Default deductions.

It has been a couple of weeks since i last posted here so i thought i'd give you guys an update.
The more astute of you will have noticed that i didn't make it to the seminar last week, apologies, i know you all love my presence. our boiler had packed up so i couldn't have a shower and it was fucking freezing and my alarm didn't work cos it was on my phone and that kind of shit.
Life is not looking good in the ten larchwood house right now, as it seems that i could be the only single man left. Many of you will know Jordan and James who do the course, and be as shocked as i am that they have snared women, the elusive tim has been dating for over a year and crazylegs is chasing skirt all over the place. Which leaves me. And i don't know if you've ever gone out with a group of guys who have girlfriends. But it fucking sucks!!!
Maybe i'll be in a better mood tomorrow.

Default deductions.

It means nothing

Starting tomorrow I'm going to write 600 words a day of my first novel. Why 600 words?
Because I'd promised 1000 and it's gradually fallen down. All I've got so far is the title and a sketchy plot line. The title I'm very happy with, i can already picture it in the front of a bookshop with a sign saying _______ recommends and with a picture of a bullfighter and a writer on the front. Now if i sort the plot out and stick to the 600 i might actually see it happen. I'm listening to a combination of Damien Rice, Fightstar, the new Phonics album and Fionn Regan via you tube (whose album i need to get).
I am relaxed.

Put a penny in the slot.

P.S I will buy a drink for anyone who guesses my prospective title.
P.P.S would love to hear anyone else's ideas for titles so...

1984 and other adventures

Somethings been bugging me recently. And by recently I mean something has been bugging me for the last 5 minutes. Maybe you can help me out?

Why is it always 2 + 2 that equals 4?

And before you think that i'm getting all 1984 on you, i'm not. Of course 2 + 2 equals 4, but the point is so does 3 +1. And why is the answer 4 anyway? Why not simplify the work down a little bit more? Why isn't the line 1 + 1 makes 2, or 2 + 1 makes 3? Hell, i think that the majority of the conscious world would even be able to sit down down and work out what i meant if i pushed the saying to 3 + 3 is 6 or, God forbid, 5 + 5 is ten. This is simple arithmetic after all. I even think my three year old sister could manage it, if I could drag her away from The Teletubbies, or the Tweenies, or what ever crap they play the leaders of tomorrow to turn their mind into mush.

So, to summarize, 'I'm the type of guy who can never make 2 + 2 equal 4, not if i can make 5 + 5 equal ten.

As tends to follow

I have no idea how to post a link so here's the story i've sent to the jam. hopefully it'll be published but if not at least you lot can bask in it's brilliance.

I like Allie

I walked into my bedroom and sat down on the edge of my bed. It was night time and the lights were off. I was alone. I looked out of the window and into the darkness. There was a flickering of white light somewhere far away. I closed my eyes.

And then, as tends to follow, it was morning. And with morning came morning’s closest accomplice; my closest friend: nostalgic neuralgia, and hey, all that nostalgia can be a real headache. That morning I was remembering my little sister and the trips we used to take to the lake in the park.

“Ethan,” she’d say, for Ethan is my name.

“Yes Clare,” I’d say, for Clare is her name.

“My teacher told me that in every cloud there lives a thousand fairies.”

I looked out of the window and into the brightness. There were no fairies in the sky, just the sun and the sunshine. That was good. I liked it more when the sun was out. At least when the sun is out there is little risk of there being rain. When the sun is out everybody you see is walking around with a fake smile plastered on their stupid fucking faces. Everyone is smiling like something good is going on, like life isn’t shit and happening to us all. What really scares me though is when people walk around with a smile on their face in the rain; those bastards may actually be happy with their lives, and boy, that really is scary.

Anyway, back to the morning of which I tell my tale. I can’t remember accurately enough the date; but I do know that it was during the incomprehensible part of the year between summer and winter, when the weather has no direct affiliation with bitter cold or beaming sun. I remember needing to wear a thin sweater rather than a thick jumper. That is how I know it couldn’t have been cold that morning. After dressing I walked downstairs and ate toast for breakfast. I ate toast for breakfast every morning.

I sat down on the floor of my living room and reflexively turned on the television, in the same way that I reflexively go to the toilet when I need a piss and reflexively cry when I need to cry. There was a drama on channel 1 about guns and gun crime, or maybe it was the news; with a police officer grimly reporting on the death of a teenager in a quiet suburb, yet secretly smiling at his successful break into television and fame. I reflexively turned the television off, in the way I do whenever I think something painful could be real. After breakfast I left the house. After breakfast I always left the house.

I had been walking for five minutes before I realised just how quiet it was. I checked the time and I remember it being early, but not that early; not early enough for there to be no-one on the streets. There was no one on the streets but me. There was no one on the streets but her and me.

“Hello Ethan,” she smiled, for back then Ethan was my name.

“Who are you?”

“Don’t you remember me?”

“No. Who are you?”

“It’s me,” she said, “Clare,” she said, for her name was Clare back then.

“What?”

“Put the gun down Ethan.”

“What gun?” I looked down at my hand. I was holding a gun in my hand. Things were real. I was scared. I would’ve turned the television off but it wasn’t on the television. It was in my hand. I looked back up at Clare, for back then her name was Clare. My name was Ethan and her name was Clare. They made me change the names and the places and the time and the weather, but I promise you I’m not lying this time. My name was Ethan and her name was Clare. Her name is Chloe now. I like Chloe.

But Chloe is dead.

Paint Your Target

When i first read we had to write a blog for Creative Industries I was not impressed. I thought no-one is going to care about the ramblings of an angry Welsh guy, and frankly (with searing and soon to be customary honesty) i didn't want to spend any of my time plodding through streams of other peoples thoughts, loves, ambitions, blah blah blah. But then i got to thinking. I can talk nonsense about myself and (if i was not too tired to misinterpret last Thursday) you guys have to read it. Which is great.
Having skimmed through the blogs already posted by other people in the class i have come to one over-riding conclusion; everything i have wanted to talk about has already been covered. Needless to say this has not put me off. So, in a similar vain to Boothman I would like to talk about Mitchell and The Jam Magazine. During the summer i read a number of excellent books, including David Mitchell's Black Swan Green, Ivan Denisovich by Solzhenitsyn and a number of Martin Amis novels (most notably Times Arrow- A great read). While all of these books were very good i am not going to chat balls like it will change your life because books very rarely do that. However, read The accidental by Ali Smith. That might just do it.
I have just finished writing a short story and sent it off to the jam. It is called 'I like Allie' and I will try to post a link up here.
Now, a quick biography for anyone who hasn't grown pissed off and given up yet. I am twenty and will be when i graduate from university. I have Siblings. I was born in Cwmdare, Wales. I am not from the north. i am not Irish. And I am not the drummer from The Subways. I have great faith in my writing, and like Matt, hope to have something published somewhere by the end of the year. Also like Matt i am having real trouble getting up off my arse and writing anything longer than this blog. Me and Matt are not the same person though we seem to have said the same things.
People generally seem to like me more when I'm being nice.