well, well, dear reader. if you were on Twitter this afternoon, round about threeish (BST), you may have seen this:
RRRRRAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!! AT LAST! AT LAST! AT LAST!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YES! YES, YOU BITCH!!! YOU DIDN'T DEFEAT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
and, shortly after, this:
*************************EPIC HAPPYDANCE**********************************
that was the sound of me finally, FINALLY!!! finishing the typing up of the bloody WIP. gods, but it's been a slog. it has taken me approximately 84 days, and an awful lot of tearing my hair out to get this effing thing onto my hard drive. i think some of the horror was partly due to my not believing in this one as much as the last one. i realised pretty early on that it was flawed, and i almost re-genre'd the whole thing. in fact, i rewrote about the first 8,000 words, in an attempt to do this. that didn't work, either. the problem was always with the beginning. in fact, this weekend, i wrote up the most troublesome section (about 8-ish thousand words) using the simple expedient of just ignoring large parts of the original text. there was actually a lot of rambling and place-marching in the first 10 or 15 thousand words, which was a big part of the problem. so i just took a big machete and hacked at it until i could bear to type it. it seemed to work
so, now, i have a big lump of story that needs to be carved into something readable.
this is gonna be interesting.
and, before i go, thankyouthankyouthankyou with big, massive GINORMOUS happyhugs to all of my local and Twitter friends who have kept me sane and encouraged me and distracted me from the horror of the typing.
love you guys! XXX
.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Sunday, 21 March 2010
a spring walk, with pictures.
today, i went for a walk.
the original plan for today was to go climbing. that didn't happen.
dear reader, if you are female, i'm sure you are aware of what an exhausting experience it can be to ride the menstrual cycle (emotionally and physically). friday and saturday were particularly bad, but i thought i'd be ok today. i wasn't. my emotions had more-or-less settled, but physically, i was still tired and bleary. definitely not up to sport climbing.
btw, there are several different types of climbing, which i may explain in another post, if i ever get around to it...
aaaanyway.
the weather was absolutely beautiful, today, and i wanted to be out in it, but not climbing. so i suggested to hubby that we take a walk, instead. he wasn't keen on the idea since, as he pointed out, he spends 8 hours a day walking when he's at work (he works in a warehouse). so he got the bike going for me (yay!!!! riding to work tomorrow for the first time since october!), and i went for a walk in the beautiful breezy sunshine. frankly, i'm still knackered, though recovering, from my hormones' assault on my body and mind, but i wanted to share the fields around the town i grew up in with you.
so...
in pictures...
i hope you enjoyed our walk through the fields around my home town, dear reader.
i certainly did. it made my soul feel good.
the original plan for today was to go climbing. that didn't happen.
dear reader, if you are female, i'm sure you are aware of what an exhausting experience it can be to ride the menstrual cycle (emotionally and physically). friday and saturday were particularly bad, but i thought i'd be ok today. i wasn't. my emotions had more-or-less settled, but physically, i was still tired and bleary. definitely not up to sport climbing.
btw, there are several different types of climbing, which i may explain in another post, if i ever get around to it...
aaaanyway.
the weather was absolutely beautiful, today, and i wanted to be out in it, but not climbing. so i suggested to hubby that we take a walk, instead. he wasn't keen on the idea since, as he pointed out, he spends 8 hours a day walking when he's at work (he works in a warehouse). so he got the bike going for me (yay!!!! riding to work tomorrow for the first time since october!), and i went for a walk in the beautiful breezy sunshine. frankly, i'm still knackered, though recovering, from my hormones' assault on my body and mind, but i wanted to share the fields around the town i grew up in with you.
so...
in pictures...
this is the view just ten minutes' walk from my front door. how lucky am i?
check out the curious little guy at the base of te tree... sweeeet! ^_^
this is Street Lane, not far from where i live. i am told its name used to be Straight Lane, and that it is a remnant of a roman road. the A38 continues along the same line, a little further on...
this bough was at the perfect height to lay my cheek against. so i did.
i am not ashamed to admit to hugging trees. it was a small moment of bliss.
i came across this willow tree in bloom. it made me cry, with the palpable proof of spring. when i got closer, i cried a little more when i saw the small battallion of large black bumblebees, busily collecting nectar and pollinating the tree. sadly, i got no pictures of them. they were too quick for me, and too busy to pose for photos. i did ask, but they ignored me. apart from one that hummed up to check me out. but she was too fast for me, too.
i sat by this dyke for quite some time, the sun warm on my face and my back, just...being.
it was beautiful. and peaceful. and blissful.
it occurred to me, as i walked along, that what i was actually walking through was the remains of an opencast mine, that had been here when i was a child. all of the trees were small and new, and the terrain was flattish, and easy to walk along. and all around me, i could feel the earth waking up and vibrating with new life.
and the sky was...just...huge.
bliss.
it was time to turn back, by now, as i was reaching the boundary of how far i wanted to walk (there was a main road not too far ahead). on the way, though, i made some new friends...
who just loooved having their ears scratched...
and, were, well...
...kinda nosey...
i certainly did. it made my soul feel good.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
sugary medicine FTW
good morning, dear reader.
well, actually, it's not that good for me, as i have been awake fro the last hour and a half with period cramps. it's 4:45 am. *sigh* it's a pattern i follow. at least i only get them on the first night. and i have to get up, rather than languishing in bed so i don't wake poor hubby with my tossing and turning and groaning.
so i get up for an hour or so. the way to beat them, i find, is a hot water bottle and Calpol. tea and cigarettes, of course, go without saying.
Calpol, if you are not a Brit, dear reader, is a paracetamol medicine for children. i tend to take painkillers only at this time, or if i have a headache that can't be vanquished by any other means, or if my back is playing up (not too often these days, thank the gods!) now, then. let me tell you about Calpol, as it's sort of what this post is about.
people often laugh at me when i tell them i take calpol. or, indeed, if they see me swigging it from the bottle (can't be bothered with a spoon - too sticky, and i always make a mess). it is, after all, something that is ubiquitous in this country for teething and feverish babies and young children. i was given it as a child for headaches, stomach aches, or when i had a cold. and, well, it seemed like a treat amongst the misery. it's this sticky, viscous, sugary, violently pink liquid that tastes and smells exactly the same as Red Bull (weird). the reason i take it is that it is liquid and therefore works (i find) faster and better than tablets. plus, hey - it tastes nice, and gives me comforting childhood thoughts of being looked after by my mum.
well, i said sugary, but there is the heart of my annoyance. see, with all of this panic/concern/whatever about what we are feeding our children rotting their teeth, etc etc (with reason in many cases, to be fair), the stuff you used to get (with the sugar in it) is getting harder and harder to find. this makes me sad, disappointed, and actually quite cross. see, the sugar free stuff is all very well, but of course, you have to sweeten it somehow, as pracetamol is a very bitter drug. and, childrens' taste sense being what it is (i.e. tuned to detect bitterness, as that often denotes poison), it would be hard, if not impossible to get them to take it.
this leaves artificial "sweeteners".
these, dear reader (as far as i and, i'm sure, many others are concerned), are the devil's own concoction. i have yet to find an artificial sweetener that didn't taste worse than the bloody paracetamol itself. and yet, in our concern for our childrens' teeth, we are trying to fool them into accepting this substitute which tastes sweet enough just long enough to get the blasted stuff down, then leaves an effin' 'ORRIBLE taste in the mouth for aaaaages afterwards. i mean, come on! the poor little bugger is in enough misery already, without giving them this pseudo-sweet shit with a vile afertaste as well! it's just cruel! for gods' sake, how often do you give the kids Calpol, anyway? it's not like you're spooning it into them all day, every day, is it?! (i bloody well hope not, anyway!) so for christ's sake, give the poor little buggers some sugar once in a while, give 'em a little treat, a little pleasure amongst the pain.
seriously - it ain't gonna hurt them.
well, actually, it's not that good for me, as i have been awake fro the last hour and a half with period cramps. it's 4:45 am. *sigh* it's a pattern i follow. at least i only get them on the first night. and i have to get up, rather than languishing in bed so i don't wake poor hubby with my tossing and turning and groaning.
so i get up for an hour or so. the way to beat them, i find, is a hot water bottle and Calpol. tea and cigarettes, of course, go without saying.
Calpol, if you are not a Brit, dear reader, is a paracetamol medicine for children. i tend to take painkillers only at this time, or if i have a headache that can't be vanquished by any other means, or if my back is playing up (not too often these days, thank the gods!) now, then. let me tell you about Calpol, as it's sort of what this post is about.
people often laugh at me when i tell them i take calpol. or, indeed, if they see me swigging it from the bottle (can't be bothered with a spoon - too sticky, and i always make a mess). it is, after all, something that is ubiquitous in this country for teething and feverish babies and young children. i was given it as a child for headaches, stomach aches, or when i had a cold. and, well, it seemed like a treat amongst the misery. it's this sticky, viscous, sugary, violently pink liquid that tastes and smells exactly the same as Red Bull (weird). the reason i take it is that it is liquid and therefore works (i find) faster and better than tablets. plus, hey - it tastes nice, and gives me comforting childhood thoughts of being looked after by my mum.
well, i said sugary, but there is the heart of my annoyance. see, with all of this panic/concern/whatever about what we are feeding our children rotting their teeth, etc etc (with reason in many cases, to be fair), the stuff you used to get (with the sugar in it) is getting harder and harder to find. this makes me sad, disappointed, and actually quite cross. see, the sugar free stuff is all very well, but of course, you have to sweeten it somehow, as pracetamol is a very bitter drug. and, childrens' taste sense being what it is (i.e. tuned to detect bitterness, as that often denotes poison), it would be hard, if not impossible to get them to take it.
this leaves artificial "sweeteners".
these, dear reader (as far as i and, i'm sure, many others are concerned), are the devil's own concoction. i have yet to find an artificial sweetener that didn't taste worse than the bloody paracetamol itself. and yet, in our concern for our childrens' teeth, we are trying to fool them into accepting this substitute which tastes sweet enough just long enough to get the blasted stuff down, then leaves an effin' 'ORRIBLE taste in the mouth for aaaaages afterwards. i mean, come on! the poor little bugger is in enough misery already, without giving them this pseudo-sweet shit with a vile afertaste as well! it's just cruel! for gods' sake, how often do you give the kids Calpol, anyway? it's not like you're spooning it into them all day, every day, is it?! (i bloody well hope not, anyway!) so for christ's sake, give the poor little buggers some sugar once in a while, give 'em a little treat, a little pleasure amongst the pain.
seriously - it ain't gonna hurt them.
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Ouroburos
Dear Reader,
At the urging of the very loveliest of lovelies, Rosie and Jens ( @miss_rosie and @jenku70 ), and with many warm fuzzies, i present a short story wot i wrote (i hope you like it...):
Ouroburos
I sit on the shore of a tiny island, and watch the moon make a silvery path across the water. It reaches to almost where the tiny wavelets lap at my toes. My knees are hugged to my chest, my mind, for once, is at peace – as calm as the summer night that embraces me. A soft, warm breeze lifts the ends of my hair as I gaze into infinity, and caresses my naked back deliciously.
I’ve lived out here for some time, now – longer, in fact, than you might think, to look at me. A casual glance (if you ever even managed that – I don’t allow myself to be seen so easily) would show you a woman of perhaps thirty – thick black hair to my jaw line, blue eyes, creamy skin, and a pleasantly curved body.
Look into my eyes, though, and you will see something far, far older. Something far more complex. Something ancient, wily, and wary. And hunted. Hunted through years and ages, in fact.
But we all have to eat, don’t we...?
I took to living out here in the archipelago when I couldn’t stand it any more.
The noise. The stink.
The miasma and clamour created by these creatures upon which I am forced to depend for my strength. How I wish it were not so.
But there you have it – even immortals, such as myself, must put up with certain inconveniences. And they only seem to grow more inconveniently irritating and burdensome the further down the ages I travel. It often makes me sigh with despair and frustration. However, if I do not wish to end up lying on the earth somewhere, too weak to move myself, but unable to claim the blessed release of death, it must be this way.
So.
I live out here.
Occasionally, a meal will come floating by, and I will hold my breath and take it – without pleasure, with only need and necessity. Afterward, I will swim in the icy waters of the sea, and attempt to wash the stink from my skin. Sometimes, it doesn’t fade for days.
I live far, far out among the islands. As far from habitation as I can possibly get. Even then, the occasional stench will reach me – borne on an errant gust from that cursed city where they swarm like flies on a carcass.
Thinking these things, I unconsciously sniff the breeze. And I stiffen. More alert, now, I hear a noise to accompany the smell – a hissing, wheezing sound... there is a steam launch upwind of me. I smell the coal and the filthy odour of fish and of...them...
But, just before I attempt to close my senses off to that godawful smell, I sense something else – almost masked by the other smells. There is one – no – there are two people on this vessel – one stinks like every other creature of his kind I have encountered, but the other... his smell is almost masked, but I catch hints of it... Sweet, and spicy and.... Well... Utterly delicious.
I almost fail to believe my senses. One of these foul horrors smelling...appetising...?
Though it is barely a month since I last ate, my soul growls with the thought of feeding from such a one. The thought of absorbing that...heavenly essence.
I must have it. I must have him.
Swiftly, I rise from my place at the liminal zone between earth and sea and begin to circle the island, under the cover of the trees. I follow the breeze-borne scent, until I come to a spit of land extending out from the main body of the island. Hovering in the shadows, I gaze out across the water to a nearby island.
There is the steam launch, moored in the middle of a bay, and two figures on the beach – hauling a dinghy up on to the sand, high above the tide line. The launch, of course is quiet, now, and I hear the crunch of their boots and the hull of the dinghy on the sand.
They confer briefly, and one walks toward the tree line, whilst the other remains on the sand.
Now they are no longer together, I can discern that the one left on the beach is the one that made my soul growl with longing. His scent comes to me more clearly, now, spicier than before – like some freshly-cut, aromatic wood. Even his sweat from the effort of rowing, and hauling that dinghy up the sand smells...fresh. And clean.
My eyes are good and, even in the moonlight, I can tell he is long and lean, with thick dark hair and almost night-black eyes. My soul growls once again, and I make ready to leap from the rocks where I stand, into the sea below, when a glimpse of movement stops me, and the companion appears at the tree line again. I shrink further back into the shadows, and wrinkle my nose as his stench is once again wafted my way on the breeze. They confer again, and he disappears back into the woods.
This gives me pause. I want this delicious-smelling creature, like an addict needs a fix, but I don’t want to be disturbed as I feast. I sigh as I realise what I must do to achieve this. Without a further thought, I dive into the icy waters of the sea and, keeping below the surface, I swim, swift and powerful, towards the neighbouring island.
Once there, I check my prey is still on the beach. Hiding behind some rocks, I cautiously peer around them until I am satisfied that he is removing equipment from the dinghy, and making some sort of camp. He will be there awhile, yet.
I swim around the shoreline a little, until I am out of sight of the beach, then haul myself out onto the rocks and, in silence, disappear into the trees.
He’s not hard to find. The foetid reek of unwashed and skin, bad diet, and uncertain personal hygiene lead me to him as if he is standing on a bare hilltop and shouting my name. He is in a small clearing, collecting firewood – no doubt to cook some of the fish I could smell in the boat- caught only an hour or two ago, and already stinking with rot. To these insensitive creatures though, they doubtless smell as fresh as a virgin’s underwear. I walk out of the trees, and into the moonlight – right in front of him.
He does not hear me, but the movement catches his eye. Straightening up, he drops the bundle of dry wood in his arms, his mouth falling slack with surprise. For I am naked, and dripping wet, and... Well... If you are ever lucky enough to catch a glimpse of me, you will know how good I look. This oaf certainly appreciates it. Within seconds, the look of foolish surprise on his coarse features is replaced by a disgusting leer as, without a word, he begins to shamble towards me. With a tiny inner sigh, I steel myself against the coming unpleasantness.
And I smile.
As intended, he accepts the tacit invitation to use my body as he will, and lunges for me.
Fortunately, I am stronger than I may initially appear. Following a brief struggle, during which he first tries to throw me to the ground then, failing that, push me up against a tree and thrust his filthy paw between my legs, I finally manage to subdue him, with no more than a hand around his throat. I squeeze a little. Just a little. He begins to choke and gasp, clawing at my arm. In my gentlest voice, I admonish the filthy brute.
“Now, now, my sweet one – behave yourself. You will get what is coming to you – never you fear.”
And, just like that, his face slackens, and his arms drop and he stands, meek as a puppy, before me.
“Oh, much, much better,” I coo, and I slowly move towards him.
His eyes now have lost that leering look. Instead, they hold a mixture of fascination and wonder. And a tiny morsel of fear. He stands unmoving as, inch by inch, I close the space between us, and move my lips toward his.
And our lips touch.
And I feed.
I feel my soul absorbing the life-force of this ugly animal, and I feel all that made him what he was. As I sense his childhood, I experience a pang of pity, but this is soon washed away by the adolescence and adulthood that follows.
Ugh! Truly – the world is better off without him, and she will not mourn her loss.
Dropping the empty husk of him to the ground in distaste, I hurry back to the sea and plunge into it, scrubbing my body, and especially my hand, arm and lips, with anything I can get my hands on – just to take the stench away. Fortunately, this one was easier to subdue than most, so at least the smell actually comes off at first try this time. Now – to do what I came here for. Time to play with this delicious morsel that has fallen into my lap.
It seems I am not the only moonlit swimmer tonight for, as I round the edge of the bay, I see my prey emerging from the sea. He has his back to me, so I can stay where I am for a moment, in order to fully appreciate the view. I may be immortal, but some things never lose their charm, no matter how many aeons one suffers through. He is...not muscular...but toned. Slightly wiry, perhaps, but with the strength and grace of a dancer in his tiniest movement. The water sheeting over the pale skin of his back glistens and glitters in the light of my sky-sister, and I appreciate the touch this provides, enabling me to better admire the contours of his body.
So much am I enjoying this sight, however, I grow unwary. I have been slowly brought closer and closer to him by the incoming tide and now, as he reaches the newly and simply erected camp and turns around to look out over the bay, I am directly in his line of sight.
I curse my inattention. I normally like to be far, far closer before I allow my prey sight of me. It allows my smile and voice to take full effect.
There is, however, no help for it. He has seen me, now, and would think it odd if I merely disappeared under the surface of the water, never to be seen again. Until I am ready to play, that is. So instead, I swim towards the shore. Swift, powerful strokes quickly bring me to the beach and, in no time at all, I walk from the sea, the water sheeting down my body, as it did down his. I can tell he is enjoying the sight as much as I was. It is...obvious.
As I leave the water, I am smiling, of course. As a way of subduing and making my prey pliable, it has been invaluable, down the centuries. But this time, the smile is different. It does not often happen that the smile is one of genuine pleasure, but this time, I cannot help it. After all, I like what I see, and the smile, for once, reaches my eyes. I have not, during my long existence, smiled like this many times. These creatures, after all, carry an ungodly stink, since from the day they are dragged squalling into the world, they are already dying – they just don’t know it, yet. Who could have a genuine smile for that?
Immortals do not stink; they do not smell of anything, in fact. Not to me, at least. They tell me that I do not smell of anything to them, but that they can smell each other.
I have not met many, and those whom I have met are... not quite the same as I. They have to drink these creatures’ blood for their strength, and I pity them that – to have to take into their ageless bodies the already-rotting fluid that fills these horrors. I merely need to absorb their soul – their life force. Still, they do not seem to mind, so much.
As I walk slowly up the beach, smiling and keeping eye contact all the while, I realise that my prey is smiling, also. Not the lustful leer I have come to despise, but a small smile. Small, yes, but full of genuine appreciation and... Curiosity? This is most unusual indeed. But I continue to walk, slowly, sensually, my body swaying like the snake that mesmerises. Around me, the warm breeze caresses my skin, the sound of the wavelets caresses my ears, and the crunch and tickle of the sand caresses my feet.
I walk to within a few feet of him, and then stop. His lips are soft, and a beautiful shape, and they twitch a little, then part, as he greets me politely in a soft, warm voice.
“Good evening to you, my lady.”
His accent is strange, and I cannot place it. I have been many times around the world, picked up many dialects, and spoken many tongues, but this lilt I have never before encountered. Inwardly, I give a shrug. The world is a large and ever-changing place, after all – and language may evolve at a startling rate, in the right circumstances. I move a fraction closer.
“Good evening to you, sir. How goes it?”
His lips twitch a little – perhaps with amusement at a formal exchange of two people who are alone together, naked in the light of the moon.
“It goes much better now, my lady.”
This trite, yet knowing response amuses me somewhat, and my smile becomes a little more intense with it.
I move a little closer still, the better to inhale his delicious scent with every breath. It is almost dizzying.
“And what do you here, sir?”
His smile widens, as he says, “Why, I look for you, my lady.”
I realise I have been unconsciously edging closer to him, and stop. His answer gives me pause. No-one knows I am here, I am sure of it. And yet...
“How did you know where to look?”
My wariness obviously shows in my eyes, as he laughs a little. A soft chuckle almost drowned by the noises of the tiny wavelets.
“My lady, I have smelled your scent on the breeze long since. I have known you were here for some time. It was merely a matter of finding which island was lucky enough to harbour you.”
With this, he moves a little closer to me.
I am mesmerised by his eyes. So deep, and dark. I feel I could drown in their black depths and choke with a smile on my face and a song of joy in my heart. I barely notice as he reaches out, but his gentle hand on my cheek sends waves of static through my skin. I sigh, involuntarily.
When his lips meet mine, I feel the shock of the lightning explode through my body, crackling through my very soul. Our arms are around each other as if they have always been there – as if they were always meant to be there. Our bodies are pressing close, closer than I would have thought possible, the heat between them would melt diamonds. I open my soul and prepare to suck out his life. And then...
And then, I feel something strange. My soul is open, I feel myself beginning to absorb his essence, but... my soul, it...feels so strange...as if...it’s leaving my body to be replaced by his...
My eyes fly open.
“What are you?”
His eyes look into mine for a long, long moment.
“I, lady? I am the last of my kind. Like you. I am the only one left that walks upon the skin of our mother. Just like you. We were destined to find each other. It is the only way we may at last know peace.”
His words, so simple, yet so vast, encompass everything that I am, and everything that he is, and everything we may be to each other.
Salvation.
Completion.
Release.
Understanding dawns, and he sees its light in my eyes. He smiles, with a little hope, a little sadness, and with a great deal of weary relief.
“Are you ready to leave, my lady?”
I can barely believe he even has to ask me. I am so ready to leave this foul and beautiful existence that I can scarcely do anything other than nod.
I take his face between my hands, press close to his body, and kiss him. Long, and slow, and deep. With the sadness and beauty of uncountable aeons, I kiss this last of his kind, and he, in his turn, kisses me with the depth of the ocean. Of all the oceans there ever were. And the heat that has once again been building between us ignites, into a blazing, coruscating vortex of energy.
And we are no more.
At the urging of the very loveliest of lovelies, Rosie and Jens ( @miss_rosie and @jenku70 ), and with many warm fuzzies, i present a short story wot i wrote (i hope you like it...):
Ouroburos
I sit on the shore of a tiny island, and watch the moon make a silvery path across the water. It reaches to almost where the tiny wavelets lap at my toes. My knees are hugged to my chest, my mind, for once, is at peace – as calm as the summer night that embraces me. A soft, warm breeze lifts the ends of my hair as I gaze into infinity, and caresses my naked back deliciously.
I’ve lived out here for some time, now – longer, in fact, than you might think, to look at me. A casual glance (if you ever even managed that – I don’t allow myself to be seen so easily) would show you a woman of perhaps thirty – thick black hair to my jaw line, blue eyes, creamy skin, and a pleasantly curved body.
Look into my eyes, though, and you will see something far, far older. Something far more complex. Something ancient, wily, and wary. And hunted. Hunted through years and ages, in fact.
But we all have to eat, don’t we...?
I took to living out here in the archipelago when I couldn’t stand it any more.
The noise. The stink.
The miasma and clamour created by these creatures upon which I am forced to depend for my strength. How I wish it were not so.
But there you have it – even immortals, such as myself, must put up with certain inconveniences. And they only seem to grow more inconveniently irritating and burdensome the further down the ages I travel. It often makes me sigh with despair and frustration. However, if I do not wish to end up lying on the earth somewhere, too weak to move myself, but unable to claim the blessed release of death, it must be this way.
So.
I live out here.
Occasionally, a meal will come floating by, and I will hold my breath and take it – without pleasure, with only need and necessity. Afterward, I will swim in the icy waters of the sea, and attempt to wash the stink from my skin. Sometimes, it doesn’t fade for days.
I live far, far out among the islands. As far from habitation as I can possibly get. Even then, the occasional stench will reach me – borne on an errant gust from that cursed city where they swarm like flies on a carcass.
Thinking these things, I unconsciously sniff the breeze. And I stiffen. More alert, now, I hear a noise to accompany the smell – a hissing, wheezing sound... there is a steam launch upwind of me. I smell the coal and the filthy odour of fish and of...them...
But, just before I attempt to close my senses off to that godawful smell, I sense something else – almost masked by the other smells. There is one – no – there are two people on this vessel – one stinks like every other creature of his kind I have encountered, but the other... his smell is almost masked, but I catch hints of it... Sweet, and spicy and.... Well... Utterly delicious.
I almost fail to believe my senses. One of these foul horrors smelling...appetising...?
Though it is barely a month since I last ate, my soul growls with the thought of feeding from such a one. The thought of absorbing that...heavenly essence.
I must have it. I must have him.
Swiftly, I rise from my place at the liminal zone between earth and sea and begin to circle the island, under the cover of the trees. I follow the breeze-borne scent, until I come to a spit of land extending out from the main body of the island. Hovering in the shadows, I gaze out across the water to a nearby island.
There is the steam launch, moored in the middle of a bay, and two figures on the beach – hauling a dinghy up on to the sand, high above the tide line. The launch, of course is quiet, now, and I hear the crunch of their boots and the hull of the dinghy on the sand.
They confer briefly, and one walks toward the tree line, whilst the other remains on the sand.
Now they are no longer together, I can discern that the one left on the beach is the one that made my soul growl with longing. His scent comes to me more clearly, now, spicier than before – like some freshly-cut, aromatic wood. Even his sweat from the effort of rowing, and hauling that dinghy up the sand smells...fresh. And clean.
My eyes are good and, even in the moonlight, I can tell he is long and lean, with thick dark hair and almost night-black eyes. My soul growls once again, and I make ready to leap from the rocks where I stand, into the sea below, when a glimpse of movement stops me, and the companion appears at the tree line again. I shrink further back into the shadows, and wrinkle my nose as his stench is once again wafted my way on the breeze. They confer again, and he disappears back into the woods.
This gives me pause. I want this delicious-smelling creature, like an addict needs a fix, but I don’t want to be disturbed as I feast. I sigh as I realise what I must do to achieve this. Without a further thought, I dive into the icy waters of the sea and, keeping below the surface, I swim, swift and powerful, towards the neighbouring island.
Once there, I check my prey is still on the beach. Hiding behind some rocks, I cautiously peer around them until I am satisfied that he is removing equipment from the dinghy, and making some sort of camp. He will be there awhile, yet.
I swim around the shoreline a little, until I am out of sight of the beach, then haul myself out onto the rocks and, in silence, disappear into the trees.
He’s not hard to find. The foetid reek of unwashed and skin, bad diet, and uncertain personal hygiene lead me to him as if he is standing on a bare hilltop and shouting my name. He is in a small clearing, collecting firewood – no doubt to cook some of the fish I could smell in the boat- caught only an hour or two ago, and already stinking with rot. To these insensitive creatures though, they doubtless smell as fresh as a virgin’s underwear. I walk out of the trees, and into the moonlight – right in front of him.
He does not hear me, but the movement catches his eye. Straightening up, he drops the bundle of dry wood in his arms, his mouth falling slack with surprise. For I am naked, and dripping wet, and... Well... If you are ever lucky enough to catch a glimpse of me, you will know how good I look. This oaf certainly appreciates it. Within seconds, the look of foolish surprise on his coarse features is replaced by a disgusting leer as, without a word, he begins to shamble towards me. With a tiny inner sigh, I steel myself against the coming unpleasantness.
And I smile.
As intended, he accepts the tacit invitation to use my body as he will, and lunges for me.
Fortunately, I am stronger than I may initially appear. Following a brief struggle, during which he first tries to throw me to the ground then, failing that, push me up against a tree and thrust his filthy paw between my legs, I finally manage to subdue him, with no more than a hand around his throat. I squeeze a little. Just a little. He begins to choke and gasp, clawing at my arm. In my gentlest voice, I admonish the filthy brute.
“Now, now, my sweet one – behave yourself. You will get what is coming to you – never you fear.”
And, just like that, his face slackens, and his arms drop and he stands, meek as a puppy, before me.
“Oh, much, much better,” I coo, and I slowly move towards him.
His eyes now have lost that leering look. Instead, they hold a mixture of fascination and wonder. And a tiny morsel of fear. He stands unmoving as, inch by inch, I close the space between us, and move my lips toward his.
And our lips touch.
And I feed.
I feel my soul absorbing the life-force of this ugly animal, and I feel all that made him what he was. As I sense his childhood, I experience a pang of pity, but this is soon washed away by the adolescence and adulthood that follows.
Ugh! Truly – the world is better off without him, and she will not mourn her loss.
Dropping the empty husk of him to the ground in distaste, I hurry back to the sea and plunge into it, scrubbing my body, and especially my hand, arm and lips, with anything I can get my hands on – just to take the stench away. Fortunately, this one was easier to subdue than most, so at least the smell actually comes off at first try this time. Now – to do what I came here for. Time to play with this delicious morsel that has fallen into my lap.
It seems I am not the only moonlit swimmer tonight for, as I round the edge of the bay, I see my prey emerging from the sea. He has his back to me, so I can stay where I am for a moment, in order to fully appreciate the view. I may be immortal, but some things never lose their charm, no matter how many aeons one suffers through. He is...not muscular...but toned. Slightly wiry, perhaps, but with the strength and grace of a dancer in his tiniest movement. The water sheeting over the pale skin of his back glistens and glitters in the light of my sky-sister, and I appreciate the touch this provides, enabling me to better admire the contours of his body.
So much am I enjoying this sight, however, I grow unwary. I have been slowly brought closer and closer to him by the incoming tide and now, as he reaches the newly and simply erected camp and turns around to look out over the bay, I am directly in his line of sight.
I curse my inattention. I normally like to be far, far closer before I allow my prey sight of me. It allows my smile and voice to take full effect.
There is, however, no help for it. He has seen me, now, and would think it odd if I merely disappeared under the surface of the water, never to be seen again. Until I am ready to play, that is. So instead, I swim towards the shore. Swift, powerful strokes quickly bring me to the beach and, in no time at all, I walk from the sea, the water sheeting down my body, as it did down his. I can tell he is enjoying the sight as much as I was. It is...obvious.
As I leave the water, I am smiling, of course. As a way of subduing and making my prey pliable, it has been invaluable, down the centuries. But this time, the smile is different. It does not often happen that the smile is one of genuine pleasure, but this time, I cannot help it. After all, I like what I see, and the smile, for once, reaches my eyes. I have not, during my long existence, smiled like this many times. These creatures, after all, carry an ungodly stink, since from the day they are dragged squalling into the world, they are already dying – they just don’t know it, yet. Who could have a genuine smile for that?
Immortals do not stink; they do not smell of anything, in fact. Not to me, at least. They tell me that I do not smell of anything to them, but that they can smell each other.
I have not met many, and those whom I have met are... not quite the same as I. They have to drink these creatures’ blood for their strength, and I pity them that – to have to take into their ageless bodies the already-rotting fluid that fills these horrors. I merely need to absorb their soul – their life force. Still, they do not seem to mind, so much.
As I walk slowly up the beach, smiling and keeping eye contact all the while, I realise that my prey is smiling, also. Not the lustful leer I have come to despise, but a small smile. Small, yes, but full of genuine appreciation and... Curiosity? This is most unusual indeed. But I continue to walk, slowly, sensually, my body swaying like the snake that mesmerises. Around me, the warm breeze caresses my skin, the sound of the wavelets caresses my ears, and the crunch and tickle of the sand caresses my feet.
I walk to within a few feet of him, and then stop. His lips are soft, and a beautiful shape, and they twitch a little, then part, as he greets me politely in a soft, warm voice.
“Good evening to you, my lady.”
His accent is strange, and I cannot place it. I have been many times around the world, picked up many dialects, and spoken many tongues, but this lilt I have never before encountered. Inwardly, I give a shrug. The world is a large and ever-changing place, after all – and language may evolve at a startling rate, in the right circumstances. I move a fraction closer.
“Good evening to you, sir. How goes it?”
His lips twitch a little – perhaps with amusement at a formal exchange of two people who are alone together, naked in the light of the moon.
“It goes much better now, my lady.”
This trite, yet knowing response amuses me somewhat, and my smile becomes a little more intense with it.
I move a little closer still, the better to inhale his delicious scent with every breath. It is almost dizzying.
“And what do you here, sir?”
His smile widens, as he says, “Why, I look for you, my lady.”
I realise I have been unconsciously edging closer to him, and stop. His answer gives me pause. No-one knows I am here, I am sure of it. And yet...
“How did you know where to look?”
My wariness obviously shows in my eyes, as he laughs a little. A soft chuckle almost drowned by the noises of the tiny wavelets.
“My lady, I have smelled your scent on the breeze long since. I have known you were here for some time. It was merely a matter of finding which island was lucky enough to harbour you.”
With this, he moves a little closer to me.
I am mesmerised by his eyes. So deep, and dark. I feel I could drown in their black depths and choke with a smile on my face and a song of joy in my heart. I barely notice as he reaches out, but his gentle hand on my cheek sends waves of static through my skin. I sigh, involuntarily.
When his lips meet mine, I feel the shock of the lightning explode through my body, crackling through my very soul. Our arms are around each other as if they have always been there – as if they were always meant to be there. Our bodies are pressing close, closer than I would have thought possible, the heat between them would melt diamonds. I open my soul and prepare to suck out his life. And then...
And then, I feel something strange. My soul is open, I feel myself beginning to absorb his essence, but... my soul, it...feels so strange...as if...it’s leaving my body to be replaced by his...
My eyes fly open.
“What are you?”
His eyes look into mine for a long, long moment.
“I, lady? I am the last of my kind. Like you. I am the only one left that walks upon the skin of our mother. Just like you. We were destined to find each other. It is the only way we may at last know peace.”
His words, so simple, yet so vast, encompass everything that I am, and everything that he is, and everything we may be to each other.
Salvation.
Completion.
Release.
Understanding dawns, and he sees its light in my eyes. He smiles, with a little hope, a little sadness, and with a great deal of weary relief.
“Are you ready to leave, my lady?”
I can barely believe he even has to ask me. I am so ready to leave this foul and beautiful existence that I can scarcely do anything other than nod.
I take his face between my hands, press close to his body, and kiss him. Long, and slow, and deep. With the sadness and beauty of uncountable aeons, I kiss this last of his kind, and he, in his turn, kisses me with the depth of the ocean. Of all the oceans there ever were. And the heat that has once again been building between us ignites, into a blazing, coruscating vortex of energy.
And we are no more.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
why Neil is my god, or: how Squeaky became a writer
Good evening.
So, dear reader – would you like to know how come I revere Mr Neil Gaiman (@neilhimself on Twitter) as my writing god?
And how I got my screen name? As I said in the very first post of this blog, it’s all Neil’s fault...
Ok – here’s the story, but I warn you, it’s a long one...
Actually – do you expect anything else? These posts seem to be getting longer and longer...
I hope you’re sitting comfortably, this may take a while...
Here we have fourteen-year-old Squeaky, having a book recommended to her by a classmate (most unusually, as it happens, but that's another story entirely). Now, Squeaky is not Squeaky at this time - that comes much, MUCH later
...patience...
The book is Mort by Terry Pratchett (now SIR Terry Pratchett - and about bloody time, say I!), of whom you may have heard. This started a love of his books that endures to this day. I sought out every book of his that I could, read them voraciously and repeatedly. And laughed my ass off as I got more and more of the jokes and sly references (still finding them 20 years later, btw...) One of these books was written in collaboration with some guy I’d never heard of, called, yup, Neil Gaiman. The book was very odd, very English, and very, VERY funny. It’s about how the antichrist is supposed to bring about the end of the world and...Well...doesn't want to. The antichrist is a boy of (I think - I haven't read it in a while) about ten years old, who learns of his destiny and, frankly, doesn't like it much. Anyway. I found this probably a couple of years into my Pratchett odyssey, and adored it. I have my original copy (and possibly another one - I can't remember – I have sooo many books! XD), and treasure it. This led to me seeking out more of Neil’s work, as I was (obviously) curious.
So...skip forward a few years. I’m now firmly ensconced in a flat in Derby with hubby (well, boyfriend at the time...but anyway) and for one reason and another, had a lot of time on my hands. Derby library was my friend. I found several of Neil’s Sandman graphic novels there. Not a full set (too much to expect from Derby library, really - the fantasy section's frankly crap), but enough to have me intrigued. They were dark, strange and wonderful. I then found myself searching out every book I could in the library with his name on the spine. Again, not many. In fact, I seem to recall that there was only actually one. I remember it well, as the cover had the most beautiful enamelled bracelet on it... but I digress. Stardust - you may have heard of the film? It’s a fairytale - a proper one... So - not much luck there, though I (of course) loved the book. Although I was poor at the time, I set off to a bookshop one day, determined to get me some Gaiman. I really had no idea about anything else he'd written, to be honest (this was well before I had internet access), but I was so enamoured of his strange beauty that I had to get my hands on SOMETHING. So what I bought was Smoke and Mirrors. I bought it because it was a big, thick book.
N.B. at the time, this was a bonus - could never get enough to read - sadly not so much now. my time is taken up by...other things, these days... I really miss being a bookworm... :o( *sigh* so many books, so little time... but perhaps having had my nose in a book for nigh on twenty four years (almost literally - I used to walk to school and back, and out for my cigarette breaks at the office, like that! XD) - it's time for a leeetle change...? Perhaps for a while...? Anyway...)
To my shame, I didn't realise, until I’d read it, that what I had bought was actually a short-story collection, not a novel, as I’d thought. But, really, looking back, that was probably for the best. I still had a lot of maturing to do as a reader, and the dark, and strange, and wonderful tales in this book helped me to mature a lot. The man is a master storyteller. Seriously - a master. And to him (and now, to me), the story (and the telling of it) is what is important. As long as the tale is told well, it matters not if it has been told before. I don't mean he's a plagiarist, but he does revel in his own influences, and will occasionally try to write in their style, as an exercise, a tribute, and a homage to his own literary gods. one notable example is a short story called "Sunbird", after the style of an extraordinary storyteller called R A Lafferty, (who is the most unique wrier I’ve ever come across - his short stories are absolutely unmistakable)
Anyway - skip forward a few years more. I’m now in my present job, and have access to the internet for the first time (only five years ago!) albeit restricted. I’m now a confirmed fan, but do not yet worship at his altar. Not yet, but soon. Because I decided to look him up one day. And found his blog. I quickly became addicted. He was a prolific blogger at the time, not quite so much nowadays, which is a bit of a shame, but even gods only have a finite amount of time - he can't do EVERYTHING! XD I became completely addicted to it - my daily dose of Neil. And people sent him links to strange and wonderful things, which he posted - so he kind of became my guide to the internet, too... and I, like thousands and thousands of others became a devoted fan.
Skip forward again - to 2007. ...we're coming to the important and defining bits, here, so pay attention (if you’re still awake, that is)...
Now, like many thousands, possibly millions, of people - especially avid and insatiable readers, I HAD always harboured that nagging, tickly little feeling that maybe, just maybe, there might be a book inside me. Around...um...I guess it would probably be early October of that year, Neil posted a link to something called National Novel Writing Month, in which he was involved that year, writing a pep-talk for those who may be struggling (i.e. almost everybody! XD). it was an intriguing idea...write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days?! Insane! And yet...and yet... thousands of people had already done it - why not me? (N.B. I think about 150.000 people signed up, last year)... I’d already had a couple of abortive (and, frankly, really, really poor attempts) at novelling. I wasn't sure...but I bought the "how to..." book that the organiser had written anyway. I looked at it for a bit and thought, "...weeelll... maybe next year...." and put it back on the shelf. Not entirely forgotten, but almost...
the following year, 2008, Kate (The Most Wonderful Woman In The World) heard about a talk Neil was giving in London, for the Open Rights Group - a digital media campaign group, of whom Neil is a patron. it was kind of like a warm-up date for a promotional tour he was doing for The Graveyard Book (based on the jungle book, but instead of a child being brought up by animals and learning what the animals know, the child is brought up by dead people, and learns what dead people know - awesomely good book, by the way...) As it happens, I’d already heard about this talk, and OF COURSE I wanted to go. Desperately. He so rarely comes here. Again - the poor guy can't do everything and be everywhere... but I persuaded myself to think "nah” - for various reasons. But Katie - she practically forced me to go. Bulldozed me into it. And so, off we set, she and I, on October 24, 2008 - a date engraved on my heart as The Day I Met Neil Gaiman.
Because I did. I met him. I had a conversation with him. I even, EVEN!!! got a hug! When no-one else did! (filling up at the memory, here - also doing fangirl squeeing and the happiest happydance I ever have done, or ever will do) here's how:
Neil has been known to sign books for up to 2,000 people. For, like, seven hours at a stretch. A more genuinely nice man you have very little hope of meeting. Seriously. And he's filled with this awe, and wonder, and curiosity about the world that extends to the fact that he likes meeting his fans, not just because they buy his books, but also because he's interested in them. As people. Um...anyway...I’m digressing, here.
So, it's Friday, October 24, my birthday was the following Monday. I think I’d forgotten I even had a birthday coming up, tbh, so excited was the soon-to-be-Squeaky. He wasn't signing at this do - it was tiny, it was a warm-up, and, frankly, the guy had flown in from the states that day, and was KNACKERED!!! But. There was to be a raffle, to win 12 signed copies of the Graveyard Book. I bought 5 tickets. He did the talk. I was sitting on the front row. Like, 10 feet from my hero. It was amazing, and funny, and interesting, and I, like everyone else, was entranced. The guy is a natural born speaker.
Then...the raffle.
When he read out one of my tickets - 606 - I...yes...guess what I did?
The entire room heard it. 200 people - including my hero - heard me squeak with excitement.
I didn't however, have time to die of embarrassment, as a split-second before I could, he looked at me with amused approval, and said "Good squeak!" I could have died on the spot, and gone to the next life (or to the mud) content that this one had been worth it.
We each got a personally signed book, with our name on a gravestone drawn by The Man Himself, and a chat and...In my case, and mine alone...a hug (he smelled faintly of curry, btw... XD). Kate said it was because I was shining so brightly.
I confess, I have never been so genuinely, blissfully, purely happy as I was in those 5 minutes or so - I was high on it for days afterwards.
So - it's almost November, and I suddenly realise it's almost time for NaNoWriMo again. And I was still so high on my extraordinary encounter that I actually began to consider this ridiculous idea. Not seriously, but I kicked it around a bit. You know... kind of gave it a poke or two to see if it would do anything.
Much to my surprise, when I poked it a couple of days before the first of November, it uncurled, looked at me defiantly, and said, "All right then - bring it on!"
Thirty, no - twenty-six days later, I’d written Minotaur.
My first ever novel. My first fiction since school. All because of Neil Gaiman. Because I loved him as an author, and a human being, and I sooo wanted (and still want) to be even a tiny bit like him that it sometimes hurts (and I just filled up with tears). But I truly believe the writer in me would probably never have uncurled and blinked in the light, if it hadn't been for that once-in-a-lifetime encounter.
That's why he's my god.
And that's why Kate is the most wonderful woman in the world (well, one of the reasons, anyway...there are myriad others)
What?...oh...the screen name?...oh, right...sorry - I almost forgot.
There’s a book of Neil’s called Anansi Boys (one of my absolute favourites, just like all the rest XD). Now, for reasons I won't go into (you'll have to read the book - it's a minor, almost unnoticeable detail, but amused me greatly – but then, I’m a bit odd) there's a pleasure cruise ship in there called The Squeak Attack. And two days before NaNoWriMo was due to start, I needed a screen name in a hurry. If you can believe it, I’d never had one before. So it seemed sort of...fitting and right that I should call myself squeakattack.
So, dear reader – would you like to know how come I revere Mr Neil Gaiman (@neilhimself on Twitter) as my writing god?
And how I got my screen name? As I said in the very first post of this blog, it’s all Neil’s fault...
Ok – here’s the story, but I warn you, it’s a long one...
Actually – do you expect anything else? These posts seem to be getting longer and longer...
I hope you’re sitting comfortably, this may take a while...
Here we have fourteen-year-old Squeaky, having a book recommended to her by a classmate (most unusually, as it happens, but that's another story entirely). Now, Squeaky is not Squeaky at this time - that comes much, MUCH later
...patience...
The book is Mort by Terry Pratchett (now SIR Terry Pratchett - and about bloody time, say I!), of whom you may have heard. This started a love of his books that endures to this day. I sought out every book of his that I could, read them voraciously and repeatedly. And laughed my ass off as I got more and more of the jokes and sly references (still finding them 20 years later, btw...) One of these books was written in collaboration with some guy I’d never heard of, called, yup, Neil Gaiman. The book was very odd, very English, and very, VERY funny. It’s about how the antichrist is supposed to bring about the end of the world and...Well...doesn't want to. The antichrist is a boy of (I think - I haven't read it in a while) about ten years old, who learns of his destiny and, frankly, doesn't like it much. Anyway. I found this probably a couple of years into my Pratchett odyssey, and adored it. I have my original copy (and possibly another one - I can't remember – I have sooo many books! XD), and treasure it. This led to me seeking out more of Neil’s work, as I was (obviously) curious.
So...skip forward a few years. I’m now firmly ensconced in a flat in Derby with hubby (well, boyfriend at the time...but anyway) and for one reason and another, had a lot of time on my hands. Derby library was my friend. I found several of Neil’s Sandman graphic novels there. Not a full set (too much to expect from Derby library, really - the fantasy section's frankly crap), but enough to have me intrigued. They were dark, strange and wonderful. I then found myself searching out every book I could in the library with his name on the spine. Again, not many. In fact, I seem to recall that there was only actually one. I remember it well, as the cover had the most beautiful enamelled bracelet on it... but I digress. Stardust - you may have heard of the film? It’s a fairytale - a proper one... So - not much luck there, though I (of course) loved the book. Although I was poor at the time, I set off to a bookshop one day, determined to get me some Gaiman. I really had no idea about anything else he'd written, to be honest (this was well before I had internet access), but I was so enamoured of his strange beauty that I had to get my hands on SOMETHING. So what I bought was Smoke and Mirrors. I bought it because it was a big, thick book.
N.B. at the time, this was a bonus - could never get enough to read - sadly not so much now. my time is taken up by...other things, these days... I really miss being a bookworm... :o( *sigh* so many books, so little time... but perhaps having had my nose in a book for nigh on twenty four years (almost literally - I used to walk to school and back, and out for my cigarette breaks at the office, like that! XD) - it's time for a leeetle change...? Perhaps for a while...? Anyway...)
To my shame, I didn't realise, until I’d read it, that what I had bought was actually a short-story collection, not a novel, as I’d thought. But, really, looking back, that was probably for the best. I still had a lot of maturing to do as a reader, and the dark, and strange, and wonderful tales in this book helped me to mature a lot. The man is a master storyteller. Seriously - a master. And to him (and now, to me), the story (and the telling of it) is what is important. As long as the tale is told well, it matters not if it has been told before. I don't mean he's a plagiarist, but he does revel in his own influences, and will occasionally try to write in their style, as an exercise, a tribute, and a homage to his own literary gods. one notable example is a short story called "Sunbird", after the style of an extraordinary storyteller called R A Lafferty, (who is the most unique wrier I’ve ever come across - his short stories are absolutely unmistakable)
Anyway - skip forward a few years more. I’m now in my present job, and have access to the internet for the first time (only five years ago!) albeit restricted. I’m now a confirmed fan, but do not yet worship at his altar. Not yet, but soon. Because I decided to look him up one day. And found his blog. I quickly became addicted. He was a prolific blogger at the time, not quite so much nowadays, which is a bit of a shame, but even gods only have a finite amount of time - he can't do EVERYTHING! XD I became completely addicted to it - my daily dose of Neil. And people sent him links to strange and wonderful things, which he posted - so he kind of became my guide to the internet, too... and I, like thousands and thousands of others became a devoted fan.
Skip forward again - to 2007. ...we're coming to the important and defining bits, here, so pay attention (if you’re still awake, that is)...
Now, like many thousands, possibly millions, of people - especially avid and insatiable readers, I HAD always harboured that nagging, tickly little feeling that maybe, just maybe, there might be a book inside me. Around...um...I guess it would probably be early October of that year, Neil posted a link to something called National Novel Writing Month, in which he was involved that year, writing a pep-talk for those who may be struggling (i.e. almost everybody! XD). it was an intriguing idea...write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days?! Insane! And yet...and yet... thousands of people had already done it - why not me? (N.B. I think about 150.000 people signed up, last year)... I’d already had a couple of abortive (and, frankly, really, really poor attempts) at novelling. I wasn't sure...but I bought the "how to..." book that the organiser had written anyway. I looked at it for a bit and thought, "...weeelll... maybe next year...." and put it back on the shelf. Not entirely forgotten, but almost...
the following year, 2008, Kate (The Most Wonderful Woman In The World) heard about a talk Neil was giving in London, for the Open Rights Group - a digital media campaign group, of whom Neil is a patron. it was kind of like a warm-up date for a promotional tour he was doing for The Graveyard Book (based on the jungle book, but instead of a child being brought up by animals and learning what the animals know, the child is brought up by dead people, and learns what dead people know - awesomely good book, by the way...) As it happens, I’d already heard about this talk, and OF COURSE I wanted to go. Desperately. He so rarely comes here. Again - the poor guy can't do everything and be everywhere... but I persuaded myself to think "nah” - for various reasons. But Katie - she practically forced me to go. Bulldozed me into it. And so, off we set, she and I, on October 24, 2008 - a date engraved on my heart as The Day I Met Neil Gaiman.
Because I did. I met him. I had a conversation with him. I even, EVEN!!! got a hug! When no-one else did! (filling up at the memory, here - also doing fangirl squeeing and the happiest happydance I ever have done, or ever will do) here's how:
Neil has been known to sign books for up to 2,000 people. For, like, seven hours at a stretch. A more genuinely nice man you have very little hope of meeting. Seriously. And he's filled with this awe, and wonder, and curiosity about the world that extends to the fact that he likes meeting his fans, not just because they buy his books, but also because he's interested in them. As people. Um...anyway...I’m digressing, here.
So, it's Friday, October 24, my birthday was the following Monday. I think I’d forgotten I even had a birthday coming up, tbh, so excited was the soon-to-be-Squeaky. He wasn't signing at this do - it was tiny, it was a warm-up, and, frankly, the guy had flown in from the states that day, and was KNACKERED!!! But. There was to be a raffle, to win 12 signed copies of the Graveyard Book. I bought 5 tickets. He did the talk. I was sitting on the front row. Like, 10 feet from my hero. It was amazing, and funny, and interesting, and I, like everyone else, was entranced. The guy is a natural born speaker.
Then...the raffle.
When he read out one of my tickets - 606 - I...yes...guess what I did?
The entire room heard it. 200 people - including my hero - heard me squeak with excitement.
I didn't however, have time to die of embarrassment, as a split-second before I could, he looked at me with amused approval, and said "Good squeak!" I could have died on the spot, and gone to the next life (or to the mud) content that this one had been worth it.
We each got a personally signed book, with our name on a gravestone drawn by The Man Himself, and a chat and...In my case, and mine alone...a hug (he smelled faintly of curry, btw... XD). Kate said it was because I was shining so brightly.
I confess, I have never been so genuinely, blissfully, purely happy as I was in those 5 minutes or so - I was high on it for days afterwards.
So - it's almost November, and I suddenly realise it's almost time for NaNoWriMo again. And I was still so high on my extraordinary encounter that I actually began to consider this ridiculous idea. Not seriously, but I kicked it around a bit. You know... kind of gave it a poke or two to see if it would do anything.
Much to my surprise, when I poked it a couple of days before the first of November, it uncurled, looked at me defiantly, and said, "All right then - bring it on!"
Thirty, no - twenty-six days later, I’d written Minotaur.
My first ever novel. My first fiction since school. All because of Neil Gaiman. Because I loved him as an author, and a human being, and I sooo wanted (and still want) to be even a tiny bit like him that it sometimes hurts (and I just filled up with tears). But I truly believe the writer in me would probably never have uncurled and blinked in the light, if it hadn't been for that once-in-a-lifetime encounter.
That's why he's my god.
And that's why Kate is the most wonderful woman in the world (well, one of the reasons, anyway...there are myriad others)
What?...oh...the screen name?...oh, right...sorry - I almost forgot.
There’s a book of Neil’s called Anansi Boys (one of my absolute favourites, just like all the rest XD). Now, for reasons I won't go into (you'll have to read the book - it's a minor, almost unnoticeable detail, but amused me greatly – but then, I’m a bit odd) there's a pleasure cruise ship in there called The Squeak Attack. And two days before NaNoWriMo was due to start, I needed a screen name in a hurry. If you can believe it, I’d never had one before. So it seemed sort of...fitting and right that I should call myself squeakattack.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
fair weather biker? you bet your ass!
well, well... the weather seems to be warming up, at last. out of the chilly breeze, the sun has actually been hot on my back during my cigarette breaks at work. and the mornings and evenings are getting lighter, too. this can only mean one thing...
it will soon be time to get the leathers out, and put the old girl back on the road.
it will soon be time to get the leathers out, and put the old girl back on the road.
The Recalcitrant Old Bitch (as i fondly call her)
heh - not a great pic, but the only one i've got, i'm afraid.
so - i'm not what people would think of as a "typical" biker. very limited knowledge of makes, models, etc. no framed photies around the house. no getting out on a sunday to polish her to within an inch of her life. (um...*blush*...as it happens, she gets washed about once a year, if she's lucky.. mind you, every time i DO wash her, she develops an oil leak. so...*shrugs*)
and noooo riding in all weathers. oh, no sireee not on your life! or, in fact, mine.
somebody called me a fair-weather biker once. which, as far as it goes, is true. i am. it was meant as an insult, though, and coming from this particular woman, it was particularly insulting. but never mind that.
actually, yes - i will expand a little, here.
fair weather bikers (when used as a perjorative phrase) tends to be applied to people who only get the bike out when the sun's warm and the roads are bone-dry, polish their toys to mirror-brightness, go for a ride, then head to Matlock Bath in Derbyshire (or somewhere like it) on a sunday (traditional meeting place of bikers since only the gods know when - a little bit of the seaside in the heart of the country...) in order to pose.
i am, indeed, a fair-weather biker. but not in the above sense.
(btw, i was just running over what i wanted to say in this post, and i suspect it may be another of those loooong, rambling ones i seem to be getting so good at. so if you want to, like, nip out and wash the dishes, or go to a restaurant, or on holiday, or something, go right ahead - i'll probably still be wittering on when you get back - i doubt you'll miss much, to be honest...)
aaaanyway - where was i?... oh, yes...
so, i ride a bike. but i tend to use it as a mode of transport to and from work, mostly, rather than as a pleasure-craft. some people i know go out for a ride just for the sheer joy of it. tbh, i can rarely be arsed with that. i started riding about...oooh...seven-ish years ago, mainly because i finally got fed up with being on the back. seriously - it's a pain in the arse. (literally, in fact, if we're talking hubby's bike. his is a chop, and the back seat is less than two inches thick, and six wide, if i'm lucky. how the hell i did two 900 mile holidays on that terrible torture device, i will never know!) (p.s. it is, sadly no longer rideable - needed a new wiring loom and, by the time we could afford to fix it, it was knackered, so he drives Isobel, these days).
so i started riding as an adult, with the healthy awareness of my own mortality which that (usually) implies. also, i drove a car for years, and know just how careless car drivers can be. therefore, i am a cautious rider, and i never go anywhere without safety gear - full leathers, boots, etc. and bloody hell, but that takes a looong time to get on! then, i have to get the bike out, which involves turning her around in a space not much wider than she is long, lifting her back end up to get her around a tight ninety-degree bend in the passage beween our house and next door, then usually squeezing between parked cars onto a road along which people drive like the clappers. by the time i've done all that (and the bike is old, and, my gods, she is HEAVY!!!), i kinda need a purpose at the end of it all, like, say, earning a little money. so she generally only gets used for work. but that's fine, really - i suspect i enjoy my commute a damn sight more than most. especially in the evening rush-hour, when i get to nip down the middle of the double jams, and really piss the drivers off, stuck in their metal boxes. *naughty grin*
but....
the flipside to this is the english sodding weather. we have a green and pleasant land, but to have a green land, you need water. and i hatehateHATE riding in the rain! it fogs your visor, distorts the view, gets in everywhere there's a seam or a gap, or an imperfectly waterproofed item of clothing.
and the roads! standing water, diesel spills, puddles, hidden potholes, rubbish and gravel washed across the surface and DRAIN COVERS!!!
and riding in the rain in the dark? in rush hour traffic??? forget it!!!
seriously. i want to live.
added to this, my low-light/night vision is pretty poor. so as well as the fact that it's really unpleasant, there's the safety aspect.
and riding in the cold? if you've never ridden a bike (and i'm not talking pillion, here, i'm talking hands on the handlebars), let me tell you - you can tog up as much as you like but, at best, you're only going to be able to give your poor fingertips minimal to moderate protection from the windchill. and that shit HURTS!!! try putting your fingers in a vice for half an hour, and slooooowly tightening it, until all you can feel is the pain. until, in fact, your whole world is the pain. and again, if you miss even the tiiiiniest gap, that icy blast will get in.
so yes, i AM a fair-weather biker, insofar as i try not to ride in conditions under which there is a greatly increased risk of serious injury and/or death, or a chance of freezing solid and/or having to sit in wet underwear all day (i really don't reccommend it - makes your bum wrinkly).
but the nights are getting lighter, and the weather is sloooowly warming up, and my throttle hand is beginning to twitch.
i tried to start her today, for the first time since october. she doesn't like being negleted, and refused to fire up, but the starter motor worked, so that was encouraging. need to juice up the battery and clean the plugs, and try again. and soon.
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in other news...
today, i mostly did...well...not a great deal, actually.
i got some much-needed laundry and sorting-out-piles-of-crap done, taxed TROB (and i've never seen that acronym before - Trob rather suits her as a name, i feel... :o), and wandered around on facebook for a while (never been there before - i found it a little sprawly and hard to work...).
and twitter, of course.
but i also decided it was high time i made me some lip balm, as my other one was getting low and gritty (nutmeg - all will be explained. actually, it's not all that interesting, but i'm gonna tell you anyway..)
the recipe i got from a very nice lady named Holly Snook (i know - cool name, right? apparrently, her dutch grandfather's surname was Snoek, but it got anglicised. which i think is a shame, but never mind), who i used as a starting point for the heroine in my current work-in-progress. this girl is one of the nicest, warmest, friendliest, and generally loveliest people i've ever met. and there's something oddly fey about her, but her looks wouldn't be considered fey...
...getting off the point, here, sorry...
she used to run a shop in Saddlergate in Derby called Boo - selling ethical, fair trade items of a variety of descriptions (also making miniskirts out of old neckties - soooo cool!). tiny little place in a basement - very welcoming and always smelled deliciously of incense. i haven't actually been in for months, but i went back on friday, as i was after some Melissa essential oil. no joy.
at first, i thought the shop had closed, as the board outside said Cherry Bomb Gallery, but thankfully i went to have a look before i wandered away in disappointment. sure enough, as soon as i walked in the door, i could smell the incense - albeit fainter. and, at the bottom of the stairs, there was the lovely Holly herself. turns out, she's gone into partnership with some friends, as she's got an apprenticeship with a tattoo artist. to learn how to make HANDPICKED TATTOOS!!! ancient art! am absolutely floored with joy for her! :o)
anyway, back when the shop was still Boo, she did little workshops on how to make various chemical- and crap-free beauty products. i went to the one where she showed us how to make lip balm and moisturising/massage bars. from pure cocoa butter and the like (which, of course, she sold). i went home and tried it.
it. is. sheer. bliss!
forget Body Shop, forget (even) Lush. this stuff is astonishing. it's the best i've ever used. and it's petrochemical free and ethical, too! *waaaaarm fuzzies*
herewith, the recipe (with tips / info included from the original leaflet, and a few of my own):
3/4 tsp wax (forms moisturising barrier - use apricot, bees or olive wax, or a mixture)
1/2 tsp cocoa butter (high in vit. e - regenerating)
2 tsp olive oil (high in vit. e - regenerating)
1/2 tsp organic honey (antiseptic, plus speeds healing)
or
1/2 tsp organic maple syrup (anti-oxidising, loaded with manganese and zinc)
plus a pinch of ground cinnamon for blushed lips, or a couple of drops of vanilla extract for sweet lips
N.B. NEVER melt butters and oils over direct heat, otherwise you will destroy all of the goodness. use a bain marie or similar.
take a few minutes to melt the butter and wax in a small dish over hot water (the more finely grated these are, the quicker it will melt - esp the wax, which takes aaaages if it's a bit lumpy):
add the oil and honey or syrup, stir gently until all is liquid and blended.
remove from the heat and allow to cool for 5 mins before adding your flavouring. (i added a smidge of cinnamon as i'm very sensitive to it, and a smidge of nutmeg)
decant into a small pot, and leave to cool (stirring occasionally, or the honey is likely to separate out)
i tend to stir it until it begins to solidify (doen't take too long) , then put it in the fridge for half an hour to an hour, to set properly.
et voila!
the best lip balm you will ever use - i promise! ;o) seriously - it lasts on your lips for yonks, and makes them sooo soft - it's quite simply divine! ^_^
(added edit: it tends to be a little hard, especially in the wintertime, but if you scrape a little out with the back of your fingernail and smoothe it on your lips, it melts straight away, and works perfectly :o)
in the pic, the one on the left is the lip balm, the one on the right is an experimental solid perfume.
i used the same method, but with:
1 1/2 tsp kpangnan butter (don't ask me - i have nooo idea, but it's virtually odourless - great for perfume)
1 tsp yangu oil (see above)
1/2 tsp beeswax
melted the wax, butter and oil as described above, removed from the heat, then added 5 drops each of juniper and frankincense essential oils.
smells divine - spicy and woody - just the way i like it! hubby says it reminds him (not unpleasantly) of pine resin.
not sure how long the smell lasts on my skin because, of course, i can't smell it after a bit. but i'll just stick my nose in the pot and inhale deeply anyway! XD
(added edit: sadly, despite how much wax i put in, the smell still doesn't seem to last too long. *shrugs* oh well...back to the chopping board...)
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and now, it's late, and i'm cold, and i've been working on this post for bloody HOURS! (got distracted somewhere in the middle by a Twitter conversation involving kidnap, werewolves, tides and the moon...
so - cup of tea and bedtime for Squeaky, methinks.
goodnight, dear, sweet reader.
dream high and free.
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