Well, it's not done yet.
I'm starting a new 100 Balloons project. The previous one just wrapped.
But the next one will take some time. I'm actually going to get back to writing. Properly. Not blogging, but actually writing. I've taken a fair bit of time off from doing that, but I want to dive back in.
So, what better way than to *have* to write 100 stories. One for each balloon.
Can't wait.
Monday. Umbrellas discarded, their skeletal remains picked over by the wind.
We had beers with Keith and Gillian; all they could talk about was the weather. Almost as if we'd not noticed that constant rain. Keith's office has been underwater. Riverside, he used to brag. My attic office a winner, for once.
Tuesday. Sorting the bloody broadband, again. Hours, it was. On my knees under the desk. Later, in the pub, Keith made some crude joke. My glare cut him off. Had an early night.
Woke late on Wednesday. Slept fitfully. The sudden scatter of water thrashing against the window brought me round. No electric. Alarm clock dead. Had a meeting with my accountant. Keep my hood up on the bus. Slept fitfully.
Went out Thursday after work. Keith was there; Gillian wasn't. Didn't ask and he didn't say. Unusual. Forgot my mobile, and when I got home there was a green light blinking at me. I knew it was her before I'd even picked it up, its glowing screen casting a blue, sickly haze across my face. Deleted without listening.
Burned the toast for my late-night snack. Smoke alarm pinging loud; a thump from the flat above. I knew I'd pay for it at some point - loud music, noisy sex, high heels on the wooden floor, notes under the door threatening stuff.
I'd run out of butter anyway.
It appears, at first glance, that this blog has been abandoned. But no, it is perhaps best described as a hibernation.
In recent times, I've moved away from writing as a career - commercial writing, that is. When I do 'blog' it is usually about 'work' things and you can find it over at purplesime's ponderings.
I've also done a few side projects, which have seen me write for pleasure at a slower rate than I did before. One of these side projects is built around writing, but it too is in a hiatus due to work commitments and outside forces that have seen me shift the project in a slightly different direction. It will kick off again soon, but for now it's also in hibernation as I write more content for it. You can see the initial work at 100 Balloons.
You may wish to learn that this project is ongoing - and I'm doing it to learn more about writing, my own skills and different ways to publish fiction in the modern world. I'm enjoying it, but let's just say it's been harder work than I originally conceived it to be.
Another side project has taken on a life of its own, and that's My Earliest Memory. For a while, this was a major interruption in my life, which was incredibly pleasing. Now that it's back to being a slow burn project, so I can start to rekindle older blogs. Like this one.
Finally, work.
Yes, that word.
Once upon a time, I wrote adverts and content for brands. Then I discovered I didn't enjoy it as much as I used to and I so I altered my career. And I'm in the middle of that change. This is seeing me work harder than ever before as I learn a new set of skills (or hone them, as it were) and begin the transition from a single-minded creative into a more rounded digital consultant type.
This has also coincided with a decision to go freelance again. I find it's the easiest way to reinvent oneself.
That transition will never stop, but it may have slow periods.
In all, what you can take from this, should you read it, is that I'm happy. I'm writing longer pieces and publishing fewer stories online.
What does this mean for this blog?
Good question. This blog was a place to try stuff out, to get older things rewritten and out to a wider audience. I don't want to kill it. And I won't.
I hope that I will return to it in some form or other. Perhaps use it as a way of 'making' myself write something and put it out there. For no other reason that that's something the internet affords people (and increasingly machines).
Well, I've out-stayed my welcome on this post. Time to get on with all the things I've mentioned above.
The sad people, everywhere.
Even their frowns trudge. Their grief flailing like untied shoelaces.
Every morning they fill up the train with their tears, flowing into stations before tributaries flow on to offices; lit by lights as artificial as my
sympathy for them.
It's cold down here, behind the concrete spiral staircase
clinging like a leech to the bridge, with its drains permanently
blocked and its patina of grime
only London can produce. It's cold
down here.
