Domestically Challenged

By Gaie Sebold

Suppress desire to e-mail agent and beg for reports of progress. Must Not Be Pain in Bum. Agent has promised to keep me informed of any eventualities. But wish some eventuality would… eventuate.

Rerun last sentence in brain and realize am morphing into politician. American one, at that. Agh. Will soon lose capacity to form comprehensible sentence, answer straight question, or admit to anything. Ever. Except if involved in sexual shenanigans, and frankly have none to admit. Sigh. Wonder if life would be easier, or at least sexier, if was politician. But would only be Green with three votes in entire universe, and no seat.

Have no seat anyway, as desk chair has died, dramatically and with loud splintering noises. Luckily was only bearing weight of undone ironing, not of self. Domestic gods still obviously upset, and have not yet worked out why, though possibly vast pile of undone ironing and scattered bits of uncompleted costume everywhere may have something to do with it. Not to mention dusty bookshelves, unwatered plants, etc., etc.

Wonder if domestic gods really that petty, or whether continuous breakage of various items is universe attempting to warn me about something else altogether; possibly pointing out lack of concentration on Basic Practicalities while immersed in Fantasy. Or maybe tendency to spend money on books, charity shop clothing, and bath oils instead of essential items of domestic equipment.

Extract ancient folding chair from shed and prop in front of desk. Sit thereon, only to discover ancient folding chair several inches lower than nice, ergonomically designed but now defunct typing chair. Add various cushions, pillows, etc. Turn back to fetch coffee and turn around to discover cat has been spontaneously generated by presence of cushions. Remove irritated cat and perch squidgily. Stare at screen.

Know should be concentrating on current novel, but have lost all enthusiasm for it. Central character is whinging moody cow, far too closely based on self at age fifteen. Though actually am still whinging moody cow, despite intervening twenty-mumble years of experience. Just whinging and moody about different things. I hope.

Reread opening chapters of novel, in which character constantly fantasizing, falling for inappropriate people, messing up, and generally failing to sort life out, and realize have actually changed depressingly little. Wonder if doomed to write Mary Sue characters for ever more, compensating for own inadequacies by creating versions of self who end up actually achieving something useful, i.e., saving world. Realize have never done anything useful, ever, and sink deeper into gloom. No wonder domestic gods annoyed.

Decide to cheer self up by sneaking off for brief fling with fantasy-noir short story am collaborating on with friends. At least is writing. Also requires re-reading of Raymond Chandler in order to achieve appropriate noir-ish tone. Dig out ancient copy of Farewell, My Lovely and immerse self. Emerge several chapters later, slouch behind desk, pin cynical sneer to lip, and pour metaphorical bourbon.

Wonder, briefly, if this pastiche, homage, or merely inability to come up with own voice. Decide don't care as having fun.

Nice thing about collaboration, can bounce it back to collaboree when stuck. Manage about one and one half paragraphs before stalling, and wonder if this too little to write before flinging it back to collaboree like grenade with pin out. However plot idea drops into brain and bash away like madwoman until becoming aware is far past bedtime and have to go to work tomorrow.

Vow to wake up early and do half an hour on novel. Set alarm in bedroom and in main room, as single alarm entirely inadequate to task of dragging self back to consciousness.

Do not, in fact, require alarm as am woken by enthusiastic clanging of dustbins being emptied. Puzzled as dustbins now plastic, so cannot work out source of clanging, but nonetheless rather grateful. Was undergoing dream in which various friends discussed what was doing wrong with life, novel, etc. Trying to appreciate their input but wished they would not do this while self was perched naked on top of fish tank wondering where passport was, as due to fly to Poland in five minutes to sign book contract.

Wonder why anxiety dreams so frequently involve passport, but cannot come up with answer before morning intake of caffeine.

Stumble blearily to coffee machine, feed cats, return to bed with coffee and laptop, and hit keys in semiconscious state. Achieve two paragraphs of burble.

Wonder if this counts as something useful, and hope domestic gods appeased. Decide should do ironing tonight, just to be on safe side.

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com.

For past "Errata" columns, click here.

Sponsored links

Ring binders

 

Make a Real Living as a Freelance Writer!

How to find a book publisher

Home

Text on this site Copyright © 1998-2007 Absolute Write, all rights reserved.
Please contact the authors if you'd like to reprint articles on this site.  All copyrights are retained by original authors.  And plagiarizers will be rounded up, handcuffed, and stuck into a very small and humid room wherein they must listen to Barney sing the "I Love You, You Love Me" song over and over again.

writers writing software