Independent George

The Mothership called and asked me to take down the photos of her old school. I was sad, because I worked hard on that page and the captions were funny. But you type the name of the school into Google you got this site. So that’s bad.

She also read some of the blog. “What’s New Pussycat, eh? What’s all that about?”


“Do you really think you should talk about your neighbours like that? What if they find out?”

“I don’t bloody give an address!”

It’s funny how she chose to complain about that and not the fifty million things I’ve written about her. What can I say, she’s a character. I think she enjoys being a character. I told her once that if I wrote a book she’d be a character. She got all excited. “Me? A character! Am I character?” Much giggling. Yes, you’re a character.

Mum, if you’re reading this again, please… don’t. It’s just too weird. Toddle off and watch an episode of Touched By An Angel or something. You know I love you, but please. Bugger off ๐Ÿ™‚

In other news, my “novel” is a sprawling mess. It’s funny how some characters are a breeze, you can imagine them up so easily. Then some you just can’t get to know at all. Like the Lurve Interest, I know nothing about him at all, except that he’s got brown eyes and a Magic Tongue.

What about his personality? What floats his boat? What music is he into? Is he funny or serious or a complete bastard? Does he speak in eloquent thoughtful sentences or is he one of those one word at a time grunty types? Does he have good hygiene?

It all boils down to the fact that I just bloody forget what men are like. The dialogue I’m writing sounds so false and stilted. No matter how many times I write and re-write it doesn’t sound authentic. I forget what you say and how you act and what the stupid things you do that make me want to love and punch you in the nose all at the same time. I forget how it goes.

Very sad and pathetic. The nunnery is calling me.

Here are some things I like. The summery smell of cucumber and watermelon. My flatmate poking and tickling me when we’re watching TV. My shoes. When you wash the sheets and when you reach up to peg them on the clothesline, you can feel the wet cotton against your skin and it’s all cool like slipping into a swimming pool.

Here are some things I don’t like. Scooping Harry poop from the back lawn. Misuse of apostrophe’s. Abrupt emails. Abrupt phone calls. Abrupt goodbyes. Abrupt anything, really. And let me reiterate that the poop scooping really sucks.

This blog thing is getting harder every day, or rather every time I find out someone I know is reading this. It’s getting harder to say how I really feel so I will have to start writing obscure, wanky paragraphs and make you read between the lines.

Hey Mum, I told you to stop reading!

About Shauna Reid

Ahoy there! Iโ€™m Shauna, an author, copywriter and content mentor. I love telling stories about life and helping others to tell theirs.

Find out more about me and how we can work together – I’m now booking for August 2020.

26 thoughts on “Independent George

  1. Oh Shauna, my dear, I’m terribly sorry. If there’s anything I could do to help, it’d be to bake you food (which would spoil by the time it reached you) or do a rousing song-and-dance number (which you wouldn’t see) or offer to write the male character for you.


  2. See, the cool thing is, being your character, in your novel, he has to do and say exactly what you want him to. Feel the power of the God Complex! Muahaha.

    Ahem. And I know what you mean about people reading the blog. I get a little stab of panic every time someone finds out about this. But most of them are minor friends, and I don’t really care. On the other hand, if someone really important, like maybe the Male, found the site, I think I’d abandon it. Just like that. I’d start a new one somewhere else, but I wouldn’t give a link on the old page.

    Every girl needs her secrets, right?

    (My mother would, I think, be a little scandalised by the way I talk on my site, but she’d probably be amused, and never come back again. Then again, she’s such a technobimbo, she’d never find it in the first place. What’s a search engine? :-))

    This comment is too long. Gee, I dribble on. ๐Ÿ™‚

  3. I know what you mean about the problems of writing a love interest. I can’t even remember the last time I spoke to a single, hetrosexual male. I figure I’ll write what I know and stay well away from romance.

  4. I’m fucken starting to forget what fucken *women* are like, fuck. There better fucken be some at the karaoke fucken bar if I ever fucken go. Maybe on Thurs-fucken-day, fuck, or failing that maybe Fri-fucken-day. Frig.

  5. Misuse of apostrophe’s make me cringe. And so would obscure, wanky paragraphs that make me read between the lines. Just keep telling it like it is, Shauny.

  6. I can’t imagine my mum reading VM. She’d be absolutely horrified by the amount of times I say “fuck” in it.
    Also, I have a similar problem with writing about women. As some of you may have guessed. ๐Ÿ™‚

  7. I hope my emails to you are wordy enough. I never mean to dismiss you.

    And I don’t think I’d like my mother reading my blog, even though I live the most bland life possible…it just wouldn’t feel right.

    Of course, my mother doesn’t know the internet from her butt…

    How do you feel about misuse of ellipses…?

  8. -What about his personality?
    He’s deep.

    What floats his boat?
    Australian accents. (Perhaps he’s an American Expatriate!) and lamb…lamb absolutely sends him.

    What music is he into?
    Most of the stuff you’re into, except he’s not all that crazy about Radiohead, and he likes Pink Floyd.

    Is he funny or serious or a complete bastard?
    Well, he’s not a complete bastard or he’d be a pathetic lurve interest. How bout he’s serious most of the time and just when she thinks he’s hopeless then he says something really funny.

    Does he speak in eloquent thoughtful sentences or is he one of those one word at a time grunty types?

    Does he have good hygiene?
    Reasonably, tolerably, but he can’t be bothered to floss most of the time.

    Anyway, I hear you about that whole writing thing…I’m writing about sex soon on the tinyblog, and I’m REALLLLY thinking about how much I’d want people I know to know about me. If it was only people online I would totally tell all.

  9. Glah! I hear ya. My mom reads my blog and she’s all up on things because she does…something with computers…and she gets in my face and goes, “That’s not how it happened, lemmie tell you how it really went.” Ugh!

  10. “It all boils down to the fact that I just bloody forget what men are like. The dialogue I’m writing sounds so false and stilted.”

    No, that’s pretty much men to a T. Keep it up. ๐Ÿ™‚

  11. You could try adding this tag to the page instead, so that the search engines don’t index it:


  12. Ouchies. *pets Shauny* Noo, don’t leave!

    My brother read my weblog once and left a comment. I went a funny shade of green and started *gulp* censoring myself somewhat and I hate doing that.

    Then I changed the links so they had no underline and that fooled him. Heh.

    I live in fear of someone in my family finding my sites. Someone did and took offence at something that had nothing to do with her so now I have to go all bitchy on my front page. gah.

    And I ramble. Must stop. *tears hands away from keyboard.*

  13. re. the whole ‘blogging for an audience’ thing…

    as i originally started my blog as a way for family/friends to keep up with my adventures while i was travelling i’m hyper-aware that my most dedicated readers are my parents and the boy’s parents. this is making it harder and harder to write – espeically as soon as the stats obsession started kicking in and i wanted to be writing for a wider audience.

    so i’m thinking of starting a totally separate blog where i can talk about sex and such non-parent material.

    or maybe i should just start blocking parental ip addresses… though then i’d have to start emailing them [or worse, using the phone. urgh!]

  14. I never got really paranoid about friends or family reading my OD or whatever. I always ended up paranoid about the things growing in the backyard or something stupid like that, and would end up sitting out there with a pot on my head staring insanely at the terracotta terrorists.
    But my lack of concern here probably stems from two things: 1. My family and friends are internet amoebas. 2. My ramblings were usually so esoteric, wanky and strange that they wouldn’t mean much… just be pretty words.
    I mean theres only so many pigs you can dress up like Stalin before it gets old.

  15. When I started blogging, I was hoping my friends and family would be its most regular readers. They aren’t. I don’t think my mother has ever read it, despite my asking her to do so. Neither has my sister nor my father.

    My paretnts would probably not be thrilled to read my blog, what with all the ‘controversial’ stuff, but… I’ve never cared what they thought, so why start now?

  16. One of the many soccer coaches I often referee in the winter (y’know, those people who know you, but you can’t for the life of you remember their names) walked up to me after a game once and said “great game, oh, by the way, I love your blog”. V. weird :o)

  17. I know the feeling – it’s not nice to wake up and the first thing your mother says is “I found dirty pictures on the internet last night.” and then hands you a print-out of a picture of you smoking.


    And although my weblog and some other stuff wouldn’t be too hard to find if my parents searched google, I don’t think they’re gonna do it now; I live in the basement, they can always ask me what I’m feeling. ๐Ÿ˜‰

  18. I discovered that my parents read my blog a while ago. I don’t know if they still bother (or if anyone bothers, come to that) but it was discovered when I’d heard they’d mentioned to someone over here about me getting my discman and stuff nicked while I was in Sydney – something I’d not mentioned to them to circumvent a speech on how I should be more careful in pubs with my bad. Because I was, y’know, waving it around while crying “Hey! Local smackies! Come and rip off something that’ll get you bugger all at Cash Converters!

    Or something like that.

    Anyway. Forget about the novel’s inconsistencies. You’re almost finished. Whereas I am nowhere near, and never will be.


  19. don’t be humphy, luke. i loves ya.

    god it’s nearly a year since the Theft Of Luke’s Stuff Incident. time is flying, zooming by, i tells ya.

  20. I laughed so hard at your mother interrogating you about your blog. Mine did the same to me when I started my website back in 1995 and put things about my kids on there. She just knew the kidnappers were reading it and waiting at the elementary school to nab them for ransom.
    Little did she know, I’d have paid someone to take them back then.
    Keep up the wonderful posts.
    I got here by way of SJ, whom I check in with daily. I’m adding you to my list, too.

  21. Can empathise with the `Does your mother know where you’re blogging tonight?’ dilemma – I’ve been thinking a lot about it recently. It doesn’t bother me so much that my mum reads it, but my girlfriend’s mother (becoming more and more the Iron mother-in-law every month) found out the address recently, leaving me feeling half-intimidated, half wanting to go for full self-disclosure.

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