No. of words: 20,186
No. of new reviews: 1
It is one of the big saids that you don't take comments on your writing from close relatives too seriously. Of course they are going to be kind to you, they are not going to say 'sorry you spent the last six months doing this, darling, instead of getting out there and earning some crust, because it's crap.' Not unless they have some secret scheme to dump you in the near future anyway. So you have to have all antennae up when they come in with the verdict, looking for tell-tale rises or lowerings of voice-pitch, etc etc.
Nevertheless, I was pleased with partner's response. He didn't do too much of the comma stuff, in fact in one spot he took two commas OUT. He came up with big smile on face, said it was funny, and then, as an afterthought, moving. I'm glad it was that way round. Then he said there were some Joycean turns of phrasing he liked very much. Ha ha. Then last night over dinner he repeated how much he enjoyed it. (Now, that he didn't have to do.) Or maybe I was looking miserable, as was probably anyone else watching paint drying celebs on the Love Island. Can't believe I ever thought Fran was attractive.
I've run out of paper now, and what's betting the ink will go when it comes to the Big Print. It's now all on one document, with a couple of chapters left to correct, and then it'll be off to the agent. This is my Big Push now, if this doesn't work then I'm screwed. As soon as it's gone, despite my earlier rants, I'm going to have to try and find some more non-fiction work to tide me over, or stop the flood morelike at this stage. It's pretty desperate.
The non-fiction got a great editorial review on US Amazon. 'This unmatched book..' '..absolutely the only book on this subject you'll ever need.' Should I transfer it to the UK site?
To Croydon on Sunday for daughter's first sporting event. Big excitement in our house as she's never taken to any sport at all, apart from swimming and badminton at home and on holiday. We'd resigned to the fact she's just not sporty but hey, lo and presto she comes home RAVING about this sport they're playing at school called Korfball
which is a Dutch version of basketball. It's the sporting equivalent of Esperanto. The rules mean boys and girls, tall and short, can all play together, and this, from her point of view, is brilliant. The other plus is for her is that no-one's played before so they're all learning together and she's being picked for teams which has never happened before.
The tournament was in a south London suburb called Croydon. I grew up in an outer suburb of Croydon called Coulsdon. The Crap Towns listing in The Idler link to the side is how I remember Croydon (I've tried to link it here but getting in a twist again). But I found myself very excited at being there again. Everyone with me had to listen whilst I pointed out the first pub I had alcohol in (Drift Bridge, Banstead: vodka and lime); my old school; the long walk I had to take to school was driven down in demonstration; the house ("Look at THAT!! will you? It's the same privet hedge!!"); the field my pony ate at the top of my road ("WHAT'S that school doing in Dusky's field??") etc etc. Funnily enough the most nostalgic was the bus route ("WAAGH there's a 166!!"), my earliest escape route out of the place. I duly dreamt of it that night, waiting at the 166 bus stop with a pouffe (not a gay person, one of those funny foot cushions). I decided not to wait for the bus but bounce along to my destination on my pouffe, this would be ideal, my dream logic said, because whenever I wanted to stop I'd have somewhere to sit.
Bye bye, thanks for visiting, come again soon.