Plotting (in the Shakespeare sense, not the Macbeth)

It is fair to say that my plots often consist of one conceit and not much else, a flaw which often makes putative novels come out at about 1,000 words instead of ten times the amount.

But of course there is a simple solution to this: plot your plots! Instead of seat-of-the-pants running from one word to the next in glorious chaotic creativity, sit down, and decide what is going to happen, to whom, why, and what pointless filler sideplots can be made to serve your original wafer-thin idea.

There is one problem to this approach: that of the dread procrastination. Now, instead of merely delaying writing his future masterpiece ~~(its perpetual incompleteness making it’s sure-fire success unfalsifiable), the author can delay plotting the work he will be spending hours, days, and weeks of prime procrastination time on. Now he can delay the roadmap even before delaying the road; in short he can mirror government transport planning departments everywhere, on only a fraction of the wasted budget, as ink or electricity is cheaper than tarmac. Which wasn’t in my initial plot for this post, as there was none.

Ideas

There is only one cast-iron guaranteed way not to run out of ideas, and that is not to have any in the first place. However, short of being born pre-lobotomised this is not really a feasible approach, and so those parts of humanity which like to worry about such things has not had any need to worry about lacking a need to worry. And those people who enjoy worrying about a lack of ideas the most are those in the so-called creative industries, and those facing immediate death.

Now you may say that writer’s block is not as serious as having come to a blank as the water level exceeds the height of your nostrils, but on careful reflection you will note that only the former is going to be a genuine long-term problem. A painter without a muse is pretty much bereft (although the scent of money is sufficient muse for all but the most pure of purists) of all purpose in life. A man who has failed to distract the firing squad is just bereft of life.

This of course leads us to that most thorny of problems: if a writer with writer’s block can just write about writer’s block, is writer’s block really a block? And why isn’t writer’s block the most written upon subject? Is it because the sufferers lack even the most basic of ideas, or is it because procrastination is the real diagnosis?

In truth, I have no idea.

Another year dawns

Or rather, as it started at midnight, it doesn’t.

As the Gregorian new year is upon us (and has passed) it is perhaps time to look at time, and how it appears to fly (the only thing that is able to at the moment, apparently). Tempus, as it is affectionately known, is often inconsiderate -for instance it waits for no man – but perhaps that is to be expected, as it’s character is rather one-dimensional (the fourth, apparently). But it can be generous as well – all children have been at time’s table (although not cheerfully so) – and it heals wounds.

Its contradictory nature is everywhere. Whilst everyone no doubt hopes that 2021 will be a light year, it would then also be an incredibly long one, which no-one eagerly waiting for their next birthday would appreciate. It has seconds, suggesting greediness, or perhaps a duelling nature, yet a search finds no instances where it has been accused of either of those vices. It is perhaps something that we will have to look in the minutes for, if we can locate the place where these (which apparently exist) are stored.

But for now, I think I shall look to end this, as it is getting late, and it’s time to go to bed.

Why it is always the one to go to bed is a mystery.

Thinking for two

It’s hard to do the thinking for someone else, and even harder when they consistently refuse to aid or abet their assister in any way, shape or form. Thus people tend not to think, since people tend not to think.

This general fact leads to massive levels of default doing, as humans – bumbling like vegetarian zombies – move along through life not really thinking things through, but generally refraining from eating brains. Perhaps that’s because deep down they are scared of them.

However every now again someone comes along who not only thinks, but thinks for two. These people are rare gems, men or women who – out of the kindness of their heart – think, and think on another’s behalf. sometimes the lucky near-zombie is even grateful that his or her thoughts are being handled by another, but most of the time their is low-level resentment or bland obliviousness. Their is a moral in this somewhere, but as my designated thinker is away it will have to wait for another time.

Echo

It is an empty night and the shout echoes through it like the hollowness inside the bystander, who is very empty indeed.

But not, you understand, as empty as the howler. It’s cry of rage and grief and utter despair speaks to every miserable thing in the near-empty night, and a thousand small creatures attempt to reach oblivion. And then it cries out again, in a voice so terrible as to inspire a whole new cult:

WHY CAN’T I SELL ANY BOOKS?

And then he shuffles back inside to carry on writing.

If you are wondering about the cult, is a very dark one, involving horrible rituals with human victims, and word counts.

The lonely post popped into existence.

It was the first post after a while, and it was feeling friendless in a cold, uncaring world. And rightly so; for all the other posts glanced at it side-eyed and plotted mischief.

The first post to take action was a boring SEO article, for SEO. about sea and about as original as a churned-out piece of SEO-by-numbers could be. Hence it being totally unoriginal with regards to it’s attack, choosing to try an arsenic poising, which is pretty useless when it comes to blog-posts. The next was a sneaky attempt by a long winded poem to get itself read, but this was avoided too.

At this point, all the other articles, stories and posts realised that the lonely post was as ignored as they were, and stopped their pointless attempts at sabotage; and so the lonely post disappeared into oblivion, only briefly resurfacing to eat a seven-hundred word survey on paisley-patterned lampshades.

Breaking news

Right. I’ve now gone and broken it. It was rubbish in any case, so I don’t care. Everyone is always looking at it and complaining, so it’s just as well that I’ve broken it. Someone says it’s shattering, but it seems mostly to be in pieces; little rubbish ones if I’m any judge. I’m not sure why it’s called news if it’s all broken; people should be more honest, but they never are when it comes to news. I have now decided to tidy it up and put the pieces in the bin, but there must have been more news as it’s breaking again. This is worse than aircraft modeling. Right, now that they’ve finished breaking it they are going to roll it for twenty-four hours. I’m sure that won’t do it any good. And when I wake up, I expect it’ll be broken even more.