A couple of years ago I listened to a creative writing lecture given by the brilliant Scottish writer and broadcaster, Carl MacDougall, while he discussed all the rookie mistakes that amateur writers make. He gave us two essential pieces of advice that day, which I have kept uppermost in my mind since then; although at the time, my fellow students and I thought he must be barking mad.
Carl insisted that we should use adverbs and adjectives sparingly; NO MORE THAN THREE PER PAGE! Really, seriously? But what about all the gorgeous words I have been storing up inside my head, waiting for the perfect moment to be unleashed upon a page of pristine prose. He went on to explain the reasoning behind it thankfully, and used some examples of how glaringly awful it is to read something stuffed full of colourful adjectives. I was forced to acknowledge his wisdom and went home to delete 97% of superfluous descriptions in my, as yet unpublished, novel and cut the word count significantly as a result.
His other piece of advice was equally bizarre, upon first hearing it. He implored us to KILL OUR BABIES! Jenny and I sat up straight and looked at each other in alarm and kept our eyes on the classroom door, and felt grateful that this obvious psychopath was lecturing us via a videoconference link from Glasgow.
He went on to explain that we should look out for any puffed-up and pretentious nonsense that we might have written. He said we would recognise it for what it was, because in all likelihood it would be the sentence or paragraph that we were most proud of. Now really, why on earth would we want to delete something we were particularly proud of? It made no sense at all. However, I have since learned to appreciate the wisdom of these words. There are times when I have read a novel and been struck by a piece of prose that sticks out like a plate of sausage rolls at a Bar Mitzvah buffet, and one can tell that the author has gone to some length to impress us with their intellect. As a reader, we want to get drawn in to the story so deeply that we don’t wish to be reminded of the author’s presence, and it is usually when we read something too utterly perfect that we are distracted by this fact.
As a writer, it can be difficult trying to describe something in a way that is clear, precise and not too clichéd. There are some clichés that I can’t stand, and sadly, they are normally the sort that are littering up chick-lit and women’s magazines.
I have never met, nor would I wish to, anyone who possesses a “peaches and cream complexion”. What the hell does that mean anyway? Has any writer ever looked at a bowl of peaches and cream and been reminded of anyone’s skin? A peach is practically orange on the inside and a mottled mixture of red, yellow and orange on the outside.
Likewise, I have never met anyone who’s complexion could accurately be described as cafe au lait or the newer trendy version of that, cafe latte. This hideous description is usually used as a way of describing someone of mixed race, or Asian. It is intended to be flattering, but I think that if anyone did actually have skin colour resembling a mug of milky coffee then they would probably be seriously ill.
Rosebud lips anyone? The only time any potential heroine of a romantic novel could possibly have anything resembling rosebud lips, is when they are pursed in disapproval or anger, and that is not a good look. Or does the writer wish to imply that the lips are rose coloured, which would be fine if roses only came in shades of pink, red or nude. Yellow and white roses need not apply to become the latest shade in Chanel lipstick.
“Butter-soft” is another favourite adjective, used to describe the exquisite softness of a leather jacket or handbag. Whenever I read that expression a slab of greasy butter is brought to mind, along with that slightly rancid odour that soft butter has. Maybe that is why I remain largely unmoved by handbags, shoes and leather jackets, despite my dreadful magazine habit.
It seems to me that some writers can be incredibly lazy and resort to these clichéd expressions, because after all, we all know what is meant by them. But I certainly will not be employing any of these words and urge anyone else to avoid them too.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Alternative careers
I read an article in the Irish Times today, about the alternative career choices that some of their readers might have made. It made me think about all the different ideas I had during my youth, for my perfect job. Between the ages of about 8 and 11 I wanted to join the Royal Navy, just like my dad. I used to write to the Royal Naval Careers Office at least once a year and pore over the brochures they sent me. It seemed such an exciting career choice, although it was slightly disappointing to read that I would not be allowed on board a ship. My father, strangely enough, was not impressed with my ambition. ‘Women have no place in the navy; the only ones who join up are lesbians!’ he would say whenever I raised the subject. I had no idea what a lesbian was in those days, but he made them sound rather threatening. No doubt he was threatened by the idea of them, being an old-fashioned Irish man.
When I was at a convent boarding school run by the Sisters of Absolutely No Mercy I worried about whether I should become a nun. The nuns would often talk about their “calling” and how they could not ignore it; and neither should we, they would add menacingly. I must have had a thing about uniforms, because I was fascinated by their long black habits, and the cherry wood rosary beads they used to hang from their leather belts. However, I thought there was something rather sinister about these brides of Christ and I did not want to join them. I was already an insomniac at this stage, and the idea that I might hear some heavenly voice telling me to become a nun, was almost too much to bear. Thankfully I never heard any such voices, which is just as well; I am not the perfect nun material – being an atheist an all.
The school careers advisor suggested that because I was good at maths (I so am not!) that I should perhaps become a bookkeeper or maybe get a job in Woolworths. What was it about careers advisors during the 1970’s? Seriously, what a waste of money they were giving out useless advice based on their five minute assessment of a child’s ability. I don’t know a single person who was inspired to take up an interesting career based on the suggestion of a career advisor.
Anyway, a year or so later I decided that perhaps I should join the police force instead. However, by the age of 18 I still had not grown tall enough, and this was in the days before they changed the rules. Furious with my parents for not passing on the tall genes to me, my brothers are all over 6ft, I briefly considered nursing. By now I was working in the local hospital and the nurses seemed to live far more glamorous lives than I did. Part of my job involved printing up all the training notes for the School of Nursing, so I would stand by the Gestetner offset printer (how I hated that machine) and read all the instructions for giving lumbar punctures and inserting IV drips. When my knees went weak and I thought I might pass out after looking at the black and white images of various bodily organs, I realised I did not have the stomach for such a career.
I carried on working in an office for the next three decades, although not once had I made a conscious effort to do so. It just kind of happened, and all during those years I would continue to think about what my dream job would be. I hardly ever gave serious thought to being a writer even though my head was permanently full of stories and ideas. I think it was because I always thought that you had to be very clever and seriously well educated to become a writer. If I ever made a mistake with my grammar when writing a business report or letter (and who doesn’t sometimes?) it would reinforce my idea that I wasn’t good enough.
It has taken many years to realise that I am actually quite clever, and now I have the education to match. My head is still full of stories and fictional characters that one day I hope to see on the printed page. Writing is the only occupation I currently have, and perhaps I will never earn a penny from it, but I will always have other skills to fall back on if that is the case. My only disappointment is that I don’t have a uniform.
Still feeling slightly guilty for not making a financial contribution to the household I discussed with the husband the possibility of retraining for a career in social care. I had pondered this idea after reading an article on recession proof careers, and sure isn't the world already full of secretaries, project managers and internal auditors already, which is why my current CV seems to be unappreciated. However, the husband said that was a ridiculous idea, I would make a dreadful carer (Cheers, thanks Honey!)and that I should concentrate on doing what I enjoyed and what I am best at. I should make more effort to get my novel published and work on my new projects and finish my MA.
Still smarting at the idea that I would make a dreadful carer (although it's probably true) I missed out on the fact that he was paying me a compliment, and possibly the best compliment I have ever had. For the truth is, he actually believes in me, and that is something I have never had before.
When I was at a convent boarding school run by the Sisters of Absolutely No Mercy I worried about whether I should become a nun. The nuns would often talk about their “calling” and how they could not ignore it; and neither should we, they would add menacingly. I must have had a thing about uniforms, because I was fascinated by their long black habits, and the cherry wood rosary beads they used to hang from their leather belts. However, I thought there was something rather sinister about these brides of Christ and I did not want to join them. I was already an insomniac at this stage, and the idea that I might hear some heavenly voice telling me to become a nun, was almost too much to bear. Thankfully I never heard any such voices, which is just as well; I am not the perfect nun material – being an atheist an all.
The school careers advisor suggested that because I was good at maths (I so am not!) that I should perhaps become a bookkeeper or maybe get a job in Woolworths. What was it about careers advisors during the 1970’s? Seriously, what a waste of money they were giving out useless advice based on their five minute assessment of a child’s ability. I don’t know a single person who was inspired to take up an interesting career based on the suggestion of a career advisor.
Anyway, a year or so later I decided that perhaps I should join the police force instead. However, by the age of 18 I still had not grown tall enough, and this was in the days before they changed the rules. Furious with my parents for not passing on the tall genes to me, my brothers are all over 6ft, I briefly considered nursing. By now I was working in the local hospital and the nurses seemed to live far more glamorous lives than I did. Part of my job involved printing up all the training notes for the School of Nursing, so I would stand by the Gestetner offset printer (how I hated that machine) and read all the instructions for giving lumbar punctures and inserting IV drips. When my knees went weak and I thought I might pass out after looking at the black and white images of various bodily organs, I realised I did not have the stomach for such a career.
I carried on working in an office for the next three decades, although not once had I made a conscious effort to do so. It just kind of happened, and all during those years I would continue to think about what my dream job would be. I hardly ever gave serious thought to being a writer even though my head was permanently full of stories and ideas. I think it was because I always thought that you had to be very clever and seriously well educated to become a writer. If I ever made a mistake with my grammar when writing a business report or letter (and who doesn’t sometimes?) it would reinforce my idea that I wasn’t good enough.
It has taken many years to realise that I am actually quite clever, and now I have the education to match. My head is still full of stories and fictional characters that one day I hope to see on the printed page. Writing is the only occupation I currently have, and perhaps I will never earn a penny from it, but I will always have other skills to fall back on if that is the case. My only disappointment is that I don’t have a uniform.
Still feeling slightly guilty for not making a financial contribution to the household I discussed with the husband the possibility of retraining for a career in social care. I had pondered this idea after reading an article on recession proof careers, and sure isn't the world already full of secretaries, project managers and internal auditors already, which is why my current CV seems to be unappreciated. However, the husband said that was a ridiculous idea, I would make a dreadful carer (Cheers, thanks Honey!)and that I should concentrate on doing what I enjoyed and what I am best at. I should make more effort to get my novel published and work on my new projects and finish my MA.
Still smarting at the idea that I would make a dreadful carer (although it's probably true) I missed out on the fact that he was paying me a compliment, and possibly the best compliment I have ever had. For the truth is, he actually believes in me, and that is something I have never had before.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Now for something funny
I have been suffering from a chest infection for the last few days which left me feeling exhausted and unable to read or write, as well as coughing like someone with a serious Woodbine habit. This is very annoying for someone who has never smoked.
Feeling ill is not good for someone with an overactive imagination. I have a tendency to be a bit of a hyperchondriac. Every headache is a brain tumour, and when I woke up the other day with a really heavy feeling on my chest, and finding it hard to breathe, I thought I was having a heart attack. It was just Tiger, our Siamese cat, who was sleeping on top of me.
One day last summer, while I was spending far too long at the computer, working on my novel, I realised that my eyesight had gone all blurry. I switched off the PC and went for a walk around the loch at the back of the house, to give my eyes a rest from the screen and to get some much needed exercise. A few hours later, I still could not see properly and vowed not to spend quite so much time at the computer. The next morning I still had trouble focusing and although I could still drive to work I couldn’t see details like number plates or recognise peoples faces on the ferry. In addition to this I had pins and needles running up my arms and legs which was rather disturbing. But all the same I still thought my mammoth session at the computer the previous day was to blame.
However, as soon as I switched on the computer at work my eyes went all blurry again, I had pain shooting through my left arm and then I started getting palpitations. At that point I got kind of nervous and rang the husband, who used to be a nurse and is more of an expert on medical issues than me. When I listed all my symptons, instead of just saying “it’s nothing, stop being so neurotic” like he would normally do, he said he would leave his very important meeting at the police station to pick me up and take me to casualty.
At the hospital, I was ushered through Triage much quicker than expected and within a minute I was being hooked up to an ECG. My life started flashing before my eyes and I started thinking of something impressive, witty or endearing to say as my final words. I implored the husband to get my novel published posthumously, and reminded him of the whereabouts of my life assurance policy.
So imagine my surprise when the Doctor announced that the only thing wrong with me was a migraine. “But I don’t have a headache!” I argued. “That is not necessarily a symptom of migraine,” she replied, “but you might get one later.” She was right; I got the mother of all headaches later on that day. But I learned a very valuable lesson that day.
Don’t spend so much time huddled over a computer screen.
This graffiti on the M1 always makes me smile.
Feeling ill is not good for someone with an overactive imagination. I have a tendency to be a bit of a hyperchondriac. Every headache is a brain tumour, and when I woke up the other day with a really heavy feeling on my chest, and finding it hard to breathe, I thought I was having a heart attack. It was just Tiger, our Siamese cat, who was sleeping on top of me.
One day last summer, while I was spending far too long at the computer, working on my novel, I realised that my eyesight had gone all blurry. I switched off the PC and went for a walk around the loch at the back of the house, to give my eyes a rest from the screen and to get some much needed exercise. A few hours later, I still could not see properly and vowed not to spend quite so much time at the computer. The next morning I still had trouble focusing and although I could still drive to work I couldn’t see details like number plates or recognise peoples faces on the ferry. In addition to this I had pins and needles running up my arms and legs which was rather disturbing. But all the same I still thought my mammoth session at the computer the previous day was to blame.
However, as soon as I switched on the computer at work my eyes went all blurry again, I had pain shooting through my left arm and then I started getting palpitations. At that point I got kind of nervous and rang the husband, who used to be a nurse and is more of an expert on medical issues than me. When I listed all my symptons, instead of just saying “it’s nothing, stop being so neurotic” like he would normally do, he said he would leave his very important meeting at the police station to pick me up and take me to casualty.
At the hospital, I was ushered through Triage much quicker than expected and within a minute I was being hooked up to an ECG. My life started flashing before my eyes and I started thinking of something impressive, witty or endearing to say as my final words. I implored the husband to get my novel published posthumously, and reminded him of the whereabouts of my life assurance policy.
So imagine my surprise when the Doctor announced that the only thing wrong with me was a migraine. “But I don’t have a headache!” I argued. “That is not necessarily a symptom of migraine,” she replied, “but you might get one later.” She was right; I got the mother of all headaches later on that day. But I learned a very valuable lesson that day.
Don’t spend so much time huddled over a computer screen.
This graffiti on the M1 always makes me smile.
Friday, July 23, 2010
If I could turn back time – I probably wouldn’t.
I have just been to Britain to catch up with friends and relatives. The trip involved a substantial amount of driving around , and inevitably took me back to my past, when I lived in England and Wales. I grew up in West Sussex and although I spent less than half my life there, it is the place where I have spent the most time. Sussex is beautiful, with its coastal towns, quaint villages, and the Southdown hills sheltering the county from the wild excesses of London and its sprawling suburbia. What’s not to love about it?
But in a literary sense, I find myself strangely unmoved by the landscape. As I drove around the other day, I passed several places of significant personal history; my first flat, the Church where I got married (far too young), the riding school where my friend Sarah taught me to ride, and a mile further down the road, the cemetery where she is buried, having died far too young from MS.
The memories I have of my youth are many and varied. It includes moments of passion and high drama, loss and sadness. The writer in me, however, has never seriously considered using Sussex as the setting in any of my writing. I left West Sussex at the age of 23 to move up to London, and that is where I feel my life really began. I loved living there. Every day when I strode down Oxford Street to get to my office in Soho I felt glad to be alive, and delighted to be in such an exciting place. I hardly ever looked back at my past and failed to appreciate what I had experienced.
My life has been one of constant upheaval and frequent heartbreak. But in between that I have had moments of absolute joy, and have made many great friends. During an evening spent catching up with someone close, I was asked the question – would I undo a significant event, if I could?
I thought about it for a while before replying. If I could have made an alternative decision many years ago, how different would my life be now? Doubtless I would have experienced less turmoil and stress, and probably saved myself from at least two divorces. I would probably be wealthier and still living somewhere in the South East of England. But would I be happier than I am now? I don’t think so.
I think my life was meant to be the way it was. For all of the ups and downs, there have been far more ups, especially over the last ten years. I think that is why my writing tends to focus on Shetland and Orkney. This is where my life turned around, and this is where I have been the happiest.
Despite my Irish heritage I don’t yet feel the same passion for Ireland that I have for the Northern Isles. When I drove off the ferry in Dublin I felt like I was embarking on another holiday, rather than returning home. I expect it will take more time to settle. I think I will know when this has happened – when I start daydreaming about a novel set in Ireland.
But it was interesting to think about all the what-ifs and just-supposing, and made me realise that I am very lucky that fate has brought me to where I am. I don’t think I would be embarking on this career if I had led a more ordinary life.
But in a literary sense, I find myself strangely unmoved by the landscape. As I drove around the other day, I passed several places of significant personal history; my first flat, the Church where I got married (far too young), the riding school where my friend Sarah taught me to ride, and a mile further down the road, the cemetery where she is buried, having died far too young from MS.
The memories I have of my youth are many and varied. It includes moments of passion and high drama, loss and sadness. The writer in me, however, has never seriously considered using Sussex as the setting in any of my writing. I left West Sussex at the age of 23 to move up to London, and that is where I feel my life really began. I loved living there. Every day when I strode down Oxford Street to get to my office in Soho I felt glad to be alive, and delighted to be in such an exciting place. I hardly ever looked back at my past and failed to appreciate what I had experienced.
My life has been one of constant upheaval and frequent heartbreak. But in between that I have had moments of absolute joy, and have made many great friends. During an evening spent catching up with someone close, I was asked the question – would I undo a significant event, if I could?
I thought about it for a while before replying. If I could have made an alternative decision many years ago, how different would my life be now? Doubtless I would have experienced less turmoil and stress, and probably saved myself from at least two divorces. I would probably be wealthier and still living somewhere in the South East of England. But would I be happier than I am now? I don’t think so.
I think my life was meant to be the way it was. For all of the ups and downs, there have been far more ups, especially over the last ten years. I think that is why my writing tends to focus on Shetland and Orkney. This is where my life turned around, and this is where I have been the happiest.
Despite my Irish heritage I don’t yet feel the same passion for Ireland that I have for the Northern Isles. When I drove off the ferry in Dublin I felt like I was embarking on another holiday, rather than returning home. I expect it will take more time to settle. I think I will know when this has happened – when I start daydreaming about a novel set in Ireland.
But it was interesting to think about all the what-ifs and just-supposing, and made me realise that I am very lucky that fate has brought me to where I am. I don’t think I would be embarking on this career if I had led a more ordinary life.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
An addict; me? No way!
Over the last few days I have been having a crisis of confidence about my new career choice, but not in the way that you might imagine. All writers wonder whether they are good enough, but that is not the issue that is festering away in my mind at the moment (although it usually is, in case you get the impression that I am extraordinarily self-confident). I am starting to wonder what I am potentially missing out on in life because of my predilection for books, either reading or writing.
On Monday morning I boarded the fast ferry to Holyhead for a trip to the UK to catch up with my friends and relatives. I grabbed a table by the window and proceeded to get out my novel, because to travel by public transport without something to read would be unthinkable. Incidentally I have passed this habit on to my son and he was disappointed that there was nothing sufficiently interesting to read in the onboard shop, and had to make do with The Irish Times. The sight of an eleven year old trying to manhandle a broadsheet newspaper was quite amusing, but I digress.
The school holliers have already started in Ireland so the boat was filled with noisy excitable children who jostled around our table and made reading rather difficult. It was also a gorgeous calm day and the sea was glassy smooth and I put down my book and joined the little kids in gazing out of the window at the seabirds and boats. I spent the next two hours daydreaming out of the window and was rewarded with the sight of three porpoises and two whales. I have quite an obsession with whales and dolphins and so seeing a pilot whale breaking through the water just a few yards away from the boat was thrilling and something I would have missed had I persevered with my book. It got me thinking about what else I may have missed. I don’t think I missed anything on the London Underground, or on any plane journeys, so that can’t be considered a wasted experience, but I do wonder whether I have spent too much holiday time with my nose in a book and missed something more tangible.
I do recall an unfortunate honeymoon experience when my husband de jour made the misguided decision to buy me the latest John Grisham novel, and then whined, probably with good reason, that I would not put it down in order to pay sufficient attention to him. I don’t recall the book now so it couldn’t have been that brilliant, and now the husband has run off to someone else, presumable someone less addicted to reading and more addicted to him. I don’t think that particular incident was responsible for our downfall, however, I do think that my priorities in life are a little skewed. When I am engrossed in a book I become completely deaf to the world, and time has a habit of slipping away so before I know it a day and most of the night has gone by and I haven’t done all things I intended to do, which include things like pay attention to my nearest and dearest, fight my way through the ironing mountain or stick to my resolution of walking an hour a day.
Thankfully the current husband de jour has been blessed with infinite patience for my addiction and he is similarly addicted to sport, and therefore I have ample time to hide away in a book whilst he plays or watches cricket, football, rugby, formula 1 etc etc. But even so, I have a feeling that I should cut back on my reading habit. It is rather strange to think about this when fledgling writers are encouraged to read as much as possible, but all things in moderation as they say.
When we drove off the ferry we had the choice of whether to take the fastest route, via as much motorway as possible or to take the slower more scenic route through North Wales. We chose the scenic route and although it added an hour or more to the exceedingly long journey it was worth it. We drove through the Cambrian mountains and gorgeous little towns like Llangollen and Bettws y Coed. As I drove I continued to reflect on the type of life experiences that have meant the most to me and the kind of memories that will be treasured at the end of my life. None of them involve reading or writing and I started to worry about what I was doing in embarking on a career that will mean hours spent huddled over a laptop. I might never achieve fame and fortune, although that is not my driving ambition thankfully. But what am I sacrificing for my passion?
Many hours later when I reached my destination I felt rather more cheerful after I had thought about the kind of books that have made a significant difference to my life. There are too many to mention but through literature I have travelled the world from the comfort of my armchair and been introduced to millions of people I would never have met in real life. Books have enlarged my vocabulary, altered my politics, informed my beliefs (or lack of them) and broadened my view of the world. They have, in effect, made me the person I am. They have also amused, entertained, enlightened and made me feel like I am not the only person in the world with my particular blend of personal disasters.
And as for my own ambition to add yet more publications to an overburdened market I think that this is still preferable to spending the rest of my working life in a office. I have spent 32 years of my life working in various offices, and in all honesty I don’t think I have added achieved anything remarkable and long-lasting. However, if I can amuse or entertain someone just for a few hours during a quiet moment in their life, then I think it will all have been worthwhile.
But I am going to have a new mid-year resolution. I will be more discriminate about my reading material and will make a conscious effort to spend less time reading and more time living life.
On Monday morning I boarded the fast ferry to Holyhead for a trip to the UK to catch up with my friends and relatives. I grabbed a table by the window and proceeded to get out my novel, because to travel by public transport without something to read would be unthinkable. Incidentally I have passed this habit on to my son and he was disappointed that there was nothing sufficiently interesting to read in the onboard shop, and had to make do with The Irish Times. The sight of an eleven year old trying to manhandle a broadsheet newspaper was quite amusing, but I digress.
The school holliers have already started in Ireland so the boat was filled with noisy excitable children who jostled around our table and made reading rather difficult. It was also a gorgeous calm day and the sea was glassy smooth and I put down my book and joined the little kids in gazing out of the window at the seabirds and boats. I spent the next two hours daydreaming out of the window and was rewarded with the sight of three porpoises and two whales. I have quite an obsession with whales and dolphins and so seeing a pilot whale breaking through the water just a few yards away from the boat was thrilling and something I would have missed had I persevered with my book. It got me thinking about what else I may have missed. I don’t think I missed anything on the London Underground, or on any plane journeys, so that can’t be considered a wasted experience, but I do wonder whether I have spent too much holiday time with my nose in a book and missed something more tangible.
I do recall an unfortunate honeymoon experience when my husband de jour made the misguided decision to buy me the latest John Grisham novel, and then whined, probably with good reason, that I would not put it down in order to pay sufficient attention to him. I don’t recall the book now so it couldn’t have been that brilliant, and now the husband has run off to someone else, presumable someone less addicted to reading and more addicted to him. I don’t think that particular incident was responsible for our downfall, however, I do think that my priorities in life are a little skewed. When I am engrossed in a book I become completely deaf to the world, and time has a habit of slipping away so before I know it a day and most of the night has gone by and I haven’t done all things I intended to do, which include things like pay attention to my nearest and dearest, fight my way through the ironing mountain or stick to my resolution of walking an hour a day.
Thankfully the current husband de jour has been blessed with infinite patience for my addiction and he is similarly addicted to sport, and therefore I have ample time to hide away in a book whilst he plays or watches cricket, football, rugby, formula 1 etc etc. But even so, I have a feeling that I should cut back on my reading habit. It is rather strange to think about this when fledgling writers are encouraged to read as much as possible, but all things in moderation as they say.
When we drove off the ferry we had the choice of whether to take the fastest route, via as much motorway as possible or to take the slower more scenic route through North Wales. We chose the scenic route and although it added an hour or more to the exceedingly long journey it was worth it. We drove through the Cambrian mountains and gorgeous little towns like Llangollen and Bettws y Coed. As I drove I continued to reflect on the type of life experiences that have meant the most to me and the kind of memories that will be treasured at the end of my life. None of them involve reading or writing and I started to worry about what I was doing in embarking on a career that will mean hours spent huddled over a laptop. I might never achieve fame and fortune, although that is not my driving ambition thankfully. But what am I sacrificing for my passion?
Many hours later when I reached my destination I felt rather more cheerful after I had thought about the kind of books that have made a significant difference to my life. There are too many to mention but through literature I have travelled the world from the comfort of my armchair and been introduced to millions of people I would never have met in real life. Books have enlarged my vocabulary, altered my politics, informed my beliefs (or lack of them) and broadened my view of the world. They have, in effect, made me the person I am. They have also amused, entertained, enlightened and made me feel like I am not the only person in the world with my particular blend of personal disasters.
And as for my own ambition to add yet more publications to an overburdened market I think that this is still preferable to spending the rest of my working life in a office. I have spent 32 years of my life working in various offices, and in all honesty I don’t think I have added achieved anything remarkable and long-lasting. However, if I can amuse or entertain someone just for a few hours during a quiet moment in their life, then I think it will all have been worthwhile.
But I am going to have a new mid-year resolution. I will be more discriminate about my reading material and will make a conscious effort to spend less time reading and more time living life.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
What’s in a word?
I have been picked up on the overuse of the word fabulous in my last posting, by an old friend who has doubtless heard me use it far too many times, and just for good measure said that I have a tendency to use the word bizarre too much too. I guess these words are just part of my lexical “fingerprint.” This critique got me thinking about the other bad habits in my vocabulary and that of other people I know. Words, particularly colourful adjectives, seem to come and go in fashion and have a horribly way of accurately dating the user.
There are words that I would never use to describe something that are commonly used by the younger generation. I would never describe anyone or anything as fierce, pants or minging. I never go around saying that’s so random; and it took me ages to discover what a chav was. However, I might say something was well wicked or cool, which has a tendency to make me seem, well, quite uncool actually.
I suppose none of this really matters in the grand scheme of things. I will remain a constant source of embarrassment to my youngest son, who is perilously close to those teenage years, where anything I say in public will be beyond the pale. However, it does matter when it comes to my writing and I must make a point to keep my language up to date, although it feels quite alien to try and use new words, at least when I am speaking.
Moving to Ireland has introduced me to a whole new range of words and phrases. Everything here is grand, legend or class. Nobody says thank you, it is tanks a million, and sometimes you’re gorgeous is tacked on as an additional flourish. Actually that’s quite nice to hear from time to time, so I am not complaining. But it is funny getting used to a new use of the English vocabulary, especially after living in Shetland which really was a linguistic adventure.
There are lots of words that are peculiar to Shetland and it took a little while to learn the dialect, which combined with a strong accent made my first few months quite difficult. But the hardest thing to grasp was the use of English words in a different context. For example, keen and kent mean know and knew. Mind means remember and messages means shopping, and start means a period of time.
Here is a peerie (little) example of Shetland dialect, from a poem I wrote a few years ago. I hasten to add that I would not dream of speaking in dialect, it would have sounded ridiculous with my accent but I loved the sound of others speaking it, and after a couple of years it sounded more normal to me than some speaking received pronunciation. In fact hearing anyone speaking with a London accent (my own) really grated on my nerves everytime I went south for a holiday.
Ode to a Bonny Langsome Siamese Cat
Da cat wheeches doon tae da loch and stauns peerie wyes
He watches sleekit for da peerie mootie deuk
Up in da skies a muckle bonxie skröls a warning
Tiger skelps back to da hoose, greetin aa da way
Back to neeb aside da roose
Nae more work for dee, du bonny langsome cat.
Much of my writing uses Shetland as the setting and therefore having a good command of dialect can be useful for setting the scene and creating a realistic voice for the characters. Although too much dialect makes it almost unintelligible for soothmoothers (people from outside of Shetland).
Whilst reading The Help by Kathryn Stocket, earlier this week, I was really struck by how well Ms Stocket created realistic voices for her three narrators. She used just enough dialect to create the ambience of the Deep South, without making it hard to read. Within just a couple of pages I got used to the rhythm and feel of the writing and inside my head it feels like I was speaking in another accent. It was a great lesson in how to use dialect and regional accents to good effect.
I cannot speak in any other accent than my own, but I love writing in another accent and creating different personalities and voices on the page. Moving around the UK and Ireland means that I have added some colourful new words to my vocabulary, so it is about time I ditched fabulous and replaced it with something else. How about brilliant, marvellous, wonderful or splendid?
Nah, I think I’ll stick with fabulous.
There are words that I would never use to describe something that are commonly used by the younger generation. I would never describe anyone or anything as fierce, pants or minging. I never go around saying that’s so random; and it took me ages to discover what a chav was. However, I might say something was well wicked or cool, which has a tendency to make me seem, well, quite uncool actually.
I suppose none of this really matters in the grand scheme of things. I will remain a constant source of embarrassment to my youngest son, who is perilously close to those teenage years, where anything I say in public will be beyond the pale. However, it does matter when it comes to my writing and I must make a point to keep my language up to date, although it feels quite alien to try and use new words, at least when I am speaking.
Moving to Ireland has introduced me to a whole new range of words and phrases. Everything here is grand, legend or class. Nobody says thank you, it is tanks a million, and sometimes you’re gorgeous is tacked on as an additional flourish. Actually that’s quite nice to hear from time to time, so I am not complaining. But it is funny getting used to a new use of the English vocabulary, especially after living in Shetland which really was a linguistic adventure.
There are lots of words that are peculiar to Shetland and it took a little while to learn the dialect, which combined with a strong accent made my first few months quite difficult. But the hardest thing to grasp was the use of English words in a different context. For example, keen and kent mean know and knew. Mind means remember and messages means shopping, and start means a period of time.
Here is a peerie (little) example of Shetland dialect, from a poem I wrote a few years ago. I hasten to add that I would not dream of speaking in dialect, it would have sounded ridiculous with my accent but I loved the sound of others speaking it, and after a couple of years it sounded more normal to me than some speaking received pronunciation. In fact hearing anyone speaking with a London accent (my own) really grated on my nerves everytime I went south for a holiday.
Ode to a Bonny Langsome Siamese Cat
Da cat wheeches doon tae da loch and stauns peerie wyes
He watches sleekit for da peerie mootie deuk
Up in da skies a muckle bonxie skröls a warning
Tiger skelps back to da hoose, greetin aa da way
Back to neeb aside da roose
Nae more work for dee, du bonny langsome cat.
Much of my writing uses Shetland as the setting and therefore having a good command of dialect can be useful for setting the scene and creating a realistic voice for the characters. Although too much dialect makes it almost unintelligible for soothmoothers (people from outside of Shetland).
Whilst reading The Help by Kathryn Stocket, earlier this week, I was really struck by how well Ms Stocket created realistic voices for her three narrators. She used just enough dialect to create the ambience of the Deep South, without making it hard to read. Within just a couple of pages I got used to the rhythm and feel of the writing and inside my head it feels like I was speaking in another accent. It was a great lesson in how to use dialect and regional accents to good effect.
I cannot speak in any other accent than my own, but I love writing in another accent and creating different personalities and voices on the page. Moving around the UK and Ireland means that I have added some colourful new words to my vocabulary, so it is about time I ditched fabulous and replaced it with something else. How about brilliant, marvellous, wonderful or splendid?
Nah, I think I’ll stick with fabulous.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Maynooth – Maigh Nuad - so good they named it twice.
It has been drawn to my attention that the girl from Maynooth has said very little about her new habitat and so today I will put that right. Maynooth (Maigh Nuad in Gaelige) is a town in County Kildare, less than 20 miles from the centre of Dublin. It has great public transport in to the city and so it is a popular commuter town. It has a fabulous University here, the National University of Ireland Maynooth which does an impressive range of courses and has been rated as one of the best Universities in Europe because of the employment prospects for its graduates. The university campus is a mix of gorgeous old historic buildings, dating back to when the college was the National Seminary (for educating priests), and a fabulous modern development that has very high tech education facilities, gym, swimming pool and lots of accommodation.
I took a look around the old part of the campus during a post-graduate open evening, a few weeks ago. The architecture and atmosphere of the building rivalled that of Oxford, and I wanted to sign up to a course straight away. Since I am already studying for a Masters with University College Falmouth I could hardly start another course, but it did inspire me to think about studying for a PhD. I had a very interesting conversation with one of the lecturers who actually thought that my idea for a PhD about chick-lit and its role in post-feminist culture could be an interesting proposal. I quite fancy being Dr Frankie Valente one day so I shall leave that idea to one side as the plan B in my writing career.
Next door to the university are the remains of the old castle, a scene of an historic rebellion against the English. Sadly the English won and as they were rather short of moral fibre they executed all the surviving rebels in the castle.
At the other end of town from the castle is Carton House. Now a hotel, leisure complex and golf course, it was originally the home of the Duke of Leinster. The house is grand, opulent, fabulous and totally accessible to the general public. The staff are friendly and helpful and, Guinness is a bargain five euros a pint. OK, that’s not quite a bargain, but the surroundings are worth the little premium. It is a great place to spot celebrities. On one occasion I drove through the grounds and came across the Ireland rugby team during one of their training sessions. I could not resist the opportunity of getting close to Brian O’Driscoll, so the car was quickly abandoned and we watched some of the players playing. They had just thrashed England and were on top form. My son was in heaven, although he was a trifle embarrassed to be caught wearing his Munster rugby top, when Mr O’Driscoll is a Leinster man. Personally, I was disappointed that Ronan O’Gara was nowhere to be seen.
Maynooth also has some brilliant pubs, restaurant and fashionable shops. It has two bookshops, which I seem to visit more often than is good for my finances, and a lovely little library. Because of the university the town is always lively and full of young students from all over the world. It all adds to a great feeling of multiculturalism. The schools are great and there are great sports facilities. I seem to spend more time than is good for me at the local cricket club, as both my husband and son are fanatics, and play for any team that will have them.
Ireland has a well deserved reputation for friendliness, and Maynooth is a friendly place to live. It is not, however, up to Shetland’s standards of friendliness, but I guess nothing will compare with that. But, for now, it is a lovely place to live, study and write. It is also closer to relatives and friends from England and we have already had lots of visitors with bookings up until the end of September.
I took a look around the old part of the campus during a post-graduate open evening, a few weeks ago. The architecture and atmosphere of the building rivalled that of Oxford, and I wanted to sign up to a course straight away. Since I am already studying for a Masters with University College Falmouth I could hardly start another course, but it did inspire me to think about studying for a PhD. I had a very interesting conversation with one of the lecturers who actually thought that my idea for a PhD about chick-lit and its role in post-feminist culture could be an interesting proposal. I quite fancy being Dr Frankie Valente one day so I shall leave that idea to one side as the plan B in my writing career.
Next door to the university are the remains of the old castle, a scene of an historic rebellion against the English. Sadly the English won and as they were rather short of moral fibre they executed all the surviving rebels in the castle.
At the other end of town from the castle is Carton House. Now a hotel, leisure complex and golf course, it was originally the home of the Duke of Leinster. The house is grand, opulent, fabulous and totally accessible to the general public. The staff are friendly and helpful and, Guinness is a bargain five euros a pint. OK, that’s not quite a bargain, but the surroundings are worth the little premium. It is a great place to spot celebrities. On one occasion I drove through the grounds and came across the Ireland rugby team during one of their training sessions. I could not resist the opportunity of getting close to Brian O’Driscoll, so the car was quickly abandoned and we watched some of the players playing. They had just thrashed England and were on top form. My son was in heaven, although he was a trifle embarrassed to be caught wearing his Munster rugby top, when Mr O’Driscoll is a Leinster man. Personally, I was disappointed that Ronan O’Gara was nowhere to be seen.
Maynooth also has some brilliant pubs, restaurant and fashionable shops. It has two bookshops, which I seem to visit more often than is good for my finances, and a lovely little library. Because of the university the town is always lively and full of young students from all over the world. It all adds to a great feeling of multiculturalism. The schools are great and there are great sports facilities. I seem to spend more time than is good for me at the local cricket club, as both my husband and son are fanatics, and play for any team that will have them.
Ireland has a well deserved reputation for friendliness, and Maynooth is a friendly place to live. It is not, however, up to Shetland’s standards of friendliness, but I guess nothing will compare with that. But, for now, it is a lovely place to live, study and write. It is also closer to relatives and friends from England and we have already had lots of visitors with bookings up until the end of September.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Big Brother - the fight for celebrity
I have never been a fan of reality television, but for some bizarre reason I have found myself dipping into the last ever series of Big Brother. I shall blame my husband for this temporary lapse in taste; as a social worker, he has a great interest in the behaviour of people and finds the programme fascinating. I am torn between being interested in watching how people behave, to covering up my ears and singing LA LA LA LA very loudly to block out the excruciating drama in the Big Brother House. The antics of this extraordinary mix of odd-bods defy belief and makes me feel like I am 110. I am absolutely not prudish in any way, but the crude language and overtly sexual discussions is shocking and ugly. The tears and tantrums over food, cigarettes, and who fancies who, are exhausting to watch and must be exhausting to live with. I am always amazed at why anyone would want to put themselves through this ordeal. The craving for celebrity has a very strange effect on some people. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to be a celebrity and be subject to the scrutiny of the tabloids and the gossip magazines.
I am sure that celebrity is helpful for the creation of wealth and for promoting careers. The Beckhams certainly seem to have set themselves up for life in that respect. But I don’t think I would like to swap places with Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Tweedy or Katie Price, even if it would mean a more glamorous wardrobe, instant publishing contracts or a date with a Premier League footballer. Today’s media seem to be so cruel in their approach to reporting any kind of trivial news in relation to celebrities. Whilst I don’t have any particular sympathy with people like Katie Price, the savage way she is gossiped about is repulsive. I think that it is a very sad state of affairs that the media cannot find a good word to say about anyone these days. I wonder how the writers themselves must feel, constantly bitching and complaining about anyone in the public eye, even though, without these people they would not have a job. I am sure there is an element of compulsion by the editor to write this drivel - but seriously, who wants to be paid to be nasty?
The way that the media turns on people that were originally quite popular is also surprising. Christine Bleakley, the presenter of The One Show always comes across as a charming and pleasant person on TV. However, now that she is dating Frank Lampard, the bitching has started about what an attention seeking WAG she has allegedly become. It was interesting reading the Daily Mail online, for the first and last time, as there was a column on the right hand side of the page with photos of the celebrities de jour and a link to whatever vitriol was being poured out that day. Without exception each picture was of an attractive young woman and each one was the subject of ridicule for the way they dressed, who they were dating, the size of their thighs, or their extreme skinniness. It made me remember why I don’t read the tabloids, although some of the broadsheet newspapers are equally harsh.
Politicians don’t fare any better. No sooner than the Coalition government was established the criticism started, and journalists were fighting to be the first to get a story of a behind-the-scenes fallout. Am I just naive in thinking this could be a better world if people weren’t quite so nasty to each other?
But going back to Big Brother, how can anyone submit themselves to a summer without books? I am itching to get started on The Help by Kathryn Stocket after reading some great reviews of it. I also bought Anita Shreve’s latest book, A Change in Altitude. Despite my intentions to get more books out of the library instead of buying them, I can never resist a buy two get one free deal. The freebie book was my son’s choice – some Jeremy Clarkson nonsense about cars.
The books are calling out to me to be read, so homework, and the ever growing mountain of ironing will have to wait. I am heading off to the garden; a garden blissfully free of hideous house-mates and Big Brother’s watchful gaze. However, I might have to fend off the paparazzi again. The Church next door is a popular place for grand weddings. Some Manchester United footballer got married there a few days ago, although naturally the press were more interested in what Coleen Rooney was wearing than anyone else. I must say the guests did look unnaturally glossy and fabulous. Perhaps there is something to be said for celebrity after all – says she, in her scruffy jeans and ancient tee shirt.
I am sure that celebrity is helpful for the creation of wealth and for promoting careers. The Beckhams certainly seem to have set themselves up for life in that respect. But I don’t think I would like to swap places with Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Tweedy or Katie Price, even if it would mean a more glamorous wardrobe, instant publishing contracts or a date with a Premier League footballer. Today’s media seem to be so cruel in their approach to reporting any kind of trivial news in relation to celebrities. Whilst I don’t have any particular sympathy with people like Katie Price, the savage way she is gossiped about is repulsive. I think that it is a very sad state of affairs that the media cannot find a good word to say about anyone these days. I wonder how the writers themselves must feel, constantly bitching and complaining about anyone in the public eye, even though, without these people they would not have a job. I am sure there is an element of compulsion by the editor to write this drivel - but seriously, who wants to be paid to be nasty?
The way that the media turns on people that were originally quite popular is also surprising. Christine Bleakley, the presenter of The One Show always comes across as a charming and pleasant person on TV. However, now that she is dating Frank Lampard, the bitching has started about what an attention seeking WAG she has allegedly become. It was interesting reading the Daily Mail online, for the first and last time, as there was a column on the right hand side of the page with photos of the celebrities de jour and a link to whatever vitriol was being poured out that day. Without exception each picture was of an attractive young woman and each one was the subject of ridicule for the way they dressed, who they were dating, the size of their thighs, or their extreme skinniness. It made me remember why I don’t read the tabloids, although some of the broadsheet newspapers are equally harsh.
Politicians don’t fare any better. No sooner than the Coalition government was established the criticism started, and journalists were fighting to be the first to get a story of a behind-the-scenes fallout. Am I just naive in thinking this could be a better world if people weren’t quite so nasty to each other?
But going back to Big Brother, how can anyone submit themselves to a summer without books? I am itching to get started on The Help by Kathryn Stocket after reading some great reviews of it. I also bought Anita Shreve’s latest book, A Change in Altitude. Despite my intentions to get more books out of the library instead of buying them, I can never resist a buy two get one free deal. The freebie book was my son’s choice – some Jeremy Clarkson nonsense about cars.
The books are calling out to me to be read, so homework, and the ever growing mountain of ironing will have to wait. I am heading off to the garden; a garden blissfully free of hideous house-mates and Big Brother’s watchful gaze. However, I might have to fend off the paparazzi again. The Church next door is a popular place for grand weddings. Some Manchester United footballer got married there a few days ago, although naturally the press were more interested in what Coleen Rooney was wearing than anyone else. I must say the guests did look unnaturally glossy and fabulous. Perhaps there is something to be said for celebrity after all – says she, in her scruffy jeans and ancient tee shirt.
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