The Lightening Tree

Many things are vexing me right now, I have had a day of numerous things going wrongly. What is currently bothering me, although not as much as others, is the new group of girls who have set up camp here. I don’t know where they’re from but they speak some European language. Clearly they come from one of those big, busy places, seeing as they have no sense of personal space. Three times they have walked into my personal space, very close (the space between my van door and doormat) while I am sitting in the doorway. They pass a foot in front of me, when there is ample space around, and pay no attention to me. It is making me feel very uncomfortable and I’d rather they just sodded off. That would please me right now. It just isn’t… socially right! 

They come so near I expect them to talk to me, but they don’t, and when I send them off with a displeased expression, they don’t seem to notice. Weird. Also, I have spent my evening repairing my fucked internet. I have shouted and ranted a great deal but several hours later, by pure dumb luck, I have fixed it. I was about to call Vodafone, for I thought shouting at something might cool my temper.

Here’s the thing that really got me today. I was very tired, but not for long, something woke me up completely. Too completely.

I had been out picking cherries on a cherry picker as usual. No one believed me at afternoon teatime when I said I had been electrecuted by a tree - twice. 

“Oh no,” they all said, “That can’t happen. Wood doesnt conduct, we learnt that at school.” 

To which I replied, 

“It seems it can, and it just did. Twice.”

Power lines, the strong kind that buzz, had sagged into the topmost point of the tree I was picking from. When I seized a branch to pull it foward, it gave me the biggest shock I’ve ever felt. It was definitely an electric shock; the kind that makes you shudder and jerk. I blamed it on the heat of the day, my imagination, muscle spasm, static from the machine perhaps, and tried to assure myself that I was being absurd. I looked at the tree. It was just a tree, I said to myself, don’t be ridiculous. A minute later, I tentatively reached for the same branch with one hand, to reassure myself that I had imagined it. 

It happened again, and this time I screamed. Lindsay drove past on a tractor minutes later, and I asked him if it was possible to be electecuted by a tree. “No, it’s not.” he said simply. Then he looked up, and it was he who noticed the power lines brushing the branches. Excellent, I thought. I asked a few people if I should worry or not. 

“Oh yes!” said a few, “You could have died! That’s very dangerous, very serious!” This did little to calm my nerves. I was quivering all over, but probably from my growing fear. Others tried to tell me that it was just static from the machine I was working on, like how a car can shock you when you get out of it. I tried to explain that it was obviously not the machine, it was definitely the tree, and that I can tell the difference between static electricity and a painful proper shock.

It just bothered me that no one believed me. I know it sounds absurd, but it happened I say! I had all sorts of explanations about how currents flow, which made little sense to me, but I couldn’t help but thinking that had it not been for the tree being deep in the ground, the rubber tyres of the machine, or my thick boots, that my day might have turned out a lot worse. I may not even be here writing this, my dear reader! I came to the conclusion that the wood obviously had moisture in it, and that is how it conducted electricity.

Tonight, I have been informed, there will be a lunar eclipse. Looks like ths weird day will end with something else unusual. Until next time my dainty dears, toodle-pip!

Technical Thinking

You know, I have read dozens of online articles on writing tips; what to do, what not to do, sentence balancing, beginnings, hooks, adjective use, and so on. Many of them contradict each other and could easily leave one feeling rather confused. They always leave me feeling uncertain of my own work, and make me think about everything from a more technical perspective. They make me question myself. I begin to wonder if anything I have done reaches these persnickety standards. While these articles are intended to help, since I started reading them, I swear my writing has become worse! Much worse! There simply isn't the flow or the sensation of a natural thought process. It seems stiffer, sounds less like my voice, doesn't read as easily, in short it just isn't as good. I think too much about what I'm doing. It's like anything that you're well practiced at; the less you think about it and let your learned subconscious do most of the work, the better the result. I much prefer reading over the things I've penned spontaneously, without giving them a speck of technical thought.

Here is an example. I ice-skated for ten years competitively, starting when I was 5 and finishing at 15 when our rink closed down. I was no master of the sport but I was quite able to do all spins and jumps etc. It was ingrained into my brain. Eight years on, I can return to the rink (our new one) and have another go. Firstly, ice-skating isn't like riding a bike, you can't just hop on and still be able to do it.
I am nowhere near what I was, but here's the thing. I can do almost all the spins and jumps as before, provided I don't think about what I'm doing. The moment I start thinking about where my arms are, am I balanced properly, should my leg be straighter, and worst of all, will I fall over, everything goes to custard and I can't do a thing. My brain knows how to ice-skate, it is printed in my subconscious. I just have to let my body remember what to do, without trying to remember it consciously, and it just happens. And it happens right. Well, a little wobbly, let's be honest, I'm taller and heavier now than I was eight years ago.

So really, things that you know well how to do can suddenly become complicated when you start thinking about how you do them. Although these 'writing tip' articles often do offer sound advice (some people sorely need it) I'm quitting them because they hinder rather than help me. Sod them! Who's to say that the people who wrote them know what they're talking about anyway? The best writing comes when you're not paying as much attention to details and technical stuff. If there are errors, they can be fixed later. Do what seems best at the time, think less, and change any fuck ups afterwards.
I have had to remove and redo whole chapters of my book because of this. Bits I did while I wasn't totally in the mood for writing but rather forced myself to sit in a silent library and do it, and thought about every sentence from this new perspective. It simply doesn't work.

Perhaps this is one of the only occasions where it is best to act first, and think later.

A Startling Coincidence and Some Other Stuff

You know when you think of someone you've not seen for years, and then they show up out of the blue? Well that happened to me on a grand scale on saturday. Well it seemed quite grand to me, I was so shocked it took me several minutes to calm my heart to a regular pace.
I nervously drove to Queenstown, hoping that my van would survive the trip. It did. It almost didn't and nor did I, but through no fault of my own or the van's; it is merely tourist season and the roads are infested with brainless tourists who are used to driving on the right hand side. So after a dangerous swerve or three, I made it to the adventure capital of the southern hemisphere, once a sweet and beautiful place, but is now pretty much just hotels, lake front apartments, trendy shops, and booking offices. Alas.
I strode purposefully to the post office and bought a dozen International Reply Coupons. It was a delight not to receive a blank look for once. I could scarcely believe I had the coveted things in my bag.
I then bought a Starbucks to celebrate, and wandered down to the lakefront. There I met randomly with four of my colleagues, who are now also good friends of mine. This was not the big coincidence though, although it was remarkable timing. We wandered around for a bit and eventually when all the girly fashion shops became too much, my friend Paul and I split from the group and went for a drink by ourselves.

I told him about the bit... girl I lived with in Edinburgh, perhaps some of you will remember my strife from the time, see here for a reminder. I shan't mention her name here because I am a nice person. It is my belief that she took the £330 that I gave her to pay the council tax bill and used it for something else, possibly drugs or drinking, the latter of which she indulged in frequently. She could never supply a plausible reason as to why the bill continued to be sent, eventually by a debt collection company. Then a power bill came with her name on it from a different company than our usual, and she tried to get more money off my for that, but I was feeling wary and gave her nothing. I suspect it was an account brought over from her previous flat. Then when I found a chap to replace me when I moved out, she tried to prevent him giving me the £300 which would pay the bond, and give it to her instead since I supposedly owed her that much. In the end we hated each other, and she came up and had a go at me in the street. I'm a very non-confrontational person, and I'll be honest, I'm a bit scared of her. Our last encounter wrapped things up with a nicely threatening text message.

I said to Paul as we strolled around Queenstown that I felt like I might see her at every corner. A friend of his showed up at the pub, and since she was planning on hitchhiking to Cromwell that day, I agreed to give her a lift and save her the trouble. So after leaving Paul, I waited for my hitchhiker to come out of a cafe while I spoke to my mother on the phone. I stood alone on the street.
Then lo and behold, who should walk past?
My poor heart got such a fright. Please realise that I have not seen this girl since we were in Edinburgh together more than a year and a half ago, and that I heard that she was going overseas. Seriously, what are the odds that I would see her there, at that moment, on a day I had been thinking of her and telling a friend of her. Well it was a nasty jolt to the system. I've often wondered what I'd do should I see her again, a black eye or something of the like would do nicely. Perhaps just go straight up and call her a lying, thieving bitch, yeah something like that! Be honest, be bold!
What I actually did was turn away, panic, and whisper, "Don't see me, don't see me." Heart of a lion, really. I do rather suck sometimes.

Anyway, allow me to finish this on a good note. Now that I have the IRCs, I have been able to post off another four submissions. One was to my first choice, the one that 'jumped out of the page' at me. Another is to an agent who has some very high profile clients, I know I have a snowflake's chance in a fire there but hey, there's no harm in asking! Next I must write yet more letters and compile more submissions, then wait for my fate to be decided. I am approaching this with a good attitude, I think, the 'hope for the best but expect the worst' attitude.
Actually, I'm not going to end this on a good note. On a frustrating side note, my tent broke. Isn't that sad? It looks like a collapsed jelly.
I am now officeless, but that's alright I suppose, I will continue telling myself that some day I shall have a proper office, with carpet instead of grass, windows instead of mesh, and a desk instead a picnic table.

Well I think that'll do for now, until next time cats!

The Saga Continues

Alright, alright. I'm trying to cool down from a huge outburst of fury and shouting. I just checked my e-mails and shouted 'Fuck!' so loudly that I'm certain all of Cromwell heard me. Great clouds of birds flew out of trees, and rabbits scattered in all directions. I rarely get e-mails but I got two very important ones at once. One I certainly could have done with two weeks ago.
First, please try and understand my anxiety and meritorious patience in regard to waiting for the coveted British stamps to come in the post. Imagine that all your mind-bubblingly troublesome, nightmare-inducing problems would be solved once a package appeared in the mailbox. I ordered and paid for these stamps, thinking that I had finally, finally found the solution to my international post issue. All that was left to do was wait. Until today, when I received the following...

Dear Customer

Thank you for your recent order which we have unfortunately been unable
to process.

Royal Mail Direct is a service offered to customers based in the United Kingdom
and Northern Ireland (with the exception of British Forces based overseas).
For this reason we are only able to deliver orders for stamps to Business addresses
located in the United Kingdom.

I have therefore refunded your card.

Kind Regards, etc etc.

I responded as civilly as I could given my fury, pointing out that it was nice of them to tell me this, but would have been even nicer to let me know before I had spent two weeks waiting on tenterhooks. Could they please make it clear that they do not ship overseas. I made it clear, in the nicest way possible, that they had caused me a great deal of discontent.

The second e-mail was a very polite rejection from the first literary agent I submitted to. This is fine by me, I am expecting much rejection, doubtless this will be the first of many to come. The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook even has a big section on dealing with rejection. I'm pleased they responded so promptly, that's something else I can stop waiting for. Perhaps I would have been a trifle more disappointed had I not had this other message to compare it to, which sent my blood raging. Bastards, bastards, bloody fucking bastards. May corkscrews find their eyeballs.

Anyway, so as the title suggests, the saga continues. I am still in utter disbelief at how immensely difficult this has been. Like, woah. Seriously, woah.

The next step and only option remaining to me is to drive to Queenstown or possibly Alexandra if they have them, and buy some IRCs. Then and maybe then can I finally send off my other submissions. This means taking a day off work, which I really cannot afford to do. It also means driving my 'not quite up to scratch and likely to conk out' van a long way. Let's see what figurative brick wall fate throws in my way this time, I'm almost looking forward to finding out. This whole journey, if we can call it that, has been rather remarkable, don't we feel? I am going to do my level best to go the rest of today without ranting at unsuspecting people. I suppose having something to be angry at is better than being totally bored, and boredom is so ubiquitous these days, especially around here. I am going to have some chocolate milk now, for it will be balm for my soul. 

If Patience is a Virtue, then I'm Going to Hell

You know a day is going to go badly when you begin it with a solid smack to the head on a freezer door. That was the precursor to some day in the vicinity of last week, which I am trying to blot from my memory, because it was simply another wreckage of a day in the curly path to book publishing. To quote Blackadder, the path of my life is strewn with cowpats from the Devil's own Satanic heard. After fighting with the printer and pulling the large, delicate piece of equipment to bits, I successfully removed the aforementioned stuck envelope, and leapt about with a few triumphant hurrahs. I then spent two hours filling in things on the Royal Mail website, thinking that now I can finally, after all my struggles, print the prepaid postage onto the envelopes and send off my submissions.
But nay, not to be! Some very small print enlightened me to the fact that the postage is only valid for three days. What, I ask you, is the point!? So yes, another utter failure and waste of time, since the postage was required 6-8 weeks later.
Then I returned to the post office for the third time to enquire about IRCs, and guess what, they don't have them at all. They suggested I drive to Queenstown, an hour or two away, which I cannot do as my van is still without a WOF and still has a split exhaust. Well fuck me. That would also cost a lot in petrol, which happens to cost slightly more in this area than it does everywhere else.

So, I think that the freezer door smacking me on the head was simply put there in advance by fate, as undoubtedly I would have spent the evening smacking my head against something hard anyway. It was just saving me the trouble. I thought booking tickets on a Romanian website was difficult, but that was a cake walk next to this.
I then purchased from the net some British stamps, which I am having sent here to the orchard. I wish I had just known to do that ages ago, would have saved a Hell of a lot of fecking about. However, on the same day I ordered the stamps, I also ordered a pocket dictaphone from eBay (terribly useful little gadget). That arrived last week, to my delight, yet still I check the mail drawer in vain every day in the hopes that my stamps will have arrived. Lord oh Lord I am at the point of tears. My entire plan is falling to pieces, time is running out quickly, I feel like I'm drowning in pressure and penury and am becoming more uncertain every day. It doesn't help that today I learnt that I am currently earning less than minimum wage, spent all day today working in the rain, and for no readily available reason I am sore absolutely everywhere. Seriously, I feel like I've run a marathon and can hardly pull my socks off without difficulty. Mind you, today did start with me sitting on an upturned bucket under a tree in the rain in a cherry orchard, entirely alone and wondering where everyone was.

In conclusion, I think the first thing one does in the morning sets the tone for the rest of the day. Tomorrow I'll do something cheery first thing, and be wary of the freezer. Do not worry about my little cafard, a touch of melancholia is needed every so often to balance things out. I'll get over it tomorrow perhaps. It would be even better, and certainly put a big, inane smile on my face if my stamps actually arrived. Hope springs eternal I suppose, it is wrong to rely on Royal Mail to be efficient and prompt, because they simply aren't. Being held back from the most important thing you've ever done by two sheets of stamps is, to say the very least, staggeringly frustrating.