At the moment I'm reading a Bukowski short story collection (The Most Beautiful Woman in Town and other stories). The writing reminds me very much of Henry Miller in Tropic of Cancer - it's vigorous, bawdy, honest and funny. But as both books are memoirs (of sorts) and therefore about writing as much as what happens in their day to day lives, it's making me think about how much (or how little) I write. And read.
There are simply not enough hours in the day for me to plough through my waiting list of books to read. So much information and tales that I want to gorge myself on yet time slips through my hands like sand.
I need to work out some sort of system for myself whereby I read a book that I class as Literature and then something purely for pleasure. Sometimes these might overlap, but generally the Literature requires me to engage my brain whereas the stuff I look at purely for pleasure doesn't. I suppose it's a bit like food - Literature is a good meal at a top restaurant, pleasure books are the literary equivalent of MacDonalds and Burger King. That said, there are the rare occasions when I pick up what I consider to be a MacBook and it turns out to be a real feast.
Stephen King said somewhere that anyone wishing to pursue writing as a career should read for at least four hours every day. Some days I can probably do that - although most of that will be made up of reading on a pc screen - not what I think he meant at all. I certainly used to read for a good four hours each day and in all honesty it's not a huge amount out of 24 hours. But in our busy 21st century lives it's a massive hole. Audio books I suppose could help - at least for those of us for whom driving is unavoidable.
Hmm…I should be reading now and not writing aimless musings to myself.
Friday, 14 March 2008
Friday, 22 February 2008
A Quickie
Just a quick one before I head off out into the gale that is currently battering the South East of the UK - okay, maybe it isn't a gale, but it's certainly very windy.
I've been thinking about changes and how our lives develop over time...the old thing of 'what if?' Not always a good thing to consider as you can so easily wind up feeling full of remorse and regret - If only I hadn't eaten that last doughnut! If only I'd walked instead of taken the bus!
Recently I've been teaching a bit and one of the problems some of my students have come up against is distance. Not how far they need to go to get to classes or to the pub, but how easy it is to put distance between them and their readers in their writing. I think often we keep the entire world at arms length - as children we are shielded by our parents (hopefully) from the worst that life has to offer and as parents we do the shielding. As childless adults we often protect ourselves from the outside world and avoid unpleasant experiences. Self-preservation and protection. Not a bad idea.
But what if it's stopping you from experiencing life?
What if your fear of the unknown because it might be nasty, is preventing you from having some amazing life-affirming experiences?
As I write this I'm reminded that I wrote about this subject months ago - clearly it's still something that bothers me - it's my personal bee in my blogging bonnet.
You know what? Switch this PC off and go out - go into your life, do something, anything but mostly something which scares you a little but will make you feel alive.
That's what I'm off to do.
I've been thinking about changes and how our lives develop over time...the old thing of 'what if?' Not always a good thing to consider as you can so easily wind up feeling full of remorse and regret - If only I hadn't eaten that last doughnut! If only I'd walked instead of taken the bus!
Recently I've been teaching a bit and one of the problems some of my students have come up against is distance. Not how far they need to go to get to classes or to the pub, but how easy it is to put distance between them and their readers in their writing. I think often we keep the entire world at arms length - as children we are shielded by our parents (hopefully) from the worst that life has to offer and as parents we do the shielding. As childless adults we often protect ourselves from the outside world and avoid unpleasant experiences. Self-preservation and protection. Not a bad idea.
But what if it's stopping you from experiencing life?
What if your fear of the unknown because it might be nasty, is preventing you from having some amazing life-affirming experiences?
As I write this I'm reminded that I wrote about this subject months ago - clearly it's still something that bothers me - it's my personal bee in my blogging bonnet.
You know what? Switch this PC off and go out - go into your life, do something, anything but mostly something which scares you a little but will make you feel alive.
That's what I'm off to do.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Bibliophilia
No real secret about me – my love of books. It’s something I share with many of my closest friends and in many ways marks out individuals with whom I’m more likely to spend time.
Descartes said “I think therefore I am” for me I would alter that to “I read therefore I think”. In my opinion reading is an active pursuit not a passive one – when I read I am the author’s audience. I am the screen upon which the author’s imagination can project its images – yet they are always my images. Have you ever seen a film of a book you’ve read? Then you’ll know what I mean – you watch and think to yourself, ‘But that’s not how it was’ or ‘That’s not how they looked’. Reading is an active pursuit because one needs to conjure up the images in ones head – the author suggests them but the reader makes them real, fleshes them out in their head. Readers are also active in piecing together the clues left in the plot – even when the story isn’t a mystery or crime novel. All stories are mysteries – what will happen next? How will things turn out? Will it end happily? As readers we are constantly watching for clues and signs – even when we think we’re not. I could go on at length now about semiotics – film semiotics in particular is a love of mine. It reminds me of crossword puzzles – something in truth I’m lousy at – but the semiotics of a film – the why and how, the grammar and language of film – that gives me a perverse kick. Likewise the critical examination of a good book is something I have come to appreciate over the years.
And you can see more details of the staircase here.
Descartes said “I think therefore I am” for me I would alter that to “I read therefore I think”. In my opinion reading is an active pursuit not a passive one – when I read I am the author’s audience. I am the screen upon which the author’s imagination can project its images – yet they are always my images. Have you ever seen a film of a book you’ve read? Then you’ll know what I mean – you watch and think to yourself, ‘But that’s not how it was’ or ‘That’s not how they looked’. Reading is an active pursuit because one needs to conjure up the images in ones head – the author suggests them but the reader makes them real, fleshes them out in their head. Readers are also active in piecing together the clues left in the plot – even when the story isn’t a mystery or crime novel. All stories are mysteries – what will happen next? How will things turn out? Will it end happily? As readers we are constantly watching for clues and signs – even when we think we’re not. I could go on at length now about semiotics – film semiotics in particular is a love of mine. It reminds me of crossword puzzles – something in truth I’m lousy at – but the semiotics of a film – the why and how, the grammar and language of film – that gives me a perverse kick. Likewise the critical examination of a good book is something I have come to appreciate over the years.
But it’s not just what’s contained between those cardboard leaves but the actual bookishness of the book itself – its form, its smell – the promise of far off lands, other times, other lives, new ideas, new adventures, new people – all those things and the weight, the smooth page under my fingertip, the small file filled up in my head once I’ve finished the story.
Is it any wonder I once made an art installation of a book repository – a storage room full of shelves and on each shelf row after row of neat piled shoe boxes – each with details printed on the outside of a book I had read, the main or most resonating character for me and the age at which I was when I read it. Small children’s shoe boxes for “What Katy Did Next”, “Ballet Shoes” and an entire shelf devoted to Enid Blyton. One thing I forgot until the piece was being shown was a dark corner where I could have shoved all the Jackie Colllins and Danielle Steele boxes so they would have been almost out of view, my shame nearly hidden…
And you can see more details of the staircase here.
Tuesday, 12 February 2008
Anger.
Anger is a strange emotion and one that thankfully, I don’t often experience. Right now though, I’m extremely angry.
I’ve had the last few days in a real oasis of calm and relaxation – good company and doing things I enjoy like getting out and about, talking and all the usual stuff that we do as our Leisure Pursuits. Today though my return to normality has been blighted constantly: first of all a horrendous traffic jam on the M25 which saw 10 mile tailbacks (it could have been 100 miles – it certainly felt like it) so my journey was not just doubled but actually near on quadrupled. The weather was beautiful and I was stuck in a car. Then I got home to a letter – a large bill actually for something unavoidable but equally something which I’ve been pushed into you might say – it’s too personal to go into but suffice to say after opening the letter I was ready to express my feelings in the strongest terms possible. Then I had to pick up my children from a match they were playing against another school. Firstly I had forgotten all about this until I reached their school and saw they were not there (yes I know - go on call me a bad mother!). I dashed to the other school and fortunately made it just in time to pick them up – the only redeeming feature of the day actually as I’m so often late.
Now this evening the kids wouldn’t go to bed, the house is so noisy I can hardly hear myself think (and that’s not just the kids, but that’s another story entirely) and to cap it all off the internet has gone down so I can’t even check my email.
All the calmness and serenity I picked up over the weekend is entirely ruined. I’m angry.
Unfortunately anger is one of those emotions which really harms the person experiencing it and also has a detrimental effect on those around you too. It’s an unpleasant emotion in every way. I don’t like being angry and I can’t see how it can be a healthy emotion to experience. Right now I could willingly go and kick or thump nine bells out of something (not someone – no matter how tempting that may be) and I can see that kick boxing would be a great sport to take up were one regularly troubled by anger.
Maybe when the bloody internet gets back up and running I’ll start to look for a kickboxing class I can take.
Monday, 4 February 2008
Writing
Just a quick one as I really ought to be sleeping now as I'm teaching tomorrow, but I have that nagging itch to write.
No idea what to write about this evening....I've written a short piece of erotica-lite for b3ta today in reply to another poster's request. It was fun to put myself into another character's mindset for a short while and reminded me just why I enjoy writing fiction so much. I do find though that I tend to write in two ways or rather, two styles - one which is rather distant and quick, almost journalistic and therefore Tells the story rather than Showing it. The other style I take is my favourite but far harder to do - that of Showing the story - avoiding adverbs, using lots of active verbs and rich description, really allowing the reader to inhabit the scene for themselves. It's more demanding to write, requires a real crafting of a story and a high level of skill which is hard (for me) to maintain. Often Showing a story can result in a filmic piece of writing - my aim most of the time as I want to put the pictures right into the readers' heads. However, when writing something short or with a short deadline then I fall back onto the journalistic style - quick and snappy and hopefully throw in a more crafted line here and there.
I need to get back to writing. Proper writing.
Must start thinking about plots and ideas for writing.
Perhaps I'll even post some of them here....
No idea what to write about this evening....I've written a short piece of erotica-lite for b3ta today in reply to another poster's request. It was fun to put myself into another character's mindset for a short while and reminded me just why I enjoy writing fiction so much. I do find though that I tend to write in two ways or rather, two styles - one which is rather distant and quick, almost journalistic and therefore Tells the story rather than Showing it. The other style I take is my favourite but far harder to do - that of Showing the story - avoiding adverbs, using lots of active verbs and rich description, really allowing the reader to inhabit the scene for themselves. It's more demanding to write, requires a real crafting of a story and a high level of skill which is hard (for me) to maintain. Often Showing a story can result in a filmic piece of writing - my aim most of the time as I want to put the pictures right into the readers' heads. However, when writing something short or with a short deadline then I fall back onto the journalistic style - quick and snappy and hopefully throw in a more crafted line here and there.
I need to get back to writing. Proper writing.
Must start thinking about plots and ideas for writing.
Perhaps I'll even post some of them here....
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
The Book Thief
I know, I know, it's been ages again since I wrote anything here. I have no excuse except that I've started this new job (I mentioned it in the previous post - it's temporary and only a few hours each week, but as it's an academic job it's demanding and I'm enjoying it).
I'm reading a great book at the moment - The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It's a story set during World War Two in Germany. It tells the tale of an ordinary German family living in Munich who hide a young Jewish man. It's very much a cross between the Diary of Anne Frank and the film, The Pianist. It's also unusually told by Death. This morning I was sitting in a cafe reading a chapter over a coffee and it had me in tears with the following moving passage....
"On June 23 1942, there was a group of French Jews in a German prison, on Polish soil....
Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their French words. I watched their love-visions and freed them from their fear.
I took them all away, and if ever there was a time I needed distraction, this was it. In complete desolation, I looked at the world above. I watched the sky as it turned from silver to grey to the colour of rain. Even the clouds tried to look the other way.
Sometimes, I imagined how everything appeared above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye.
They were French, they were Jews, and they were you."
Yes, I know it's very sentimental but personally I adore sentiment and strong feelings in writing - I want to feel the heartbreak of the characters or their passion, their fear, their joy - I'm not happy to simply read a clinical or cynical take on events. In fact in my opinion this writing isn't sentimental at all, but instead the huge events taking place are handled very gently without overblown baroque outpourings.
If only I could write that way myself...unfortunately I tend towards the baroque at all times in my writing.
I'm reading a great book at the moment - The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It's a story set during World War Two in Germany. It tells the tale of an ordinary German family living in Munich who hide a young Jewish man. It's very much a cross between the Diary of Anne Frank and the film, The Pianist. It's also unusually told by Death. This morning I was sitting in a cafe reading a chapter over a coffee and it had me in tears with the following moving passage...."On June 23 1942, there was a group of French Jews in a German prison, on Polish soil....
Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their French words. I watched their love-visions and freed them from their fear.
I took them all away, and if ever there was a time I needed distraction, this was it. In complete desolation, I looked at the world above. I watched the sky as it turned from silver to grey to the colour of rain. Even the clouds tried to look the other way.
Sometimes, I imagined how everything appeared above those clouds, knowing without question that the sun was blond, and the endless atmosphere was a giant blue eye.
They were French, they were Jews, and they were you."
Yes, I know it's very sentimental but personally I adore sentiment and strong feelings in writing - I want to feel the heartbreak of the characters or their passion, their fear, their joy - I'm not happy to simply read a clinical or cynical take on events. In fact in my opinion this writing isn't sentimental at all, but instead the huge events taking place are handled very gently without overblown baroque outpourings.
If only I could write that way myself...unfortunately I tend towards the baroque at all times in my writing.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
Happy New Year
January is a depressing month I think. It's the depths of winter and here in the South of England we get wind, rain and grey, grey skies. It's cold and damp. No snow, no startling blue skies just turgid miserable weather.
I feel unbelievably tired - I'm getting a good 7-8 hours each night, I'm exercising regularly (climbing at least twice or three times a week and even some cycling in there too) yet I feel that I could retire to bed for the next month or so. Hibernation looks inviting.
Despite all my feelings of sloth I'm actually going through a really good period in my life right now - new friendships and relationships have developed, a new job has been started - even if it is temporary and with very few hours, nonetheless, it's an area in which I wanted to work. So things are good right now, much better than they've been for a long time.
Yet.
If you can imagine the slightly dreamy way you can sometimes feel when you've had a couple of drinks...no drunkenness but a sort of heightened awareness and increased sensitivity. That's sort of how I feel right now - a bit spaced out I guess, and tired.
Maybe it's because a good deal of my life is beginning to finally settle. I do feel a little like a giant snow-globe - I've spent the last year being picked up and shaken frantically and now, finally, everything is settling and becoming clear. No wonder I feel tired...and very probably a little seasick.
Alternatively I could simply be coming down with a cold.
I feel unbelievably tired - I'm getting a good 7-8 hours each night, I'm exercising regularly (climbing at least twice or three times a week and even some cycling in there too) yet I feel that I could retire to bed for the next month or so. Hibernation looks inviting.
Despite all my feelings of sloth I'm actually going through a really good period in my life right now - new friendships and relationships have developed, a new job has been started - even if it is temporary and with very few hours, nonetheless, it's an area in which I wanted to work. So things are good right now, much better than they've been for a long time.
Yet.
If you can imagine the slightly dreamy way you can sometimes feel when you've had a couple of drinks...no drunkenness but a sort of heightened awareness and increased sensitivity. That's sort of how I feel right now - a bit spaced out I guess, and tired.
Maybe it's because a good deal of my life is beginning to finally settle. I do feel a little like a giant snow-globe - I've spent the last year being picked up and shaken frantically and now, finally, everything is settling and becoming clear. No wonder I feel tired...and very probably a little seasick.
Alternatively I could simply be coming down with a cold.
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