|Jenny Hill||Aug 1, 2019|
Hello from the edge-land of a small town in Yorkshire where I am wrapping up changes to a website I made for my ex-employers because they are good people and I owe them nothing.
Is it possible to write about writing without complaint? No, not for me, not this week. Mood is from this week’s daily writing practice, a place where I give myself room to avoid working on my third unfinished novel, and indulge any passing interest or, well, mood. Next time in writing exercises, the dying art of the hand-job as evidenced in almost every tv show released this season and last. Not really, but sex sells, even when the behaviour alluded to is guaranteed to be a turn-off.
And I’m out. Birds to feed, product photo’s to take for Instagram (I take them with an iPhone and high-key the shit out of them), and there’s lunch to make from a courgette, carrots and an orange, or, I could walk down to Aldi.
Mood. If I told you I left on time for a networking, brunch affair, realised I’d forgotten my phone and wallet, turned around, couldn’t find the wallet, searched for a minute which felt like ten, then, locking the door, a slip, bounced my phone off the concrete step shattering the screen, I think you’d agree, vexing. And now I was late, Lizzo-amped vibe evaporating, poof, gone, like the phone.
I thought about not going. Got back in the car. Sat at the end of the road and waited for the traffic flow to break long enough to turn right, across lanes. Tictoc. A sign? Not too late, the better drivers of the A59 slowed enough to let me out.
This is smart, I thought. Hum, hum, hair toss, parked up, checked my nails, not too chewed, baby how you doin’? As the juice flows.