In my mind.
That’s the beauty of headlines and blog posts – you can make up any old shit and it’ll grab some attention. Sure, in the long run people might start to see through the old classics of sticking Jesus, Porn, Jesus Porn and NaNoWriMo in your tags list but it’s still fun at the time.
The truth is I was shocked to discover that I’ve written the sum total of five blog posts in 2018 – which is probably five more than the sum total of stories I’ve written this year – and I felt the need to ramble on to all 283 of you kindly souls who’ve stuck by me through these lean times.
When I say “stuck by me” I mean it in the truest “entirely forgotten I existed” sense of the phrase.
According to the wonderfulness of the world wide interweb, blog etiquette – and by etiquette I mean tricks you can perform to get more readers engaged – dictates that a blog post should end with a question.
There was probably a point to that opening paragraph but then I got distracted by two things.
Firstly, the idea of a blog dictating something conjured up images of a whole bunch of words clustering together to form a likeness of Hitler strutting rage-filled and jack-booted across my perfect word-free (undoubtedly white, possibly blond-haired and blue-eyed) page spouting propaganda.
Secondly, I got to wondering if it would be simpler to just read the last line of every post in a cliched Australian accent so that a question would be implied? Thereby obviating the need to pose an actual question.
As befits a man of my advancing years, this will be a quickie.
My week is off to a flier, thanks mostly to the ever wondrous and wonderful people over at Literally Stories who have seen fit to publish another one of my new pieces.
For those of you who’ve read a lot of my stories and blog posts I’m sure you’ll agree that Car Crash Television is a real departure for me. I’ve tried really hard to step away from my usual comfort zone of using flowery prose to expand on weighty and topical themes and challenged myself to write a mostly dialogue-based piece focusing on a bloke moaning about what’s on the TV.
I’m going running in the morning. A nice gentle 20km and back by 9am for a late breakfast.
If you’d told me eight weeks ago I’d be running even 2km I would have gone slightly pale at the thought.
For those of you who don’t know the background to this it’s nothing earth-shattering but I spent a large chunk of June and July on antibiotics for pleurisy and bronchitis. Any runners reading this will know that anything of a vaguely upper respiratory nature is not a good thing to throw into the running mix.
*insert apology to anyone who already knows this stuff here*
I love going to bookshops.
It’s not that I have anything against digital. I read tons of stories online for a mix of duty and pleasure (sometimes both at the same time), my kindle was a worthwhile purchase and everything I’ve ever written (barring my one story in Firewords) lives digitally.
But there’s just nothing like the feel, smell and taste (I nearly got thrown out for that) of a new book.