I didn’t even realize it’s that time of the month. A new month. A new moon. Is it a new moon? Can’t be far off. I’ve lost track of the lunar cycle since moving geographical locations. I used to be on top of all that, even to the point of sending off for newsletters from The Sky At Night. Now, sunsets and moonrises don’t exert the same pull over me. Inside, maybe, but whenever I get the impulse to get off my butt and go stargazing, or sky watching, or whatever, I do what lazy people do whenever they feel the urge to exercise – lie down until the feeling goes away.
It’s no trivial matter. The soul aches internally over such issues. It’s not a pain, it’s not even a mild throb, or a dull ache; it’s more of a soft purring inside, a hushed whine. And this is the kind of prose I should be putting into a project I have on the go, so I’m going to have to stop there.
When your favourite constellation is visible from your front doorstep, it’s hard to complain though. Cassiopeia, the W, reminds me of two smoking guns, one in each hand. A cowboy. Still, there’s nothing like lying on your back in the dark and spotting a shooting star. Neglecting the heavens spells doom for the dreamer. The Death of Hope.
I put the hours in when writing a novel at about 20 years of age. It was about the universe and dinosaurs and space and time. I threw all my eggs into one basket with it. The amount of research notes amount to the length of a book in itself. Since then, I moved on from all the mysteries of existence and focused on the day to day psychological pressures of modern reality. Perhaps I ought to go back. I’ve always thought that one novel is enough to say whatever you have to say. Everything else, afterwards, is indulgence, rehash, commercial.
I still can’t get my head around this blogging business. Christopher Fowler has a quality blog he updates daily, which you are supposed to do, but a lot of the time, when reading other people’s blogs, I cringe. The amount of personal detail they go into seems so self-indulgent. What can you do, eh? Trust me to be a f**king writer.