welcome to long words

Dear 38 year old me,
   Hi, how’re you doing?  Well, I guess you’re resting right now.  If all things go to plan, then you’re due for a pretty big year ahead of you.  There’s the new book coming out, Fluff.  There’s another book to write.  You’ve got a massive new Avengers movie and the first female Doctor Who to look forward to as well.  I just wanted to take this opportunity to wish you luck and send on your way with a little advice.

   A few weeks ago, on Easter Sunday, we were flicking around and passed a rather intense looking programme.  It was clearly a drama, being performed on a stage and in front of an audience.  A well dressed, well behaved audience at that.  I recognised a couple of faces in the cast and was relatively intrigued until I spotted a grave digger and heard the name Horatio.
   “Alas…” said the TV.
   “Oh, not again.” I said as I quickly hopped to another channel.

There are some people in the world of cinema whose name becomes synonymous with what they do.  You can spot them quite easily.  They normally get the word ‘esque’ stuck on the end of their name to tell you another director has tried to respectably rip them off.  It’s a sign that their talent has sewn them into the fabric of the cultural landscape.  Steven Spielberg is very much one of those people.  Although, unlike so many other directors who share that honour with him, he’s transcend the need to be seen as connected to only one genre or style of film.  When it comes to Tarantino, Hitchcock, Fellini, Lean or Kubrick, you know roughly where the movie is going to take you.  Whereas Spielberg feels more of an iconoclast than the rest of them.  Or, at the very least, he appears to have a few extra clubs in his bag.  

I’m not what you’d label as faithful.  I loaded myself up with a heavy dose of cynicism as a kid and it stops me from comfortably believing most commonly accepted miracles.  Although there are some things in this world that can catch me off guard.  Things that appeared to have reached in from beyond the beige walls of our rather ready salted existence.  Great inventions.  Scientific breakthroughs.  Moments of hope or moments of true charity.  Great works of art or music that can grab you by the soul.

This is a blog about nothing.  Seriously.  I’m not joking.  This isn’t a ploy.  This isn’t a device.  I was ill at the end of last week and I’ve spent the last few months rewriting the same novel-length story three times, over and over again.  It’s very possible that the last month has driven me ever so slightly mad.

Okay, okay.  The rewrite is moving into the home stretch.  It really is.  I'm pretty sure it is, only it’s taking longer than I wanted.  It was meant to be finished this week and the delay has not been too good for my nerves.  For my attention span.  For my patience.  It’s been a week of feeling defeated by my own story, but I'm pretty sure victory isn’t too far off now.  Next week.  I’m pretty sure it’s going to be next week.  I hope it's going to be next week.
  So, as I make a push to get this final, final, final draft finally completed I thought I’d use this week to share something with you.  As things stand, what follows are the first 900 or so words my second novel will start with.
  In more ways than I can really express right now, I hope you like it.