Where do Your Ideas Come From?

I mentioned in my last post that an idea for a new novel had popped into my head while I stared out of the window on the train. I have no idea what triggered it, other than I was not, for once, thinking about anything else. Usually, I am looking after the children, working, writing, washing, cooking, or even doing some housework. Occasionally, I am drinking tea, but this last activity is invariably accompanied by reading.

I used to get my ideas as I dozed off in bed, but these days I just fall, zombie-like into the deepest slumber (until woken by the need to rearrange a duvet cover, pick up a teddy, fetch water, etc.), and so that dreaming time has gone. The same with driving. I like to think I pay attention to the road (unless Cally's in the car), and there used to be space for thinking too, but now that's taken up with The Wheels on the Bus, and I haven't a hope of constructive contemplation. So you see, I'm never not thinking about something else, and how the too-tired-to-bother-with-work episode on the train proved unexpectedly productive.

I'm going to practice now, thinking about nothing, and see what happens. With luck, my stress levels will dive, but I'm hoping my creativity might get a boost too.

Where do your ideas come from?

---

New Mountain-Walking Blog
I have started a new blog: Mountains, Miles & Mist, and would love to see you over there!

Life on Mars - a Holiday

I was in need of a real break - one that didn't involve broken legs, heart attacks, or vomit. To that end, I have spent the last week on Mars, with DCI Gene Hunt, and very nice it has been too. Jane leant me both series on DVD, making for a smorgasbord of ogling viewing. All sixteen hours! I didn't know I had that much free time...

I have now returned to planet Real World to find a veritable Olympus Mons of washing, and some fine spring-growth in the fridge. I'm also rather hungry, not having eaten since Monday last. Just give me a couple of days to scale the 90,000' monolith in my utility room, and I'll be back to play catch-up in Blogland.

Drudgery

I've had a really bad week. This is partly due to still being behind with kids/house/jobs since before we went to Shropshire (we're talking the best part of three-weeks' washing here), and partly because life after a Della Galton course is a real anticlimax!

I came home from Bournemouth really keen to get back to shorties. I have four stories needing nothing more than envelopes, and thirty more in various stages of composition! It is just a matter of finding the time. Oh, the time! The shorties beckon. The novel beckons. The washing beckons...

Clean underwear? Try the basket on the landing. No? Try the one in the utility room? No? Erm, try the tumble dryer. No? Well, how long have you been wearing the ones you've got on?
Oh.
I needed to do some washing.

I spent yesterday, up to my arms in soap suds, wash board and starch, in a modern sort of way you understand. Ten loads, I did, TEN LOADS. Washed. Dried. Folded. Now all I have to do is put it away...

And that's just the washing. You should see my desk, the sitting-room floor, the kitchen...

Grump, grump, grump, grump, grump...

That's what I did for most of yesterday. I'm a woman, see, I can multitask. So I can clean and grump at the same time. The reason for this grumpiness? Well, the computer really was switched off, and I couldn't write. Not only switched off, but hidden to prevent temptation. So I had no access to any one-minute-distractions-from-the-hell-of-housework.

I made up for it today, with a mushy-brain-moment par excellance. I had just put on the cauliflower and I thought, while the water's coming to the boil, I'll just check my email. Well, there was a message from JJ to say that she'd given me a lovely award. Well, I had to go and look, didn't I? And then, of course, I realised that I hadn't visited JJ's blog yesterday either (because of the sodding cleaning), and so I had to catch up, didn't I?

Well, my hob brings water to the boil in about 45-seconds. It struggles a bit when there's no water to boil, so it just heats up everything else until you get a nice smell of burning cauliflower.

Stupid, stupid, stupid woman
(that's me, JJ, not you).

So I spent the next ten minutes trimming black bits off the cauliflower (you know what kids are like), nursing my poor saucepan back to room temp- erature (from somewhere near the melting point of steel), and blackening my chopping board.

And this was after spending the whole day cleaning, tidying, hoovering, washing/folding/putting away clothes. I should be feeling great; but does the house look any better for it?

NO!

Grump, grump, grump, grump, grump...

Wish me Luck...

Today, I'm going to switch off my computer (unprecedented), and Tidy My House (nearly unprecedented).

If I don't resurface tomorrow, please come looking for me; I'll be buried in the small boy's room (upstairs right), under a pile of soft toys, brio train track, and dirty socks.

If Writing were Boring, My House Would be Tidy

The trouble with housework is that it is so boring. The same loo to clean over and over again. The same clothes to fold and put away. The same hoover sucking up an endless supply of Cheerios.

I know I should take pride in my home - I am lucky enough to have a nice one that doesn't leak - but, oh, the drudgery of keeping it clean (let alone tidy). Himself, who is repsonsible for manly things like building patios, doesn't see the problem. He doesn't realise that once he's finished the patio, he gets to stand back and admire it. He never has to do it again. He's never imagined having to get down and mortar those paving slabs every day for the rest of his life.

I am always craving the time to write, to be creative, to make something new, something I can stand back from and admire. Something that I can finish. I do stall sometimes when I'm writing; I get the occasional, "I can't do this. I'm fed up," but that's only because I can't do it, not because I don't want to do it. I never find myself saying, "Oh, I've had enough of this, I'd so much rather be ironing."

I sometimes wonder how long I would have to write, before I got bored with it.