Hi. How are you? Over Chrissie now we’re blanketed in a red sea of tinsel and piped carols? (got the earplugs out for Bing’s White Christmas and squeaky supermarket trollies?) Yes, I’m getting grumpier about Christmas amongst other things. Don’t worry, it’s called mold – a dolorous state of fermentation between Middle and Old age. It happens. (and gives us immense pleasure)
Haven’t said much here lately. That’s because I’ve been in writers’ limbo as well as the clutches of creeping mold. So… anyone remember ‘Waiting for Godot?’ Well… writer’s limbo is kinda ‘waiting-for-Godot’ reminiscent – you’ve got submissions to publishers pending, the few that weren’t declined – some you’ve almost forgotten – and still others that inspire an anxious pang of expectation. Is it yea or nay? – keeping in mind nay can be decline in the guise of a polite nothing – which burns like a 1970’s cold-case (slight exaggeration) Meanwhile, you get some of what Vladamir and Estragon got whilst chilling on a handy log awaiting our mysterious Godot. You dunno what or who you’re waiting for, or even why, but the obscure possibilities and/or ramifications manifest as illogical anticipation. (which smoulders backstage – not unlike end-of-year exams when it ain’t even mid-March).
Remember the last manuscript I may have mentioned? The memoir I bludgeoned you to death with (sorry for that) called ‘Last Train to Menindee’? Well, Godot (sic) admit at this stage, it’s kinda disappeared, soon after setting sail from the rail-siding. Along the way, one or two polite publishers ‘nothings’ presently R.I.P trackside somewhere between Townsville and Limbo (that’s a lie – it’s more like three or four) – all of which have aggravated an outbreak of mold and limbo-itus. And… got me thinking – double checking for plot-holes, way-out-there format, words like mold, (the ones that also piss off scrabble dabblers) and general manuscript grubbiness (streeeeching submission guidelines).
It’s no surprise. After all, I’m the hero lost every licence point bar one (inside twelve months) after comin down from the bush. There’s also the worry that if more than one discerning acquisition editor makes Pekinese eyes – page by page – whilst searching in vain for the coveted X-factor, (which is gonna help to sell more than ten copies) then maybe you’re flogging a dead horse.
Last but not least, I leave this profundity (below) for readers of creative memoir – creative memoir about dead people. Like my schizo youngest brother who disappeared into Limbo aboard (and along with) the ‘Last Train to Menindee’) It’s a disturbing thought, (don’t blink, I have been known to be serious) – to do with the bestowing of creative dialogue and inner thoughts from the ‘Twilight Zone’ (grave) – but one worth mentioning for cynical (wise and discerning) readers.
So… whilst making every endeavour when writing memoir to remain factual when touching on pivotal events, the bestowing of dialogue and inner thoughts – in particular in regard to someone beset by mental illness – is undertaken with great care (much deleting/darling-killing) given cynical (wise/discerning) readers may justifiably suspect a convoluted version of truth telling.

That’s me. Now I can be normal again.

Anyhow, not gonna say it, (merry you-know-what) but ‘ave a good one. Til next year,
Cheers, Steve