Work work work work-work-work (for god's sake...) - with added Pros! Ooh - suggest a theme, please!
So, I work from home now, in a place of my own, with my own desk in a big room with a kitchen right there, and when I get bored with sitting at my desk I have a couch (actually two, but one's taken up with my fiddle), a standy-uppy-desk-thingie, and a bed that I can sit on and work too. Brilliant, right? Yes - except that I'm fairly reluctant to sit in front of my computer proofreading other people's non-fiction writing for long stretches at a time. (So why do it? Well, there are good things about it too, and I don't hate it - I just find I'm reluctant to get on with it). I gather this isn't just me, it's a common problem with work-at-homers. I've tried all sorts of tactics, and today I'm going to try two things.
1. Keeping track on here (probably to shame myself into getting on with it... *g*)
2. Every 5 pages I stop and practice fiddle for five minutes and then write for five minutes.
Work might still take all day and night, but hopefully I'll get writing and fiddle practice done in snatches of five minutes each. Oh - I know! I should write Pros, shouldn't I - maybe you all will jump in and egg me on too (or maybe it'll just be annoying to see wee snatches of Prosfic appear, and you'll all ignore it until I get to the end, but in theory at least there'll be a story by the end of it...
Yes - that's what I'll do! And to save me flolloping about over one of my previous stories or whatever (if this works then I shall use it as a tactic to get on with them tomorrow and on other days!) - could someone please suggest a theme for a wee Pros fic that I write today? And when I say theme, I don't mean a plot (cos that's half the fun of writing), but for instance... "the lads are depressed", or "in hiding" or a single word that has to be turned into a fic, or summat like that. For instance, A Nice Day to be on the Canal came from the prompts mountain, Grimsby and the jitterbug.
Okay, now I just have to hope that there's someone out there so that I have something to look forward to after my first five pages of work (I have 60 pages to proofread today... that's 12 x 5 minutes of writing, which is an hour!) And if I'm working from now until midnight, then I should be able to fit two hours of writing and fiddle practice in without any bother, right? *crosses fingers and gets on with it*
The Progress Bit
- Okay - 12.30. Get on with it!
- 1.06pm - 10/64 (but I didn't start at 0). And got a theme for writing, yeay! Also got a headache and am hungry for lunch, so I think paracetamol, a breath of fresh air, and a glance at the fridge...
- 2.05 - Okay, I should start projects like this after lunch, otherwise I just feel like I'm not getting on with it. Which I wasn't, cos I was having lunch. Healthy blood orange/fennel/rocket/halloumi salad lunch! And 3 paracetamol, and I was very good and didn't read. My eyes actually do feel a bit better, so I shall start properly and get on with it! Also, right - extra theme! Birdsnest and falling in love at a conference. Hmmn!
- 2.09 - Hmmn, I didn't factor in happy comments and replying... but this is now a cheerful office-not-on-my-own! *g*
- 2.19pm - see how this goes? Right - commented! On with five pages!
- 2.44pm - yes! My first break! *turns on timer* - five minutes fiddle practice! - my god five minutes writing doesn't get me far... but I did it! Think I'll post it separately, perhaps, as well as below... *g*
- 3.12pm - Well that's a bloody long 10 minute break, isn't it... But if I don't post as I go along this won't work either... Have also received invitation for an extra examining contract. Could be interesting, new subject for me (still history), break from proofreading... *considers*... (Right - 15/64 - carry on!)
- 3.34pm - Or pause for as-yet unpaid Job 2 deliberations. Right - 15/64!
- 4.20pm - Stoopid badly formatted document that keeps @?!!*&ing about on me... and then more work coming in which is good but needs processing... see, this is where my time goes! See now I'm technically on 15/68, but I did proof 3 more pages, so it should really be 18/64, and... and... *kicks document*
- 5.02pm - 20/68 at last... and if I'm going to get any exercise today, it has to be now before it gets dark. Maybe it'll help my not-gone headache too. Right - once around the hacktrack (just a mile)!
5.30pm - track hacked, sticks thrown for Otto, photos taken for 365 project. Can I manage five minutes of writing before I start work again? Slightly cheating... but what the hell!
6.09pm - Definitely cheated, not quite 5 minutes... but written, posted, email about Job 2 - now, five more pages! 20/68...
6.40 - 25/68
6.49 - five minutes of writing posted
6.55 - five minutes of fiddle
7.42 - 40/73 (Stoopid bizarre document. So it's really 40/64.)
8.21 - some dinner on, some more fic written. Forgot to set the timer, but it was probably more than five minutes...
9.16pm - late dinner, eaten it, 47/"76"
10.55pm - squeaks in before deadline, at 82/82 pages proofread. Stoopid document. But yeay - and I have over 1000 words of Pros fic, and I'm flying for me now... *g*
A Pros Story!
Birdsnest - Falling in love at a conference
The speaker droned on, as only speakers can. Bodie had heard it all before, dozens of times - felt like hundreds of times - and he let his gaze wander, keeping half an ear out for a change of subject. How the hell else were you going to enter a building full of armed men who wanted nothing better than to shoot you, anyway? What he really wondered was how many of the blokes around him didn’t have any idea of what to do, because if he was partnered with any of them when they got back to town, it would only be a matter of time before he had to cut them loose.
There - that tall drink of water he’d spotted on the way in, he was actually taking notes. And the bloke with the birds-nest hair, he was paying such close attention it was a wonder he hadn’t wandered up to the stage to sit beside the boring bloody ponce. He was almost in profile to Bodie, his eyes unwaveringly on the speaker, actually concentrating. Not that you had to be Brains to work out he’d never been in the army - what was he supposed to be, anyway? Anson’d heard rumours they were being assigned some kind of social worker trick cyclist to sob their hearts out to after a kill, and this bloke looked the type - it could be him.
The speaker flicked a switch, and the film behind him started running again, a brief countdown of targets, and then a scenario played out by agents - he could see Crane up there, and Barry Martin - somewhere in the heart of London. Bit more interesting that, Bodie’d not had to dodge the civilised citizens of England before. The dodgier parts of Belfast, alright, but that wasn’t the same thing.
Crane himself came up to speak after that, managing to hold Bodie’s attention for the last twenty minutes before lunch, and then they were dismissed and out the door for an hour’s break. Bodie found himself in a rag-tag crowd heading across the road, around the corner, and towards The Nag’s Head, the first pub someone saw with a blackboard outside advertising pie and mash. He jostled along good humouredly, taking deep breaths of the fresh air - relative to what he’d been breathing in from a roomful of blokes all morning at least. And oddly enough a scattering of women. Secretaries, he’d thought, taking notes for them, until he’d seen the stretch of a holster under that blonde bird’s jacket. Now maybe he’d get to spar with her…
“Oi-oi!”
Bodie turned his head just in time to see Birdsnest ducking through a pack of small boys who’d been playing football on the street, pinching their ball with ease, and dodging and diving around them, grinning at their banshee wails and roars of outrage. He was nippy, Bodie’d give him that, all speed and legs and grace… He found himself watching out for the moments his jacket pulled high above his backside, over a t-shirt tucked into tight denim, over obviously tight muscle, and blinked, disconcerted.
“Right - who’s round then?” some wag called as they got to the door of the pub, and Birdsnest finally relinquished the ball, face alive with… something. Something that made Bodie think maybe he wasn’t a social worker after all. They both joined in the chorus - “Yours!” - and when Birdsnest caught his eye, still smiling, he smiled back.
They ended up at the same table, plates swimming with gravy and pints of lager half drunk before they’d even sat down.
“Ray Doyle,” Birdsnest said, and Bodie blinked. He’d heard that name bandied around as the bloke to beat, and with more than one scowl and promise of vengeance.
“Bodie.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow at him, Bodie gave him a smirk, took another mouthful from his pint and said nothing. He plunged his fork into golden pastry and it crumbled, stuck on a chunk of beef.
“So, what are you - army?”
Bodie paused, fork halfway to his mouth. There was something about the way the little toerag had said that… “SAS. You?”
“Cough up, Doyle!”
That was Larkin at the other end of the table, and Bodie looked over, eyed him until he looked away, and then looked back at Doyle.
“I lost,” Doyle explained, and there was an oh-so-amused glint in his eyes that Bodie suddenly wanted to poke out with the dirty end of his cutlery. “You look more like army.”
“And how’s that then?” Bodie kept his voice low, and any of his old mob would have known to take a step back.
“Oh, you know…” That glint was still there.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, taking another careful stab at his pie, looking Doyle straight in the eye as he lifted it to his mouth, and bit it solidly from his fork. He swiped at a drip of gravy with his tongue, didn’t take his eyes off Doyle.
Doyle had followed his movement, and he bit his lip for moment, swallowed, but he held Bodie’s gaze.
“Met.”
“A woodentop!” He couldn’t help that, years of conditioning kicking back in. He’d known there’d be police in the intake - or at least Cowley’s spiel had suggested there would be - but he hadn’t thought any of them would last through the first trials to acceptance and then out the other side to be here now. He liked the way that glint vanished though, was replaced by something harder, more still. Oh yeah, that was what to do with this one, keep him off-balance. “A trompety-plod woodentop?”
“That’s right,” Doyle said, almost sounding easy. On his other side King had sat back slightly though, and Bodie was aware of a hush around the table. “The ones who do all the dirty work before the glory boys decide to come dashing in.”
He was confident for a bugger surrounded by glory boys.
1. Keeping track on here (probably to shame myself into getting on with it... *g*)
2. Every 5 pages I stop and practice fiddle for five minutes and then write for five minutes.
Work might still take all day and night, but hopefully I'll get writing and fiddle practice done in snatches of five minutes each. Oh - I know! I should write Pros, shouldn't I - maybe you all will jump in and egg me on too (or maybe it'll just be annoying to see wee snatches of Prosfic appear, and you'll all ignore it until I get to the end, but in theory at least there'll be a story by the end of it...
Yes - that's what I'll do! And to save me flolloping about over one of my previous stories or whatever (if this works then I shall use it as a tactic to get on with them tomorrow and on other days!) - could someone please suggest a theme for a wee Pros fic that I write today? And when I say theme, I don't mean a plot (cos that's half the fun of writing), but for instance... "the lads are depressed", or "in hiding" or a single word that has to be turned into a fic, or summat like that. For instance, A Nice Day to be on the Canal came from the prompts mountain, Grimsby and the jitterbug.
Okay, now I just have to hope that there's someone out there so that I have something to look forward to after my first five pages of work (I have 60 pages to proofread today... that's 12 x 5 minutes of writing, which is an hour!) And if I'm working from now until midnight, then I should be able to fit two hours of writing and fiddle practice in without any bother, right? *crosses fingers and gets on with it*
The Progress Bit
- Okay - 12.30. Get on with it!
- 1.06pm - 10/64 (but I didn't start at 0). And got a theme for writing, yeay! Also got a headache and am hungry for lunch, so I think paracetamol, a breath of fresh air, and a glance at the fridge...
- 2.05 - Okay, I should start projects like this after lunch, otherwise I just feel like I'm not getting on with it. Which I wasn't, cos I was having lunch. Healthy blood orange/fennel/rocket/halloumi salad lunch! And 3 paracetamol, and I was very good and didn't read. My eyes actually do feel a bit better, so I shall start properly and get on with it! Also, right - extra theme! Birdsnest and falling in love at a conference. Hmmn!
- 2.09 - Hmmn, I didn't factor in happy comments and replying... but this is now a cheerful office-not-on-my-own! *g*
- 2.19pm - see how this goes? Right - commented! On with five pages!
- 2.44pm - yes! My first break! *turns on timer* - five minutes fiddle practice! - my god five minutes writing doesn't get me far... but I did it! Think I'll post it separately, perhaps, as well as below... *g*
- 3.12pm - Well that's a bloody long 10 minute break, isn't it... But if I don't post as I go along this won't work either... Have also received invitation for an extra examining contract. Could be interesting, new subject for me (still history), break from proofreading... *considers*... (Right - 15/64 - carry on!)
- 3.34pm - Or pause for as-yet unpaid Job 2 deliberations. Right - 15/64!
- 4.20pm - Stoopid badly formatted document that keeps @?!!*&ing about on me... and then more work coming in which is good but needs processing... see, this is where my time goes! See now I'm technically on 15/68, but I did proof 3 more pages, so it should really be 18/64, and... and... *kicks document*
- 5.02pm - 20/68 at last... and if I'm going to get any exercise today, it has to be now before it gets dark. Maybe it'll help my not-gone headache too. Right - once around the hacktrack (just a mile)!
5.30pm - track hacked, sticks thrown for Otto, photos taken for 365 project. Can I manage five minutes of writing before I start work again? Slightly cheating... but what the hell!
6.09pm - Definitely cheated, not quite 5 minutes... but written, posted, email about Job 2 - now, five more pages! 20/68...
6.40 - 25/68
6.49 - five minutes of writing posted
6.55 - five minutes of fiddle
7.42 - 40/73 (Stoopid bizarre document. So it's really 40/64.)
8.21 - some dinner on, some more fic written. Forgot to set the timer, but it was probably more than five minutes...
9.16pm - late dinner, eaten it, 47/"76"
10.55pm - squeaks in before deadline, at 82/82 pages proofread. Stoopid document. But yeay - and I have over 1000 words of Pros fic, and I'm flying for me now... *g*
A Pros Story!
Birdsnest - Falling in love at a conference
The speaker droned on, as only speakers can. Bodie had heard it all before, dozens of times - felt like hundreds of times - and he let his gaze wander, keeping half an ear out for a change of subject. How the hell else were you going to enter a building full of armed men who wanted nothing better than to shoot you, anyway? What he really wondered was how many of the blokes around him didn’t have any idea of what to do, because if he was partnered with any of them when they got back to town, it would only be a matter of time before he had to cut them loose.
There - that tall drink of water he’d spotted on the way in, he was actually taking notes. And the bloke with the birds-nest hair, he was paying such close attention it was a wonder he hadn’t wandered up to the stage to sit beside the boring bloody ponce. He was almost in profile to Bodie, his eyes unwaveringly on the speaker, actually concentrating. Not that you had to be Brains to work out he’d never been in the army - what was he supposed to be, anyway? Anson’d heard rumours they were being assigned some kind of social worker trick cyclist to sob their hearts out to after a kill, and this bloke looked the type - it could be him.
The speaker flicked a switch, and the film behind him started running again, a brief countdown of targets, and then a scenario played out by agents - he could see Crane up there, and Barry Martin - somewhere in the heart of London. Bit more interesting that, Bodie’d not had to dodge the civilised citizens of England before. The dodgier parts of Belfast, alright, but that wasn’t the same thing.
Crane himself came up to speak after that, managing to hold Bodie’s attention for the last twenty minutes before lunch, and then they were dismissed and out the door for an hour’s break. Bodie found himself in a rag-tag crowd heading across the road, around the corner, and towards The Nag’s Head, the first pub someone saw with a blackboard outside advertising pie and mash. He jostled along good humouredly, taking deep breaths of the fresh air - relative to what he’d been breathing in from a roomful of blokes all morning at least. And oddly enough a scattering of women. Secretaries, he’d thought, taking notes for them, until he’d seen the stretch of a holster under that blonde bird’s jacket. Now maybe he’d get to spar with her…
“Oi-oi!”
Bodie turned his head just in time to see Birdsnest ducking through a pack of small boys who’d been playing football on the street, pinching their ball with ease, and dodging and diving around them, grinning at their banshee wails and roars of outrage. He was nippy, Bodie’d give him that, all speed and legs and grace… He found himself watching out for the moments his jacket pulled high above his backside, over a t-shirt tucked into tight denim, over obviously tight muscle, and blinked, disconcerted.
“Right - who’s round then?” some wag called as they got to the door of the pub, and Birdsnest finally relinquished the ball, face alive with… something. Something that made Bodie think maybe he wasn’t a social worker after all. They both joined in the chorus - “Yours!” - and when Birdsnest caught his eye, still smiling, he smiled back.
They ended up at the same table, plates swimming with gravy and pints of lager half drunk before they’d even sat down.
“Ray Doyle,” Birdsnest said, and Bodie blinked. He’d heard that name bandied around as the bloke to beat, and with more than one scowl and promise of vengeance.
“Bodie.”
Doyle raised an eyebrow at him, Bodie gave him a smirk, took another mouthful from his pint and said nothing. He plunged his fork into golden pastry and it crumbled, stuck on a chunk of beef.
“So, what are you - army?”
Bodie paused, fork halfway to his mouth. There was something about the way the little toerag had said that… “SAS. You?”
“Cough up, Doyle!”
That was Larkin at the other end of the table, and Bodie looked over, eyed him until he looked away, and then looked back at Doyle.
“I lost,” Doyle explained, and there was an oh-so-amused glint in his eyes that Bodie suddenly wanted to poke out with the dirty end of his cutlery. “You look more like army.”
“And how’s that then?” Bodie kept his voice low, and any of his old mob would have known to take a step back.
“Oh, you know…” That glint was still there.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, taking another careful stab at his pie, looking Doyle straight in the eye as he lifted it to his mouth, and bit it solidly from his fork. He swiped at a drip of gravy with his tongue, didn’t take his eyes off Doyle.
Doyle had followed his movement, and he bit his lip for moment, swallowed, but he held Bodie’s gaze.
“Met.”
“A woodentop!” He couldn’t help that, years of conditioning kicking back in. He’d known there’d be police in the intake - or at least Cowley’s spiel had suggested there would be - but he hadn’t thought any of them would last through the first trials to acceptance and then out the other side to be here now. He liked the way that glint vanished though, was replaced by something harder, more still. Oh yeah, that was what to do with this one, keep him off-balance. “A trompety-plod woodentop?”
“That’s right,” Doyle said, almost sounding easy. On his other side King had sat back slightly though, and Bodie was aware of a hush around the table. “The ones who do all the dirty work before the glory boys decide to come dashing in.”
He was confident for a bugger surrounded by glory boys.