Rake's Progress or Dancing Whilst Gardening - 27 November 2011
I have just finished reading The Dome by Stephen King and a right, rip-roaring read it was too, reminding me of the days when I was thirteen and couldn’t wait for the next James Herbert novel to come on sale at the newsagents up our road. The Rats was the scariest book I had ever read, and to this day the only one that has kept me awake, too terrified to go to sleep. Anyways, Mr King kept me enthralled – my mind on the story rather than my present unlikely predicament of having a long-cherished hope just within reach but perilously unlikely to be fulfilled. 75% against? Maybe. I waver between very optimistic and totally without hope. I must be philosophical; I must count my blessings, and I do. Except counting blessings doesn’t help, and only makes me feel I should be satisfied, why can’t I be satisfied?
When not reading horror stories I rake leaves like a mad woman whilst listening to pop on the radio. Yesterday Tony Blackburn’s Pick of the Pops featured the hits of November1981, when I was twenty and behaving very badly. The songs transported me back to the dance floor of Bentley’s night club and the passenger seat of a two-tone MG BGT – Under pressure, pushing down on you, pressing down on me…and Your favourite shirt is on the bed…If you were twenty in 1981 you’ll know the tunes. I had forgotten Julio Iglesias singing When they Begin the Beguine but I had a good sing along to Julio as I raked, a bit of a dance to Soft Cell’s Bedsit Land. There I was, beneath Bentley’s glitter ball, and the rake was my mike cum dance partner. The lawn was a bit soft for dancing but that rake can certainly throw a few shapes. (And yes, I’ve got the moves like Jagger).
Another distraction apart from reading very well-written trash (you know what I mean…) and singing and dancing whilst gardening is, of course….Writing! Yesterday I wrote just short of two thousand words, which is me on an average writing day, a little less than best, but not too bad day – I could have gone on, but husband Husband came home and there was lunch to be had (it’s not often we have lunch together) and leaves to be raked. I am only playing about at writing, of course – this is one novel and there is another I am also playing about with. I fully expect both to die a death…or not. I just have to keep on pretending I’m a writer. Capital W. Inverted commas? Maybe, except such punctuation is a bit disingenuous – I’ve had four novels published and another about to be published, another finished and edited to death (only by me, but still) and presently languishing in My Documents in a Word file called Now the Day is Over Complete.doc. So I am a writer! I have been paid for writing. There is a part of me still trying to get my head around this. To be published was once my most cherished dream, something wanted more than anything else in the whole wide billion world. Now my dreams are about something else, more materialist, perhaps very much more shallow, or not. Perhaps feeling comfortable about where you live – feeling a belonging – is more important than anything else except love. From experience I know I must be careful what I wish for.
Anyways. I shall download another Stephen King on the Kindle to see me through these nail-biting, wishful thinking days. Do a bit of writing; the trees are bare now after last night’s gales, rake is retired. Here’s Julio – a very lovely song and lovely songs are counted a blessing in the credit column of life.