Mark Twain said, “…reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated…” Witty and concise but lacking the unforced simplicity and euphoria of Pearl Jam’s “ Oh I, oh, I'm still alive, Hey, I, I, oh, I'm still alive, Hey I, oh, I'm still alive, Hey...oh...”
Why do I urge this comparison? No reason. I’m just looking for ways of confirming to my adoring public that I have not, as the kids say, dropped off the grid.
Admittedly, I cling onto the grid by torn and bloody fingertips, occasionally reading (although never replying to) e-mail, refusing to answer the phone and not talking to anyone but the grid and I remain in tenuous contact.
The reason for this diminished grid life is what we writers call “writing” and what everyone else calls “wasting every hour God sends in front of the fucking computer”.
You’d think I’d have finished “The Rothko Room” by now and rights, I should have but once again, hubris has cracked me across the knuckles with a bloody big stick. I’ll explain.
You see I spent too much time listening to advice. I know, I know, but there it is. I listened to the advice that said, “no-one likes an omnipotent narrator” and so decided that no action in the story could take place without either of the two main characters being there to witness it.
Now, to most people that would appear to be a silly rule to set oneself and an even sillier one to stick to for a complex, comedic spy caper and why I haven’t thrown in the towel and decided that it’s my story and I’ll do what I want, Lord alone knows but it’s now this simple technical tyranny that is keeping the tale from barrelling towards its breathtakingly surprising, yet wonderfully satisfying conclusion.
‘Come on, Russell’, I hear you ask, ‘Just jack this nonsense in and tell your main characters what’s going on.’ To which I answer, ‘Get thee behind me, ratbags! I got myself into this mess and I’m going to get myself out.’ Curiously, these are also the last words that Captain Scott entered in his diary, right before the others ate him.
It does not augur well.
Why do I urge this comparison? No reason. I’m just looking for ways of confirming to my adoring public that I have not, as the kids say, dropped off the grid.
Admittedly, I cling onto the grid by torn and bloody fingertips, occasionally reading (although never replying to) e-mail, refusing to answer the phone and not talking to anyone but the grid and I remain in tenuous contact.
The reason for this diminished grid life is what we writers call “writing” and what everyone else calls “wasting every hour God sends in front of the fucking computer”.
You’d think I’d have finished “The Rothko Room” by now and rights, I should have but once again, hubris has cracked me across the knuckles with a bloody big stick. I’ll explain.
You see I spent too much time listening to advice. I know, I know, but there it is. I listened to the advice that said, “no-one likes an omnipotent narrator” and so decided that no action in the story could take place without either of the two main characters being there to witness it.
Now, to most people that would appear to be a silly rule to set oneself and an even sillier one to stick to for a complex, comedic spy caper and why I haven’t thrown in the towel and decided that it’s my story and I’ll do what I want, Lord alone knows but it’s now this simple technical tyranny that is keeping the tale from barrelling towards its breathtakingly surprising, yet wonderfully satisfying conclusion.
‘Come on, Russell’, I hear you ask, ‘Just jack this nonsense in and tell your main characters what’s going on.’ To which I answer, ‘Get thee behind me, ratbags! I got myself into this mess and I’m going to get myself out.’ Curiously, these are also the last words that Captain Scott entered in his diary, right before the others ate him.
It does not augur well.
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