bee feast

Bless Sensible, providing me with new music. I now have more Magnetic Fields stuff than anyone could possibly need, including one lovely track which plays over the end of a particularly stunning Shield episode. Music makes such a difference to things. It's odd to feel now that I've said everything I ever wanted to say about it. I don't think I actually have, but I did get a bit sick of the sound of my own voice on the subject. Most of the nausea was probably to do with the surrounding nonsense, admittedly. I was fed up of what I was bouncing my opinions off, what they were used for. Every writer has to get used to the idea of being a lowly space-filler for hire, and I didn't mind in all honesty, but there has to be a hint of an inkling of a spark of something More. That was what eventually went.

A really great writer who I admired a lot replied to a slightly lost little email of mine with a big rant about how I had to keep going, that I had "a duty to the righteous" to carry on. It was brilliant, but the trouble was that all this righteousness and duty and fire and ire was all contained in places like writers' emails to each other. There was no place for it in the frightened little encampments of the mags.

I suppose there was a bit of "if a velvet-swagged gold-embossed opinion of magnificently disproportionate value to the thing it's an opinion of falls in the woods, does it make a sound?", like thoughts only existed if you put them down and published them after tossing them about in an office or a pub. It's true that to really write and really get something out you need to mix with your own breed of colourful brainy mutt, chew on the same bones, growl eloquently at each other. I do miss it to an extent. But then I ran with the old grumpy enclosed lot rather than my own new naive happy lot, and all that bitter lamenting may be great and righteous but it runs you down in the end.

I remembered today my lift encounter at the Last Mag with a particular oik of a web hack, with whom I'd had a massive online fight at the Website some months previously. He had accused me of, heh, heh, being on my period. I accused him of going bald. It degenerated into some ridiculous drawn-out exchange, which each of us was copying our colleagues and bosses on, wherein he would take me to task at great length and I ended up quoting all of his argument in my reply and then saying something about baldness. There's no reasoning with some people.

And furthermore, nyer nyer nyer nyer, and you said this and that just shows how truly tragic and worthless you are and if only I could get away with calling you a silly bitch, but I'm too middle-class for that and think that I'm somehow above it although at least that would be an honest representation of my feelings. You cannot write and you do not know what you are wittering on about. My contempt for you knows no bounds, etc etc.

Baldy.

Nyer nyer nyer rant rant rant smarm smarm smarm.

Bald.

Hur hur hur. Still, I'd been quite stung by him - I'm pathetically porous and must take on every little prick that steps up to me even at intellectual knee-level. Intellect is a healthy horse, but emotion is a big mad ox and you cannot stop her once she decides to steam off somewhere.

So I went to the first editorial meeting at the Last Mag, and met a studenty bloke at the door. He was fumbling with the door wondering if he'd been buzzed in or not, so I pushed it and held it open for him. He seemed excessively nervous. I asked which floor he wanted at the lift. Fifth floor. Ah, I said, so you're here for the Last Mag meeting? Mmm. We got into the small lift and turned to face the closing doors. I'm Bee. What's your name?

"Mumblemurfle."

"Sorry?"

". . .Simon Scrofula."

"Simon Scrofula??"

The doors hissed shut.

I might even have rubbed my hands and said "Well, well, well". Such a rush to be towering over this deeply uncomfortable creature who had only felt able to attack me from a safe distance. I acknowledged the pettiness of this about, ooh, an hour later but in the meantime I revelled in his squirming like. . .there's no comparison of what that's like.

We went into the meeting room, me grinning like a bastard, him receding further into himself from his initial awkwardness, hands in pockets, shuffling and shrinking. We both had to stand because all the seats were taken by hungry, idealistic fools. The air was full of journalistic zeal and snotty unapologetic cool - for many of them it was the last gasp of it, the final flip to try and grab back their own essential writerly nature by way of this new and unashamedly wordy outlet. I'd already decided it would be my own last go, and if this thing that seemed like what I'd always wanted didn't work, then I would find something else to do with myself. It did seem like we'd be safe, but alas, it went to hell in the most hilarious handcart within months and then wheezed to a bland and predictable demise not long after, taking quite a few people's livelihoods and a shitload of, well, dreams with it. I'd extricated myself before that, though, and so had my friends who had either bailed out or got needlessly sacked.

This was what used to matter everything to me. It's like another universe now. I realised that if quality niche writing is what matters the most to you, you will get - not even chewed up and spat out, just dissolved in bile. So I sloped off, and try as I might, I can't regret it.

Still got to have a bit of bile, though, just like you need at least some fat in your diet. Heh heh. Bless my clients for providing me with the spur to somma dat good shit. Shoesize was back on the phone today wondering where his edit/appraisal was. I got on with it and quickly realised that he'd taken hardly any of my advice from before. He has convinced me that writing talent is innate, genetic; nothing anyone could teach him, even if he were prepared to listen, would make the essential difference that would make his work work. It's terrible, the consistency of the self-arguments:

Good writer

My stuff is shit. It's always been shit. Shitty fucking shit. And there's nothing I can do. Don't look at it. It's too shit. It's like the Medusa of shit. If you look at it you'll turn to shit. Shit with snakes for hair. Shit looks good compared to this. Go to a public toilet and read the shit rather than this. Shit shit shittery. I need a drink. No, alone, alone, I must be alone. Don't touch me. Don't come near me. I'm so shit. Ohhhhhhhhhh.

Bad writer

So, is this just great, quite great, rather great, or entirely great?

But hey, it's not my job to point out the massive overshadowing problem, only the little dinky flaws within it. I just shovel that there manure. Garnish it with the odd sprig of fresh parsley. I would very much like to be an editor proper, I think I'd be firm but fair. Only some latent yes-I-was-bullied-at-school-you-fucking-berk Hitler complex might come to the fore and make me into some kind of. . .no, I can't, the thought is too arousing.

One disadvantage of working at home - I have no reason to prettify myself. Doesn't seem worth it just to feel slightly better when I catch sight of myself in the mirror, but perhaps it is. Small goods. Make an effort for yourself. At least I can be bothered to get dressed. That really is the bottom line.

That and y'know, washing. Even if the dog would love me more if I didn't.

I must get a camera. No poignant minutiae will be safe!

Simon Scrofula vanished from the editorial meeting and was not seen in the pub afterwards, nor were his musings published in the Last Mag. He was last known to be. . .oh, who cares.