Savita's question

The other week I was reading this excellent blog post by Saivta Kahlan about drawing the line. I urge you to go and read it: a) because as I've mentioned before it's excellent b) I rattled off a quick witty response and c) was challenged to consider my response in more depth. If you go and read it you will see evidence of b, and c, and a, will get you thinking. Now, if you are extremely busy (and only if that is the case) Savita questioned whether there were some subjects that should be should be taboo in children's literature. 


The teacher as gatekeeper: 
A few months ago I took a couple of books home to read as the teacher felt they were not suitable for ten year olds. One of them I couldn't get into and haven't read, the other one I absolutely loved, but agreed to send on to the secondary school as there was a death at the beginning of the book, some criminals, criminal activity, rap stars and pedophiles. While I would be quite happy to let a ten year old read the book, given the complexity of the the story, the age of the characters and some of the issues in the book, I felt more kids would read it in the high school.


The parent as gatekeeper: 
One of our favourite books is: De la petite taupe qui voulait savoir qui lui avait fait sur la tête. You may know it as The Story of the Little Mole Who Knew It Was None of His Business. We find it hysterical, we love the onomatopoeias and boy did we use a lot of them when in the throes of potty training. We pulled the book out at a some family do a while ago and one of the aunties was well and truly not amused because it was a book all about poo. Another one of my personal favourite's is Babette Cole's: Mummy laid an egg, but at present it's still on the top shelf (ooh er missus) of our book shelf. It will come down one day when the Frog has finished with the kamasutra like pages. 


The writer as gatekeeper: 
So far the examples I have mentioned have all involved other people as gatekeepers, but should the writer be a gatekeeper. In my current WIP, I did everything to keep my antagonist alive. I knew he had to die, but I didn't want my protagonist to be the one to kill him, and until I worked out a way for that to happen, I kept him alive. In the end it wasn't killing a character off that bothered me*, it was the main character. She could not become a killer, she's not a killer. She's pretty special, but if push comes to shove, she can't and won't kill anyone.


So after much thought and consideration I am actually in complete agreement with Savita (but you'll have to go to her post and see what I'm agreeing with), and as I mentioned in my comment I only draw the line at swearing, because as I say to the kids: we all do it, but there's a time and place and so far it hasn't found it's place in my WIP. 


* I'd just like to make it clear that I do not condone murder, the death penalty or vigilantes, but boy does it make good stories. 

A wee break

Last week was half term and time for a wee visit to London. Now I may have mentioned this before, but the Frog and I regularly joke/jibe/moan about my addiction to the computer and technology in general.  I will straight up confess that I am a little addicted to Facebook and check every day what my cousins three times removed that I've never met before have have been up to. And then there's Zuma blitz, although I have got much better with that addiction since I realised I could bank my unused lives.

Anyway, apart from the dreaded FB, I also read blogs, write this blog and well, write.  Dropbox, Scrivener and Word are like my personal holy trinity and being without them is a like leaving a little bit of myself behind. But you know you can always pick things up on the mobile version of Dropbox, except last week I didn't. I left EVERYTHING at home.

It was torture. The second we got on to the Eurostar I was surrounded by MacBooks. The bubba announced at the top of her voice that 'Mummy has that computer' and I felt compelled to explain that I had left it at home. A complete stranger left me in charge of his when he went to the toilet and I may have stroked it for a few moments.

As the train raced away from Paris, my mind kept shooting back to the little words I had left unattended at home and I tried to lose myself in someone else's. And then we arrived in London. We went to the park, we went shopping, I bought a bunch of books. We went to see the dinosaurs at the Natural History museum. We went to see The Muppets. The bubba somehow managed to find another French/English little girl in the soft play area. We went to the Tate Modern and contemplated Tacita Dean's Film. I think I made a breakthrough with my camera and even took a few pictures on the A setting before panicking and going back to the automatic setting. In general we had some fun, even though the words were always on my mind.

But sometimes you have to let the words go. Sometimes you get so close to them, you can't see them anymore. They mean nothing and tell no story. And I find it really hard to do, but for five days I did it. And I went back to them and every awkward phrase, bad bit of punctuation and silly bit stood out like a sore thumb. It was time to make those words sing.Sometimes, it's good to have a wee break.

Now I was going to leave you with a photo of the pile of books that came back with me, but I've had no time. So here's the list: Beware of the Frog by William Bee, Jack and the Beanstalk by Stephen Tucker and Nick Sharrat, Slinky Malinky by Lynley Dodd, Dinosaur More by Henriette Stickland, Inkdeath by Cornelia Funke, Operation Eiffel Tower by Elen Caldecott, David by Mary Hoffman and 15 days without a head by Dave Cousins (more about that soon).

And finally. This shop opened after I left home, but it's there right at the top of the street where I grew up. Do you think this means something?

Wordfeud and giving up

As it's a month since I wrote my resolutions I thought I'd have a wee looksie to make sure I was keeping on task. The swimming is going OK, although I have been ill pretty much non-stop since January. It's little things but the evidence seems to point to a person who is a tad run down, so instead of swimming it seems that there will need to be a more general and balanced getting 'healthy' thing to do with the swimming coming back asap. 

I wrote a synopsis. OK, I'm not saying it's a great synopsis or the best synopsis I will ever write, but it's a damn sight better than the one I churned out in a panic in November. Then I also wrote a query letter. This I have to say is very weird, but it was a lot easier condensing my story to a paragraph then a one page synopsis. As for the rest of the letter I think I tackled it too business like, but again this is something that I plan on getting better at. The revision is knocked on the head, but, oh there are always some buts. I'm doing some final edits. Well it was meant to be edits, but it seems that there are a couple of chapters that could go. Not started that first draft yet. Crit group is good. In fact can I gush for a moment? They're fantastic. Signed up for a SCBWI thing, more about that later, after this year's run of illness, I'm still a little worried about my 'itis' curse and SCBWI events. And I've been very good with the social networking thing too.

And finally to the post title, I warn you that I'm about to get a little cryptic. I'm a bit addicted to scrabble like games. In fact there was a while when Nicky Schmidt beat my butt quite regularly. I almost friended a complete stranger on Facebook because we were pretty evenly matched scrabble wise. Did you know that qi is a word? Yep, I was pretty addicted. A few week's ago a challenge to  play Wordfeud was put forward. It's a complete ripoff of Scrabble and I'm sure it'll get pulled soon, but in the meantime I'm in the middle of ONE game. You see I took up the challenge and after a couple of goes she gave up. Then I started a game with a stranger and the same thing happened. On both occasions we had played a few goes and I was winning (at the time). There's another girl (she's actually an egg and may be a he) but I am beating the pants off her. I like her, because she is persevering and even though I am well and truly thrashing her she hasn't given up. You see, people like egg girl are important to me, because they don't give up. Even when things get tough. Maybe they are naive, and a little over optimistic, but maybe she'll also get better as I did when I was regularly whooped by Nicky. So as I head off to London* for a peaceful week away, my words to you are don't give up. Don't give up the little things like Wordfeud and don't give up the big things either.

*Actually I'm already in London, but I'm going armed only with a camera, notebook and an iPhone (almost tech free!)

Moments in Love

Today I should be going to have my 'submission package' critiqued, by my critique group but because it's THAT day of the year, the bubba and I will be supping on jacket potatoes and beans. It's not just because the Frog is on a business trip this year that I'm a tad moany, it's that actually I'm just not a big fan of Valentine's Day. I've never bought it. As a teenager it was a popularity contest and the one and only time I got an anonymous card, I knew who it was from and my feelings were not reciprocal. To me it is yet another excuse to give money to hallmark and chocolate companies, but is that love? Not in my book.

But you know, that doesn't stop me from being a big soppy romantic. I believe in those special moments.  

Gustav Klimt's The Kiss - Those snuggly moments on the sofa on friday night, as you doze in each other's arms while there is some tosh on TV. 

Art of Noise Moments in love - There's just something about that moment when you take out a record and hold it carefully, ensuring no fingerprints are transferred onto the vinyl. Then you slip it onto the turntable. I had a 12" of Moments in Love and this amazing record player that would clunk and then brrrbuzzclunkchunk to the other side of the record. You could stick it on repeat and listen for hours and hours and hours. 

(I never ever saw the video, but I have to say my teenage fantasies did not include tortoises)

Alain de Botton On Love - I don't agree with all of it, but the part on falling in love is classic. 

Pablo Neruda Twenty love poems and a song of despair - erotic love poetry, not really to be read on the bus. 

And coming in at number one for me Julian Barnes A History of the World in 10 1/2 chapters. The half chapter is called Parenthesis. I once wrote a poem about it. And here are some quotes from Parenthesis to whet your appetite: 

[I love you] We must keep these words in their box behind glass. And when we take them out we must be careful with them.  pg. 277

And so it is with love. We must believe in it, or we're lost...If we don't then we merely surrender to the history of the world and someone else's truth. pg 296 

Well, I wonder...

Before the holidays a young man visited the school as he was thinking about being a teacher and I may have been a little less than positive about teaching. It's not that I don't like being a teacher, but sometimes I just wonder what it would be like to have done something else. The only ever job I considered seriously apart from teaching was being a journalist, but then I didn't think I could be ruthless enough:

And I did do some voluntary work for the British Trust for Conservation Volunteers.

But sometimes I just wonder. You know, sometimes I browse the 'What's hot' pages of Google+ before going to bed. Not for the cat videos I'll have you know, but to catch some images like this:

or this:

I just wonder what it would be like to discover some of these amazing things. To look out into the universe and wonder what's going on out there. 

So in the end I may have only ever been a teacher, but I'm one with a bit of an imagination and although I won't be a journalist, or a conservation worker or an astronaut, or astrophysicist, I can imagine whole new worlds and books and... 

And for many reasons and no reason at all, I'll finish with this:

Book cover images are from Google image search, Nasa very kindly GIVE THESE PHOTOS AWAY. Aren't they lovely? And the video, well I was going with the title and there is much wondering in this clip, although the version of Please, please, please let me get what I want is actually by The Dream Academy, but this is film is great isn't it?

A temple to what?

I am an atheist. I'm also always a little unsure how to spell the word, but there's no squiggly underline, so I think I'm good. Anyway, my point is I don't believe in a god or supreme being or that the world was created in seven days. I look around me and I see what goes on in the name of religion and I don't agree with all that. I don't believe that what counts as religion on this planet today was dictated by some deity, it all smacks a little too much of man's fallibility to me. But, and here's a pretty big but, that's what I think and if you think differently, if you believe, than that's OK. Because in the end we live on a pretty big planet and there's room for what I believe and there's room for what you believe. If (this is another biggie) we can live peacefully and harmoniously, then in the end we don't think too differently, do we?


And then there's Alain de Botton. I've read a couple of his books. Both of which I enjoyed, although there was probably some pages in On Love where I wanted to slap him. He's not a philosopher who leaves me scratching my head and feeling stupid, but does encourage thought. And so I suppose in one sense this whole nonsensical idea of a Temple of Atheism has encouraged thought and a decision making process. I don't agree with it. 

Rather than attack religion, De Botton said he wants to borrow the idea of awe-inspiring buildings that give people a better sense of perspective on life.

Personally, I find the Guggenheim in Bilboa, kind of awe-inspiring and because I like art the inside, it gives me a better sense of perspective on life too. 

And the tallest suspension bridge over the Tarn Valley in France, I think that would do it to. In fact going over the Severn Bridge on the back of a motorcycle on a windy day pretty much did it for me too. 

[Richard] Dawkins criticised the project on Thursday, indicating the money was being misspent

Given the amount of debt we're all in at the moment, £1m probably isn't going to solve a great deal, but I do agree that it's money that could be better spent.  

[Dawkins goes on to say] ... that a temple of atheism was a contradiction in terms.

That was my first thought. 

The idea has echoes of earlier atheist spaces, ranging from churches converted to "temples of reason" during the French revolution to the Conway Hall in London which is run by the humanist South Place Ethical Society.

Ok so these are/were spaces that served some function to the public. It wasn't just a space right? In which case if you want a temple of something why not give your £1m to... libraries. Don't know, it's just an idea, they're underfunded, threatened with closure, encourage free thinking. They may even lead some people to give up on religion, or get better at cooking, who knows? But they do serve a purpose. 

The temple features a single door for visitors who will enter as if it were an art installation.

Because let's face it, that's what it is isn't it? It's a 151 ft tower (snigger snigger) not to atheism, but to the person who managed to raise £1m pounds from anonymous donors and others who want their mere mortality remembered by a great big phallic grave stone in the middle of London, because they can't have a gravestone in a cemetery because they don't believe. PURLEASE. Go and think up some good ideas and leave atheism alone.  


Thanks to @dadwhowrites who alerted me to this silly, silly idea yesterday. Although we usually compare three year old bad behaviour, he also puts up lots of cool news articles on Twitter (which get me thinking) and he blogs here: Dad who writes


Quotes are from this Guardian article: 

Alain de Botton reveals plans for 'temple to atheism' in heart of London

And photos are from Google image search. 

Tag you're it...

The lovely Beth from Thoughts from the Hearthfire has tagged me. The idea is to share ten random facts about myself. This is harder than one might first think, but anyway, here goes...

1. I suffer from koumpounophobia. No seriously, I do. I particularly dislike plastic ones, and unnecessary ones, oh don't get me started on those. Ick, yuck, yucky, yucky yuck. 
2. I'm also a bit traumatised by butterflies. They just flutter about oblivious to everything. I am not a flower butterflies. Stop scaring me. There is a reason behind this trauma, you can read about it here.
3. I have, if it's possible, too many red shoes. This summer, after a particularly bad spate of not putting my shoes away, the bubba arranged them all in a pretty long line. They are all different shapes, sizes and shades, so it's alright really. Isn't it?
4. I have a black cat called Merlin, you may have seen him skulking around the blog.
5. I can't make pancakes. This could be described as problematic in a country that makes lots of money out of selling crepes, and Pancake day used to get me into a bit of a cold sweat, but guess what? I live in a country that sells ready made ones in the supermarket. Thank you France. 
6. I am a pescatarian, not to be mistaken with Presbyterian. I live with two of the biggest meat eaters in the world and I apparently make a mean steak, but ... no... mmm... I just can't do it. 
7. Since owning my first pair of DM's way back then, I have never been without a pair, or two, or three (and two of them are shades of red).
8. I don't wear a watch, probably because I can't read them, although I used to come out with some complete BS about not wanting to be tied down by time. The folly of that became apparent when I started teaching and realised that I needed to know when playtime and PE ended. I bought a watch, this honking big black thing with big numbers that didn't make it any easier to tell the time. One day I was twirling it around my finger and flinging it into the air (you see I still didn't wear it) while waiting for the kids to line up and... well you can tell how this ends, right?
9. I have a tree tattoo on my right ankle. Sometimes I forget that it's there and then I admire it all over again. 
10. I'm terribly bad with time. When people asked my religion I used to say that my dad raised me to be  late. My friends used to tell me to be somewhere half an hour earlier than they were planning to be there knowing I would be late. And do you know, it's never my fault.

So now, I'm supposed to tag some peeps. So, I'm going to cheat big time. If you are doing the Writer's Platform-Building Campaign, and you like this tag, then take it, do it and just drop me a message in the comments section to let me know you've done it. I look forward to reading your random facts and I'll add the link to the bottom of this post just here...

• Who will be first?

The holiday is over

I thought I was going to post a kind of resume of my hols in London and Tuscany, but instead I found myself starting this political ramble about the UK riots and so it would seem that I have something to say about this past weeks' events and I should just get on with it.

I'm old enough to remember the riots in the '80's and being one of Thatcher's children I've seen society change around me. When I was a kid, the neighbourhood I lived in was still working class, where I would come home to tales of nights spent in the Anderson shelter during air raids. As these people died or moved away each house was gradually yuppified until even if I had wanted to, there was no hope of ever living in the same place I grew up in. I felt quietly left behind by the people who just wanted to make money and lots of it, I doggedly pursued my goal of being a teacher.

I'm not sure who found the '80's riots a surprise. I didn't. The day National Front posters were pasted outside my school we leant over the fence during PE and ripped them off. All brown people were called 'Pakis' and everybody else of a darker complexion 'wogs'. There was some kind of complicated colour code to do with the laces you wore in your DM's which singled you out as a Skin or a racist Skin. When there is that kind of constant tension things kick off. That's why the 2005 riots here in France did not surprise me. Yet again you have a whole generation of people who were born and brought up in France, who thought of themselves as French, but whose educational prospects were low, getting a good job downright difficult if you had the wrong name and don't even think about renting an apartment outside of your citè.

After devouring everything I could on Sunday night I woke up on Monday with two conclusions, 1) The BBC news site is a bit facile. Even the features and analysis is a bit lacking in analysis. 2) These riots were different.

Do you remember those days when you were called 'rent a mob' because you went on a march or two? Well maybe we were the same people going on different marches, but we went because we cared about issues. We believed in democracy and the differences in political parties. But look at the ballot boxes today and people don't care enough to vote their own government in . It doesn't matter who you vote in anyway because be they left or right the policies are broadly similar and every government is shit. We fill our lives with 'things' nowadays and the gap between rich and poor continues to grow. My conception of society is just so different from the rioters who are so disenfranchised from society that we have no common ground.

I wondered if my lack of understanding was down to being outside the country for fifteen years, but I read the same lack of comprehension about the mentality of the rioters in the comments pages of many papers and the status updates of my friends in London. What I kept reading again and again was 'disenfranchised', 'marginalised', a society where there is little chance of social mobility and where the gap between rich and poor is constantly growing. I found Cameron's words empty and lacking in analysis. The idea that cutting benefits or evicting rioters is downright stupid and send them to already overcrowded jails and see what happens, that will really solve all the problems.

The last slightly political post I made here was about library cuts, but I do realise that everything is being cut, everything that is a lifeline to the most vulnerable in society, the young and old alike, from libraries to bus services that connect communities. I know that it's easy to proselytise from the comfort of my home, but I do hope that lessons will be learnt and that changes will be made. We changed into a society where it was all about money and borrowing and having and now we are a society that is bankrupt in so many different ways. Is there a way to change this? And if so how? These are the questions I think politicians should be asking in the next few weeks, rather than how hard can we punish these perpetrators. Let us learn from history, instead of repeating the same old mistakes.

Book reviews, writerly rambles and maybe a little summary of my holidays will now resume...

Meanwhile a couple more links:
Art Li: Riots and Evictions
Provoke. history: London and Rioting: Historical Perspective

Ssh...

When I was at university I loved Chumbawamba. I absolutely loved them. Each time I saw them live Alice Nutter came on stage dressed as a nun which I found wonderfully irreverent. They were an excellent band to dance to and I still love them even though they were ALWAYS supporting The Levellers.The thing is I never owned any of their early stuff. When I was at uni I had a cassette of Ssh that I played to death.

Now that we can download music it's really easy to rebuild these early record collections, but although I checked I could never get hold of Ssh on iTunes. Then I read about Spotify, 13 million tunes in a cloud somewhere out there. I wondered what the catch was, but eventually I downloaded it and found out for myself*. I looked up Ssh and listened to ALL of it, starting with Ssh down to Stitch That.

But why this wander down the corridors of nostalgia? Well, you see, today I have been waxing lyrical about the trauma of potty training on Twitter plus one comment about tinkering with my WIP. @belledechocolat replied to the one about my WIP and I started going on about potty training, but soon realised that there were other preoccupations in my life, namely the fact that I have reached a hump in WIP. Something is wrong and until I wrote this, I couldn't put my finger on it:

See that makes me wonder who my MC is. I'm beginning to think it's Morgane and not Ella which is pretty crap as I'm almost at the end of the revision! >:/

And in a blinding flash of light I realised that my MC is wrong. So without further ado I give you: Big Mouth Strikes Again by Chumbawamba and can I make it very clear that the parts of this song that I am relating to right now are not the bits about freedom of speech and censorship.



*The catch is that every couple of songs you get an annoying Bruno Mars advert. Who the hell is Bruno Mars anyway?

Mulching it over

I've been racking my brain over what I should post about. Shall I do a follow up on the post I did about critiques? I've been neglecting The Bookette's British Book Challenge despite having read: Stoneheart by Charlie Fletcher, The Demon Collector by Jon Mayhew and Firebrand by Gillian Phillip, but I'm not in the mood to write a book review (sorry) and besides the whole Greek Seaman affair has had me rethinking my book review format. At the moment I seem to be spending all my time thinking about my WIP, which is also woefully neglected and my balcony.

Unlike my blog, WIP and the BBC, the balcony has not been neglected and it's been a bit of a reawakening for me. I don't think that it ever actually dawned on me that I 'missed' having a balcony. When I was at university I began growing this little colony of fern, spider plants, money plants and a fiscus called Matilda who by the time I left England was this enormous, well, tree. All my plants had names and I used to talk to them while I was clickety clacking away on my little portable green typewriter. They were all moved lovingly from flat to flat and then carefully distributed to loving homes when I left the country. I've never quite replicated my little indoor garden again.

Mexico was always temporary so plants didn't feature. Spain had that same kind of temporary feel, so we resuscitated some geraniums, but didn't really lovingly grow anything. Paris always felt a bit more permanent so out came the window boxes again and for a while there I dallied with growing vegetables and grew the world's smallest beetroots. It could have gone into the Guinness book of records if I had contacted them. Apart from 'Grateful' a palm we found abandoned at the end of the road one night, plants sort of petered out of my life for a while there and 'Grateful' even gave up the ghost when my first cat arrived.

Grateful was replaced by another palm and a baby and yet again plants didn't feature too much in  my life, but as soon as we put an offer on this apartment I started planning the balcony (not getting a mortgage or anything like that). While the Frog pulled out some ancient architecture software he had and planned where every last bit of furniture was going to go, I planned greenery and geraniums and what not.

We've now got some herbs, lots of cherry tomatoes (I didn't choose those, what with being ALLERGIC to them), some mint (for the mojitos), some cactuses (I figured the bubba couldn't kill them), some roses, geraniums, jasmine and some purple plants beginning with c. I got a fork, trowel and gloves too, but you know, last Sunday  I opened a new bag of soil and the smell hit me. My hands sank into the soil and it just felt so warm and cosy and... That was the moment, that was when I thought: mmm, I've missed this. I've missed soil under my fingernails, the smell, the peace of watering and although I didn't have a bubba before it was kind of cool watching her sow her seeds. She had a certain method that I wasn't too sure about, but what do you know? We've got some parsley sprouts that have survived the cats helpful sowing. Cool.

On Cats (and Writing)

On Friday the Critique group squeezed into my flat and I gained a major insight into Tibo's little feline brain. I think he thinks that everyone who walks through my front door is there to see him. And after all why shouldn't he think that. The day he arrived Jane did come just to visit him. I remember watching a sporting event one night and realising the person I thought I was talking to was actually in the bathroom playing with Tibo. There was even the lady from the cat association who came specially to see him. Even the postlady and the census lady have cooed all over him. So of course he thought these women who walked through the door were here to see him. As realisation slowly dawned he decided that if they weren't here for him, he would sure as hell make his presence felt. He jumped in and out of handbags, bit knees and hair, stole pencils, tried to taste the snacks, took nips out of everyone's writing and generally TOTALLY misbehaved. After all this when someone did arrive who would pet him, he curled up on the back of the sofa and fell asleep.

Despite the fact that I spent the evening with one eye on the critiques and the other seeing where Tibo would stick his nose next, I felt the evening went quite well. Two things became very apparent to me:

1. Show not tell - Ok it's not an earth shattering discovery. It's not even new, it's not like I haven't heard it a million times before. But then I suddenly discover the advice has flown out of my head...
   
2. Along with my grasp of punctuation. I have a very intuitive use of punctuation. I think a comma or semicolon should go there. And there, yeah there, let's slip in a dash! Anyway it becomes kind of glaring when one of your crit partners sends you a link for a punctuation website. So yesterday I purchased New Hart's Rules - The Handbook of style for Writers and Editors. It's got a whole bunch of other sections that I will probably never look at, but it seemed to fit. I do own Eats, Shoots and Leaves, but I seem to have Read, Thought and Forgotten! And really to find the rule in amongst Lynne Truss's rants is not really practical.

Despite these minor flaws (uh hum) I seem to have acquired myself not one, but two Roars for Powerful writing. Eeek! The first one was from Kimy over at Mouse Medicine and she made me blush she was so kind. The second one is from Marie over at Deep Thinker. And I now have to tell you 3 things that I think make powerful writing. So here goes...

1. Write from the heart. Be it fiction or non-fiction love your subject, love your words.
2. Edit and let your love sing clearly and loudly.
3. And because you always can - keep on learning. I'm hoping YOU guys, my crit group and Stephen King's On Writing will continue to teach me a lot.

And so on to the fun bit, passing it on. It'll be interesting to see what these people find powerful.

So Kimy, I have to pass the roar right on back to you.

Vanilla at Absolute Vanilla - I hope you don't me borrowing your words, but you say it so well.

David at Witnessing am I

Apprentice at My Gap Year

And Jon from Writing in a Vacuum (and not because he's collecting awards this time).

Foreigner in a Foreign Land

On Day two, Estrella and I stepped off the Shatabadi Express at Agra Cantonement Station in a relative state of blissful calm after our cups of Assam tea and Indian breakfast. This state of zen lasted a matter of seconds before being shattered by the blasting sound of horns and the crowd who instantly surrounded us like, well flies to... you know. "Where you going? Where you going?" The crowd demanded to know. Estrella and I looked at each other in mild bemusement and what with it being just gone 8 am in the morning I answered truthfully. "This way." I pointed to the prepaid autorickshaw booth directly ahead of me. This was a major discovery of the day. In its simplicity and honesty, my answer left all the drivers completely frozen in their state of confusion.

Another major discovery of the day was my status. It's not that I objected to paying ten times more than an Indian. I accept that there is a disparity of resources around the globe and I happen to live in the land where paying 14€ t0 see a 'Wonder of the World' is reasonable. It wasn't even the fact that although it said clearly on our ticket that we should get a bottle of water and 'shoe covers' that we then had to go back and ask for them. It was the fact that I had to ask in big bold letters for a 'foreigner' ticket.

Maybe it's because I was at a formative age during the height of Political Correctness, or maybe it's because I have lived the last eleven years of my life in this state and have never felt it to be an issue, but I found it kind of ... wrong. I suppose in a way it signaled to me an attitude: it seemed to underline a curious aspect of the national psyche. There was even a special term for Indians who have tried greener grass: Non-resident Indians (NRI's). I'm not sure if I've put my finger on what that word meant to me, but I think it's something to do with it being an ex British colony. I've felt it in Mauritius and Belize. No two places deal with it in quite the same way, but let's face it, neither Belize or Mauritius gained their Independence amidst such a sea of blood as the disasterous partition of India and Pakistan (the consequences of which are still being felt today). The fact is that in one word; 'Indian', the whole of their history seemed to be encapsulated and in the words 'Foreigner' and 'NRI' we were firmly given our part in that history. Yet I also realise that this interpretation is my own.


In actual fact I never felt unwelcome. Far from it, a day trip to Agra is to be plunged straight into the country's tales of passionate romance, deception and rivalry. From Shah Jahan who was driven by the death of his second wife Mumtaz to build a tomb of exquisite beauty, to Agra Fort where Jahan's conniving and power hungry son imprisoned him. Is the Baby Taj (Itimad-Ud-Daulah) any match for the Taj Mahal's devotional beauty?

We finished off the day on the Taj Express where we made our final discovery: seat numbers. They are kind of optional, but with a shrug of the shoulders and a blank expression anything can be sorted out with the minimum of hassle.

The photos show the south gate through Taj Ganj, the Taj Mahal, Itimad-Ud-Daulah and the Palace at Agra Fort.

A wandering I will go...

Yesterday one of the kids said to me: "I know why Wonderland is called Wonderland."

"Oh really," I replied. "Tell me why."

"Because there is lots of wandering in it."

"Did you say wondering or wandering?"

"Wandering. The characters wander about a lot."

"I wonder if they wonder too?" I asked.

So this little intro is to offer my readers a bonafide reason for not blogging for the next two weeks. I'm going to India. To me India is a bit like Wonderland, I may meet a blue Elephant or a tiger or a Maharaja or a beautiful bescarfed princess and then again I may not. I guess I've been reading too much magic realism related to India and now I will be confronted with nothing but realism and I am hoping it will be magical.

I fly out at 00.30, which confuses me because officially that is early Saturday morning, but I will be leaving my home on Friday evening and will spend 7 hours in transit at a Moscow airport! I have a crappy book that claims that 'if you loved the Da Vinci code dive into this'. I did not love the Da Vinci code, I made a mental note of every single bit of writing that pulled me out of the plot and made me question whether Dan Brown had ever actually been to Paris. Despite all this, I couldn't put the bloody book down, so I am hoping that The Rule of Four will have the same effect: disengage brain and read on.

Other holiday reads are: Kiran Desai - An inheritance of Loss and Fingersmith by Sarah Waters (that one was recommended by Claire, but I am a bit dubious about it, we'll see).

The camera is packed - actually I better check that is charged, but no worries if it isn't there is plenty of time to do that.

And my early christmas pressie to myself is also charged. I finally decided that the old poddy with the average battery life of 30 minutes had to go and I replaced it with a new Nano model! He He.

Oh and before I forget I have been awarded a roar from Kimy over at Mouse Medicine. I feel kind of unworthy because I have really neglected the old blog recently; there's the WIP, which has taken lots of time, but there's also some other stuff going on, good stuff, I assure you it's all good at the moment. I'm not going to pass on the roar just yet as I want to think carefully and be as thoughtful as Kimy when I pass it on, so that's a future post to do...

Other future posts will include piccies and roving reports.

OK, I think I'm leaving the blog in order, all I have left to do is to wish you all a very happy Winter Solstice. Remember that after the 21st the days are getting longer and longer (if you live in the same hemisphere as me. If not I guess it's the opposite). Have a Merry Christmas if you celebrate that and basically rest up guys and I wish you all the best in 2008, I hope next year is a good and peaceful one for all.

Soup

An occasional strike inspired series.

As soon as the strike started, as if on cue those icy cold mornings where your ears sting and you can see your breath started. Last week the mornings were beautiful, all pinks and pastel blues reflecting off the golden dome of Invalides and the point of the obelisk at Concorde.

For me winter is the season of hibernation, hot soups and crusty bread rolls. Each year I discover a soup and then I cook it to death. Pumpkin soup has been my soup of choice of late. I like to add roasted chestnuts and a big dollop of cream. The only problem is that if I buy a chunk of pumpkin it makes loads of soup and as much as I like it after three days I’m a little tired of it.

On Sunday, it was absolutely freezing when I went grocery shopping with soup on the brain. Somehow I came home with enough winter veggies to feed a small army. Still soup is easy enough to make isn’t it?

Butter, you have to start with a wad of it that much or that much, hey whack some more in, it will only make it better. Then onion, I’m pretty sure a good soup must always have onion in it. While the butter and onion are getting acquainted and melting into one choose two veggies. I think two are enough. Do the words sound good together? Leek and Potato? Sweet Potato and Carrot? Parsnip and Carrot. Parsnip and mushroom? Oh no. Beetroot and ... I think that is actually called Borscht, but I’m really not sure about the colour. Once you’ve decided on that you need to introduce your veggies to the butter onion. Once again they all need to get acquainted and mingle in that pot.

Next add the stock – not too much, or you’ll be eating watery soup all week. Add some herbs or spices depending on your mood: mild and mellow or hot and spicy? Bring it all to the boil and then lower it all and let it simmer.

At this time you can let your imagination wander and decide how your main character really wants to introduce himself to the reader. Who is he? What’s been his experience up until the point I choose to put him on the page? How can I let you get to know him and draw you in?

Finally blend it all up and add a dollop of cream to leave you licking your fingers and wanting more.

It seems the mulching, simmering, whatever is over. The first draft of my YA novel has been pulled out from under the autumn leaves and I’m trying to find those two perfect ingredients and herbs and spices. Of course I will add a bit of cream at the end.

Routine

I like to think of myself as someone who shuns routine. I don’t like timetables, my leisure time is fairly casually organised, I go with the flow. So that turns out to be a load of codswallop because turn my ‘routine’ on its head and I find myself complaining to fellow bloggers that I feel like I’m living through a war.

1. I tend to go to bed between eleven and midnight.

Due to recent ill health and more importantly the war between Sarkozy and a couple of Unions (one of which is apparently fighting amongst themselves and ignoring all the advice of their union leader) I have had to get up ten minutes earlier and walk fifteen minutes to get a bus everyday because there is a transport strike. Getting to work is fine, but getting home takes me about two hours. It’s only been three days so far and it set to be x days, but it’s blooming tiring and I seem to snuggling in under the covers around 9 (with laptop of course) and ‘lights off’ follows fairly soon after!

2. Saturday afternoon gym sessions.

Really I’m not going because I have done this ‘thing’ to my knee, but even if I did want to go I have my travel time down to a T. I leave the house at 12.43; it takes me 2/3 minutes to walk to the metro station, which means I arrive comfortably to get the metro at 12.47. Obviously there is no 12.47 train today and I am contenting myself with the fact that I am walking everywhere and haven’t given up the sticky buns yet.

3. I tend to blog on Saturday mornings and Mondays.

Go on check.

4. I cook on Sunday.

I get up I wander around the local shops looking at their produce and wonder what I would like to eat. I wonder home with (during this season) pumpkin, leeks, or winter vegetables and make a roast or soup.

5. I like to get an Indian on Friday.

This is part of my cultural DNA. Sometimes the feeling is stronger than me and I have to pick up that phone and order a biriyani (if it’s going to be a big writing weekend) or Samousas and Bhajis.

6. I feed the cat at 7 am and 8 pm.

I suppose I should interrupt proceedings here to say that Vanilla has tagged me with a meme to get me back into my ‘Blogging routine’. Obviously this triggered the whole ‘routine’ train of thought. How many routines are built into our lives that we just never ever think about? I’m guessing I could go to 7 but the meme is actually meant to be 7 random facts about me, so I’ve saved the best till last. There are rules and what not to this and I am supposed to pick 7 people to do this afterwards. I have to admit that I am so out of the loop at the moment that while I appear to be unbelievably anal, I am going to break the rules quite happily and not post the rules or pass this meme on. However, Vanilla, I will try and get back into my blogging routine.

7. I have a phobia about buttons.

Brain drugs?

I’ve been ill. Well, strictly speaking my left tonsil is still pretty unpresentable. There are good points and bad points to illness. I don’t suppose I need to go into the bad points; you’ve all been there. The good points are Radio 4 all day long and choosing bits of today’s paper that I want to read and curling up around my cat and sleeping (although that one is in a grey area as he wanted the lion’s share of the bed!)

There was one article I read with interest. It seems that perfectly healthy students are taking drugs for ADHD sufferers and narcoleptics because they are enable them to stay up longer and learn more. The bonus of drugs like Ritalin and Modafinil is that as of yet, no harmful side-effects have been discovered. So there is this perfectly harmless drug (supposedly) that enables you to think better, is non addictive and you can buy it over the internet for as little as £3 a dose. So would you take it?

As a student I did, come exam time, regularly dose myself up with ProPlus. Side effects of ProPlus were harder on whoever was sitting behind me in the exam as I started to act as if I was ADHD. I couldn’t sit still on the stuff, but I did stay awake; for days on end. Was it cheating? Or was it just one of those rites of passage that you go through as a student. Ritalin and Modafinil on the other hand have been proven to enhance the ability to learn. Trevor Robbins, professor of neuroscience at Cambridge University says that taking the drug during exam situations is:

“...analogous with doping in competitive sport. But what can you do? Even if you do drug tests in the exam hall, people might have used modafinil to improve their learning on a course in November, for instance, then taken the exam in July. How are you going to test it by then?”

But there is something that’s niggling at me and it’s not the ethical question of whether it’s cheating or not. It’s the question of time. When did we get so busy that the hours in the day are not enough? Even I’ve been feeling it this year. I can’t find time to make an appointment with a physiotherapist; I have to choose whether to do this or that. And if I had a wee relapse this week it’s because I didn’t give myself time to get better the first time round. And this is me who on the whole is pretty good about clawing back some of those minutes for me time. The head cannot create if it is not given empty space.

So what about today’s kids? Earlier this week as a bunch of us reminisced about how we would go out in the morning and come back in the evening. I also blew my colleagues theory out the window that is was city living that engendered this over protective upbringing as I grew up in city. So what’s changed? Apparently according to the article parents are pressurising their doctors to prescribe Ritalin and modafinil to their healthy kids. These kids are ferried around from ballet class to music class and extra this and extra that. When I was a kid I did Country Dancing and then just played and stuff. I don’t think I turned out too stupid either. It seems to me that the side effect of this drug is the death of the creative soul. We’re so busy filling these poor little people’s heads with facts that we are turning them into robots who can’t actually think. And maybe I’m burying my head in the sand and ignoring the world outside, but sometimes it’s good to just listen to the radio or read the paper.

Gunpowder, Treason and Cultural Identity

Remember remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot...

As festivals go this one has got to be my favourite and the one I miss the most. To me it was the marker that the days were becoming colder and darker. I loved being all bundled up in my scarf and duffle coat and standing before that immense roaring orange monster, whose flames reached high into the sky, crackling and lunging upward. I loved the sparklers (although if truth be told, they scared me a little), and most of all I loved the fireworks. The whees and whizzes followed by a dandelion puff of colour that meandered back to the ground losing its shine. Even today I still love anything that involves fireworks, but it’s still not as special as Guy Fawkes Night.

The build up to Guy Fawkes was special too. Groups of shaven headed boys patrolling around town demanding: ‘Penny for the Guy’. And it always seemed to me, those who shouted loudest were the ones with the most poorly put together Guy. What the effigy lacked in stuffing was made up for in volume.

And then Guy Fawkes Night is one of the few things that is celebrated over the year that is curiously British. Maybe it’s my rebellious nature that loves the thought of something that is based in conspiracy and a fight for religious freedom. Maybe it’s the bonfire and fireworks. Maybe it’s jacket potatoes. Whatever it is Guido and the motley crew he worked for made an impression on me that has stuck. It has become part of my personal cultural identity.

Until I left England I never really thought of myself in terms of nationality, but since leaving I’ve realised that it is actually a large part of who I am. In general I don’t miss England, but on the occasions when I did, I missed being able to communicate easily. Sometimes I miss the sense of humour and feel frustrated when what I have said is misinterpreted, but I know that an English person would understand me. I miss the strong culture of music. I miss a good curry on a Friday night. I miss the quirky TV dramas that explored all kinds of themes and hate the Hugh Grant/Mr Bean factory of comedy that is exported.

I sometimes get frustrated when people ask me what nationality I am and then ask me where I was born. Sometimes it’s just great to open my mouth and for someone to say: Oh you’re a Londoner and straight away there is a shared understanding.

It’s challenging and exciting to live outside my culture and in some ways I feel I understand it more now that I am outside of it. I am more able to criticise and be open-minded, to take the aspects I value and leave those I do not. I suppose I wouldn’t change anything; although it would be nice for my face to be licked by the heat of a bonfire tonight and for me to stare up open-mouthed at the fireworks.

Rule no. 7

Robert Masello is my new best friend. As the author of Robert’s Rules of Writing: 101 unconventional lessons every writer needs to know he has claimed his ‘new best friend’ status through the inclusion of rule no. 7: SKIP THE STARBUCKS.

Now I hate Starbucks. I hate them because:

1. They are blatantly homogenising the whole of the world with their green and black logos on every high street.
2. They have coaxed Joni Mitchell out of retirement to record a CD for them which they will then overprice and put in a basket next to the carrot cake.
3. They sell carrot cake and I love carrot cake and sometimes I want to liberate the carrot cake, but that would involve going into their shops and parting with cash.
4. Sometimes I crack...

Still none of these reasons figure in Robert’s explanation of why you should not go. No he says:

Starbucks is where writers who want to be seen in the act of creation go, who treat writing as if it were some kind of performance art. They want to be admired, they want to be soothed by the ambient noise and the occasional glance of an attractive patron. They want to be asked, “What are you working on?” so they can sit back and talk about it.

Or scowl importantly and say, “Sorry, I can’t be disturbed right now.”

When, if they really and truly wanted to be undisturbed, they’d stay home and concentrate.

As one who doesn’t write in a café, I can sit here sanctimoniously and pretend I’m a serious writer. Actually it’s because there is no ambient noise in a café, there’s a cacophony competing with the voice inside my head. So what do you think about rule 7?

Oh, by the way Robert's also not saying to skip Starbucks for ever, just when you’re writing. I, on the other hand am advocating a world wide boycott.

And Lastly, the launch of The Opening Chapter Blag is not today. This is apparently due to some of the contributors not reading their e mails and watching the deadlines pass them by, tut! It will be out in September. Right, where's the paracetamol?

Dent in the Armour

Last night I lay on my sofa whacked out from my mammoth walk yesterday and had a few moments of self doubt. Not having the courage to tackle Parisian summer traffic had knocked a little dent in me. For a few moments I just wished I was this different person. Not too different you know, just one who was a little better co-ordinated, who didn’t trip over her own feet, who could signal she was turning left without the whole bike lurching left as well, who knew her left from right, who was a little ... Hang on I then thought, I’m not that bad, I chuck myself of high things every year, I’ve done a parachute jump, I enjoy all things watery. The difference is that I do the things I do because I know I’m safe, tackling the streets of Paris when you don’t even know the Highway Code is just stupid. But (the dent hadn’t quite popped out yet), I wish I could do a cartwheel. The little moth fluttering around the room searching for light heaved its wings in a shrug and rolled its antennae.

Then this morning I trawled through the news. I considered subscribing to the Guardian Weekly, but I think they need to do their maths. You get the four first issues free, yet a year’s subscription is still more expensive then buying it from them at their weekly rate of 2.45€!

Next up was the fact that Rasmussen the current yellow jersey holder of the Tour de France, had been chucked out by his team for suspected doping and that the whole team were thinking of pulling out too. Now I know this may not interest you, but hang on in there a second. I am not a huge sports fan, I watch big football competitions and I admire the stamina and endurance that goes into the Tour de France (and the scenery). Although I have very very little in common with these sports people, the one thing we do share is determination; we all want to do well in what we do. The big difference though is that writers can’t cheat, there isn’t a magic drug that will suddenly make their writing immensely better, we have to work at it. I shook my head as I read about the doping scandals that have plagued this years Tour. I’m wondering whether to even bother to go to the last stage on Sunday. The barriers are already being put in place, but it just seems silly, I’ve been routing for Chicken man (Rasmussen) and now it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

So I guess it was kind of cheering to read about 33 year old Luke Bream who is cycling the Tour de France on his own. He is doing each stage a day ahead of the main tour. His mum keeps him going from her camper van, feeding him Jam butties and Coca-cola! He seems to have the crappiest diet of any rider on the tour, but he’s giving it a go. Maybe I’ll look out for Luke on Saturday when he is due in Paris. In the meantime, I’m going to keep persevering; at the writing, I’ll save the bike riding for the Bois de Boulogne or Vincennes where there is no traffic.

Oh and if you need to persevere with your writing don’t forget that Jason Evans is running his 6^th Short Fiction Contest over at The Clarity of Night and that Maht at Moon Topples will open his 3^rd Contest next Wednesday (the day after a very important day). Oh and on the same day the First issue of Blagger by Opening Chapter (aka Skint writer) will be coming out.

Newsround

It’s kind of slow season over here in the news department and if it’s not: Wolves run rampage in the Alps, followed by images of the concerned faces of many lopsided farmers and corpses of fluffy sheep then it’s scenes of utter destruction as more rivers break their banks in the UK. So these articles caught my eye:

Flirting and Fornication tells of the runaway success of the online dating site Meetic. Did you know for instance that it was French? I didn’t. Did you also know that:

In France alone, 5 million people spend precious hours chatting every day, flirting, meeting and fornicating with perfect strangers.

No, moi non plus, but what I was more interested in was that last year their profits rose by 70% to £18m, kind of makes you wish that you had thought of it first hey? On the down side this 25 year old Parisian had this to say (just imagine the accent):

"I have no more time to waste trying to charm girls in cafes ... the process is too long and too arduous.. With Meetic ... I often score on the first date. Not long ago, when I was a teenager, girls kept me salivating for weeks. Forget it."

Do you think someone should tell him he’s going to end up a 35 year old single man?

Sex discrimination rife and equality will take generations, says axed commission, is pretty much what it says it’s about.
20% of MPs are women and it will take 195 years to close the gap.
40% of women have less pension than men and it will take 45 years to close that gap.
38% of women earn less in full time jobs than men and that gap will take 25 years to close.
17% of women earn less in part time jobs and it will take 20 years to close the gap.
The Equal Opportunities Commission goes on to say:

‘...we are living with the consequences of an unfinished social revolution. We are still faced with many workplaces, institutions and services designed for an age when women stayed at home. In other areas of modern life, inequality underpins life and death issues. For example, every month seven women are killed by their partner or ex-partner.’

If that is too depressing for you then my suggestion is that you stock up on your winter woollies and move to Finland. When I was studying a few years ago I read an article about high achieving women there. Throughout their lives they had grown up with a sense of egalitarianism and that all their achievements were valued. It was these two things which differentiated them from their other western counterparts. Also as a link to the next article, Finland is one of the cleanest countries (if not the cleanest) regarding carbon emissions.

Ethical shopping is just another way of showing how rich you are is an interesting look at man’s obsession with shopping. But as Monibot says: No political challenge can be met by shopping. The rest of the article is quite interesting too, I didn’t know that you could get recycled biros for a start. His website also seems to be full of interesting little gems too.

Lastly this review caught my eye:

The Simpsons movie gives you everything you could possibly want, and maybe it's a victim of its own gargantuan accomplishment. Eighty-five minutes is not long enough to do justice to 17 years of comedy genius. It's still great stuff.

Peter Bradshaw gushes. I think he wants us to go see it.