Definition:
1: haughty manner, spirit, or bearing; haughtiness; arrogance.
In the balcony seat elevated above the stage, Madeleine arranged herself into the pose of a royal princess, her gloved hands prim atop her skirted knees, her feet smart in spit shiny shoes. Pantomime light gathered on her face, seeking to lighten and engage. It failed. Though only twelve years old, Madeleine's upstart manner, stiffly raised chin and aloof gaze betrayed burgeoning arrogance. The child emulated her mother, a woman with the inbred hauteur of third generation aristrocracy leavened on a shoestring budget. Worse than a true blue blood with wealth to their name, the Carson's affluence bought only so much. It did not buy respect.
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Saturday, 26 December 2009
WoTD: embonpoint
Definition:
1: plumpness of person; stoutness
Her embonpoint, so massive that she turned sideways to walk through the door, failed to bother her as it did her husband. Ray, himself so stout that he sat on the toilet seat to urinate because he could no longer reach his genitals by hand, glowered at her from across the room. She cast him a vagrant smile then wafted -- well, lumbered actually -- over to the couch. Steering herself around like a huge double decker bus, she lined up her massive behind with the cushions and lowered herself down. Partway there her knees gave out and down she went like an out of control truck. Her buttocks collided with a meaty thunk that punished the couch cushions and tortured the springs. Wheezing out a breath, she settled herself comfortably, deliberately ignorant of Ray's condescending stare.
"Two can play this game, dear," she said. "Remember who started it."
His grumbled response made her laugh.
1: plumpness of person; stoutness
Her embonpoint, so massive that she turned sideways to walk through the door, failed to bother her as it did her husband. Ray, himself so stout that he sat on the toilet seat to urinate because he could no longer reach his genitals by hand, glowered at her from across the room. She cast him a vagrant smile then wafted -- well, lumbered actually -- over to the couch. Steering herself around like a huge double decker bus, she lined up her massive behind with the cushions and lowered herself down. Partway there her knees gave out and down she went like an out of control truck. Her buttocks collided with a meaty thunk that punished the couch cushions and tortured the springs. Wheezing out a breath, she settled herself comfortably, deliberately ignorant of Ray's condescending stare.
"Two can play this game, dear," she said. "Remember who started it."
His grumbled response made her laugh.
Friday, 25 December 2009
WoTD: lambent
Definition:
1: playing lightly on or over a surface; flickering; as "a lambent flame; lambent shadows"
2: softly brightly or radiant; luminous; as "a lambent light"
3: light and brilliant; as "a lambent style; lambent wit."
We hid in the shadows, Hester and I, our skirts over our knees, our socked feet itching from the cold. We should have been in bed but not even the fear of father finding us stopped us from being there. From our vantage point atop the stairs, we watched the men seated around the table. There were five of them, Shannon O'Dwyer the youngest at seventeen, a carrot top with eyes too big for his head, and his father, Matthew, the oldest at a number I couldn't remember let alone imagine. Father sat with them, his dark hair long around his face, his shoulders stooped as though weighed by a burden I could not see. The men were there for him, to help him, that much I knew. They sat in the near dark and talked in low tones, conspiring. The only light came from the fireplace, orange flames that tossed lambent light into the room, an ineffective panacea to the dark gloom and famished desperation. The light didn't reach my father. I doubted anything now could.
1: playing lightly on or over a surface; flickering; as "a lambent flame; lambent shadows"
2: softly brightly or radiant; luminous; as "a lambent light"
3: light and brilliant; as "a lambent style; lambent wit."
We hid in the shadows, Hester and I, our skirts over our knees, our socked feet itching from the cold. We should have been in bed but not even the fear of father finding us stopped us from being there. From our vantage point atop the stairs, we watched the men seated around the table. There were five of them, Shannon O'Dwyer the youngest at seventeen, a carrot top with eyes too big for his head, and his father, Matthew, the oldest at a number I couldn't remember let alone imagine. Father sat with them, his dark hair long around his face, his shoulders stooped as though weighed by a burden I could not see. The men were there for him, to help him, that much I knew. They sat in the near dark and talked in low tones, conspiring. The only light came from the fireplace, orange flames that tossed lambent light into the room, an ineffective panacea to the dark gloom and famished desperation. The light didn't reach my father. I doubted anything now could.
Wednesday, 23 December 2009
WoTD: clinquant
Definition:
1: glittering with gold or silver; tinseled
2: tinsel; imitation gold leaf.
When I returned home summer had turned to autumn and the trees were beginning to lose their leaves. I spent much time outside, working the garden, pulling weeds, emptying bag upon bag of junk from dad's garage. The more I took away the more there seemed to be there as though a part of him refused to let go of all he had amassed -- refused to give way to my need to grieve. When I had done all I could, which was much less than I had wanted, I started the long walk back to Ron's house. The sun set before me, running beams through the trees like blades through crystal. Twinkling light, a clinquant cast on dying leaves, offered an ethereal beauty that would bewitch if I so allowed it. I wouldn't, not anymore. I had grown wise.
1: glittering with gold or silver; tinseled
2: tinsel; imitation gold leaf.
When I returned home summer had turned to autumn and the trees were beginning to lose their leaves. I spent much time outside, working the garden, pulling weeds, emptying bag upon bag of junk from dad's garage. The more I took away the more there seemed to be there as though a part of him refused to let go of all he had amassed -- refused to give way to my need to grieve. When I had done all I could, which was much less than I had wanted, I started the long walk back to Ron's house. The sun set before me, running beams through the trees like blades through crystal. Twinkling light, a clinquant cast on dying leaves, offered an ethereal beauty that would bewitch if I so allowed it. I wouldn't, not anymore. I had grown wise.
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
WoTD: collude
Definition: to act in concert; to conspire; to plot.
"How did you get it done?"
"I had help."
"From the big guns?"
"Maybe."
"I wouldn't say maybe. I'd say definately. You don't get this kind of thing done in two days unless you've had help. Big help. This reeks of some serious conspiring."
"Maybe."
"Who'd you collude with? No way did you organise this on your own. It was Sheena, wasn't it? She's well connected. She could get this done."
"I'm not saying."
"You don't need to. I'll figure it out. You're not that smart."
"How did you get it done?"
"I had help."
"From the big guns?"
"Maybe."
"I wouldn't say maybe. I'd say definately. You don't get this kind of thing done in two days unless you've had help. Big help. This reeks of some serious conspiring."
"Maybe."
"Who'd you collude with? No way did you organise this on your own. It was Sheena, wasn't it? She's well connected. She could get this done."
"I'm not saying."
"You don't need to. I'll figure it out. You're not that smart."
Monday, 21 December 2009
GB: Avatar
Avatar is different. It's not a movie, it's an experience. Or as one reviewer recently wrote: 'it's an EVENT'. For $16 and the small discomfort of wearing 3D glasses for two hours and forty minutes, I traveled to another world, a place never imagined but so real, so tangible, so convincing that I accept it into my understanding of all that exists as true.
The story is captivating and engaging. Jake Sully (Sam Worthington), a paraplegic war veteran, adopts his dead brother’s avatar in an attempt to win the trust of the indigenous people (the Na’vi) so that he can negotiate their relocation. Their village rests over an immense and valuable mineral store. Either the Na’vi must be moved or be killed – the latter being an acceptable final option. Jake’s reward for a successful infiltration will be surgery to restore the use of his legs. The prize is personal and he is highly motivated to bewitch and betray. I cared for him. I cared about the outcome, about what is at stake for him and the physical and emotional toll of the work. Moreover I cared about the people he is charged with displacing.
The events unfold at a kaleidoscopic pace and though the story is not new – really, what story is – the presentation knocks this film out of the ball park. The people, plants and creatures are so realistic, magnificent and awesome that it contorts my mind to remind myself that they are fantasy. Ordinarily, CGI work, regardless of how well crafted, is unable to trick the mind. I watch and engage but do not believe beyond the adventure that plays out before me. The deception fails to endure. This was not the case with Avatar.
The environment is depth perfect; finely rendered with light, colour, contrast, movement, perception and contour. Forests are rich from the upper canopy to the soil and shrub layer. Sky islands tower and cluster, suspended by a force beyond our known physics. Trees, monumental in size and height, form branched bridges hundreds of feet above the ground. Beautiful, fragile jelly-like illuminated floating seeds waft and throb with a life force barely imagined, and flying, pterosaur-like creatures with skins of stunning mosaics soar and glide as though woven to the sky. Height features heavily in many scenes and acrophobics may need to buckle themselves in.
The Na'vi are as stunning as their environment. These people, so very human and yet distinctly not, bewitched me. Tall, lithe and agile, they are sculpted humans with cat-like ears and sweeping tails. They live as one with the forest, trusting and accepting the right of all to life and liberty. They accept Jake’s avatar as one of their own and train him to communicate and bond with the animals. Eventually they make him a Na’vi warrior though they know he is one of the sky people (a human imposter). Not all humans have been so accepted and it seems to me that, despite his conscious deception, they knew him better than he knew himself.
An environmental, sociological and philosophical message throbs deep within the narrative. One reviewer suggested that the story was written by an ‘aging hippy’, and maybe that’s the case but the beauty of this film is that the viewer can choose to be affected (and changed) by the subtext or to be innocently entertained. The delivery is the magic.
The climax, catastrophic and demanding, is long, enduring and emotionally draining but oh so deliciously daring and visually wrenching. Played out in unparalleled 3D, I dare anyone to watch and hold their popcorn steady throughout.
I can’t wait to see it again! I just have to save up another $16 and find someone who wants to come with me. Any takers?
Saturday, 28 November 2009
WoTD: gourmand
Definition:
1. One who eats to excess
2. A lover of good food.
Usage note: A gourmet is one who has discriminating taste in food and wine. A gourmand is one who enjoys food of fine quality, and also one who enjoys food in great quantities. Glutton signifies one who simply eats to excess, without reference to the quality of the fare consumed.
Kevin ate with the aloof discrimination usually reserved for a gourmet. From appetizer to dessert, the man allowed only the finest foods, the rarest wines, the most delectable morsels to grace his palate. He cared not at all for price, for scarcity, for the toil involved in preparation -- which most often he paid vast sums of money for others to complete -- he cared only for quality and quantity, especially the latter. He wolfed down meals with the ferocity and speed of a Texan at an eating contest. No one could match the gourmand's abilty to consume so much food in such short sittings. If it weren't for his fine taste he would have earned the lesser tag of a common glutton.
1. One who eats to excess
2. A lover of good food.
Usage note: A gourmet is one who has discriminating taste in food and wine. A gourmand is one who enjoys food of fine quality, and also one who enjoys food in great quantities. Glutton signifies one who simply eats to excess, without reference to the quality of the fare consumed.
Kevin ate with the aloof discrimination usually reserved for a gourmet. From appetizer to dessert, the man allowed only the finest foods, the rarest wines, the most delectable morsels to grace his palate. He cared not at all for price, for scarcity, for the toil involved in preparation -- which most often he paid vast sums of money for others to complete -- he cared only for quality and quantity, especially the latter. He wolfed down meals with the ferocity and speed of a Texan at an eating contest. No one could match the gourmand's abilty to consume so much food in such short sittings. If it weren't for his fine taste he would have earned the lesser tag of a common glutton.
Friday, 27 November 2009
WoTD: provender
Definitions:
1. Dry food for domestic animals, such as hay, straw, corn, oats, or a mixture of ground grain; feed.
2. Food or provisions.
They packed the wagons, he and Tom, while storm clouds darkened the sky and a fierce wind whipped the yard. Getting everything on board took two dozen trips back and forth from the store shed, carrying everything on foot across the yard and over the fence because they couldn't find the key for the lock on the gate and Dash wouldn't let them break it. His arms ached, his legs the same. Tom looked worse, grey and weak, his hair sweat-plastered to his forehead and a palsied tremor that wobbled him when he walked.
"Take a rest," he said. "I'll get the rest."
Tom nodded, grim faced, and kept working. The animals, three horses, two cows, several goats and a pig, young but showing the massive size it would become, grazed the temporary paddock. The provender, a mix of grain, hay and pellets, took up most of the space in the wagon. The food for the men, pitiful in quantity and worse in variety, stood in boxes by the wheels. He wondered how they would fit the boxes on board, then cast the problem aside. Dash would figure it out, that was his job.
1. Dry food for domestic animals, such as hay, straw, corn, oats, or a mixture of ground grain; feed.
2. Food or provisions.
They packed the wagons, he and Tom, while storm clouds darkened the sky and a fierce wind whipped the yard. Getting everything on board took two dozen trips back and forth from the store shed, carrying everything on foot across the yard and over the fence because they couldn't find the key for the lock on the gate and Dash wouldn't let them break it. His arms ached, his legs the same. Tom looked worse, grey and weak, his hair sweat-plastered to his forehead and a palsied tremor that wobbled him when he walked.
"Take a rest," he said. "I'll get the rest."
Tom nodded, grim faced, and kept working. The animals, three horses, two cows, several goats and a pig, young but showing the massive size it would become, grazed the temporary paddock. The provender, a mix of grain, hay and pellets, took up most of the space in the wagon. The food for the men, pitiful in quantity and worse in variety, stood in boxes by the wheels. He wondered how they would fit the boxes on board, then cast the problem aside. Dash would figure it out, that was his job.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
WoTD: brobdingnagian
Definition:
1. Of extraordinary size; gigantic; enormous.
Webber's eyes boggled, his hands flapped. "It's... it's..."
"It's what?" O'Toole smoothed the paper, set the fountain pen on the desk, the ink still drying. He stood. "What's out there?"
"I've never seen such a thing. It's girth is inconcievable. The breadth and height are such I've never witnessed in my entire life. It's gigantic, massive, stupendously ginormous."
"What on earth are you talking about?" O'Toole moved around the desk, walked to the window. Drawing the curtain aside, he looked out. The sight rocked him backwards and his mind blanked.
"It's brobdingnagian," Weber said, awestruck.
"Yes," O'Toole managed after a long moment. "Yes, it is."
I'll let you decide what it is the two men saw.
1. Of extraordinary size; gigantic; enormous.
Webber's eyes boggled, his hands flapped. "It's... it's..."
"It's what?" O'Toole smoothed the paper, set the fountain pen on the desk, the ink still drying. He stood. "What's out there?"
"I've never seen such a thing. It's girth is inconcievable. The breadth and height are such I've never witnessed in my entire life. It's gigantic, massive, stupendously ginormous."
"What on earth are you talking about?" O'Toole moved around the desk, walked to the window. Drawing the curtain aside, he looked out. The sight rocked him backwards and his mind blanked.
"It's brobdingnagian," Weber said, awestruck.
"Yes," O'Toole managed after a long moment. "Yes, it is."
I'll let you decide what it is the two men saw.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
WoTD: martinet
definition (person):
1. a strict disciplinarian
2. one who lays stress on a rigid adherence to the details of forms and method
"You will not learn, stupid girl!"
Startled upright, Georgia's body assumed a rigid posture before her eyes focussed on the speaker. Mr Jewel filled the doorway, his arms folded over his chest in a military pose that suited the uniform but not the wearer. The lapels on his shoulders stood upright like beaten wings seeking to take flight and depart the ill-worn costume.
"Polish with your left hand, buff with your right, clockwise motion," he said as though speaking with a stone in his mouth and an equally unrelenting hard object stuck up his ass. "The fabric must contact the surface twelve times clockwise and twelve times counter-clockwise."
It sounded even more ridiculous when he said it like that. "Yes sir, but--"
"No buts. Would you prefer to be outside with the others, running drills?"
"No."
"Then polish properly. Do it again until you get it right."
With aching limbs, a throbbing head and a creeping desire to do away with Mr Jewel in a most untidy manner, Georgia moved past the grossly authoritarian martinet, knelt and applied a thin smear of polish to the door knocker. He stood over her, head cocked to the side, observing like a hawk scanning a field for mice.
1. a strict disciplinarian
2. one who lays stress on a rigid adherence to the details of forms and method
"You will not learn, stupid girl!"
Startled upright, Georgia's body assumed a rigid posture before her eyes focussed on the speaker. Mr Jewel filled the doorway, his arms folded over his chest in a military pose that suited the uniform but not the wearer. The lapels on his shoulders stood upright like beaten wings seeking to take flight and depart the ill-worn costume.
"Polish with your left hand, buff with your right, clockwise motion," he said as though speaking with a stone in his mouth and an equally unrelenting hard object stuck up his ass. "The fabric must contact the surface twelve times clockwise and twelve times counter-clockwise."
It sounded even more ridiculous when he said it like that. "Yes sir, but--"
"No buts. Would you prefer to be outside with the others, running drills?"
"No."
"Then polish properly. Do it again until you get it right."
With aching limbs, a throbbing head and a creeping desire to do away with Mr Jewel in a most untidy manner, Georgia moved past the grossly authoritarian martinet, knelt and applied a thin smear of polish to the door knocker. He stood over her, head cocked to the side, observing like a hawk scanning a field for mice.
Tuesday, 24 November 2009
WoTD: benison
Definition: blessing, benediction.
On his knees, hands bound behind his back, feet grazed and bare, Joshua accepted the malevolent benison with uncharacteristic demurity. His eyes were closed, his expression slack, a listless slump to his shoulders that I had never seen before. Falconer stood over him, tall and proud, victorious, his forearm extended as though holding a gun. His hand was empty of a weapon, still my heart beat fast, and I struggled against my bonds as Joshua should have struggled against his. As I watched, Falconer formed a symbol with his thumb and touched it to Joshua's forehead. My pulse spiked, hands fisted and a bitter taste flooded my mouth. I choked on my response, aware that unless Joshua fought back soon, it would all be over.
This is my first attempt to use the word of the day in a sentence or paragraph of writing. Let's hope I didn't get it completely wrong. I trust someone, one day, will tell me if I have.
On his knees, hands bound behind his back, feet grazed and bare, Joshua accepted the malevolent benison with uncharacteristic demurity. His eyes were closed, his expression slack, a listless slump to his shoulders that I had never seen before. Falconer stood over him, tall and proud, victorious, his forearm extended as though holding a gun. His hand was empty of a weapon, still my heart beat fast, and I struggled against my bonds as Joshua should have struggled against his. As I watched, Falconer formed a symbol with his thumb and touched it to Joshua's forehead. My pulse spiked, hands fisted and a bitter taste flooded my mouth. I choked on my response, aware that unless Joshua fought back soon, it would all be over.
This is my first attempt to use the word of the day in a sentence or paragraph of writing. Let's hope I didn't get it completely wrong. I trust someone, one day, will tell me if I have.
GB: Going back to school
The next three years are slated for debt repayment, technically, it's more than three years but the contemplation of the continuation of my financial misery beyond that time is outside the realms of sane comprehension. While I'm languishing in the poverty pit -- house bound, socially isolated and unable to recreationally travel further than I can spit -- I might as well acquire some useful knowledge.
Three years is coincidentally the same length of time it takes to get a degree. I don't have one. I have two half baked ones, but not a whole one. I don't regret that fact, I do, however, long to expand my literary education, increase my vocabulary and bolster my writing portfolio and skill. I don't need a degree to do any of that. In fact, having a literary degree could hinder me, so I've heard, been told and unfortunately witnessed.
I have the internet. I have a home library that would make many bookworms green with envy, and when that runs out I have access to local and state libraries where the print pages stretch as far as the eye can see. I have the desire to learn. Motivation could be an issue but that's where my blog comes in.
The syllabus isn't worked out yet, but I envisage setting assignment type tasks such as short story writing, critiquing of original fiction written by others, a daily sentence using the latest word of the day (thanks Dictionary.com), continued work on my novel, book reviews and lots of reading of fiction and non-fiction, including classics, poetry, short stories and novels. Oh, and to jazz things up, some set tasks such as listening to podcasts, doing writing assignments based on weird and wacky prompts and regular submission of new writing to the online critique site. If I become really courageous, some competition submissions. Hmm, maybe that will be a second year requirement.
Regular critiquing though, is a requirement. I will critique the work of others, and submit my own for feedback. The submission of one new story per month (minimum) will be a solid enough goal to keep me motivated, but not be too much of a diversion from my novel. Word count will range from 1,500 to 5,000, depending on how carried away I get. As for critiquing other people's work, one new critique (minimum) per week is reasonable.
Work on my novel will continue, and will take precedent. I'm loathe to set word counts or requirements because I tend to break them the moment I set them. Thirty minutes per day is my minimum exposure to my novel, with a preference for an hour. The morning commute gets me the thirty minutes. By evening, after a day of brain-drain, I'm more suited to blogging and simple creativity. Codee does my head in! This must change, and will change. I'm just not prepared to rush it quite yet.
Roughly, that's the plan. I do wish it were winter though. The whole idea feels wintery, more suited to woollen sweaters, scarves, thick booties and hot chocolate drinks -- or maybe that's just me trying to procrastinate a whole six months away.
Three years is coincidentally the same length of time it takes to get a degree. I don't have one. I have two half baked ones, but not a whole one. I don't regret that fact, I do, however, long to expand my literary education, increase my vocabulary and bolster my writing portfolio and skill. I don't need a degree to do any of that. In fact, having a literary degree could hinder me, so I've heard, been told and unfortunately witnessed.
I have the internet. I have a home library that would make many bookworms green with envy, and when that runs out I have access to local and state libraries where the print pages stretch as far as the eye can see. I have the desire to learn. Motivation could be an issue but that's where my blog comes in.
The syllabus isn't worked out yet, but I envisage setting assignment type tasks such as short story writing, critiquing of original fiction written by others, a daily sentence using the latest word of the day (thanks Dictionary.com), continued work on my novel, book reviews and lots of reading of fiction and non-fiction, including classics, poetry, short stories and novels. Oh, and to jazz things up, some set tasks such as listening to podcasts, doing writing assignments based on weird and wacky prompts and regular submission of new writing to the online critique site. If I become really courageous, some competition submissions. Hmm, maybe that will be a second year requirement.
Regular critiquing though, is a requirement. I will critique the work of others, and submit my own for feedback. The submission of one new story per month (minimum) will be a solid enough goal to keep me motivated, but not be too much of a diversion from my novel. Word count will range from 1,500 to 5,000, depending on how carried away I get. As for critiquing other people's work, one new critique (minimum) per week is reasonable.
Work on my novel will continue, and will take precedent. I'm loathe to set word counts or requirements because I tend to break them the moment I set them. Thirty minutes per day is my minimum exposure to my novel, with a preference for an hour. The morning commute gets me the thirty minutes. By evening, after a day of brain-drain, I'm more suited to blogging and simple creativity. Codee does my head in! This must change, and will change. I'm just not prepared to rush it quite yet.
Roughly, that's the plan. I do wish it were winter though. The whole idea feels wintery, more suited to woollen sweaters, scarves, thick booties and hot chocolate drinks -- or maybe that's just me trying to procrastinate a whole six months away.
Monday, 23 November 2009
GB: A burnt out case
Writing is a struggle. It is a chore. I fear my life, complicated by financial burdens and emotional regret, are the dampeners to my creativity. I admire (and envy) writers who can free flow their work, who can sit down and transcribe hundreds of words to the page without thought, who can write what they feel, what they think, what they see in an internal picture show in their minds. Worse, I envy those people who can do this after a full day at work, and who have children, partners, pets and -- on top of that -- just as many commitments and stressors as I do. My life is relatively uncomplicated. There is no excuse for me not to be writing every night, for several hours at a time if I so wish... and I do, but I can't. Or at least it seems that I can't.
Have I lost the gift? Am I tired? Am I lazy?
On my bookcase is a book entitled 'A burnt out case' by Graham Greene. I've not yet read it, but the title draws my eye. I feel burnt out. I'm not. If I think energy, I feel better, even a little. It's all in my mind.
I am a writer. It is within me, a part of me just as I am fair skinned, brown haired, hazel eyed. This writing gift is something I was born with. I can't add up without using my fingers, but I can craft imaginary words to paper in a way that moves people. I believe that. I trust it. I know it.
Right now though, I seem unable to craft anything other than disjointed, passionless sentences with recycled metaphors and thin similes. The cure, I know, is to write... anything. If I can't write fiction, then I will blog. When I'm feeling more creatively limber, but not sufficiently strong enough to write fiction, I can blog the novels I read, or I can critique other people's work so that I stay connected -- my finger on the pulse, as it were.
Envy of others will serve no purpose other than to erode my confidence and further isolate my characters.
I wrote Iris in the space of a couple of hours. That is the last piece of writing that wrote itself. Codee is work, fulfilling, worthwhile, demanding and joyful work, but work. He doesn't flow to the page, he doesn't reveal himself in picture and metaphor. He's recalcitrant, brooding, stubborn and childlike. Writing Codee is like writing a third year university philosophy essay when you've only studied mid level high school. He and I aren't on the same level. He's smart. He's crafty. He's spent eight years of his life researching, reading, spending every waking hour strategising and studying... and he knows I haven't.
Only I can connect with him in a way that will bring him to the page, and I am doing that, slowly. Right now there's more research and planning than there is writing. I'm trying to catch up. I'm impatient to return to the flow. I want him to tell me what to do, but he can't until I know it for myself.
I miss writing in the flow, the zone. I miss being surprised by what appears on the page. I miss the startling revelations that come about only when the fingers move faster than the mind, when the conscious brain switches off and the subconscious communicates directly with the keyboard. I miss startling out of a writing sessions with hours passed and a wealth of fictional experience laid out before me that I never knew existed in my mind or elsewhere.
Despite all this, tonight I wrote some blog reviews, replied to a critique response and I wrote this. It may not be Codee, but it's writing. It's progress. I feel better for having done it.
I am a writer. I write. Everything is practice. Everything is worthwhile. I trust in that.
Have I lost the gift? Am I tired? Am I lazy?
On my bookcase is a book entitled 'A burnt out case' by Graham Greene. I've not yet read it, but the title draws my eye. I feel burnt out. I'm not. If I think energy, I feel better, even a little. It's all in my mind.
I am a writer. It is within me, a part of me just as I am fair skinned, brown haired, hazel eyed. This writing gift is something I was born with. I can't add up without using my fingers, but I can craft imaginary words to paper in a way that moves people. I believe that. I trust it. I know it.
Right now though, I seem unable to craft anything other than disjointed, passionless sentences with recycled metaphors and thin similes. The cure, I know, is to write... anything. If I can't write fiction, then I will blog. When I'm feeling more creatively limber, but not sufficiently strong enough to write fiction, I can blog the novels I read, or I can critique other people's work so that I stay connected -- my finger on the pulse, as it were.
Envy of others will serve no purpose other than to erode my confidence and further isolate my characters.
I wrote Iris in the space of a couple of hours. That is the last piece of writing that wrote itself. Codee is work, fulfilling, worthwhile, demanding and joyful work, but work. He doesn't flow to the page, he doesn't reveal himself in picture and metaphor. He's recalcitrant, brooding, stubborn and childlike. Writing Codee is like writing a third year university philosophy essay when you've only studied mid level high school. He and I aren't on the same level. He's smart. He's crafty. He's spent eight years of his life researching, reading, spending every waking hour strategising and studying... and he knows I haven't.
Only I can connect with him in a way that will bring him to the page, and I am doing that, slowly. Right now there's more research and planning than there is writing. I'm trying to catch up. I'm impatient to return to the flow. I want him to tell me what to do, but he can't until I know it for myself.
I miss writing in the flow, the zone. I miss being surprised by what appears on the page. I miss the startling revelations that come about only when the fingers move faster than the mind, when the conscious brain switches off and the subconscious communicates directly with the keyboard. I miss startling out of a writing sessions with hours passed and a wealth of fictional experience laid out before me that I never knew existed in my mind or elsewhere.
Despite all this, tonight I wrote some blog reviews, replied to a critique response and I wrote this. It may not be Codee, but it's writing. It's progress. I feel better for having done it.
I am a writer. I write. Everything is practice. Everything is worthwhile. I trust in that.
Friday, 20 November 2009
GB: Anxiety vs writer's block
I worry. I worry about money, about work, about my housing situation, about my family, my friends, my life (whether I'm living it right), my health, my decisions, my lack of decisions. I worry that life is passing me by, that I've not achieved enough, that I've failed in some integral way to be the person I was born to be. Whatver that might mean.
Worrying makes me sick, physically sick. I battle tiredness, aches that have no cause, a tightness and uneasiness that sleep doesn't soothe. A special diet combats the worst of my Irritible Bowel Syndrome symptoms, of which generally science has no explanation or cure, but the need to avoid common foods poses its own problems, and leads to further worry.
To combat my feelings of inadequacy, I make lists, I set goals, I announce to myself that I will achieve a certain milestone by a certain date or time. I fail to meet the objective. I lose interest. My thoughts disperse. My motivation wavers, flits away like a butterfly seeking pollen on a windy day.
Often I sit in one place, physically idle, my brain whirring like a fan set too fast. Without doing anything, I overheat.
Once I used to write in the 'zone'. Given a keyboard and a few minutes, the muse would snap like a taut spring and off I'd go. I would write for minutes or hours, ignorant of the passing of time. I lived in my mind, exposing thoughts to the screen without intent, with no more effort than to transcribe. I've not written in the zone for years. I thought it was writers block. I thought I'd run out of stories. I thought it was because I was taking things so seriously, but now I suspect it's anxiety.
I yearn for a stressless holiday, a quiet beach somewhere with a book, a friend, all meals catered for, all decisions made for me. The hardest thing I'd need to do is decide whether to lay on the banana lounge or the hammock, whether to swim or sleep, whether to lay on my back to stare at the clouds or on my stomach to watch sand particles dance and bounce.
I blame my financial situation. If i were debt free, or at least in a better financial situation than I'm in, my anxiety would be less. Would it? Really? Wouldn't I just find something else to worry about, like impending climate change catastrophe, or the widening gap between rich and poor, the terrible loss of life through war and violence, the suffering of all the innocence in the world, the inadequacy of my contribution, the passivity with which I step forward into each day?
Maybe I need medication. Maybe I need to reframe. Maybe I need to write each day, even when I don't want to, even when my stomach is knotted so tight that to even place one single word on the page would seem to be the trigger that results in my entire undoing. Maybe, just maybe, I think too much and write too little.
How does a person turn off their mind? How do they stop it from overheating?
They write.
Worrying makes me sick, physically sick. I battle tiredness, aches that have no cause, a tightness and uneasiness that sleep doesn't soothe. A special diet combats the worst of my Irritible Bowel Syndrome symptoms, of which generally science has no explanation or cure, but the need to avoid common foods poses its own problems, and leads to further worry.
To combat my feelings of inadequacy, I make lists, I set goals, I announce to myself that I will achieve a certain milestone by a certain date or time. I fail to meet the objective. I lose interest. My thoughts disperse. My motivation wavers, flits away like a butterfly seeking pollen on a windy day.
Often I sit in one place, physically idle, my brain whirring like a fan set too fast. Without doing anything, I overheat.
Once I used to write in the 'zone'. Given a keyboard and a few minutes, the muse would snap like a taut spring and off I'd go. I would write for minutes or hours, ignorant of the passing of time. I lived in my mind, exposing thoughts to the screen without intent, with no more effort than to transcribe. I've not written in the zone for years. I thought it was writers block. I thought I'd run out of stories. I thought it was because I was taking things so seriously, but now I suspect it's anxiety.
I yearn for a stressless holiday, a quiet beach somewhere with a book, a friend, all meals catered for, all decisions made for me. The hardest thing I'd need to do is decide whether to lay on the banana lounge or the hammock, whether to swim or sleep, whether to lay on my back to stare at the clouds or on my stomach to watch sand particles dance and bounce.
I blame my financial situation. If i were debt free, or at least in a better financial situation than I'm in, my anxiety would be less. Would it? Really? Wouldn't I just find something else to worry about, like impending climate change catastrophe, or the widening gap between rich and poor, the terrible loss of life through war and violence, the suffering of all the innocence in the world, the inadequacy of my contribution, the passivity with which I step forward into each day?
Maybe I need medication. Maybe I need to reframe. Maybe I need to write each day, even when I don't want to, even when my stomach is knotted so tight that to even place one single word on the page would seem to be the trigger that results in my entire undoing. Maybe, just maybe, I think too much and write too little.
How does a person turn off their mind? How do they stop it from overheating?
They write.
Friday, 14 August 2009
NP: 90,000 words!
I've just made it to 90,000 words on my novel. Writing is now a joy. For many thousands of words it wasn't. That's not to say that I'm sitting down every day to write, far from it. But I do write every week, sometimes only once or sometimes more than that. Maybe in the future I will write every day but that's not a goal I'm forcing.
Over the past 90,000 words and three years, I've found that I, and Codee, respond well to approaching writing as a form of play. We sit down together and we see what happens -- no pressure, no wild expectations, nothing but getting to spend time with my protag and his mixed up perceptions of how things are. Most times it's a positive experience where he takes over and employs me as his scribe, rattling out his thoughts, expectations, hair-brained schemes and actions to get what he wants. Other times it's just a frustrating patch of dead air where he sits there with a blank face and empty brain. He's a smart guy, but occasionally he's just... not. Or maybe it's me that's not smart, but let's not go there. ;-)
If I've learned anything over these past 90,000 words, it's not to take myself or Codee too seriously. He's flawed. I'm flawed. The novel is flawed. I aspire to literary greatness, not as a means by which to clamour for fame or money (there's enough people already out there doing that), but as a means by which to relate the story that I've committed myself to telling. I'm not self-deluded or arrogant enough to think that I'm doing the story true justice at this point in time. I've got too much yet to learn to be able to say that.
I set my standards high. I enjoy reading a variety of different stories, but there's a difference between a masterful writer and a good one. I think I'm good. I can hold my own in a writing group without blushing beet red with shame, but I'm not masterful. Nowhere close. One day I will be, but I hope I never know it because the minute that I do I will lose my creative edge.
On a different note, I can't imagine falling in love with another character like I've fallen in love with Codee. Having said that, I'm sure I will. That's for the future and my next novel about a guy who lives on the coast. I don't know his name, or his face, or much more about him other than he's not a fisherman but might be a diver. Codee won't let me find out and more and that's the way it should be. One novel at a time.
At this point I must also publicly convey my thanks to Em, my writing buddy, best friend, mentor, coach and Leland's scribe. She, like I, has been working on a novel for the past three years.
Writing a novel is hard work. It's a commitment that many start and few finish. There are statistics out there that suggest that many people who start out writing a novel never make it past the first 10,000 words.
Em and I have made it past that, by a long way! If it takes another six years to finish our novels, those will be six years well spent. I hope it doesn't take that long, but I won't be disappointed if it does. Good things take time. Worthwhile endeavours take time. Our boys are worth it, no matter how much we sometimes think they aren't.
As for how long my novel will get. I don't know. I will write until it's finished and then I'll go back to the beginning and start over in the first of what I envisage will be two full editing phases. That will take time, but while I'm editing I can let diver-boy out of his cranium cage. Who knows what he'll get up to.
Over the past 90,000 words and three years, I've found that I, and Codee, respond well to approaching writing as a form of play. We sit down together and we see what happens -- no pressure, no wild expectations, nothing but getting to spend time with my protag and his mixed up perceptions of how things are. Most times it's a positive experience where he takes over and employs me as his scribe, rattling out his thoughts, expectations, hair-brained schemes and actions to get what he wants. Other times it's just a frustrating patch of dead air where he sits there with a blank face and empty brain. He's a smart guy, but occasionally he's just... not. Or maybe it's me that's not smart, but let's not go there. ;-)
If I've learned anything over these past 90,000 words, it's not to take myself or Codee too seriously. He's flawed. I'm flawed. The novel is flawed. I aspire to literary greatness, not as a means by which to clamour for fame or money (there's enough people already out there doing that), but as a means by which to relate the story that I've committed myself to telling. I'm not self-deluded or arrogant enough to think that I'm doing the story true justice at this point in time. I've got too much yet to learn to be able to say that.
I set my standards high. I enjoy reading a variety of different stories, but there's a difference between a masterful writer and a good one. I think I'm good. I can hold my own in a writing group without blushing beet red with shame, but I'm not masterful. Nowhere close. One day I will be, but I hope I never know it because the minute that I do I will lose my creative edge.
On a different note, I can't imagine falling in love with another character like I've fallen in love with Codee. Having said that, I'm sure I will. That's for the future and my next novel about a guy who lives on the coast. I don't know his name, or his face, or much more about him other than he's not a fisherman but might be a diver. Codee won't let me find out and more and that's the way it should be. One novel at a time.
At this point I must also publicly convey my thanks to Em, my writing buddy, best friend, mentor, coach and Leland's scribe. She, like I, has been working on a novel for the past three years.
Writing a novel is hard work. It's a commitment that many start and few finish. There are statistics out there that suggest that many people who start out writing a novel never make it past the first 10,000 words.
Em and I have made it past that, by a long way! If it takes another six years to finish our novels, those will be six years well spent. I hope it doesn't take that long, but I won't be disappointed if it does. Good things take time. Worthwhile endeavours take time. Our boys are worth it, no matter how much we sometimes think they aren't.
As for how long my novel will get. I don't know. I will write until it's finished and then I'll go back to the beginning and start over in the first of what I envisage will be two full editing phases. That will take time, but while I'm editing I can let diver-boy out of his cranium cage. Who knows what he'll get up to.
Monday, 4 May 2009
BR; Out Stealing Horses (Per Petterson)
Amazon Link: Out Stealing HorsesThe back cover reads:
"Out Stealing Horses has been embraced across the world as a classic, a novel of universal relevance and power. Panoramic and gripping, it tells the story of Trond Sander, a sixty-seven-year old man who has moved from the city to a remote, riverside cabin, only to have all the turbulence, grief and overwhelming beauty of his youth come back to him one night while he's out on a walk. From the moment Trond sees a strange figure coming out of the dark behind his home, the reader is immersed in a decades-deep story of searching and loss, and in the precise, irresistible prose of a newly crowned master of fiction."
This book went onto my wish list last year, and into my shopping bag this year while I was in the States. I finished reading it this morning on the train, several stops before my station. I expected resolution, a clearer explanation of Trond's psychology, his physiology even, but the book completed the story of his youth but not the story of his life. It is how it should be, and as I closed the novel in my lap and stared out the window at the city gliding past, I felt content in having experienced this journey with Trond.
He is a man who has chosen isolation, yet is unable to escape his past. Coincidence brings him a neighbour from a tragic incident many, many years before and all Trond's expectations for a solitary existence are nullified by the other man's rough companionship.
As with all great novels, animals feature heavily and their presence is not as decoration or distraction, but as a means by which the characters shift and change. Trond and Lars each have a dog, Lyra and Poker, and the two animals are strangely representative of their masters.
Trond remembers his youth and his memories are rich with a summer he spent with his father in Norway when he was 15 years old. His relationship with his father is mature, honest, absorbingly touching and ultimately saddening. One scene, whether father and son dance stark naked in the pouring rain, is hilarious and beautiful. Trond's father loves his son, respects and protects him, offering guidance and advice where necessary, and trusting distance when Trond needs to figure things out for himself. Despite their sometimes hard life, Trond is not for want of love, which makes the life his father chooses that much harder to take.
Trond's father taught him that "... we decide for ourselves when it will hurt." The lesson was in how to deal with a painfully prickly weed infestation, but this is the arc of the novel, the underlying subtext that needs multiple reads and a good book-club session to understand.
He reads Dickens, and relates some of the things that happens to stories he read long past.
... when you read Dickens you're reading a long ballad from a vanished world,
where everything has to come together in the end like an equation, where the
balance of what was once disturbed must be restored so that the gods can smile
again. A consolation, maybe, or a protest against a world gone off the rails,
but it is not like that any more, my world is not like that, and I have never
gone along with those who believe our lives are governed by fate. They whine,
they wash their hands and crave pity. I believe we shape our lives ourselves, at
any rate I have shaped mine, for what it's worth, and I take complete
responsibility. But of all the places I might have moved to, I had to land up
precisely here.
He works hard to maintain distance from people, giving them snippets of information and insight, but nothing that will reveal who he really is.
People like it when you tell them things, in suitable portions, in a modest,
intimate tone, and they think they know you, but they do not, they know about you, for what they are let in on are facts, not feelings, not what your opinion is about anything at all, not how what has happened to you and all the decisions you have made have turned you into who you are. What they do is they fill in with their own feelings and opinions and assumptions, and they compose a new life which has precious little to do with yours, and that lets you off the hook. No-one can touch you unless you yourself want them to. You only have to be polite and smile and keep paranoid thoughts at bay, because they will talk about you no matter how much you squirm, it is inevitable, and you would do the same thing yourself.
This book requires a second, third or maybe even fourth read to appreciate the subtext. It's an enjoyable read, even just for the scenery, the Norwegian and Swedish landscape and history. It's much more than that though, and it's failure to spell everything out is the richest reward of all.
Rating: *****1/2 out of five.
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