Sunday, July 29, 2007


I started reading a Mills & Boon this afternoon, and by about page 23, I wanted to hang the heroine upside down with chains and leave her dangling in a disused post-office depot until I realised I had stolen the MO of a serial killer from Bones which I watched for the first time last night. I can't wait to start with series 1, which is sitting downstairs on DVD waiting for my full attention. That David Boreanaz, wow, hasn't he grown up since Angel. It is great to see him all grown up and acting a human, although I will always miss that angsty vampire schtick.

Back to the M&B heroine. I'm sorry, but the writer broke just about every rule that I've ever come across (actually, she didn't head-hop, I'll give her that, but it would have been a relief if she had left the dead zone that was Jessica's brain), from telling not showing to using dialogue that would have looked immature coming from my thirteen-year old students.

Sigh. I wonder if M&B/Harlequin just thought , oh wow, this is another winner from Fifi La Lamebrain, or whether her editor thought, this is a crock, but she's a guaranteed seller, let's see what cow's excrement the readers will buy.

I bought it because I'm looking for something to kick-start the total lack of writing that has afflicted me for the past month. Usually, I have to read something really good or something really bad and it fires me up and I dive into action. And the definite sense that a quick cash injection would be good. Now, I have that, but then I went and won €27 on Euromillions, so the cash hunger has dwindled somewhat. No, I mean that, €27. Not €2700 or €27,000 or best of all, €27,000,000. Somehow, winning any money on the lottery is a disincentive to getting on with the serious business of writing.

As is the chaos of unpacking (yes, yes, I know I moved 3 months ago, but we had over 300 boxes), which continues. Those of you who know me will also know that I have done very little of the packing or unpacking. The hero with whom I live has done 99.9999% of the nasty stuff, and I've played around with clothes and books and DVDs.

Not to mention the guests. We've had houseguests for most of this month, and they aren't conducive to writing either. I've been reading some interesting things, to do with research (sweet-crazed singing nuns in Bologna monastery try to bribe local bishop into letting them compose their own masses) and my own sense of inadequacy in the face of science (the zippy, funny writing of Natalie Angier in her latest book, The Canon) but every novel I read makes me feel like Goldilocks testing the wrong chair/porridge/bed.

Despite the incessant downpours helping the beautiful Belgian countryside remain fresh, I am experiencing a dry spell, and it's getting me down.

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