I bought some new old music the other night

and this morning I've been listening to Bill Morrissey's very early eponymous album, which has - for my money - most of his best work, and some Stan Rogers, (From Fresh Water and Home in Halifax). I haven't listened to much of these guys for quite a while, other than when they turn up on the iPod Shuffle. Dance The Grizzly Bear and The Idiot and The Mary Ellen Carter are among the niftiest songs written in the last half of the previous century (and they're not even these guys' best stuff!)

Some time ago, following the advice of Raymond Chandler

(one of the best writers of popular fiction ever, IMO - in any Top Ten list I'd compile whether "genre" writers in general or any other category), who once said (it's alleged) that if you're stuck in a story, have a guy with a gun enter the room (or words to that effect). So some time ago, having nothing going on with my neverending saga of "not writing" I started out a nice fresh doc file with "A guy with a gun came into the room." (OWTTE). It ended up being a wee poem, and I liked it (I tend to like my own work quite often). Shortly thereafter, the wee poem grew legs (a girl's legs, specifically) and became the beginnings of a short story. I now find myself with a novel growing before my eyes. The interesting thing I've learned is that once you get past whatever wordcount has been your barrier (in my case about 2500 words, tops) you find out what's been daunting you to date: there's so much to figure out about the damned story. Every time I crank out 1000 or 1500 words to resolve some unexplained gotcha or fill in backstory or clarify (or further obscure) the MacGuffin - it leads to lots more questions and more stuff that needs to be clarified (or obscured). A little like life, in that way, I guess. But I really like being able to say (to myself if no one else, at this point) "I'm working on a novel.."