An Eeyore of a week. I was invited to talk to a writer’s group on Monday, who simply weren’t there when I arrived at the appointed time and place, which was fortunately a pub. The meeting had been cancelled and the email telling me of this went astray into that clown’s pocket in cyberspace stuffed full of messages never received. I nursed a pint of Harveys bitter in a writer’s limbo for a while, rueful and realising that I would have to blog about not having anything to blog about.
In other news I have been getting a manuscript to a kindle-ready state. The subject is how the imagination is used in marketing. Each time I look at it, however, I see fresh errors or spot yet another outbreak of gobbledygook. There must be a particular ring in purgatory where writers are forced to revise the same manuscript till the end of time.
And as for poetry… Every poem I’ve worked on this week I have contrived to make worse. Sometimes the Muse is not with you, but instead is looking at its watch and waiting for you to arrive in a pub, or having fun with Christopher Robin.
Off now to chew some thistles.