Okay...I'm doing my usual thing of working on something else in order to give the muses time to work around the issue of chapter one of Home Not Home. Chapters two-on I got no problem with. It's getting Brendan out of Houston in a proper fashion that's being the issue.
So what's he doing to help? Bitching about me working on another story. Why aren't I sitting here and tearing what little hair I have left out while trying to zero in on what is needed...and that's without his help, mind you. Like the little fuck is testing me, in some way.
I'm close to thinking the opening on HNH might work as...
Born on Groundhog Day and forever locked in with that detail in my life. Now trying to fly home on the First of April, and that was just as ridiculous. Too fucking perfect.
I wanted to go through Dublin. It would have been so much simpler. So much more direct. But fucking Eurovision was being hosted there, and apparently the city had lost its goddamned mind. Flight costs were insane. Hotels impossible to come by. Trains packed. Busses, too. So it was through Gatwick and Glasgow to Derry, I had to go.
And hope my bag would follow. There were many stories being shared about Gatwick, according to the ladies at American Express, while nothing was known about Glasgow. I was warned to bring extra clothes and put my valuables in a backpack to carry on the plane. So very inspiring.
Just a growling It's okay, I guess kind of response. And no other suggestion.
I'm not going to get fucked over, like this. He wants me to tell his story but he doesn't want me to know it till he's damn good and ready? It's irritating.
And if I sound psychotic, you're right; I am.
(BTW, the photo is of RDS Simmonscourt, where the 1981 contest was held; the UK won; Ireland came in 5th)
No comments:
Post a Comment