My room is too hot to sleep in with the window closed, especially in summer. The curtains do not close properly, and certainly do not stop the room looking very light to the outside world.
Thus, as soon as it is dark, I get bugs. I count at least five moths already, with one arriving every half-hour or so.
In other news: Finished Predators. Fucking hell that was a good book. I need to do something with a Halaku in a game at some point. They just suit so well. People wandering around without eyes, watching the world.
Urge to write rising. This is because I am at home, and it's the only thing I know I can do.
I don't believe it. I have a title I can't write a story for.
Sat here in the oppressive heat, slightly dizzy, unable to really focus, it's all clear. The title is a fantastic one, the key image it throws up is Kieron's quote from the discussion of the Cassandra Project: "First rate at what I do, third rate as a human being." But I can't write it.
It's being in Hull, being at home. Looking back over the posts made this time last year, when I had no exit, no place to escape to, I'm struck by the similarity of feeling. The private posts, a mess of characters as I took out my frustration with the world and with myself on my keyboard, I see the same situation. Sneaking out for a cigarette or four when the family have gone to bed, writing because all I can do is digest and manipulate information and drama into stories.
I don't know what it is that I do that I can be first rate at.
Without that, I've no personal frame of reference. I know there must be something, but back here that doesn't register. In amongst the moths and the heat and the smell of tobacco, I realise that I've lost that sense of what I'm good at. Writing? If I were any good I wouldn't need the information hit. I wouldn't be so fucking annoyed at the world giving me nothing but yet more wankery about that fucking Harry Potter book. If I were really good I'd be able to ignore that. But I'm not. And apart from that, I don't know what I am good at, and so I can't write the story. I can't write anything.
That's the feeling that lead to so much depression last summer. Last everytime I was here. It's Hull, a psychic sinkhole that sucks the good out of people through a straw in the ear. I'm escaping tommorrow, but even that seems an aeon away.
I don't want to spend my life running from my hometown and it's effects on me. But equally, I want my knack back. I want to be able to turn titles into stories again, something that I was always best at while I was here.
I feel like Belbo in Foucault's Pendulum. Every time trying not to be a coward, and failing even in success.
I'd forgotten how bad it can get. I laugh and joke about escaping from Hull but it isn't a joking matter. Not really. Not when it has this effect after I've been here just over 48 hours. Not when I feel like I'm wasting yet another long night in front of a keyboard without doing anything, because I can't create.