It was the night before Christmas and all through the flat, nothing was stirring, not even my cat,
I step out side for a puff of nicotine, and there stands a couple on the winterly scene,
He yells and she bickers and they’re both in distress, so I help them out with a pondering guess,
I tell them to hold their voices, for it is indeed Christmas day,
He tells me to mind my own business in a fuck off-y way,
So I say he’s being unreasonable and unlawfully loud, that his breath is stirring one hell of a cloud,
She looks forlornly, embarrassed and shamed, her shoulders are shivering, her look is so pained,
Yet he keeps on yelling about this thing and that, so I shout right back (which startles my cat),
I shout that while he is standing there, his voice all a soaring, that he is in a friendly street at three in the morning,
And children are waiting for their gifts to arrive and need not be awoken by the trials of their lives,
So I bid them to go home and settle their differences in peace, and bid them once and for all for their shouting to cease,
And he falls silent, and she gawks at the sight,
I say Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

I was rejected today! What fun!

I submitted a story to a magazine about a month ago – one of my favourite stories to be honest – and they sent me back an email today telling me that, sorry, it wasn’t really for them, that they thought this, that, and the next thing about it, and that I should continue writing. All in all, to sum it up, my narration wasn’t convincing.

I know that you may be thinking that I’m being too hard on myself at this point, but I’ll actually quote “we were, in fact, not convinced by your narrator”. Alas.

Strangely enough, despite this being my first rejection, I’m not all too broken up about it. Yeah, sure, someone didn’t like my story, they’re not the first and they won’t be the last. I’ll just have to keep on writing until I find something that people go ‘holy crap who is this mind-bending GENIUS?’ at and, you know, makes me irresistible to everyone and everything (except dogs. they already have an unhealthy obsession towards me).

It is a bit of a wake-up call though. Maybe I’m not as amazing and awe inspiring as I think, and maybe that when a cute blonde girl in a university writers society gasps when she reads your words and collects your stories after the session doesn’t really mean that you’re the Mozart of the pen and paper. And just because someone has a following of a number of people who enjoy their writing doesn’t mean that hey Jonathan one day you’re going to be taught between Shakespeare and Salinger.

Putting those warm, fuzzy doses of reality to the side for a moment, I’ll just focus on what really matters; my writing. I keep looking back at all my old shit and thinking of how much progress I’ve made over the years, and it really hasn’t occurred to me that I might even get to progress further.

Bah, I’m not sure I know what I’m talking about. It’s late. Oh, and it’s Christmas Eve. Now how about that.

In reference to the previous post:

I’M BACK, BITCHES.

I’m in a funk. And not a good funk, like the kind that’s the product of a Red Hot Chili Peppers song, but a bad funk, like the kind that haunts the toilet corridors in bars on Sunday mornings. You know the one I mean; the dried puke ingrained with a cacophony of shit and urine with a heavy hint of body odour thrown into the mixture and a good dose of tangy alcohol. That kind of funk.

Writing. Of course. Ever since the epic undertaking (and failing) that was the National Novel Writing Month, my writing has decisively slowed down. As in stopped. Seriously, it’s taken me about an hour and a half to write this much, and that has nothing to do with my slow computer or the fact that I’m watching Good Will Hunting in the background. It’s just that I can’t. It’s all there, in my head and dancing inside my fingertips, but it just won’t come out. It’s like finger constipation; inconvenient and horribly embarrassing.

Who knows, this could just be the impotently latent period that comes after the orgasm of writing ten thousand words in one night (I may not have finished the damn task, but by God am I proud of that night). My writing mojo has been spent for now and I just need to cool off and regather all the energy that I spent on that explosive night hunched over a dented keyboard with coffee stains splattered on me like blood. Sooner or later I will reach my limit break and explode over my computer again, hitting it with good old fashioned writing goodness. It’ll just take time.

But I’m itching.

I’m itching really really hard. And it’s in my fingers which is a bitch if you scratch too hard. I know that everything will come back like a sand timer if I just sit there and let it, but I can’t. Impatience is my virtue and it’s hard to beat that out of me – even with shiny pens. I just want to have an idea and sit down and write a sentence. That’s how it all starts. I write a sentence and I stare at it for what seems like a really long time, and then there’s a spark of flint and I’m away with a whirl of fingers and an eye on my wordcount. It’s exhilarating but calming at the same time, like I’m zoning out on a roller coaster.

I suppose I can always catch up on my reading. I tried to read a mindless comedy book the other week but I threw it down with indifferent disgust after the second chapter. Another book I read though, Quite Ugly One Morning by Christopher Brookmyre that has some distinctive Noir overtones on to it. Which I’m getting into right now. I have my copy of Brick on standby along with Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon (not to mention Discworld Noir which is more than a piss take than a proper Noir), all of which will fuel me with an array of hard-boiled characters to manipulate in a series of tragic ways. Prepare for some amoral and vengeance filled mayhem!

That is, if my writing mojo comes back.

Until then; play it again, Sam.

Things are going well. Holidays are mercifully in sight and I am finally catching up on all the sleep I lost earlier on in the year, but sometimes to strange results. For example, I now occasionally wake up with my hand clutching the hall-phone and my finger holding down the buzzer that lets people into the stairwell of the building. It then leads to an awkward conversation when the postman/woman/person delivers a parcel and I’m standing in my PJ’s with a confused look strewn across my face.

Christmas is in a couple of days, which is always a laugh despite how financially crippling it is (ohdeargodI’moutofmoneywherewilligetmoneyohi’mohsohungry). I received a shirt off my friends that lovingly reads “Team Jonathan!” and sports a small cartoon character looking loved up and happy. It’s a good present, I’ll admit, but I don’t think I’ll wear it again. Other people tend to get nervous when faced with inside jokes that they are not inside on. It’s all unsettling.

Anyway, Christmas is in a couple of days, which means the traditional Chinese food for dinner and the habitual argument where my family are forced into the same area for more than an hour.

But it’s not Christmas that I’m excited for! It’s afterwards that’s the real treat. The day after boxing day I get to saddle up with my huge orange Salamon bag and embark on the 5 hour epic journey down south to visit Charlotte – who I have not seen for just over a month. My skin is vibrating with excitement and nervousness. Excitement that yes, finally, thank FUCK I can finally see her again after such a long stretch without. She is like the drop of pure bottled water to my harsh, gambling desert, or the eagerly anticipated orgasm to my lack of sex.

However, during my ten day stay at casa del Charlotte, I will be shacking up with a number of other guests too; namely almost the entirety of Charlotte’s out-of-country family. I have the haunting image of German aunts tottering up to me and squeezing my cheek in a ‘oh, look at him’ kind of way while the uncles sit and softly mock me for my preference of Corona over Koppenburg and ask me of Scotland and where my kilt is. I, in turn, will think about asking them where their sausages are, or even their lederhosen, but I will not. It’s better if they like me methinks. Means there’s more places to stay if I find myself randomly stranded in Germany.

– Tangent –
I find that I do that a lot it seems. I have made good friends with many people from around the world – most of them to the extent that they’d be willing to let me crash on their couches for a couple of nights. These people range from Canada to Oregon to India to Norway to Australia to Russia to Singapore. I’m all set for a round the world trip one day.
– End Tangent –

I cannot wait to see her though. Despite the various cousins weaving in and out and the endless hours of small talk to endure, it’s all worth it to see her technicolour smile. There’s just something about her that makes my vocabulary fall short. It’s when she smokes, you see. There’s this devious little look behind her innocent face as two smooth fingers arc a brilliant burning ember to the shadow of her licked lips, and how that look is momentarily obscured by the drift of smoke that leaks from her mouth.

Ah, I should stop thinking that. Not is my vow of abstinence taking a beating with those thoughts, but also my temporary hiatus on smoking. Due to a lovely drunken bet, I am smoke free until Saturday and thus far I have lasted three days without a cigarette.

By my God I want one. And Charlotte. Maybe even together, at the same time.

But that could cause burning. One after the other. But, the question begs, which one first?

To beard or not to beard?

Every man goes through it at one point or another, unless they’re completely hairless from the word go, and that’s just creepy. Anyway, do I keep this little tuft of hair on my chin or shave it into the gloriously baby-arse-smooth chin that it was born as? It is, as always, a perplexing question. While on one hand I have all the rugged sexiness that stubble brings, a shaved chin always has its advantages. Looking presentable, for example, or stopping people from giving me money on the street.

Maybe it’s the hair that’s contributing to my homelessness. I had a cigarette in the cold winter morning today in nothing but a leather jacket and my PJ’s. Catching a reflection of myself in the glass door I thought holy crap there’s a random guy wearing PJ’s and a leather jacket with a beard oh no wait it’s me. Things like that don’t happen often, but it does happen occasionally, and it’s really, really creepy.

Though, despite the freaky interruption, it was a damn good cigarette.

I think I’ll shave. When you have fears of your reflected hobo self waiting in the corners of your balcony to bludgeon you to death with a half-smoked cigarette, it’s time to shave.

In the past twenty-four hours, my watch has progressed by nineteen minutes. I can now be one of the only people who can accurately claim that it feels like an entire day has passed within twenty minutes.

…

How boring.

It’s really disorientating, having a broken watch. As Paul McGann once put it, even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day. Mine hasn’t got to that point yet, and I am at a complete loss.

It amazes me though, at how much trust I had put into the little timepiece on my arm. I used to glance at it and sigh reassuringly that I was not yet late for that all important meeting, or I would grit my teeth in frustration as the bus was yet again late (they’re always bloody late!), but now I only feel a disconcerting squirm as “Does not compute” marquee their way round my mind. I really didn’t notice it to begin with. It seemed perfectly normal that the last twenty minutes had remained half past eleven, and even normal still when an hour had gone by. I was actually quite pleased with myself. I had seemingly done a whole nights worth of chores and activities in the space of a couple of seconds.

It was only when the TV, that I refuse to watch but get drawn into anyway, started showing those seedy programs that I want to watch and don’t want to watch at the same time (I mean, come on, there’s never any penetration shots. Just a bunch of girls moaning and a guy unattractively grunting to the swaying rhythm of a metronome) that I noticed something was wrong. The TV, in its irrefutable knowledge of absolutely everything, was saying half past two in the morning and my dear old watch was still proclaiming half eleven.

I had a crisis of faith in that moment. To trust the watch, or the TV? The logical answer was obvious in my brain but I still couldn’t quite accept the cold grasp of reality. Was the watch right, or the TV? Watch, TV, watch, TV, watch, TV? eventually I began weighing up the pros and cons in my mind with the watch has been with you for a very long time and ah yes! but the TV is hooked up to a world of factual matters, such as the correct time and where Wally actually is followed by yes, but where was the TV when you needed to go for the bus? it did not tell you that you were going to be late to meet your friends with true, and the TV did make me later with its moving pictures and sound which was gleefully followed by yes! it is evil and untrustworthy! the watch is the true master! and so on and so forth.

The argument seemed never ending, with both sides coming up with well argued points and eloquent responses, but the debate was thankfully cut short by the surprising and untimely entrance of my mobile phone’s alarm clock. It told me that it was in fact half two in the morning, and that I should wake up right now. This was confusing, but at least it settled the argument. The TV won, sadly.

But still, even though I know the watch has stopped (between the fortieth and forty first second) I cannot help but look at it. I used to live and breathe by this thing, and now all I get is a sharp intake of breath and sudden confusion before I realise that, oh, it isn’t really still half eleven ha ha silly me.

I’ll fix it soon. I know it’s not true, and not, in the strictest sense, possible, but I feel as thought I am stuck at half past eleven. I wouldn’t mind if I was stuck in the moment of half past eleven where Charlotte (my girlfriend, to keep you all up to speed) was whispering the warmest words into my ear, with her lips grazing my skin and her fingertips curling gracefully round my cheek, but I am not. I am stuck in half eleven at four in the morning. It’s too late to do anything productive and too early to go to sleep.

It’s almost maddening really.

I, like many, many people out there, have a mobile phone. It is a little thing, quite light and compact for my everyday needs and follies, and resembles an iPod to some extent. I didn’t pick it for this reason though; it was the only phone in the vicinity that was under fifty quid, and I’m a cheap bastard sometimes.

Now, this mobile phone of mine, has many features, as most mobile phones do. For one thing it can send and receive text messages, a common feature I know, but it’s basically the highlight of this little piece of machinery. Yes, it has a camera and web access and games, but all of these things are very, very blurry. So texting is the best part of it. But then there are sub features of the text message application! My phone is truly a wonder of modern technology.

Anyway, a sub-feature of my phone’s features, including a sporadically functioning space button, is the fact that every time I send a text, a little ditty plays and it shows me how much credit is left. This is a handy little feature, as it usually displays an alarmingly little amount that won’t possibly last me the rest of the month (not to worry, I have three hundred free texts every month, which is a nice perk). Today my balance was roughly £2.50, which is what it usually hangs around at on most days.

So, now that I’ve set up my story, time to get to the shocking twist!

I was in a bar with a friend called Mike having a few beers and lamenting over how much Christmas costs these days. I think that Mike would be my intellectual equal if it weren’t for the fact that he majored in Maths compared to my Social Sciences. He thinks in equations you see, and sometimes it’s hard to keep up. Anyway, we were in a bar, having a few drinks, and I pull out my mobile phone to text someone – which isn’t rude, because Mike’s cool with things like that – and I finish off my masterpiece of a text and send it off into the world. The phone plays its same old tune and I glance at the screen before putting it back in my pocket and continuing with the conversation. But something had caught my eye.

(watch out, here comes the twist)

I pulled out my phone again and pressed two buttons as a shortcut to display my balance (another handy feature of this wondrous piece of technology) and, lo and behold, my balance was displayed clearly and proudly as £29.50. It seems that, somehow, my phone had accumulated £27 without me asking it to. I was in awe.

(that was the twist)

Mike and I then spent minutes – minutes I tell you – trying to figure out this conundrum. Did I top it up and forgot about it afterwards? Did I press a load of random numbers in my pocket and somehow successfully access the top up line and dial in the correct numbers of a debit card? Or was I hallucinating again?

We eventually decided that it was an unknown gift from some higher power – like a phone company or aliens or something – and left it be. Such acts of generosity should not be questioned, for it could be snatched away at any moment, so it must be quietly accepted and mulled over in silence.

But now I don’t have to mull in silence. I now have enough credit to call people and mull it over with them!

This has made it a good day.

My room is tidy.

Actually tidy. For once, I can see the floor and walk around on said floor without feeling cat hair and dust poke up between my toes. It’s almost magical. I also played a game of Tetris with the furniture and it actually looks bigger! I’m in awe. There must be some karma going on here that I cannot comprehend.

I was awoken this morning by the mailman knock knock knockin’ on my front door, wielding a silvery looking package that moved beneath his arm. He asked me to sign the digital thingimajig (I miss that days when there were at least some things that were left undigitised) and left the peculiar parcel in my hands before rushing down the stairs and out of sight. I inspected the package and came to the conclusion that it was, indeed, a package addressed to me. So without further delay I ripped it open, feeling excited and nervous at what lay beneath its space-agey depths. Was it something wonderful, fantastical, technological, or anthraxable?

It was a pack of duvet sheets and a Christmas card from my Dad.

I promptly fell back asleep.