Having a brilliant day lazing about reading papers, cooking, chatting to Mrs Kenny and dozing.
Went out last night with Anton. Top to see him. Had a few drinks in various pubs in Chiswick, and a Chinese meal. One of the pubs we strayed into a nice friendly place called the Birdcage. We were so engrossed in our coversation that it was only after we noticed two rather unconvincing transvestites at the bar did its nature sink in. Actually I suspect we fitted right in... Two guys engrossed in an earnest discussion of watercolours and the glories of Brighton. After scarfing some nice Chinese, we went back to my place to listen to some jazz as Anton's suddenly getting into it. Played him some Bill Evans which he seemed to like before he began snoring.
Earlier he'd shown me, on the screen of an ultra slim digital camera, some of his new paintings. These were surprisingly good. He's been doing a watercolour course and is apparently the star pupil.
Meanwhile an ambition to have a science fiction story accepted this year still remains unfulfilled. Got a rejection from Interzone magazine this morning (in fact I had to go to the sorting office to pick it up as the stamp had fallen off). This was the second of two cracking stories, both of which have been returned with a standard rejection slip. Being an excellent sf mag they must be inundated with top work. Left to reflect that it is probably good for me as an editor (in a small way) to get a rejection from time to time. But I won't give up for a while. Although I've no sf track record, writing the stories is great fun.
Took me years to be able to get a rejection without feeling upset about it. These days apart from a few seconds of momentary irritation it doesn't affect me. It's to do with making a distinction between who you are and what you make. Invariably as a writer you will write loads of things during your life, and some of these will be better than others; some will be accepted others rejected. But what is being rejected is the work and not its writer.
Sometimes it seems a poem has its moment, which might not be immediately after you write it. Last year I had a couple of poems published in Poetry London one of which I'd written about fifteen years ago. That was quite satisfying.
Went out last night with Anton. Top to see him. Had a few drinks in various pubs in Chiswick, and a Chinese meal. One of the pubs we strayed into a nice friendly place called the Birdcage. We were so engrossed in our coversation that it was only after we noticed two rather unconvincing transvestites at the bar did its nature sink in. Actually I suspect we fitted right in... Two guys engrossed in an earnest discussion of watercolours and the glories of Brighton. After scarfing some nice Chinese, we went back to my place to listen to some jazz as Anton's suddenly getting into it. Played him some Bill Evans which he seemed to like before he began snoring.
Earlier he'd shown me, on the screen of an ultra slim digital camera, some of his new paintings. These were surprisingly good. He's been doing a watercolour course and is apparently the star pupil.
Meanwhile an ambition to have a science fiction story accepted this year still remains unfulfilled. Got a rejection from Interzone magazine this morning (in fact I had to go to the sorting office to pick it up as the stamp had fallen off). This was the second of two cracking stories, both of which have been returned with a standard rejection slip. Being an excellent sf mag they must be inundated with top work. Left to reflect that it is probably good for me as an editor (in a small way) to get a rejection from time to time. But I won't give up for a while. Although I've no sf track record, writing the stories is great fun.
Took me years to be able to get a rejection without feeling upset about it. These days apart from a few seconds of momentary irritation it doesn't affect me. It's to do with making a distinction between who you are and what you make. Invariably as a writer you will write loads of things during your life, and some of these will be better than others; some will be accepted others rejected. But what is being rejected is the work and not its writer.
Sometimes it seems a poem has its moment, which might not be immediately after you write it. Last year I had a couple of poems published in Poetry London one of which I'd written about fifteen years ago. That was quite satisfying.
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