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.
Monday, August 30, 2010
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!!
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