I think some people may appreciate this link in Holy Moly this week:
Alain de Botton yet again attacks bloggers who review his work
Check out the venom at the bottom of the post (thank you HM for highlighting that particular section).
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Writing Creatively?
I know there are some people who read this that would kick my arse up and down the street for admitting the following.
Last night I went to a Creative Writing class. I know, I know, can you really teach someone Creative Writing? I had always answered no but last night my mind was changed somewhat. This class, I hope, will give me a good boot up the backside and get me writing again. Previously, I had always looked upon writing as a past-time, something I hoped would turn into a career.
I didn't realise you could treat it as a 'proper' job. The tutor handed out some quotes to 'inspire' us and I'm afraid to admit that the following struck a cord with me:
"I write when I'm inspired, and I see to it I'm inspired at nine o'clock every morning."
Peter De Vries
The course runs for five weeks. Let's see how I get on.
Last night I went to a Creative Writing class. I know, I know, can you really teach someone Creative Writing? I had always answered no but last night my mind was changed somewhat. This class, I hope, will give me a good boot up the backside and get me writing again. Previously, I had always looked upon writing as a past-time, something I hoped would turn into a career.
I didn't realise you could treat it as a 'proper' job. The tutor handed out some quotes to 'inspire' us and I'm afraid to admit that the following struck a cord with me:
"I write when I'm inspired, and I see to it I'm inspired at nine o'clock every morning."
Peter De Vries
The course runs for five weeks. Let's see how I get on.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Change with Age?
This morning I have been catching up with some Bookcrossing admin. Since I joined Bookcrossing in 2004 I've found more and more books I've wanted to read. In those five years I have slowly, and unwilling, come to realise that the chances of me reading these books before I die is very slim. Unless I have some 'orrible accident involving my legs and am in a plaster cast for some time. But yes, it's time for a book purge. I work near a lot of charity shops that have books on sale for ridiculous prices. Sometimes I can pick up a whole bag for under a fiver. Then there's Borders who stock the Penguin and Wordsworth classic editions that sell for less than £2. And that's where the connection with this post lies.
I have always been a reader. Technically before I could properly read. My parents probably spent a lot of money on audiobooks and I worked out how to use the cassette player (huh, how retro!) at the tender age of 3. The Mothership has revealed she was quite upset the day I told her I didn't need her to read to me anymore. I had the tapes and I could follow along with the books provided with them. My favourite was Gobbolino, the Witch's Cat and there was a story about a family of ogores who had a pet dragon. These stories were rather dark in theme. For example, the son in the ogore family had to go on a dangerous quest to save his village. Gobbolino was persecuted by other cats in quite a cruel manner.
Other books came and went. For a while I was obsessed with the Narnia Chronicles. They were wonderful stories with adventures and swords and talking animals. I guess the subliminal Christian messages were missed by me. There were many days my mother would find me trying to get to Narnia via one of the wardrobes in our house. Sitting on my bookshelves were Roald Dahl's finest, Enid Blyton's Secret Seven, Famous Five and The Naughiest Girl in School. Earlier this year part of the myth surrounding Enid Blyton was shattered in my work. Somewhere in the depths of the archives, there was an anger letter sent by Blyton to another writer whom she felt had greatly offended her. Could this have been the same woman who wrote the characters of Elizabeth, Julian, George, Anne and even Timmy the Dog? Yes, it was. The bossiness of these characters and their hot headiedness showed through in this letter. A recurring theme of this year has been the quiet deaths of aspects of my childhood. This was the time that Enid Blyton's light firmly went out for me. This figure from rainy afternoons spent reading in my room had departed.
The biggest change in my reading habits has been a swing towards the classics in my later years. When I was a teen, I favoured Melvin Burgess and George Orwell, pretending I was rebelling. I read The Catcher in the Rye but didn't quite understand what it was about. I tried to read Lolita and found it boring and slightly replusive. Phillip Larkin told me that your mum and dad fuck you up. For a time, I believed him.
At high school, a teacher introduced me to the wonders of Sophocles and Euripides. Works that are older than our society but still speak generations later. I'll never forget the performance of Antigone that opened with a video screen showing past dictators and ending with a shot of Tony Blair (context: this was not long after Britain supported the illegal occupation of Iraq). Words and stories written so very long ago still were, and are, relevant today.
And now? My distaste for the classics has faded away. Ann Bronte is currently telling me some concept of feminism was alive and well in the early nineteenth century. And who knows, this might be the year that War and Peace makes it onto my reading list.
I have always been a reader. Technically before I could properly read. My parents probably spent a lot of money on audiobooks and I worked out how to use the cassette player (huh, how retro!) at the tender age of 3. The Mothership has revealed she was quite upset the day I told her I didn't need her to read to me anymore. I had the tapes and I could follow along with the books provided with them. My favourite was Gobbolino, the Witch's Cat and there was a story about a family of ogores who had a pet dragon. These stories were rather dark in theme. For example, the son in the ogore family had to go on a dangerous quest to save his village. Gobbolino was persecuted by other cats in quite a cruel manner.
Other books came and went. For a while I was obsessed with the Narnia Chronicles. They were wonderful stories with adventures and swords and talking animals. I guess the subliminal Christian messages were missed by me. There were many days my mother would find me trying to get to Narnia via one of the wardrobes in our house. Sitting on my bookshelves were Roald Dahl's finest, Enid Blyton's Secret Seven, Famous Five and The Naughiest Girl in School. Earlier this year part of the myth surrounding Enid Blyton was shattered in my work. Somewhere in the depths of the archives, there was an anger letter sent by Blyton to another writer whom she felt had greatly offended her. Could this have been the same woman who wrote the characters of Elizabeth, Julian, George, Anne and even Timmy the Dog? Yes, it was. The bossiness of these characters and their hot headiedness showed through in this letter. A recurring theme of this year has been the quiet deaths of aspects of my childhood. This was the time that Enid Blyton's light firmly went out for me. This figure from rainy afternoons spent reading in my room had departed.
The biggest change in my reading habits has been a swing towards the classics in my later years. When I was a teen, I favoured Melvin Burgess and George Orwell, pretending I was rebelling. I read The Catcher in the Rye but didn't quite understand what it was about. I tried to read Lolita and found it boring and slightly replusive. Phillip Larkin told me that your mum and dad fuck you up. For a time, I believed him.
At high school, a teacher introduced me to the wonders of Sophocles and Euripides. Works that are older than our society but still speak generations later. I'll never forget the performance of Antigone that opened with a video screen showing past dictators and ending with a shot of Tony Blair (context: this was not long after Britain supported the illegal occupation of Iraq). Words and stories written so very long ago still were, and are, relevant today.
And now? My distaste for the classics has faded away. Ann Bronte is currently telling me some concept of feminism was alive and well in the early nineteenth century. And who knows, this might be the year that War and Peace makes it onto my reading list.
Friday, 29 May 2009
New Experiences
Last week, Him Indoors convinced me to do something I had never done before.
No, not that you dirty muppets.
Go camping!
Now I've never been camping. The Mothership likes her home comforts shall we say. This woman's holiday is not completed until she has completed cleaned the apartment we're staying in and has bought in a month's supply of Mr Sheen (when we're only going on holiday for a week). Funnily enough, camping was not on the agenda. There are some childhood holidays in caravans that I remember but they were done through gritted teeth. Canvas was not a holiday option.
One major reason I dislike the idea of festivals is the camping and potential shared toilet facilities. I like my own toilet. I like having toilet paper available. I like washing my hands in my scented soap and drying them on a nice fluffy towel. Recently I was horrifed to learn that T in the Park does not have showers. Is this true? Can anyone confirm this either way?
However, Him Indoors loves camping and has been away with quite a few friends. I comprised and said we would go camping on a proper campsite with proper toilets. No shitting in the woods for me. He said yes. We would go camping for two days, stay with relatives for another two and spend the rest of the week in Aberdeen. The relatives stay in a village that boasts one primary school, one church, one Spar and two coffee shops all on the same street. So I was going through the stages of gradual urbanisation last week. I've lived in the city all my life. The closest I get to the countryside is getting the train to East Kilbride.
So, yes, we went camping. It rained. We even got hailstones. One night we couldn't set up the stove to make a cup of tea. It was freezing at night. Our sleeping mats were just a little bit thicker than paper. The second night, a group pitched up next to us and didn't go to bed until 1am. It rained.
But, in a way, I enjoyed the experience. The night the sun stayed out and we cooked our instant noodles. The walk we went up the cliff and discovered an abandoned church and graveyard. Watching the tide come in. Tis was nice.
Now we're toying with hiring a VW Campervan for our next venture. The freedom of camping appealed to me. I met one woman on the campsite, part of a retired couple, who were touring the National Trust of Scotland sites. Weirdly it turned out she had grown up around the corner from where I live in Glasgow. It truly shows how small a world we live in (or you can never go far without meeting someone who lives in sunny Glasgow). I envied her freedom a bit. You could spend one day travelling to another area of the country. And the drive up to the campsite on the east coast was wonderful. Both Him Indoors and I remarked that we forget what a beautiful country we live in. And how easily we forget this living in the city.
Another aspect of this holiday made me realise how bored I'm getting of Glasgow. It is highly likely that I'll have to move out of Glasgow once I qualify as an archivist next year. Initially I was relcutant to do so. I've always lived in Glasgow, my family are here, my friends and most of my social calendar. The thought of moving away did not appeal.
But this holiday made me realise there is a big world out there. In my 24 years I have not travelled very far. Most of my work colleagues have lived in various areas due to university or college commitments. Some of them call Glasgow home for the moment, some hope to return elsewhere when they finish their training.
But yes, I would like to try living in another city in the next couple of years. And who knows, by that time I might be able to drive that VW Campervan as well.
No, not that you dirty muppets.
Go camping!
Now I've never been camping. The Mothership likes her home comforts shall we say. This woman's holiday is not completed until she has completed cleaned the apartment we're staying in and has bought in a month's supply of Mr Sheen (when we're only going on holiday for a week). Funnily enough, camping was not on the agenda. There are some childhood holidays in caravans that I remember but they were done through gritted teeth. Canvas was not a holiday option.
One major reason I dislike the idea of festivals is the camping and potential shared toilet facilities. I like my own toilet. I like having toilet paper available. I like washing my hands in my scented soap and drying them on a nice fluffy towel. Recently I was horrifed to learn that T in the Park does not have showers. Is this true? Can anyone confirm this either way?
However, Him Indoors loves camping and has been away with quite a few friends. I comprised and said we would go camping on a proper campsite with proper toilets. No shitting in the woods for me. He said yes. We would go camping for two days, stay with relatives for another two and spend the rest of the week in Aberdeen. The relatives stay in a village that boasts one primary school, one church, one Spar and two coffee shops all on the same street. So I was going through the stages of gradual urbanisation last week. I've lived in the city all my life. The closest I get to the countryside is getting the train to East Kilbride.
So, yes, we went camping. It rained. We even got hailstones. One night we couldn't set up the stove to make a cup of tea. It was freezing at night. Our sleeping mats were just a little bit thicker than paper. The second night, a group pitched up next to us and didn't go to bed until 1am. It rained.
But, in a way, I enjoyed the experience. The night the sun stayed out and we cooked our instant noodles. The walk we went up the cliff and discovered an abandoned church and graveyard. Watching the tide come in. Tis was nice.
Now we're toying with hiring a VW Campervan for our next venture. The freedom of camping appealed to me. I met one woman on the campsite, part of a retired couple, who were touring the National Trust of Scotland sites. Weirdly it turned out she had grown up around the corner from where I live in Glasgow. It truly shows how small a world we live in (or you can never go far without meeting someone who lives in sunny Glasgow). I envied her freedom a bit. You could spend one day travelling to another area of the country. And the drive up to the campsite on the east coast was wonderful. Both Him Indoors and I remarked that we forget what a beautiful country we live in. And how easily we forget this living in the city.
Another aspect of this holiday made me realise how bored I'm getting of Glasgow. It is highly likely that I'll have to move out of Glasgow once I qualify as an archivist next year. Initially I was relcutant to do so. I've always lived in Glasgow, my family are here, my friends and most of my social calendar. The thought of moving away did not appeal.
But this holiday made me realise there is a big world out there. In my 24 years I have not travelled very far. Most of my work colleagues have lived in various areas due to university or college commitments. Some of them call Glasgow home for the moment, some hope to return elsewhere when they finish their training.
But yes, I would like to try living in another city in the next couple of years. And who knows, by that time I might be able to drive that VW Campervan as well.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Swine/Pig/Talking out the hole of yer arse Flu
I, for one, have been getting peed off with the latest disease outbreak. The news is whipping everyone into a frenzy over something that wouldn't have turned heads if it was merely another bout of run-of-the-mill-flu. And this is coming from someone who lives with a reasonably radius of where the first cases were confirmed in the UK.
The situation was made even more ridiculous by the BBC News (shame on them for adding to this fire). In passing I caught a section of the six o'clock news in which they were interviewing a potential pig flu sufferer. Via a fucking mobile phone and filming him leaning out his window. That's not going to fuel panic is it?
Not belittling people who have died but149152 people have died in Mexico. Out of an estimated population of 103 million. Plus only 20 of these 152 deaths have been confirmed swine flu cases. In 2007, 2.1 million people died from AIDs. Currently, 33.2million people are living with the condition. Remember the mass panic about AIDs?
Clicky here to see what I mean.
Of course, I could post next week saying I was all wrong and I'm watching Survivors for tips.
The situation was made even more ridiculous by the BBC News (shame on them for adding to this fire). In passing I caught a section of the six o'clock news in which they were interviewing a potential pig flu sufferer. Via a fucking mobile phone and filming him leaning out his window. That's not going to fuel panic is it?
Not belittling people who have died but
Clicky here to see what I mean.
Of course, I could post next week saying I was all wrong and I'm watching Survivors for tips.
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Welcome to the real world. It sucks!
Holy beejesus, where did the last two months ago? One reason behind my silence was Him Indoors has not been in terribly good health and was admitted to hospital. It almost got to the stage we were considering having his post forwarded to the ward he was on. I went through a reading slump and knew that did not bode well. Some people stop eating when they're stressed out or each too much. Me? I stop reading. This problem has been resolved but it depressed me when I realised I had been reading the same book for two months.
Other news, my journey towards becoming an archivist reached another level (not as exciting as it sounds). I was awarded a place on the course, on the spot. My interview was on my birthday so that was a nice present. Then I went to have lunch with the Mothership and drank a lot of wine. Father turned up with a birthday cake and pretended to be a jakey looking for spare change when I buzzed him into the flat. And now I'm edging towards my quarter life crisis faster than I would like.
There might be some writing in the pipeline. Proper writing with characters and shitz. Got some ideas whizzing about the old grey matter. The thing is, some stuff I produced was pretty good (if I say so myself). And now I'm scared I've lost that talent. Shall keep you posted.
Other news, my journey towards becoming an archivist reached another level (not as exciting as it sounds). I was awarded a place on the course, on the spot. My interview was on my birthday so that was a nice present. Then I went to have lunch with the Mothership and drank a lot of wine. Father turned up with a birthday cake and pretended to be a jakey looking for spare change when I buzzed him into the flat. And now I'm edging towards my quarter life crisis faster than I would like.
There might be some writing in the pipeline. Proper writing with characters and shitz. Got some ideas whizzing about the old grey matter. The thing is, some stuff I produced was pretty good (if I say so myself). And now I'm scared I've lost that talent. Shall keep you posted.
Saturday, 10 January 2009
Sunday Salon: A Break
Don't worry, the break refers to my pile of work due in next week. On Thursday it was landed upon us trainees we were having mock interviews on Monday. A list of potential questions were emailed to us to prepare answers for. Thursday was a very busy day at work and Friday is...well....Friday so I only sat down to look at them properly yesterday. I've Googled Freedom of Information and Data Protection Acts and I feel my brain slowing oozing out my head.
So, onto the books!
The first fail of 2009: Twilight by Stephanie Meyers.
I know I am not the target audience for this book. In fact, I don't like to admit how many difference in age there is between me and the target audience. The style of writing reminds me very much of Point Horrors which I enjoyed reading ages 10-14. Trouble is, I'm not that age anymore. The drama of high school is something I find so amusing. It's bad enough without having vegetarian vampires floating around the corridors. And people have to remember: you can make it out alive.
4) The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenerger
My book group has been pushed back to this Thursday so I don't have many comments to blog from that. I may wait to see what others thought before I blog. But, for record keeping purposes, I will still add it to my books read this week. A future attraction, coming soon.
5) The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and other short stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald (in progress)
I remember reading The Great Gatsby when I was a teenager and not being very impressed. But then again, who is impressed when they're a teenager? The point of referring to this work is that it may have influenced my reading of this short story.
So far I have only read The Curious Case of Benjamin Button in this collection. It was a strange little tale with more than a hint of satire. The story is that Benjamin is born an old man. Literally an old man. As he ages chronologically, his body and mind regress. At the age of 18 he looks 50 and is run out of town for trying to register for university. The story does speak of expectations (Benjamin's father insists his son should dye his hair to look younger) and clearly delivers the message of the importance of physical appearance. Which ties in with part of the ideology of the 1920s.
It's an interesting tale and the writing style feels very too the point. This contrasted with my previous read, The Time Traveler's Wife which reveals in the beauty of the written language. The imagery at the end of the story does add a tint of sadness but creates a wonderful picture in the reader's mind. I won't spoil the ending but I highly doubt anyone who reads the story will be surprised by the ending.
Twilight and the shock of going back to work after the festive period has taken up more time than I would like this week. I am aiming to get more reading done next week so fingers crossed that happens.
This morning I did pick up Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. It looks a worthy tome and I'm hoping it provides a building block to meatier reads such as Les Miserables and War and Peace. So far I'm on page 10 and have been slightly shocked with the scattered racist terms such as "darkie". Though the same thing happened when I read Uncle Tom's Cabin so I shouldn't be too surprised.
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