LOST ate my plotbunnies

When I was younger I had an idea for a story. It was a bus travelling along a dark road, and then something happened, and the bus ended up somewhere else. In the original version of the idea, the bus crash-landed into Middle Earth, along with all its races of Orcs, Hobbits and Elves. I liked the idea, I really did, but then LOST came on tv and it sort of got shelved. I could imagine people reading it and saying "Oh, you got the idea from LOST!" No, I effing well didn't, thank you very much. It certainly put me off writing it.

Since then that idea has dogged me. When I was reading Stephen King's 'Dark Tower' series, I imagined the bus going through a 'thinney' and crashing into the Wastelands, or his post-apocolyptic post-superflu America. I really really liked that idea too, but that's just blatant plaigrism / fanfic and I don't want none o'that. Fanks, but no fanks.

But today I've had another idea, and it's rather good. I've also left this writing this entry rather late, so I'm going to take a wee break and then post another after midnight. That way I don't break my three day run. Cheating, moi? Not really.
To be continued...

And You Called It What?

Defective Tykewriter.
Those two words that sit at the top of this blog. They may give you pause, you may think I've misspelt my title or you may think that my self esteem has hit a low point and that it would be wise to give me a call and see if I'm okay.
I'm okay, you don't have to worry about that.
Let's take the second word first, start with something easy.

Tykewriter.
No, it's not a typo, I didn't mean typewriter. For those unfamiliar with ther term 'tyke' here is the Chambers Dictionary definition:

tyke noun 1 a dog, especially a mongrel. 2 Brit colloq a rough or coarse person. 3 Brit colloq a small child, especially a naughty or cheeky one • Stop pulling the cat's tail, you little tyke. 4 Brit colloq someone who comes from or was born in Yorkshire. 5 Austral & NZ offensive slang a Roman Catholic. tykish adj
.

I fit at least one of those definitions. Which? Here's a clue; I'm neither canine nor Catholic. I was going to call the blog just 'Tykewriter' but that's a name already taken by a writing group in this city. (Although they may be defunct at this point.) It's also the name of a Mac software program and various other things. I don't care, I'm using it anyway.

So, defective. Do we need a dictionary look-up for that? What the hell, have one anyway.

defective adj imperfect; having a defect or defects. defectively adverb. defectiveness noun

Defects, we all have them, some more than others. I have my own problems, my own eccentricities. I'm quite an odd person. I don't think how other people think and I don't quite see the world how others do. It's taken me a lot of years to accept that I think differently and see things differently. Not wrong, not weird, not sub-standard, just different. It makes me very good at seeing the ins and outs of a situation, I'm a good observer, a good advisor. On the other hand, I'm really really terrible at map-reading. And maths. And following instructions. And grammar.

And then there is the black dog. Not my own black dog, who is a sweet and slightly bonkers rottie cross, but a metaphorical mutt at my heels. I believe it was Churchill who named his depression this way. It's been a beast in my life since my early teens and twenty years later, I'm still battling it. I doubt I shall ever be completely free and I'm coming to terms with that too.

So there you have it, Defective Tykewriter, an explanation.

Atrophy Of The Brain.

I'm coming to a realisation. My life is dreary and uninspiring. Is it then so surprising that my writing of late has been abortive and lacking in life? No, the two things are surely connected. I feel that I'm having a mid-life crisis, even if I'm a little on the young side to be considered mid-life. (On the other hand, if I cark it in my sixties then it's right on time.) So things have to change.

I ran into an old friend the other day, a woman who had childminded my older children when I attempted a college course in my early twenties. It had not been a good time of life, the kids were young and divorce was looming. The next few years were also not good. In fact, my twenties were hard, frequently very stressful and I spent most of them clinically depressed. Anyhoo, I digress.

This woman and I hadn't seen each other for a year or two, we chatted and she asked me what I was up to. Nothing much. She was surprised, asked if I had thought about going back to college or something. Yes, the last time had not ended in a qualification but I had gotten good marks (even a distinction or two for assignments) and I clearly had the intelligence to go far.

So I've been thinking about doing something - anything - to get my brain back into gear, to find some direction in my life. My young children are now at full time school, my older children are teenagers, my role as a full-time parent is more or less ended. Now that my days are no longer spent changing nappies and supervising toddlers, I need to create a new identity.

So I'm going to enrol in the open university and make those first steps towards a degree. Now all I have to decide is what course to enrol on....

Testing?

Just to see how everything looks on the page.
You can ignore this post. It won't mind, won't sulk in the corner. Won't even smile and tell you it's okay and then twelve months later throw it in your face during an argument that started out being all about how you never do the dishes and ended up being a diatribe on my personal habits.
No, truly, just ignore it.