It's the frickin, freakin, floopin, Christmas blog!!!!!

And here it is folks - the widely anticipated Christmas blog. I say widely, but even my parents don't read this. I say anticipated, but it's more like something uninvited which sneaks up on you, an eyelash on your cornea.

I realised today that Christmas was almost upon us, as I welcomed the familiar joys of returning home. First spotting someone I never wanted to see again in Morrisons, and towering behind a tower of Kleenex boxes, edging the trolley out like a semi-automatic. Hundreds of people with plastic buckets trying to wrestle the change from my pockets. My mother speaking to strangers about the contents of their baskets for no apparent reason. Running into your Uncle's, son's, friend's, grandmother's next door neighbour and having a long, awkward, sickly conversation about the weather:

"Isn't it cold?"
"It is cold."
"I was just thinking this morning, I don't believe I've ever been this cold."
"Exactly. I mean, can it actually get any colder?"
"No, I don't think it can. It's already too cold, impossibly cold."
"We're used to cold, but not this cold."
"It's like, my head is warm, but my face is always so cold."
"For me it's the feet. My toes are very cold."
"Anyway, I must dash. I'm getting cold standing here."

Well, yeah, thanks for that. Good to know. Just go inside, put on your central heating, and never leave your house again. No one will notice.

Also, all those films are on. Uncle Buck, Shrek, Narnia. I have to stop whatever important task I was about to launch myself upon, like making a sandwich, and watch them. From the beginning, to the end. Then I note it's on again tomorrow, and I think, yes, yes I shall watch it then as well. It's a vicious circle of pain.

Most importantly, my Samsung Galaxy S has arrived and is currently residing in an old ankle sock. Please stop whinging about the blank texts, and the repeated texts and the half finished texts. I no longer understand technology. I am old. Quite frankly the thing baffles me. I have decided to use it as a rather fetching doorstop and will buy a Nokia 3210.

Have a drunken Christmas all, and I will write to you, with equally fascinating stories in the New Year

WriterAtLunch xxxxxxx

Always look on the bright side of death...

Only my father could be relied upon to instill Christmas cheer into this miserable world. I would like to invite you all into the delicate, mental deliberations of a legend. Dad, if you're reading, I am about to immortalise you in blog history, worry not. It's a beautiful, beautiful thing, the way you see life. To give this text message a little context, he is currently on a Carribean cruise.

(The content has not been manipulated for comical purposes, I swear on Ginger Beard's beard.)

"Hi Gem, weather great and the cruise ship is massive.
Unfortunately a man died on the second day. Last night a woman went over the ship into the sea. A rescue with ships and planes has not found the woman after two days.
However, we are enjoying the various islands we visit, and it is somewhat hotter than in the UK."

I love him so much, it hurts.

The life and times of Miss Ann Potts - Episode one

I'd like to introduce you all to a very special person in my life, the delectable, the delightful, the damn right desirable, Miss Ann Potts. The very Ann Potts who receives more mail, more heartfelt family letters and get well cards than I, to my address. For over six months her friends and relatives have loyally kept me filled in on their busy lives, and thanks to them, I already have five Christmas cards. It's so nice to finally be loved.

I've decided to share the life of Ann Potts, instead of selfishly hoarding it. My personal favourite which arrived over the weekend is 'The Varley Family Xmas Newsletter 2010.' Including these precious highlights:

'Matthew has finally returned to Gressenhall!"
I think you'll all be as relieved as me to hear this. We thought he'd never go back.
"Nick has had the least changes, although, he did buy a sports car."
 I feel very sorry for Nick. 2010 has raped him of joy.
"Jo is benefiting from the reduced travelling demands."
Praise the lord.
"Barbara has read lots of books." She sounds almost as depressed as Nick.
"We have spent several days "out" just enjoying ourselves."
What, pray tel, can these inverted commas be suggesting? Strip Club? Gay Bar? Morrisons?
"Perhaps we will visit you next year?" I really hope they do. I'd get the crisps in.

Now, what kind of pen pal would I be, if I didn't write back?

"It's been a very exciting year for myself and Ginger Beard. We're sorry to hear that Nick and Barbara are suicidal this close to Christmas. Luckily, your other children sound like they lead much more exciting lives. In what is becoming a rather predictable habit, we've been inhaling oxygen, purchasing train tickets, and even wearing shoes! Ginger Beard has consumed an array of pasta dishes. On a rather personal note, I've been calculating my correct tax deduction for the year. Please come and visit soon, and/or send further enthralling letters.

Best Wishes,

WriterAtLunch

A Royal let down....

Part of me is sick of falling over on the ice. Part of me is like, come on already, let's fracture something so I can put my feet up for a few weeks. I'm joking! I'm joking! I'm a little bit serious.

The whole thing is really starting to grate now. I mean sure, look at the beautiful winter wonderland, and it's nearly Christmas, and fun, and - now get over yourself and melt already.

In other news, I will be starting to hash through my much loved Nano project, after, well you know, I pass my driving test, and sort out a new job, and buy everyone presents and like, clean the bath. No! I will! I promised myself, and I have it forever stored on the internet - legally binding. It's just that December is one of those charming months where you never have enough time. It's always dark, and always cold, and you can just about muster the energy to drink a hot chocolate and settle under the duvet. Coincidently, exactly what I'm doing now.

I'm also in a bit of a sulk becuase Royal Mail have decided our car park is too trecherous. I can see them, arms laden with my many parcels on the street, looking across the white death trap which leads to my door. They clock the lack of path, and the fact that even the residents are parking on the street. They clock me, they mouth, 'Fuck it.' And they go home to Mrs Royal Mail. I need my stuff! Take the risk! What's more important, your spine or my Samsung Galaxy S?

The Rutter - 1 The Little Shits - 0

I did start writing this yesterday, but stopped and gave into the paracetemol driven, dehydrated hallucinations. I woke up feeling like cack, and forced myself around 9pm to produce the final 500 words of shocking cliche, probably inspired by the hours I spent watching Jeremy Kyle, and Come dine with me. And so hurrah! 50,000 words of iliterate, intolerable garble, which I will now have to wade through on my search for gold. I will also share with you some of the worst writing you will ever stumble across.

In other victorious news; Tuesday, whilst on my lovely morning walk to work, I turned a corner to find three charming boys waiting for me with a look-what-we-prepared-earlier pile of snow. The conversation which thus followed went a little like this.

Rutter: Please don't! I'm on my way to work.
Fat child: Tough!
Rutter: I'll remember this house number.
Fat child: We don't even live here!
Rutter: Yes, but they'll know who the little shits of the neighbourhood are.

Several things then happened dear reader. I realised that with my final sentence, I had officially made the transition into becoming my mother, spewing words commonly associated with the antagonised elderly. And also that I was now being chased, by the leader nonetheless, the fat one. With great cheer I announce that he could not catch me, and between the three of them, struck me once on the shoulder with a snowball. I even commentated on their effots. 'Nice one.' 'Wow, your talents astound me.'

I now realise that all my years of badminton, and my recent progress on the gym treadmil, had been preparing me for this moment. But there was only one sad thought in my mind, as I walked on in my woollen coat. And that was - How much my cag in a bag would've loved to accompany me on this adventure.

Ooooohh, Saucy!

Day 25. 29,147 words written. 41,675 which should have been. 20,853 words left. 5 days to go.

 I am in considerable pain. It's only almost double what it's taken me 25 days to write. It's not like my pride is backed into a corner and growling ferosciously at me. Breathe son, breathe. Here's to a truly magnificent weekend, stuffed to bursting with broken wrists and caffiene. I can't tell you that I'm surprised. It's a classic Rutter move. I put things off. I assure myself that it will work out. Then I feign compete disbelief at the outcome.

In my defence, I was attacked last night. Now, I've been attacked before, by move obvious things; a three legged cat, my brother, nettles, my mother, a headbutt from a drunk girl. But this, dear reader, was much, much worse. I'll set the scene for you. Myself and my boyfriend were innocently walking in the dark, to what one may call the gymnasium. When out of the blackness arouse a squelch. Something struck my face. Now what, what could have possibly offended the man in the passing car, so much so, that this revenge was necessary. Ladies and Gentleman, we had been sauced. I kid you not. A squeezy bottle of tomato ketchup. Our fellow citizens thought we were bleeding to death. But we survived. Although, to add insult to injury, they got James right in the tash. He was walking around Morely with someone elses ketchup in his tash. I fear for his masculinity.

Now, wish me luck in overcoming my recent trauma, and attempting this impossinble feat. Much love x

For the adventurous.....

I'll tell you what I've been doing instead of writing; calling my parents because I miss them, drinking a lot of banana milkshake, reading Erica Jong's sexually charged poetry, listening to Laura Marling, fighting to fall asleep, developing my relationship with Play.com, enjoying my winter morning walk, thinking about Anne Frank again, trying to decide what I want to do with my life afterall.

Nanowrimo is reluctant awakening. Tim Minchin read in a book somewhere that if you're too open minded, your brain will fall out. There is a definate loosening in this whole process, and you become suddenly suseptible to more than just an onslaught of written words. I also think that having a plan for once, a goal, an ambition, can make you realise that for the past year you've been casually exisiting, without so much as a shiver in any direction. And it's encouraging that anything else is produced, alongside paying bills, and shots at the bar, and matching socks. I don't want to get up one morning and realise that my whole life was just a series of eventful Novemeber's. That's why I'm going to keep this blog up, into December, and onwards through the New Year.

2011 is the year I try. Short stories, poetry, my lonely left behind Novel of 08. It's always best to catch your regrets before they catch up with you. I urge everyone to remember that one thing they used to be desperate to do, and do it. No more excuses. I think by now, most of us have realised that easy was never going to be an option. It's not retail, or teaching, or printing lottery tickets, or car finance. I want to write. So I'm going to start by finishing Nanowrimo, despite being so behind, and end up with a pile of manuscripts. And so are you, with whatever you once wanted. I dare you.

Me and Mr Flynn

I'm trying to write my blog, and frantically steam ahead with Nano at the same time - to the incredibley apt soundrack of Johnny Flynn. I look at life as a series of spinning plates on wooden spikes. You can work out your own happiness by assigning an aspect of your life to every plate. Are you running around like a headless chicken trying to keep them all going? Have serveral fallen and smashed? Does one profess a constant wobble. Of course Nano is a much needed added plate, make a timely entrance smack bang next to Christmas. As if there weren't enough plates collected from earlier in the year. But surprisingly, it seems to encourage everything else. It gives me something to rant about to my friends. It outweighs the other pressures, by sitting firmly at the forefront of my mind. It reminds me that it's good to do things for yourself, and only for yourself. It gets me back in touch with silliness. And the other plates just don't seem such a big deal, if only for November.

I like noting the quiet approach of week three. It's where the pride is, the lure of success. You become incredibly aware of how important this is. And you're not wrong, it does prove something. I think everyone ends up with a question answered. One that was particularly difficult to pin down. Let's pick up the pace a bit, and entirely indulge.......

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's a cag in a bag!

For those of you who don't know me, I think it's time to share an intimately personal aspect of my life; I walk to work. For the last few weeks my commute has been a soul-destroying battle, including the obliteration of two umbrellas, and a steep decline in personal appearance. But as I write to you today, I am on the brink of a life changing revelation. And that, ladies and gentleman, is the cag in a bag. What, you may be wondering, is this wonderful invention of which she speaks so fondly. As it says on the tin, it's a cagoule, which you can stuff back in on itself into a small bag. Today, I donned my cag for the very first time and would like to report my findings. On the way home I was thrilled, with the hood up over my beanie, to realise that this was exactly the kind of wind velocity that would kill my umbrella. Should it have been raining, my top half would've been completely dry. How comforting that was. Unfortunatley, at the time of purchase, I'd forgotten that I had legs, but am planning to fashion some kind of wrapping out of bin bags. Due to the depth of the hood, your head resides in a warm cave. This means you have no peripheral vision whatsoever. As I only cross approx 16 roads on my way to work, this is of little consequence to me. Another benefit, is that coming round dark corners, I look like a tough hoodie, and would likely scare off any muggers before they spot the light blue and scatted pink roses pattern.

In writing news, I am not doing well. At all. It's really hard. I've never had the kind of discipline required. Nails are still bitten, chocolate still consumed. And I barely manage 1 glass of water, let alone 8. I wish someone would tell me that quitting now would be okay. After all, who needs another demand heaped onto a 9-5 job, a relationship, and a backlist of household chores. But sadly I must answer to myself. And myself is a drill sergent when it comes to pride. On my day off tomorrow I aim to write 10,000. But I will bite my nails, eat chocolate, and drink fanta fruit twist to get through it.

Pick your nose

No writing for me this weekend I'm afraid, and I'm definitely not at the desired 25,000. But let's not panic! I'm sure that by tomorrow afternoon, the words will flow readily on all manner of fascinating subjects, and I will smugly make up for lost ground.

 I'm going to drink coffee until I can't physically close my eyes.

Irritatingly, I'm still wrestling with my inner editor, cautiously typing with the overhanging fear of writing complete balls. It's this grow-up, get a mortgage, commuting on the train rubbish that's done it. I couldn't be further from my Creative Writing self at University, when we were up at 3am performing prose, frantically scrawling, tracking down our ever elusive voices. It gets harder to convince yourself that you weren't just some teenage whinger, enchanted by their own diary. And I know that I won't remember how to write again, in that proper, 'oh the hell with it' way, until I stop pinning it up as an escape from the office, and start writing for writing's sake like before. Any tips?

I guess that's the beauty of Nano; a timely reminder to regress. To go back to being that kid screaming in a supermarket, or having a unselfconscious nose pick at school. To stop insisting that everything has to be perfect and effiicient, and believing that it's worthless unless showered with monetary praise. Rewind.

Thank you Mr Joyce

Today was not a remotely creative day, I'm sad to report. It was extremely painful and mostly involved my forehead on the desk. I decided that rather than achieve anything, I would throw a sulk, and spend my time reading that fascinating story about the paedophile book Amazon were selling. And the weather is miserable, and I'm tired, and oh you know, the trillion other excuses we invent to validate our own laziness. On the up side, I met my word count - just. And, like all the other irritable writers out there who vowed to themselves that this would be the year, I'm still going.

Funnily enough, the book I'm reading - A portrait of the artist as a young man by James Joyce, is proving very apt. It's a load of mildly entertaining, sporadic drivel. Where he too, has seemingly put pen to paper and written for thirty days. What I'm saying is - we probably won't need to edit our own illegible ramblings. They'll appear as perfectly formed post-modernism, and we can just, in the way of Joyce, get published with high acclaim. Hurrah!

So don't worry; your sacrificing a month of your life, but you're going to be famous.

Week two, cue delusion

You can survive winter, and so can your umbrella

Oh the unrelenting joy of week two, where all your characters reveal themselves to be as dull as you, your laugh takes on an hysterical edge, and you make some very interesting wardrobe choices. Personally, this is the toughest point. I've not written enough to feel invested, so why not just quit? I daydream, I procrastinate, I phone old friends. I even clean things up. Anything, just to avoid the fact that my protagonist for the last five pages, has been listing his childhood memories in chronological order. This is the point my friends, where despite intending on an intellectually stimulating period drama, you must insert the dragons, and the magic wands, and....you get my drift. Abandon the plan. Relish it. In order to succeed, we must become more imaginative, and bow to the madness.

Nano taught me a lot of things in that first year; How to endure my own company again, how to trust that my writing, though not always exceptional, would turn up if I demanded it, and that something beautiful will always be thankfully salvaged from the sheer volume. Even if it's just a bloody fantastic title.

Happy Writing

Nanowrimo - The sure road to insanity

Hello world,

How's things?

I am sighing with despair at the realisation that another glum November has turned up. And as any aspiring writer will know, that means several awful things; less sleep, a steep decline in social appearances, and a reluctant sign on the dotted line. Fifty Thousand words. One Month. Oh Nanowrimo, how subtely you appear, as perhaps the only proof that I am not that 9 to 5, gym going, washing up nightmare that I swore to never become. So begrudingly I stare at the white page, dredge up  forgotten ideas in old notebooks and prepare to look awful. The things I do for my art. Last year I made it to 48,000 and decided to have a rather long sleep that saw me snoozing over the deadline. So here's to victory, and nonsensical rants, and the rapid return of insomnia. Be patient with me.

http://www.nanowrimo.org/