Down the tube

Yesterday I passed a chap at Baker Street tube whom I recognised from such esteemed gatherings as London Earth Mysteries Circle. He didn't see or recognise or want to say hello to me and that was fine but I remember thinking "There's psychic-questing Simon, I wrote a story about him once."

Well, not exactly about him, it was about a jolly nice and friendly but slightly-scatty chap who got wrapped up in, what he thought, was a powerful alignment between certain parts of south-east London, Herne the Hunter, the god of the Vine and an off-licence that has extremely neat bottles on its shelves.

And when I say "wrote", I mean, I wrote a lot of it but certain sections has things like [EXPAND] and [MAKE WORK] where paragraphs and descriptions should have been. My point here is that here I am, blogging away, when I've got some quite interesting story ideas moldering in a draw in my bedroom and in the ever-eroding archive of my head and this thought makes me feel a little sad.

It makes me wonder why I do this, why can't I keep a diary or something for myself and concentrate on what I want to write publicly instead, which is fiction and on folklore.I think that quite a few people I know write blogs so I read theirs and think "I should get me some of that blogging action" and it's ludicrously easy to get one of these and, once you've started it seems a crime not to update the thing.

But I would like to write other stuff more; I got that feeling that I have things living in my head that need telling.