Itisi

Well, sort of. I have passed my 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo (note the snazzy winner’s logo in the sidebar) but the book isn’t finished I still have two chapters to write. I decided to change the ending yesterday because one of the characters was not going were I wanted, but having done that I needed to make changes to the previous five or six chapters and extend the ending.

If anyone is thinking of having a go next year, then do. Honestly, if I can do it, anyone can. It’s unlikely that you will turn out the most wonderful piece of literary fiction ever written, but you will have the basis for something great in the future. Not that I expect my offering to be great, or literary, it is a very cheesy horror novel, but that’s ok, because I have always wanted to write a cheesy horror novel. Plus, it is great experience. I have learnt a lot, and enjoyed the whole process, even the bit when I ran out of story.

Well, I’m off now to finish the final chapters. If anyone would like to read it or read more for those who have had a peep, you will be very welcome, but at the moment the poor girl is sitting with her hair in rollers and a face pack on. So, if you wouldn’t mind waiting until she looks more presentable – it will be a better read then anyway. Also, I plan to make quite a few changes so this version may be very different to the rewrite.

I’m very close to the end of my NaNoWriMo attempt and should finish tomorrow, fingers crossed. Of course, then the real work begins and I have to edit, rewrite and somehow expand the whole thing into a full novel, but at least I can take my time with that.

If you have ever wondered how many people in the US share your name, now you can find out at How Many of Me. Apparently I am unique, in the US anyway, there is no one else with my name. Mr Blogs is more common, there are 56 of him.

The Implicit Association Test, measures your reactions to visual stimuli in an attempt to determine your hidden biases. I took the old vs young test and apparently I have a slight preference for older people which isn’t really surprising because old people never expect me to do their washing or cook meals at 9.30 at night.

I know this is going to make me unpopular, but here goes anyway: personally, I am jolly pleased to hear that Peter Jackson will not be directing The Hobbit. (ducks to avoid missiles thrown by ringies, or whatever they call themselves)

I was distinctly underwhelmed when I found out he had been chosen for the job for the Lord of the Rings, having seen his earlier work, which was less than sparkling in my opinion. Hopefully, the production company will now select a director who understands that the main point of making such a film is to tell a story, not to produce a hugely expensive tourist information film supporting their home country. Terry Gilliam seems like a good choice. And while they are at it, it might be an idea to commission a new composer for the musical score too, the LOTR soundtrack was annoying, repetitive and distracting.

There, I’ve said it. Now you know, I am that weirdo who doesn’t like those films. Who thinks they were a missed opportunity – and who is wondering if she will now be inundated with rude comments from people calling themselves Galadriel and Aragorn who threaten to send me to the darkest depths of Mordor.

Around this time of year I usually start to make a concerted effort to get the Christmas shopping done. Of course, it never quite works out like that, and most years I can be seen racing around on 23rd December buying pressies for people who couldn’t make their minds up about exactly what they wanted. This year, it seems, will be the same. I bought Number Two Sons main pressie today, but Sons Numbers One, Three, Four and Five don’t have a clue what they want. They have made several suggestions, then changed their minds, so I’m stuck in present buying limbo, champing at the bit, desperate to hit the high street and get the whole thing out of the way, but unable to do so, because no one knows what they want. AAARGH!

It must have been so much easier in the olden days when kids got an orange and a pair of socks and were jolly well grateful.

After a rather encouraging start to my NaNoWriMo attempt (see the sidebar) things took a bit of a nose dive and I found myself in the rather frustrating position of having a beginning and an end to my novella, but no middle. Of course, a middle is pretty much a necessity. Well, I think so anyway.

I spent several days trying to dream up a middle, to no avail, then today, it all fell into place, and now everything is progressing well – and I’m still on target despite the break.

As I was typing away this afternoon, I was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. I suppose the sensible thing would have been to reach over and unplug it, but I couldn’t do that. What if it was something important? It wasn’t. No, it was some sales person trying to sell me something I really didn’t want, while I was halfway through a particularly intense chapter.

This particular sales person was called Kevin and he wanted to sell me private health insurance. I politely informed him that I wasn’t interested. He asked why, with a tone in his voice that suggested he was about to launch into his spiel about how great it was to have such a thing, but I cut him short by explaining that a) this is Britain and we have the NHS and b) I was halfway through killing someone and did not appreciate the interruption. Kevin seemed somewhat perturbed by this and said ‘pardon’. I was tempted to let him think that he had phoned a homicidal maniac in the hope that word would get around and Kevin and his comrades would leave me in peace, but I knew that would inevitably lead to the arrival of the police, which would mean yet another interruption. So, I reluctantly explained the situation. However, it gave me an idea.

What if we all tell telephone sales people that we can’t talk because we are in the middle of something really quite odd. It wouldn’t have to be a murder, that might be a bit extreme. Instead one could say, ‘sorry I can’t talk, I’m about to take part in an orgy,’ and maybe invite the caller to join in. Or what about ‘ sorry, can’t talk, the mothership has just arrived to take me back to my home planet.’ Or, ‘windows, no I don’t think I’ll need any, my house has just caught fire.’

And talking of fires. We had one yesterday. A minor one I admit, but it freaked me out, I can tell you. I got up, made a cup of coffee and decided to make some cheese on toast for my breakfast. I popped the ‘doings’ under the grill and nipped to the loo. On my arrival back in the kitchen, I found the room was full of smoke, and flames were leaping out from the cooker. I like to think of myself as a reasonably calm person in a crisis but faced with this towering inferno I went into girly mode and screamed ‘help’ like an English Penelope Pitstop. Mr Blogs and Number One Son raced to my rescue, and extinguished the blaze, at which point we discovered the culprit. Mr Blogs! Arriving home from an evening in the pub to celebrate his birthday, he decided he didn’t want the takeaway he had bought and put in under the grill – not in the fridge like normal people. And it was this takeaway which had caught fire. (And you were thinking I didn’t clean my grill pan. Well, ha, I do!)

The really strange (and worrying thing) about the whole event was the reaction of the dogs. The Battery Eating Hound was scratching at the back door in an attempt to escape the inferno, but The Surrealist was sitting in front of the cooker, warming his chest.