Time has been misbehaving this year. Or maybe it’s just me. I’ve certainly noticed it’s been toying with me, especially since the beginning of March. I had gone into Christmas last year feeling quietly confident about the draft of the novel I’d been working on for all of 2016. It felt like it was meant to be something special. A novel that was about something worthwhile. Social commentary was new to me, but I was giving it a go. I just needed to hack the first draft into a tighter version of itself. Hone the edges, kick the tires. It felt like it was going to be pretty simple.
Read More Hi.
This is not going to be a blog. Not as such. For which I apologise. I always like to try and serve up a decent sized portion of my brain to you each week. However, this week, I don’t have it in me. It has been a truly strange week. My gran died and it has left me feeling totally and utterly devastated. Since then, I’ve been living in slow motion world, surrounded by small talk and sulking away for quiet moments. I’ve been feeling numb and it turns out numb is no way to write. You would think writing would offer some escape, but first you need to get past the fog in your head and I’m not there yet.
What I’m trying to say is that a really productive writing session hinges on a particularly mercurial lynch pin. It depends on finding that certain kind of flow that comes from precisely not focusing on anything in particular. Instead, you allow yourself to be swept up in your own story. You’re trying to reach a moment where it’s no longer clear who’s steering: you or the story.
Read MoreI think I just spent too many years of my life assuming writing would be the solution to all my problems. I never realised back then how much of writing would be about other things. Selling myself being one of them. I never saw that coming as a kid. I just wanted to write. It felt like a clean and uncomplicated way to live. Writing seemed a way to keep away from the world, whilst engaging in it. I could hide in a pretty decent house, send my stories off for people to read and pretend that everything was A-Okay. Boy, was I wrong.
Read More I always knew this day was coming. Ever since I started the blog. I knew, one day, I would hit the wall. The barrier. I’ve reached the blog plateau. I’ve got nothing to say and an allotted time I set myself to say it in.
What’s the proper etiquette here? Do I walk away and hope no one notices we went a week blog free? That feels very much against the aim of whatever this is. I want to keep a dialogue open with you. Because, you know, I’m Mr Needy.
He was hunched over his keyboard. All too aware of the time. All too aware of how tired he was. Still, he couldn’t stop. He had to finish writing this damn thing. Well, it was worse than that actually. He had to start it first.
Read MoreSo, why did I bring this up here, beyond the act of public confession? Well, I’ve come to realise that the thing which made this story hard to let go wasn’t all the work I’d put into it or even the other ideas I’d let slide to focus on it. No, this was story was hard to put down because I was finally trying to say something about society. Which feels incredibly important right now.
Read MoreA simple, dark backdrop. Two chairs facing each other. In one sits Chris Long. A man who works five days a week, occasionally spends too much on comics and can happily talk about movies for hours. In the other chair is Christopher Long. He's an author.
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