Skip to main content

I write every day about living with bipolar disorder, also known as manic depression. I've written and published more than 1.3 million words

twitter.com/ManicGrant

nick@manicgrant.com

facebook.com/manicgrant

 

Writing my Third Novel #NaNoWriMo18

3 min read

This is a story about traditions...

Tapping away at the keyboard

Writing my first novel without the competing demands of a full-time job and a blog, was an incredible experience. I had a great deal of help from my girlfriend and my guardian angel, who patiently read my daily efforts and offered a lot of support and encouragement, so that I could complete the project. I had friends and my regular readers following the progress of my draft manuscript as I publicly published it. It was a dream writing project.

I was overconfident for my second novel. I thought that I would easily repeat my achievement, so I set myself a very ambitious challenge. I was somewhat carried away with the notion that I'm a good writer and as such I expected myself to be able to churn out high quality prose with ease. I thought an excellent novel would flow straight onto the page with little or no effort.

I persevered with that second novel for 42,000 words before finally abandoning the project, because it wasn't going to be finished by 30 November, in time to win NaNoWriMo and I was deeply unhappy with what I'd written. I'm quite a perfectionist, but what I'd written was truly abysmal in and in dire need of some serious editing. It embarrassed me that my bad writing was on public display.

My blog writing has become an ingrained habit. I have no difficulty producing an average of 1,200 words per day for this website.

What I hadn't realised is how important it is for me to be able to express myself every day on my blog. I need this outlet. By the end of 30 days - because I'd decided to stop blogging temporarily - I missed my blog so badly I felt like I was dying of heartbreak.

So, this year I'm writing my new novel in private, although I'll share a link with you if you ask nicely. I'm writing without worrying about making my efforts fit for publication. I'm writing for the sheer enjoyment of crafting a story, without worrying about what the public think about it. When I'm finished, if I'm pleased with it then I'll edit it and think about publishing it, but for now it's my own private project.

I've written 1,653 words so far and I'll probably keep you posted about my progress from time to time, because I'm excited about the project and I'm enjoying myself a lot. It's nice not to have the pressure I had last year, even though this is the first year where I'm also working a full-time job and writing my daily blog at the same time, which is quite demanding.

I've picked a story which is allowing me to have a lot of fun. I've abandoned all the restrictions I placed upon myself the previous two years. I'm not worrying about whether or not I'm writing good fiction at this stage... I'm just writing the novel that I want to write. I have complete artistic freedom and I love it.

Having written over 2,000 words today, I'm going to wrap up this shorter-than-usual blog post, feeling like I've done a good day's work.

 

Tags:

 

#NaNoWriMo 2017: Day Twenty-Two – High Dependency

1 min read

Purdy flower

3,390 words written today... I'm clawing my way back. 2,149 behind, but I might be able to make up some of that ground later on before I go to sleep, given that the next chapter should pretty much write itself.

https://medium.com/high-dependency/nanowrimo-2017-day-twenty-two-41f135d6f682

 

#NaNoWriMo 2017: Day Twenty-One – High Dependency

1 min read

Corn ear

Things I don't reccommend: writing a book in a month without a plan, while live-publishing the draft manuscript.

https://medium.com/high-dependency/nanowrimo-2017-day-twenty-one-81d99267e13e

 

#NaNoWriMo 2017: Day Twenty – High Dependency

1 min read

Yet another pretty flower

An unorthodox chapter but it's given me the format for the rest of the book - I've got most of it planned out now. Hopefully I've overcome the dreadful "oh shit what now" moment that was always bound to happen as I flew by the seat of my pants.

https://medium.com/high-dependency/nanowrimo-2017-day-twenty-6c330a6d1de2

 

#NaNoWriMo 2017: Day Nineteen – High Dependency

1 min read

Another pretty flower

Clawing my way back. I was having a really bad case of writer's block. Totally hit the wall at the 30,000 word mark. Damn.

https://medium.com/high-dependency/nanowrimo-2017-day-nineteen-2ef6b4d2e114

 

#NaNoWriMo 2017: Day Eighteen – High Dependency

1 min read

Pretty flower

Having some problems posting links on my website. I am still writing. Here's chapter 18:

https://medium.com/high-dependency/nanowrimo-2017-day-eighteen-7f3e582cc89e

 

Novelist

5 min read

This is a story about editing...

Poste Restante Novel

I decided to re-read my first novel. It surprised me just how well it starts - I was prepared to cringe with embarrassment at something that had not stood the test of time well, but it was OK. Later in the book, I fumbled with a couple of things - perhaps I was hurriedly bashing out a chapter, without a clear plan of how the scene should unfold. Towards the end of the book, there was a glaring error that was due purely to a lack of research: I had been a little lazy. The ending tried very hard to be enigmatic, but I imagine that it would have been confusing for many readers, and a little underwhelming.

Wouldn't it be arrogant to assume that I would be able to sit down one day and pen a good novel? Of course my first full-length story was going to be a learning exercise, and I was going to make mistakes. All I had was the first scene, the general plot outline and a twist - I had no idea how I was going to end the story. Writing dialogue is not something I'd done a lot of, so I had to develop that skill as I went along. I would spend quite a long time trying to remember what I had and hadn't told the reader, so that I wouldn't contradict myself or spoil the surprises I had planned. As a learning exercise, it was brilliant.

As November 1st approaches, I'm getting increasingly excited about starting my second novel. My first book explored an individual, and the other characters were purely set dressing in a story which was about loneliness and isolation. My second book will study relationships; societies - my mind buzzes with ideas, because there's so much scope to play around with multiple actors in my new story.

The opening scene is very important, to set the tone for the rest of the story I'm telling. I keep adding little bits to the image I'm creating in my mind - it's so much more than an image. I think about the textures, the mood, the sounds and importantly, the smells. I want to make the book as much an olfactory experience as is possible to do without having to impregnate the pages with scratch-n-sniff chemicals.

It seems amateurish to break the fourth wall, and to be 'so meta' as to talk directly to you, the reader, about the process of writing a work of fiction. To have hijacked my blog to talk about my next book project, is an indication of just how overexcited I am about writing another novel, such that I can't quite contain myself. I'm terribly afraid that I'll be suddenly overwhelmed by the challenge when I start on Wednesday - the blank page in front of me will intimidate me, and I will be afraid to make the first mark.

As I did last year, I plan on publishing my first draft live, as I go along. I'm thinking that I might publish on medium.com this year, so that I'm sharing a popular writing platform with other authors who are partaking in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo 2017).

Many publishers will tell you to shove your manuscript up your arse, if you are foolish enough to tell them that you wrote it during NaNoWriMo. There's quite a glut of crappy unedited manuscripts that gather in the inboxes of literary agents, during December. Like people who join a gym straight after the Christmas holiday season, as a New Year's resolution, those fat unfit faces soon disappear as the year wears on. I know that if have serious intentions of becoming a bestselling author, I will need to become a better editor.

Like I did last year, I'm inviting edits, improvements and suggestions, as the new novel emerges from the depths of my imagination. It was immensely pleasurable, to have my friends trying to guess what was going to happen next, and to be then able to gauge whether the pace that I was telling the story was too fast, too slow, and whether the twist in my tale was too obvious or not.

I had a wonderful girlfriend and her incredibly supportive family, egging me on to complete my book last year. This year, I'm living with friends on a lovely peaceful farm in the Welsh countryside - the kind of environment which would leave most aspiring authors green with envy.

Completing the project - 53,000 words - was the name of the game last year. To actually finish a novel is very hard - many budding writers won't have the discipline to keep up the word count. The initial excitement and energy can quickly dissipate, to be replaced by a sense of dread, when one thinks about returning to the neglected manuscript. This is the brilliance of NaNoWriMo, which encourages you to finish the project within the month of November, and then worry about going back and editing the damn thing. As a completer-finisher, it suits my personality perfectly: what point is there in an unfinished book? Perfectionism will get you nowhere, if you never get to the point of publishing.

Tomorrow I have boring chores to do and I will write an ordinary blog post, which is a deliberate demarkation between "Nick the blogger" and "Nick the novelist". I'm thinking that I'm going to pause my blog, partly because I want to divert my readers to my draft manuscript, and partly because I don't think that I can context-switch between storytelling mode, and blogging mode.

I'm afraid to lose the comfort of writing my blog. I'm afraid that I'm going to fail. However, it's a really exciting time: I'm like a kid before Christmas.

The working title for my next novel is High Dependency.

 

Tags:

 

#NaNoWriMo2016 - Day One

10 min read

Background Info

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) takes place every November, when aspiring authors attempt to write a 50,000+ word novel within 30 days. This means averaging 1,667 words per day.

My 360 odd blog posts to date have averaged 1,246 words per day, so it shouldn't be too much of a stretch for me to write a bit more each day and achieve the goal. Plus, I have the support & encouragement of all the other authors who are taking part in this challenge.

Since leaving school, I have done very little creative writing, so a whole novel may be rather more difficult than I anticipate.

Hijacking my blog for the next 30 days seems unusual, but the general advice to authors is "write about what you know" so you may find that my novel is a natural extension of my blog, in actual fact.

Anyhoo, the working title of my novel is "Poste Restante" and without further ado, I shall begin .

 

Poste Restante

Contents

Chapter 1: The Caravan

Chapter 2: Invisible Illness

Chapter 3: The Forest

Chapter 4: Prosaic

Chapter 5: The Van

Chapter 6: Into the Unknown

Chapter 7: The Journey

Chapter 8: Infamy

Chapter 9: The Villages

Chapter 10: Waiting Room

Chapter 11: The Shadow People

Chapter 12: Enough Rope

Chapter 13: The Post Offices

Chapter 14: Unsuitable Friends

Chapter 15: The Chase

Chapter 16: Self Inflicted

Chapter 17: The Holiday

Chapter 18: Psychosis, Madness, Insanity and Lunacy

Chapter 19: The Hospitals

Chapter 20: Segmentation

Chapter 21: The Cell

Chapter 22: Wells of Silence

Chapter 23: The Box

Chapter 24: Jailbird

Chapter 25: The Scales

Chapter 26: Descent

Chapter 27: The Syringe

Chapter 28: Anonymity

Chapter 29: The Imposter

Chapter 30: Wish You Were Here

 

1. The Caravan

Neil's consciousness sparked back into existence. This was not like waking up, as if he had been dreaming. This was not like coming round after an operation in hospital, under general anaesthetic. It was much more akin to a sudden re-ignition of his brain activity, after head trauma, perhaps after being knocked out cold by a punch or a blow to the head with some other blunt object.

At first, Neil's mind was confused; everything was jumbled up. He could make no sense of what was going on. His thinking was cloudy; cognition impaired. Then, the blurry mess and unfamiliar shapes that had previously filled his field of vision now came into sharper focus. He started to see things in his surroundings that he could identify, even though he still didn't know where he was or why he was there.

Neil lay on a bed at one end of a caravan. The bed filled the width of the caravan and extended all the way to the bedroom door, which was wide open. At the opposite end of the caravan was a dining table, surrounded by a U-shaped bench of seating, with windows behind. The bench was upholstered with a pink floral pattern. The table had a wood veneer, although it was clearly made of chipboard, exposed around the edge. A small kitchenette was on one side and a toilet and shower cubicle on the other.

The interior of the caravan was not in good condition. Mildew stained everything. The ceiling had dark black patterns where the permanent dampness had allowed everything that was water permeable to fester in the moist atmosphere. The carpet, which seemed to have been some sort of dark maroon colour originally, was soggy and stained. Mud was trodden into the pile of the carpet around the entrance to the caravan. The carpet had started to rot and there were patches of blue furry mould growing in places. A lightly coloured textured wallpaper peeled away from the walls in places, revealing a layer of polystyrene insulation, as well as the glue behind, which had now turned an orangey-brown colour as it had aged and dried.

The bedroom windows were covered by navy blue curtains. These had been neatly stapled to the wall below and at the sides, so that little light could penetrate through each of the three windows at the bedroom end of the caravan. Where the curtains hung on the curtain rail, a small amount of light crept in and it was clear that it was daytime.

The other windows had been covered with self-adhesive opaque plastic, which allowed light into the caravan, but you could neither see in nor out. The plastic had been applied with little attention to detail: there were air bubbles and the edge had been cut rather raggedly, exposing some of the clear glass near the white plastic window frames. Paper masking tape had been applied around the edges of the windows, to cover the gaps between the plastic and the frame. The large window at the opposite end of the caravan from Neil had newspaper stapled above the curtain-less windows, draped down so that it covered two thirds of the window. On the left hand side, a bedsheet had been stapled above and at the side of the window. The staples were haphazardly placed and the sheet had folds and creases in it, hanging hopelessly from the wall, and no use as any kind of curtain. The staple-gun lay on the dining room table, abandoned.

In places, there had been small craters scraped crudely in the polystyrene insulation of the walls, so that the thin aluminium exterior skin of the caravan was exposed. In each of these craters in the wall, a hole had been punched through the aluminium. Beams of sunlight shone into the dingy interior of the caravan through the holes. These beams illuminated swirling mists of moisture within the caravan, almost like the silken threads of a spider's web, heavy with morning dew and shining in the sun.

Clothes were scattered throughout the caravan. Some were torn, others stretched or unusually knotted; all seemed ruined in some way. There was the debris of habitation: discarded food wrappers, dirty plates and cutlery on the floor. There were many other objects made of bits of broken plastic, rubber and string that seemed to be the twisted, mangled and knotted remains of other things that had been dismantled, torn, bent and otherwise manhandled to the point that they were no longer clearly identifiable as anything in particular. Things were strewn all over the floor, with no discernable pattern.

There were many containers distributed around the caravan: plastic bottles were filled with fluid in various hues of yellow and orange. Then there were mugs, saucepans, bowls and glasses that were filled with orangey-brown liquid. A glass on a shelf near Neil's bed had a layer of red at the bottom, then an opaque layer that was milky pale yellow and the topmost liquid - which filled the majority of the glass - was clear and brownish in colour.

After his sight, the second of Neil's senses that returned was his sense of smell. His nostrils were assaulted by a strongly pungent but not putrid smell. The smell was extremely unpleasant, but not so much so that it was causing Neil any feeling of nausea. The smell had a kind of nasty allure, like a strong ripe cheese. There was the smell of mould, damp and decay of soft furnishings, mingled with the smell of bodily odour, and distinctly a smell of urine. Sweat intermingled with the general dampness in the caravan and ran down the walls in droplets. The windows were completely misted up with condensed moisture. The cheap sponge of the upholstery and bed had soaked up a lot of this foulness. Clothing and bedding had also absorbed some of the humidity from the air.

Neil's memory of how he found himself in this position now slowly returned to him. Things made little sense to him. They had found him; they had surrounded him; they had been readying themselves to storm his little stronghold and they would tear him from the private surroundings which he had attempted to create for himself. They had antagonised him; they had spent an incredible amount of time making noises and assembling themselves for the onslaught; the invasion of Neil's privacy, now that they had found him. They had hidden in the shadows and attempted to remail unseen, but Neil had seen them: fleeting glimpses, as he looked out of the peepholes. Counter-espionage: they were spying on him, so he would spy back at them.

Neil had no idea what their motivation was. Why was he so relentlessly pursued? Why were they so voyeuristic, wanting to intrude on his private world? Why were they so childishly antagonising? Why did they tirelessly toy with him, so close, but waiting and waiting before they made their move? He was angry with them. Quite rightly too. He had gone to such incredible effort to create a bubble of privacy, far away from anybody he could possibly disturb, or who might happen upon him by accident. He was in such a remote hidden location. How could anybody have possibly taken offence at his presence?

His final memories before he blacked out were of a night filled with terror and blind panic as the people he had tried so hard to avoid and evade were now making their final advances. All the dim shapes he could make out in the surrounding gloom of the trees were of figures, coming towards the caravan. He could see the movement of people in the shadows that danced on the ceiling and walls of the caravan. He could hear twigs snapping underfoot as they were stepped on. He could hear the sound of bushes being brushed past and branches being bent to make way for the advancing horde.

He passed out. When he came round they were gone.

Tentatively, he started to try and sit up and make his way to one of his peep holes so he could look out, but he realised he had blacked out with his leg jammed awkwardly underneath himself. His foot had gone to sleep. Incredible pain swept through his leg as the blood started to flow again and the feeling came back into his numbed limb.

There was momentary relief as the pain in his leg subsided, but then he was flooded with pain from multiple parts of his body. His hips ached, many parts of his legs seemed bruised and swollen, his back and neck were very stiff and painful; his body was covered with cuts and grazes, especially his knees and elbows.

In agony, Neil managed to prop himself up by the nearest of the peep holes and pushed his face up against the wall so he could look out. He saw nothing. Just trees. Where had they gone?

How long had he been unconscious for? It had been night time when he had blacked out and now it was daytime, but there was no way of telling whether it was the next day, or the one after that. He had lost all sense of time: days and nights had blurred into one.

Neil had spent a long time, afraid to leave the caravan. How long, he couldn't be sure, but he knew that they had laid seige to him and now his situation was desperate. He was dying in that caravan. He was so thirsty. He was in a great deal of pain. It was clear that there was a lot of blood in his urine. He felt so weak. He really didn't want to confront his persecutors and he had hoped that they would act first so that he didn't have to make the decision. Now he was confronted with the dawning realisation that they had won. Surrender was his only option if he wanted to live.

He collapsed back onto the bed to contemplate his next move, not at all able or willing to fully comprehend the staggering unpleasantness of the situation he was in.

 

Next chapter...

 

The First Million Words You Write Are Your Worst

18 min read

This is a story about storytelling...

Cray supercomputer

Doing the sane and sensible thing when you're being driven insane is hard. I'm having to think creatively, in order to stick with a job that I hate because it's really easy and really boring, but it pays the bills and it's low stress (if you don't count the boredom that's driving me insane).

I was writing my blog at lunchtimes, to break up the day, but I found that took away the thing that I look forward to doing when I get home in the evening. I also found it frustrating, being at my desk during lunchtime, when people could wander over and distract me. The City is not a relaxing place for those on their lunchbreak. Crumbs on the keyboard is the best you can hope for.

So, I've decided to write short fictional stories once or twice a day, to fill the time. My blog is my therapist, patiently listening and never interrupting, while I pour my heart and soul out. My blog is where I work out all the mixed-up shit that happened in my life. My blog is a non-fiction record of who the hell I am and why I do what I do. My blog sets the record straight.

But, I need a creative outlet. Writing my blog is kinda creative, but there are certain needs that have to be met. If something is bugging me, or coming to the surface from my subconscious and memory banks, I've gotta get it out, I've got to put it into words and start to make sense of everything. Writing creatively is different. Writing creatively is scratching that itch that I never get to scratch, as a software developer or leader of software development teams. Software is a science at the end of the day, and for sure it's a black art, but it's important that I don't rely on my job for everything that I need.

And so, today, I wrote the first fiction that I have done in my adult life. I don't know why I've shied away from it. Perhaps it's because I had seen it as childish, juvenile. Perhaps it's because I was afraid that people would laugh. Perhaps it's because even I would laugh, when I read it back again in future. So, it seems sensible that I would hide behind humour, satire. It seems sensible that I would use elements of fantasy, rather than trying to write anything serious, earnest.

I don't do role play. I don't play Dungeons & Dragons. I don't do any kind of fantasy at all, and wearing the corporate mask the whole time is very draining. It's important to not take yourself too seriously sometimes. Wear fancy dress. Pretend to be somebody, something you're not, just so long as it's for fun. I don't really do fun. My life is very simple: work, sleep, eat, repeat... plus some blogging.

I'm not going to publish every one of my stories. In fact, until I know what to do with them, I'm unlikely to publish any of them. I'm going to publish the first one I wrote, in the vague hope that anybody's reading and might have some feedback, but until I find my particular sweet spot, I'm going to keep things mostly under wraps.

Anyhoo, if you've persevered reading this far, I shall cut to the chase and introduce the first short story I ever wrote in my adult life.

It's called The Sysadmin:

The users were scared.

 

The office expanded almost as far as the eye could see, with row upon row of birch veneer desks, in two large columns. The room was cleaved in half by a walkway running down the middle. The polystyrene ceiling tiles were dirty and many of them were broken. Fluorescent lighting bathed the room with a dim yellowish flickering illumination, which harshly lit the people and furnishings, whilst somehow not being bright enough to bring out the colour or definition of anything.

 

Identical swivel office chairs each had their own character, through the damage they had sustained. Some had broken backrests, some were missing armrests, some had their once colourful fabric, hanging frayed from the edges of the jagged black plastic that was designed to conceal stained foam and how cheaply made these pieces of furniture were. Each chair had indecipherable markings that identified it to its owner. Some had initials scratched into the plastic of the backrest using a sharp implement. Some had letters or symbols daubed onto them using Tipp-Ex correction fluid. Some had rectangular sticky labels that were half ripped off, with a name now longer legible, written in felt-tip pen.

 

The grey carpet was almost uniformly patterned with brown patches from spilled instant coffee, which had become so trodden into the floor covering that they were almost unnoticeable in the context of the shabby decay of the office. There was a stripe that was slightly browner, running down the walkway in-between the two columns of desks, that led to the coffee vending machine, water cooler, and a door marked “NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS”.

 

Clearly unnerved, but silently huddling together in the walkway and all looking towards the man who had just entered the office, the users were no longer at their desks. The users now stood wide-eyed, clustered in front of the man, but unsure what to say or do.

 

“Hi, I’m the system administrator” the man began. “Did somebody phone IT support?” he asked, addressing the group as a whole, unsure of who to direct his question towards.

 

The users mumbled to themselves almost inaudibly, but didn’t seem to be communicating with each other or the system administrator. They were nervous. Nobody wanted to speak up. Everybody knew, but nobody wanted to say.

 

The users mostly looked the same, men and women, despite subtle differences in appearance. The women wore flowery blouses in muted pastel shades, sensible flat shoes and rimless glasses. Their wavy hair was tamed by hair clips and cut to a uniform length somewhere above shoulder high. They were all overweight and with slightly reddish cheeks. They looked flustered.

 

One of the users spoke up. It was a man. You could tell he was a man, because he wore an off-white button-down shirt with a blue biro in the front pocket, like all the men. His shirt was wrinkled and half-untucked from his bulging waistline. His neck crumpled the soft collar, so that his head and body were just one bulging mass. There were coffee stains down his front and he had clearly wiped his hands on his trousers many times after eating. The hem of his stained trousers didn’t reach the top of his black scuffed shoes, and his white socks were showing.

 

“It.. it.. it’s the… the...” he stutteringly began.

 

The user looked around, with slightly wild eyes. He was desperately hoping that one of the other users would now speak up, but they all looked away and avoided his eye contact. Somehow, a gap had formed in the group around him, as if everyone had stepped away from him without anybody noticing. The user seemed to be attracting all of the inadequate light in the room. It was as if a spotlight had picked him out, and he now stood, floundering, all on his own.

 

“I.. I… I… I’m not in charge here” he continued.

 

“It’s OK, just tell me what’s going on.” said the system administrator.

 

“I didn’t do it. It’s not my fault. We were all here, just getting on with our work” he started to protest.

 

“Don’t worry, I’m not here to blame anybody. Just tell me what the problem is” the system administrator offered, as kindly as he could, putting on his most understanding and approachable face. “You can tell me” he said.

 

“It’s the… it’s the…” the user haltingly continued, struggling to get a handle on his rising sense of panic, almost choking. He felt a sense of responsibility that he was totally unused to.

 

“Please just tell me what the issue is. Somebody logged a call with IT support” the system administrator pleaded, now losing his patience.

 

“It’s the MAINFRAME” the user blurted out. There was a sharp intake of breath from all the other users, as the man spat out the final word, even though they all knew.

 

The system administrator rolled his eyes. “Really? What’s wrong with the mainframe?” he asked, as if a practical joke was being played on him. His face now betrayed a deep skepticism and the impression that his precious time was being wasted by a bunch of low-brow imbeciles.

 

“It’s angry” the user said. “Yes, it’s angry” many other users now quietly agreed, in defence of their colleague. “Angry” and “it got angry” they all muttered, not really addressing anybody except the room they were all stood in.

 

“Right, get back to your desks. I’ll take a look” the system administrator said. He stepped forward, having to push people out of the way, as clearly nobody was in any mood to return to their desks. The users were stood in a trance-like state, just muttering “angry” below their breath, and staring at the system administrator as he tried to pick his way through the crowd and make his way down the walkway in-between the two columns of desks, where all the users were still clustered.

 

Walking through the office, up to the door marked “NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS” the system administrator glanced back towards the group of users, who were still crowded together on the opposite side of the room, near the exit. They were all looking at him, in perfect silence and stillness.

 

Reaching for the door handle, the system administrator was about to twist it and enter the restricted area behind, but he hesitated, and instead put his ear to the door. It sounded like… footsteps. But these were not the footsteps of your average light-footed person. It sounded like deep thuds of metal and rubber on concrete. DUSH! DUSH! DUSH! Would come the thumps of heavy machinery hitting a solid floor in a slow rhythm, and then stop, and then repeat again.

 

In a moment of calm rational thought, the system administrator decided that perhaps one of the air conditioning units had failed, and the motors that drove it were now causing some kind of mechanical fault to create this racket. Immediately, he twisted the door handle and opened the door a fraction.

 

Inside the restricted area, it was dark. Almost pitch black. This was unusual. The restricted area should have been well lit.

 

The system administrator craned his head through the doorway. It looked as if the glass doors that allowed entry into the temperature controlled housing for the mainframe, were open. The doors should not have been open. The vibration absorbing shock mounts, that the mainframe sat on top of, were in the housing, but the mainframe was nowhere to be seen in the darkened room. The system administrator couldn’t see the whole room because he was just peeking in through the gap in the doorway. The thumping had stopped, and everything seemed eerily quiet. Where was the hum of the cooling fans and the chatter of the hard disk drives? Where was the bleep and crackle of the networking devices? Where were the blinking LED lights that signified the activity of the mainframe? It seemed like the restricted area was empty and lifeless.

 

Then, a gigantic shape lunged out of the darkness. A humongous black box, big enough to fill a quarter of the room, suddenly thumped forward out of the corner, where it had been previously unseen due to the poor lighting. DUSH! came an earsplitting sound, as metal crunched into the reinforced concrete floor. A sudden scattering of red lights lit up across the front of the object as it thrust towards the door where the system administrator stood.

 

Quick as a flash, the system administrator slammed the door shut and ran down the walkway in-between the desks. Almost scattering the statue-like users who were still milling around near the exit, he left the office. Just before the office exit door slammed shut behind him, the users heard him call back to them: “I think it’s hungry”.

 

The users appeared to wake up, and now a mild kind of panic spread amongst them. They started to talk amongst themselves, while also shooting nervous glances towards the door to the restricted area.

 

“Should we get out of here?” and “it’s dangerous, I don’t want to be in here when that thing escapes” they said to each other, in hushed tones. The users were quite calm in their indecisiveness. They mumbled to each other in low voices for several minutes, with no clear plan of action emerging.

 

Then, the system administrator threw open the office door again. He struggled, getting stuck in the doorway. In his arms were bundles of grey cables, like a great mass of tangled rope. The users cleared the gangway for him, but nobody stepped in to help him. Finally overcoming the obstruction, the system administrator burst through the doorway, and made his way to the restricted area door, while tripping up and dropping cables along the way. He dumped the tangled mess next to the “NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS” door, and then made several trips back up and down the walkway, picking up the cables he had dropped and adding them to the pile.

 

Grabbing handfuls of cables, and massaging them into a giant knot, the system administrator now took hold of the door handle in one hand, while holding the beach-ball sized lump under his other arm. With a single fluid motion, he flung open the door to the restricted area and threw the cables into the room.

 

The mainframe roared with a bloodcurdling mixture of computer fans that were spinning at maximum revolutions, hard disks that were clattering, network devices that were chattering and the screeching sound of the twisted metal of its frame. The front of the mainframe was an angry mess of red LED lights, that flashed furiously in the darkness. It lunged for the door, but the system administrator was too quick and slammed it shut, before diving to one side with his back flat against the wall, panting heavily.

 

There then followed a graunching, crunching, high-pitched sound of plastic being stripped, broken, and metal being bent and torn, and then the low hum of fans and hard disks spinning. There were a few thuds and crashes, as the mainframe stomped around, and then things went quiet again.

 

The system administrator repeated the procedure, of rolling up balls of cables and tossing them into the restricted area several times, before the pile was exhausted. The users watched nervously from the other end of the office the whole time, although they craned their necks in interest, trying to see what was going on.

 

There was a moment of calm when the pile was gone. The system administrator and the users momentarily relaxed. Perhaps the mainframe was satisfied?

 

Then, a roaring and stomping started, many times worse than it had been before. The speed of the steps was rapid, and it sounded like the mainframe was tearing the room apart.

 

The system administrator looked worried, then pensive, and then he appeared to have a eureka moment. He sprinted energetically towards the office exit, hardly breaking his stride as he flung the door open and disappeared. Just as the door was closing, he called back to the users: “I think it wants dessert”.

 

Some time went by, and the users were getting very nervous, as the mainframe set about destroying the restricted area. Several times, the door seemed to vibrate and rattle in its hinges, as if it was going to be blown wide open at any moment. The users started to back up against the opposite wall, trying to get as far away as possible, but still unwilling to leave the office.

 

At last, the system administrator returned. He strode into the office carrying a brown cardboard box of modest size. He walked down the walkway, looking back at the terrified users with a cheeky grin. With a twinkle in his eye he produced a flat object, about 4 inches square, from the cardboard box. “I think it’ll like these” he said.

 

The system administrator proceeded to slide floppy disks through the gap at the bottom of the door to the restricted area. The floppy disks came in various sizes. The bulk of them were 3 and a half inches, with a metal sliding part that protected the black plastic magnetic disk inside. A lot of them were 5 and a quarter inches, and had no metal protective part. The mainframe gave a grunt of approval each time that it was fed a disk, but its satisfaction was audibly less pronounced each time.

 

However, the system administrator had saved the best until last. Producing some 8 inch and 3 inch floppy disks from smaller white cardboard boxes that had been concealed in the bigger brown cardboard box, he now fed the mainframe these rare delicacies. It didn’t take many before the mainframe started to sound positively delighted, with a crescendo of modulated digital signals gracing everybody’s ears.

 

The system administrator disappeared into the restricted area, opening and closing the door quickly behind himself. Soon, soothing noises and words of encouragement could be just heard outside the room, and there were a few thud-like stomps, and then the sound of computer fans and hard disks whirring back into life. As he stepped out of the restricted area, the lights in the room were back on, the doors to the glass housing were closed and the mainframe was back on its anti-vibration mounting. The LED lights on the front of the machine flickered in ordered patterns, and a thick trunk of network cables that hung from the ceiling had all been plugged back into the gigantic black box.

 

As the “NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS” door closed behind the system administrator, hundreds of terminals blinked into life on the desks of the users. The office was now bathed in light from the computer screens that were displaying lines and lines of green text on a black background. The green glow seemed to soothe the nerve-jangled users, and they all went “aaahhh!” in unison, and started to slowly file back to their desks without prompting.

 

The system administrator ambled up the walkway for the last time that day. Most users were now seated back at their terminals, busily performing calculations for the mainframe, happy again. He paused at the office exit and looked back over a sea of green screens, with users hunched over their beige plastic keyboards. The natural order of things had been restored.

The end etc. etc.

Anyway, I noticed that my story was 2,500 words, which is about 3 and a half times more than what I normally write. If I write two stories like that every day, plus my blog, I'll be producing over 4 novels a month. That's NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) on steroids. I think I'll burn out.

So, it remains to be seen what the sweet spot is for the length of the stories, and what I'm going to write about. Maybe I will be struck by the infamous writer's block. Maybe my enthusiasm for the whole endeavour will fizzle. Maybe I will never find anything that I think people will enjoy reading.

Let the games commence.

 

Tags:

 

Too Long; Didn't Read

6 min read

This is a story about tl;dr...

Kitty Kat

Creativity loves constraints, although I have gotten rather carried away recently, with my average post length stretching out from under 1,000 words, to now pushing 3,000 words. If you write 3,000 words a day, you're churning out nearly 2 novels every month. It's NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) on steroids.

There are lies, damn lies and statistics, but I must admit that I have been gathering browsing data from my website since January. I know, for example, that the average amount of time per day, that a person spends reading my website is 4 minutes and 25 seconds.

On a more interesting note, I can also see the kind of things that people search Google for, and end up finding my website. Here is one wonderful poetic example:

"i want to go to london soon dont worry i dont want to do anything stupid no big hand outs just want to book into re hab strait away or as soon as poss get my teeth sorted and be human again please dont block me might got replys when i am sorted want to leave this funiv life for good want to see my favourite wife i always think of her i went back in hotel but she was gone i wish i had of spoke" -- anonymous

That is, word for word, what somebody typed into Google, and found my website.

Here are some other delightful highlights:

  • "methylone made me think wife was cheating"
  • "london people fucking on sister"
  • "legal highs that make you randy"
  • "i do not argue with imbecile i respect myself and my profession"
  • "i bully my granny to have sex with me story"
  • "fucked my sister wjen (sic.) she was hospitalised"
  • "sugar mummy fucking themself"

I think that the person who was searching for a story about bullying a granny to have sex with them is my personal favourite, for some sick reason. I don't like the idea of the story or that kind of perversion, but I like that something so corrupt and awful brought that person to my website. Sucker.

Site Traffic

I can see from the statistics that most of my traffic comes from Facebook and Twitter. You would have thought that 6,000 Twitter followers would bring you a lot of readers, but it's only 35% of the total.

Direct means people who have bookmarked or typed in manicgrant dot com. I love you guys & girls... you're my regular readers, who remember my website and keep coming back ♥︎

Organic search is all the screwed up weird stuff that people type into Google... with some of the most precious examples listed above, for your amusement.

Referral is links from other sites, like Reddit. I haven't done much link building, because I like writing, not promoting my website. I write it for me, mainly, to keep friends and family informed secondly, and thirdly, I write because I'm developing a body of work that I hope will at some point become useful for people suffering from Bipolar Disorder, depression and substance abuse.

I like writing on my own website (although it's powered by Known, created by my friend Ben) rather than one of those free blogs that you get from Wordpress or Blogger.com. I like and respect bloggers, but they make up the bulk of your readers when you blog on one of those mainstream websites. I have no idea where my regular readers found me, or why they choose to read my stuff, but it sure as hell isn't one of those "choose random blog" buttons you get on the free blogging sites.

Cherry Blossom

Writing on the public internet feels a little bit like shouting, not whispering your secrets into the hollow of an ancient tree, in a very crowded park. You have no idea who's listening, and how they're reacting to a complete stranger's private life, being brain dumped onto these webpages.

It's only because some individuals have been kind enough to comment and email, that I have any feedback at all, and I know that people beyond my immediate circle of family and friends are getting something out of it.

For all of us, we face off to parents, brothers & sisters, friends, work colleagues, more distant family members and even the public to some extent. We are in the eyes and ears of all these different people, who each perceive something different, and have a different recollection of events.

The reconciliation of the version of your life, imagined by everybody and anybody you ever come into contact with, is a rather impossible thing, when people come and go at different times, and they only know snippets of your story.

Of course it's totally self-absorbed to be a normal regular Joe, who isn't famous for anything, to write something that is so biographical. We think of autobiographies as things that are ghostwritten so that they can be bought as a Christmas present for somebody when you can't think of anything else better to get for them. How completely absurd that a nobody like me should document parts of my life like this!

In a very large way, this is my anti-Facebook. Instead of trying to appear as successful, happy and having my shit together as possible, with lots of photos of me smiling and doing nice things like going out for meals with friends and going on holiday with pretty girls... this is my answer to the fake world of the perfect social media identity.

Of course, I'm playing with fire, using my real identity to write about real events in the most honest and unflinching way that I dare. Naturally, I have had my fears about employers and work colleagues reading this stuff, but the experiment continues.

Frankly, I'm through having to wear a mask, and hide my true colours in order to be considered grey, bland, boring and corporate enough to be allowed into the inner sanctum of bankerland. I'm glad that I lost my last contract, because I was too outspoken about a moral and professional duty to the shareholders.

Now, as I look for a new contract, I do so with less fear than ever before.

Ski Slope

The last year in a single graph

Tags: