - the sound of claws clicking on the laminate floor! On God! It's inside! My poor heart ricocheted around my rib-cage as I turned, wide-eyed, to face my tormentor...

That bloody dog!

Honestly, how much more stress can one person stand? Why can't those damned rodents keep to the drains where I don't have to see them? I'll be jumping every time I see a spider, or hear a scraping noise. They'll be carrying me, stiff-limbed, to the looney bin, because abject terror will have me flat-packed against the wall, glassy eyed and drooling mouth frozen in a Munch scream.

There's a rat in the kichen...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 20:32:00 +0000

You all know about the noisy neighbours, right? The ones who stay up all night partying, drinking, singing Girls A-bleeding-loud songs, and then try to kill each other. I've had to put up with this for nearly three years', and before you think I'm just an old Moaning Myrtle, they do this most nights.

Well, about two months' ago, the miserable gits started stripping wallpaper at 3am. Scrape, scrape, scrape against the wall behind your bed isn't much fun. This carried on for a week, until the proverbial penny dropped; they weren't scraping - there were mice in the adjoining wall. I rang Environmental Health the next day. You know you're getting old, when the mouse-catcher looks he should still be in school.

The problem turned out to be RATS in the wall schnucking in from an outside drain. Yes, RATS. Sewage-stained, filthy, dirty, bubonic plague carrying RATS.

"Oh Christ," I shrieked. " Please tell me they won't get into the house!"

"Well, that's where they're heading, love; they're looking for a food source."

He obviously hadn't caught on to the diplomacy part of the job...

Three bags of raspberry-coloured bait down the man-hole cover, and Bob's your uncle. Not.

Three weeks, and seven bags of bait, later, they'd eaten through the cavity wall, up the cavity wall, and along the floorboards. They were planning on dropping, SAS style into the kitchen on ropes, filling up a goodie bag and scampering back under the floorboards.

Not on my watch.

For two nights, I chased them around the house, banging the downstair's ceilings to scare the nasty little buggers back to the drain.

On day three, I was exhausted, irritable and neurotic; these had to be Super-rats - the size of small hippos, at least.

By sobbing and wailing into the phone, I managed to get a workman in the same day to cement up the drain pipe (luckily, not the one collected to the loo...). For the first time in weeks, I relaxed; the rodents were well and truly cemented out.

Until the rat-man came later the same day, sighed in frustration, and pointed out that I may now have trapped them inside the house.

Double eek!

And so I face the final curtain...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Thu, 06 Aug 2009 22:11:00 +0000

Oh, this bad; I'm thoroughly ashamed. I can't believe all this time and decent bloggable material has passed...

Well, on a quick update: eldest son is just a couple of weeks away from taking his driving test - eek! He spent last weekend at some music festival in Knebworth. He said it was awesome, but I endured a slightly less enjoyable weekend; there was just so much to worry about - mosh pits, circle things, drugs, knives, underage sex, alcohol poisoning and whether anyone had vomited in my tent. It was such a relief to collect him from the train station on Monday night and know that the tent had made it back in one piece.

I'm in the last stage of the MA - trying to write the start of a novel. It's been hell. I think I can safely say I've been cured, once and for all, of the writing bug; it's so much more fun to read a book than it is to try and write one, and faster too. I don't lose the will to live when I'm reading, either.

Okay, the next post has to be about the rats - that's a really amusing story. Not.

Shame on me...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 21:13:00 +0000

I can't quite believe it's been nearly TWO months since I wrote a post - shameful!! And so much to tell! There's the neighbours, the assessments, the sewage-stained rodents, the continuing illnesses and the mounting hysteria as I prepare for the final MA project...

But right now, I need to catch up on some well-deserved sleep...zzz...

Dickheads R Us...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 18:31:00 +0000

Okay, there's a junction in Helston with traffic lights to control the flow of cars coming from the left (obviously, if you're on the other side of the road, it's the right...) We're on the left approaching the junction when the lights turn red. Eldest son is driving so he slows, stops at the lights, pulls on the handbrake and finds his biting point. (Are you having hot flashbacks to your driving lessons, yet??)

The lights change to green, he releases the handbrake and slowly moves off indicating his turn to the left. Now, what does the dickhead on the other side of the road do? He has no green filter and should only turn if the road is clear. Is the road clear? No, there's a learner driver there just starting to make the turn, so what does he do? Yep! You guessed it, the prize pillock just decides to pull across in front of us. And lo, and behold, a motorcyclist figures he can squeeze through too!!

Eldest son had that look on his face; I just knew he was contemplating ramming into them as just punishment for being tossers. He must have done the sums quickly in his head: smacking dickhead = caved in front of our car = car off the road = no more driving.

Sensible choice, son.

Love - Forty (Something-year-old-needing-oxygen)

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 18:48:00 +0000

Well, Spring must have definitely sprung; the back lawn received its first chop of the season and we dragged the Swingball out of the garden shed.

Let the championships begin...

I managed to smack both of the kids in the face with a ball - eldest son got his right on the nose - what magnificent aim! My left hand will, no doubt, be swollen and battered tomorrow, because I kept hitting the bloody thing with my bat. See, now that's karma; I laughed at the boys' injuries and fate redressed the balance by whacking me...several times...

Eldest son annihilated us both - mostly with brute strength, aided by the fact he's got an extra two foot in height to play with, but boy! was it fun! I especially loved the moment where I collapsed on a garden chair, gasping, "can't...breathe..." It's amazing how much a body can deteriorate in just a year...

Youngest son stole the show, however, with his comment, "They should make a game of Swingball".

"Um...they did...you're playing it."

"No, I meant for the Playstation or the X BOX."

Now, who says technology is killing childhood?

Where Did All My Chocolate Go?

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 20:23:00 +0000

Well, the Chinese was delicious and the film was captivating, but the chocolate ran out way too soon.

And was it just me, or did anyone else think Skellig bore a striking resemblance to Bryan Ferry? Every time he appeared on screen with his ratty angel-wings, I kept expecting him to burst into Love is the Drug. (Ancient Roxy Music track for those of you under pensionable age.)

Yeah, I know, "Roxy Who ?"

"Mu-um! Get a life!"

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 17:02:00 +0000

Never let it be said that I don't know how to have a good time. Eldest son just dropped youngest son off to a sleepover and then dropped himself off to stay at a mate's overnight. I finally got to drive my own car home for the first time in a week.

And what, I hear you cry, am I doing with my child-free evening? Am I hosting a rave? Will I drag a young, nubile guy home from the pub for a night of unadulterated, wild sex? Will I, for once, keep the neighbours awake?

Nope! I've snuggled into pyjamas and am gonna eat Chinese special fried rice in front of a kid's film showing on Sky. For afters, I've stocked up on Galaxy chocolate and Cadbury's Creme Eggs (Easter was over far too quickly...)

I've always wondered what my kids meant when they said, "Mu-um! Get a life!"

Ear Today, Gone Tomorrow...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 19:55:00 +0000

Eldest son pierced his ear (again) last week. On Tuesday, his ear was red and painful.

"Hmmm. Looks infected," I said sympathetically. "Bathe it in Savlon, take some paracetamol and I'll try to prise that stud out."
"Touch my ear and you die," he growled.

On Wednesday, the ear was more red, more swollen and throbbing nicely in time with his heartbeat.
"Hmmm. It's even more infected. I think you need antibiotics," I said with a sigh, and phoned the doctor.

Today, his ear was purple, twice the size that God intended it to be, and he was shaking like a heroin addict on Boxing Day - knee deep in cold-turkey.

"Hmmm. That's really infected," I said with a grimace. " That earring has to come out, son. Just let me - okay! okay! I'm backing off, nice and slowly... we'll have to go to Minor Injuries."

"Nope! Not happening! Nobody is touching my ear!"
"Hmmm..." I said thinking aloud. "I know! You can drive."
"Cool! Where are the keys? Let's go!"

Now I thought the NHS were short of funds. Apparently not; instead of giving the boy a stick to bite, they plugged him into the gas and air. He giggled while the nurse dug out the stud and squeezed the rivers of lumpy pus from the wound. I was pretty darned woozy at this point myself to be honest...

When they'd finished, he staggered off the hospital bed, hiccupped and giggled, "That was so cool; I'm completely wasted. Now, where are the car keys? I'm driving home."

Yeah, right.

Driving Ms Carney...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Sun, 12 Apr 2009 12:30:00 +0000

Oh God, the first driving lesson hosted by moi. And I use the word 'lesson' loosely. If eldest son is behind the wheel careering along the road and I'm pinned to the passenger seat catatonic with fear, then, let's face it - there's not a whole lot of instruction going on; it's more a case of bumper-cars and trying not to vomit.

Actually, the whole experience wasn't too horrendous; there was a bit of bouncing between the kerb and parked cars, but once the Valium kicked in, I was fine. And I needed a new front nearside tyre anyway...

He's been riding a moped for a year, so he's certainly developed some road sense, but I'll be a lot happier when the proverbial penny drops and he realises a car takes up a smidge more space than a bike and doesn't quite tuck into a hedge as neatly as a ped, and when a Truronian bus is hurtling through the lanes towards you, launching yourself into the back seat, doesn't actually move the car out of its way.

Oh, no. That was just me.

W.O.M.A.N Let's Say it Again...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Oh, the delights of being a woman. Had my ultrasound scan today to check that all my...er...female bits are functioning properly. Nobody thought to tell me it was gonna be an internal examination. I was expecting the normal pregnancy kind of scan, where you hike up your shirt, shriek as a tube of ice-cold gel gets splurged on your belly and relax while the nurse runs this mouse-like thing over your stomach.

Well, you know what thought does? Yep, gets you in the arse very time.

I was greeted by an elderly nurse snapping on industrial strength Marigolds all the way up to her elbows. By the time I'd dropped my drawers and plunged underneath the 'modesty' blanket, she was armed with a three-foot-long probe-thingy ornately decorated with a condom.

Gulp.

"Um...I'm allergic to condoms," I squeaked.

"Do you wear rubber gloves?" she barked.

"We-ll, not usually for sex, but sometimes for washing the dishes."

"Then you'll be fine! Now, brace yourself, dearie; I'm going in..."

I won't go into all the grisly details, but let's just say a pulsating cavity-probe rummaging around in my more intimate areas certainly brought back vague memories. I seem to remember something similar happening in a former life.

If only I could remember the details...

Beer, the Beach and Teenagers...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 11:49:00 +0000

Last night I delivered my seventeen-year-old son and six of his mates to the beach for a party. Armed with tents, sleeping bags and enough beer to drown a small army, off they trekked belting out songs from Reel Big Fish.

I sat in the car park and murmured, "Dear God, I don't ask for much; I live in a tiny house full of crappy furniture, hungry teenagers and a dog with ADHD. I have no ambitions, no talents and no sex life. I'm old and wrinkled, but I get by on a good sense of humour. Please, please, please don't let anyone drown, fall in the fire or vomit in my tent. Thank you, love Sar XX"

Of course my stomach was in knots all evening. By midnight I was in bed, my clothes laid out ready to leap into like a fireman who's on call. I couldn't sleep. Just kept drifting. Every hour I'd sit up, heart beating like a bass drum. Was that my phone? Did I just hear a siren?

By six am, I figured they must be asleep and trouble had been averted.

I just picked them up, wet, cold, hungover, but ALIVE! I'm so relieved, I'm cooking them all a fried breakfast.

Thank you, God.

Happy Birthday To Me...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 19:54:00 +0000

Happy Birthday to me
I'm not yet forty-three,
I may be old and wrinkled,
But I don't smell of wee. Yet...

Buy One Panic Attack, Get One Free...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 21:06:00 +0000

I don't know what I've done to piss them off, but ASDA cashiers hate me with a passion. And what's more, they do it with great chuffing smiles on their faces.

Yes, I was in there again today. A normal weekly food shop - trolley overflowing with bread to be toasted and smeared with peanut butter at midnight, crisps to be snaffled and thrown on the floor and apples to decay in the fruit bowl before being lobbed in the bin next week. Dog food, loo rolls, ham, cheese, seventeen packets of pasta, twelve boxes of cereal and chocolate digestives to be hidden under my bed. When do teenage boys stop eating everything in sight?

Eldest son is seventeen tomorrow so I was also lugging a huge birthday cake, candles, banners and enough beer to floor a small army.

As I started to pile my goodies onto the conveyor belt, the smiley cashier said, in a sing-song voice, "Can I help with your packing?"

"Lovely, thanks. I'll take over when I've emptied my trolley."

Very slowly, she began to pack my shopping. Everything stacked neatly, bags not too heavy, nothing squashed. Three perfectly organised bags.

And then I took over. Within seconds, she'd whizzed half the trolley load through the scanner. The dog food was perched on top of the salad and my beautiful chocolate-drizzled cake was somewhere beneath the bleach and washing powder. Sparks were flying off her fingers and I just wanted to cry.

Why do they shove everything through at full pelt while you're still grappling to open the friggin' bag? Call me anally attentive, it's fine; I've been called worse, but I always load the groceries onto the belt in sections - tins together, cleaning stuff in one pile and fruit and veg in another. Why, oh, why do they dip in the sections and grasp the bananas and then the shampoo and finally, a lump of cheese? And do it all faster than the speed of light?

It drives me demented. By the time I need to pay, I've developed great sweaty patches under my arms, my breathing's all shallow and I'm having palpitations. There's a queue of seventeen behind me and I've run out of bags.

Grocery shopping's more stressful than being married. And just about as sexual.

Starstruck and Dumbstruck...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 10:06:00 +0000

It's official: I'm a gushing, giggly girly who's starstruck. Yep, I know, I'm old enough to control my urges and pretend to play it cool, but I just couldn't do it today.

Y'see, it's Industry Analysis Fortnight and basically, we have to, well, analyse the industry in a fortnight...

I chose to research the novel publishing market - more specifically, the romantic comedy, 'cos that's what I'm trying to write...

Anyway, spent the day chatting to some of my very favourite authors asking about the market in this area. I tried to be professional, but I didn't succeed, "This is soo cool; I've got your novels on my shelves and I just lurve your books!" Giggle, gush, squeak, squirm and blush.

Oh, God, why do I have to be me all of the time?

It's me, oh Sara, I've come home. I'm so cold...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 21:10:00 +0000

The hunky engineer - let's call him Heathcliff - arrived this afternoon lugging his Bob-the-Builder toolbox, rooted around under the floorboards, and plugged my leak.

Oh, joy! How I've missed warmth!

That hunky, brooding hairy man is a bloody genius.

Unfortunately, he's also a vegetarian. Story of my sodding life.

Old Boiler Needs a Good Servicing...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 10:44:00 +0000

Yesterday, I discovered water dripping through my living room ceiling. Again. In exactly the same place as before. It's easy to spot; the artex is bulging beautifully and the decorative brown water mark is acting as a fuck-off great red arrow.

So I rang for a heating engineer. Again. He turned up, shook his head and said, "Sorry love, it's too late to lift the floorboards tonight. I'll drain the system and be back first thing in the morning." Well, I wasn't expecting that response. Much.

So here I sit, at eleven am, snuggled in my yellow fluffy blanket, waiting. Again. No heat, no hot water, a-bloody-gain.

At least this time, there's a positive note floating on the edge of my Carry-On world; he was bloody gorgeous - dark, brooding, tortured eyes, and a mane of silky black hair tied up in a ponytail, with only a few loose wisps that I just wanted to smooth back into place...

Y'see, that's the trouble with being single at my advanced age - all the equivalent men went bald years ago. Not that I have anything against the more follicular-challenged members of the species; bald is beautiful and intimate, but I just harbour this long, flowing locks fantasy. It's just one of my things, okay?

Maybe if I offer him a bacon sarnie, he'll let me play with his hair for a bit.

A Box of Black Magic...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Tue, 24 Mar 2009 21:26:00 +0000

Ooh, am all excited; I've found a new button! Click on the Black Box, decide from the choices and find yourself whizzing around the blogoshere onto a perfectly random person's blog.

It's a little bit like delving into a box of Quality Street, having a good old rummage and coming out with an orange creme. Well, I expect there's an odd one or two nutty ones in there as well, but what's life without taking chances?

Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darling...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 21:18:00 +0000

Oh my God! I've lost three readers in twenty-four hours. Am I just not entertaining enough for you anymore? Come back!! I'll try harder, I promise...

I wouldn't mind, but this is my bestest writing. It's official: I'm doomed...

Welcome To My World...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 21:31:00 +0000

Let me give you a quick precis of the last six months of my life. In September, I lost a stone and a half in weight stressing about starting this course. Doc diagnosed Stress-related Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and prescribed these lovely Valium-type tablets to relax my tummy muscles.

Next, I developed migraines - averaging one a week. One morning I woke up with no sight in my right eye. After being checked out at Treliske, it turned out to be a pain-free migraine. Go figure.

Two weeks later and I developed shingles. A week after that, the nasty shingle virus went into my eye. Yep, you guessed it - back to bloody Treliske where I saw the same doctor. And yes, that was the mistaken identity day when I almost got zapped with the laser gun to treat somebody else's cataracts.

And the most recent health catastrophe? Well, I won't go into too many grisly details, but let's just say that thirteen periods in the last six months is roughly seven too many... So now I need an ultrasound scan and blood tests, just to be on the safe side, but it very much looks like I'm heading for the old menopause. Yep, not to put too fine a point on it, me old ovaries are shrivelling up and me 'ormones 'ave gone 'aywire.

Take my advice: don't even contemplate thinking about returning to Higher Education; it's bad for your 'ealth.

Happy Birthday To Me Next Month...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 10:49:00 +0000

I was conceived on or around Wednesday 13th July 1966. (Actually, I know this bit is inaccurate; I was conceived on 30th July 1966. If England hadn't won the World Cup, I wouldn't be here. May God bless Bobby Chartlon for his contribution to humanity.)

I share my birthday with Bette Davis, Spencer Tracey and Gregory Peck.

I'll be 42 on my next birthday. I'll be able to boil 4.80 ounces of water from the heat generated from all those candles...I am 503 months old. I've been alive for 2,188 weeks. I've spent 15,313 days on this God-forsaken planet.

My fortune cookie reads, love always and deeply. Ha!!

My birth tree is the rowan. This means I am 'full of charm, cheerful, gifted, without egoism, keen to draw attention to myself, a lover of life, and I do not forgive. Ever.' It's hard to argue with the facts...

And how do I know all these amazing details? Check out http://www.paulsadowski.org/BirthDay.asp Plug in your birthday, and away you go...

A Self Fulfilling Prophesy...

noreply@blogger.com (sara carney) — Fri, 06 Mar 2009 21:15:00 +0000

Did I or did I not predict that this novel option was going to finish me off? Was I right or was I right?? Yes, yes and yes again. I am officially demented. Manic. Lost the plot. On the 'at risk' register.

All week I have slaved, sweated and cried into the damned thing. And what do I have to show for my efforts? Ten miserable, measly, minging pages. Two months' work, no less. I have just over a week to produce another fifty f&*%ing pages!!

How do people do this every day? Where's the fun? The joy? The sleep? This course has already taught me a valuable lesson: I have learnt that, when I finish, I don't ever want to write another word again. Ever. Seriously, when I need a shopping list in future, I'm gonna take a pink wax crayon and draw a picture of every bloody thing I need.