…damn lies, and memoirs (also known as expensive lies).
Monthly Archives: December 2008
One of the fun perks about having writery friends is that they put you in stories every now and then. Here are my appearances to date:
Skull Ring by Thom Brannan, in which I ride around on a woolly rhino and fight Lovecraftian monsters while dressed as Lara Croft. Extra hilarity if you know how I usually dress.
The Sad Saga of Tyrannosaurus Tex by Matthew Baugh, in which I’m a schoolmarm who’s in love with a Tyrannosaurus. I was the inspiration for Miss Laura, but I feel such a profound connection with my fellow Tyrannosaurus-fancier, that I can’t help but identify with her directly.
The only bad thing about my appearances thus far is that it’s set the bar so high, I don’t think anyone could possibly follow it up.
I might have good news on the writing front soon.
Pretty amazing, as I’ve hardly written anything in weeks. Every time I think, ooh, that’s a good idea, I feel guilty and get back to editing The Estuary. Any fiction-time is reserved for the editing, till I’m done.
But yes, possible news nonetheless. Maybe.
The cat woke me up early, and then I woke my dad up early. We opened the last-minute Christmas cards (my parents got one that said WEEEEEEEE CHRISTMAS and had cat snot on it), I co-ordinated the giving of gits–I wrapped everything, including the one parcel intended for me.
Afterwards, we watched silly horror movies and drank lots of tea and Guinness. I’m about to start on a bottle of Baileys, and the yorkie’s about to go in the oven.
We’ve had the long-distance phone calls, the gooey family moments, and the cat shredding every bit of wrapping paper he can get his paws on.
Tonight it’s Wallace and Gromit, possibly some Dr Who. I’m fairly sure there will be more Baileys, more Guinness, and maybe even another gooey family moment.
I hope you all enjoy this Christmas as much as me.
As much as I enjoy Christmas, that is. Not as much as you enjoy me. Unless you really enjoy me, without me knowing about it. But if you do, that’s sort of creepy. Merry Christmas!
“Some of Shakespeare is shit.”
And yes, one of my professors said this today. After we watched a horror movie. Based on a book by Stephen King.
Hell yes, university.
I can’t say that I dislike the actual book or movie, because I haven’t read/seen it. I can say, however, that what I’ve heard makes me want to weep SPARKLY TEARS OF DESPAIR.
Anyway, I found this hilarious. If you want to read teen romance with superantural crap in it, read Annette Curtis Klause’s stuff, as the female characters actually have, you know, character.
I leave you with this gem from cracked.com:
So, the next generation of young women are currently flocking to see a female lead starring in a movie by a female director based on a bestselling book by a female author, and in this movie the main character wants to become completely submissive and self-sacrificing for a male.
I love you. Put a baby in me.
At least the other three books can’t possibly be more misogynistic and depressing.
And by ‘you’, I mean literature, obviously.
I really do think about literature almost every minute of the day. No matter what I do, I usually manage to relate it to reading or writing in some way or the other. (Of course, it does help that 90% of what I do is related to reading and writing anyway.)
Even heading out to Den Haag with a friend tonight is done with literature in mind. You may think that going out and having an excellent time is really just an end in itself, but you’d be mistaken. You see, this isn’t just blowing off steam after the most stressful semseter ever–this is research.
Pah, you may say. This is just trying to justify going out and acting like a twenty-one-year-old for once. Well, firstly, seeing as I am a twenty-one-year-old, I need no justification. And secondly, this really is reasearch–think of all the true literary greats. Did they spend their evenings sitting indoors, reading books on Charlotte Brontë and sexuality, or Dickens biographies? They may have done that every so often, but they got out and lived.
Oscar Wilde, well, that needs no explanation. Hemingway got out there and got pissed every night. He was also in the wars, like Dahl.
I’ll admit, Jane Austen was pretty boring, but she was much too genteel to party, anyway.
I’m not comparing myself to these writers, as I know that they’re up there, never to be touched, but they do demonstrate that you need to live in order to write.
What if I wanted to write of adolescent abandon? What if I needed to capture the awkwardness of men who can’t dance in a sentence and a half? What if I needed to distill the desperation felt when you need to resort to sign language to let a guy know that no, you’re really, most definitely not interested? What if I needed to convey the bittersweet satisfaction of a night well-spent but unconsummated to my readers?
I can. Because I’ve lived it. With every cocktail I knock back, I’m getting that little bit closer to writerly success.
Damn, I love research.