Archive for March, 2006

Moral fibre

Monday, March 27th, 2006

Occasionally, when feeling terribly brave or terribly caffeinated (it comes to much the same thing), I shall be posting a poem or some such short work-in-progress for your amusement. I would very much like to invite criticism, please God constructive criticism. Obviously, I would love a bazillion people to all tell me my work is sublime and wonderful and incidentally, can they send me a cash donation and possibly some chocolate, but I am now very caffeinated indeed so I am asking for honest critical appraisal. Comments will be used to create a follow-up post. Discussions good. Me shouting into the void, not so good. Note use of word ‘appraisal’. Say ‘your poem is not very good, because the rhythm is all over the place and this metaphor is hackneyed,’ and I will cry and curse your very name but I will leave the comment up and maybe even think about it, and re-write, and re-post, and soon I’ll be calling you ‘Sensei’ and you will be calling me ‘Grasshopper’. Say ‘your poem sucks and so do you,’ and I will delete your comment with a tinkling laugh and tell all my acquaintances that you have improbably ugly genitals.

And if anyone else wants to join in and have their poem or prose be the star of the show, please send it to Editor at this blog. Don’t be scared. I swear she’s nicer to just about everyone else on the planet than she is to me.

And now for the poem. I wrote it several years ago, before my panic-stricken I-can’t-write-poetry-why-am-I-even-trying phase. If this goes well, you can expect a fresh poem next time.

Astronomer and Comet

Shining ice, written
Across the blackboard of night,
Silver word among
The punctuation of stars,
Unaware that I read you.

That blue planet there,
Spinning as I fall past it,
Is watching my path,
Its gaze as necessary
As the sun that makes me blaze.

Posted in Poetry | 2 Comments »

HOW many?

Wednesday, March 15th, 2006

Well, it seems that Reed is not actually blogging very much at the moment. I can assure you she sits down at the computer quite as often as I could desire, but then almost immediately gets back up again to put the kettle on and chew fingernails. Bloody writers. When they are not being neurotic as Milton’s own Satan, they are so laid-back they can’t even hear the sonic boom of deadlines hurtling past thousands of feet above them.

Reed, who is of course leaning over my shoulder as I type, has pointed out that she does actually have a day job, and has, wonder of wonders, been kept busy into the bargain. I am not impressed by this at all. I couldn’t be less impressed by a Eurovision entrant. I am so unimpressed that I will now write an entire blog entry about writing, as originally planned. Even after a day wrestling with spreadsheets. And because I am the Editor, and anal is my ground state of being, I will entertain myself by listing the Uncompleted Works, in order of conception, with progress-so-far, and any sarcastic remarks that occur to me.

1) The Novel About Atlantis Not Having Sunk After All, with intrigue, evil princesses, loyal and frankly quite dishy footmen, political conniving, attempted murder and quite a lot of bodice-ripping. This one can be dated back to Reed’s childhood and games of ‘let’s pretend’ with siblings (I hasten to assure you, the bodice-ripping and poison came into it when Reed was well into her teens). Characters beautifully developed, plot now almost completely, err, plotted. Words written, none. Must try harder.

2) The One About The Identical Twins And All The Wacky Adventurers They Befriend, also a fantasy novel. Good characters that have been haunting Reed since Sixth Form, no damn’ plot at all. Words written – one excellent description of ceremonial dancing and, half a chapter about the lead character ploughing a field. I ask you.

3) The Quest Novel – yes indeedy. A proper one with wronged princesses, monsters, horse-back trips across a continent and a dragon. But damned if I let the princess get her kingdom back. I’m not really a royalist. Has been mulching away since Sixth Form as well.

4) The Space Opera, starring The Mafia and some seriously odd aliens. Stewing since University. Started out as a comedy a la Red Dwarf and seems to be morphing into an eco-fable. Three chapters and a heck of a lot of character sketches.

5) The Play, born of Reed’s depressing desire to get back at an old school friend who played mind-games to Kasparov standard. Guess what, it’s about two friends locked into silly mind-games until one of them makes friends with someone saner and the whole thing goes kablooey. Gets re-written about once every two years and is STILL painfully adolescent. May well improve if Reed can keep her resentment out of it.

6) The First ‘Serious’ (aka Mainstream. Serious being Reed’s father’s name for the genre) Novel – about sibling rivalry and stigmata. Ooh, fun. Incidentally, Reed, when are you going to stop prevaricating and write the bit about going to Lourdes? Contains a character called Joe Wagstaff – how can you deny the public such a treat?

7) The Radio Sit-Com. Will be hilarious. Am considering Rhona Cameron for the starring role, supported by Felicity Kendall, Ricky Gervais and Jo Brand. Must just now get Reed to actually write the blasted thing.

8) The Second Atlantis Novel. Same characters, more intrigue, plot still sporadic. Shelved until completion of the first one.

9) The Serious Historical Novel bought on by reading Possession by A.S. Byatt once too often while trying to do a PhD about Victorian Theatrical Practice. Probably not a bad piece of work, but now irredeemably tainted with the whole PhD bellyflop and therefore not so much shelved as kicked under the bookcase.

10) The Serious Historical WWII Novel, with absolutely NO Spitfire Pilots in AT ALL. But it does have a vicar’s daughter losing her virginity up against the only wall left standing of her lodgings and enough quality gore to rival CSI. A bit of a contender, this one. Needs more research into underwear fastenings. Oh, and alternatives to Spitfires. The hero has to do SOMETHING heroic when he’s not bonking.

11) Back To The Fantasy World, for a novel about slavery and, believe it or not, knitting. Mess not with those who use the pointy sticks. This one even has file-space in the hard-disk – most of the rest still live on A4.

12) Still In Fantasy World, for nuns mountaineering and then toppling corrupt tyrants as a sideline. Progressing well, huge hole in centre of plot regardless. This one popped up at about the same time as the previous, five years ago now.

13) The Detective Novel. Great screeds of plot and character notes. Actually used the advice in a ‘How to’ book for this one, as to working out the plot before hand. Nearly died of boredom. Started again. The lead alas still showing signs of being stereotypical and dreary, so I shot him in the arse. Not normally to be recommended, but it seems to have worked. May actually finish this one before we all die of old age.

14) Yet Another Damn Fantasy Novel, set in the same damn fantasy world, reprising some of the characters from 2). Yes, really. And it actually has a plot. About political corruption. On which we seem rather keen, as a subject. I put it down to too many Communist rallies in early childhood.

15) Oh, yes, and all that poetry. Used to write it by the ream. Made the mistake of re-reading it. Had seven year poetry drought as a result. Is tentatively attempting the odd haiku these days without actually spontaneously combusting from shame. We await developments.

See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? And not only had we done a full day’s work, but we’d also been crushed to pulp elbowing through the crowds on Oxford Street looking for gifts. Imagine what we could do on a quiet day off. Possibly even work on one of the above. The possibilities. Endless. Really.

Though I think we should stock up on decaff.

Posted in The Capacious Hold-All, The Editor takes over | 8 Comments »

Just practising

Monday, March 6th, 2006

I am not entirely sure why I am doing this to myself.

The Editor and I have had the most exhilarating conversations about this blog, usually just after midnight, in the dark and in the total absence of a keyboard or notebook. Daylight is alas less inspiring, and the Editor declines all creative input when actually faced with writing implements. It is, I am told, my job to do the actual writing. The Editor is too busy being in charge of… things.

So here am I, and here is this empty white box, eyeballing me. I am to fill it with a tremendously witty discussion on, befittingly, beginnings. I have always had a hell of a time with beginnings. As a student I was always the sort who starts essays at ten pm the night before they are due, and who hands them in at the last possible second with a suspicion of pyjama top showing under their duffle-coat. It was never because I did not know what to write. I’d come to the task both astonishingly well read and with a stack of notes that were the envy of the entire class. My well-marshalled thoughts would nonetheless take one look at the blank sheet of paper and run screaming for the fire-escape. There are some people who, when faced with a virgin snow-bank, throw themselves down to make snow angels, others who practice their, shall we say, penmanship with hot liquids on it, and yet others who scoop handfuls out of it to ballistically inconvenience their peers. I could only gaze, awe-struck by the smooth glory that had so mysteriously done away with the fag-end-strewn road-side. And hope someone else would break into it first, or I’d never get to have a snow-ball fight.

Take online fora and message boards. On them I not only contribute, I babble. I gush. Great foaming torrents of verbiage (and I’d be a liar if I said even one third of it was apposite) burst into the empty white text-boxes and spread into vast new lagoons. So what? We’re all in it together, all jabbering away and half the time ignoring one another anyway. The snow-bank is already pierced and fretted and melting and nothing I can do to it alters that. But now the page is only mine, any imperfection, all infelicities, are entirely mine, and my words have to stand on their own merit, unshielded by any surrounding wit or folly. It makes me horribly self-conscious.

‘Just write anything at all!’ say well-meaning friends. And teachers. And books on creative writing. ‘Type “The cat sat on the mat” fifteen times! Describe the weather, or, how to darn socks, or anything!’ they urge. They are quite right. Write whatever you can, and then and only then allow the Editor to come in and hack it all into reasonable shape with the famous blue pencil, the delete key, and, just occasionally, a large G&T and an axe. I can refute none of this. Obviously, I should just write anything at all. In the age of word-processing, I won’t even be wasting paper and ink. Obviously. Nevertheless I will still be wasting half-a-dozen cups of tea I have made but did not drink in the white heat of composition. Not to mention wear and tear on the keyboard (and yes, some of that is due to my banging my head on it). I will be violating the ethics of my perfectionist streak, that demands that everything I do be done perfectly first go or, and this is the sticking point, NOT AT ALL. It’s less of a streak and more of a full-blown neurosis, these days. And I will be haunted by the Editor, complaining about the amount of time I am wasting as well. Time I could be spending on notes for the next entry, on chapter two, on my shamefully neglected private correspondence, heck, even on the washing-up. How dare I take this precious time and write trivia that the Editor will only have to delete?

And yet, somehow, and with an embarrassing amount of whining and tea-making, I have made a beginning. See? Write anything.

Posted in The Capacious Hold-All | 6 Comments »

Starting as one means to go on…

Friday, March 3rd, 2006

My very dear readers, this was supposed to be a warm and elegant welcome to a new venture, complete with mission statement, introductions, and possibly even the very first article on the finickier points of creative writing. But alas the writer has writer’s block. Well, WRITER’S BLOCK, really. Reed apparently absolutely daren’t start posting on this my new blog, get this, for fear that no one will like it. Reed even claims to be paralysed with fright. I have told the silly ass to stop being ridiculous and just go for it. Yes, GO for it. Go on then…. Just GO. For Pete’s sake, Reed, you’ve even written most of the damn post in TextEdit. Post it. Post it. Go on. Click Copy. Yes, now click Paste. I said, click Paste. PASTE! PASTE IT! NO, do NOT go and make tea! Come back here right now and post this thing! Right now! OY! Come back!

Godforsaken wimp.

Posted in The Editor takes over | 1 Comment »