there's been a thought washing around in my head this week, and it's this: i wonder if those ancient greek dudes were really on to something...? believe it or not, this was prompted by my having my lip pierced.
look, in Squeaky's World, this makes perfect sense, i promise.
it was Plato (....um...i think...) who came up with the "Theory of Form", which basically, as far as my limited brain can understand it (following a distant reading of Sophie's World and a quick reference to Wikipedia), states that everything we experience through our senses is an echo of a perfect form that exists on some other plane somewhere. ....or something along those lines...
and i have begun to wonder, in an idle sort of way, if we are not all shadows on the wall.
bear with me on this.
so - at the age of sixteen, the embryonic Squeaky had her nose pierced. and she was so very proud of this. she loooooved her nose piercing. it gave her a little bubble of joy every time she looked into the mirror. it just felt so right - like it was meant to be. and she still loves her pierced nose, seventeen years later. (omg - i had my nose pierced more than half of my life ago! *momentarily feels old*)
then, a couple of years ago, having had blonde hair to her waist for most of he life, she had it all cut off, and dyed it purple. again - bubbles of joy nearly every time she looked into the mirror. like it was meant to be.
a week ago yesterday, she had her lip pierced. and she loves it.
now, the day after she had her lip pierced, she went to see her parents, who live on a boat near Hull, wondering what their response would be. her father, she was sure, would hate it, but that's just Dad. he hated the nose ring, too but, being Dad, said little or nothing about that, since he's so laid back, he's practically horizontal, and tends not to get aerated about things he realises he can do nothing about. her mother, she was not sure about. she had, after all, encouraged and paid for the nose-piercing (and the moment it went in, with Mum looking on proudly, is still a surprisingly vivid memory, by the way).
so she waited for their reaction to her new adornment.
and waited, and waited.
in the end, wondering if they were just being polite in not mentioning it, as they both hated it, she asked what they thought.
they looked mildly surprised when attention was drawn to a new piece of metal in their daughter's face and, individually, their reaction was much he same: "Well, i thought it was new, but i wasn't sure, as it seems like the sort of thing that you'd do, anyway"
....er....ok....
i'm 33. most people, i think, tend to get this sort of thing done when they're in their teens, or early twenties. but maybe that's just my prejudices showing. in western society, putting bits of metal into your face, or any part of your body other than your ears, has always struck me as a mildly rebellious act, since it's not really in our culture.
...um...i would like to stress, at this point, neither the nose or the lip were a consciously rebellious act on my part - more in the nature of decoration (though i must admit that it has been tremendous fun winding up a colleague who thinks that tattos and piercings are a revolting perversion)
anyway - back to the point.
i had very much the same reaction from colleagues. these are people i see every day, in an environment where facial piercings are pretty uncommon, though certainly not villified (except for by the colleague i mentioned earlier). and nobody noticed! not a single one! when it was pointed out, they said they hadn't really noticed, but that they thought it was very "me".
....hang on, a minute...
very "me"? what does that mean? now, i choose to believe that they think it suits me. but more than that, and here's where those ancient greek dudes come in. it almost seems like the nose, and the hair, and the lip, and various other things, were things that were always there in potentia, as it were. that Squeaky, as a person, exists in her whole and complete form somewhere beyond Plato's Cave, and she's coming into focus in the sensual world bit by bit. and that applies to her mind, too. and that's why every time i become aware of that thing that's changed, it feels right. because, somehow, that's how it was meant to be...
or i could, in fact, be talking complete bollocks, as usual. *grin*
***
in other news:
we have a new addition to our family of vehicles.
because the adorable Talulah is such an expensive old girl to run, we have acquired a tiny little Fiesta van, who has been named Little V. (little van - geddit? :D) and she, too, though battered, is adorable! dirt cheap to run and lovely to drive, she's taking the pressure off poor old Talulah, and will save quite a bit of money in running and maintenence costs. and we have found somewhere off the road to park Talulah - so she's not subject to the indignities of passing traffic hurling stones and road shit at her beautiful paintwork.
yesterday, we went climbing, for the first time in months. it wasn't long - just a couple of hours, but it was good! we went indoors, to our local climbing centre, Alter-Rock. it was good to be back. since we were last there (in January!), they have added a large fin in the middle of the area, with loads of new climbs and textures/techniques. as well as a traverse wall. And. It. Rocks! there was soooo much to do, and all very interesting. loads of corners and aretes and overhangs and roofs to tackle. great fun, and i did really well - having not climbed for months, i actually managed a couple of 6A rated climbs! and i even screwed up my courage to lead a 4!!! *pride*
.
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rambling. Show all posts
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Deathdream #1
i have absolutely no idea what this is, other than that it turned up in my head late one night, sometime last week...
Deathdream?
The moonlight on the lake gave the wavelets and ripples a milky appearance as she swam through them. Briefly pondering the question of how she had got here, or why, she thought she recalled being pushed off a boat, but could not be sure. She gave a mental shrug, deciding the how and the why did not matter and, for now, continued to swim. The water was neither cool nor hot. Rather, it was just about the same temperature as her body. She didn’t think this was odd, nor the feeling that her body was suspended in nothing as she swam.
Making little headway, but not yet tired, she glanced to her left, towards the shore. It was a brooding, black mass in the moonlight. She thought she saw the shapes of foliage along the line of the water, bulking up and receding, as if over a low hill or dune. But whatever it was, there was nothing at all in it that reflected the light of the nearly full moon, which filled the sky with its blazing light. The mass seemed, instead, intent on sucking the light out of the air, absorbing it like a sponge.
Turning her head away, she swam on. Progress was slow, yes, but it was not a struggle.
Presently, she saw something sticking up out of the water – a forest of oddly-shaped stumps. Swimming closer, she was able to determine that these were, in fact, statues. Strange steel representations, they seemed bolted to the lake bed, with their shoulders just below the waterline. Every now and again, a conjunction of wavelets would conspire to show her a brief glimpse of the curve of a shoulder, nothing more. Of that visible above the water, they had short, pole-like necks, and oddly shaped heads. Each was a flat dome, with a stylised face cast on to one side. And perched on about half were peaked military caps of one style or another. Real ones. Every face was turned towards the dark, light-sucking shore. Though each gave the appearance of scowling, the whole scene was one of wistful melancholy, which almost made her feel sorry for these steel constructions. However, she could not avoid the strange knowledge, or conclusion, that it was important that she, too should have a hat. Treading water for a moment, she chose a dark green one with an especially high peak, plucked it from the head of the unresponsive and uncaring statue, and settled it over the wet straggles of her hair, which she could feel sticking to her cheeks like damp seaweed.
Swimming on, she began, not to tire, but to falter. Her horizon across the water became closer and closer and, when she eventually floundered and got a mouthful of water, she stopped. Realising that there was little left in her, she turned on to her back, and made her slow way towards the shore. When her hands touched the smooth rock of the lake bed as it rose sharply behind her, she put them flat to it. Feeling the undulations of the rock as she did so, she crawled out a little, backwards, then stood, her nightdress clinging to her body and tangling her legs as she turned to look a the shore.
There, she saw several wooden cabins. Above the waterline, they nevertheless stood on waist-high stilts. Wondering who might live there, she took the nearest crooked walkway ramp up to one of them, and followed it to a small decking area outside of some French windows, which were open to the night. Just inside these windows, end-on, was a bed. On the end of the bed sat two young girls in pyjamas, dressing gowns, and slippers. Each had a pair of trousers in her hands, which she was holding up to the moonlight streaming through the open windows. The swimmer had the curious impression that they were washing the trousers in the moonlight.
She asked the girls, “Are you ok?”
The older one turned to regard the swimmer with a stern look, and said, “Well, I would be – if they paid me. Aren’t they supposed to pay me, at my age?”
“How old are you?” asked the swimmer.
“Ten,” was the firm reply.
The swimmer was at a loss to answer the girl’s question. Instead, she turned to look over her left shoulder at the lake, and was mildly surprised to see a young man of twenty or so. He was standing on the ground with his back to the railings, the balustrade level with his head. He turned to look up at her as she asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Biffy,” was his curt reply. “Who the hell are you?”
“...I ...I don’t know,” she replied.
.
Deathdream?
The moonlight on the lake gave the wavelets and ripples a milky appearance as she swam through them. Briefly pondering the question of how she had got here, or why, she thought she recalled being pushed off a boat, but could not be sure. She gave a mental shrug, deciding the how and the why did not matter and, for now, continued to swim. The water was neither cool nor hot. Rather, it was just about the same temperature as her body. She didn’t think this was odd, nor the feeling that her body was suspended in nothing as she swam.
Making little headway, but not yet tired, she glanced to her left, towards the shore. It was a brooding, black mass in the moonlight. She thought she saw the shapes of foliage along the line of the water, bulking up and receding, as if over a low hill or dune. But whatever it was, there was nothing at all in it that reflected the light of the nearly full moon, which filled the sky with its blazing light. The mass seemed, instead, intent on sucking the light out of the air, absorbing it like a sponge.
Turning her head away, she swam on. Progress was slow, yes, but it was not a struggle.
Presently, she saw something sticking up out of the water – a forest of oddly-shaped stumps. Swimming closer, she was able to determine that these were, in fact, statues. Strange steel representations, they seemed bolted to the lake bed, with their shoulders just below the waterline. Every now and again, a conjunction of wavelets would conspire to show her a brief glimpse of the curve of a shoulder, nothing more. Of that visible above the water, they had short, pole-like necks, and oddly shaped heads. Each was a flat dome, with a stylised face cast on to one side. And perched on about half were peaked military caps of one style or another. Real ones. Every face was turned towards the dark, light-sucking shore. Though each gave the appearance of scowling, the whole scene was one of wistful melancholy, which almost made her feel sorry for these steel constructions. However, she could not avoid the strange knowledge, or conclusion, that it was important that she, too should have a hat. Treading water for a moment, she chose a dark green one with an especially high peak, plucked it from the head of the unresponsive and uncaring statue, and settled it over the wet straggles of her hair, which she could feel sticking to her cheeks like damp seaweed.
Swimming on, she began, not to tire, but to falter. Her horizon across the water became closer and closer and, when she eventually floundered and got a mouthful of water, she stopped. Realising that there was little left in her, she turned on to her back, and made her slow way towards the shore. When her hands touched the smooth rock of the lake bed as it rose sharply behind her, she put them flat to it. Feeling the undulations of the rock as she did so, she crawled out a little, backwards, then stood, her nightdress clinging to her body and tangling her legs as she turned to look a the shore.
There, she saw several wooden cabins. Above the waterline, they nevertheless stood on waist-high stilts. Wondering who might live there, she took the nearest crooked walkway ramp up to one of them, and followed it to a small decking area outside of some French windows, which were open to the night. Just inside these windows, end-on, was a bed. On the end of the bed sat two young girls in pyjamas, dressing gowns, and slippers. Each had a pair of trousers in her hands, which she was holding up to the moonlight streaming through the open windows. The swimmer had the curious impression that they were washing the trousers in the moonlight.
She asked the girls, “Are you ok?”
The older one turned to regard the swimmer with a stern look, and said, “Well, I would be – if they paid me. Aren’t they supposed to pay me, at my age?”
“How old are you?” asked the swimmer.
“Ten,” was the firm reply.
The swimmer was at a loss to answer the girl’s question. Instead, she turned to look over her left shoulder at the lake, and was mildly surprised to see a young man of twenty or so. He was standing on the ground with his back to the railings, the balustrade level with his head. He turned to look up at her as she asked, “Who are you?”
“I’m Biffy,” was his curt reply. “Who the hell are you?”
“...I ...I don’t know,” she replied.
.
Monday, 5 April 2010
nothing to see here..move along, please...
today, i find myself with a feeling that i appear to have had for most of my life. desperate to write something, but with no idea of what to write.
oh, the joys of blogging!
to be able to write about nothing much if i so wish, just to assuage the desperate need to write! at this point, i refer you to the note under the blog's title - please feel free to wander off and watch paint dry - i won't hold it against you - how do you think i feel? i have to live in here.
when i was a kid and overtaken by this urge, i would get a picture book of fairy tales i had, and copy out the tales until the need to use paper and pen or pencil to make words was quietened for now.
actually, now my mind is wandering off the path and wondering if i am cursed. this thought tends to occur for many and varied reasons in my day-to-day life, but in this particular instance....a (fledgeling) writer, wants to write, in fact needs to write, but completely devoid of inspiration or the kind of mind that can pull together random elements and put them togethter in unusual and unexpected ways, and use it to tell a story to amaze/amuse/pull forth emotions/whatever. also - a writer with nothing much to say about anything, if i'm honest.
or maybe i'm just an inveterate chatterbox with a stationary fetish?...
hmmm....
well, anyway, like i said - less even than usual to say, but when did that ever stop me?... the first stage of editing the WIP is finished. i've fixed the spelling, the wonky sentences, and argued constantly with the spelling and grammar checker over whether or not a sentence is too wordy, or should/should not end on a preposition.
...by the way - WTF is a preposition anyway?!...
and hubby has read it. this is a first, him not being someone who generally reads for pleasure. and he says he enjoyed it, which, of course, pleases me immensely. :o) he was also kind enough to point out one or two plot holes and inconsistencies. these, i will file away for later. having lived with the blasted thing for the last 5 months, i'm far too close to it and, frankly, heartily sick of the bloody thing. it's a disappointment to me, especially after the first one. however, i already have another couple of ideas settling into the silt for next november, so maybe i'll just leave them there, and see what occurs. or maybe they'll make themselves into short stories between now and then.
because i thought i might have a go at short stories next.
i know, i know - short stories are hard. really hard. and that's good. i want a different challenge, and i understand short stories can be wonderful learning experiences foran author a writer (feels weird and presumptious to refer to myself as an author - i'm just someone who wants to write). personally, after this last one, i hope i can give myself a few lessons in cutting out the waffle. it also means i'm gonna have to tune my brain in to the odd details of the world - the things that pique my interest. a word, a phrase, a situation, an incongruous juxtaposition of ideas. i'm going to have to have my writer head on most, if not all of the time. it will be interesting to see if i can keep that little entity that sits at the back of my brain (on a three-legged stool with a pen poised over a reporter's notebook) alert, and watching. i wonder what she'll come up with? i also wonder if she'll notice things that i don't, and poke me as i'm writing?
gods, i hope so...
.
oh, the joys of blogging!
to be able to write about nothing much if i so wish, just to assuage the desperate need to write! at this point, i refer you to the note under the blog's title - please feel free to wander off and watch paint dry - i won't hold it against you - how do you think i feel? i have to live in here.
when i was a kid and overtaken by this urge, i would get a picture book of fairy tales i had, and copy out the tales until the need to use paper and pen or pencil to make words was quietened for now.
actually, now my mind is wandering off the path and wondering if i am cursed. this thought tends to occur for many and varied reasons in my day-to-day life, but in this particular instance....a (fledgeling) writer, wants to write, in fact needs to write, but completely devoid of inspiration or the kind of mind that can pull together random elements and put them togethter in unusual and unexpected ways, and use it to tell a story to amaze/amuse/pull forth emotions/whatever. also - a writer with nothing much to say about anything, if i'm honest.
or maybe i'm just an inveterate chatterbox with a stationary fetish?...
hmmm....
well, anyway, like i said - less even than usual to say, but when did that ever stop me?... the first stage of editing the WIP is finished. i've fixed the spelling, the wonky sentences, and argued constantly with the spelling and grammar checker over whether or not a sentence is too wordy, or should/should not end on a preposition.
...by the way - WTF is a preposition anyway?!...
and hubby has read it. this is a first, him not being someone who generally reads for pleasure. and he says he enjoyed it, which, of course, pleases me immensely. :o) he was also kind enough to point out one or two plot holes and inconsistencies. these, i will file away for later. having lived with the blasted thing for the last 5 months, i'm far too close to it and, frankly, heartily sick of the bloody thing. it's a disappointment to me, especially after the first one. however, i already have another couple of ideas settling into the silt for next november, so maybe i'll just leave them there, and see what occurs. or maybe they'll make themselves into short stories between now and then.
because i thought i might have a go at short stories next.
i know, i know - short stories are hard. really hard. and that's good. i want a different challenge, and i understand short stories can be wonderful learning experiences for
gods, i hope so...
.
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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