Grinning Paul Oh Yes

The title of my last post didn't conform to the 'NaNoWriMo'-style naming structure of my other November posts. This might give you a clue about how well the writing is going. It is not going well.

This month has been a bit stressful, so I've had to take certain measures to maintain my sanity. These measures include not writing thousands of words every day, and watching various WWF wrestling events from the mid 1980s. I'm still sane, so it must have worked.

I'm also doing some stand-up in London on Saturday. The details are here. I haven't done any comedy since last December, so I'm probably going to be brilliant. Comic ideas take time to ferment. If you're patient, you can come out with something bursting with flavour.

On the other hand, I've forgotten how to use a microphone. I can never remember which colour wire you're supposed to cut.

Just so you know, I've done twelve tweets about wires, plus another couple about The Wire. But I don't want to be thought of as "the man who copies and pastes his relevant tweets from a spreadsheet into his blog post and changes the font colour to blue". So I won't post them here. Two of them are really funny, but I won't post them here.

Instead, here's a picture of me. I think, from my Tumblr research, that this is what's known as a GPOY. That's a gratuitous picture of yourself. I've been doing these since before they had their own acronym.

I found this one recently. I like that the lighting makes one side of my face look bigger/more heavily made-up than the other.

I also like the fact that it represents the exact opposite mood to the one I'm in now.

I might make it my new Facebook profile picture. I like the idea that people who I once knew (and befriended online), but who have now almost totally forgotten me, will see this and think that I have a fashionable mental illness.

In real life, it's not fashionable. In real life, I have the Mumford and Sons of mental illnesses.

I looked in the mirror today, and my hair is getting greyer.

NaNoPicNiCo

I saw a woman in a bear costume in work just now. She was walking from reception towards the canteen.

I could tell she was a woman because she wasn't wearing the head at first. It was a woman's head on top of a bear body. To be honest, I didn't even notice the bear body. I only put the whole bear together when the head went on.

She was talking to a couple of people. None of them were talking about the fact that she was a bear. Maybe they hadn't noticed either.

I went to the toilet, and when I got out, the bear was gone. I don't know where she went.

Why was there a bear in the office? Is it Children In Need?

I didn't get a look at the front of the bear, so I couldn't tell if it was Pudsey. I would have needed to see her from the front. Some people might be able to recognise Pudsey from behind, but they probably wouldn't admit it.

I did a tweet about Pudsey once. In fact, it's a two-parter.

Pudsey Bear's whereabouts are on a Children in Need-to-know basis.

If I die before I finish this tweet - and I easily could - that Pudsey thing could be my goodbye. Tragic. I should have said 'bearabouts'.

I'd like to dress as a bear. It would be comfortable. You could probably just lie down and go to sleep anywhere, even on some stone steps or a thorn-bush. I'd love to be able to just drop and sleep. It would be my super power.

My NaNoWriMo writing isn't going well. If I continue writing at my current rate, I won't finish until March 2014. That's five months. It's no good. It's supposed to be NaNoWriMo, not NaNoWriFiMo.

But it's not about the word count. Not this year. It's just about writing. Slow and steady wins the Man Booker Prize for Tortoise Fiction.

***

I bet, somewhere in the world, there's a stripper called Crystal Maze.

***

It's quiet in the office today. I did hear what sounded like mauling just now, but that was probably the radiators.

I think a group of people in my office were watching the new Christmas adverts online. I could only hear a bit of the audio. I can't believe it's that time of year again: me not being invited to something.

I'm not going to watch the new Christmas adverts online. I want see them on television, muted, whilst I listen to an answerphone message from somebody else's lawyer, just as they were intended.

I assume there's going to be one with a winsome cover of popular song, one with Ant and Dec driving a hovercraft, and one that tries to subvert the whole thing by raping a snowman.

***

Interesting. After writing about rape jokes ages ago, I haven't done any. I haven't even felt the need to. I'm proud of myself.

But I thought of that snowman one, and then couldn't think of a good alternative. The word "snowman" seemed to be a funny one to finish the list. So I needed a verb. And I think it needed to be a harsh verb. "Killing a snowman" isn't funny. "Stabbing a snowman" would have no effect.

I just think that they rhythm of the joke, and the concept of subverting Christmas advert conventions, demanded the use of that word.

I might be wrong. I'm willing to admit that. I just want you to know that whilst I did write a "rape joke", I thought about it carefully, and feel that it is artistically justified.

***

Here are some bonus bear tweets that aren't just here to pad out this entry:

Stroking your beard makes you look thoughtful. Stroking your bear makes you look less thoughtful. And don't try stroking Bea.

I tried to follow my own advice, but it lead me up an alley and now I'm in some sort of bear trap.

Sometimes it's just not scarf-weather, Rupert. I mean, you're a bear. You have FUR. Maybe it's a circulation problem?

It would be terrible if you were going on a hot air balloon trip, and got mauled by Yogi Bear as soon as you got in the basket. Terrible.

It takes a lot of courage to admit you're wrong, especially if you're trapped on a falling bear.

You know when it feels like your head is full of cotton wool? You're probably a stuffed animal of some kind (eg bear).

"Should I start locking my Canadian golf supplies shop?" "Does a bear shit in the woods?" "Um..." #conversationsthatmighthappen

I'd never eat a bear's porridge. Think of all the hairs! Goldilocks was a madman.

Beware of Greeks gifting bears.

It's the saddest thing. My friend, the cardiophobic bear, went to a counsellor and pawed his heart out.

I'd love to attend a Teddy Bears' picnic, but they always give such short notice.

What kind of bear parents name their son Bungle? I mean, with that name he's only ever going to be a total disaster.

The thing I like best about Valentine's Day is that I get to wear my giant pink fluffy bear costume without anyone looking at me askance.

I really wish I could hibernate. I could, physically. It's just social convention that stops me. Bears get all the breaks.

The Care Bears really dropped off the face of the earth, didn't they?

Looking back, I'm sure even Disney would admit it that was a mistake to reinvent 'The Gummi Bears' as 'The False Teeth Bears' for Season 7.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed! Good! That is its purpose!" #practicalbears

Teddy bears don't go round and round MY garden.

Remember that horrible episode of Yogi Bear where he finds Boo Boo's corpse in a pic-a-nic basket? Terrifying. I think it inspired Se7en.

"Put your hands in the bear like you just don't care... about the bear's welfare!" - Me, in that sort of club.

People think I'm a bear for 3 reasons: 1) I had porridge this morning, 2) I look like a bear, 3) I keep forgetting to lock my front door.

The play's the thing - Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king. Or maybe a kind of modified bear trap.. No. No, I'll go with the play.

I've got a cold nose which, according to the vet, means I'm a healthy polar bear. My cubs will be relieved.

Never make eye contact with a self-conscious bear.

I covered my bathroom walls in bearskin and now I'm infertile. INFERTILE. IN FUR TILE. TILES LIKE A BATHROOM TILE. AND FUR. #goodjokes


***

Huh.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-five tweets about bears.

Do most people have that many? That's not even including the Pudsey ones, or the ones that didn't make any sense.

Twenty-five bear tweets.

My ancestors would be baffled if they could see how I spend my days.

NaNoSlowMo

I'm kind-of, sort-of, almost doing NaNoWriMo again this year. You might remember me writing about my last attempt way back in November 2012. On that occasion, I completed my story and reached the required word count. So this year, I don't feel so much pressure to get it done. As a result, I'm way behind already.

But I'm sure things will pick up. I've just had an idea.

Last year, I never decided what I was going to write about until it was written. This year, I vowed to plan ahead, and to complete a considered, structured, thematically consistent whole before the beginning of November.

I have broken that vow. Just as I have broken every vow I've ever made. (I think my only other one had something to do with Red Dwarf - now that's fallen by the wayside...)

But I've had an idea. It's not a concept, or an outline, or a framework. It's not a tone or an approach. It doesn't dictate the genre, or the setting, or the characters.

Yet it is an idea. And ideas can move molehills. I know they can.

So I'd better get writing. At some point. Later on, probably.

For now, here is a thing I saw somewhere:

Electric Tosser

You're thinking about it too much. Just do it quickly. It'll be over before you know it.

Welcome to October Twenty-Thirteen!

We're getting new heaters installed on Friday. We almost froze to death last winter, so we're going to grab the mammoth by the horns and deal with it.

Heaters are expensive. We need four of them. They probably won't even work. And we'll have wasted every last penny on four expensive clothes horses. We had to phone electricians, and meet electricians, and decide which electrician would be the best electrician.

I hate being an adult. I'm not interested in making decisions. If I wanted to make decisions, I wouldn't have bought an electric coin-tosser. Which reminds me: one of the electricians had a quick look at our electric coin-tosser and has thinks the wiring isn't up to code.

They quoted us fifteen thousand pounds to rewire it. We couldn't decide whether to go through with it or not, so we let the machine decide. The coin landed on tails and blew the fuse-board. In the darkness, we snuck out and haven't heard from that particular electrician since.

It's all so overwhelming. I bought a Terry's Chocolate Orange. I don't know how to handle life.

***

I'm thinking of doing NaNoWriMo again this year. Last year's event was very productive, even if I didn't produce much that I liked. Here's an extract from my last story, Neon Tiny Fires:

Tone faced Clara and jerked his thumb over at Liam, giving her a ‘get a load of this guy!’ expression. After a few seconds of no response, he literally said out loud: “Get a load of this guy!”

Very productive.

I don't have any ideas, though. That didn't stop me last year, of course. But this year I really need to write something coherent. I've got heaters to pay for, after all.

I'm thinking of doing something political. It will give me a chance to take out some of my frustration about the world. Also, if the book is a success, they might invite me on Have I Got News For You (which they still make, apparently). I like the missing word round. The trick is to guess an inappropriate or incongruous word and the audience will laugh.

I don't watch panel shows any more. I went off them all of a sudden. I hate panel shows.

You know what? I know why it happened.

It's because I hate panels. Why do I hate panels?

Because our old heaters were panel heaters. And they were rubbish heaters. We nearly froze to death last winter. I might have mentioned that before.

They look like this:

Awful. I hate them.

I hate all panels, and things that have the word 'panel' in them.

I even hate "shrapnel" now, just because it has the letters of 'panel' in it. And I used to love shrapnel.

These new heaters will change everything. We'll be warm and everything will be OK. I'll be all cosy, writing a book that will pay for the cosiness several times over.

I'm thinking of writing something about panels for NaNoWriMo. It will give me a chance to take out some of my frustration about the world. The world of panels.

Also, they might invite me on a panel show, and I can tell this story, and it'll get a big laugh from the studio audience at the record, but will be cut out of the final edit for time.

***

My new album Love Shrapnel will be streaming on Pitchfork for half an hour tomorrow, ahead of a physical release sometime next year. It's already being called a 'stunning return to form' by those in the know.

NaNoFiniTo

I finished my NaNoWriMo "novel" yesterday.

I'm sure that will come as a great relief to all of you. I've basically spent this whole month telling you about a cake that you'll never be able to eat. I've explained my hardships with kneading, my struggles with creaming, my worries about whether I'll burn the base.

Nobody cares. You're all still hungry.

But still, it's something to be proud of. And ashamed of. More proud than ashamed.

The final word count was 51,337. It had an ending and everything. And an epilogue.

Expect it to be in the shops this time next week. They won't be selling it; I'll just be leaving memory sticks around. Each one will have a different chapter. Try to collect them all!

You can download banners that proclaim you a NaNoWriMo "winner". I wouldn't feel comfortable with displaying one of those. I am the opposite of a winner. I already have a "loser" banner. It is my face.

This has been downbeat so far. I'm actually very pleased to have finished.

Next month, I'll be able to get back to the classic Headscissors formula of talking to you as though you exist, and then making myself laugh with a reference to Lloyd Dyer.

AAAha. Lloyd Dyer. Brilliant.

NaNoAttentionSpaNo

"Confident and cool, he's the type of comic you want to befriend, whilst simultaneously making you hate yourself"

That comes from the second review of my recent stand-up show, which was very nice. I like the above quote, because I've never thought of myself as confident. And I've certainly never been accused of being cool, either in attitude or temperature.

I've already posted a link to the review on Facebook, which made me feel a bit boastful. But I can post it here, because my blog readers and I are like a secret club. A club of one. We can share anything here, and not have to worry about how self-absorbed we sound. Because we are our self. Where else could we be absorbed?

I'm still writing. 42,198 words. My story has got a bit silly, but that was bound to happen.

I'm feeling in a good mood. I think my moods are almost entirely dependent on Saints doing well at football. I don't like the idea that my mental well-being is so precariously balanced. I should probably become a drug addict. They have zero problems.

My iPod has broken. The sound comes consistently out of the left earholephone, but only sporadically out of the right one. I could get it repaired, but I feel that I might as well get a whole new one, even though it will cost me much more money.

I've had my current iPod since 2006. That was before this blog even began. Before Blog. BB. What a time that was. I hadn't even dreamed of italicising certain words and posting images of novelty lamps.

But we're in the future now. After Blog. AB. Anno Blogini.

I have another stand-up gig in London on Saturday. I'm going to do lots of London-centric material. It will be all whelks and Marble Arch.

I'm not concentrating. It's probably because I've had to focus on my NaNo story for so long. My imagination is used to bouncing around like a rubber doorman. It has been shackled for too long.

This is where I come to let it off its leash and go and fetch a stick, but by the time it gets there, it's Lorne Michaels, the creator of Saturday Night Live.

***

I just got so distracted that I forgot I was even writing this.

NaNoWriMo is nearly over. Thank heavens for that. December will be a Golden Age-Month.

NaNoPerNod

I will shortly have checked in.

And... there.

I am now checked.

I don't think I've mentioned it, but I now have a synopsis and extract of my NaNovel up on the internet-machine. You can find it here. I'm particularly proud of my synopsis, which tells you all you need to know.

I'm currently at 37,614 words. I would describe my work so far as "incoherent". I'm still just about on track, but I'm not counting my chickens (even though I am counting my words).

I'm far too busy. I'm worrying about Christmas shopping and a hundred other things. I long for the days when I was free of all worries and responsibility. Those days are fictional, but you can long for fictional things. It's allowed. I long for Long John Silver, and he's fictional.

Is he?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Long_John_Silver
  
"Long John Silver is a fictional character and the primary ant"

Yes. He is. (I might have ended that quote prematurely, but I might not have, for all you know.)

I haven't really got anything to talk about other than concerns, so here's a hilarious sketch I've just about to have written:

Doctor: Come in.

Patient: Hello, doctor.

Doctor: What seems to be the problem?

Patient: It's my wife, doctor.

Doctor: Oh yes?

Patient: Yes. She seems to have broken her leg.

Doctor: Oh. Well, why isn't she here?

Patient: She's afraid of doctors.

Doctor: Oh dear. Why do you think that is?

Patient: Because you broke her leg.

Doctor: Your wife is a LIAR. A one-legged LIAR.

Ernie Els: Anyone for a quick nine?

Doctor: Who's asking?

Ernie Els: ERNIE ELS.

Patient: ERNIE ELS.

Receptionist: ERNIE ELS.

Waiting Room (chorus): ERNIE ELS.

Everyone in England: ERNIE ELS.

Every Human: ERNIE ELS.



GOD: Ernie. Ernie Els. Ernie bloody Els.

***

Let's all knock off early and go get cocktails. My treat!

Yum.

I like cocktails.

NaNoMicrophoNo

I'm all hopped up on Earl Grey tea, so let's put some words down.

I'm slightly behind schedule with the old NaNoWriming, but there will probably be time for that later. That's the clarion call of the failed writer, but I have confidence in myself to get back on the writing horse and... I don't know... do a whole chapter about stirrups or something.

Have I used "clarion call" correctly? Let's see.

Ah, a clarion is a kind of bugle or trumpet. That makes sense. It's probably connected to "clarinet", and also to Clarissa Explains It All.

It probably is.

Good old Earl Grey. It has never made me not make sense once.

I had a stand-up gig last night. It was another good one.

There's a review of the night here. I'm pleased with what they said about me, but I am slightly annoyed that they misquoted me. I would never use the word "hipster" as an adjective.

It was all new stuff, though a big chunk came from a previous blog post. You see? You guys get the inside track. You will always know about these things first. It's like being inside the head of a great artist. Or within a five mile radius of Quentin Tarantino.

There was quite a bit of improvised stuff in my set, including having to deal with a broken tripod (which I referred to as a "monopod" to little reaction).

The main thing that stuck with me was my interaction with a girl in the front row. "Girl" might be a bit patronising, but she was so young and innocent looking that it made my eventual abuse of her all the worse. Her phone went off early on, and I did some not-particularly-hilarious bit of mock outrage that I was worried she took seriously. I don't like to pick on people in the audience, because I hate being picked on myself.

She was in the front row. Nobody wants to be in the front row. For all I know, she was reluctant to sit there on the grounds that she might get singled out. "Don't worry! No-one will talk to you!" her friend might have said. Her friend should be ashamed for being so hypothetically wrong.

A while after the phone thing, she reacted to something I said in an interesting way. I talked to her again, concluding that, coupled with the phone call, she must be an "attention-whore".

It was meant in a gentle way, but there's something about the word "whore". People don't tend to like it. She and her friends reacted in a really outraged, sitcom way. I felt terrible immediately.

I tried to dig myself out of it with an improvised bit that I found quite funny, even if the audience didn't. I'm paranoid about being thought of as a misogynist, so was insistent that there was a hyphen in 'attention-whore', rendering it politically correct. "That hyphen makes me not a sexist," I said. I was pleased with that, because it was strange logic expressed in a strange syntax.

If it was anyone else, it would have been fine. But she looked so sweet and nervous that I felt like I'd punched Bambi in the face.

I'm sure this is all incredibly patronising, and that she was absolutely fine about it. But I like to chastise myself about meaningless things. By doing it, I make myself seem sensitive and considerate, without having to take any action to remedy my behaviour.

I also sang a made-up segue song that didn't really work.

All in all, a nice evening with a nice crowd. I didn't even have any awkward conversations with strangers.

I should really get back on the novel horse. My story has reached an exciting stage, where an anthropomorphised cliff is having to explain to his father why he won't join the army. I think the next chapter will be about that not happening.

NaNoClueDo

One of the things I did NOT want to include in my NaNoWriMo novel was:

• a character who is basically me, or any other Charlie Kaufman bullshit

I have managed to stay true to this principle so far. There isn't a character who writes an under-appreciated blog and loves sweet potato salad. There's nothing about comic books or wrestling. There isn't a character who, in that fictional world, is taking part in NaNoWriMo.

(I bet there are dozens of NaNoWriMo attempts that end up incorporating NaNoWriMo into the story. You're supposed to write about what you know, and for most of November, the participants know nothing else. There should be an option to select 'NaNoWriMo Ouroboros Meta-Novel' in the genre section.)

But whilst I am not on the page, but I have found myself inside the story.

I'm still making it up as I go along. I have no idea what's going to happen next. I keep setting up cliffhangers for myself that I have to resolve.

This is not a good way to write anything.

What has made it all the more difficult is that my story seems to have turned into a mystery. It's difficult to write mystery stories when you don't know what's going to happen. You're supposed to start at the end and work backwards.

Instead, I've started leaving lots of clues. But I don't know what the clues are leading towards. I don't know what the solution is, or even if there is one.

What this means is that I have to try to piece together the clues at the same time as my characters do. I'm trying to work out secret codes and odd connections that don't have a resolution. I have to be the detective of my own story, trying to make sense of random nonsense.

What are the odds that I'll reach a satisfying conclusion? Not great.

Then again, aren't all writers really detectives?

No. They're not. They're writers.

***

I'm writing as I write this. That may seem tautologous. I just mean that I'm writing this blog post and my "novel" simultaneously.

(I haven't been consistent with my sceptical framing of "novel". Just so you know, I'm aware that it's a loooonnnng way from being anything close to a novel. If I ever use the term, it's just for a lack of synonyms. It's either that, or "wordslick".)

I should probably go back to it. I can't be wasting precious words here. Just to keep you interested, here's the last thing I wrote for it:

 

“Think of it as Die Hard in a Balloon,” he said, spilling his drink.

I'm disappointed in myself. And when I'm a ghost, I'll be disappointed outside myself, but about myself.

NaNoMateriaLo

I'm checking in again.

I...

Hang on, I've forgotten what I wrote last time. I'd better re-read it, so I don't repeat myself. I'll be back in a second.

***

OK, I'm up to speed.

I'm still writing. It's still the same. I don't know if I'm enjoying it, but at least I'm doing it. Of course, I'm only a third of the way through it. I'm sure I'll hit the wall at some point, and will come back here to vent my frustrations.

The main problem with NaNoWriming is that I have no time for anything else. It's not like my schedule is usually chock full of incident, but even by my standards, I have little to tell you about.

Have I worked out any interesting theories about stuff? No.

Have I cut myself shuving? No.

Was I mistaken for Clive Owen? Well, yes. But that's only because his grandmother is blind. I claimed to have a cold! She gave me lots of money, and then I ran off. He'll never know. Take that, Clive.

In addition to my pretending to be Clive Owen and trying to write a novel, I have two stand-up gigs to prepare for. One is in Oxford, one is in London.

I have no idea what I'm going to do. The Oxford gig is my usual one, so I feel I should come up with something new, or at least relatively new. And the London one? Should I fall back on old standards, or push the boundaries of comedy by making fun of Mitt Romney? I don't know.

I don't like to be ill prepared.

This month has far too much going on. November... And then there's Christmas to deal with! I wish I lived on a planet that didn't orbit the sun. That would solve everything.

Writing prose fiction has made me yearn for the simplicity of scriptwriting.

Nana Owen: You seem different somehow, Clivey.

Me: That's because I have a part in a film.

Nana Owen: Oh, that's nice! What's the role?

Me: It's the role where I tell you to SHUT UP.

Nana Owen: That doesn't sound very mainstream. You should be in one of those Twilight films. You'd be a good Frankingstein.

Me: Yes, I suppose I... Hang on a minute! Don't use your mind tricks on me, woman! Now where's that cheque?

You see? It truly is the noblest profession.

Here. Take this video. Hide it somewhere safe. Only watch it if you're being pursued by someone who wouldn't like it.

NaNoProbLemMo

I'm just checking in. I don't know who with. Myself, probably.

I've been writing. My NaNoWriMo "novel" is progressing at just about the right speed. I still don't really know what I'm writing about. Things just seem to happen and I have to go with it. I'm sure it's part of my subconscious insecurities - I feel that if I plan what I'm writing, I'll have no excuse when it doesn't work.

At the moment, I'm creating mysteries that I'll have to solve later, and am referring to interesting events that haven't been thought about. I can see it all collapsing in on itself in a couple of days.

I'm worried it will turn out like Lost, where I just pile meaningless incidents on top of each other and hope I can bluff my way out of it later.

At the moment, the story is called Neon Tiny Fires. Why? I don't know. It sounds like a bad band name.

Here's a short extract:

“It will come as no surprise to you that-YARGHHH!”

There. Remember, I'm not editing anything, I'm just writing. Quality control is not welcome here.

I've written 7224 words so far. The most fun thing about doing this has nothing to do with creativity or hard work. It's all about the statistics. You can enter your word count, and get all kinds of stats about how well you're doing, what your average word count is, and how long it will take you to finish. There's even a graph!

I don't care about writing - I only care about getting my average up. Which is the idea, I suppose.

This is probably of no interest to anyone.

So, here's Something Of Interest To Everyone:

We saw some fireworks on Saturday, and got muddy. Then we had burritos.

Thus ends this week's edition of Something Of Interest To Everyone.

***

I shouldn't be wasting my words here. What if I run out at a crucial moment? I might have to start using numbers instead.

I'll end on a joke.

What's the difference between Mitt Romney and a kettle?

One boils water, and the other one... waters... boils...

Vote.