Do something that terrifies you 2 - this time it's literary

Last week I wrote a post about doing things that were out of your comfort zone. Taking risks, doing things to which you were unaccustomed. And I wrote this in the final paragraph:

Onto the next challenge. There's something else I'm thinking of doing in November that quite frankly scares the bejeesus out of me.

Since then I've been asked about this mysterious challenge by quite literally no people at all. Thanks. It's nice to be loved. Very well then, here we go.

Is it possible to write a an entire novel from scratch, all 50,000 words of it, in a single month? While doing the normal 'having a job and trying to live a normal life' stuff? I'm not sure, but I'm thinking I'd like to know.

For the last few Novembers I've done something called NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month. Throughout the month you commit to write a brand new blog post every single day. It's quite a challenge; you need to think about something to write and find the time to write it every day. But this year I knew I would be struggling. The posts haven't exactly been coming thick and fast, have they?

So I had an epiphany. Why not just have one great big stonking idea and concentrate on that instead?

I know. If I do this I suspect we'll be looking back on that statement with laughter in the weeks to come.

NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month and, during November, about 250,000 amateur writers worldwide commit to write a novel from scratch. The rules are quite simple. You can't start until 1 November. You must finish by midnight on 30 November. And you must write 50,000 words. That's actually quite short for a novel (anything under 40,000 is a novella, whatever one of those is), but still, it's quite a task.Just to give you an idea, you get about 250-300 words on a side of A4.

If I do this, I have to write 1,667 words every day. And just typing any old rubbish won't do. It really needs to have characters, a setting, plot, points of view, dialogue, etc. Typing the word 'Dust' 50,000 times really won't do, although it might get me into the Booker shortlist for 2012.

This is, without a doubt, one of the most stupid ideas I've ever had. And trust me, I've had a few. The helicopter-based challenge TV show set in Jerusalem, called 'Challenge Hannukkah' being just one.

But I think we can safely agree that I'm not one for physical effort. I can't climb mountains. I certainly don't do marathons. But writing? It's at least in the same postal district as my comfort zone. Hey, maybe I can even get people to sponsor me to do it and raise some cash for a good cause? You know, pledge cash and get a dedication, pay a certain amount and get a character named after you, that sort of thing.

But I'm still not certain. It's acually quite scary. Katie has been supportive. I mean, having me locked away in the spare room for a big chunk of next month is no laughing matter. But she hasn't said no, which I'm taking as support.

I need some opinions, people. Is this a silly idea? Should I just get it out of my system? Something you would support? Would you want to see the end result? (It would not be pretty - first drafts never are.)

Whaddaya think, loyal readers? The comment box is just there. Ahem.

Do something that terrifies you

I have a comfort zone the size of a pretty substantial town.  I must have, I'm very rarely out of it. Just about the only time I get a sense of fear nowadays is when I'm opening bank statements.

And I think most people could say the same. These days we very rarely have to face down the sabre-toothed tiger or fight off woolly mammoths on the rampage.  We're rather more comfortable. We have central-heating and sofas. Nothing there too scarey, everything just-so.

To get the adrenaline pumping, some people seek out danger. They throw themselves out of perfectly serviceable aircraft.  They might confront sharks in the wild.  Or they could order a doner kebab from that dodgy place on the High Street, prepared by a bloke with a suspiciously shiny complexion.

That's not really my approach. Well, the kebab is an option, but generally I leave the life-threatening activities to others. I have dabbled with physical activity, of course, but met with limited success. So if I need to step out of my comfort zone I'll have to do other things that terrify me.

That's why I was to be found earlier this week singing in an upstairs room with a bunch of strangers. I know. Me, singing.  I don't quite beleive it myself.  While I can hold a tune to a degree, my range is somewhat limited. It's not what you might call a pretty noise. But, my friend Rebecca (she of the breast pump) is a professional vocal coach and when she said she wanted to form a community choir, I was interested. She promised that we wouldn't have to sing anything you would  normally hear in a church.

I used to sing in a choir at school, ohmygod-number-of-years ago. We were blessed with an unconventional music teacher who realised that trying to get 17-year-old boys interested in Bach and Handel was going to be an uphill struggle, so the choir would do Queen numbers instead. We were enthusiastic. We sounded pretty good.

When I asked Rebecca, "I think my voice may be a little low.  Is there a place for me?" she said yes, I could just be the rumbling bottom.

I think that was deliberate on her part. My interest was piqued.

So on Monday I was gathered up with about 20 other people. There were only four males, one of whom hadn't actually intended to sing, only having come to drop his daughter off. My rumbling bottom was clearly going to be needed.

But I was still nervous about the whole endeavour.  What if I opened my mouth and a horrible noise came out? Would people point and stare, bewildered by my bullfrog call?

Actually, no. It was quite fun. Many of us had never sang out loud in public. But, with gentle coaxing from Rebecca, we managed to not completely ruin the song. It sounded quite good, to be honest.

It turned out that quite a few people wanted to fight their own personal sabre-toothed tigers that night.
So, comfort zone well and truly expanded. Onto the next challenge. There's something else I'm thinking of doing in November that quite frankly scares the bejeesus out of me. But that's the topic for a new post. Watch this space.

Age-related benefits

I know that "Age is just a number" sounds like one of those awful motivational phrases touted by colossally dull people. But I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that they may have a point.

Today we celebrated the 93rd birthday of Katie's grandmother. Lunch in a pub was the order of the day and I was placed next to the celebrant in question. She's really quite remarkable.

Maud is not quite what you would expect from someone ploughing relentlessly through their tenth decade. OK, so the body may not be as strong as it once was - she's not so steady on her feet these days - but in all other respects she's as sharp as a die. Unexpectedly so.

Somehow the conversation got round to money and she leant over to tell me how she remembered the Depression. No, not the ersatz one we've been going through since 2007. Not even the one we all shoulder-padded around in the '80s.

The Depression. The one with the capital D.

She told us about the Wall Street Crash of 1929, people losing their savings, jumping off skyscrapers, the whole shebang. It was still a vivid memory to her. (And yes, I'm well aware that there aren't that many skyscrapers in Stourbridge, but we must assume that Pathe News was doing its job at the time.)

And in a Black Country accent you could use to cut Brierley Hill crystal, she commented: "And it was all the fault of the banks. The bastards. You're better off keeping your money down your draws."

The rest of her family are clearly accustomed to Maud's pronouncements. But for me it was very nearly a gravy-out-of-the-nose moment. She returned to her chicken in a cheese sauce.

A few minutes later and the rest of us were talking about something else. Maud announced, apropos of nothing: "You know, it's possible to walk around in my garden in the nude, and no-one would see you."

I have no idea where that came from.

Then, as we were coming to the end of the meal, my mother-in-law ordered coffee. "I should warn you," said Katie's uncle, "the coffee here isn't great." He was right. It was an insipid beige liquid. To misquote Douglas Adams, it was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike coffee.

Or, to accurately quote my grand-mother-in-law: "That looks like a bowl of camel piss."

I know where Katie gets it from.

Indian summer 1 - English fashion sense 0

I'm not entirely sure how  to react to the unseasonable weather. More worryingly, a lot of wardrobes appear to be having the same problem.

Normally, by the beginning of October we're plummeting headlong towards Autumn. It's one of my favourite times of the year. Mainly dry, but cold. You can put on a sturdy coat and boots and go tramping through the fallen leaves, if you wish. Or, if you're like me, watch the mists and mellow fruitfulness through double glazing, preferably with soup nearby.

So the fact that we're seeing temperatures approaching 30 degrees is a bit of a shocker.

I mustn't grumble, however. It's quite nice. The other night I drove home towards a spectacular orange and red sunset. I sat there, gazing in wonder at the palette of colours, the sky a perfect unblemished bowl above my head, graduating to navy, purple and black.  I thought how insignificant I was.

Mind you, I also thought that the previous week, and it was raining.

But as I've been dusting off the air-conditioning unit in the bedroom, so have my fellow citizens been doing the same to their wardrobes. And I'm sorry to say this, but we're not very good at dressing for warm weather, are we?

This was brought home to me in no uncertain terms as I was out and about this morning, performing various chores. I won't bore you with the details, as you would find them, well, boring, but suffice it to say I was brought into close contact with many examples of the Englishman In Heat.

I say 'Englishman', because ladies seem to be pretty good at this sort of thing. Good choice of fabric, nice floaty items, it just seems natural. But us chaps? No, we're pretty hopeless. It's not for me to pretend to be some sort of fashion guru. My hot weather outfit is essentially the same as my cold-weather outfit, just without a coat. But there were some deeply disturbing sights out there today.

I saw men who had clearly raided their summer beach holiday wardrobe. Pale white legs poked bravely from under wackily-designed shorts. Fine if you're a 20-something surfer, heading out to hang ten off Malibu. Not so appropriate for the queue at Acocks Green post office.

I observed a number of bare-chested gentlemen. This is not a good look. Pigeon-chested, bony-ribbed, beer-bellies, lobster sunburn, dodgy tatoos, the whole gamut of guts was on display. And I hate to be a social commentator, but there's nothing that says "I'm not in regular contact with the mothers of my children" quite like a bare chest, baseball cap and shellsuit trousers, is there?

An attack of the shudders was brought on by the sight of sandals worn over socks. This is beyond cliche, men of England.

They have the right idea overseas. On those occasions when I've been in hot countries during the Summer, the locals put us visitors to shame. We'll be there in rather too much manmade fabric. T-shirts with designs paying tribute to surf clubs that don't exist. Those thongy flip-flop sandal things, in which I maintain it is impossible for any grown man to have any semblance of dignity. I include myself in this number. Forgive me, I know no better.

But then we'll be shown up by the waiter at the bar, the taxi-driver, the local business-man on his way to the office. They cope so much better than we do; OK, they're acclimatised, it's in their culture. But they do linen trousers in M&S, you know.

So while it's great that we have this one last hurrah for the summer, there's a part of me that can't wait for the colder winds to start blowing. After all, I've got a lovely coat that has a few more winters left in it.

The lost art of tutting

As a race we English used to be so good at expressing mild discontent. But it's something we no longer seem to do very well. For our own sakes, we need to regain the tut.

There was an almighty wailing and gnashing of teeth to be heard all over the world last Wednesday. People were upset, and in many cases genuinely angry. And what was the cause of this disquiet? Was it yet another phase of the economic cycle queuing up to kick us all in our collective backsides? Was there some natural tragedy that had unleashed terrific forces against humankind? Was Justin Bieber going to make good his promised threat of a world-wide tour? What was it that was causing everyone to be so pissed-off?

Facebook had made some changes.

That's right. A website that we're not obliged to visit, that costs us the square-root of bugger-all to use, had changed the way in which it operated, causing literally minutes of re-adjustment.

I'll admit, I think some of the changes weren't exactly well thought-out. I'm a fair believer in the "Not Broke, Don't Fix" philosophy myself, and I quite liked the simplicity of having all news updates in reverse chronological order with no faffing. That ticker at the top right, that tells me about people I know liking comments about people I don't know on the threads of other people I don't know? That's annoying.

But to see the fury being directed at the Facebook corporation, you'd have thought Mark Zuckerberg had been caught impaling babies on spikes. It wasn't really measured. A roll of the eyes and a 'tut' would probably have sufficed.

On Thursday it was the funeral for a friend and colleague of mine. He was about my age, with a wife and two great teenage kids. Lots of friends, in and out of work. A genuine man, funny, hard-working and good to be around. The world is a poorer place for his passing. And as I think about his friends and family coming to terms with their loss, it occurs to me that we need to be a little more healthy with how we deal with bad news.

Changes to a website really don't amount to much. You have the right to be annoyed when things don't turn out your way. But if you go all out; if you express the most extreme of emotion - often violently - for something like that, how on earth are you going to be able to cope when something really bad happens?

Save the strong emotion - be it outrage, anger or grief - for when it's genuinely needed. We need to re-introduce the good old-fashioned 'tut' for everything else.

Turning around

On the table in front of me there's a tiny slip of paper. On it are printed the words "Your life will be happy and peaceful." Underneath there's something in Chinese script. For all I know, it could be saying "Your mother sells whelks in Hull."

I think I'll go with the English language version. Fortune cookie messages aren't to be ignored, especially when they're broadly optimistic. A little positivity shouldn't go amiss. And if there's the right day to be writing that last sentence, I think it's today.

The fortune cookie came from the Chinese takeaway we had at Brother No.1's house last night, after spending some time playing with my niece, who is now walking and officially Into Everything. She also knows how to say "apple". Nothing else, just "apple". She'll either be a nutritionist or a fan of over-priced but incredibly-attractive computer equipment when she's older.

Just to bring the tone down a little for those of you out there with your kids. Your child is not as cute as my niece. Don't worry. Simply accept it, move on and learn to live with this inalienable fact.

So why am I obsessing over a fortune cookie message? Over the last few days there had been a few setbacks. I'd been busy. The regular worries were getting more, well, regular. And, for that matter, worrisome. I'd been getting a little grumpy. Down in the dumps. The black dog didn't exactly have its paws on my shoulders, but I could hear it snuffling about in the leaves outside. I'd been thinking it wasn't worth bothering going back to writing class when it started once more this week. When all's said and done, what would be the point?

The point is this. "Happy and peaceful" doesn't come about if you sit and wait. Happiness is rarely an accident. Our American cousins even go in pursuit of it, which I always used to think was a little overly-aggressive, but I suppose as long as humane traps are involved, I'm relaxed.

Go and spend some time with a 15-month-old. Accept some help from friends. When the email from your writing tutor comes through, reply to it (only don't do three re-writes like I did). Take some time out. Seek out comfort. Get your house filled with the smell of baking bread and spiced curry lentil soup. Jump up and kiss your wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/family pet. When they ask what that was for, say, "Nothing. Now be careful." Do things that scare you. Sign up for that community choir your friend the singing teacher wants to set up. Just write random rubbish on the Internet if that floats your boat.

You may find, turning around, that things were never that bad in the first place. And that fortune cookies sometimes speak a lot of common sense.

I won't let it change me

I somehow thought it would be a little different. My letterbox would rattle unexpectedly, and there on the doormat would be lying an auspicious envelope.

I'm not completely sure how a simple item of stationery can be seen as auspicious, but there you go.

I imagined I would rip it open with fevered fingers and excitedly scan its contents. There would be a letter - probably with nice a gold-block letterhead from a publishing house - a statement and, last but not least, a cheque.

The amount on the cheque would be almost unimportant. As long as it clearly comes from a publisher and has the word 'Royalties' stamped across it in large letters - red would be a nice idea - that would do the trick.

I'd be able to take it to the bank and smile in a way that I thought was nonchalant as I handed it over to the cashier. She (for it would have to be a she) would look up at me, doe-eyed.

"Oh, this?" I'd say. "It's just a royalty payment from sales of my book."

Did I mention I'd had a book published?

Ahem.

This was not how it happened. In fact, the reality was a little more...real. I received an email. For once this wasn't coming from a stranger seeking to part me from my hard-earned. In fact, it was telling me that some money was, for once, coming my way. And no Nigerian princes were to be involved.

"Here is your royalty payment for sales from 31 July," it said. This was indeed a thrilling moment. i had earned money - real money - from the sweat of my brow. I could now hold my head high alongside the Hemingways, the Wildes, the Tolkiens of this world.

I'm aware I've chosen three dead writers there. Bear with me.

My excitement was only marginally lessened when I noticed that the total amount due to me was £3.56. Probably best that it didn't come as a cheque. I don't think I'd be impressing many bank cashiers, somehow.

But there are wider effects. As my publisher is based in the States, they withheld something like $1.00 as tax. I like to think that somewhere in Idaho a Federal employee has been able to buy some replacement staples for the office as a direct result of my writing. Enjoy your staples, unknown filing clerk. You're welcome.

Now then, if anyone out there hasn't bought a copy, perhaps you can oblige. Who knows? Perhaps we can raise enough to buy that person a stapler?