July 31, 2013

Mostly Audiobooks. And a little ranting.

 

 

I AM GOING TO FINISH THIS RATBAGGING, MULTI-BLASTED CHAPTER TONIGHT.  I AM.*

So especially since Peter never writes me guest blogs any more and what are husbands for, anyway?, I thought I would borrow his new post for his site . . . about audiobooks.

http://peterdickinson.com/audiobooks/

And, yes:  tricky, the selection process for readers.  . . . Oh, frell, I do have things to say about audiobooks.  But not tonight.  THERE’S THIS CHAPTER . . . **

* * *

* Never mind which chapter.  And never mind what’s happening.  I realise it would come as a shock if the truth about being a writer were ever revealed to the public at large:  you all know that we go to bed late^ and get up very very late^^ and then hang around in our dressing-gowns eating chocolate and drinking champagne and/or very very black tea^^^ and occasionally going into a trance during which the Muse dictates the next chapter(s) of our WIP(s).  Which is why we all have boundless time and energy for superfluous pursuits like gardening, singing, bell ringing, knitting, reading other people’s books and keeping our rather too many dogs magnificently fit from lengthy daily hurtles.^^^^  You know all that, right?  So the idea that a writer might work too hard would make you helpless with laughter, right?  That by the end of a day with too much bending over the computer in it she might feel like wet cardboard and/or something a hellterror has been chewing is totally alien to your rich understanding of the authorial life?  . . . Sigh.

^ Ahem

^^ If this meant I was actually getting some sleep I’d be all for it

^^^ Balance is very important to the creative spirit

^^^^ And because the Muse dictates, thus taking all that exhausting responsibility off our shoulders, we never ever get in over our heads with some competing creative endeavour, even a little one.  Say, doodling.  And what about all those songs I want to write?  —I should not, in fact, be taking voice lessons or playing the piano:  but in the first place, try and stop me, and in the second place, I’m pretty awful+, which is kind of its own defense.  Both my drawing and my song-writing might just conceivably get somewhere if I had the spare brain and heart energy to put into them.

+ Yesterday’s voice lesson:  siiiiiiiiigh.  Clearly I shouldn’t have said out in public that singing for Oisin last Friday hadn’t been too bad.  You’d think I could get away with not too bad, wouldn’t you?  Nooooooo.  On Monday Watching the Wheat wasn’t too bad.  But then Linden Lea . . . was too bad.  SIIIIIIIGH.  I froze up for some reason and started doing my patented vocal impression of fingernails on a blackboard.  Arrrrrgh.  Nadia suggested I take notes, the next time I sing well, that’s ‘well’, at home, of what I’d done to get there, and we’ll try and replicate it next week.  I was thinking about that today.  First, have had a voice lesson recently.  Yesterday is good.  Have sung at least enough to preserve that ‘sung in’ sensation yesterday evening.  Sing like a mad thing today whilst hurtling your variety of hellcritters.  Learning new lyrics is good because it takes your mind off worrying about the quality of the noise you’re making.  Have fun.  Oh.  Yeah.  This is why I’m doing it, isn’t it?  It’s not like I’m planning on starting a band# or auditioning to sing Mrs Lovett.##  But the point is I tend to do my best singing at home in the rush following Monday’s voice lesson, even if the lesson itself was not of the finest.  By Thursday I’m starting to slip, which is the other part of why I have this ingrained habit of bottling out of singing for Oisin on Friday.  Then it’s all downhill over the weekend till a fresh new Monday.  Feh.###

# A sort of Steeleye Span tribute band with a few extras.  There Is A Tavern in the Town.  Copperhead Road.  Che Faro Senza Eurydice.

## Although I’m going to learn The Worst Pies in London.  If there were some fool willing to be Sweeney, we could learn A Little Priest.

### Hmm.  Well, there are a couple of things I do at home that I don’t do for Nadia.  I mean that I’d be willing to admit to . . .

** And if I’m still alive at the end of it I want to sing.

comments

Please join the discussion at Robin McKinley's Web Forum.