Just completed the write up for last night's author event. Boy was that a drag! Either those guys were dead boring, or, as I fear, I'm now chock-full of authorly wisdom that none of it means anything beyond the rhetoric it really is. The biggest lesson to be learned from any of them is that they all do it in different ways, and different things work for them, and they each have different readerships.
I'm dead depressed for more reason than that though - someone made a complaint about someone from my team the other day. None of us know who it is yet, and our line manager has feigned ignorance as to who specifically it was aimed at. What we were told was that this person chose not to take a grievance out against whichever one of us it was that offended them, instead choosing to claim they'll take the borough to court!
Now, we've heard, through unofficial sources (nothing is ever done in the open in this place), that the case is concluded. Huh? But we still don't know which of our big mouths got us in trouble and worse, we don't know who this crazy person is who took offence. Worser even than that (yes, worser indeed) is that whatever offence was taken (whether real or imagined) now sits in the collective minds of management, a black dot, ready for use at the most opportune moment.
Leaving us in limbo.
And in between times I'm trying to muster the interest in writing - my short story developed for my portfolio has stalled as I move it up to 1500 words. Solvejg's voice is in my head: 'You really need to distinguish yourself now."
How for God's sake. How the hell do I train my mind to work that way? It refuses.
Now, I'm considering rewriting my children's story, in response to Peter Cox's request for more children's lit ( or rather just a point that he is getting known for it).
And, then, I've decided to get a couple of books on poetry out - but do they talk to me? Hell, no! Poetry sucks! It's pretentious bull... of the kind I usually write. Jeesh! Say what you mean.