annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary



What I keep coming back to is this: I like to write, I need to write, but part of my mental ill health means that I can only write about my life (totally lost the ability to sustain fiction) but I can only live my life at the moment by distracting myself from some of the harsh realities. Which writing forces me to look at. Even thinking about writing does. And that could be OK, but my basic schtick is a bit lighter than is compatible with current circs. So. I dunno. Maybe I have to just fucking write it out and not try and distract myself through it. Or accept that I don't have it in me to write every night any more. Whatevs.

Today my brother came with me to visit ED and we walked along the prom and onto the pier in the wild wind. It was brutal. My bro is pretty fucking chipper considering he's just been handed a death sentence, but his speech is fucked - not completely but enough for it to be a struggle to catch what he's saying. ED looked confused by the sound of his voice - I said he's having trouble speaking as well - and then he looked distressed at the state of her - she's lost a lot of muscle control since he last saw her - can't hold her head much - and then I forgot to pay attention to the wind direction and before we knew it we'd been blown a couple of miles east so when we turned round we had to push hard into the face of the wind, just when we were all knackered, and really I could have sat down and wept but I'm the one with the healthy body and the fucking life expectancy so where do I get off sitting down and howling? So I didn't, I plodded on, then when I gave Bro a lift to the station my car stereo ate his John Martyn CD - I can't remember what it was called but it was covers and had his version of Portishead's Glory Box which is pretty damn good.


Bloke tried to get the cd out when I got home but said he'd have to take the dashboard off which I don't want, tho he can make a copy, but Bro was a bit of a prick about it - no, he wants his real one, not a copy.


So it goes.

I am grateful for: healthy body; Bro living just down the road so I can spend time with him; ED being well cared for; walking in the wind; being given an envelope when I got to art group this morning from The Artist, with a tenner in it and a note saying she thought she should have paid more for my beach huts painting. So my Glasto spending money fund stands at £30 - not a lot, but early days. The line-up came out the other day

no one who made my heart leap, but I can't put names to sounds with anything post about 1985, so I shall watch Ani Difranco and think of Hil and mooch about hoping to bump into something astounding. And Barry Gibb - what does he do on hos own? Does he have pals who help him recreate the Bee Gees? I could do that on a Sunday afternoon.


Gah - the fucking grammar check has come on and is not liking my choices which is more than slightly annoying and makes me want to write great long rambling sentences with a gazillion clauses and sub-clauses drifting off in all directions, which I won't do, though I am reminded of that critique circle website that I used to post in, where the line, very strictly upheld, was that no sentence should have more then thirty seven words in, which clearly was a gauntlet that demanded my next story not have a single sentence of less than fifty words, and yes, I do know that this is childish, but I don't care, I'll take my pleasures where I can and anyone who objects can shove it.


Sleep tight. Thanks for reading. xx

1:33 a.m. - 01.04.17


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