Oxymoron of the day

From an article about proverbs from Scotland.com:

What most people do not realize is that there are a great number of proverbs used by the Scottish that are exclusive to Scotland. There are approximately three thousand to be exact.

An exact approximation. Right.

I will write about Glasgow soon - promise. In the meantime...

Woke up... scratched arse... lay in bed half-erect wondering if I felt like cracking one off... couldn't be bothered in the end; will probably save it up for a porn-assisted stroke session tonight... eventually got out of bed for a dump and a shower... decided to go to the shop for eggs, chopped tomatoes, olive oil and a new hammer before having breakfast... need hammer to assemble new CD case for cupboard in lounge... put on CD - a bit of Living Colour because I felt like some thrashy funk rock this morning - and thought about what to have for breakfast... got sidetracked into writing this mundane spiel about the minutiae of my everyday life... my stomach is growling impatiently and yet I keep typing this garbage and trying to envisage exactly how dull and mediocre a person would have to be to spend all day engrossed in this pitiful drivel... welcome to the blogosphere.

No parking

OK, seeing as I have been inundated with... um... two requests for disclosure, here is the dream I dreamed the other night:

I was driving a big family estate car through a typical residential suburb. I turned into a cul-de-sac of five or six generic detached houses that all sat upon raised ground with sloping driveways running down to the road. I turned into the driveway of the house in which I apparently lived. I took the car up the driveway, allowing gravity to slow the car down, put the clutch in and pressed the brake pedal. The car came to a halt in front of the garage door but instead of staying put the car began to roll back down the drive and into the road even though my foot remained on the brake pedal.

The car came to a gentle halt by the opposite curb. Frowning, I gently moved the car forwards, mounted the driveway, took my foot off the accelerator when I reached the garage door and firmly applied the brake pedal, but yet again, once the car had stopped it began to roll back into the road.

I tried again but this time, once the car rolled to a halt in front of the garage, I applied the foot brake and the hand brake. No good: the car rolled back again. This time, though, a neighbour was pulling into the cul-de-sac and had to come to an abrupt stop to avoid a collision. I looked out of the side window, shrugged and mouthed an apology. My neighbour waved and manoeuvred around me to reach his own driveway.

Annoyed now, I attempted to park again, this time slamming down my foot on the brake pedal and yanking up the hand break, but still the car rolled back into the road even faster than before. More neighbours were driving into the street and I had to swerve to avoid them mouthing sorry at them.

Again and again I ascended my driveway, slamming harder on the brake pedal, yanking up the hand brake with all my strength and every time rolling back faster and further into the road, dodging my neighbours' cars, rolling up the pavement, onto their front lawns, across their driveways as they themselves were parking on them, skidding and dodging. It was Cars On Ice.

The car eventually slid to a halt. I clung to the steering wheel, breathing heavily. I didn't know what to do. The car would not stay on the sloped driveway. I couldn't leave the car where it came to rest across the middle of the road. I could not park at the roadside where the car could not roll away - that was somehow not an option - but I could not leave the car until it was parked. I was stranded, helpless.

My dad emerged from the house and strolled over. I wound down the window and said, the brakes have failed. Dad nodded and said nothing. He looked away, stared into space. It's not my fault, I wanted to say. Dad sighed. His eyes tried to communicate sympathy but they could not disguise his disappointment, his resignation, as if to say, he can't even park the fucking car.

Enigmatic blog post title that gives no indication as to what the post may be about and is quite possibly longer than the post itself

Last night I did something that I haven't done for a very long time: I awoke from a dream and... wrote it down.

Leave a comment if you wish to know what the dream was about.

Thanks y'all

Thank you all who commented on my last neurotic outburst about my writing or lack thereof. OK, I'm not writing at the moment: so what? I am, however, reading like a fiend and have a ravenous appetite for knowledge at the moment, be it for literature, science, film criticism, music theory. My brain must be demanding nourishment for a reason and I will know when I am ready to write again.

Once again, excuse my daft outburst.

The Naked And The Dead

Norman Mailer
1923—2007

Time at the bar please, gentlemen

I'm wondering if it is not about time I gave up these fanciful notions of being a writer. I haven't written anything substantial for two years and, frankly, the desire to write, the need to write, has gone. If the passion isn't there then why bother? No point in persevering if the drive isn't there - you'll only produce half-arsed drivel. Maybe I've just been kidding myself that I am a true creator; maybe I am nothing more than an over enthusiastic reader suffering from a romantic delusion of being an artist.

Who cares? Too many talentless hacks out there scribbling away at interminable drek as it is. Why add to the stockpile?

Oh yeah, that time of the year again

Tomorrow is 1 November and we all know what that means, right? Right? Exactly.

Oh, and that novel writing month thingie starts as well. I think I know what I'm doing. Pretty much. I think.

Let's see if I can beat last year's total word count which was precisely zero. At the very least I need to get my long-dormant writing muscle flexing again. It has been far, far too long since I actually wrote anything other than the gibberish I sporadically cough up onto this blog. Really need to get back in the game or, more accurately, on the game*.

* This is a not-so-cryptic clue as to what my NaNoWriMo novel is going to be about. I'm hoping Jake Gyllenhaal will portray me in the film version.

Mots de jour

Two of my current favourite words:

• Obstreperous - noisily and stubbornly defiant.
• Defenestrate - to throw someone or something out of a window.

I think we can all agree that these words are not used often enough in everyday conversation. Go forth and obstreperously defenestrate with giddy abandon!

Random ramblings of a Sunday afternoon

Boy, this blog is dying on its arse, isn't it? I can barely manage one post a week and even then I seldom have anything interesting to say. Ugh. For what it's worth, here are some headlines to tide you over:

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Attended an Underworld gig on Thursday night at the Roundhouse in London. All kinds of awesomeness. Despite their latest album, Oblivion With Bells, being a more relaxed and ambient affair than previous records, they still know how to get people's butts movin' on the dance floor. And singer/guitarist Karl Hyde, bless him, is one of the best frontmen in the business. He bounces around the stage with such joyful abandon that you can't help but grin like a fool and cheer like a lunatic. His enthusiasm is not only infectious but also possibly lethal.

Highlights must include Two Months Off into Kittens into Moaner into Born Slippy [NUXX] into Shudder/King Of Snake - I was flippin' knackered once that little mix came to an end; and Rez/Cowgirl/Rez/Cowgirl was bloody brilliant too.

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For reasons that are far too convoluted to go into, I seem to be engaged in cyber-sex with a pair of sock puppets

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Current cultural artefacts entering my head via various orifices and organs:

• Aram Khachaturian's Gayane ballet suites (Suite No. 3, Gayane's Adagio - used by Kubrick in 2001: A Space Odyssey to introduce the Discovery One on its way to Jupiter - is a sublime piece of music).
• Talking Heads, the early Eno produced stuff: funky, arty, post-punk goodness, yeah!
• Life: A User's Manual by Georges Perec. No, not a self-help book but a wonderful French novel that describes a Parisian block of flats, its occupants, their lives and tales relating to their possessions. Funny, inventive and sad. Highly recommended.
• The TV show Heroes - enjoyable, well-written sci-fi/fantasy although it does sometimes take an awful long time for anything to happen. Addictive stuff nevertheless.

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I am also preparing for National Novel Writing Month by trawling the internet for information about bizarre sex fetishes and reading a critical study of the films of Luis Buñuel.

Don't ask.

Never mind the puppies - just buy the damn books

Two books for your consideration:

The Cusp Of Something by Jai Clare (released 1 November 2007).

From Elastic Press: Jai Clare’s stories are filled with the disaffected, those who kick against their everyday lives, who crave the mystic when seeking their spirituality, and who are desperate to be alone as much as they are desperate to be with someone. Whether in North Africa, Greece, or Britain her characters’ concerns remain the same. To find meaning in the universal and the personal, through transient sex or emotional depth. All told with a fluid intensity of prose that cuts to the heart of them, lays them bare to misfortune and fortune, and stands them waiting on the brink of discovery.

Two Tall Tales And One Short Novel by Heidi James, Kay Sexton & Lucy Fry (out now).

From Apis Books: Two Tall Tales and One Short Novel, is a collection of stories by three of the UK's brightest new writing talents: The Mesmerist's Daughter by Heidi James, Smokin' the Queen by Kay Sexton, and In the Clear by Lucy Fry. Together the stories transport the reader into the minds of three very different characters.

It just so happens that both Jai Clare and Kay Sexton are close and personal friends of mine and not only are they fantastic writers but also lovely, beautiful people. So if you don't buy these books then you are effectively pissing on my grave. You wouldn't piss on my grave, would you? I thought not. To make things easier for you, here are some clicky things you can use to buy these great books (because you are going to buy them, aren't you, rather than piss on somebody's grave, namely mine).

Pre-order The Cusp of Something from Amazon UK
Buy Two Tall Tales and One Short Novel: Anthology of Shorter Fiction from Amazon UK

OK, I'm done pimping my friends. Time for coffee and cookies.

The tyranny of ideology

Psychotherapeutic counsellor and novelist Sebastian Beaumont chooses his top ten books about psychological journeys in The Guardian. Discussing Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Beaumont comments

"We can never step outside ideology, but Pirsig makes it clear that if we really face it, we can radically reduce its tyranny."

The tyranny of ideology: the phrase encapsulates several ideas that have preoccupied me recently albeit in a very vague and inarticulate way. Beaumont's comment has crystallised those ideas, given me a focus that has been absent for so very long. Funny how one sentence, one simple combination of words, can kickstart long-dormant creativity.

I must go write.

Thought for the day

A couple of weekends ago while prostrate on a friend's sofa after an evening of fillums in our eyes and copious amounts of wine down our throats an idea occurred to me that struck me as so important and profound that I must record it somehow at all costs. I had no pen and paper to hand so, painful as it was, made myself vertical, rummaged through my rucksack, found my mobile phone and sent myself a text message. I couldn't possibly write out the idea in its entirety but I knew that if I recorded one particular phrase it would be sufficient to recall this immense concept at a later time.

With a head full of booze and fatigue I managed with some difficulty to key in this phrase of utmost significance. I read and reread the message to ensure that the predictive text hadn't muddled this most important of messages and then I hit the "send" button. A second later my phone beeped reassuringly and I collapsed back on the sofa safe in the knowledge that the message, the prompt to myself that would trigger recollection of this most profound of ideas was tucked away in my mobile's memory.

I awoke the next morning without a hangover and feeling much better than I had any right to. I stretched, I yawned, I blinked, I contemplated making a cup of coffee, and then I remembered that in my drunken stupor the night before I had experienced something of an epiphany, a realisation that made sense of this whole damn palaver we call life. But what was it? I don't know. But... the phone: I had sent myself a reminder. The key was in my phone, a short phrase that would bring the whole damn revelation back to me. I rummaged once more in my bag for my phone, switched it on and saw the little envelope icon that signified receipt of a new message. I pressed to select the message and read what could be the single most important discovery of my life:

"There are too many ideas in my leg."

No, I still have no fucking idea what it could possibly mean.

Lonesome no more

Self portrait from 'Breakfast Of Champions'

Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
1922—2007

Trend-setter... not...

Sad to report that, after six months, the new literary genre I coined - "faux-noir narcissism" - has yet to be adopted by the masses.

Zadie Smith in The Guardian

There is a nice article in today's Guardian by Zadie Smith where she ponders the questions of what makes good writing, what do writers think of their own work, is writing an expression of the writer's self and do writers have a duty to their readers or vice versa. Some fascinating ideas for all of those with literary aspirations.

"Fail better" by Zadie Smith - The Guardian, Saturday 13 January 2007

Five Minute Interview

For reasons I can't begin to fathom, I have been interviewed by Kathryn Koromilas. She has been posting a series of Five Miniute Interviews with various writers. They were given five questions and had to spend no more than a minute answering each one. The results have been most varied and interesting.

Anyway, you can click here to read my Five Minute Interview.

I maybe should have waited until I was in a better mood before answering the questions... but then we could have all been waiting an awful long time.

While you are at it, why not read the more Five Minute Interviews with legit writers:

• Shelley Marlow
• Stewart Sumner
• Vanessa Gebbie
• Omar Clew
• Myfanwy Collins
• Xujun Eberlein
• Alicia Gifford
• Lydia Theys
• Ed Touchette
• Ellen Meister
• Forrest Trescot
• Roger Morris

NaNot

I had intended to take part in National Novel Writing Month again this year, really I did; but here we are, a third of the way through November and I ain't written a single bleedin' word. I haven't even got any ideas, not for a novel, not even for a short story. Mind's a blank.

I'm not especially bothered by this: I often go through prolonged periods of creative drought. It's not so bad, though, because it means I get a lot of reading done. I am nearing the end of Christopher Priest's The Prestige. My chum Jai introduced me to Priest earlier this year by recommending The Affirmation, a wonderful book that blurs the lines between reality and fiction, raises questions of identity, and can also be read as an insightful description of schizophrenia. Then I heard that The Prestige was being adapted for the screen by Christopher Nolan, he of Following, Memento and Batman Begins fame. I wanted to read more of Priest's work and, as I usually like to read the novel before I see the film, I got myself a copy of The Prestige. Like The Affirmation, The Prestige starts off in a deceptively straightforward way but Priest is a master of confounding your expectations. Just when you think you know exactly what is going on, he turns everything on its head and makes you question everything that has gone before. I have about 40 pages left to read and I am itching to see how it all ends.

I was excited to hear that Christopher Nolan would be tackling a Priest novel. Nolan has proved with his first four films that he is a most intelligent director fascinated by messing with the perceptions of the audience. Interestingly, the reviews for Nolan's movie have been pretty evenly split between those who have praised it as a superior piece of cinematic sleight-of-hand and those who have condemned it as an interminably boring piece of garbage. So I really don't know what to expect: will it be a step forward for one of the most interesting young directors working today that faithfully transfers the spirit of Priest's writing to the big screen or has Nolan fluffed it and produced his first dud movie? I shall find out soon... but only once I have finished the novel, obviously.

A new genre label

I am going to coin the name for an hitherto unlabelled literary genre: Faux Noir Narcissism*.

Faux Noir Narcissism is fiction that is repugnant for no other reason than the writer attempting to be "edgy". Faux-Noir Narcissism will feature much violence, often of the sexual variety, and a lot of swearing. The author of this material will believe that they are "telling it how it is". The reality is that their work is nothing more than a manifestation of their morbid self-absorption.

Such writers will tell you at length about how their work is confronting and exploring the darker side of humanity. If you dare to suggest that the work is gratuitously vile then they will respond that you are naïve and cannot stomach the harsh realities of the world about which they are fearlessly writing. The actual reality is that such writers have never actually experienced anything truly horrific themselves and have no empathy whatsoever with those who have. The reason for this is that they are obsessed with how oh-so very fucked up they believe themselves to be and with the "dark shit" that rattles around their otherwise empty heads. In the case of authors of sexually violent tales, however much the narrative voice may condemn such violence, you will often detect a fetishistic tone, a queasy relish for detail.

This kind of work is not confronting the ugly realities of life - it is utterly inauthentic and displays no insight into how violence, sexual or otherwise, truly affects its victims. It trivialises the real horrors that people endure in this world. Such stories reveal nothing more than the sado-masochistic or rape fantasies of the writer.

There is nothing wrong with depicting violence and the darker aspects of the world in fiction. We all make stuff up but to do it effectively and—dare I say it?—responsibly one must draw upon one's own experiences and extrapolate from them, recall situations you have been in and exaggerate them, adapt them, imagine taking them to the extreme. But most of all you need empathy; and it is all too easy to detect the writers who have none. Without empathy you will produce nothing but shallow, self-indulgent rubbish.

* Unless, that is, "utter shite" counts as a recognised literary genre.

Muriel Spark, R.I.P.

Sad to read about the passing of Dame Muriel Spark. The author, probably best known for the novel The Prime Of Miss Jean Brodie, died aged 88 in the Tuscan village of Civitella della Chiana where she had lived for 27 years.

I have to confess that I have only read one of her novels, Aiding And Abetting, but her dark humour and intelligence always shone through in interviews and articles. I shall have to rectify that. A trip to the bookstore is in order.

Online obituraries:
The Observer
BBC News Online