30 Days of Books - Day 02

Enraged by the comment in one of Lesley's recent blog posts (that I'm only pretending to do this meme because I never update my own blog) I'm setting out to prove her wrong ... so here's an update. HA.

Day 02 - A book you've read more than three times.

I thought a lot about which book to choose for this one, because I've read many books more than three times, although that's usually because I've quite clearly missed the entire point of the book, or I've had to read it for a module, gotten bored and skimmed it, and then realised that I have an essay/exam on said book, and would probably benefit from actually reading it to minimise the chance of failure. So I picked a book that ticks all these categories, and is actually a book that I genuinely love (now that I've read it properly.)

Spies by Michael Frayn was a book that I had to read for my A-Levels. At that time, I found it dreadfully dull, (a sentiment shared by most, if not all, of my classmates) and so I didn't really try to absorb myself in the story, or indeed, like it. The narrative seemed to plod along at a lazy pace, and for a long time, nothing much happened. Gradually though, Shaun (our teacher) manage to impress upon us the seriousness of the imminent exam, and that we all really must try to make more of an effort with it. In fact, he warned us that this book was so incredibly complex, it was very difficult to get a good mark - the average grade for students up and down the country (taking the exam for the first time) was a D. English literature was one subject I'd always felt an affinity with, and the lowest mark I'd ever received (on a really, really bad day) was a C. I could not, and would not get a D. No, absolutely not. And so, I started to try a little harder, listen a little closer and consequently, my copy of the book is now littered with annotations. I discovered that the book wasn't really that bad, and was in fact actually rather good. By the time the exam rolled around, I wasn't feeling especially confident, but figured I'd give it my best shot.

I'm aware that I'm rambling a little bit here, and have gone off on quite a major tangent, so I might try and reign it back in a little, and  focus a bit more on the book. If anyone's interested, I got an A on that exam and was one of only two people (I think...) in my entire college who didn't need to re-sit it. Hooray for me!!

ANYWAY. The book. Spies is a coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of Britain in WW2. The story is told from two viewpoints, which are at once very different and yet completely the same. The main character, Stephen Wheatley, returns to his childhood street an old man, reflecting on the events that occurred there one summer, and so the story is told from the perspective of Present-Day-Stephen and WW2-Stephen. The (very basic) premise to the plot is two boys, Stephen and Keith, bored in the heat of the summer, suspect Keith's mum of being a German spy, and so make it their buisness to spy on her, and discover exactly where it is she goes and who she's posting the mysterious letters to. Unfortunately for the boys, they find themselves mixed up in a dangerous mystery neither of them could have bargained for - but before you go guessing, it's not at all what you think it is. Frayn weaves his story in a mesmerising fashion, and the true scale of their childish games isn't revealed until the final pages, which is both compelling and infuriating.

It is a book primarily about memory and imagination, and the effortless way in which a child can blur the lines between reality and fantasy, and ultimately live their own make-believe creation of life - until they realise the detrimental effect their games have on the realities of those around them.

When I first read this book, the pace seemed to me to really bog the narrative down, and the lack of any action meant I found it exceedingly dull. But now, having read the book a few years later, I finally understand the point to Frayn's writing techniques. What he doesn't say is equally as important as what he does say, and the meandering narrative I now see as a reflection of the main character's lack of understanding of what's really happening. It is as much a work of suspense as it is a saddened reflection, and the surprises and plot twists towards the novel's end are revealed so casually that the effect is somewhat jarring - but in a good way. I only wish I'd tried harder to absorb myself in the book when I read it for the first time. But the good news is, this book has since become one of my all time favourites. Hurrah!!

30 Days of Books - Day 01

Righto. Lesley (or rather, Lesley's mum) found this marvellous meme on the internet, and I've decided to take a whack at it. I've seen this sort of thing floating around on various social networking sites, but had no idea they were called meme's. I do now. If anyone's interested in this particular meme, I can direct you to Lesley's blog, where you'll find not only her list, but also details for the full thread. (I don't know how to do the linky thing she has on the side ... sorry.)
I should also point out, I have every intention of seeing this through to Day 30, however I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of blogging about a book every day for 30 days, so knowing me, it might very well take me until Christmas to complete. Just so you know.

Day 01 - The Best Book You Read Last Year

I thought long and hard about which book would be a good'un to kick this off. To be honest, I haven't really had very much time for personal reading over the last year, because the reading lists for university take up a great chunk of my time. However, there was one book I had to read for a module that really stuck with me for a pretty long time after I'd finished it.

Junk by Melvin Burgess is a compelling, complicated and disturbing look at the effects of drug addiction and the drug culture in the UK. The general premise for the book is kids with some pretty serious parental issues who run away from home and end up living with squatters, ultimately ending up getting heavily involved with hard drugs. The story is told from various viewpoints, and Burgess lets each and every one have their own say. The characters are immensely rich and believeable, and I found myself from the very first chapter willing this story to have a happy ending. I find it easy to get sucked into a good book, to attach myself to the characters, and for pages upon pages I hoped and hoped that they'd be saved from their circumstances, their addiction, and ultimately themselves.

It's quite clear from very early on, however, that these characters are well beyond any help or intervention, and there is a lingering, inescapable sense of the inevitable as the narrative evolves.

 I don't want to go too deeply into the plot for fear of spoilers, but I'll just say this. When this book was first published in 1996, it was met with howls of protest from various journalists, parents, teachers, etc etc, with many fearing the content was too hard-hitting for it's target audience. But once they'd taken the time to read the book, to fully understand the point Burgess was trying to make, they realised that this book is empowering, encouraging  kids and adults alike to think for themselves rather than encouraging the use of hard drugs.

I found this book haunting - addictive and repulsive in equal measure. But more than that, I think this book is important. Kids need to know about the truth behind drug use, they need to know about the the good, the bad and the ugly in order for them to make up their own, informed decision about the topic. It's no good preaching about the dangers of drugs if they don't know all the facts. There will always be arguments about what is deemed 'appropriate' content for children and young adults in literature, but I whole-heartedly believe every teen should read this book, for the simple fact that it might one day save their life.

Misspelled Magazine

YES I know hardly anyone reads this. But regardless, it's about time for some shameless plugging.

My good friend Lesley Whyte and I have recently started up an online literary magazine, and we are seeking submissions for our first ever issue.

If you, or anyone you know, has a burning desire to write or draw, and would like to share the produce of that burning desire, let us know! Details for submissions can be found on our website (clicky the linky) or you can always email us at misspelledmagazine@gmail.com and we'll get back to you.

Ta very much!
http://www.misspelledmagazine.moonfruit.com/

Sympathy, please.

I figured a new blog post was waaaay overdue. It would be nice if I could say I've been so super busy that I just haven't had time to update this, because I'm oh-so-popular and my social life is just insane. But that would be a lie. I'm simply lazy.
I'm also royally pissed off. My long-suffering laptop has finally kicked the bucket, and my father informs me that I've well and truly destroyed my hard drive. So in short, I've lost everything, because like an utter fool, I did not back up any of my work. So every piece of work I've done over the last 2 years is gone. BOO. Yes, I know I have the hard copies of the assignments and whatnot, but I had other beginnings and endings and general musings on there that are lost for all eternity - including the start of my final year project, which admittedly I didn't have a lot of anyway, but it was a start and now I have to do it all again. I am so very unhappy. I'm clinging on to the hope that a phoenix will rise from the ashes, some great bolt of inspiration will hit me, and the work I've lost will pale in comparison to the supreme epic-ness of words I have yet to write.

I doubt it, though.

In other news, I have successfully established myself as the domestic goddess I always knew I was, with the delightful gingerbread men I have baked. If all else fails, at least I have the option of starting my own bakery, which will sell nothing but gingerbread men and tea. I know there are flaws in this plan, but it is all I have, and if you point them out, I might very well wring your neck.

In the meantime, here is a picture of just one of my culinary masterpieces. The pink icing is my favourite part. They're not so much an army of gingerbread men, but a show choir, I feel.

Mischief Managed

Yes, I saw this on Monday, but it's taken me all week to come to terms with the fact that my childhood is over, hence the late post.
The final instalment of the Harry Potter series hit cinemas a week ago, and as an avid reader of the books, and genuine fan of the films, I was excited. In fact, I was delirious with excitement. I can't adequately express what these books have meant to me, and the bearing they’ve had on my childhood. They were my childhood. I remember my Year 4 teacher reading us the Philosopher’s Stone at around the time of release of Prisoner of Azkaban, and it wouldn’t matter that the bell had rung at 3:30 to signify the end of the day – we were going nowhere until she had finished the chapter. We were transfixed on the words emanating from her lips; we were hooked. (I might add, my poor mother waited every day out in the playground until well past 4 o’clock for me to finally dash from the classroom and make my way home. Bless her cottons.) I couldn’t tell you exactly what it was that captivated my nine year old self, but whatever it was, it triggered the beginning of an eleven year obsession.
 I know to some people this will make me sound like a loser, but I don’t care!
When I turned eleven, I waited and waited and waited for my letter from Hogwarts to arrive by owl. Don’t get me wrong, I did, of course, know that the chances of that happening were astronomically slim, nay, impossible – believe it or not, I was bright enough to tell the difference between fantasy and reality – but I didn’t care. Such was the magic of those books that I could push to one side that voice of reason, suspend my beliefs and will that letter from Dumbledore to arrive. Of course, it didn’t. And I was, secretly, quite gutted.
But, those books kept the magic of Hogwarts alive for me, even if I couldn’t experience it first-hand. I settled to reading all of Hermione’s lines aloud, and prancing round with a pencil for a wand, a dressing gown for a robe, and my poor unfortunate sisters acting as substitutes for trolls/boggarts/Dementors. I lived the stories of Harry Potter for myself. And it was great.

The release of the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was a sad, sad day – not least because that very day was my first day at my first ever job, and rather than spending it utterly absorbed in JK’s magic, I had to spend it learning how to use a till, and dealing with snobby, pissed-off customers. But anyway, I tore away from work as quickly as possible (such a dedicated associate, I know) and read and read and read until there was no more. And something surprising happened. As I turned that final page, read those final words, I didn’t feel that gut-wrenching ache I had expected. I was bloody miserable, don’t get me wrong, but the ending was so neat, so satisfying that although I knew there would be no more books, it was okay. And besides, I still had the films! It was easier to accept that there would be no more books, because I still had to the chance to see it all re-enacted on the big screen.

 So, then. The films. I know it’s impossible to expect the filmmakers to incorporate every single detail from the books, and I know that sacrifices have to be made in order to stick to a watchable film length. But still … As much as I love the films (and I do, truly) I’ve always felt that they’re lacking in something. There’s some spark, some (excuse the pun/cheese/cliché) magical quality that JK invokes in her writing that always failed to truly resonate on the big screen. I couldn’t tell you what it is exactly, but I’m pretty sure any hardcore fan of the books would notice it, too.

But, I think when not compared to the books they’re really actually very good. The cast are strong, the acting has gone from strength to strength, and the screenwriters have done a bloody good job of bringing all those rich characters to life. I do think, though, that I had not read the books before seeing the films, I would be a teeny bit lost with the plot. There is so much that’s taken as a given, so many elements of the plot that aren’t properly explained, and because I’ve read the books so thoroughly, I notice all those things, and it bugs me. (Also, I shall never forgive Alfonso Cuarón for what he did to Prisoner of Azkaban – my favourite book in the series, and the worst of the 8 films. Sigh.)

Unfortunately, Deathly Hallows Part 2 was no different. Before I elaborate, I’d like to just point out that I did, ultimately, LOVE the film. I thought it was simply beautiful, moving in all the right places, with an equal amount of laughs, and visually stunning. But my expectations were far too high, and so it was always going to be difficult for the film to meet them. It all felt rather rushed, and so much detail was left out; my two main issues were the total lack of Dumbledore’s backstory, and the one, fleeting mention of Lupin’s son, whose existence had, up until that point, never been acknowledged, and was subsequently never mentioned ever again. Had I not read the books so thoroughly, I fear I would’ve been slightly lost.

So. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2. A magical, awe-inspiring, visually stunning send off to the saga, which just fell short of perfection.

It won’t, of course, stop me from seeing it until Odeon ticket prices burn a hole in my bank balance.

I am not a writer.

First things first, I'd like to share the fact that I've finally gotten around to booking my tickets for Harry Potter - hurrah!! I'm going with Hannah, my sister, on the Monday though, rather than Friday - mainly because although I am DESPERATE to see it, I also don't want to go when it'll be crammed full of people. Because I will cry. And that would be embarrassing.
Moving on, now. I haven't so much as looked at my FYP stuff since my last post. Shameful, I know. I've just been finding it hard to get my writer's head on; there is no pressure to get a move on with it, and so whenever I start my laptop up to crack out a few hundred more words, I enevitably start up The Sims and forget all about it. This is a problem. I reeeeeeally want to have made at least a substantial start on it by the time uni rolls around, but I honestly can't see it happening. I do not consider myself a writer. I cannot just sit and write into the small hours, nor can I seemingly make a start on any of the ideas I've jotted down in my little black book. It just ain't happening.
This brings me on to my next worry. This time next year, I would have completed my degree. I am expected to get a proper job, and - supposedly - grow up. This is another problem. I don't know what the heck I want to do. Well, this isn't technically true. I do know what I want to do, I just don't see how I can get there. I want to be Sandra Bullock in The Proposal. Only less bitchy, and probably, with silly hair and a bad dress sense. Her job in that film is my dream job; in fact, I would take any avenue I could get in that publishing realm. But the industry is notoriously difficult to break in to, and to be perfectly honest, I don't know if I'm cut-throat enough to hack it.
This issue has become so bad, I'm considering a career in teaching. Someone please talk me out of it.

Oy vey.

Well, now. I'm back. I have literally just sat and read through my friend Lesley's blog, and it has (unwittingly) bullied me into being more blog-active. I would like to think this is the start of a very long and fulfilling internet endevour, but who knows? In a week I expect I'll have given up, because that's what I do. But anyway. It might be a nice idea to check back here every now and again, and bore you all senseless with useless anecdotes and meaningful rants about the state of literature/television/cinema these days. Maybe. We'll see.
So anyway. Today I made a start on my FYP. (That's Final Year Project, if anyone cares - I'm about to embark on my 3rd year of university - I know. ARGH.) Since I don't really like the idea of failing my degree (anything less than a 2:1 is a fail, in my world) I want to make an early start on it, and - hopefully - have a first draft sortofmaybeprobablynot done by the time we go back in September/October. I've managed 200 words, and I'm stuck. The story is about missing children, who aren't really missing, but lost, having "fallen through" to an alternate reality that's pretty much a universe minus adults. In doing so, I'm trying to channel the voice of my protagonist, an eleven year old girl, whose brother has disappeared. Here is my dilemma; I am not eleven. I do not have a brother. I have never experienced the pain of losing a sibling, or the subsequent resentment that comes from realising that your parents seemingly loved him more than you.
In short, then, I'm writing about something I know nothing about, and I'm not entirely convinced this is a good thing. And so, as I think I've mentioned in a previous post, as writers, should we only ever write about what we know??
Quite the dilemma. I'm having lunch with Lesley (my friend, fellow-blogger and potential business partner) tomorrow, and fully intend to bend her ear about this.
Also, if anyone's interested, her blog can be found here: http://liesandothernonsense.blogspot.com/
It's very good, I highly reccommend it.
Over and out.

Inspiration and Influence. Or Perspiration and Impudence.

I am inspired by everything and I am inspired by absolutely nothing. This is not true, but I felt a good, deep, meaningful opening to this question was the best way to start.
So what inspires me? What influences me? Well - other writers. As a child, I was inspired by the works of Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, Hans Christian Anderson and of course, Walt Disney. They made my childhood, and I am often inspired to do the same for other boys and girls across the land when I grow up.
As I get older, the focus of my inspiration and influence shifts -  JK Rowling, Stephen King, Audrey Niffenegger, and even to some extent, Dan Brown. (Also, whilst it pains me to admit it, I am even a teensy little bit inspired by some of the books in my older sister's chick-lit collection, although I would like to point out that this is generally because I feel I could do it better.) Absorb everything, think about it, twist it, change it, contort it and churn out your own version.
Despite all this, there is actually one person who inspires me and influences me everyday. No, not you, Nick Trussler - but Emma Thompson. Yes, that woman from Sense and Sensibility and Nanny McPhee. I know it's a bit of an odd example, since she is, I suppose, first and foremost, an actress. But she is also a very talented screenwriter and children's author. If I could have an ounce of her writing ability, I would die happy. I especially love her for this:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/8031757/Emma-Thompsons-attack-on-slang-the-pedants-battle-may-be-lost.html
So, due to my limited word count, this about sums up this post. But before I go, I feel I am obliged to mention JK Rowling once more, because she gave us Harry Potter. But I want to be her more than I am influenced by her. And this is mainly because of her bank balance.

Cakes have layers.

"A writer should be invisible."
YES. As a reader, if I choose to know more about the writer after I've read their work, then I know where to look. Google. Knowing more about the writer will undeniably affect how you read what they've written. Knowing that John Cheever was a sexually confused alcoholic has a huge bearing on how I read his work. The same can be said for Emily Dickinson, and knowing that she was a social recluse who hated having her work edited. I see so many more layers to their writings, and I can't help but see parts of them reflected there too. I like to maintain an air of ignorance about the writer, because it changes how I read their work. Having said this, I think this only applies if you're given their life stories before you've read their piece. Had I not known about Cheever's alcoholism before reading 'The Swimmer', I would have read it differently. However - and this is a big however - as I mentioned in a previous blog post, knowing that the writer has experienced what the character has experienced does add a depth and credibility to the work.
So now that I've contradicted everything I've said before, I'm going to stop writing.

Better late than never.

Righto. "A protagonist that embodies the flaws and weaknesses of the writer distracts the reader from the narrative itself." My initial reaction to this statement was, "I couldn't disagree more." Of course it wouldn't distract the reader from the narrative - a protagonist without flaws and weaknesses would be impossible to relate to, and quite frankly, exceedingly dull. What use is a protagonist if the reader/audience cannot identify with them? So surely it wouldn't distract the reader from the narrative, it would complete the narrative.

But then I read the statement again.
"A protagonist that embodies the flaws and weaknesses of the writer distracts the reader from the narrative itself."
Well, now. This is an entirely different statement altogether. What we're looking at here is, as a writer, how far is your protagonist based on yourself? I think there will always be some aspect or personality trait of the writer in the main character, whether it's done consciously or not. Is this a good thing? It can be. 'David Copperfield' is one of Dickens' most popular and well loved novels, and is widely regarded as being semi-autobiographical. Or 'The Great Gatsby' by F.Scott Fitzgerald; his own opinions on women of the time were pretty clear cut, and this undeniably seeps through into his writing. Ultimately, however, what we've got to consider is this - does it distract the reader from the narrative? To put it quite simply, it shouldn't. But in my opinion, it can. Not always - but it can. To use the example of Cheever, there are some quite blatant parallels between him as person and the characters he creates. 'The Swimmer', for instance, depicts a man struggling with alcoholism, an addiction we know Cheever battled with for most of his adult life. Does this affect our reading of the narrative? Well, yes. Knowing that the writer has experienced (to some extent) what the protagonist is experiencing adds a certain depth and credibility to the writing.
So should we only ever write about what we know?

I'm BRITISH, don't you know.

As we talked about in class this week, John Cheever's writing can be seen as "uniquely American". Now I don't know about you, but I'm not entirely sure I agree with this. In what ways are his writings uniquely American? The predominant 'American-ness' of his writing comes from a very small selection of factors. Location (rather obviously) plays a huge part in this. His characters are Americans and they live typically American lives in their own pursuit of 'The American Dream'. Well, so do a lot of other American writers. And yet it is Cheever who is described as being uniquely American.
Take for instance Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser, published at the turn of the 20th Century. This example of American literature could be described as uniquely American - Dreiser's narrative comments on the social hierarchy of the States in the late 1890's and early 1900's, and the rise and fall of the American Dream. Or Edgar Allen Poe; his dark, mysterious and macabre works could equally be seen as an embodiment of a uniquely American style. The same could be said for F. Scott Fitzgerald, Earnest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac or Cormac McCarthy. All of these writers adapt and adopt conventions of literature to produce a style of writing that can be described as being uniquely American.
To be unique means to be one of a kind. In my opinion, John Cheever's works are not one of a kind. This is not to say that they are not any good, because they undoubtedly are. I simply resent an inaccurate label.
In the same sense, what factors would deem a piece of literature 'uniquely British'? Of course, all the typical British clichés spring to mind; bad weather, bad teeth, a general tolerance for queuing, a general dislike of the French, a love of tea and scones, and a potty mouth. In this respect, however, we ought to look at the typical clichés of America; fat, lazy, fanatically patriotic, unintelligent and homophobic. So for literature to be seen as holding uniquely British or American concepts, they must embody one or all of these stereotypes.
Let us not forget, however, that these are stereotypes; they are hyperbolic notions of societies which are frequently talked and written about. They are not an honest or reliable depiction of a society. Perhaps, rather than focussing on these well-known stereotypes, we would do better to look deeper into the context of a piece of literature, at the era in which it is written and at the political/social/economic concerns of the time, and how that reflects on the supposed ‘British-ness’ or ‘American-ness’ of the piece.

I wish I knew more Americans, so I could shove this at them.

Genius.

Fact or Fiction?

"Storytelling is in our blood. We are the storytelling species ... We are recognizing more readily now that there is something of the gods and goddesses inside us, in the stories we tell of our own lives. Life storytelling gives us direction, validates our own experience [and] restores value to living ...." - The Life Story Interview, Robert Atkinson

Is there a contrast between the truth of our lives and the story that we tell of our existence?
I suppose we ought to start at the beginning. As writers, every story we tell has 'us' at its centre. It has come from us, our thoughts and feelings, and therefore, it is inherently linked to us and our life experience. Right? So does this mean that our life experiences seep into our writings, albeit subconsciously or deliberately? Our life experience must have some effect on our writings; they are undeniably linked to us. But how blurry is the line between life experience and the stories we create?
To use myself as an example, the line between my life and the stories I tell is decidedly blurry. I spent the early years of my childhood surrounded by females, with no father figure to speak of - perhaps this serves as an explanation for the underlying feminist stance of some of my writings.
But ...the truth of my life vs. the story I tell of my existence ... these are two very different concepts. The truth of my life is relatively straightforward and simple. Some might say my life is one great big fat cliché. And really, as both a writer and a reader, who would want to read about that? As a writer, it is far more interesting to break down the truth of my life, shape it and contort it, and create a work of fiction based upon the truth of my life - the story I tell of my existence.
So for me, the void between the truth of my life and the story I tell is huge.

But what I would really like to know is, does that matter?

Why do writers write??

Asking me why I personally write is a difficult question to answer. I'm not even entirely sure that I can answer it at all - I simply don't know. I like writing, I enjoy it; but I don't live for it. I suppose, to some extent, my love for reading is what has stemmed my own venture into creative writing. My obsession with books started from a young age (I blame my grandmother and her extensive collection of Catherine Cookson's). After a while, I found that I too had thoughts and ideas that could be put down onto paper, and so began my attempts at creative writing. As Colin Firth so eloquently put in his latest cinematic triumph, "I have a voice!"
I do have a voice, but for me, creative writing is a very selfish process; I write for myself. I enjoy it, but I'm not consciously proclaiming any deep and meaningful metaphor for life.
I found THIS:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mark-coker/why-do-writers-write_b_358640.html
This Mark Coker chap has also looked into the reasons why people write, asking his Twitter followers to comment on their reasons for writing. From his compilation, not a single one stands out as a reason I can relate to. I don't write "because it hurts when I don't." I don't write because "it's as much a reflex as breathing, and equally essential."

I write because I can. It's something I've always been able to do. I lack the drive or motivation to write anything really substantial, so short stories and the occasional poem are more my cup of tea. (!!)
I suppose, ultimately, I write to add some order and coherence to my thoughts. I write for me. I love it, and I wouldn't want to not write. But I don't live to write.
I live to drink tea. Lots and lots of tea.

HELLO, YOU.

Firstly, WELCOME TO MY BLOG. Having never 'blogged' before, there is the danger that this could all go horribly wrong. I am not the most internet-savvy of souls, but to quote the infamous catchphrase of a certain Jeremy Clarkson, "How hard can it be?"