This is cathartic. It's a chance to remind myself that I want to be a writer. I've done. I've sold eighty pieces - heavily weighted though that number is in the direction of reviews. But I've not done any real writing for a little while. I've tried. I've half started a number of reviews - for Kevin Anderson's The Ashes of Worlds, for Thomas Disch's The Word of God, for Mike Resnick's Stalking the Vampire, for Nigel Suckling's The Book of the Vampire and for Tim Lebbon's The Reach of Children. I guess I can add Brian Keene's Ghost Walk to the list too as I finished reading it last night.
They are all good. I need to get them all reviewed. It's just my mind's been out of sorts. When I finally came to the conclusion I had to leave my last job it was a jolt. It threw me off balance. When I received the job offer (from my now employer) I bucked up a little. I began writing again - polishing off a couple more comic horror tales (which have gone the way of the others and are unsold) and some reviews - one of which has just sold to nossa morte, yahey - an article on Witchhunting -which is still being considered, promising though as the editor has told me he liked it. It's just he's not sure whether he wants to include any non-fiction in his mag. His call. I'll wait, I am a patient man.
It was the move that launched the latest schism in my head. I had been at my last employer for nine and half years. For most of that time I liked it there. I never really wanted to leave but events went in a direction I didn't want so...
There's been a little bit of guilt. Add to that an edginess, a desire to impress that I suppose is natural in the first weeks of a new job. End result my writing muscles are cramped. I half start things, re-read them, delete all and close the file. Repeat this endlessly and you have another wasted night.
So I decided to leave it. Wait, concentrate on the day job - after all it pays the mortgage and buys me nice things (mainly books). And this is the mindset I find myself in, sitting here at my desk, on a reasonably comfortable chair typing, listening to Paul Weller's album 22 Dreams, and relaxing.
I may not have typed a single word of review, of non-fiction, poetry or fiction. But I am happy. I think everything is good. And the CERN project hasn't got us yet.
There's always time.