Clearly.
by phill
Skype is pretty cool. I’ve become addicted to sitting up late having chats to whoever is online at the time. The only criticism I have with it is that I can’t seem to find an option to turn off constant receiving by the microphone, such that I have to push a button for it to receive my voice. So whoever I’m talking to gets random comments inserted by my housemates about my virility and state of undress. If anyone would like a chat (and believe me, I can chat with a vengeance) my username on there is ‘phill.english’ (original, I know).
In between skyping and finally becoming vaguely addicted to the wonders of youtube (I say vaguely because there’s really nothing there for me except for the ‘SF2 dancer vs. baby’ video clip, which is the Mt. Everest of comedy; rarely scaled and inimitable in its splendour) I have been writing a little bit. ‘Trolleys’ — which is the working title that replaced the previously used ’435 grams of beef’ — is now very close to 10,000 words and a switch in perspective. The latter fact is something I am afraid of, as it’s not something I generally practise in my writing, so I’m sceptical as to whether or not I can pull it off. I hope I can, or Jim may be stuck in stasis for a while.
I have also contacted and had some positive response from a young man in Canada who I wish to produce a graphic novel with, which is very exciting for me, given my addiction to the things in the past. I had a coffee-induced brainstorm the other night while waiting for the girl to get back from work, and came up with what I think is a good plotline for his character (a large, pale, four-armed, hairless, slightly pear-shaped giant). I have yet to hear back from him after submitting the storyline notes, so fingers crossed he bites.
Also prevalent in my mind is producing a new story, or cleaning up an old one for submission into the John Marsden short story competition for 2007. It comes with a $2,500 first prize, the digits of which would look just swell if they were combined with those of my current bank account. The unfortunate fact of the John Marsden prize, when looking back at the winning entries from previous years, is that they tend to be very descriptive, to the point of being almost poetic. Poetic isn’t something I do particularly well, though perhaps this might be incentive enough to get me thinking of some sweeping similes. And if I can’t think of any, I can always enter ‘Toilet Paper’, for the fun of it.
In any case, it’s time for me to finish up a presentation for the NRI group meeting tomorrow. Woo.
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