Tag Archives: internal monologue

Sunday musings

I keep a couple of blogs, albeit very badly.  I’m not the type of person who feels the need to yell about what I’m doing to anyone and everyone.  Facebook irritates the crap out of me, because do I really need to know that you’re shopping/having coffee/eating breakfast EVERY SINGLE DAY?  It’s useful for keeping in touch with distant family and friends, and I found the MA group that was set up an absolute lifeline at times.  But honestly, I don’t really want you to invite me to play Farmville or that cooking one, thanks.  I am more than capable of finding plenty of other ways to waste my time.

I like Twitter, for its brevity if nothing else.  If it really does go up to 10k characters a tweet, I may just abandon ship there too.

But between this blog, which I created to keep track of my writing and (hopefully) publishing news, and my other one, which appears to be mainly food/crafts, I’ve noticed that there’s not a great deal of me there.  Not much about my day to day life or kids or work or family stuff.  They’re mentioned, but not every detail.  Even on my public forums, it appears that I’m a fairly private kind of soul.

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Filed under Life, Rambles

Creation

I make things.  It’s what I do.

I’ve been chewing stuff over in my head a lot over the past few weeks – I’ve been super busy but work doesn’t occupy my brain fully, so there’s always a corner which continues to whirr away whilst the rest of me freewheels through accounts and taking orders and dealing with the day-to-day minutiae of running a business.

Part of the reason I’ve been so off kilter is because the only thing I’ve been making recently is a bloody mess.  My house looks like a typhoon just went through it, and not the interesting jet-powered sort either.  But I’ve not written or done any of the other things I do when I need to make.

Today, I had to wait around in the house for some chap to come and fix my washing machine which had chewed up and then regurgitated the solid concrete block that’s used as a counterbalance for the spin cycle.  Gritty grey dust everywhere.  I couldn’t focus enough to write, but I did cook.  I made two batches of soup – curried parsnip and a general vegetable to use up some of the veg that the local gamekeeper drops off for us every other week – and mince pies and a pumpkin pie, and I roasted a half shoulder of lamb for dinner.  My kitchen smells FABULOUS.  It sounds so simple, but the last few weeks have been so batshit crazy that I’ve not really cooked anything properly since I made Christmas puddings the day after we came back from Holland.

It felt really good.

So now I’m sat here with a ball of yarn and I’m working on a blanket which I’ve been meaning to make forever.  I’ve had the dozen bright balls of rainbow coloured softness in a bag for a while, and it’s incredibly soothing to have something to do with my hands whilst I read.  I open something on my laptop/iPad/Kindle and I can sit and read and knit/crochet, occupying both hands and brain and I feel like I’m not wasting my time by sitting idle.  Currently I’m reading through Windmills - I used the opening chapter in the symposium and it went a lot better than I thought.  Maybe I should have stuck around for a little more peer feedback, but I just wanted to hide in the corner and cough some more.  One day I might stop being such an introvert.

So yeah, I’m making stuff.  Who knows, maybe I’ll even make sense if I work at it hard enough.

 

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Filed under House, Rambles, Writing