Life is a popularity contest

My life has, recently, been full of discoveries. Like how to force a front door open and how long I can dance in heels for.* Or that Emmy the Great has a blog. And not just any blog either, no - a blog where she talks about music and Graham Coxon and Diane Cluck. Its a very cool thing to have discovered, and one I would have imagined indie kids the world over to be in a state of some excitement about. But here’s the thing: if they are, they're being incredibly discreet. For someone as popular as Emmy is, her blog has remarkably few comments.

There could, of course, be several reasons for this. To begin with, her blog is only updated sporadically, so people never know when to check back. And her blogging style sets her up as a critic of her own “scene”, which possibly confuses people as well. But even so, I would have expected a few droves of fans. And, in light of the supreme lack of interest in my mix CD, I’m thinking a lot about what it means to be popular.


To begin with, being popular on the internet is clearly different from being popular in “real life”*. Kristin Chenoweth is probably not about to pop up and start singing, though it would be fun if she did. There are two distinctive zones, and many bloggers only fall into one of them. If they didn’t, Emmy the Great would have been forced to give up writing bittersweet songs years ago, though the number of teenagers posting about their loneliness would have decreased significantly.* Of course, there are some people who manage to keep feet in both camps, but these are often people who blog professionally or semi-professionally, or whose blogs are somehow linked to their careers. One of the key reasons for this is probably timing. If you don’t have much going on in “real life” then you have more time to build up a friendship base on the internet (and vice versa) while if your real life includes establishing yourself on the internet then you’ll probably be able to use your “spare time” for socialising.

On the other hand, being popular online requires some of the same skills as being popular in person – you have to make time for people, you need to be able to make appointments, and in the long run a bitching session is unlikely to endear your potential friends. It’s also helpful to have a general area in which to socialise – you’re far more likely to be able to keep up a conversation if you know what you’re both talking about. One of the reasons I keep coming back to livejournal* is the group facility, while another is the comment features. You can continue a conversation for days on end, without losing track of what you’ve said. And, if you want to, you make these conversations private. So you make time to talk to people, properly and at length, and if you desperately need to vent you can do so behind closed doors. Another useful feature is people knowing roughly when you’re going to update, or at least that you will do so fairly regularly. This is less of an issue on livejournal, where you’re probably more likely top check your friend’s page than individual links, but in the world of external bloggers it becomes far more important. People aren’t going to keep clicking on a link to see if you’ve updated if they don’t think you’re likely too. They’ll go and visit someone else’s blog instead. Or feed the fish, hang the washing out, water the plants... and subsequently forget all about you. If you run into someone in the street you might have a bit of a chat, but its more important to remember that they’re there. And the same applies on the internet.

Having written this, of course, its clear why no one’s really entered my competition. The fact I’m updating at all is probably taking you by surprise, while my new semi-regularity must be even more confusing for you than it is for me. But, to be honest, I feel like I’ve been neglecting you all shockingly. If you’re going to take the time to read my wittering, I should respond properly. Think of this as a pre-new-years-resolution. An old year’s resolution? New me resolution? Or something else. And, if you’re bored, go and read about Graham Coxon on Emmy’s blog as well. Or join me in watching the Gabriel video obsessively.

I’m off to make mince pies and celebrate Christmas now, but I’ll talk to you soon, I promise. And I’ll extend the competition if you want, so that you’ve all got more time. It shouldn’t require too much effort – just think of your favourite song with which to start a mix-tape.

Happy Almost Christmas

xxx




*a. Use a screwdriver as a wedge, and never let everyone leave the house at once.
b. 2 hours, 45 minutes
*I spend far too much time with philosophers.
*There can never be too much self-mockery.
* Livejournal is the Hotel California of the internet. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave!

Songs for a Stranger

(from a T-shirt found at cafe press.)

Last night I made a mix CD for a boy that I never have never met. Someone who may not exist, and who may have very different ideas on what constitutes music than me. It seemed romantic at the time. The twee whimsy* has lingered a little, but I cant help thinking that the notes swirl with desperation, as well as pretty dreams.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t actually my idea. I was bewailing the lack of suitable crush material to Northern, and tried to explain how much of an adrenalin rush making a CD for someone who you like but are never sure will like you back can be. The closest I got was that it was like the moment before being kissed, extended, with its own soundtrack devised by you. And with the sort of boys I usually date, the trick is to find the right songs that they have, somehow, never heard.

Ironically, of course, when the next boy comes along I’ll probably find that he wont like the music after all. Mix tapes belong to their time, too, and this wont. It will be a snapshot from another time, months ago, when everything thought, felt and sounded subtly different.

So, instead, I’m going to send the CD to one of you. Think of it as an early Christmas present. Just tell me what your mix-tape to no-one would begin, and my favourite answer (& therefore probably the person most likely to enjoy the collection) wins. You have until night falls on the T-house Christmas (9pm on Wednesday 10th)

Deal? I hope so.

Xxx

Lucinda


*I dress in capes and go to scrabble nights. I don’t see being twee as a problem

Oh Shame, where is thy blush?

Someone over at /Fangs, Fur, Fey started a discussion on self-promotion with a link to a discussion on Good Reads. Now, Good Reads isn’t a site I normally visit (mostly because my bank balance is already looking a little like a deflated balloon), but the conversation was getting very interesting and tense in a way that only internet conversations really seem to. It was looking into authors self-promoting, when was too much and what people particularly hated. Some resented long signatures, others authors reviewing themselves with 5*, while other people either hated both, none, or were generally indifferent. But, about halfway down, someone asked “Whatever happened to humility?”

Later on, when texting a friend of mine, I was struck by the realisation that I am incapable of claiming to be good at anything. In actual fact I am probably [Lucinda takes a deep breath and crosses her fingers] quite good at a lot of things. I’m highest in our year at uni for English and creative writing, I can start choir three weeks before a concert and support the soprano line, I made most of the costumes for Wyrd Sisters last year, I have a good sense of style and I’m organising a Shakespeare festival. And, if my friends reports are anything to go by, I can also act. But saying I’m any good at them is impossible, and I’m often struck by the knowledge (especially at moments like this) that I might not be as good at them as I imagine.
Part of this, of course, is insecurity. I know I have some issues there, but that’s such old news that its barely worth commenting on. But what about the rest? When did blowing one’s own trumpet become the norm, making modesty a hindrance? If, indeed, it has. The English faculty in Cardiff is a particularly good example of this – one lady in incredibly intelligent, but so modest she makes you feel as though you’re on her level, even when she’s several intellectual steps up. But when I was discussing this with one of the lady’s PHD. students, a few weeks back, it sounded almost as though the girl believed this was a waste. To her, modesty was simultaneously lovely and an insecurity that should be overcome.
So what do you think? Is modesty another form of insecurity, or is it good manners? Is humility outdated, replaced by the needs to assert yourself in the fast-paced, easily distracted modern world? Is self-promotion embarrassing for all involved? Is there a happy medium? Or could you not care less?
Xxxxx

p.s. On a completely unrelated note, Dawn Metcalf and I spent some time discussing dressing up in my last post. And I thought one of the best things ever would be a day where you dress up as one of your characters and spend it writing from their perspectives. Is anyone up for that? It would have to be a day most people were free, which now probably means after Christmas, but I think it would be great fun. What do you reckon? (Pictures, of course, would be essential.)



(This is a strange Puck/Princess Mononoke combination, but you get the gist)

Scarlet Sunday

So, my mother, over at goodinparts, is doing NaBloPoMo. She’s finding it difficult, but so far she seems to be succeeding. I, of course, am doing nothing of the sort. I’m not even doing my own beloved NaNoWriMo, because November is a really busy month, especially this year, but realising how much she’s been posting makes me realise just how little I update. Which is odd, since you’d think I’d revel in the opportunity for extra online procrastination. And I thought I’d break my bad habit by telling you about dressing up, and my spontaneous dressing-up day, which I’ve affectionately nicknamed Scarlet Sunday.

I love dressing up. Regardless of the occasion – if I have the chance to enclose myself in some costume or other then I’m usually quite a happy bunny. Indeed, I tend to assume most outfits have a mini costume in them... I certainly switch behaviour patterns with clothing choices. (And, having typed that, wondering if this makes me weird.) At the moment I’m most excited about scheming for my friend’s party – still almost a month away – where a large L is the central theme. Should I be obvious? Or abstract? A Lovecat? Lethargy? Little Miss Sunshine? Librarian? The choices are eternal, and huge amounts of fun. And the only option currently crossed out is Little Red Riding Hood, since she are quite prominent today.

Scarlet Sunday accidentally began at seven am. I’m not entirely sure why this was, but it may have had something to do with how much I was enjoying dreaming about publishing the Book of Doom. My subconscious is a hard taskmaster, and presumably suggested rising early to do a bit more editing. Bitch. Anyway, having woken up early my brain was feeling somewhat flaky. I took full advantage of this and went on a procrastination spree. And have a new favourite site: Gala Darling It is possible that she might be the single coolest person in the world, but after about an hour of revelling in her style I was quite ready to slip back into full Lucinda mode. Which, today, involved playing fairytales. My redder-than-red 70’s dress, NHS cloak and the prettiest heels I own. Sadly the big bad wolf didn’t come for me, but we all lived happily ever after anyway. At least until it rained, and I got soaked.



Pretty much the best part of my room only being half-in-place is the photos that can be taken with a full length mirror on the floor.






Unfortunately, it also makes reall full-length shots impossible - Sorry. I think I looked less triangular...





So, do you think I need a haircut yet?...

This is just to say...

Do you ever feel like William Carlos Williams might just have written a note? Like he didnt expect it to be fully analysed? No, me neither. He was testing everything, and that’s all well and good. However, this is just a note. And I haven’t been in your fridge. Yet...
I feel like I don’t really post here often enough. By which, of course, I mean that I actually don’t post here often enough. In my defence, however, I am chronically busy. I’m trying to sort out what I’m doing next year (English literature or creative writing? Who knows where the throw will land?), working on the dissertation from heaven (or perhaps Wales), editing the Book of Doom, rehearsing for Merchant of Venice and, um, planning a Shakespeare festival. Well, I’m nothing if not ambitious.
So this is all fantastic, but it leaves me very little time for updating. Which, in its turn, makes me feel exceptionally guilty. In response to this, I’m going to send you all away, to look at our sparkly writing website. www.kilvites.co.uk . I might even manage to get a bio up there one day soon...

*grabs her stuff and scurries off to rehearsal*

Begin afresh, afresh, afresh

Slowly, as if creaking on papered wings, the year stretches into life. The first draft of the Book of Doom is done, the blanks are filled in for my course this year (one dissertation, two creative writing portfolios, two Shakespeare modules, one double Arthurian module, and some modernism and Irish revivalism), the plays are opening their mouths in a morning yawn as auditions draw to a close, everyone is back in Cardiff and the T house is...

...well, to be honest, the T-house is in a state of some disrepair. I think it will survive the year, but I wouldn’t want to bet money on it. We have mould downstairs, a shower that attacks us, doors that don’t shut, or don’t open, a cooker that wont ignite and a toilet out in our front garden.
Yes. Really.

We also have a small lake. Now, I’m not adverse to water-features, but in the ideal property these are outside. Or, if not, they’re heated. The pool in our kitchen is neither of these things. It just spreads out, with building determination, from behind the washing machine. The plumber came, and said we need a new washing machine. The washing machine man came and said we needed a plumber. And the plumber? He didn’t come. Flanders and Swan were lucky.

But being back in Cardiff has other allures. Like my very good friend Ais having joined me at university. Like the fact that another of my friends is staging the Merchant of Venice. Like hatching ridiculously elaborate plans for various enactments. And the start of my Sunday book.

Yes, a Sunday Book.

I stole the idea from the rather fantastic Maggie Stiefvater whose début Lament has just been released (It features homicidal faeries. You cannot go wrong). Anyway, I concluded that the Book of Doom just needs rewriting. But its not impossible, if I get into a routine and do a bit each day, I can play on Sunday. I can forget everything else, kickback, and have fun. It all started when afore-mentioned MoV director & I went to see the RSC’s version.

Sledgehog, [dreamily walking up to the gallery in the courtyard theatre]: The theatre is magic. Magic.
Director: ...I thought Shylock was far too reasonable. He sounded like a lecturer, not like someone desperately seeking a pound of flesh...
Sledgehog: its magic. It's Alive. It's in the plays...
Director: ...
Sledgehog [sounding very happy]: ...magic...
Director [looking at her threateningly]: You know, I'm sure I could extract a pound of flesh easily enough. All you need is ice...

They didn't believe me about the magic, so I woke up at 6am the next morning and wrote a synopsis. My Sunday book is going to be fun...


Tasting the Past


Through the mossy stumps of history
Time's pilgrims pass, searching for truth,
delving through dust for eternal springs, cracked
lips on dry husks,
sucking.


As sunlight spears the stumbling stones, we
pass as shadows in their midst, unreal,
building histories from
dulled dry bones,
waiting


for the inescapable clatter of rain,
crashing time over broken stones
like a river exploding over a dam,
a confusion of years,
cascading


into steely serenity, glossing sins
as the river cleanses the crumbling stones.
The storm beats a metronome of time;
a window, empty, shows only sky.

Another Missive from the Madness

At the moment, I seem to write in day-long cycles. I'll have a good day, bad day, good day, bad day, and so on. But I built a skeleton plan from bone-white paper climbing my tree, and as long as that spine remains, all should be well.

The Merry_Fates (on livejournal) are among my favourite people ever at the moment. And last week (ie. two thursdays ago) they posted a writing challenge. What with the Book of Doom and anxieties that it was turning too much into an echo of their creations, it has taken me a while. Still, I think I've finally finished rewriting Snow White...

Branwyn

Bloddeuwedd:

Love makes fools of us all. Who could know it better than me?

I was made from love, sculpted from flowers. I was given a life, a name. They made me a home when the hills met the sky, and filled it with beautiful creations. I had all I might desire, save freedom. They tried to tame my wildness to fit my name. But when the man came, smelling of soil and summer, I betrayed my husband for love.

*

Snow White:

Like my mother, I was made and not born. Unlike my mother I was made from sorrow. Blood from my father's wound, raw-red with betrayal. Snow, white and cold, for the long winter he spent as an eagle. And the deep, empty black of my mother's night.

I think I was cruel, sometimes. Perhaps it was because there was not enough love in my body.

*

When my stepmother came, I thought that she was beautiful. I knew we would not be friends.
The sunlight was dancing in her eyes when we shook hands and I curtseyed as if the gesture held meaning. Then I looked up at my uncle.

'She's nothing like my mother.' I told him. I saw her back stiffen.
The next time my stepmother looked at me her eyes sharpened into gleaming knife points.

*

Aeronwy:

I married a man who gave me everything. A great man, with the strength of the midday sun. A man who could never give me love. Every night we slept alone, in separate chambers, as the owls wept outside.

During the day I clutched at whatever beauty I could. The castle was dusty with light. It had rooms overflowing with wonders and I would walk among them. There were ribbons that danced around my fingers, a comb that brushed specks of sunshine into my hair. And a mirror, a magic mirror, that watched over me. It cared for me when my husband did not. In a strange way, it became a friend.

“Tell me I am beautiful?” I would beg, every time my husband looked straight through me, “Tell me I am the fairest of all?”

Its reply was always the same. “Truly, oh Queen, you are fairest of all.” The words were as soft as silk in my ears. They soothed me to sleep each night.

*

Snow White:

As I grew older, I grew more beautiful. As black as pain and as white as grief, brushed red like blood. I outshone ever petal in my mother's rose gardens. One look from me could make men forget all about happily ever after.

Princes came to see me, to offer me crowns. I couldn't make myself care for them. Their tongues chimed with poetry and all I saw was distance.

'You are very beautiful' one told me as he left. The words sung with regret. They almost pierced my iced skin.
'But I will never be happy.' The winds carried my whisper away.

*

Aeronwy:

The mirror grew kinder as my husband grew colder. He heaped love and attention on his daughter while she shunned light, heat, warmth. She built a fortress of snow around herself. I almost pitied the princes trying to win her hand.
She could not love them, as my husband could not love me. But he loved her and that was unbearable. Only the mirror sang ballads of my beauty while my husband swept past, as restless as the daylight.

*

Bloddeuwedd:

My husband came to visit me soon after he was given a second wife. He came as a hawk, and we met in the shadowed hours between day and night. He showed me the wash of waves where his land met the sea and I told him the moon's secrets. Together we dove in low, swooping bliss.

*

Aeronwy:

The day the mirror betrayed me sliced, sharp as glass, through my life. It told me that she was fairer. Her. But I knew she wasn't even alive. She was merely a doll, sculpted from winter and distance.

I asked my hunter to cut out her frozen heart. She wouldn't miss it. She was already dead inside.

*

Snow White:

When the man came to take me away I went with him thoughtlessly. He smelt of the wild, of a world where life bit, raw. I imagined feeling and I slid my perfect hand between his calloused fingers.

The wind carried darkness beneath the trees. The man told me he would kill me, and lifted the blade. Blood-rusted leaves rustled under his feet. I didn't even flinch. I almost was ready.

Death was a feeling, in a way.

The silver sang through the night and stopped an inch from my heart. The rough, raw man lowered it, his voice shaking.

'You don't even know what life is, do you?' He shook his head. 'You should have a chance to learn that, at least.'

A feeling spread, throbbing through my chest. It sounded like a harp's chord, rippling. It spoke in a foreign language. Deep and endless. I thanked the man and left him for the forest.

*

Aeronwy:

The hunter brought me a heart that was hot, red and singing with existence. When I saw it I knew that he lied.

The ribbons danced around my fingertips and I had a plan.

*

Snow White:

I was not afraid when I met the korr. They were ugly in ways I had never seen, as grey as the dead, with flat, misshapen faces. They were formed from the dark earth beneath the mountains. Their bones were cold as rocks. But they were good to me, in their way. I lived with them, shut away from the light, and felt the stone-hewn thud of absence. It left bruises beneath my icy shield.

*

Underground was dank, dark water dripping down. One day it brought a crooked woman with it. The yellow mine-lights showed me knife-points in her eyes, and I felt a blissful twist of fear. I let her lace me, of course. The caress of terror she offered was coaxing and sweet.

*

Aeronwy:
I began to think that the mirror had tricked me. It took great delight in my pain. When it laughed again and told me I had failed, I combed my hair until it outshone the glass. Then I took my comb to my stepdaughter.

*

Snow White:

Breath tore, ragged and painful from my lungs. The lights lit beneath the mountains were achingly bright. This life was fresh and new. I relished its taste. But, when the wizened lady with teeth like bones brought the comb, I allowed her to work the tangles from my curls. Each tug sung of bitter sorrows, and pulled me down.

*

Aeronwy:

The third time was the last. The apple was hard, and she seemed more alive every moment. Even in death.

When I returned I flung myself into the mirror. We shattered like ice, ebbing away.

*

Snow White:

My head throbbed with the memory of death. The ache sent a bloodbeat pulsing through me. I felt vibrations echo in my frosted heart. And when the stunted crone brought the apple I was... afraid. |Gripped by terror as grim as the korr's spindly fingers. My body clenched in anticipation.

But I took the apple, all the same. Its taste was crisp, and sweet with spring.

*

Bloddeuwedd:

I wear darkness like a gown. It fits as well as feathers. Through it, I heard death haunt my daughter's breath. I knew the importance of what came next.

She slept through the winter in a coffin carved from ice. I knew that she could sleep forever. But she could also wake. If only someone could free her frozen heart.

I flew for nights on end until I found him, as feral as the moon, and taught the story to his warming bones.

*

Snow White:

The light was brilliant, blinding with heat. My lips tingled. The air was fresh with flowers. Warmth spilled through me, thawing the ice. It shattered, splintering into shrapnel, and I sat up shivering. The man-boy standing above me looked down, and the wild glinted behind his eyes.

'I am Bleidwn, and you are no longer formed from sorrow and snow. You shall be Branwyn, the raven, and I will be the wolf.'

Unclean, unclean

Oh, I am a bad, bad blogger! I'm sorry!

In my defence, I have either been phenomenally busy, on a writing spree or both, but even so. I'm never going to earn myself eager readers if I cant even update!

So please: be updated....


Alas, I am unwell!

Over recent days I have developed insomnia. I lie awake at night, tossing and turning, running over the most mundane things in my mind. If the city is placed at point x, how long will it take to reach point y? Check on google route-planner, then add half again to the total time to factor in bad roads, traffic and rouge lycanthropes. I no longer eat proper meals – instead I find myself drinking a small oasis and snacking at odd intervals. I shun human company for the voices in my head. My arms constantly flail in delirium.

In other words, as well as generally turning into the mad woman in the attic (Why oh why did my family thwart me in this by procuring a house without said attic?) I have a serious bout of the writing bug. The evil novel which has spent the last year+ trying to eat my brain (and there aren't even any zombies in it), has, over the last two days, finally decided to co-operate. Which means that nothing else in the world is half as good. I shake like an addict when they try to pull me away. Yesterday, in the supermarket, there was a particularly disturbing moment among the cereal bars.

Unfortunately, much as I would love to surrender myself completely to this sickness and never recover, I don't actually get the chance. You see, this is the weekend of festivals, and I am working at one particular one, selling water-bottles by the way-side. From Friday morning to Monday night there will be no laptop in my life. I am prepared. I will probably survive without too much scarring. I am fully loaded with notebooks and pens, but the idea still terrifies me. (Usually, I must hasten to add, I adore festivals. There is little that is better. Unfortunately, that “little” includes writing.)

In other news, I have a Deep And Meaningful question for anyone/everyone/lily. When The Indelicates play Sixteen at gigs, do the sceenagers forget themselves and sing along? And if so, is it with irony or conviction?...

The Problem with Red Pills

also translated as "why live in the world when you can live in your head?" And words to that affect. Actually, I think this post is probably a cracked out cross between meta and introspective self-obsession. Intro-self-meta? Yes, well...*

So, I have a slight problem. Not a Big Problem, true, but nonetheless something that is Not Ideal for a girl determined to be a writer. An inconvenient occurrence, perhaps.
In other words, I have mistful's voice in my head.


I was walking along the road yesterday, happily thinking about stories, when I realised I had an internal narrative running. And mentally blogging. And this was before it started talking in scripts.

Now, see, the thing is that I love Sarah. I think she's amazing, and if I was given the opportunity I would totally, completely and utterly go and live in her attic and bake her cookies. And we all know that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Only, that doesn't give me the right to accidentally steal her voice, and its not a good idea for either of us. She is wonderful, brilliant, unique and so shiny, and I love it, but I need to be able to write as me. Because, if I cant, I'm screwed.

Well, that's one side of the issue, anyway. My other reaction (which was worryingly enough my first one) was to question the validity of my existence. A lot of the time, things happen in my life that seem to follow a story format. My eventual and blissful acquisition of a pony, stumbling towards the kilvites, my Cardiff life. In fact, a lot of it seems to follow a series format, with a season finale each summer. (The most recent, in case you wondered, was results day. Yum) So I realised I was hearing mistful's voice in my head, and my brain went wild. I quickly drew the conclusion that I was a fictional character and that, joy of joy, I was being scripted by one of my favourite writers. Unlike Sophie, I was oddly unworried by this. Then colucio came over, and we went on a mammoth quest towards Castell Coch (incidentally? Total quest format. Small mistake, bigger mistake, biggest mistake then success) during which I asked him about it.




Me: So, you know how you occasionally wonder if you're real?

colucio: Actually, I tend to speculate that I just made everyone else up, but... yes. Matrix style, right?

Me: mm... Well, I think I'm a fictional construct created by mistful.

C: wow! Thats just... cool!


We debated it for a while, flitting through the question of freewill towards the realisation that, probably, we had both just been over-exposed to Jostein Gaarder (if, of course, such a thing is possible) while we were Young and Impressionable. But I'm still not sure about it. I honestly seem to have such a charmed life sometimes that I worry. At some point the shit inevitably has to hit the fan. Its just when this will come. If I am living in a book (which I'd prefer by the way. Its the smell) then I'd assume it will leap atop me when I leave my university haven. If I am in a series, it can hit at any moment from September onwards. And if I am a bit player, which in some ways seems most likely, I'm almost certainly destined for some death or tragedy very soon. Unless
[info]mistfulis actually my narrator of course, in which case I might be lucky enough to get some girl/girl, girl/boy or girl/monster make-out scenes instead...




So what do you reckon, oh my lovelies? I very much doubt I'm existing in a matrix world, because I don't think a computer would be this involved in my day to day existence, but that doesn't mean I'm not being skilfully narrated. Which begs the question, really, of whether it is possible to contact the great creatornarrator through an internet blog. Ho hum...

xxxxxxxxxxx

*N.B. This post is probably not taken from the pen of Sarah Rees Brenan** and definitely not to be taken very seriously!
**actually, it came out sounding far more like me than expected. I think that qualifies for YAY status

A rose by any other name...

Okay my lovelies, I need help. And not just in a men-in-white-coats way. You see, recently I've been somewhat obsessed with names.

I love both my parents, I really do, even if I don't like them that much very often. But, for various reasons that you may or may not know (if you don't, don't worry – if you need to know I'll tell you), I feel incredibly uncomfortable at the notion of writing under either of their names. At my birthday party in January, I approached the amazing Beth Webb to ask her if I could use her surname instead of my own. She told me that I was welcome to it, but that I might well not want it. And then she explained that, as a writer, the alphabetical position of a name is the most significant part. If you're standing staring at a great big bookshelf in a shop, your eyes are inevitably drawn to the bigger displays, to the titles by authors who are prominent in the literary market. Beth's advice was to go along to a bookshop, analyse the shelves, and see which letters are the best. So, yesterday, I went into town, visited the bookshops, and cross-referenced. Using three shops and every genre I thought I might one day write in. For several hours.
The end result of my research? The best letters for me are P, R and S. T is good, but occasionally it gets skipped and ends up in the wrong place. After this, I read through the phone book. I could hear the voices in my head, emerging like an XKCD cartoon.

1: So, what did you do on your Sunday?
2: Well, I cross-referenced three bookshops, and then read the phone book.
1: Wow... when you said you were giving up the internet to get a life, I never thought it would be so fulfilled...

Needless to say, I have not given up the internet. Nor am I planning on it. Even so, I occasionally worry about the ways I chose to pass the time. Fortunately, Babiji and I had a very fulfilling evening in compensation. Unfortunately, none of that is relevant. This post is, after all, about Names.

Eventually, I narrowed an infinity of possibilities down to five. Prior, Ruskin, Swallow, Sparrow and Stanton.

I've put a poll up on my livejournal, so please - go along and vote.

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Once upon a time...

I have spent the last few days locked in tense warfare. At war, that is, with my tenses. The book I have been working on gradually for the last three/four years is taking shape slowly before my eyes, but getting the tenses sorted out has been an utter nightmare. Throughout the last few years, you see, I have been writing this in 1st person present. And I love first person present. It's immediate and personal and stops things feeling too contrived. It fits with my words, and they all flow together into prose. I'm quite tempted to give it a fetching nickname, but, since all I could think of the last time I tried was Percy, I gave up. But anyway – I love it. The only problem is that the novel is not only recounting past-events, but recounting them in varied chronologies, with different times and fragments interweaving. Its confusing enough for me trying to keep track of it, and I'm the writer. I don't want to lose readers, and I cant help thinking it'll be easier to lose them if I pretend its all happening in the present. So I tried using present and then past for flashbacks, but that felt inconsistent. I tried using present perpetually and italicising flashbacks, but that was too... italiscied. And doing everything in past tense was clearly wrong.

So for the past few days I have been running around like Goldilocks, only there was no preferable porridge. My lovely housemates of the moment, Babigi and Essy*, have got used to me flapping about with big cups of tea and dry cereal, muttering darkly under my breath. My head has not been so thoroughly massaged since I left the Thai hairdressers behind. I have written, deleted, and rewritten the same few paragraphs c.fifteen times.

Today, thankfully, Essy caught me. She practically had to tie me down in the kitchen to impart her particular brand of wisdom. Such as go away, write something else, and come back to it. I went away and ignored her... for approximately two hours. Then I wrote something else. Suddenly, everything slotted into place. If that went in there, then that went in there, and that went in there. And then this bit fitted with that bit, which meant it could be past and present for the first section, and then present for the rest, and...

Before I realised it, I was flying high on the euphoria of eureka mode. I had rearranged 5000 words and written an extra 3000. I had switched the entire order of all I had written. I could hardly speak without using excessive exclamation marks! All I can hope now is that I haven't slipped on the Snakes'n'Ladders ladder by tomorrow...

So, to distract myself from the fear, I took pictures of my wall hanging. I painted this at the end of last summer, but have only just found a wall tall enough to hang in on. I'm very pleased with the addition of The Veils' butterflies





my tree, my desk, my mess, my mirror and Bat For Lashes :)


xxxxxx


*Babigi & Essy – two examples of my housemates choices of pseudonyms. Others include Isaclue and S'bean. I do love my housemates. And, after all, I can hardly talk when mine is hattie ghandi on my mum's blog...

(cross-posted to parenthesised)

Growing Pains

Ironically, I have spent a large amount of my life obsessed with growing up. When I was younger, wrapped up in books and writing pleading letters to Peter Pan every summer, I was terrified of it. Growing up was a little like dying - an inevitable ending I was desperate to starve off and knew I couldn't. Wendy Moira Angela Darling, who was the 'type who wanted to grow up', was clearly an idiot. I couldn't imagine it. Even now, the end of Peter Pan leaves me in tears for this very reason – they have grown up. And, once you have grown up, that is it. There are no more trips to Never-Never-Land.

Well, that was what I believed then, at least. I remember howling while my mother tried desperately to tell me that this was not necessarily the case, but I never believed her. It is only now that I find myself wondering whether she was right all along. You see, on some levels, I may have, finally, grown up. But whenever I cone to think of it, I find that I'm no longer sure exactly what growing up entails. When do we, finally, grow up?

British society suggests that you have magically become a grown up by the time you reach eighteen. True, there are a few previous rites of passage to move through before this. At sixteen, after all, you can legally abandon childhood by having sex, which is (in my experience) at once anti-climatic and empowering, while at seventeen this new power in your life is taken further still, you are trusted enough to drive a vehicle, and therefore given some degree of power over the lives of other people. At eighteen, you are not only allowed to drink (although why you can have sex before you can buy alcohol is beyond me, but I think legal ages are probably a matter for another day), but also get your say in running the country. However the situation is, inevitably, more complicated. I was a very young eighteen. I was responsible enough to think very carefully about how to react to my various rites of passage (aside from the drinking one, which had clearly been happening for years), but I was by no means adult. I had not grown up. I went halfway around the world for two months, came back and went to university, and I still had not irrevocably grown up. The only answer is that growing up seems to be an individual process, dependant upon upbringing and personalities, as unique as fingerprints. And, just as when growing up occurs changes for each person, so too does the nature of the beast.

As I sat happily watching anime the other day, someone suggested that you have grown up when you no longer cause unnecessary worry for others. They can worry clearly, and indeed it would be hard to imagine a world without consummate worriers, but there is something about inspiring anxiety that does seem a uniquely childish/teenage state. I clearly remember various occasions where I was desperate to make someone worry about me. I think in some ways its almost more accurate than classing certain behaviour as a “plea for attention”. You want them to worry, because if they worry then they care. On this basis, growing up perhaps requires realising that you can be cared about without requiring constant proof, and means that the focus has mostly shifted from the self to everyone else. You are aware of them, both through analysing their opinions of you and through thinking about the affects your actions will have on others before you act. If you are actively trying not to worry them, then perhaps you have grown up, in some ways at least. And maybe it is only a maturity that can fully occur when you have children, or are in a very close relationship?

But I don't think that this can be the whole story either. The problem is that I'm really not to sure what the whole story is. You're supposed to just Know when you fall in love (although actually I disagree. I only realised I had probably been in love with one person months later, after it ended and I told him that I didn't love him) but growing up is probably different. And I was really wondering what you all thought about the issue. There doesn't seem to be any real emotional or intellectual cut off points, after all, only bureaucratic ones. I'm not too sure if I've grown up yet, or if I'm any closer to getting there. All I'm really sure of is that, at the moment, I can still visit Never-Never-Land whenever I want.

xxxx

(cross-posted to parenthesised)

Phew!!

...this isnt so much of an update as a huge sigh of relief. For the last month +, I have been completely incapable of accessing this blog. And there's been a lot to tell you, which I am currently too sleepy (dear body - four am is not getting up time and 8am is not sleeping time. Please learn), too full of self-realisations, and too relieved to recap on.

I was going to spam you with Wyrd Sisters photographs too, but blogspot refuses to uplod them. So instead, know that not only was it truly great (really) but to add to that....

MY WYRD SISTERS COSTUMES GOT THEIR OWN MENTION IN THE STUDENT PAPER!!!!!! ^_^


...and have a prologue. Would you read this? And if so why? And what would you change about it, if you could?


**

The storm clouds were swollen, heavy, waiting.

In the last gasp of sunset, moments before night fell, they stretched out; yawning across a darkening sky, their edges hemmed with light.

Ravenous, turgid. Waiting.

The humid tumescence grew heavier each moment, pressing down on the quiet Cotswold countryside below, sucking the daylight from the sky with more greed than the advancing hours. In the twilight, the bloated mass of clouds looked ugly and sinister, a dam about to burst. Lingering, threatening.

Waiting.

And then the night, and the storm, descended upon the land.


***