Yesterday I arrived in the magical city of Toledo. It was a last minute decision to come here: I figured I had some time to kill, in a sense, as I have no fixed plans other than meeting Bridgy-Didge in a few weeks, and LP did say it´s the number one tourist destination. After being quite impressed with Madrid (and, really, wanting to see if it were possible for MORE people to be in one place - if more tourists means more people) and being unable to get any further accommodation in Madrid, I locked it in. And, not that I need to justify it any further, how much cooler a word can you get than ´Toledo´? It´s like a burrito and torpedo all in one, and reminds me of watching Speedy Gonzales cartoons. So needless to say, I was psyched!
And, an idiot. It would appear that, as bad as I am at maps, I am also hopeless when it comes to reading - at the least, numerically dyslexic. (I know, right, who would have thought?!) Somewhere, my little brain picked up that it was three and a half hours to Toledo. So you can imagine my utter shock when I had barely even settled in for the trip; had barely stowed my overhead luggage; was at a really crucially exciting part in my book ... and we reached Toledo.
Toledo is 28 minutes from Madrid. Just so you know. And I wasted the first leg of my Eurail pass on it, theoretically paying $100 for what would have cost about fifteen on a single ticket.
Genius! What a genius.
So confused was I, so confused by this turn of events, I was sure I must be in the wrong Toledo. That there was a suburb of Toledo connected to Madrid, and I was in it. Loaded down with bags and not a person in sight speaking English, I was starting to fret about being in some Epping-like backwater of Spain´s capital, and having to waste another leg of my Eurail pass on the 28 minute trip back!
It was a look up to the heavens that saved me. No, no - not divine intervention. Screw that - don´t be preposterous! The thing is, when you´re at the train station in Toledo, and you look up you see ... amazement. You see thousands of years of history perched on a hill. You see, possibly, the most aesthetically pleasing city I´ve ever cast my eyes on - if you´re into the whole Roman-meets-Moors-meets-Visigoth-meets-Sepheric-meets-Christian history thing, and therefore architecture thing - which I definitely am. It was stunning! The first thing I thought after being dumped at my hotel after driving to the very top of this ´hill´ was that I was going to get lost, and badly. Toledo is a maze of cobbled, narrow streets running up and down the hill of the city, between stuccoed buildings, cheap and nasty looking restaurants and postcard shops that look the same (in the really touristy areas) and hidden depths if you go around the right corners. With my map reading skills, I spent the whole day lost and confused and in love with this place. And not nearly as many tourists as in Madrid, thank God!
But today, after getting a little too lost to make it to the many museums and places of worth I´d wanted to look at, I decided to catch the trusted hop-on-hop-off bus that has become a regular fixture on this trip. In fact, I have made it my goal that if I can ride the bus in every city I go to, I will indeed buy myself an extra pair of Manolo Blahniks. No shit!! Maybe the gorgeous blue fabric ones with the little flowers ... ok, I´m getting off track. The bus! I mainly wanted to see how the bus would navigate the tight narrow streets that little cars could barely negotiate. And how many people we would kill, as there´s never room enough for pedestrians on the footpaths and traffic. It was going to be an adventure!
It was a little disappointing, in truth.
After paying eight euros (not much, I suppose - it was three times that in Paris) and waiting AN HOUR for one to turn up, all the bus did was drive around the perimiter of Toledo (down the hill, around the hill, and back up the hill) and then the driver kicked us off. And that was it. You can now see why I DESERVE shoes if that´s the kind of tour bus experience I´m putting out for!
Anyway, saw the Alcazar - amazing. Saw the catherdral and a billion other churches. Begrudgingly admit they were amazing. And ate McDonalds cos the food in Toledo is really shit and overpriced. So shut up!! (And it was amazing! ha ha ha)
Tomorrow I am off to Seville. Hurrah! Barbers and oranges and flamenco dancing, here I come!!! And no more rubbish fast food, I promise! Adios!
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Ten degrees is still cold. Amen.
So, I learned a precious lesson yesterday: that Spain, though Mediterranean, and ten degrees warmer than Paris, and sunny and without snow, it is also undeniably freaking cold! A blizzard to my bones, to be precise, and I will never make the near fatal (I am sure of it!) flaw of thinking to myself "Gee, sunshine. And itś ten degrees. I might leave my coat at home today and go and sit on an open top bus and freeze my bloody arse off!"
Seriously, by the time I stopped being stubborn and realised enough was enough, the muscles in my legs and lower back were in spasms because I had been clenching them so hard, and I could barely walk! Freezing to death must be agonizing, but I am sure it has done wonders for my butt itself, as I can still feel the muscles burning - like I·ve run ten ks!
But here I am. I have realised my life long dream to come to Spain. Yay! Since 1992 and the Barcelona Olympics, I have wanted to get here (ok - Barcelona to be precise, but though I am very bad at geography I know I am now closer than I was a week ago!) It is kind of funny, therefore, to see banners all over the place for World Youth Day Madrid, for I feel that I would rather be anywhere else than here when that time arrives!! I would rather stick a fork in my eye!
But to be here now is very exciting. Itś a beautiful old city, and when I can finally upload some photos (having a little trouble with more technology, it would seem!) there will be quite a few of just buildings this time - and some more self portaits, cos theyŕe so brilliant! - but the architecture is just stunning. I have spent very little time indoors as the outdoors seems to be the best part of Madrid. But I do have one teeny tiny criticism: why in Godś name is it so crowded??? I would hate to see the high season - this place is literally bulging at the seams. Sometimes I turn to go down a street, and when I see the throng of people cramming that street, moving in a wave towards me, I just turn around and go back. Itś madness! And the queues! So many people queuing, and I cannot even make out what they are queuing for, half the time - all I know is that there are five hundred people clogging the footpath for a block and a half! It is so strange to come from Paris, which almost felt empty by comparison (the buses certainly were) to not even being able to get ON a bus because they are full!
As with everywhere, I have had a lot of fun eating in this city, my favourite place has been a market called Mercardo San Miguel - a degustation market in which the stallkeepers of fruit and veg, fish and cheese and breads (mostly) also stock wine and tapas! I do not know if any one even goes there for the produce, but the wine and tapas are amazing. And they have good cupcakes too! And I will never go to another Starbucks as long as I live after a Spanish woman yesterday accused me of being American because I had a Starbucks coffee in my hand - and would not believe me when I told her otherwise. To the extent that she started banging on about her favourite parts of America - Boston - and if I had ever been to Syracuse, because her neice lives there. So Starbucks makes you American, apparently.
Itś shit coffee anyway, and I should be ashamed. I was desperate, I swear!
Anway, after trying in vain to get tickets to "Los Miserables" - which would be SO COOL in Spanish! - I am out of Madrid and heading to the historical centre of Toledo. And more tapas!!
Seriously, by the time I stopped being stubborn and realised enough was enough, the muscles in my legs and lower back were in spasms because I had been clenching them so hard, and I could barely walk! Freezing to death must be agonizing, but I am sure it has done wonders for my butt itself, as I can still feel the muscles burning - like I·ve run ten ks!
But here I am. I have realised my life long dream to come to Spain. Yay! Since 1992 and the Barcelona Olympics, I have wanted to get here (ok - Barcelona to be precise, but though I am very bad at geography I know I am now closer than I was a week ago!) It is kind of funny, therefore, to see banners all over the place for World Youth Day Madrid, for I feel that I would rather be anywhere else than here when that time arrives!! I would rather stick a fork in my eye!
But to be here now is very exciting. Itś a beautiful old city, and when I can finally upload some photos (having a little trouble with more technology, it would seem!) there will be quite a few of just buildings this time - and some more self portaits, cos theyŕe so brilliant! - but the architecture is just stunning. I have spent very little time indoors as the outdoors seems to be the best part of Madrid. But I do have one teeny tiny criticism: why in Godś name is it so crowded??? I would hate to see the high season - this place is literally bulging at the seams. Sometimes I turn to go down a street, and when I see the throng of people cramming that street, moving in a wave towards me, I just turn around and go back. Itś madness! And the queues! So many people queuing, and I cannot even make out what they are queuing for, half the time - all I know is that there are five hundred people clogging the footpath for a block and a half! It is so strange to come from Paris, which almost felt empty by comparison (the buses certainly were) to not even being able to get ON a bus because they are full!
As with everywhere, I have had a lot of fun eating in this city, my favourite place has been a market called Mercardo San Miguel - a degustation market in which the stallkeepers of fruit and veg, fish and cheese and breads (mostly) also stock wine and tapas! I do not know if any one even goes there for the produce, but the wine and tapas are amazing. And they have good cupcakes too! And I will never go to another Starbucks as long as I live after a Spanish woman yesterday accused me of being American because I had a Starbucks coffee in my hand - and would not believe me when I told her otherwise. To the extent that she started banging on about her favourite parts of America - Boston - and if I had ever been to Syracuse, because her neice lives there. So Starbucks makes you American, apparently.
Itś shit coffee anyway, and I should be ashamed. I was desperate, I swear!
Anway, after trying in vain to get tickets to "Los Miserables" - which would be SO COOL in Spanish! - I am out of Madrid and heading to the historical centre of Toledo. And more tapas!!
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Technology is the root of all evil. Seriously.
Hmmm. It would seem that I am a little more marooned than yesterday. First it was my camera, now my little baby netbook has shit itself. What IS it with me and technology? No, seriously! I tucked it up all nicely in its little pink cover between use; gave it anti-virus vaccinations ... I'm no expert, the thing itself seems to be working so I'd say its Windows. And I thought I hated Apple ...
So, things just got a little bit more inconvenient - it sure was fun being able to skype and facebook on those long, boring waits for trains, planes and automobiles.
I hate technology. And apparently, it hates me right back!
But it's been another great couple of days - including Christmas. Christmas on one's own can be hard, but there was a lot to keep my occupied, and it all started with food! After Paris, I am starving myself, because all I have done since I got here is eat, and over Christmas Eve/Christmas, I went ballistic - and it was divine! On Christmas Eve, I went out for dinner - a delightful little creperie - before deciding it might be worth it to go to church at Notre Dame. Just cos it's Notre Dame!
It wasn't.
The spectacle was fun to start with: soldiers with machine guns (cos, Christmas spirit and all, what says it better than machine guns?!) And standing room only, underneath the massive organ.
But it was all dowill hill from there. Church actually can get more boring - when you have NO IDEA what they are saying!! So I did it, but I'm not doing it again!!!
Paris kind of closed down after that. For a city that had been pumping since the moment I arrived, from about seven o'clock on Christmas eve, it was a ghost town, and waking up on Christmas Day I was afraid I would see the same thing.
Not a chance!
Paris on Christmas day was thriving. Every butcher, baker and candlestick maker (or chocolatier) was open flogging their wares to Parisienne families for their Christmas lunch. I ate so much fresh produce, I didn't think I'd have time to eat a proper lunch myself. But I did. Foi gras (gross); Chervre crepes (yum!) and tart tatin. Delicious! My mouth is still watering - all washed down with some very nice wine, of course!
After lunch, I went for a four hour walk up to the Sacre Couer, over to the Eiffle Tower and back. Now I have blisters and spent an exorbitant ten dollars on bandaids!! My Christmas Day finished with the best hot chocolate I have ever had at Chez Magots - Ernest Hemingway's favourite drinking spot - and a stroll down the Boulevard Saint Germaine for the Christmas markets. P.s. Magots was a very classy establishment, and I looked like a veritable bucket of shit after a four hour walk in the wind - not to mention my backpacker-style ensemble. It was funny how they turned their noses up at me!!!
Today, I am off to Madrid. It's been quite an adventure trying to work out how in the hell to get to Beuvais airport, so I THINK I am going to Madrid, anyway!
But Paris, don't forget me - I will be back. In just a few weeks, actually, to catch up with some friends. Au Revoir!
So, things just got a little bit more inconvenient - it sure was fun being able to skype and facebook on those long, boring waits for trains, planes and automobiles.
I hate technology. And apparently, it hates me right back!
But it's been another great couple of days - including Christmas. Christmas on one's own can be hard, but there was a lot to keep my occupied, and it all started with food! After Paris, I am starving myself, because all I have done since I got here is eat, and over Christmas Eve/Christmas, I went ballistic - and it was divine! On Christmas Eve, I went out for dinner - a delightful little creperie - before deciding it might be worth it to go to church at Notre Dame. Just cos it's Notre Dame!
It wasn't.
The spectacle was fun to start with: soldiers with machine guns (cos, Christmas spirit and all, what says it better than machine guns?!) And standing room only, underneath the massive organ.
But it was all dowill hill from there. Church actually can get more boring - when you have NO IDEA what they are saying!! So I did it, but I'm not doing it again!!!
Paris kind of closed down after that. For a city that had been pumping since the moment I arrived, from about seven o'clock on Christmas eve, it was a ghost town, and waking up on Christmas Day I was afraid I would see the same thing.
Not a chance!
Paris on Christmas day was thriving. Every butcher, baker and candlestick maker (or chocolatier) was open flogging their wares to Parisienne families for their Christmas lunch. I ate so much fresh produce, I didn't think I'd have time to eat a proper lunch myself. But I did. Foi gras (gross); Chervre crepes (yum!) and tart tatin. Delicious! My mouth is still watering - all washed down with some very nice wine, of course!
After lunch, I went for a four hour walk up to the Sacre Couer, over to the Eiffle Tower and back. Now I have blisters and spent an exorbitant ten dollars on bandaids!! My Christmas Day finished with the best hot chocolate I have ever had at Chez Magots - Ernest Hemingway's favourite drinking spot - and a stroll down the Boulevard Saint Germaine for the Christmas markets. P.s. Magots was a very classy establishment, and I looked like a veritable bucket of shit after a four hour walk in the wind - not to mention my backpacker-style ensemble. It was funny how they turned their noses up at me!!!
Today, I am off to Madrid. It's been quite an adventure trying to work out how in the hell to get to Beuvais airport, so I THINK I am going to Madrid, anyway!
But Paris, don't forget me - I will be back. In just a few weeks, actually, to catch up with some friends. Au Revoir!
Friday, December 24, 2010
I went to gay Paree ...
So, a few things about me you need to know:
My desert island foods (the three foods you are allowed to take with you, in unlimited supply, if you are hypothetically ever trapped on a desert island) are:
1. Bread
2. Cheese
3. Chocolate
It's a no brainer - and it's been this way ever since I discovered a love for carbs, soft goey mould covered cheeses and chocolate (that one was inutero, I reckon). What IS exciting is that Paris is best known for these three foods, in some context, and I haven't stopped eating crusty baguettes, gorgeous bries or chocolate (in crossants, macaroons, crepes - if they make it, I will eat it) since I arrived in Paris yesterday.
Paris is my hypothetical desert island. I lucked out!
Because, in a way, you see, I am kind of marooned:
1. It's snowing like a bitch (was cute at first, now it's a blizzard. Sort of.)
2. I don't have any money, just like I wouldn't if I were trapped on a real desert island
3. The airport taxi made me remortgage my house to get here, so I'm homeless AND can't afford to leave because I can't get back to the airport. Stranded.
But what a place to be stuck in! (Ok, I'm not really stuck and most desert islands are about 40 degrees hotter; my metaphor is coming undone but you can get lost. I've been thinking about this all day!!!) If I can pick any place in the world to have bread cheese and chocolate in for the rest of my life, I pick this place!
I arrived yesterday afternoon after a hellish whole day of airport dramas that proved to me beyond all doubt that Qatar is going to be in a world of trouble in 2022 (and yes, I know that's a long time in the future, but that's just how bad their airport is run). I should have arrived around lunch, and was here just in time for dinner, but the magic of the cold and the snow and the Christmas lights in the world's most beautiful city - I'm putting it on the table - simply took my breath away.
I lost my breath this morning too, when the chill in the air turned my lungs to granitas! Oh my God! I lived in the UK for 2 winters, but it never snowed all day. But when a city is as gorgeous as this one, even after paying 30 euro for a tour of the city, on what I assumed would be a warm, cosy bus, I just wanted to be out there walking the pavement. So that's what I did today; slid through piles of slushy snow from left bank to right bank and back again - in around Paris' most famous landmarks - only stopping for more of the three food staples. I just hope I'm walking enough not to come back a Michelan man - and I mean once I've removed the coat, hat, scarve and four layers of clothing (which makes me very Michelan mannish!)I'm due to leave Paris the day after tomorrow, but I just don't think I can. There's still so much to see: Musee Rodin, Musee d'orsay, Versailles. There aren't enough daylight hours to see it all!!!
So, I may be hitting the road again in two days, and I may not. I guess this is my desert island and I can do whatever I like! (Cheap, corny finish!) What I do know is that tonight, I'm having bread, cheese and chocolate in the form of, well, bread, fondue and delicious crepes. My Christmas eve treat in the centre of the Latin Quarter. Merry Christmas Eve everyone!!
My desert island foods (the three foods you are allowed to take with you, in unlimited supply, if you are hypothetically ever trapped on a desert island) are:
1. Bread
2. Cheese
3. Chocolate
It's a no brainer - and it's been this way ever since I discovered a love for carbs, soft goey mould covered cheeses and chocolate (that one was inutero, I reckon). What IS exciting is that Paris is best known for these three foods, in some context, and I haven't stopped eating crusty baguettes, gorgeous bries or chocolate (in crossants, macaroons, crepes - if they make it, I will eat it) since I arrived in Paris yesterday.
Paris is my hypothetical desert island. I lucked out!
Because, in a way, you see, I am kind of marooned:
1. It's snowing like a bitch (was cute at first, now it's a blizzard. Sort of.)
2. I don't have any money, just like I wouldn't if I were trapped on a real desert island
3. The airport taxi made me remortgage my house to get here, so I'm homeless AND can't afford to leave because I can't get back to the airport. Stranded.
But what a place to be stuck in! (Ok, I'm not really stuck and most desert islands are about 40 degrees hotter; my metaphor is coming undone but you can get lost. I've been thinking about this all day!!!) If I can pick any place in the world to have bread cheese and chocolate in for the rest of my life, I pick this place!
I arrived yesterday afternoon after a hellish whole day of airport dramas that proved to me beyond all doubt that Qatar is going to be in a world of trouble in 2022 (and yes, I know that's a long time in the future, but that's just how bad their airport is run). I should have arrived around lunch, and was here just in time for dinner, but the magic of the cold and the snow and the Christmas lights in the world's most beautiful city - I'm putting it on the table - simply took my breath away.
I lost my breath this morning too, when the chill in the air turned my lungs to granitas! Oh my God! I lived in the UK for 2 winters, but it never snowed all day. But when a city is as gorgeous as this one, even after paying 30 euro for a tour of the city, on what I assumed would be a warm, cosy bus, I just wanted to be out there walking the pavement. So that's what I did today; slid through piles of slushy snow from left bank to right bank and back again - in around Paris' most famous landmarks - only stopping for more of the three food staples. I just hope I'm walking enough not to come back a Michelan man - and I mean once I've removed the coat, hat, scarve and four layers of clothing (which makes me very Michelan mannish!)I'm due to leave Paris the day after tomorrow, but I just don't think I can. There's still so much to see: Musee Rodin, Musee d'orsay, Versailles. There aren't enough daylight hours to see it all!!!
So, I may be hitting the road again in two days, and I may not. I guess this is my desert island and I can do whatever I like! (Cheap, corny finish!) What I do know is that tonight, I'm having bread, cheese and chocolate in the form of, well, bread, fondue and delicious crepes. My Christmas eve treat in the centre of the Latin Quarter. Merry Christmas Eve everyone!!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Arabian Nights: Day Four
I have had an enjoyable 24 hours of mingling with other tourists and locals alike. And stuffing my face! After a leisurely sleep in this morning, following a big night of camel pizza (essentially), I made today a day of no spending. I figured I'm going on tour at lunch time, money well spent, and I don't need to buy anything else.
It didn't work.
Dubai is like one giant subliminal message to go forth and shop; I can't help it! But I did spend selflessly – nothing for me, just really cool kitsch stuff for others :-). Actually, the one thing I did buy for myself was a packet of Dubai's famous dates. There are 42 million date palms in the United Arab Emirates, so you can imagine how annoyed I was when I discovered the ones I was munching on were from Tunisia! Kind of dry and leathery too – I will always wonder now if UAE's are any better, but if they're going to import their national product (apart from oil, obviously!) I'm not going to bother finding out!
After eating some more great shawarmas, I was picked up at my hotel for what would become the hightlight of my time in Dubai. Now, I've been on some pretty naff tours in my time – I think they're pretty much obligatory in countries that are trying to sell a concept that isn't really real – but this Arabian nights thing I went on today just blew every kitschy, ridiculous tour I've ever taken out of the water. Except maybe for The Sound of Music Tour! Along with 4 other tourists from the Burj Arab area, we were transported about an hour out of Dubai to hit some serious sand dunes. Called dune bashing, here were my thoughts as we hurtled along:
1. We are going to die.
2. We are going to have a head on collision on the other side of this dune with another 4 wheel drive (there were cars everywhere. Madness!) and die.
3. We are going to have a head on collision on the other side of this dune with a CAMEL.
4. I AM GOING TO BE SICK!!!!
Unfortunately for another traveller in our party, he was sick – quite violently so – and our driver barely even shifted a gear!!!
After the dune bashing, there was camel riding, dressing up in traditional Muslim clothing, smoking a shisha pipe, henna tattooing, traditional bedouin coffee (which I swear was tea) and – most importantly – eating. And then eating again. It was insane how much food they forced down our throats. I am going to need my own chador-thingy soon just to hide the bulge. And it's only been a week!!!
Best of all, there was lots of mingling with other tourists. A really great way to end my time in Dubai.
It didn't work.
Dubai is like one giant subliminal message to go forth and shop; I can't help it! But I did spend selflessly – nothing for me, just really cool kitsch stuff for others :-). Actually, the one thing I did buy for myself was a packet of Dubai's famous dates. There are 42 million date palms in the United Arab Emirates, so you can imagine how annoyed I was when I discovered the ones I was munching on were from Tunisia! Kind of dry and leathery too – I will always wonder now if UAE's are any better, but if they're going to import their national product (apart from oil, obviously!) I'm not going to bother finding out!
After eating some more great shawarmas, I was picked up at my hotel for what would become the hightlight of my time in Dubai. Now, I've been on some pretty naff tours in my time – I think they're pretty much obligatory in countries that are trying to sell a concept that isn't really real – but this Arabian nights thing I went on today just blew every kitschy, ridiculous tour I've ever taken out of the water. Except maybe for The Sound of Music Tour! Along with 4 other tourists from the Burj Arab area, we were transported about an hour out of Dubai to hit some serious sand dunes. Called dune bashing, here were my thoughts as we hurtled along:
1. We are going to die.
2. We are going to have a head on collision on the other side of this dune with another 4 wheel drive (there were cars everywhere. Madness!) and die.
3. We are going to have a head on collision on the other side of this dune with a CAMEL.
4. I AM GOING TO BE SICK!!!!
Unfortunately for another traveller in our party, he was sick – quite violently so – and our driver barely even shifted a gear!!!
After the dune bashing, there was camel riding, dressing up in traditional Muslim clothing, smoking a shisha pipe, henna tattooing, traditional bedouin coffee (which I swear was tea) and – most importantly – eating. And then eating again. It was insane how much food they forced down our throats. I am going to need my own chador-thingy soon just to hide the bulge. And it's only been a week!!!
Best of all, there was lots of mingling with other tourists. A really great way to end my time in Dubai.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Snow is still cold in the desert!
What a great day! I got up early to have my coffee before taxiing off to the Jumeirah Mosque – the only one in UAE that allows non-Islamic people to enter it – for a tour, organised through the local centre for cultural sharing and understanding. After an interesting hour in which I had to cover up from head to toe (quite literally – great pics!), I headed back down the road (making sure it wasn't too far or in the wrong direction) to scope out the traditional restaurants along the Aldi Alfi (sic – absolutely no idea what I'm spelling!) to see where I could get camel for dinner. It's on the menu for tonight and I'm very excited – by the by, tomorrow I get to ride one!
Looking at the map and too-ing and fro-ing about whether I could walk to the mall of the Emirates (no, I never learn – let's call it tenacity!), I hailed a taxi and thank GOD I did. Too far?!!! It was about 20 bloody ks!! My mission at the mall? Not to shop – initially - but to ski!
It's a weird thing, skiing in the desert. Even when you look at it, it's hard to imagine that it could possibly be that cold; it's in the desert! I suppose I'm just dumb, because I scoffed when they suggested I buy gloves and a hat, and I scoffed when they suggested I needed more than just a t-shirt under the rather thin snow suit they provided. And I froze my bloody arse off! Actually, to be precise I froze my little fingers off. But was it fun? Yes! And I made some little friends – some children from Saudi Arabia who thought it was pretty cool to talk to some weird, freezing chick from Australia who skiied worse than they did! They made sure they were on every single chairlift I went on, and I learned a lot about the lack of snow in Saudi Arabia!!! (They go to Switzerland every year. Oil. Yeah. Couldn't have been fifteen years older, could you!)
Eventually, I'd had enough of the onset of frostbite in my extremities, and re-entered the mall for some more of what I do best: a new winter coat, a pretty dress and a scarf in the most perfect shade of green. It is lucky I am leaving here in day and a half – I am actually quite surprised Westpac hasn't pulled the plug already ;-). And I have no idea yet where I'm going to pack my new additions in a suitcase that was already bulging at the seams. Side note: girls – you know who I'm talking to – we should have another group holiday. Boys can play golf, and we can shop like nothing you've ever seen, I swear to God. And Jo, you can eat at a restaurant called the Jollibee – pictures to come when I can upload them. There is something for everyone!!!
So, tonight I go to eat camel, and tomorrow I will ride one before going 'dune-bashing' in a 4 wheel drive. I don't generally like tours, but everyone says this is a must – and I have to do something to keep me away from the shops!!! It's been a really good day today; this city is awesome and I think everyone should come here! And I will come too!!!
Oh – last thing. I had my first marriage proposal last night. It was oh-so romantic: a car literally pulled up beside me, the window rolled down, a hand was proffered and we exchanged the usual (or unusual!) small talk – where are you from, what's you name ... would you marry me. It was a very nice car, but I had to decline. His hands were too sweaty and it seemed unlikely he was an oil baron or a Sheik.
Besides which, I don't think I need a green card marriage to move to Dubai :-)
Looking at the map and too-ing and fro-ing about whether I could walk to the mall of the Emirates (no, I never learn – let's call it tenacity!), I hailed a taxi and thank GOD I did. Too far?!!! It was about 20 bloody ks!! My mission at the mall? Not to shop – initially - but to ski!
It's a weird thing, skiing in the desert. Even when you look at it, it's hard to imagine that it could possibly be that cold; it's in the desert! I suppose I'm just dumb, because I scoffed when they suggested I buy gloves and a hat, and I scoffed when they suggested I needed more than just a t-shirt under the rather thin snow suit they provided. And I froze my bloody arse off! Actually, to be precise I froze my little fingers off. But was it fun? Yes! And I made some little friends – some children from Saudi Arabia who thought it was pretty cool to talk to some weird, freezing chick from Australia who skiied worse than they did! They made sure they were on every single chairlift I went on, and I learned a lot about the lack of snow in Saudi Arabia!!! (They go to Switzerland every year. Oil. Yeah. Couldn't have been fifteen years older, could you!)
Eventually, I'd had enough of the onset of frostbite in my extremities, and re-entered the mall for some more of what I do best: a new winter coat, a pretty dress and a scarf in the most perfect shade of green. It is lucky I am leaving here in day and a half – I am actually quite surprised Westpac hasn't pulled the plug already ;-). And I have no idea yet where I'm going to pack my new additions in a suitcase that was already bulging at the seams. Side note: girls – you know who I'm talking to – we should have another group holiday. Boys can play golf, and we can shop like nothing you've ever seen, I swear to God. And Jo, you can eat at a restaurant called the Jollibee – pictures to come when I can upload them. There is something for everyone!!!
So, tonight I go to eat camel, and tomorrow I will ride one before going 'dune-bashing' in a 4 wheel drive. I don't generally like tours, but everyone says this is a must – and I have to do something to keep me away from the shops!!! It's been a really good day today; this city is awesome and I think everyone should come here! And I will come too!!!
Oh – last thing. I had my first marriage proposal last night. It was oh-so romantic: a car literally pulled up beside me, the window rolled down, a hand was proffered and we exchanged the usual (or unusual!) small talk – where are you from, what's you name ... would you marry me. It was a very nice car, but I had to decline. His hands were too sweaty and it seemed unlikely he was an oil baron or a Sheik.
Besides which, I don't think I need a green card marriage to move to Dubai :-)
Monday, December 20, 2010
Kate+Maps in Arabic=Extra Special Epic Fail
For those of you who know me well, I think the title of this entry says it all really. You might even ask how I could state something so obvious. Am I kidding? I can't read a Melways, of COURSE I can't read a map that's written in another language! But when the 24 hour hop on/hop off bus pass I'd been cruising Dubai on ran out, and I was summarily kicked off just one stop short of my destination, I thought: one stop – can't be that far. And it probably wasn't. I'll never know now. For, as I sit here writing this entry two and a half hours after I set off from that lonely bus stop, full of confidence that – though in Arabic, it looked like one straight road – my feet are cramped, clothes are thick with dust, and I am, it turns out, on the other side of town from where I should be. Literally – if I was supposed to be going east I am west; north, I am south. I don't know which direction I WAS supposed to be going, so I'm giving you a broad picture.
(I am spatially retarded. And before you chide me for being so politically incorrect, consider how right I am and let it go. Never was a truer word spoken! Amen.)
It's a funny thing, the old tourist map: kinda useless really as, even when some of the roads on the map are written in English, they're Arabic on the roads themselves. Or there are more roads in reality than there are on the map, which is just plain confusing when the best hope you have is to count the blocks you're walking. I was in trouble from the start, as I didn't even get the one straight road right in the first place! In actual fact, I got lost twice, for I eventually did have that moment of clarity where a road with an English name matched a road on the map, and I realised I wasn't in Kansas any more – and I was nowhere near bloody Oz, either. But, ever the resourceful upbeat traveller (honestly!) after quelling my desire to throw a massive hissy fit in front of some Sheiks, which would have involved ripping up my map, swearing profusely, and more tears – which I'm not allowed to do today – I picked another point on the map that I was clearly moving towards, and decided to make an excursion of it. The road I was on would eventually hit the river. If I just kept going straight, I would hit the river too. That sounded nice.
SO WHERE WAS THE FREAKING RIVER???
In summary, I have come to the conclusion that it can't possibly be me. I can walk in a straight line, after all, and I haven't been drinking or smoking any kind of illicit substance. Therefore, as maps are the work of the devil, I am clearly being toyed with by evil. This isn't my fault. This is the universe conspiring to undo me. What a bitch!
To back up this claim, I have as evidence the 7 people I stopped to ask directions of as I realised I was lost again. They clearly didn't know how to get to the river on a straight road either, as they all gave me different directions and none of them got me there. There was a funny moment though when, turning the map upside down on the off-chance it might actually present me with more clarity, a gentleman peering over my shoulder remarked “you're reading it upside down.” Thanks Einstein! He proceeded to give me the worst directions of all!
But I did have a pleasant walk through the city, got to chat to some random people, and filled in a couple of hours in the sunshine. And best of all, I came across another shopping mall that, again, is nowhere near where I should be: east west, south north. (Shopping malls are like an Oasis in this city, and I am liking Dubai more and more!) Beyond this unplanned adventure, I took a trip out to the Palm island today, took in the beach and attempted to get some good shots of Dubai's great monuments – that famous hotel that looks like a sail, and the Burj Khalfi. Or something! Now I am relaxing in a coffee shop with free wi-fi until I get hungry enough to go out for some shawarma. Good times!
And I am definitely taking a taxi home!
(I am spatially retarded. And before you chide me for being so politically incorrect, consider how right I am and let it go. Never was a truer word spoken! Amen.)
It's a funny thing, the old tourist map: kinda useless really as, even when some of the roads on the map are written in English, they're Arabic on the roads themselves. Or there are more roads in reality than there are on the map, which is just plain confusing when the best hope you have is to count the blocks you're walking. I was in trouble from the start, as I didn't even get the one straight road right in the first place! In actual fact, I got lost twice, for I eventually did have that moment of clarity where a road with an English name matched a road on the map, and I realised I wasn't in Kansas any more – and I was nowhere near bloody Oz, either. But, ever the resourceful upbeat traveller (honestly!) after quelling my desire to throw a massive hissy fit in front of some Sheiks, which would have involved ripping up my map, swearing profusely, and more tears – which I'm not allowed to do today – I picked another point on the map that I was clearly moving towards, and decided to make an excursion of it. The road I was on would eventually hit the river. If I just kept going straight, I would hit the river too. That sounded nice.
SO WHERE WAS THE FREAKING RIVER???
In summary, I have come to the conclusion that it can't possibly be me. I can walk in a straight line, after all, and I haven't been drinking or smoking any kind of illicit substance. Therefore, as maps are the work of the devil, I am clearly being toyed with by evil. This isn't my fault. This is the universe conspiring to undo me. What a bitch!
To back up this claim, I have as evidence the 7 people I stopped to ask directions of as I realised I was lost again. They clearly didn't know how to get to the river on a straight road either, as they all gave me different directions and none of them got me there. There was a funny moment though when, turning the map upside down on the off-chance it might actually present me with more clarity, a gentleman peering over my shoulder remarked “you're reading it upside down.” Thanks Einstein! He proceeded to give me the worst directions of all!
But I did have a pleasant walk through the city, got to chat to some random people, and filled in a couple of hours in the sunshine. And best of all, I came across another shopping mall that, again, is nowhere near where I should be: east west, south north. (Shopping malls are like an Oasis in this city, and I am liking Dubai more and more!) Beyond this unplanned adventure, I took a trip out to the Palm island today, took in the beach and attempted to get some good shots of Dubai's great monuments – that famous hotel that looks like a sail, and the Burj Khalfi. Or something! Now I am relaxing in a coffee shop with free wi-fi until I get hungry enough to go out for some shawarma. Good times!
And I am definitely taking a taxi home!
Sunday, December 19, 2010
A Turbulent beginning.
Well, apart from anything else I have never experienced so much turbulence on a plane in my life. Though only awake for seven hours of the flight, most of that time I felt like I was being shaken like a ragdoll as the plane ptiched in the sky. Not pleasant – but a metaphor, perhaps, for other things. A turbulent beginning.
But I'm now in Dubai, and I couldn't ask for more. Except, perhaps, for a cafe to be open at nine o'clock in the morning! It's Monday morning, day two, and I don't quite know what's going on because I've passed three major coffee retailers and none of them is open yet. No coffee and no internet connection makes Kate a something-something! But apart from their reluctance to serve my favourite beverage – favourite anything really! - Dubai is just … awesome. Seriously, I could see myself moving here. Let me take you through yesterday's events, and you'll quickly see why:
Upon arriving at the hotel, when I asked what was the nearest attraction, I was alerted to the fact that one of the world's largest boutique shopping malls was right NEXT door. And though one should never spend their first few hours in new country shopping, I did. And it was ace! Though the barista at the coffee shop I went into basically spat at me when I asked for soy milk, I quickly found that when you are dealing with really good Arabian coffee, it doesn't really matter what sort of milk you're dealing with – although I do draw the line at trying it with camel's milk. No thanks!
An adventure on Dubai's touristy hop-on/hop-off bus system followed, and I quickly found on this guided tour that the mall next to my hotel was nothing – this place has more shopping malls than you can shake a stick at and they're all incredibly massive and … incredible! It's ok, as most of them are tourist attractions in themselves, so I have legitimate reasons to go there. For example, how could one NOT go to the world's very largest indoor shopping centre? Or one that has a skiing centre attached? But yes, it is getting very hard to avoid the temptation of spending my entire travel savings on these beautiful shops – a perfect blend of the best stores from the US and the UK. I am in heaven.
You can see why I want to move here?
Apart from that – which may have bored the socks of people – Dubai is just incredibly cool. It has a vibe of some ancient city that has literally had billions and trillions of dollars thrown at it, so that it's now both old and hip, too. And the markets! Not talking 'shopping' centres now – spice markets and fish markets and gold markets; bigger than entire suburbs, with every kind of fish you could imagine – it STANK! And the gold market was hundreds – HUNDREDS! - of jewellery stores, flogging 8 karat bloody diamonds in their windows. It was vulgar, it was absurd, it was delightful!
Today I'm off to check out the Palm Island Jurameiah (sic). You can't buy a property for less than 3 million dollars – and they're just the decrepit ones! Actually, nothing in Dubai appears to be decrepit at all. It will involve more shopping malls, but I also plan to check out some really cool architecture : Dubai has two imitation Chrysler buildings. Because it can!
Goal for today: no more tears, and to eat camel. Amen.
But I'm now in Dubai, and I couldn't ask for more. Except, perhaps, for a cafe to be open at nine o'clock in the morning! It's Monday morning, day two, and I don't quite know what's going on because I've passed three major coffee retailers and none of them is open yet. No coffee and no internet connection makes Kate a something-something! But apart from their reluctance to serve my favourite beverage – favourite anything really! - Dubai is just … awesome. Seriously, I could see myself moving here. Let me take you through yesterday's events, and you'll quickly see why:
Upon arriving at the hotel, when I asked what was the nearest attraction, I was alerted to the fact that one of the world's largest boutique shopping malls was right NEXT door. And though one should never spend their first few hours in new country shopping, I did. And it was ace! Though the barista at the coffee shop I went into basically spat at me when I asked for soy milk, I quickly found that when you are dealing with really good Arabian coffee, it doesn't really matter what sort of milk you're dealing with – although I do draw the line at trying it with camel's milk. No thanks!
An adventure on Dubai's touristy hop-on/hop-off bus system followed, and I quickly found on this guided tour that the mall next to my hotel was nothing – this place has more shopping malls than you can shake a stick at and they're all incredibly massive and … incredible! It's ok, as most of them are tourist attractions in themselves, so I have legitimate reasons to go there. For example, how could one NOT go to the world's very largest indoor shopping centre? Or one that has a skiing centre attached? But yes, it is getting very hard to avoid the temptation of spending my entire travel savings on these beautiful shops – a perfect blend of the best stores from the US and the UK. I am in heaven.
You can see why I want to move here?
Apart from that – which may have bored the socks of people – Dubai is just incredibly cool. It has a vibe of some ancient city that has literally had billions and trillions of dollars thrown at it, so that it's now both old and hip, too. And the markets! Not talking 'shopping' centres now – spice markets and fish markets and gold markets; bigger than entire suburbs, with every kind of fish you could imagine – it STANK! And the gold market was hundreds – HUNDREDS! - of jewellery stores, flogging 8 karat bloody diamonds in their windows. It was vulgar, it was absurd, it was delightful!
Today I'm off to check out the Palm Island Jurameiah (sic). You can't buy a property for less than 3 million dollars – and they're just the decrepit ones! Actually, nothing in Dubai appears to be decrepit at all. It will involve more shopping malls, but I also plan to check out some really cool architecture : Dubai has two imitation Chrysler buildings. Because it can!
Goal for today: no more tears, and to eat camel. Amen.
Friday, December 17, 2010
On the Road again ...
Hi All,
Well, I interrupt this very interrupted novel-writing blog to digress onto a more European arena - like, literally, THE European arena. Tonight, at approximately 11:30, allowing for clear skies and dilligent passengers and not being held up at customs for my large supply of medicinal (I SWEAR!) codeine, I shall be hitting the sky for Dubai and beyond that the ooh-la-la of Paris.
Geez travel blogs sound wanky!
So if you'd like regular updates on how many belltowers I'm walking up each day to stop the croissants from migrating to my ass; or just how many photos it is humanly possible to take of the Eiffle Tower, feel free to follow along. Bought myself and itty bitty mini lap top today, so I'm going to be oh-so Bohemian and write the great travel novel. That won't be on the blog though - you'll have to pay extra for that!
Now, to home I go to see if I can shove that blasted but beautiful Country Road coat into my suitcase. I ask all gypsies, if they're choosing something to steal this Christmas, to go for the camera or netbook and not the coat. Because I love it!
Au revoir!
Well, I interrupt this very interrupted novel-writing blog to digress onto a more European arena - like, literally, THE European arena. Tonight, at approximately 11:30, allowing for clear skies and dilligent passengers and not being held up at customs for my large supply of medicinal (I SWEAR!) codeine, I shall be hitting the sky for Dubai and beyond that the ooh-la-la of Paris.
Geez travel blogs sound wanky!
So if you'd like regular updates on how many belltowers I'm walking up each day to stop the croissants from migrating to my ass; or just how many photos it is humanly possible to take of the Eiffle Tower, feel free to follow along. Bought myself and itty bitty mini lap top today, so I'm going to be oh-so Bohemian and write the great travel novel. That won't be on the blog though - you'll have to pay extra for that!
Now, to home I go to see if I can shove that blasted but beautiful Country Road coat into my suitcase. I ask all gypsies, if they're choosing something to steal this Christmas, to go for the camera or netbook and not the coat. Because I love it!
Au revoir!
Monday, October 18, 2010
The writing game intensifies ...
It's been an age, but that's because I now have a couple of blogs on the go AND a novel! That's right folks, you heard me correctly: I have been working on the same piece of prose for well over twenty thousand words now. And still counting!
But I interrupt this news bulletin for some more political ranting - I have written yet another letter:
Opposition Minister for Immigration Scott Morrison may have refused to endorse or criticise the move to free children in our detention centres, but his call to shift all asylum seekers to Nauru speaks volumes. I assume he is familiar enough with semantics to know that all does, in fact, include the 738 minors now living behind razor wire? Asylum seeker policy in this country certainly warrants some criticism – but that’s been the case for well over a decade. The Gillard Government’s commendable decision to free innocent children illustrates which party’s moving in the better direction. The Howard years of inhumane detention are over, and the Opposition could do much good if they realise this, and amend their strategy accordingly.
So, I am very busy with the writing game at the moment and between teaching, leftist political commentary, my plans to move to Namibia and the future pulitzer-prize winning novel, life is pretty full. One day I may even write a novel in Italian!!!
I shall be back soon - but just so you know, it's all happening with the writing game!
But I interrupt this news bulletin for some more political ranting - I have written yet another letter:
Opposition Minister for Immigration Scott Morrison may have refused to endorse or criticise the move to free children in our detention centres, but his call to shift all asylum seekers to Nauru speaks volumes. I assume he is familiar enough with semantics to know that all does, in fact, include the 738 minors now living behind razor wire? Asylum seeker policy in this country certainly warrants some criticism – but that’s been the case for well over a decade. The Gillard Government’s commendable decision to free innocent children illustrates which party’s moving in the better direction. The Howard years of inhumane detention are over, and the Opposition could do much good if they realise this, and amend their strategy accordingly.
So, I am very busy with the writing game at the moment and between teaching, leftist political commentary, my plans to move to Namibia and the future pulitzer-prize winning novel, life is pretty full. One day I may even write a novel in Italian!!!
I shall be back soon - but just so you know, it's all happening with the writing game!
Monday, August 30, 2010
Tabloid Journalism .... boooo
Just a short break to write about something else, as I am prone to do.
I don't generally watch A Current Affair - because it's the most diabolical, souless, inflammatory "news" programme on television. I actually do a disservice by calling it news, because they take topical issues and either degfragment them until they can find a scope with which to run the best fear campaign, or look at it from an angle that is barely newsworthy at all - if not complete rubbish! I studied journalism, and I know all about writing to persuade, but these kinds of programmes are something else: they tap into the complete ignorance of a sector of our community. There is simply no integrity in that.
Anyway, I happened to be channel surfing and caught more of it than I'd generally watch in any one calendar year. Here are my musings on Patty and Bert's unfortunate interview about their son's new down turn.
Whilst I can appreciate a parent’s pain in seeing their child harangued by the media for their indiscretions, I still have to wonder at the real motivation for the Newton’s interview on ACA. The programme alone raises questions as to its integrity. There could be nothing worse than knowing your son has issues with violence against women and substance abuse, but the interview raised two problems for me: why go on a national television programme that only idiots watch, to declare Matthew, for all intents, mentally ill – and in the process threaten to capsize any appearance of support? It was a stupid, pointless interview that won’t do Matthew any favours if he is ill, and really did nothing to highlight or validate the issue of violence against women.
Well done ACA for making a real issue a puff piece once again – outstanding journalism.
I don't generally watch A Current Affair - because it's the most diabolical, souless, inflammatory "news" programme on television. I actually do a disservice by calling it news, because they take topical issues and either degfragment them until they can find a scope with which to run the best fear campaign, or look at it from an angle that is barely newsworthy at all - if not complete rubbish! I studied journalism, and I know all about writing to persuade, but these kinds of programmes are something else: they tap into the complete ignorance of a sector of our community. There is simply no integrity in that.
Anyway, I happened to be channel surfing and caught more of it than I'd generally watch in any one calendar year. Here are my musings on Patty and Bert's unfortunate interview about their son's new down turn.
Whilst I can appreciate a parent’s pain in seeing their child harangued by the media for their indiscretions, I still have to wonder at the real motivation for the Newton’s interview on ACA. The programme alone raises questions as to its integrity. There could be nothing worse than knowing your son has issues with violence against women and substance abuse, but the interview raised two problems for me: why go on a national television programme that only idiots watch, to declare Matthew, for all intents, mentally ill – and in the process threaten to capsize any appearance of support? It was a stupid, pointless interview that won’t do Matthew any favours if he is ill, and really did nothing to highlight or validate the issue of violence against women.
Well done ACA for making a real issue a puff piece once again – outstanding journalism.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The characterisation of a novel ... musings
It’s interesting how our characters can change so much in just a few thousand words. And how we can grow to love them even before we’ve written them!
Case in point: protagonist one was once just a head case with a germ phobia, but throw a little illicit love her way and she becomes more your loveable space-cadet – Bridget Jones meets ME on anti-psychotic medication! As I write, I so want for Jewish man to fall in love with her, even if she is lowly Gentile who eats bacon and drinks copious amounts of vodka on a Saturday. (By the by, I have no idea how I’m going to get around this issue as I doubt it will be published if my Jewish character renounces his faith – not outside of Australia, anyway! There’s still the falling off cliff possibility – perhaps tragic near-death experiences override distasteful bigotry aspect of having said Jewish-man leave his religion. Even if it is for love, which is WAY more important than religion. God says so himself. Sort of.) (Ok, he doesn’t but I think it makes more sense to love a person than a holy ghost and if you can explain the trinity in a way that makes me believe it I’ll give a kazzillion of my dollars to the Catholic Church!) (HA! As if!!!!)
Hmm. Bible bashing again. (And lots of brackets.) I’m sorry. My novel has no anti-religious sentiment whatsoever. Swear to God!
Then there’s protagonist two, who was a recovering nymphomaniac, until my friend suggested I needed to give her more likeable qualities – which she now has in spades. I guess one nut-job per novel is enough. Or is it? (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest certainly negates this theory.)
Anyway, I guess the main and only point of this ramble is to say that 14 days in, I am still very much enjoying writing my chick-shit-wit-tit deliciously-funny-and-better-than-Marion-Keyes novel – which makes it 13 days longer than I have spent on any single story (outside my Masters) since about 2004. Bravo to me!!!
Is it time for celebratory cupcakes now?
Case in point: protagonist one was once just a head case with a germ phobia, but throw a little illicit love her way and she becomes more your loveable space-cadet – Bridget Jones meets ME on anti-psychotic medication! As I write, I so want for Jewish man to fall in love with her, even if she is lowly Gentile who eats bacon and drinks copious amounts of vodka on a Saturday. (By the by, I have no idea how I’m going to get around this issue as I doubt it will be published if my Jewish character renounces his faith – not outside of Australia, anyway! There’s still the falling off cliff possibility – perhaps tragic near-death experiences override distasteful bigotry aspect of having said Jewish-man leave his religion. Even if it is for love, which is WAY more important than religion. God says so himself. Sort of.) (Ok, he doesn’t but I think it makes more sense to love a person than a holy ghost and if you can explain the trinity in a way that makes me believe it I’ll give a kazzillion of my dollars to the Catholic Church!) (HA! As if!!!!)
Hmm. Bible bashing again. (And lots of brackets.) I’m sorry. My novel has no anti-religious sentiment whatsoever. Swear to God!
Then there’s protagonist two, who was a recovering nymphomaniac, until my friend suggested I needed to give her more likeable qualities – which she now has in spades. I guess one nut-job per novel is enough. Or is it? (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest certainly negates this theory.)
Anyway, I guess the main and only point of this ramble is to say that 14 days in, I am still very much enjoying writing my chick-shit-wit-tit deliciously-funny-and-better-than-Marion-Keyes novel – which makes it 13 days longer than I have spent on any single story (outside my Masters) since about 2004. Bravo to me!!!
Is it time for celebratory cupcakes now?
Sunday, August 15, 2010
I write, therefore I am ...
On Friday I sold my ten thousand dollar story. That is to say, I have sold ten thousand dollars worth of crap, since April alone!! Yes, it will be a long time before I see said money – first they are sold, then published, then cheques begin to trickle in – but I have grand plans for my money and hope to get it by December, so I can have ten thousand dollars worth of gondola rides, Italian hot chocolate, fromage and baguettes and French champagne. And I may bribe someone to avoid the three hour queue in rain hail and snow for the Eiffel Tower. And I will definitely do four times as much eating as last time, because scrimping on a shoe-string is for losers (insert smiley face).
Kidding. I probably won’t see half of that money until halfway through next year! And scary to think that ten thousand Australian dollars is not half as many Euros!
So, I am starting to make a fair income as a writer. Does this mean I can call myself a writer now? When I list occupation, can I now describe myself as being something more than “teacher” – a conversation starter that usually runs its course like this:
THEM: “Oh so what year levels do you teach?”
ME: “Secondary.”
THEM: “Oh, that must be hard. I could never do that.”
ME: “It’s not so bad.”
THEM: “And what do you teach?”
ME: “English.”
THEM: “Oh I hated English at school.” (subtext: Oh what a boring life you must lead. I need to go now so I can talk to someone who does something more interesting. Like an accountant).
Considering I last had this conversation with my waxist, I’d like to be facetious and say how proud she must be shaping eyebrows for a living. And asking if you want a number one, two or three.
But seriously, if I can call myself a writer, I am sure the conversation would go more like this:
THEM: “So, what do you do?”
ME: “I write crap for a living.”
THEM: “How hysterical! What do you write?”
ME: “Oh, you know – confessions and such. Stories that are meant to be true, but I can tell you for a fact are not.”
THEM: “I’d never have guessed it – I thought every word was true!”
ME: “No – I can assure you I have never actually made my flatmate fat. And I can’t have been a pole dancer to pay for my wedding, as I’m not even married!”
THEM: “You must be extremely clever and deliciously funny to keep writing such stories!”
ME: “Well, I don’t like to brag but – yes. Yes I am.”
THEM: “You know, my brother Franco has a thing for clever, funny women. And he has beach house in Portsea.”
ME: “MTB.”
So you see, life as a writer opens up so many more possibilities for conversation alone!
Next story: I met my ultra-rich husband writing rubbish.
Now I don’t think ANYONE’S going to believe that one!
Kidding. I probably won’t see half of that money until halfway through next year! And scary to think that ten thousand Australian dollars is not half as many Euros!
So, I am starting to make a fair income as a writer. Does this mean I can call myself a writer now? When I list occupation, can I now describe myself as being something more than “teacher” – a conversation starter that usually runs its course like this:
THEM: “Oh so what year levels do you teach?”
ME: “Secondary.”
THEM: “Oh, that must be hard. I could never do that.”
ME: “It’s not so bad.”
THEM: “And what do you teach?”
ME: “English.”
THEM: “Oh I hated English at school.” (subtext: Oh what a boring life you must lead. I need to go now so I can talk to someone who does something more interesting. Like an accountant).
Considering I last had this conversation with my waxist, I’d like to be facetious and say how proud she must be shaping eyebrows for a living. And asking if you want a number one, two or three.
But seriously, if I can call myself a writer, I am sure the conversation would go more like this:
THEM: “So, what do you do?”
ME: “I write crap for a living.”
THEM: “How hysterical! What do you write?”
ME: “Oh, you know – confessions and such. Stories that are meant to be true, but I can tell you for a fact are not.”
THEM: “I’d never have guessed it – I thought every word was true!”
ME: “No – I can assure you I have never actually made my flatmate fat. And I can’t have been a pole dancer to pay for my wedding, as I’m not even married!”
THEM: “You must be extremely clever and deliciously funny to keep writing such stories!”
ME: “Well, I don’t like to brag but – yes. Yes I am.”
THEM: “You know, my brother Franco has a thing for clever, funny women. And he has beach house in Portsea.”
ME: “MTB.”
So you see, life as a writer opens up so many more possibilities for conversation alone!
Next story: I met my ultra-rich husband writing rubbish.
Now I don’t think ANYONE’S going to believe that one!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Deliciously Funny ...
So, I have been doing A LOT – those few special people who have actually been following this blog would be amazed at my dedication to future success, over the past few days.
I have: Begun what will be a deliciously funny chick-shit-wit-tit novel, and written more on one story than I have since I was studying my Masters and ironically paying to write – which is not the way I want things to be at all, but it was supreme motivation. Especially considering the often acerbic criticism of peers during workshopping.
(To all of those who hated Future’s Fortune (including the title) I now say FUCK YOU. You will not be invited to the pool party at my mansion.)
I have: basically worked out the whole plot of said deliciously funny novel, and ascertained that it will indeed be deliciously funny. If I don’t say so myself – and it’s my blog, so I can. So there.
I have: gotten kinda caught up in my occasional bouts of doubt and self-loathing, and so let those nearest and dearest to me see the first few thousand words. So they can tell me how deliciously funny my novel will be. Or rather, already is.
I have: found an agent. Only in theory of course – I mean I have found the agent who does not yet know I exist, but will jump for joy when they read said novel, publish it immediately with an extraordinary (possibly history-making) advance and declare it to be more deliciously funny than Marion Keyes. Who they also once represented.
I have: written my own reviews (in my head) to talk up my novel and make sure everyone knows it’s deliciously funny. In case the New York Times says it’s shit.
I have: already spent (in my head) the 1.5 million dollars I will get for writing such a masterpiece. (I don’t want to say deliciously funny again, because I am a better writer than that, and have a much wider vocabulary that includes the word Masterpiece).
Only 183,000 words or so to go!
I have: Begun what will be a deliciously funny chick-shit-wit-tit novel, and written more on one story than I have since I was studying my Masters and ironically paying to write – which is not the way I want things to be at all, but it was supreme motivation. Especially considering the often acerbic criticism of peers during workshopping.
(To all of those who hated Future’s Fortune (including the title) I now say FUCK YOU. You will not be invited to the pool party at my mansion.)
I have: basically worked out the whole plot of said deliciously funny novel, and ascertained that it will indeed be deliciously funny. If I don’t say so myself – and it’s my blog, so I can. So there.
I have: gotten kinda caught up in my occasional bouts of doubt and self-loathing, and so let those nearest and dearest to me see the first few thousand words. So they can tell me how deliciously funny my novel will be. Or rather, already is.
I have: found an agent. Only in theory of course – I mean I have found the agent who does not yet know I exist, but will jump for joy when they read said novel, publish it immediately with an extraordinary (possibly history-making) advance and declare it to be more deliciously funny than Marion Keyes. Who they also once represented.
I have: written my own reviews (in my head) to talk up my novel and make sure everyone knows it’s deliciously funny. In case the New York Times says it’s shit.
I have: already spent (in my head) the 1.5 million dollars I will get for writing such a masterpiece. (I don’t want to say deliciously funny again, because I am a better writer than that, and have a much wider vocabulary that includes the word Masterpiece).
Only 183,000 words or so to go!
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Chick shit with wit = IT!!!!
Right, so my quest for glory has taken a new turn and become a quest for money. I admit it: I am a capitalist, damn straight, and my many years of whoring my writing for the "big" bucks has given me a taste for the good life - now I want to make it a great life, so I can circumnavigate the globe 5 times, buy a mansion and adopt a child or 6 - and be able to afford good childcare, of course! I also figure the Nobel Prize will come easier if I don't have to work a day job, and the not-working-day-job definitely requires a blockbuster of the purest pulp (or several) to bankroll it - so there is a grander plan, I'm not just a materialistic bourgeoisie slave to writing amorality. (Well, ok, I am but we don't have to talk about it now, and we'll see who's judging who when I have a kazzillion dollars AND the Nobel prize).
So - the grand plan. Mills and Boon? Chick Lit - or should I say, chick shit, but it will be chick shit wit because I can be really funny when I want to be? Or chick shit wit tit - because it will be salacious and titilating of course!
Picture this: slightly neurotic girl with OCD tendancies meets Jewish nurse athiest who has already disappointed family by becoming a nurse and so won't marry said gentile with OCD tendancies until she falls off a cliff one day (very topical at the moment) ... and one of them has a change of heart.
Can I hear you vomiting?
Or is it the sound of money spewing forth from my own personal ATM? I think so!!
So - the grand plan. Mills and Boon? Chick Lit - or should I say, chick shit, but it will be chick shit wit because I can be really funny when I want to be? Or chick shit wit tit - because it will be salacious and titilating of course!
Picture this: slightly neurotic girl with OCD tendancies meets Jewish nurse athiest who has already disappointed family by becoming a nurse and so won't marry said gentile with OCD tendancies until she falls off a cliff one day (very topical at the moment) ... and one of them has a change of heart.
Can I hear you vomiting?
Or is it the sound of money spewing forth from my own personal ATM? I think so!!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Rumplestiltskin?
It may well be that my Pulitzer prize winning novel is now going to win the Australian Book of the Year for young adult fiction, for I have decided to re-work an old manuscript that I once loved, but which never got published.
And, upon reflection after casting it aside for 5 years, I can see why. It’s shit.
To be honest, I can’t even remember what I age I would have written for – the language is older and yet the main character is clearly pitched at twelve year olds. Twelve year old losers, even. She’s a whiny pain the neck and I want to smack her. I wrote her a hot older boyfriend and she didn’t even want him, for God’s sake – and I can’t even tell why!!!
The beauty is that I’ve already written fifty thousand words and, although a lot of it falls into my own assessment of “crap” I think it only fair that I be allowed to acknowledge some of it as good, also. The plot itself is ok. It just maybe needs to not be set in a seaside village (what was I thinking!) that is also, quite remarkably, near the bush, and has a perfectly sized rural township too. Talk about covering all bases!
And I’m going to make it darker! The main character is a witch and yet, she’s even worse than the Worst Witch! She needs to be Hermione meets The Changeover. And an actual distinguishable power might help too!
So suddenly, I am further along in my quest for glory than I thought I was. Sort of. Now I have to figure out how to spin straw into gold!
And, upon reflection after casting it aside for 5 years, I can see why. It’s shit.
To be honest, I can’t even remember what I age I would have written for – the language is older and yet the main character is clearly pitched at twelve year olds. Twelve year old losers, even. She’s a whiny pain the neck and I want to smack her. I wrote her a hot older boyfriend and she didn’t even want him, for God’s sake – and I can’t even tell why!!!
The beauty is that I’ve already written fifty thousand words and, although a lot of it falls into my own assessment of “crap” I think it only fair that I be allowed to acknowledge some of it as good, also. The plot itself is ok. It just maybe needs to not be set in a seaside village (what was I thinking!) that is also, quite remarkably, near the bush, and has a perfectly sized rural township too. Talk about covering all bases!
And I’m going to make it darker! The main character is a witch and yet, she’s even worse than the Worst Witch! She needs to be Hermione meets The Changeover. And an actual distinguishable power might help too!
So suddenly, I am further along in my quest for glory than I thought I was. Sort of. Now I have to figure out how to spin straw into gold!
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Sweet Sorrow? Are you kidding!
So, I haven’t blogged for ages … you might now have a better sense of why I’m clearly not the candidate to back in the run for the Booker Prize. (Yes, I change prizes frequently, just as I change my shoes, my career aspirations and my underwear - but I just don’t like hedging my bets!)
So, in the lead up to the Miles Franklin masterpiece that I am slowly creating, it’s been quite a tumultuous few weeks. I’m quite an emotional person, I’m afraid, and the month of July thus far has seen some stress on the heartstrings. A friend of mine from my Pro-Writing degree once told me that she was no longer able to write, because she was so happy in her life “right now” the angst that had once fuelled her creativity was gone and she couldn’t churn out a sentence.
I doubt I’ve ever been more jealous of anyone in my life!!! Forget beauty, forget height, forget money, I don’t want it! If angst were the key to my writing success, I’d have won every literary prize under the sun! My 20s were a steaming vat of boiling, tortured angst. And then I grew up and got over it; as you do.
But I’d stopped writing.
I suppose I could have started churning out novels about serial killers and plagues, but it was never what I wanted to write about – because I’m happy when I write, so I didn’t want to write about awful things. So I just wrote nothing at all.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m ok; just one of those months where a variety of stressors seem to crop up at once. But the slightest bit of anguish seems to be the antithesis of creativity for me: it’s the Judas to my right side brain, the Lithium to my inner intensity. The reaper of my creative impulses! (And that’s Grim Reaper, if you haven’t already worked that out!)
So if anyone has a cupcake for me … And I will share my Premier’s prize with you! :-)
So, in the lead up to the Miles Franklin masterpiece that I am slowly creating, it’s been quite a tumultuous few weeks. I’m quite an emotional person, I’m afraid, and the month of July thus far has seen some stress on the heartstrings. A friend of mine from my Pro-Writing degree once told me that she was no longer able to write, because she was so happy in her life “right now” the angst that had once fuelled her creativity was gone and she couldn’t churn out a sentence.
I doubt I’ve ever been more jealous of anyone in my life!!! Forget beauty, forget height, forget money, I don’t want it! If angst were the key to my writing success, I’d have won every literary prize under the sun! My 20s were a steaming vat of boiling, tortured angst. And then I grew up and got over it; as you do.
But I’d stopped writing.
I suppose I could have started churning out novels about serial killers and plagues, but it was never what I wanted to write about – because I’m happy when I write, so I didn’t want to write about awful things. So I just wrote nothing at all.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m ok; just one of those months where a variety of stressors seem to crop up at once. But the slightest bit of anguish seems to be the antithesis of creativity for me: it’s the Judas to my right side brain, the Lithium to my inner intensity. The reaper of my creative impulses! (And that’s Grim Reaper, if you haven’t already worked that out!)
So if anyone has a cupcake for me … And I will share my Premier’s prize with you! :-)
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
So Long, Farewell
When something happens in the media, or in life, that stirs my emotions - towards sadness or anger, generally - I often feel the need to write it down. Many letters have begun this way; letters that never get delivered, sometimes short, sometimes spanning pages. They rarely get published, they sometimes warrant responses from government ministers, but they do achieve the goal of making things known. Even if it's just to myself. Stream of consciousness 101!
(Interesting side-note: why are all introductory university courses always course 101 - it's very Orwellian, and not at all confidence inspiring!)
Anway, I have taken a break from writing curriculum and lists and stories and messages to write down my tribute to Kevin Rudd who, though he may deserve to go, does not (I think) completely deserve our disrespect:
It’s an interesting feeling to feel saddened by this turn of events that sees our first female prime-minister, which is brilliant, but also the unceremonious end to the legacy of Kevin Rudd. The opinion polls have spoken, but it was disappointing to be reminded too late of all the good things he has done for our country – things that don’t often count at the ballot box. Kevin, your dissolution of the Pacific Solution and your apology to the stolen generation made me proud again to be an Australian. You brought humanity back to parliament for a just a little while, and for that I thank you.
RIP.
(Interesting side-note: why are all introductory university courses always course 101 - it's very Orwellian, and not at all confidence inspiring!)
Anway, I have taken a break from writing curriculum and lists and stories and messages to write down my tribute to Kevin Rudd who, though he may deserve to go, does not (I think) completely deserve our disrespect:
It’s an interesting feeling to feel saddened by this turn of events that sees our first female prime-minister, which is brilliant, but also the unceremonious end to the legacy of Kevin Rudd. The opinion polls have spoken, but it was disappointing to be reminded too late of all the good things he has done for our country – things that don’t often count at the ballot box. Kevin, your dissolution of the Pacific Solution and your apology to the stolen generation made me proud again to be an Australian. You brought humanity back to parliament for a just a little while, and for that I thank you.
RIP.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
The coffee club plan
So. I’ve decided the only way I’m going to win the Pulitzer – my back up plan if the Nobel Prize fails – is if I set aside a regular time to write something. (Ok - I know it's not rocket science but I'm pretty much Guiness Book Procrastinator material, so this is a big step!) And I’m talking seriously quality time: just me, my pen/laptop and a cup of java. (But I will not be thanking Starbucks in my acceptance speech – it’s just because they have a lot of students who are also seemingly chronic procrastinators, so I feel the bonds of solidarity might push me along!)
Maybe I should do my PhD. It would seem I really need to be forced to write!
So, Wendesday night will be writing night. Not shopping night. Not performance night. Not Hey-wanna-go-out-for-coffee-so-I-don’t-have-to–go-out-and-feel-the-weight-of-not-having-won-a-major-literary-prize-yet.
My original goal, when I was younger, was to have achieved everything in life by the time I was 32. Epic fail! I have a few months left, however!
And I know what you’re probably thinking: I don’t even sound like I like writing. I do!! I have two degrees in it – and I think that could possibly be the issue. Somewhere along the line, writing became more like hard work than something I did for fun. Forced to study genres I hated, teachers who didn't understand my style, teachers who I thought couldn't write for cupcakes. Now it’s only fun when I get into the swing of it – a hard swing away when Doncaster shoppo has sales, and Wittner has some ultra fucking cool pink shoes.
Want!
And I’ve become pretty social in my old age. Really should have written this thing when I was younger, and more of a hermit. Sort of. How do real writers – published authors of authentically brilliant prose – do it, I ask you?! A few hours on my own, and I’m literally climbing the walls for company.
Ok, so that could also be the four cups of soy latte!
So, next Wednesday it is … who’s up for a cup of coffee? I’ll be at a Starbucks near you!!!
Maybe I should do my PhD. It would seem I really need to be forced to write!
So, Wendesday night will be writing night. Not shopping night. Not performance night. Not Hey-wanna-go-out-for-coffee-so-I-don’t-have-to–go-out-and-feel-the-weight-of-not-having-won-a-major-literary-prize-yet.
My original goal, when I was younger, was to have achieved everything in life by the time I was 32. Epic fail! I have a few months left, however!
And I know what you’re probably thinking: I don’t even sound like I like writing. I do!! I have two degrees in it – and I think that could possibly be the issue. Somewhere along the line, writing became more like hard work than something I did for fun. Forced to study genres I hated, teachers who didn't understand my style, teachers who I thought couldn't write for cupcakes. Now it’s only fun when I get into the swing of it – a hard swing away when Doncaster shoppo has sales, and Wittner has some ultra fucking cool pink shoes.
Want!
And I’ve become pretty social in my old age. Really should have written this thing when I was younger, and more of a hermit. Sort of. How do real writers – published authors of authentically brilliant prose – do it, I ask you?! A few hours on my own, and I’m literally climbing the walls for company.
Ok, so that could also be the four cups of soy latte!
So, next Wednesday it is … who’s up for a cup of coffee? I’ll be at a Starbucks near you!!!
Monday, June 7, 2010
And if I didn't already prostitute my writing enough ...
It’s a common theme I know, but once again I have come across the issue of balancing my rapacious need for money and capitalist bourgeois-ness (take that Karl Marx – I worked hard for my Jimmy Choos, and I shall have them!) and holding aloft the Nobel Prize for Literature. Because in my head Karl Marx actually gives a shit about high-heeled shoes. And in my head, it is indeed a little gold Oscar statue that I hold aloft, perhaps whilst wearing said Jimmy Choos.
Nah, fuck it. I’ll buy a new pair!
But I digress. (And, incidentally, have just cottoned onto the fact that one gets over a million dollars to win this thing, so this blog quandary has just become moot. But I will press on!)
Yesterday I received an email from a previously unknown (to me) magazine that I rather carelessly sent a story into some months ago. I say carelessly, for I have never read or clapped eyes on this magazine – it is in America, actually – I just happened to google romance magazines for a romance story I’d written (writing prostitution sin #2) and the rest is history. Sort of.
The response started off quite nicely: we think your writing has merit (it was crap, actually – but on purpose, so I guess that’s still quite skilful on my part!) and you have great flair for romance writing (kill me now – I have never even read something from the pulpy romance genre, though a friend of mine used to force me to listen to the sexy bits when she read them out) but we do feel that, before we agree to publish your story, it needs the addition of sex.
Um. Ok.
Please re-write your story to include 1000-1200 words of explicit (but not pornographic) examples of titillation and sex, and we would be happy to publish your story should it meet our stated criteria. With thanks …
Don’t get me wrong – I can write sex. The rest of this story is so blindingly clichéd, the addition of a bit of “titillation” hardly seems problematic at all. But does this start me down a new garden path of ill repute in the field of writing?
If I sell my first Mills and Boon in six months, I’m going to kill myself!
… She writes as his eyes sweep over her crimson, throbbing …
Nah. Sorry folks. Can’t do it!
Nah, fuck it. I’ll buy a new pair!
But I digress. (And, incidentally, have just cottoned onto the fact that one gets over a million dollars to win this thing, so this blog quandary has just become moot. But I will press on!)
Yesterday I received an email from a previously unknown (to me) magazine that I rather carelessly sent a story into some months ago. I say carelessly, for I have never read or clapped eyes on this magazine – it is in America, actually – I just happened to google romance magazines for a romance story I’d written (writing prostitution sin #2) and the rest is history. Sort of.
The response started off quite nicely: we think your writing has merit (it was crap, actually – but on purpose, so I guess that’s still quite skilful on my part!) and you have great flair for romance writing (kill me now – I have never even read something from the pulpy romance genre, though a friend of mine used to force me to listen to the sexy bits when she read them out) but we do feel that, before we agree to publish your story, it needs the addition of sex.
Um. Ok.
Please re-write your story to include 1000-1200 words of explicit (but not pornographic) examples of titillation and sex, and we would be happy to publish your story should it meet our stated criteria. With thanks …
Don’t get me wrong – I can write sex. The rest of this story is so blindingly clichéd, the addition of a bit of “titillation” hardly seems problematic at all. But does this start me down a new garden path of ill repute in the field of writing?
If I sell my first Mills and Boon in six months, I’m going to kill myself!
… She writes as his eyes sweep over her crimson, throbbing …
Nah. Sorry folks. Can’t do it!
Monday, May 24, 2010
Where's the love in writing?
Not too good at this blogging thing …
In writing this blog, facebooking like a maniac, and writing rubbish stories for publications that are even more rubbish (they are; my pieces of gold usually get “dumbed” down to suit the demographic!) I have discovered (and in only a few short weeks, too) two things:
1. My ability to believe that I can indeed get away with writing extremely long sentences as long as I use all the punctuation marks from commas through to semi-colons – and for it still to sound awesome!
2. My need for immediate gratification!
*Please, please, please post a comment to my blog, status etc! I am a writer and I want to be loved!*
Herein lies my quandary, perhaps: back when I was a wee lass of between 14 and 22, I used to be able to churn out stories at an incredible rate – sometimes up to forty-thousand words in length in a few short weeks! And yes, whilst I often made my friends and family a cast of serial killers, rape victims, drug smugglers and extremely-wealthy-and-successful-beautiful-journalist-types-who-get-married-to-cricket-players-with-South-African-accents (ok – that was me!) – yes Mills and Boon for my nearest and dearest – they were so much fun to write!
Could it be that I can only write when I know I will be receiving quick and positive gratification/validation for my efforts? Even on the website that shall remain nameless where I post my junk stories, people write the nastiest criticisms – but they are sooo much fun to read, revealing the stupidity of people who read the junk stories posted on such websites!!
Next status update:
Katmol needs gratification, affection, and gifts of cupcakes to be productive.
Now comment, damnit!
In writing this blog, facebooking like a maniac, and writing rubbish stories for publications that are even more rubbish (they are; my pieces of gold usually get “dumbed” down to suit the demographic!) I have discovered (and in only a few short weeks, too) two things:
1. My ability to believe that I can indeed get away with writing extremely long sentences as long as I use all the punctuation marks from commas through to semi-colons – and for it still to sound awesome!
2. My need for immediate gratification!
*Please, please, please post a comment to my blog, status etc! I am a writer and I want to be loved!*
Herein lies my quandary, perhaps: back when I was a wee lass of between 14 and 22, I used to be able to churn out stories at an incredible rate – sometimes up to forty-thousand words in length in a few short weeks! And yes, whilst I often made my friends and family a cast of serial killers, rape victims, drug smugglers and extremely-wealthy-and-successful-beautiful-journalist-types-who-get-married-to-cricket-players-with-South-African-accents (ok – that was me!) – yes Mills and Boon for my nearest and dearest – they were so much fun to write!
Could it be that I can only write when I know I will be receiving quick and positive gratification/validation for my efforts? Even on the website that shall remain nameless where I post my junk stories, people write the nastiest criticisms – but they are sooo much fun to read, revealing the stupidity of people who read the junk stories posted on such websites!!
Next status update:
Katmol needs gratification, affection, and gifts of cupcakes to be productive.
Now comment, damnit!
Monday, May 17, 2010
Research is work, right?
A week ago I really sat down and nutted out a feasible plot structure for my epic novel. It’s not that big a deal - I often do this, and then I get really excited for about three minutes, until someone asks me to have coffee or check out some boots or book a really expensive holiday that I can in no way afford on my current salary so I need to spend all my time churning out crap to pay for my extravagant lifestyle.
Wow. Long sentence and an equally long list of excuses – I’m breathless!
The work-novel- life balance is not one that’s easy to overcome, but I’m trying. Last night I even asked my friend what a Dugite is – getting very excited when I realised it’s a very venomous type of snake (extremely pertinent to my novel) and then falling flat to disappointment when I realised it’s a native of Western Australia (extremely irrelevant to my novel – which is set where I grew up. No where near Western Australia, but with plenty of Brown Snakes and Tiger Snakes to kill off my characters.)
Just a few drops of a Tiger snake’s venom is enough to kill over one hundred people. True story (well, according to the internet – and that never lies!)
And actress Amy Adams had a baby girl. See how easy it is for me to be distracted?!
Back back to task: how’s this for a snippet of my character’s morbid death:
Claire shakes him now, and his head kind of lolls to the side. Is his tongue hanging out? Yes, it is. Saliva oozes out onto the pillow, a sticky bungee rope of spit.
So – that’s four things I’ve done in twenty four hours: research, a blog, and more research. And a sentence!!!!
I can see that Pulitzer Prize already!
Now, time for another coffee I reckon!
Wow. Long sentence and an equally long list of excuses – I’m breathless!
The work-novel- life balance is not one that’s easy to overcome, but I’m trying. Last night I even asked my friend what a Dugite is – getting very excited when I realised it’s a very venomous type of snake (extremely pertinent to my novel) and then falling flat to disappointment when I realised it’s a native of Western Australia (extremely irrelevant to my novel – which is set where I grew up. No where near Western Australia, but with plenty of Brown Snakes and Tiger Snakes to kill off my characters.)
Just a few drops of a Tiger snake’s venom is enough to kill over one hundred people. True story (well, according to the internet – and that never lies!)
And actress Amy Adams had a baby girl. See how easy it is for me to be distracted?!
Back back to task: how’s this for a snippet of my character’s morbid death:
Claire shakes him now, and his head kind of lolls to the side. Is his tongue hanging out? Yes, it is. Saliva oozes out onto the pillow, a sticky bungee rope of spit.
So – that’s four things I’ve done in twenty four hours: research, a blog, and more research. And a sentence!!!!
I can see that Pulitzer Prize already!
Now, time for another coffee I reckon!
Monday, May 10, 2010
Keeping it interesting ...
Writing Lesson number one: keep it interesting.
One of the biggest criticisms I ever got as a writer (via peers and editors) was that I tell, instead of show. It’s what you do when you try to get the most apparent (maybe boring) details across as quickly as possible, when you could easily infer them through brilliant descriptions and anecdotes of alternative events in the story.
This is something that some of us do every day. Case in point: status updates. To my friends out there who read this, I accuse no one of this crime: I just know it happens. But to be on the safe side, I have decided I will try to make status updates on facebook as interesting and entertaining as possible. Because it’s important to know that I crave a pair of sparkly tap shoes, or that I want wear sausages on my head if I’m going to be a Bavarian dancer.
Gone are the days of “KatMol woke up this morning” (actually, I never was that tedious – and neither are my ‘friends’ – but I can guarantee you there are people who are) and “KatMol has a pulse and is still breathing” (again – didn’t write it, but I’ve deleted people who have). It all begs the question: not everyone is creative, but does that mean a status update is allowed to absolutely state the obvious?
“Katmol is really being a bitch today!”
Maybe – but that is what I am talking about. That’s not inspired as such, but it invites the questions: why?
What’s happened?
Can you stop being such a critical, nasty troll and let me write that I have milk in the fridge, if that’s what I want to write?
That invites questions too – who cares? Seriously? Who does?
Rule of thumb: if someone can legitimitely comment "Who actually gives a shit" and not sound like an insensitive toolbox, you might have to come up with a better status update!
Facebook is aweseome – I’ll admit it, I’m addicted. “Hi, my name is KatMol and I’m a facebook-aholic!” But do you know what I’m addicted to? Finding out the fantastic, trivial but important things that are going on in my friends’ lives. Tell me you’re having a great day, by all means, but don’t tell me you just drove to work if that’s what you ALWAYS DO!!!
Like with all writing, the trivial is interesting. The obvious is not.
But seriously, write what you want. Just don’t tell me you’re wearing shoes to work.
Unless you work in a swimming pool!
One of the biggest criticisms I ever got as a writer (via peers and editors) was that I tell, instead of show. It’s what you do when you try to get the most apparent (maybe boring) details across as quickly as possible, when you could easily infer them through brilliant descriptions and anecdotes of alternative events in the story.
This is something that some of us do every day. Case in point: status updates. To my friends out there who read this, I accuse no one of this crime: I just know it happens. But to be on the safe side, I have decided I will try to make status updates on facebook as interesting and entertaining as possible. Because it’s important to know that I crave a pair of sparkly tap shoes, or that I want wear sausages on my head if I’m going to be a Bavarian dancer.
Gone are the days of “KatMol woke up this morning” (actually, I never was that tedious – and neither are my ‘friends’ – but I can guarantee you there are people who are) and “KatMol has a pulse and is still breathing” (again – didn’t write it, but I’ve deleted people who have). It all begs the question: not everyone is creative, but does that mean a status update is allowed to absolutely state the obvious?
“Katmol is really being a bitch today!”
Maybe – but that is what I am talking about. That’s not inspired as such, but it invites the questions: why?
What’s happened?
Can you stop being such a critical, nasty troll and let me write that I have milk in the fridge, if that’s what I want to write?
That invites questions too – who cares? Seriously? Who does?
Rule of thumb: if someone can legitimitely comment "Who actually gives a shit" and not sound like an insensitive toolbox, you might have to come up with a better status update!
Facebook is aweseome – I’ll admit it, I’m addicted. “Hi, my name is KatMol and I’m a facebook-aholic!” But do you know what I’m addicted to? Finding out the fantastic, trivial but important things that are going on in my friends’ lives. Tell me you’re having a great day, by all means, but don’t tell me you just drove to work if that’s what you ALWAYS DO!!!
Like with all writing, the trivial is interesting. The obvious is not.
But seriously, write what you want. Just don’t tell me you’re wearing shoes to work.
Unless you work in a swimming pool!
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Life (or something like it)
I’m worried that this blog is just going to become a list of excuses as to why I’m not writing the best selling novel. Or where I bitch about those little incidents that happen from day to day, that I can never elaborate on because I’m not sure who’s reading this blog.
Wow – even when blogging, creative output can be stifled!
I had a good weekend, but it was a hard weekend – and not just because I agreed to run in an 8 k “marathon” that had hills I was not prepared for! I found that sometimes, even when you want to write, emotionally life just gets in the way. And so does a crazy lady who sells cats for a living (ah – lady, the Simpsons have called and they want their character back!)
Drainer!
Worst still, I had finally decided that Wednesday night was going to be writing night – a splendid comittment where one sits in a cafe for hours, drinks copious amounts of caffeine and just writes - and now I find I will be singing Spring-time for Hitler [whilst not wearing sausages on my head, which is just so disappointing!] 65ks up the Hume instead.
Double Drainer!
This morning, when I went for my daily dose of sunshine in a cup (that would be the first dose, and yes, also my pet name for coffee) I was asked how my mother’s day went. And when I replied that I did not see my mother, came the horrid statement:
- no, not for you mum. For YOU.
Apparently, when you reach a certain age, it is obligatory to have children, just to fit in with society’s assumptions that you do! How inconvenient for her!
Galling. Totally, utterly galling.
Happy mother’s day to all mothers out there – especially my mum, my aunties, my grandmother and my cousins – but society take heed:
I am too busy to procreate. I have to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.
And bake lots of cupcakes!
Wow – even when blogging, creative output can be stifled!
I had a good weekend, but it was a hard weekend – and not just because I agreed to run in an 8 k “marathon” that had hills I was not prepared for! I found that sometimes, even when you want to write, emotionally life just gets in the way. And so does a crazy lady who sells cats for a living (ah – lady, the Simpsons have called and they want their character back!)
Drainer!
Worst still, I had finally decided that Wednesday night was going to be writing night – a splendid comittment where one sits in a cafe for hours, drinks copious amounts of caffeine and just writes - and now I find I will be singing Spring-time for Hitler [whilst not wearing sausages on my head, which is just so disappointing!] 65ks up the Hume instead.
Double Drainer!
This morning, when I went for my daily dose of sunshine in a cup (that would be the first dose, and yes, also my pet name for coffee) I was asked how my mother’s day went. And when I replied that I did not see my mother, came the horrid statement:
- no, not for you mum. For YOU.
Apparently, when you reach a certain age, it is obligatory to have children, just to fit in with society’s assumptions that you do! How inconvenient for her!
Galling. Totally, utterly galling.
Happy mother’s day to all mothers out there – especially my mum, my aunties, my grandmother and my cousins – but society take heed:
I am too busy to procreate. I have to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.
And bake lots of cupcakes!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
And then, there was religion ...
I just hit the "next blog" icon, and was directed to some Christian fundamentalist site in which C.S. Lewis is quoted as saying: 'A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word, 'darkness' on the walls of his cell'.
Whilst my blog is not technically a rant about religion, I thought the fact that CS Lewis wrote it an interesting segue.
Moving on from this, I read a piece about how one can interpret Alice In Wonderland (and its sequel - the return through the looking glass) as some metaphor for the Comings and goings and apparents comings again of Christ. ... Are they absolutely for real?
Oh my fucking God! (And yes, I understand the irony of that statement but I'm into blasphemy, so deal with it!) Why is it that every piece of great literature has to be ruined by some nut with a messiah complex? Unless it's Milton, or something at least as obvious, can't we just have a good fantasy where good versus evil is not a replication of Genesis?
If anyone ever inteprets my stories as anything other than the angry, feminist, deeply anti-religious displays that they are, get ready to run.
Or bring me cupcakes!
(And those are just my young adult stories :-)
Whilst my blog is not technically a rant about religion, I thought the fact that CS Lewis wrote it an interesting segue.
Moving on from this, I read a piece about how one can interpret Alice In Wonderland (and its sequel - the return through the looking glass) as some metaphor for the Comings and goings and apparents comings again of Christ. ... Are they absolutely for real?
Oh my fucking God! (And yes, I understand the irony of that statement but I'm into blasphemy, so deal with it!) Why is it that every piece of great literature has to be ruined by some nut with a messiah complex? Unless it's Milton, or something at least as obvious, can't we just have a good fantasy where good versus evil is not a replication of Genesis?
If anyone ever inteprets my stories as anything other than the angry, feminist, deeply anti-religious displays that they are, get ready to run.
Or bring me cupcakes!
(And those are just my young adult stories :-)
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Computers and I are not friends!
Well, it’s been a few days now and I have done a few things to advance my writing career:
I have sent out a message asking practically everyone I know on the planet what fish food tastes like, in case I ever need to describe such a taste. Oddly enough, there were a few replies – gritty, salty and fishy seems to be the consensus!
I have found the contact details of a freelance editor I went to university with. So that, should I ever need to, I can at least contact an editor.
I’ve done next to nothing to move towards ever needing to contact a freelance editor. Even to say hi!
And, I have been convinced to start up a webpage. Because the URL that would contain my name is still available. And this, apparently, is a good enough reason!
Those that know me will also know how much I detest technology. Don’t get me wrong, I love google and fancy expresso machines as much as the next person, but I was once asked to design a faculty webpage for work, and the reaction can best be described as shortness of breath and chest pains.
Me and computers are not really friends.
We fake it. We mix in the same circles, of course – I am on one to write this, obviously - and I love receiving emails and googling, so our acquaintance is regular and friendly, but ask me to do anything beyond this (like use an interactive whiteboard – 5 hours of PD and I can’t even turn one on) and the relationship gets nasty. Very, very nasty.
But apparently, every budding writer has their own webpage – not a blog, but one they pay for. Why you’d want to pay for something that will, in the set up, strip years off your life is something I am still coming to terms with.
The hopefully not last words of KatMol: io la stupida e computare. Multo!
I have sent out a message asking practically everyone I know on the planet what fish food tastes like, in case I ever need to describe such a taste. Oddly enough, there were a few replies – gritty, salty and fishy seems to be the consensus!
I have found the contact details of a freelance editor I went to university with. So that, should I ever need to, I can at least contact an editor.
I’ve done next to nothing to move towards ever needing to contact a freelance editor. Even to say hi!
And, I have been convinced to start up a webpage. Because the URL that would contain my name is still available. And this, apparently, is a good enough reason!
Those that know me will also know how much I detest technology. Don’t get me wrong, I love google and fancy expresso machines as much as the next person, but I was once asked to design a faculty webpage for work, and the reaction can best be described as shortness of breath and chest pains.
Me and computers are not really friends.
We fake it. We mix in the same circles, of course – I am on one to write this, obviously - and I love receiving emails and googling, so our acquaintance is regular and friendly, but ask me to do anything beyond this (like use an interactive whiteboard – 5 hours of PD and I can’t even turn one on) and the relationship gets nasty. Very, very nasty.
But apparently, every budding writer has their own webpage – not a blog, but one they pay for. Why you’d want to pay for something that will, in the set up, strip years off your life is something I am still coming to terms with.
The hopefully not last words of KatMol: io la stupida e computare. Multo!
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
I work hard for the money - but what's the cost?
7pm.
There’s nothing quite like the excitement of seeing your words in print in a nationally syndicated magazine. That’s how I felt four years ago, anyway, when Take 5 and That’s Life and Woman’s Day, became first my “other” job.
Congratulations, your story has been selected to feature in an upcoming issue of -- was the first email I received this evening, and I realised the excitement has gone. It’s been four years since I Made my Best Friend Fat graced the glossy pages of the place where journalists go to die – an admittedly rubbish story for a rubbish publication.
But by God, do they pay!
Twenty minutes work for $400 dollars. A few fake email addresses (last count, 75 or so), a pretend phone call here and there where you pretend you really are the person who set fire to your twin sister’s house for shaving your dog and having an affair with your son (or other such dribble), and a large collection of shoes courtesy of the Packer corporation.
How does one give this up? I am just a teacher, after all! But to be just a writer - How do writers just write in a capitalist society where there are shoes and cute cardies and soy lattes that now cost up to four dollars a pop?!
I can’t do it! I am a slave to money. My once promised one overseas holiday a year is on the verge of becoming two. I realise I have become a gen x-er who is living in the materialist, instantly-gratify-me mindset of generation y.
I must have caught it at school.
I’ll never write the novel while I’m still writing drivel and arriving to work at seven, just so I can keep on top of my day job. But I’ll never want to do it if I can’t afford to buy a new pair of boots every winter.
But enough of that. It’s time to check my seventy-five email addresses. Which will waste at least an hour. To see if I’ve sold any more shit!
There’s nothing quite like the excitement of seeing your words in print in a nationally syndicated magazine. That’s how I felt four years ago, anyway, when Take 5 and That’s Life and Woman’s Day, became first my “other” job.
Congratulations, your story has been selected to feature in an upcoming issue of -- was the first email I received this evening, and I realised the excitement has gone. It’s been four years since I Made my Best Friend Fat graced the glossy pages of the place where journalists go to die – an admittedly rubbish story for a rubbish publication.
But by God, do they pay!
Twenty minutes work for $400 dollars. A few fake email addresses (last count, 75 or so), a pretend phone call here and there where you pretend you really are the person who set fire to your twin sister’s house for shaving your dog and having an affair with your son (or other such dribble), and a large collection of shoes courtesy of the Packer corporation.
How does one give this up? I am just a teacher, after all! But to be just a writer - How do writers just write in a capitalist society where there are shoes and cute cardies and soy lattes that now cost up to four dollars a pop?!
I can’t do it! I am a slave to money. My once promised one overseas holiday a year is on the verge of becoming two. I realise I have become a gen x-er who is living in the materialist, instantly-gratify-me mindset of generation y.
I must have caught it at school.
I’ll never write the novel while I’m still writing drivel and arriving to work at seven, just so I can keep on top of my day job. But I’ll never want to do it if I can’t afford to buy a new pair of boots every winter.
But enough of that. It’s time to check my seventy-five email addresses. Which will waste at least an hour. To see if I’ve sold any more shit!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
To keep or to kill ...
To make it really interesting, I guess I should set up some goals for myself.
And a desk. In a quiet space. And clean my room!
Who do I actually want to write for? It’s not really a question I’ve ever asked myself. I usually just lie in bed at night and imagine my acceptance speech after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature (or world peace – because my book, of course is that good!) (Can you wear tulle to these things, like the Oscars? It doesn’t matter I guess, because my shoes are fucking brilliant.)
I’d like to thank the fairy godmother for writing this book, because I sure as hell didn’t do it myself!
That’s what I should be saying. I’ve never actually imagined my real imaginary speech though, because I very early on get fixated on the brilliance of my green d’orsay Manolo Blahnik pumps!
So clearly, I want to write a novel. I have actually written one – an entire manuscript, that is – but it would seem that, though my friend and sister had kind words to say about it, the publishing world was not all embracing (as my self-indulgent daydreaming predicted). Nor were my parents, who received their bound copy with much enthusiasm, before discarding it in the back room, where all things immaterial go to die.
So, not a good manuscript, it would seem.
But what do you do with fifty-five thousand words that no one wants to read? It’s fifty thousand words!!! The English language is a brilliant, provoking, insightful, inspired thing – I must have managed to string some sentences together that encapsulate these qualities.
I know I did!
To copy (and destroy) the words of my idol:
To rework, or not to rework – that is the question!
And a desk. In a quiet space. And clean my room!
Who do I actually want to write for? It’s not really a question I’ve ever asked myself. I usually just lie in bed at night and imagine my acceptance speech after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature (or world peace – because my book, of course is that good!) (Can you wear tulle to these things, like the Oscars? It doesn’t matter I guess, because my shoes are fucking brilliant.)
I’d like to thank the fairy godmother for writing this book, because I sure as hell didn’t do it myself!
That’s what I should be saying. I’ve never actually imagined my real imaginary speech though, because I very early on get fixated on the brilliance of my green d’orsay Manolo Blahnik pumps!
So clearly, I want to write a novel. I have actually written one – an entire manuscript, that is – but it would seem that, though my friend and sister had kind words to say about it, the publishing world was not all embracing (as my self-indulgent daydreaming predicted). Nor were my parents, who received their bound copy with much enthusiasm, before discarding it in the back room, where all things immaterial go to die.
So, not a good manuscript, it would seem.
But what do you do with fifty-five thousand words that no one wants to read? It’s fifty thousand words!!! The English language is a brilliant, provoking, insightful, inspired thing – I must have managed to string some sentences together that encapsulate these qualities.
I know I did!
To copy (and destroy) the words of my idol:
To rework, or not to rework – that is the question!
And So it begins ...
Well, actually - no it doesnt.
And that's the problem!
What does one have to do to call themselves a writer? Because this is what I have done:
A degree in Professional Writing (fabulous but fruitless)
A Masters in Creative Writing (inspiring but ultimately idle)
7 years as a teacher of all things creative and on the page. (Do those who can't really teach?)
I'm starting to wonder how qualified I really am!
So, it begins today! Not just the blog - for the blog, though a written log - does not necessarily a writer make! But my efforts to become a published writer.
I will document the trials and tribulations of a self-confessed lazy coucher, trying to find the stamina to make it in a full-time working world!
And, there will be cupcakes!
And that's the problem!
What does one have to do to call themselves a writer? Because this is what I have done:
A degree in Professional Writing (fabulous but fruitless)
A Masters in Creative Writing (inspiring but ultimately idle)
7 years as a teacher of all things creative and on the page. (Do those who can't really teach?)
I'm starting to wonder how qualified I really am!
So, it begins today! Not just the blog - for the blog, though a written log - does not necessarily a writer make! But my efforts to become a published writer.
I will document the trials and tribulations of a self-confessed lazy coucher, trying to find the stamina to make it in a full-time working world!
And, there will be cupcakes!
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