It’s Friday, this post smells lovely (as do I, freshly from the shower – you didn’t need to know that, sorry) and I’ve just been reading about the Sloppy Swish. Actually the ‘pot pourri’ refers to the fact that this post is a bit random.
What do you mean, my posts are always a bit random? Cheek!
OK, I admit it: sometimes, just sometimes, I mumble my way through the curve ball that is my life, without clear direction. I try to stay focused, but it isn’t always easy. And sometimes it’s people on here who make me random.
Take this morning for instance: there I was struggling to read new posts on the Awful Reader, as I have decided to re-name it, when I gave up and went to what is usually the next step of my day: to read the posts of people whom I follow via email and those who have commented to me. This was:
a) much easier
b) a joy
c) something that left me with little notes all over the place because I wanted to link back.
First of all I dropped in on Carrie Rubin where I voted – twice, but you have to check the blog out to see why – and went to find the Sloppy Swish, since that was where Carrie was to be found. I have decided as a result to barricade the doors, bar the windows and place a trough of disinfectant at the back and front of the house…..
I pottered over to see if Reflections on Life thus Far might have a more soothing read for me, to be met with a rant similar to my own on the way WordPress has been ‘updated’ or downgraded, depending upon your point of view. As a result I happened on her links to Peter Galen Massey and Someone Fat Happened. We’re not the only ones to loathe the new layouts, it seems. Thank you for all your comments on the subject. Please blog on it. Maybe someone ‘up there’ will take note and put stuff back where it was before.
And on the subject of comments, I had some lovely comments on my post 8 Points for Plotting that Novel too. Tyler Lehmann was one of those, so I moseyed on over to see if the kettle was on and discovered 80 Powerful Questions you need to make a Character. Now that list is pretty powerful stuff and I cannot pretend that I use anywhere near all of these and not for every character I write, but he certainly makes a case for knowing your characters inside out and back to front.
And while I was having my potter around the posts, I came across something by 4 a.m. Writer from back in July called And you’re a Writer. (July? Yes I know. I get around. Don’t think you can hide anything from me). This little gem is worth a visit, especially on a day when you’re feeling a bit down, a bit uncertain of life. If you’re not a writer, then you can substitute brain surgeon or prosthetic knee maker or whatever, but it is worth a read and proves that children do notice, do listen and often not only talk sense but talk sense into adults.
And then I hopped over to Jots. Ah, Jots. Where I am always guaranteed to find the quirky and the sad and the glad and the occasionally mad all mixed up, not to mention tea and biscuits. She did not let me down. Roy Rogers was riding out, but the younger sister, Dale Evans, had a broken steed. Very sad. Tape and twine and tears do not a stallion make, even if combined with swearing. It led me to think about my own childhood and a passion that was never realised. Yes, I did (occasionally) think about something other than reading and writing….
Not horses, not cowboys, but a thwarted ballet dancer here. I was allowed the horse, first rocking then real (not actually mine, local riding school). I was encouraged, with my younger sister, (by a father deprived of boys) to play cowboys and Indians (he made bows and arrows that fired really really really well. Surprising we came through with eyes intact), but I was not allowed to go the ballet class. I ached to go, really ached. I read widely – learned every ballet position. Learned to walk toes down first, so people would know I was a dancer. I put on shows daily – nobody came – I conjured tutus from ancient remnants and bits of ribbon. Boohoo – I hope you’re in tears – I was, frequently.
I have no idea at all why ballet was off-limits, no one ever explained, but even now, when I see a Prima Ballerina perform her pas de chat or pirouette, I know that could have been me……. Although the guy in tights might have had to take up weight lifting as well as ballet class…..