Public shame inspired by boob pencil.

Boob pencil (link over there on the right) sometimes transcribes pages of her 1985 diary and posts them on her blog. This struck me as funny and interesting, then I noticed that she had put up a photo of her diary, and I recognised it as being the same style Adrian Mole 1985 diary that I kept back in the day. Ha! Anyhow, I was looking for an old note book the other day and whilst rummaging through the box of old journals and pads found mine. I told Clare that we could swap a day, and she said, yeah, go on, 15th April. Now that I have read my entry for that day I see that not only is boob pencil funny and interesting, she also is very brave, as it takes some sass to expose the truth of one's teen self. I have decided to transcribe exactly the words I wrote for that day, despite my desire to censor myself. So, here's mine;

"I finally cried myself to sleep last night and woke up clutching Floppy and peering out of the puffiest eyes I've ever seen. It was about 10.30 a.m before Matthew arrived, and just as he got here mum had a go at dad about the way he treated me last night, it didn't exactly help, it merely made him more resentful towards me. Me and Matthew went into town and I bought "Do what you do" by Jermaine Jackson cos the words remind me of me n' Si and make me cry, oh wow, heavy meaningful lyrics eh? We came back here, went round to his aunts and then back here once more. In the evening I went down the pub to meet Debesh and RAB minus Joe turned up. I talked to Lisa and told her about Simon, had a quick chat with Duncan/Adam/Jim and then returned to my sulk about Simon. In the end I went and sat with Mark who listened to me winge on and on about Si and how much I cared about him. He kept telling me that I was really attractive thus returning a little of my dwindling self confidence to me. I could get off with him quite easily you know. Simon, please want me."

Aaaaarrrrggggh! The shame.
Incidentally, Simon is now my husband, so it all worked out OK, phew eh?

The reluctant fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid

Hmmmmm.
I feel so stupid.
I read this book and didn't notice that the female character is called Erica, as in America. Dur! And the main character is Changez. Le sigh.
Anyway, this is an interesting book that is highly thought provoking. It concerns a young Pakistani man who leaves his home country for an education at Princeton and a career in New York when snapped up by a prestigious company that require him to learn to assess other companies worth.
The story is told as one side of a conversation taking place in Lahore between Changez and an unknown American man as they share a meal.
The characters voice is polite, educated and somewhat formal. He relates his feelings at the wealthy salary he was paid, and the standard of living he witnessed. He contrasts this with his family and his home. He is at once seduced and repelled by the glamour and consumerism all around. He falls in love with Erica, but she can never be his, remaining firmly in love with her past. Geddit?
When the news of 9/11 unfolds on his news screen he smiles. A life altering reaction to the event.
It is a formally told tale with sufficient tension building as we wonder how Changez ended up back in Lahore, and what is going to happen when he finishes his oral history. I'm not sure that is as powerful as maybe it could have been, but the voice works plausibly and I enjoyed the confounding of my expectations.

Writer's block...middle class bollocks.

This is part of an interview with Ray Robinson that I found at

www.panmacmillan.com/interviews/
(The link won't work for some reason when I insert it.)

"I have a very blue-collar approach to my work. Writing isn’t some esoteric art; I don’t sit poised, quill in hand every morning, waiting for my monkey muse to throw some peanuts of inspiration at me. Writers block is a lazy-arse middle-class excuse to read the papers or watch Tricia. Writing, like every other art form, is a craft, and all novelists are apprentices because there’s no such thing as the perfect novel. You have to write your balls (or tits) off, all of your life, and you still might be shit at it. But that’s the thing I love about novel writing, as opposed to short stories or poems; it’s that their size, the sheer amount of words they contain, permits imperfection. I can think of a handful poems and short stories that ache with near-perfection (and by perfect I mean that if you removed a single word they would collapse; think Paul Farley; think Raymond Carver), but this simply isn’t the case with a novel – it can carry exiguous or bad writing if the bulk of the narrative is strong enough.

I try to do a nine-to-five, five days a week, and I find it helps if I leave the flat. I like working at the British Library; I find the diligent atmosphere refreshing. This is always difficult because usually I wake up (mentally, creatively) about 10 p.m. I’m preternaturally nocturnal and I rarely switch off. I find everything inspiring, and like some sick, sad pervert, I have to write for life to mean anything. So no, it’s no easy process. It’s a distorted and voyeuristic way of life with no OFF button."

I think that has made me feel quite cheerful actually.

Customary customer post.

"Why don't you have a business section?"
"We do, it's on the 4th floor."
"I've just been up there, where exactly is it?"
"It's on the 4th floor, on the left of the till point."
"No, it's not."
"Erm, yes, it is."
"It must be tiny then."
"It's quite substantial actually. Was there a particular book you were looking for? I can check on the computer and see if we have it in stock."
"No, I want to browse."
"Well, like I say, it's up on 4th."
"Where? There's the coffee shop, and then the cookery books..."
"That's the 3rd floor."
"Oh. Right. There's another floor is there?"
"Yes," quietly "the 4th."

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan

He is one of those authors that I have filed in my mind as writing middle-class white man fiction. I imagine him to be slightly fusty. I don't know what I've based this on, perhaps the customers who seem to buy him. I was lent three of his books several years back, and I did open them, but I couldn't engage. It's not that I think he's a "bad" writer, just not for me. Anyway, I'm such a Steven Page fan girl that when he enthused about "On Chesil Beach" and I saw that it was a slim volume I thought I'd give it a go. It's a read in one sitting book, and at first seems to be a fairly slight tale about a virgin couples wedding night. It's worth noting how well written it is, of course I know that he is highly esteemed, but really some of the sentences were so perfectly descriptive I was taken by surprise at how he successfully enabled me to feel for the characters. Edward is worried that he may suffer from premature ejaculation, Florence disgusted by the whole notion of intercourse, even French kissing repulses her, so the story hinges on their approaching physical union. It begins in their hotel room, where McEwan describes an excruciatingly stiff after wedding meal, served by two local lads. We are constantly reminded that this was 1963, just before the onset of sexual liberation and these two, in their early twenties, endure all the rules of the time.
My criticism would be that after such exemplary scene setting we are whizzed back in time to get a back story, and then plunged into the denouement. The end seemed hasty and way too brief, in the vein of ...and then this happened and then that and then that's the end.
I shall have to have another go at some of his back catalogue.

The weekend's latest nutbar customer.

Customer ( foreign, male, heavily accented voice) "Do you sell birthday cards?"
Me "Yes, just over there." Gestures towards card racks.
A short time later.
Customer "Thank you." He puts a card on the counter and holds up a pretty, pink bag.
"I have bought a present for my friends birthday, I show you."
Me "OK."
Customer "Look, look." He pulls a box out of the bag. I can't quite make out what he is showing me, then, ahh yes, it's clearly a blow up doll.
Customer "Eh? Is nice? Eh? a ha ha ha ha, my friend will love this."
Me "Great..."
Colleague doubles over with bewildered laughter.

Barenaked Ladies at the Brighton Dome

When they came on stage I smiled, I continued to smile throughout the evening, realising after that I am such a po faced gal these days it's rare for me to feel such contentment.
What's not to love? They display consummate musicianship. Their songs are shiny sing-a-longy witty slices of pop rock. They are clever and caustic yet warm and wonderful. The on-stage banter between Ed and Steve is funnier than most comedians can manage, the harmonies shimmer, Steve's dancing is amazing. They free styled a great rap about a ride on Brighton pier. Watching them is like watching friends that you adore, people that "get" you. I can so easily imagine being their chum, I assume that most of their fan base think the same.
Oh, and great puns. I only just worked out that their recent albums "BNL are me", and "BNL are men" pun into BNL army and BNL amen. Ha ha ha ha.
They ended with Steven Pages enormous voice soaring into "Midnight, not a sound from the ..." tossing off the classic musical number so effortlessly, just because, y'know, he can.
They make their talent look easy, I know that it is not. There have been many years of honing their craft, tears and pain and depression and struggle, success and glittering accolades followed by perceived failure. Throughout they have carried on, working through, shining, trying. They have their own independent label and are constantly looking for new ways of reaching their fans. They held a successful cruise this year "Ships and dips", they are repeating it in January (fuck, I'd love to go on it...) they make USB sticks of each performance available straight after the concert, downloads of each show are also available online. Far as I am concerned they are awesomeness personified. AND they have a double bass player. Enough said.

It's the difference that matters.

Rather depressingly it has become apparent to me that there are a substantial number of people who are women writing competent stories. What worries me is the notion that perhaps we are possibly interchangeable but for one or two quirks of style.

That sucks.

Are we going to spend the rest of our lives submitting our tales hopefully, and sometimes being validated by a publication which will feed our aspirations to be full time writers? It may well never be enough. Why me and not them? What makes my work stand out? I am looking at my words and as far as I can see there's nothing to get excited about. I am feeling rather upset.

I think that my novel idea is good, exciting, and different. I am also terrified that I can't pull it off. The necessary length of it intimidates me. I'm not sure that I can sustain a story that long. I need to be braver and at least give it a really good try. I don't know how to reach into the feelings I have and wrench them out onto the page. So often I feel like an artist who attempts a portrait but comes out with a stick drawing. I know though that when it works, and the words say what I intend them to, that there is no greater sense of fulfilment. So I carry on, word next to word and so on.

Manners.

Not the most exciting of blog headers but there you go.

Yesterday I rang a customer to inform her that the book she had ordered had now arrived and was available for collection. A man answered, I asked to speak to Mrs Whoever, he said "Can I ask who is calling please?" of course he can, I told him I was ringing from the bookshop and he called out;
"There's some girl from the bookshop for you."
Some girl! I dunno, not the most offensive thing ever, but I just can't imagine him calling out that there was some boy on the line had one of my male colleagues called.

That wasn't the manners bit actually, that was just an observation that we react in the way that we do according to who we are reacting to. Not sure if that makes sense so it'll just get to the point.
A woman came up to the counter. I was wearing a very vivid pink and purple striped top with a turquoise skull in the middle ( I know! It's gorge.)
She said "Why the skull?"
I said "Because I like it." Now I know that wasn't the friendliest of replies, but there was something about her.
She said "Is it saying danger to all who look at your chest?"
I smiled. I bagged her purchase and took her money.
"I am staring at your breasts." she said.
Oh!
I was stumped for a response. She was a grey haired lady in her late 50's/early 60's. Had she been a bloke I'd have probably been massively pissed off, as it was, I remained speechless as she picked up her bag and left.

A father and daughter came in to pick up the specialist academic book that he had ordered on her behalf. He had paid in advance, as is customary, and it cost £80, which obviously is a lot of money. She had a look at the text book and pondered whether it was really the one she wanted. He explained that the one she requested is out of print so this was the updated one, the 12th edition. She complained that it appeared to have less in it than the one she had seen. He said that even if she found one page of it useful he wanted her to have it. He told her not to worry about the money. She still hesitated.
I understand, it was a lot of money, it was important for her study that she get the right book. I searched on-line for other books, this was the only one on her specialist subject. She wasn't sure. Fine, she needed to be sure. She spent half an hour deciding. In this half hour she examined page after page of the book whilst hunched over my counter. All other customers had to lift their books over her head to get them to me. I said excuse me, and I'm sorry, and could you? many times, and she just looked at me, all distracted and would move perhaps an inch over, and then turn more pages and repeat that she just wasn't sure. Her father proudly smiling at me. Sheez. She took the book in the end. No manners at all, just wrapped up in her own cocoon of importance.