Always Freewriting

I have come inside to feel the silence. Eighty seven people sit within twenty metres of me - I know because I counted them. And yet all the noise they make pales in comparison with the World outside the huge glass windows. Thirty five panes of rectangular glass make up the fifteen arched windows in this main reading room of the New York City Library.  Vintage marble lets in brief glimpses of monstrous glass and concrete beasts lurking on the boundaries of itself.  They bend and reflect light off their polished exteriors and offer no warmth or protection.  It is only from deep within this library, a vessel of precious words, that I sit and watch the beasts marching down 5 th Ave and feel safe surrounded by solid oak and tons of ink. The relentless roar of yellow cab traffic can’t permeate the walls of books and the snap of cameras stops within this gentle lit room.  I am quite totally alone in the midst of a crowded room.  A silent humanity sitting at the heart of

I've managed to complete a first draft of The Film. It is currently 11 pages short of a full length feature but I'm really pleased with what I've managed this week and I have until the first week of June to refine it and add those missing scenes. I haven't been keeping to the rest of my promises regarding this blog and 750 words but the important task has been almost completed and I can't quite believe it to be honest. Can't wait for people to read it.  Even more importantly I would love for someone to actually see it. But for now it is living in my brain on a loop of visuals of seagulls and a small girl hiding under Brighton pier the day long.

Some days you can feel as though you're on top of everything and it all makes completes sense.  The goalposts to a job being completed are clearly signposted and you can tick them off as you progress. Other days you can feel as though you're sinking and no matter how many goals you tick off a few more appear on the horizon and nobody warned you they'd be there. I set myself goals and these are added to what everyone else has decided I need to do.  So they multiply and the list gets longer and falls off one page onto two and suddenly you're staring at a tunnel of objectives and no light to shine on them for clarity. It's deeply frustrating and I'm the sort of person who needs set targets to reach.  If you change the targets it's like you've personally attacked me and ruined my day for fun.  I know that's not what actually happens but it definitely feels personal sometimes. I have 2 new pieces of work to hand in on Monday that weren't menti

I have a week off work and in that time I will try my hardest to do the following things: Write at least 10 pages every day of The Film Write a blog every day Write my 750 words every day They're listed in order of importance and it's quite typical that in order to write anything worthwhile and that I'll be vaguely satisfied with I have to complete them in the opposite order: Write my 750 words every day Write a blog every day Write at least 10 pages every day of The Film The first warms me up, the second makes me feel like I've done something tangible and the last will help me creep closer to completing the longest piece of work I've ever done.  At the moment The Film feels mammoth, epic and slightly impossible.   But 10 pages a day is fine.  Or it will be once I drag myself off the sofa where the sun has trapped me nicely.  Thought for the day; why is it always a glorious sunny day when you have work to do alone at a keyboard in a quiet roo

After the hideousness that was pitching 4 weeks ago I had to do it all again last night and I was absolutely dreading it.  Since I signed up to my Masters I have been worrying about the 19th March.  On Honeymoon in October I vividly remember counting down the months until I had to pitch my entire film to strangers.  On Sunday I had about an hour's sleep and during that hour I had a dream about it all going wrong. Well...last night was The Pitch. And I think it went well.  It could have been better (everything could always be better in my pessimistic brain) but I communicated the genre, character needs and story line in a coherent fashion and got positive feedback afterwards.  They could picture it on the big screen and thought the characters were well developed.  There were questions over who the intended audience is and as soon as I started searching for an answer I proved their point that I have a problem in that area. But if I work on it more (always more, more, more) 

I've been so slack.  Slacker than a pair of middle aged pants around the ankles of a slack jawed tight rope walker.  I've been writing a few pages here and there and thinking many writery thoughts in my head.  But it feels as though I haven't been doing enough and this is my eternal problem. So here I am writing something tangible and bankable and making you read it because it will make me feel as though I've actually done something with my day.  As opposed to all the stuff I really have done with my day which is very impressive actually I'll have you know. It's just not in the general theme of writing or anything I might enjoy doing.  And in other news it's been a stunning day in London town.  Almost makes me happy to be here. Almost.

I've noticed that he lands on my roof towards the latter part of an evening.  Always when I'm thinking about turning the last lamp off and heading to my bed.  Black wings descend and bump against thatch and I know he's arrived, above me in the gloom of night.  From the glow of a hastily lit candle I dare not move, paralysed to the stair that only leads me higher towards him.  I can't go up but I don't want to go back into the cold empty downstairs.  I begin to tread gently but in line with my step the grip and rip of claws echoes down from his height.  I stop, he stops.  I start and he begins again.    Crawling between cold sheets I pull the duvet up beyond my head and curse the unlucky star that watched my birth and sent this crow.  He lands when I least want him to.  When strength dwindles to nothing and I forget my own name.  This crow of doom feeds on the bleak within and vultures at my thoughts.  The night will be shadow filled and nightmare ridden.  Tom

Sitting on the train is something I spend the majority of my week doing.  Some days I hate it and count the stations off with frustration and rage that I've chosen this way to travel to work.  Other days I'm indifferent and the countryside slips away infront of me until I'm at Charing Cross without realising I even boarded.  But days like this morning I actually enjoy it and relish every second spent before arriving in London.  Leaning my head against a finger print heavy window staring at fields and terrace houses listening to music and drifting off to sleep between stations.  Dropping in on loud conversations between giddy (there is no other word to sum them up) fifteen year olds heading for school.  Drowning out a business man angrily whispering into his mobile by turning my iPod up a fraction.  Noting that the woman sitting next to me is trying desperately hard not to lean on me though the Southeastern train carriages aren't designed with the width of the human bo

I live with a nutter. He thinks he's a ninja from the good old days when you could sink a cutlass in someone and watch them cry blood for mercy.  He thinks his food should be served at the same time every day and will think nothing of screaming at the top of his lungs should you be a few minutes late.  He goes out without telling me.  He comes in when he wants.  And normally with dirty boots spreading mud all over the cream carpets. But does he care?  No.  Because he is the boss and we should all quake before him. But sometimes, when there's a draught from the window or rain's thundering down the chimney, he shows his true colours.  The ninja of the household becomes one giant soppy pussycat.  And all the mud stained carpets in the World couldn't make me love him any less. - Photo by me, 2011, the ninja of the house