Saturday Night's Alright

The pot is pretty good. Guido eventually turned up; red eyes, slow brain function. Good smoke, he said. Home grown. His smile still lights up a room. He'd been to two parties and he had, I think, four more to go.

I can write for two days... uninterrupted, do some real writing and not be addicted to blogger.

The sun has faded and it has gone dark the next time I look up and take notice. How did that happen, I think.

The door bell rang at 11pm and I was so busy blogging, completely engrossed. I had three windows open, I had a lot to close.

Imagine, if it is Manny, he can't read what I've said about him. That thought made me stop and think. Honest Chris, I pride myself on it?

So, I was slow getting to the door; I can have private thoughts, how much do I have to tell him? When I finally did, there was nobody there. I walked outside, said hello. But nobody.

I walked back inside scratching my head. Fuck, what if it was Manny? He's got that disposition, lots of nervous energy, he'd leave quickly.

I walk back outside and say hello again.

Nah, he would have called by now. He'd have come by public transport - he's not beyond taxiing it, even if he is broke. He's gay, after all, some things don't change.

Either way, he wouldn't have given up so easily.

I wish he'd drop in. Grrr!

If he'd ever just drop in, I'd probably marry him on the spot.

Unless, he comes back soon, then I'd just shag him.

I've been working on two short stories, both started some time ago. I made the most incomplete make sense, gave it a story. It came to me quickly. Add the family, at the beginning. Let him talk to the dead guy, poetic licence. Now I just have to flesh it out. It's about a young guy coming out to his parents, to a mother who's brother had died of AIDS, some time earlier. The uncle comes and talks to him.

I don't usually write gay stories, I've never wanted to be a "gay" writer, as such. But, David asked my why, the other day? Then I asked myself why? And the only thing I felt, to be honest, was internalised homophobia. Funny huh?

The most complete is coming together. It's about a young guy who's girlfriend has just been killed. It's slow. Final stages. Initially, it was just his thoughts, bookended by his dreams of her. I've changed its name, so it refers to him and not her, it's his story. Re-set it. I made him running, while he's thinking. In the present, the only thing he wants to do, is run. There's not much subtext, yet.

I'm at the stage, with both of them, that I can't tell any more. I'm written out.

My tutor's short stories were quite short - I counted the words - but she seemed to get so much detail in. Every sentence has to count as a paragraph. Every sentence has to say something. She got it, I guess that's why she's won awards and competitions... and is published. I'm not sure if enough happens in my stories.

I've got two more, at the notes stage to continue, after the two I'm writing now. I've got to push myself, I get distracted so easily. I've got to enter some competitions, get out there.

My head's spinning.

I'm going to bed.