The Madness of Masters

Since starting back on my MA last October I've found myself spending a lot of time feeling guilty about not blogging, but not having enough inspiration or drive to get a post done. The fact is, since I began this blog it's been an outlet for my writing, but I guess since I've been studying again I've been spending my brain power on that instead. Also it doesn't help that because of the time difference, my online class takes place from 3am-6am once a week. I'm not really a night owl at the best of times and this absolute invasion of my usual regular sleeping pattern is offensive and brutal, and definitely f*cks me up for the next couple of days. 

Last semester I had to frantically try to plough my way through books that I had little interest in, purely for the sake of being able to put them in my bibliography and then pretend that they inspired my work. You can see how much I 'enjoyed' reading those books on my review blog here. I really and truly hate reading fiction simply because I have to. Come to that, I hate reading a story simply because someone else says I should, or because it's deemed a 'classic.'

My Research Methods module is currently in full swing, and will later lead into the dissertation. I'm so excited to be working on the story I've been creating for a while now: my fantasy story for children, which all started from a map. 

I'm devoting my time to developing characters, creating communities and coming up with a weird and fun plot, and it all counts towards my masters! This, ladies and gentlemen, is why I chose a creative writing MA rather than a sensible one such as teaching. 
And as if the fun of what I'm working on isn't enough, the research makes it even better. My research has consisted so far of taking notes on handbooks about writing for children, devouring numerous children's books and watching films. 
Then last week my tutor recommended a way in which to research the development of fantasy worlds: she said I should look at computer games. As a result I'm currently waiting for World of Warcraft to download on my computer. I don't mind telling you I'm a bit nervous. Nervous to suck at it and be outcast from taking part in quests, as veterans (or gaming nerds-call them what you will) worldwide see me for the fraud I am. Nervous to get killed in the first five minutes, and most worryingly of all, nervous to get addicted. 

So that's it. If you never see another blog post here you'll know why.     

The Illusion of Wasted Time

I'm currently in the middle of a wonderful week off from work, in which I've set myself lots of goals in the areas of studying, reading, writing, drawing, correspondence, cleaning and more. In typical me style, each day I've given myself way too many things to realistically do and then spent most of the day wallowing in a mixture of indifference, apathy, self-loathing and pure joy as I procrastinate to high heaven.

I'm starting to wonder if, by making a task something I should or need to do, I psychologically then don't want to do it. By that logic then if I put 'watch seven episodes of Frasier in a row and eat chocolate' on my list then maybe I will instead practice cartwheels and eat a bowlful of apples.
I'm noticing a trend. One day I might put 'do the washing' on my list, and end up drawing a picture. Then the next day if I put 'draw a picture' on the list, I might find myself cleaning my clothes. The activity in question is irrelevant- its mere presence on the list renders it undesirable.
So by the list logic I will eventually do everything, but I'll do it in an order that makes me feel perpetually guilty for not having got things done 'that day.'

As a (tortured) writer I definitely suffer with guilt. There is no escape from the feeling that anything else I'm doing is a waste, a dreaded procrastination. 
I sometimes lament the fact that my blog isn't bigger, that more people don't read it. Occasionally I join a link up or something to try and get more traffic. Then I stop and ask myself- do I even really want this? Needless to say popularity would be fun and it would be nice to have more of a blogging community. On the other hand, there are the following drawbacks:

• Do I want to do sponsored posts for money? You get sent cool stuff for free, but you're not free to blog about what you want to). 

• Do I want to feel pressure to reply to comments left on a blog post? Some bloggers get a hundred comments every time they post something. At my average 0.0047 comments per blog post, I have no problem staying on top. 

• The most popular bloggers blog upwards of five times a week. How on earth would I find five things to write about each week?

No, I think all in all I'm better off being free to ramble at my own pace, allowing it to be a fun pastime rather than edging into the dangerous territory of chore. 

I sometimes dream about being a concert pianist and wish I was (infinitely) better at playing. But then if it was my day job I'd probably hate it. Not to say I hate my day job now or anything, I just mean that sometimes we think if we could have our favourite hobby as a career then life would be perfect. In actual fact for many people, being paid to do something (with the resulting deadlines and boundaries and pressure) can turn the thing they once loved into a pain in the ass. 

In short, sometimes hobbies are best left as hobbies.
 
I read a great quote the other day in Writing Children's Fiction. On the subject of 'Writers Magic' Linda Newbery says, 

"imagination only comes when you privilege the subconscious, 

when you make delay and procrastination work for you.’’ (pg79)

So maybe as a writer I'm lucky. I can do an activity totally unrelated and still call the time spent a success in terms of the daydreaming I did.
But even if I'm not doing what I'm 'supposed' to being doing, or even thinking about it in any way, shape or form, should I feel guilty? Should I care? I've decided the answer is a big fat no. I'm the only one putting this pressure on myself and creating a false sense of what's important and what's not. 

In the end it doesn't matter what we do with our time. All that really matters is that we're enjoying doing it. Is that not what life is about, after all?

 

 

Letterland

Recently I was reminiscing with a friend about Letterland, (do you remember it?) a magical place where every letter has its own personality. What a wonderful world it was! As you already know, I've been uncovering old books of late, and you'll never guess what I found-none other than the Letterland ABC. From the Hairy Hat man (homeless) to Poor Peter (depressed), it was a pleasure to re-read and re-live. I did notice that some of the characters are better than others, both in design and in characteristics. And it is with this in mind that I've decided the world of Letterland has a lot to answer for.
Yesterday, whilst at the self service check out of Sainsbury's, I had a little trouble self serving myself an avocado. The damn reduced sticker just wouldn't beep. So... rather than 'seek assistance' and be there for all of time, I imitated a BEEP of my own (Peter Kay would be proud) and popped the avocado casually in my bag. Just like that. And who do I blame for this instance of guiltless petty thievery? Robber Red, that's who!

My earliest role model, I quote, 'is a real trouble-maker in  Letterland.'
Everyone hates him and wants to see him locked up. Well thanks.
If only I had a name beginning with G, making the wonderful and flawless Golden Girl my mascot, maybe things would've turned out differently. But, as it is, I was destined from an early age to be the kind of person that steals reduced sale vegetables.





And as if Robber Red isn't bad enough, check out the personality of the letter 'X.' Thank goodness my name wasn't Xena! What on earth is this about?





It's the Kissing Cousins!










Now if that's not an advert for marrying within the family, I don't know what is.

Discovering old books

Nothing makes me happier than leafing through old childhood books, so you can imagine my joy when my sister brought two boxes of books back to me from her attic. I absolutely love my kindle and think it's really taught me the value of being attached to the words and not the pages on which the words are written, but regardless of this I will always have a major soft spot for children's books. They're so beautiful! Roald Dahl (and therefore Quentin Blake) or an illustrated Disney treasury, I'm not fussy; I just love it.
Another type of book that can never be acceptable in kindle form is that of the 'coffee table' variety. And so, in my boxes of books, I found PostSecret. Have you ever come across this phenomenon either in a book or on the Internet? I know it's pretty widespread so maybe I don't need to explain, but just in case- PostSecret started as a blog where people could send their innermost secrets, anonymously, of course. The postcards are supposed to be succinct and arty and truthful, but those are the only real rules. The result is amazing: a mixture of secrets that make you laugh and cry, feel hopeful and hopeless, all at the same time.
Today I went on the PostSecret website (check it out) for the first time ever. I've always been wondering if/when I would see a secret that related to me, and today, out of the blue, there it was. And it didn't just relate to me, it was the exact one I would write, down to the word and feeling, if I was ever able to tell. It was so precise it made me cry, even though it's a secret long buried and almost forgotten. But that's the absolute beauty of PostSecret I suppose. It's raw and rough and tells it like it is, no tip-toeing, no messin'.

I'll leave you with one PostSecret that made me laugh out loud, bearing in mind my soon-to-be-new-life.
Do you think this will be me??

P.S On an unrelated note have a look on story stuff if you feel like it :)

Every word is sacred

It’s becoming apparent that there is a direct parallel between not only the frequency of my blogging but how interesting the subject matter is, and the amount of activity going on in my life.
Nevertheless, here it is.
I have just finished clawing my way through the 750 PAGES that make up The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest and I have to say I’m bitterly disappointed. Both in this one and in the second book. I like the characters, but the storyline hasn't by any means lived up to my expectations based on the first book. There were disappointing revelations and disproportionately small portions of action; as each page went by I felt I was just waiting for something to happen. There were some interesting bits, don't get me wrong, but the books were so completely under-edited that these parts were surrounded and suffocated by descriptions of interior design, or the five cups of coffee a character had, or some pointless dinner and the pointless drinks that followed. Larsson also has an obsession with putting a name to the technology being used, like ‘power book’ or whatever. I guess some people like that, but I find it exhausting and boring and think it's a big mistake. Before we know it technology will have moved on, leaving the book well and truly behind, like reading about an Acorn as being 'cutting edge' today.  
I’ve decided that approximately one in every two words was of interest to me, which is why I couldn’t give up on it, but equally why it took an eternity to get through. My editorial suggestion would've been to do just that—cut out every other word. The results could hardly have been worse.  
I think possibly the reason that the books are under-edited is because of Larsson’s untimely death before publication. Perhaps it felt like editing would be dishonoring his memory, or maybe it was a case of there simply being no-one to ask for permission. In a way that’s fair enough, but on the other hand I’m sure Larsson would’ve preferred his books to be snappy and action packed.
There is definitely a trend of under-editing within fiction; there has to be a reason why the fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh Harry Potter books are much bigger than the first three. It’s probably that once J. K Rowling became a big star, no-one wanted to be the one to say, “Sorry love, but this part has got to go. It's totally shit.”

On another note, I fear I’m going to have to read Fifty Shades of Grey at some point. I didn’t want to but the pressure is getting to me. I’m curious, I can’t help it, I want to know what ‘mummy porn’ looks like. God help me.  

Not a lot of words, but a lot of words

In the past week I’ve found myself short of things to say. (What? I don’t believe it, I hear you cry) I guess sometimes life is just not that inspiring or noteworthy. Or, it could be said that not blogging is a sign of actually having a life. I’ll leave you to ponder on which of these might be the truth in my case.
One thing that certainly is worth noting, in my eyes anyway, is that I’ve finished draft five of my ‘novel.’ I still think the word novel is strangely formal, but ‘book’ also seems wrong seeing as it isn’t a book yet, but rather just words on a computer screen.
So anyway, I’ve finished this draft. Yey. But of course it is still far from ready to send to a publisher. The question is, when will it be ready? I’ve heard that authors often do twenty or so drafts. I’m sure you could revise something forever and never feel like it was finished. Sometimes, I add in or re-write a line, only to find that I’ve already written the exact same thing in the very next line, or next paragraph. It seems I know myself too well….
I can’t help but be happy that the word count has reached 88 thousand words. Two fat ladies! I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried.
The next stage for me is the dreaded, ‘give your story to someone (i.e. Lee) to read, then cry when he comments on all the parts that you know are crap and need working on, but don’t want to be told about.’ Hooray, I am truly excited about draft 6 already.
In other news, I am the proud owner of a new kindle because the edges of the screen were cracked on the old one. The Amazon people were very understanding and didn’t accuse me much at all, instead offering to send me a replacement in the next post. It’s a proud moment for me who never sends anything back, but usually opts for suffering in silence and grumbling about technology instead.

Lulu in Marrakech- A Warning

As is my custom and an ingrained habit since childhood, I don’t ever leave a book half read. Somehow it just bugs me, so I always carry on to the end, however painful this proves to be.  Last night I was finally released from the clutches of a 300 page god awful book, which has kept me prisoner for the past two weeks. I am left feeling bewildered by it; both insulted and strangely encouraged. How can such a terrible novel find a willing publisher? But at the same time, this in itself is proof that there is hope for us all. If this book was published, then surely there is a publisher out there for me too!
I now feel the need to review said book, to spread its joy to you, in the hope that you will be saved from the same fate as me (having to read it). Lulu in Marrakech follows Lulu on a secret CIA mission to Morocco, where she is to stay with her recent lover Ian, who happens to live there in a big old house. I don’t know whether it’s intentional, and if so then her profession makes no sense, but Lulu is one of the most stupid characters I have ever met. She is pathetic and clueless and has no idea what she is really doing in Marrakech. She hints from time to time about her many hidden CIA talents, such as being able to make an impression of a key using wax, but other than that she appears to be a complete waste of space. Added to which she is a total racist, insensitive and ignorant to the culture of the country in which she is in.  She makes regular sweeping and insulting statements about Islam, especially regarding terrorists, implying more than once that Muslims could at any time be blown up by close family members. And also with regards to women, Lulu assumes that all female Muslims covering their heads are doing so because they are oppressed, and she feels sorry for them regarding the issue of virginity. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are some Muslim women that are oppressed (but certainly not all), and of course the obsession with preserving the hymen is, to me, a bit unreasonable, but Lulu simply has her own, outragious way of putting it. For example:
I tried to remember being a virgin and I couldn’t. That is, there was no difference in me either way; it was exactly the same, and it was terrible to think there were whole continents of poor girls for whom that inconsequential poke might mean life or death.
Firstly, whole continents? Which would those be then? And secondly, inconsequential poke? Speak for yourself luv, haha.
I hoped at least that Lulu in Marrakech would be a trashy romantic romp, but even the love life side of the story is completely glossed over and crap. About a third of the book is spent with Lulu going to tea with her pregnant friend Posy (honestly?).
Three quarters of the way through Lulu is joined by some other CIA agents, who keep her completely in the dark about what they are doing. Regardless of this, however, she mindlessly joins them in kidnapping a ‘suspect’ (of what? I still have no idea). They strip him naked, tape his mouth shut and drive him somewhere, only to find that he has choked on his own vomit on the way there and died.
After this, Lulu goes on a short lived emotional journey of remorse, her main point being that if she knew he was going to die she wouldn’t have looked at the man's willy. Even after the man turns out to be innocent, she still remains preoccupied with her lover Ian- who she has forgiven for running off with another woman in the middle of the book- rather than being riddled with guilt at the murder she has assisted. 
Overall, the book has terribly drawn characters, none of which you feel you know at all by the end. The plot is almost non-existent and hardly includes the reader in what is going on. Terrible.
I am warning you now, that if you choose to open its cover and delve in, you will only have yourself to blame for the consequences.