Neroblogging, birthdays, etc.
I woke up yesterday morning to find myself, somewhat disconcertingly, a year older than I had been when I went to sleep.
I don't have much truck with birthdays to be honest. As a kid, of course, they were second only to Christmas in the times-of-the-year-to-be-excited-about stakes, but, being a kid, that was pretty much entirely about the presents. Like most people I've found that the importance of the gift-getting part of birthdays dwindles into insignificance some time after one's seventeenth birthday (when the gift of driving lessons seems to say to you that you're an adult, even though you're not).
So yesterday was a fairly ordinary but nevertheless pleasant day. I stayed home - it's a quasi-tradition of mine to take my birthday off - and managed to get nothing done in the morning through listening to England beat Australia by four wickets at the MCG. The afternoon was spent doing other things that required undivided attention, such as trying to work my way around a potential knotty plot problem with novel-the-second, which I finally wormed my way out of by simply hoping that the problem would go away, which it duly did.
And with that I was finally in a position to say that yes, this story is definitely a novel and that yes, I will definitely try to start writing it at the beginning of March, depending on how I go. I have one character firmly ensconced in my head and am trying to come to an understanding of sorts about the second, though she's giving me some trouble.
I'd forgotten how much fun this bit of writing was. It's not as much fun as the actual writing, which always feels rather indulgent, like I shouldn't be doing too much of it, but it's definitely a tasty aperitif that sets the creative juices flowing.
Anyway, can't stop. I have a bolognese to finish.
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