Andrew McEwan's Blog: Words Are the Gravy On the Mashed Potato of Life - Posts Tagged "time"

At a point as yet unidentifiable, that is in the future, I like to see myself as writer in residence at a middling university. Successful in a cult author sort of way, bearded as a 50-something writer whose prime might be defined as how many young ladies find their way upon my lap, smiling and curious to know if what they say is true... Hmm? What rumour is this? Have I, consciously or otherwise, invented a facet of myself, a mythology centred on the fabulous and untrue? Or did I just plant the seed long ago? A separate point in time. Experiment: pick any two dates, one in the future and one in the past, draw a line between. Next think of something very good you did during the described period and something equally bad, draw a line between. Cross the lines and imagine the point at which they intersect to be the present. A point with four arms radiating. Now, imagine how the lengths of these lines might vary and why. Think of the permutations, the angles and vectors unseen. Are you where you deserve to be? Do you believe in karma?

Back then I was half the age I am now. I'm not sure a lot has changed though. Not me anyway. In the first half of that year I wrote three short novels, two of which I have recently uploaded to Smashwords. The third is to follow shortly. I'm nearly through proofreading it and it just occurred to me I have a hard time believing in reality. Not that this is any revelation, but there's a paragraph near the end of The Long Walk Up From The Beach that encapsulates the notion quite well. No, not changed at all. I still don't get it. Time. Space. The universe. You. I'm still not convinced any of it is real. Oh well.

Alone but not lonely. Must be a human condition. Or am I kidding myself? I may delete this post later. Yes.

The Long Walk Up From The Beach equates to evolution. That and gravity I can believe in at least. And of course, comedy!

Sometimes you really can travel back in time. Right now I have one foot in the early noughties, toes wriggling in the grass of then, sensing the earth and air of that place in the past where was written the first 14k words of a science-fiction extravaganza the title of which resides above. That it's lain idle this long is no mystery: I lost interest in the genre. Why? I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps I read one too many average sci-fi novels. Perhaps I felt the need (as agents and publishers would tell me) to write something else. That's else, a peculiar word that doesn't necessarily mean different. Different is bad in agent/publisher speak. Else generally means marketable. But I've worn out that record...

Spare Parts For Spaceships is the 'space and time' of Skidmore Shuffledeck, galactic mechanic. And my other foot is firmly in the now. The struggle is to bring my heels together without a) anyone noticing the narrative gorge, and b) crushing my balls.

Not having written anything since last year I must say having something other than quiet desperation occupying my imagination is a relief. A book fills that subconscious space otherwise given over to pernicious mindfruit and self-devouring insightfulness into the human condition best not shared with the world at large, which, facilitated by the internet, tends to present itself, despite your best intentions, as piss on shoes.

So, you're asking, how's it going? When might we see this novel of which you speak? Well, I've added roughly 1000 words. More importantly I've tuned in to the when and made subtle adjustments, which hopefully will result in a new now. And a way forward. And a book that finally breaches 100k words, with room for more.

Skidmore Shuffledeck, bespectacled, stoic, non-violent and - almost - unkillable.

Out 2014!

In the meantime there's 10k on Smashwords as a free download. Or 99c will get you a whole Armwrestling the Dead. Sci-fi in mutant form, by me.