A Hyacinth Macaw Interlude

I think these are some of the most beautiful birds:

Weird Dreams*

MY BODY CRAVES SLEEP DESPERATELY, yet in bed I spent half the night seemingly in a semi-twilight state. That was last night. The night before was full of recurrent nightmares about losing things, being cornered, falsely accused (a constant nightmare theme of mine) and accosted by foes.

I probably slept so badly last night because I was afraid of going back to the same nightmare that haunted two great blocks of sleep all night between Monday and Tuesday. I don't know.

I had loads of things buzzing in my head that I could have posted. But as soon as the computer's on the old blank page is glaring at me ~ white with rage!

I'm no stranger to writer's block. It's a very real thing. But nowadays I feel all aglow, because I have a story peopled by vivid characters I'm burning to tell. It doesn't pain me to plot it, scrawl notes about it. I can't stop. My previous block was how to get round a ridiculous and major plot flaw that invalidated maybe 40,000 words of my first draft. I puzzled and puzzled about how to retell my tale and at last it came to me on Sunday. And now, though I'm still depressed, I'm at least happy to have something constructive to do... Know what I mean? And I must dash now. Computer's about to terminate me!

Dalí self portrait (title unknown); Ryman's own copier paper the type I use except not glary high white; Dalí Nude, in Contemplation Before the Five Regular Bodies
Metamorphized into Corpuscles, in Which Suddenly Appears the
Leda of Leonardo Chromosomatized by the Visage of Gala, 1954

The New Literary Agents: If Danielle Steel gets published why can't I? (Big question. Have you read any of her works? I once tried, as I knew she'd sold over 400,000,000 books and wanted to know her secret. Three pages later I gave up. I still cannot fathom it....

* is there any other type~??!?

A New Project...

... or an old one revisited.

IT CAME TO THE POINT WHERE I JUST WANTED TO CURL UP AND DIE before I reached inside and grabbed a handful of the inner strength. I knew I had it somewhere but it hurt too much to use. (And why bother?)

I know I have been shillyshallying back and forth. I would do this. I would like to do that. I should do something else. And I could do yet another thing. I was looking for a project and finally fixed upon writing the second draft of the book that has been lying in the bottom of a cupboard for months on end. The first draft, let me explain, is so howlingly terrible no self-respecting publisher would light their stove with it, let alone print it.

This is my novel, not the drug-memoirs I also threatened to inflict on the world. The memoirs ground to a halt some time ago when I came up against twin dead weights. 1: I didn't like or enjoy remembering my own life; 2: there's the second quandary of whether/what/how much I say about real people who came into my life. At least fiction gives the freedom of talking in as much detail about anyone you please because the characters are all made up. Anyway the problem with the first version of this book was a major plot flaw. Basically I made something happen to my main character without researching thoroughly enough what this would entail. This time I'm sticking to that maxim "write what you know". I'm not feeling up to doing the job of researcher on top. Writing 100,000 pristine words shall be enough. So wish me luck, I've started already.

Also I cleaned my oven today. I have never used oven cleaner in my life. The chemicals always looked too scary. And why bother cleaning something you barely glimpse inside at the best of times. It's only because it's got so dirty it let off the main fire alarm that I got spurred into £2.50 Mr Muscle action.

Cheery-bye all. It's a miserable, crisp autumn day. What's it like your end?

Heroin in Brunei Darussalam in Asian English

Top: what famous novel do you think this manuscript belongs to?

NEW LINK: Erowid "how to purify street heroin" (I can't vouch for this!)