The Wandering Novelist's Blog - 1st Post
Hello, my name's --- no, I probably won't tell you my name. I've heard all kinds of tales of people getting in all kinds of trouble because of what they've written in them. So, rather than compromise my blog's adherence to the truth, I think its probably for the best that I'll shroud myself with the black cloak of annonymity. Equally, I'll keep the name's of the people I wouldn't like revealed in a big public forum like the internet to myself - maybe I'll think of witty pseudonym's: Mr. Big, the Blonde, Dog's Bollocks, perhaps. The people I don't like, I suppose, I'll name by name.
Alright, so now you don't know my name.
Next on my list of things to include in this, my first blog (the list is scribbled on the back of an envelope that I found in my jacket pocket): why I'm writing. I suppose the real reason, like most reasons, is rather complex. First and foremost, I want to keep a record. Not just a record for myself (I'd hardly need to post such a thing on the internet for the world to see), but a record for anyone and everyone who is interested in these sort of things. These sort of things being, in no particular order, the creative process of writing a novel, starting your life afresh, and doing something you've always dreamed of doing. And if, in the murky future, I do happen to publish my yet unwriten novel, the novel I'm going to write, the point of recording my new life, then it might be useful for anyone who reads it to read this too. That, I suppose, is a big if. But one has to have hope.
Ok, so I'm writing this blog to keep a record of my attempt to write a novel. Simple as that.
Next thing on the list. A little about myself. I'm 22 years old, from a small village in an indeterminate place in the North of England and, until four or five days ago, had very little purpose in life. I was - as the lifetstyle gurus would probably pharse it - drifting; I didn't know what to do with myself and so was doing pretty much nothing and with very little style. I lived by myself and had a dead-end job in a kitchen, slicing vegetables - my sole occupation as I lacked the authority within the culinary hegemony to cook them.
That was my situation until New Years Eve - I was working in the kitchen for double pay, having nothing else to occupy my time on that evening, the evening on which friends and family come together to collectively attempt to forget 'old acquaintance' and other jolly occupations. I was cutting vegetables, as is my wont - courgettes I think, though perhaps the precise foodstuff is a touch irrelevent - when my thoughts wandered onto the listlessness of my life and general existence and I determined, in the age old tradition, to make a new year's resolution. I left the kitchen immediately, not even pausing to take off my apron or take note of the questioning look of my boss, and walked home along frosty streets. The last time I left my house, disconnecting the phone as I went, I had six messages on my answer maching from my boss, questioning my sudden disappearance. I hadn't answered any of them.
I left my house three days ago, having put my few affairs in order and bought a ticket to London, the big smoke. When I arrived it was far too late to get a place to stay and so I walked around the city; carefully avoiding drunks, drug fiends and other assorted n'er-do-wells. I'm now a resident of delightful little hostel in Kensington and, if anyone out there would like to offer my a place to stay, am looking for some more permanent kind of accomodation.
Now, you may think this a little extreme - going off, cutting all ties with home, making a completely fresh start. But I think its necessary. It would be so easy, where I to stay at home, to make good intentions and do nothing about them, to say I'll do something important and then just keep on keeping on. So, very much like Dick Whittington, I've set off to London to seek my fame and fortune.
I'm currently writing this in an internet café - a jolly place on Charing Cross Rd. that does, I've just discovered, an excellent cheese cake - and so had better vacate my computer and let someone else on. I will do my best to post every day, probably right here, probably with a piece of cheesecake by my side.
Until then.
Alright, so now you don't know my name.
Next on my list of things to include in this, my first blog (the list is scribbled on the back of an envelope that I found in my jacket pocket): why I'm writing. I suppose the real reason, like most reasons, is rather complex. First and foremost, I want to keep a record. Not just a record for myself (I'd hardly need to post such a thing on the internet for the world to see), but a record for anyone and everyone who is interested in these sort of things. These sort of things being, in no particular order, the creative process of writing a novel, starting your life afresh, and doing something you've always dreamed of doing. And if, in the murky future, I do happen to publish my yet unwriten novel, the novel I'm going to write, the point of recording my new life, then it might be useful for anyone who reads it to read this too. That, I suppose, is a big if. But one has to have hope.
Ok, so I'm writing this blog to keep a record of my attempt to write a novel. Simple as that.
Next thing on the list. A little about myself. I'm 22 years old, from a small village in an indeterminate place in the North of England and, until four or five days ago, had very little purpose in life. I was - as the lifetstyle gurus would probably pharse it - drifting; I didn't know what to do with myself and so was doing pretty much nothing and with very little style. I lived by myself and had a dead-end job in a kitchen, slicing vegetables - my sole occupation as I lacked the authority within the culinary hegemony to cook them.
That was my situation until New Years Eve - I was working in the kitchen for double pay, having nothing else to occupy my time on that evening, the evening on which friends and family come together to collectively attempt to forget 'old acquaintance' and other jolly occupations. I was cutting vegetables, as is my wont - courgettes I think, though perhaps the precise foodstuff is a touch irrelevent - when my thoughts wandered onto the listlessness of my life and general existence and I determined, in the age old tradition, to make a new year's resolution. I left the kitchen immediately, not even pausing to take off my apron or take note of the questioning look of my boss, and walked home along frosty streets. The last time I left my house, disconnecting the phone as I went, I had six messages on my answer maching from my boss, questioning my sudden disappearance. I hadn't answered any of them.
I left my house three days ago, having put my few affairs in order and bought a ticket to London, the big smoke. When I arrived it was far too late to get a place to stay and so I walked around the city; carefully avoiding drunks, drug fiends and other assorted n'er-do-wells. I'm now a resident of delightful little hostel in Kensington and, if anyone out there would like to offer my a place to stay, am looking for some more permanent kind of accomodation.
Now, you may think this a little extreme - going off, cutting all ties with home, making a completely fresh start. But I think its necessary. It would be so easy, where I to stay at home, to make good intentions and do nothing about them, to say I'll do something important and then just keep on keeping on. So, very much like Dick Whittington, I've set off to London to seek my fame and fortune.
I'm currently writing this in an internet café - a jolly place on Charing Cross Rd. that does, I've just discovered, an excellent cheese cake - and so had better vacate my computer and let someone else on. I will do my best to post every day, probably right here, probably with a piece of cheesecake by my side.
Until then.
posted by The Wandering Novelist at 9:36 PM
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