This is post number 900. Who knew a whole lotta nuthin' could take so many posts?
Anyway, Australia's own Macquarie Dictionary is releasing it's fifth edition this week and the latest edition has added another 5,000 words.
New words include: acid shock, baby bump, toxic debt, celeblog, bioenthanol, flashpacker.
The English language is constantly evolving, usually via the culture of the younger generation. Twitter, texting and other communications devices all conspire to abbreviate the language and find euphemisms for legitimate words. Fortunately, text words haven't made it... yet. Maybe another dictionary can be created for the likes of WTF, LOL, ROFL, L8, WYSIWYG.
I guess the most interesting evolution of the language is that it's predicated on social and cultural changes. The most talked about issue is climate change and words encompassing theories are more prevalent in modern language than ever before. Whether you agree with Climate Change or not, it has had an impact on language.
So too has the so-called Global Financial Crisis and America's arm wrestle over health issues. Toxic debt, death panels, golden parachutes, Ponzi, sub-prime, may not be new words, but they've come to international attention.
But the evolution has a down side: raise your hands if you understand Chaucer or Shakespeare, without study notes? Or appreciate Dickensian language as moralistically beguiling? How about Bronte or Austen? Who of the younger generation appreciate the subtleness of the prose? These authors represented the culture and language of the time. Occasionally difficult to comprehend, but magic once deciphered.
What will future generations think of our language. What will the 22nd century teenager think of his/her 21st century counterparts? Will English be recognisable? It makes an interesting premise for book, don't you think?
Showing posts with label Introspection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Introspection. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Newbies
Over at Shadow and Fang, Kait Nolan has a post on Why Do Pantsers Get So Riled Up About Planning? It got me thinking about new authors.
Not the writers who clutch their first published novel in palsied hands, but those just starting out.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that an idea must be in want of a novel. A truth acknowledged by anyone who ever set pen to paper, or finger to keyboard.
There are other universal truths, but I shan't go into the argument of whether a writer is born or develops - both are true.
Do you remember the moment when that first shiny idea popped into your head and you had to write it down? Do you remember the moment you realised it wasn't working and set it aside? Do you remember the next brilliant idea and promising that this time you'll finish it? And setting it aside.
Do you recall thinking that maybe you need to do some research on how other, published authors worked and deciding that their way was the gold-paved road to success? That you went out and bought 'How To...' books that now fill your shelves? That once you'd read those book, it all became clear and you set about writing that great novel you dreamed about.
And then came that magical moment when you wrote... The End. Oh, the thrill, the glee, the happy dance and wonder. It's done! It's brilliant! My God, you're a genius! And visions of book contracts, adoring fans, awards and money start dancing in you head.
Oh, well. Lucky you. Me, I was tired, chuffed, but tired. Even had myself a celebratory drink.
I handed the piece around, received various comments and thought it good. And, as you can imagine, reality slammed my fingers in the door when I hunted up a professional comment. It was certainly as painful.
Well, that sucker now dwells in a bottom drawer, unread, unedited, but a reminder of how the gloss can quickly tarnish under real scrutiny - and that book was severely scrooted.
I wallowed in self-recrimination for some time until I realised the criticisms had nothing to do with me, but the work. It's a hard lesson to learn and it takes time and intestinal fortitude to move on to the next work. I mean, what if this one sucks, too? And the next one? How will the ego survive such hammer blows?
Answer: by learning from your mistakes, but understanding that writing is in a constant state of flux, by knowing that the more you read and write, the better you'll become.
It matters not whether you obsessive plan a novel, or think of an idea and run with it. New authors cannot afford to precious about their work, or their attitude.
Learn from the masters, but do not mistake their way of writing for the best way; there is only your way.
I like to think I've improved since that first piece of nonsense. Writing it taught me a lot, most importantly that I could finish writing a novel. I understood the good and the awful about it - and set it aside for new work. Not as bad as the first, but again, in the drawer to keep The Saracen's Apprentice company, and so on until I felt confident enough to release work out into the wild world.
How good is my work now? I leave that to the readers. I'm constantly working to update my skills, because unless I'm happy with the piece, it ain't goin' nowhere.
As Yoda said: Do, or do not, there is no try.
Not the writers who clutch their first published novel in palsied hands, but those just starting out.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that an idea must be in want of a novel. A truth acknowledged by anyone who ever set pen to paper, or finger to keyboard.
There are other universal truths, but I shan't go into the argument of whether a writer is born or develops - both are true.
Do you remember the moment when that first shiny idea popped into your head and you had to write it down? Do you remember the moment you realised it wasn't working and set it aside? Do you remember the next brilliant idea and promising that this time you'll finish it? And setting it aside.
Do you recall thinking that maybe you need to do some research on how other, published authors worked and deciding that their way was the gold-paved road to success? That you went out and bought 'How To...' books that now fill your shelves? That once you'd read those book, it all became clear and you set about writing that great novel you dreamed about.
And then came that magical moment when you wrote... The End. Oh, the thrill, the glee, the happy dance and wonder. It's done! It's brilliant! My God, you're a genius! And visions of book contracts, adoring fans, awards and money start dancing in you head.
Oh, well. Lucky you. Me, I was tired, chuffed, but tired. Even had myself a celebratory drink.
I handed the piece around, received various comments and thought it good. And, as you can imagine, reality slammed my fingers in the door when I hunted up a professional comment. It was certainly as painful.
Well, that sucker now dwells in a bottom drawer, unread, unedited, but a reminder of how the gloss can quickly tarnish under real scrutiny - and that book was severely scrooted.
I wallowed in self-recrimination for some time until I realised the criticisms had nothing to do with me, but the work. It's a hard lesson to learn and it takes time and intestinal fortitude to move on to the next work. I mean, what if this one sucks, too? And the next one? How will the ego survive such hammer blows?
Answer: by learning from your mistakes, but understanding that writing is in a constant state of flux, by knowing that the more you read and write, the better you'll become.
It matters not whether you obsessive plan a novel, or think of an idea and run with it. New authors cannot afford to precious about their work, or their attitude.
Learn from the masters, but do not mistake their way of writing for the best way; there is only your way.
I like to think I've improved since that first piece of nonsense. Writing it taught me a lot, most importantly that I could finish writing a novel. I understood the good and the awful about it - and set it aside for new work. Not as bad as the first, but again, in the drawer to keep The Saracen's Apprentice company, and so on until I felt confident enough to release work out into the wild world.
How good is my work now? I leave that to the readers. I'm constantly working to update my skills, because unless I'm happy with the piece, it ain't goin' nowhere.
As Yoda said: Do, or do not, there is no try.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Commitment
Over the weekend - and in between Australia pummelling England in the Ashes series - I watched Inside the Actors Studio.
James Lipton interviewed Barbra Streisand. It may be an old interview, but I enjoyed it. I think she's rare talent. Anyway, one thing she said resonated with me. Ms Streisand isn't the one who said it, but cited it as an inspiration:
If you make a commitment, the universe conspires to assist you.
When you think of all the unhappy, stressed people in the world, working a jobs they despise, all because they have families to support/it's the right thing to do/it's expected of them/for whatever reason, and then you look at the people who are happy in their lives because they refused to adhere to social expectations, the above phrase is probably the unconscious motivation for them.
It's all a matter of perspective. I've heard many a tale of friends who stick with jobs they don't like because of 'moral obligation' but would rather paint, write, sculpt, or simply shift from public service to gardener or shopkeeper. Most are too afraid to take that leap because their current job gives them security. And they will throw aside their own dreams in the name of that security.
I don't blame them; in this economic climate, holding down a job someone else pays you for is the best thing you can have.
If you make a commitment, the universe conspires to assist you.
I'm guessing you have to be on the right path before the universe will pay attention; all you have to do is find it.
James Lipton interviewed Barbra Streisand. It may be an old interview, but I enjoyed it. I think she's rare talent. Anyway, one thing she said resonated with me. Ms Streisand isn't the one who said it, but cited it as an inspiration:
If you make a commitment, the universe conspires to assist you.
When you think of all the unhappy, stressed people in the world, working a jobs they despise, all because they have families to support/it's the right thing to do/it's expected of them/for whatever reason, and then you look at the people who are happy in their lives because they refused to adhere to social expectations, the above phrase is probably the unconscious motivation for them.
It's all a matter of perspective. I've heard many a tale of friends who stick with jobs they don't like because of 'moral obligation' but would rather paint, write, sculpt, or simply shift from public service to gardener or shopkeeper. Most are too afraid to take that leap because their current job gives them security. And they will throw aside their own dreams in the name of that security.
I don't blame them; in this economic climate, holding down a job someone else pays you for is the best thing you can have.
If you make a commitment, the universe conspires to assist you.
I'm guessing you have to be on the right path before the universe will pay attention; all you have to do is find it.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
The Quintessential Aussie
Marina over at Pecked by Ducks expressed puzzlement over what 'uniquely Australian' might mean.
I think I have part of the answer.
In today's edition of The Sydney Morning Herald is a story entitled: Wedgies and petty theft tie up consular staff.
To quote Tim Elliott's story:
Touching up a Singapore Airlines flight attendant, giving drinkers 'wedgies' at Oktoberfest and pilfering bar mats from Phuket bars. Australians love to travel and are, it seems, finding ever more unorthodox ways of extending time overseas - even if it means bunking down in the lock up.
"Australians go everywhere, and everywhere they go they get into trouble," a senior official from the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade says. "It makes you proud."
It's the last comment that made me smile. It's the type of innocent, carefree roguishness, otherwise known as larrikinism, that identifies an Aussie abroad. Such behaviour is rarely malicious, more filled with mischief in the pursuit of a good time. We are, after all, the children of a penal colony, like Americans are the children of Puritans. That essential beginning colours our upbringing in a societal way.
Not that everyone has ambitions of petty larceny here or that all Americans are prudes. No, it's the ideology that sinks in through osmosis. (Okay, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.)
But it's difficult to translate that type of persona onto the written page; that positively identifies a character as being Australian unless a writer states as much.
For example, a southern drawl anywhere else means Texas or Louisiana, a southern state. Here, it's Victorian or Tasmanian - and we do have subtle variations on our accents - though you have to listen carefully.
I've read a number of books with Australian characters, though not Sandra McDonald, and I've been vaguely disappointed in the characterisation and speech patterns. But to write about a true Australian character, and there are many, would render the piece nearly indecipherable to overseas markets.
It's not just words like car boot (trunk), torch (flashlight), garbage bin (trash can), flats (apartments), chemist (pharmacy) and other words, it's the phrases as well, the comparative lexicon: dry as a burnt chip, up and down like a bride's nightie (or fiddler's elbow, if you want to be polite), flat out like a lizard drinking, the frog and toad, a dog's eye and sauce, a dangler or a jiggler.
Not the old cultural cringe, either, but an evolution of language. An Australian is laconic, a master of the understatement and the bleedin' obvious.
No wonder I love this country, for all it's idiosyncrasies and the harmless, innocently funny behaviour of its' people.
I think I have part of the answer.
In today's edition of The Sydney Morning Herald is a story entitled: Wedgies and petty theft tie up consular staff.
To quote Tim Elliott's story:
Touching up a Singapore Airlines flight attendant, giving drinkers 'wedgies' at Oktoberfest and pilfering bar mats from Phuket bars. Australians love to travel and are, it seems, finding ever more unorthodox ways of extending time overseas - even if it means bunking down in the lock up.
"Australians go everywhere, and everywhere they go they get into trouble," a senior official from the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade says. "It makes you proud."
It's the last comment that made me smile. It's the type of innocent, carefree roguishness, otherwise known as larrikinism, that identifies an Aussie abroad. Such behaviour is rarely malicious, more filled with mischief in the pursuit of a good time. We are, after all, the children of a penal colony, like Americans are the children of Puritans. That essential beginning colours our upbringing in a societal way.
Not that everyone has ambitions of petty larceny here or that all Americans are prudes. No, it's the ideology that sinks in through osmosis. (Okay, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.)
But it's difficult to translate that type of persona onto the written page; that positively identifies a character as being Australian unless a writer states as much.
For example, a southern drawl anywhere else means Texas or Louisiana, a southern state. Here, it's Victorian or Tasmanian - and we do have subtle variations on our accents - though you have to listen carefully.
I've read a number of books with Australian characters, though not Sandra McDonald, and I've been vaguely disappointed in the characterisation and speech patterns. But to write about a true Australian character, and there are many, would render the piece nearly indecipherable to overseas markets.
It's not just words like car boot (trunk), torch (flashlight), garbage bin (trash can), flats (apartments), chemist (pharmacy) and other words, it's the phrases as well, the comparative lexicon: dry as a burnt chip, up and down like a bride's nightie (or fiddler's elbow, if you want to be polite), flat out like a lizard drinking, the frog and toad, a dog's eye and sauce, a dangler or a jiggler.
Not the old cultural cringe, either, but an evolution of language. An Australian is laconic, a master of the understatement and the bleedin' obvious.
No wonder I love this country, for all it's idiosyncrasies and the harmless, innocently funny behaviour of its' people.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Anything?
"Tis better to be silent and considered a fool..."
No, that's not it. Umm. Oh, yeah: "If you can't find anything nice to say, don't say nuffink at all."
So that leaves out politics of any kind, though I'm tempted. Sport didn't go my way this weekend, so that's out too. Writing? Nope, not going well there either. The state of the world's finances? What can I say about Corporate greed that hasn't already been said? What about where I live? Anything new? Well a house across the road was taken down to make way for a new one. Does that count? No, I don't think so either.
Hmm... Weblogs? I did find this, if you're willing to download buckets of megabytes of data on UFO sightings in the United Kingdom. More for curiosity than anything else. You either believe or you don't. Other than that, I've not seen anything to really grab my attention.
Movies or books I've seen recently? Umm... haven't seen any movies recently and I'm still wading through the J.D. Robb collection. I live in the country so movies are a matter of logistics to get there. Though I am sorry at the passing of Paul Newman. What a guy. Handsome, talented and one of the true success stories of Hollywood. And since these things always happen in threes, I have to wonder who's next.
I guess that means there's nothing to chat about. Maybe tomorrow will be different...
No, that's not it. Umm. Oh, yeah: "If you can't find anything nice to say, don't say nuffink at all."
So that leaves out politics of any kind, though I'm tempted. Sport didn't go my way this weekend, so that's out too. Writing? Nope, not going well there either. The state of the world's finances? What can I say about Corporate greed that hasn't already been said? What about where I live? Anything new? Well a house across the road was taken down to make way for a new one. Does that count? No, I don't think so either.
Hmm... Weblogs? I did find this, if you're willing to download buckets of megabytes of data on UFO sightings in the United Kingdom. More for curiosity than anything else. You either believe or you don't. Other than that, I've not seen anything to really grab my attention.
Movies or books I've seen recently? Umm... haven't seen any movies recently and I'm still wading through the J.D. Robb collection. I live in the country so movies are a matter of logistics to get there. Though I am sorry at the passing of Paul Newman. What a guy. Handsome, talented and one of the true success stories of Hollywood. And since these things always happen in threes, I have to wonder who's next.
I guess that means there's nothing to chat about. Maybe tomorrow will be different...
Monday, September 22, 2008
Bygones
Curiouser and curiouser.
I received two e-mails today from long lost school buds. One, I haven't heard hide-nor-hair of since that last day of high school; the other sent me an e-mail way back in 2002. Now, each send me a message... on the same day???
One is a 'hail fellow, what up?', the other is announcing a reunion for next year. I figure they're both connected, but arriving on the same day kinda creeped me out a bit.
A reunion. A school reunion. My immediate reaction is nup, no-way, nuh-uh. The last one I went to involved questions about marriage, children and jobs. If the answers weren't satisfactory, then they drifted away. Since I'm one of... I think two or three who never married, I so do not want to go that route again, as if your only value is wrapped up in relationships, otherwise, you're not worth talking to.
Then again, I also found myself at a table with old friends - and their spouses - having an uproarious time while other tables looked on with frowns of disapproval (I liked that bit.) Talk was of what we'd been up to and the adventures we'd all had, with a few 'do you remember whens' tossed in.
Should reunions be about how well so-and-so has done? Or the loss of someone? Or gossip? Do I want to 'catch up' with people I've not thought of, or seen, for years, to see how grey we've become, how middle age has settled on us?
On an intellectual basis, there are some buds I'd like to see, to chat to, to laugh with, but in reality... we didn't have alot in common then, less so now.
The reunion's just over a year away. I guess I've got time to give it some thought.
I received two e-mails today from long lost school buds. One, I haven't heard hide-nor-hair of since that last day of high school; the other sent me an e-mail way back in 2002. Now, each send me a message... on the same day???
One is a 'hail fellow, what up?', the other is announcing a reunion for next year. I figure they're both connected, but arriving on the same day kinda creeped me out a bit.
A reunion. A school reunion. My immediate reaction is nup, no-way, nuh-uh. The last one I went to involved questions about marriage, children and jobs. If the answers weren't satisfactory, then they drifted away. Since I'm one of... I think two or three who never married, I so do not want to go that route again, as if your only value is wrapped up in relationships, otherwise, you're not worth talking to.
Then again, I also found myself at a table with old friends - and their spouses - having an uproarious time while other tables looked on with frowns of disapproval (I liked that bit.) Talk was of what we'd been up to and the adventures we'd all had, with a few 'do you remember whens' tossed in.
Should reunions be about how well so-and-so has done? Or the loss of someone? Or gossip? Do I want to 'catch up' with people I've not thought of, or seen, for years, to see how grey we've become, how middle age has settled on us?
On an intellectual basis, there are some buds I'd like to see, to chat to, to laugh with, but in reality... we didn't have alot in common then, less so now.
The reunion's just over a year away. I guess I've got time to give it some thought.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
New things
I learned a new word today: polydactyl.
Isn't it cool? Poly... dactyl...
Sounds prehistoric; a new type of dinosaur maybe? Nup. It means having more than the usual digits, like people being born with six fingers or six toes.
I like to learn a new thing every day. Yesterday, it was my first three chapters... um... prologue plus two chapters, aren't as nifty as I thought. What I learned is that just about all my first three chapters aren't as readable as the rest. And I've been torturing myself over it. I can delete the prologue and the rest is 'okay', but once I get into the fourth chapter and beyond, it reads well.
I'll have to find some literature on how to write the first three chapters effectively.
Last week, I realised why I had such a problem with the 'annoyance and inconvenience' law passed for the Catholic World Youth Day: we weren't asked.
Australians, as a whole, will bend over backwards to help out... if asked. If we're not, and assumptions are made, then we get all pissy about it. If the Government had asked us to welcome the pilgrims, we would have done so, like we did for the Olympics. But we weren't; we were told and laws put in place to ensure compliance.
This country was founded by convicts. People who had a natural resistance to authority... that hasn't changed. Not one jot. We made a hero out of the criminal Ned Kelly, after all.
I guess it just shows how blind our current government is to the Aussie way. Too bad the election is still a couple of years away.
I wonder what I'll learn tomorrow? And how can I use my new word? Polydactyl. What new things have you learned today?
Isn't it cool? Poly... dactyl...
Sounds prehistoric; a new type of dinosaur maybe? Nup. It means having more than the usual digits, like people being born with six fingers or six toes.
I like to learn a new thing every day. Yesterday, it was my first three chapters... um... prologue plus two chapters, aren't as nifty as I thought. What I learned is that just about all my first three chapters aren't as readable as the rest. And I've been torturing myself over it. I can delete the prologue and the rest is 'okay', but once I get into the fourth chapter and beyond, it reads well.
I'll have to find some literature on how to write the first three chapters effectively.
Last week, I realised why I had such a problem with the 'annoyance and inconvenience' law passed for the Catholic World Youth Day: we weren't asked.
Australians, as a whole, will bend over backwards to help out... if asked. If we're not, and assumptions are made, then we get all pissy about it. If the Government had asked us to welcome the pilgrims, we would have done so, like we did for the Olympics. But we weren't; we were told and laws put in place to ensure compliance.
This country was founded by convicts. People who had a natural resistance to authority... that hasn't changed. Not one jot. We made a hero out of the criminal Ned Kelly, after all.
I guess it just shows how blind our current government is to the Aussie way. Too bad the election is still a couple of years away.
I wonder what I'll learn tomorrow? And how can I use my new word? Polydactyl. What new things have you learned today?
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Hard Yards
Finally finished the edits - that is: red pen all over the place on 376 pages of hard copy. Tomorrow, I get to correct the electronic version.
Now that I'm done with the paper, it got me to thinking about how I edit.
Most writers hate the editing phase. Some days, I'm not a fan either, even though I have the professional qualifications to do it. I don't know why. If the book is good enough, why worry about the small stuff?
And I think that's the fundamental problem. While we write, everything is perfect. We see with absolute clarity the characters and scenery and dialogue and... everything. But when the editing comes around, we have to take off those rose-coloured glasses and put on the executioner's hood. We cut and hack, slice and dice and remove what we thought brilliant at the time of writing; and we wonder what the hell we were thinking.
For me, if a book doesn't write well, I don't finish it; and that circumvents the need to edit. But when I've finished writing and set the tome aside, I come back and read through it with a fresh eye.
Most of the problems with Huntress are cosmetic: grammar, missing punctuation, a missing word here or there. I've only deleted a part of one scene and that's because no man has that kind of stamina. This book was, however, written for Nano 2003, and the aim then was the word count. Nothing boosts a word count like S.E.X. so, out that part goes.
There are more pages with corrections than not, but I should be done by tomorrow afternoon, and that makes me happy.
I may even give myself some of next week off, after I've done the story for Saturday and next Wednesday.
* * *
On another note, I was saddened to read on Sci Fi Weekly that Terry Pratchett has announced he's suffering from the early onset of Alzheimer's Disease.
I'm not a fan of his work, but I have heard him speak and he is as entertaining as he is erudite. He says he has time yet to write more books, but I can only say it is a tragedy to the sci-fi and fantasy genre to lose such a clever mind.
And yes, I have experience with this kind of disease; my father had it and there is nothing more cruel.
I'm not going to suddenly rush out and buy Terry Pratchett's books, as I said, I don't like them, but I know he has fans and they are legion. Maybe someone will come up with a cure in time to save him. We can only hope and pray.
Now that I'm done with the paper, it got me to thinking about how I edit.
Most writers hate the editing phase. Some days, I'm not a fan either, even though I have the professional qualifications to do it. I don't know why. If the book is good enough, why worry about the small stuff?
And I think that's the fundamental problem. While we write, everything is perfect. We see with absolute clarity the characters and scenery and dialogue and... everything. But when the editing comes around, we have to take off those rose-coloured glasses and put on the executioner's hood. We cut and hack, slice and dice and remove what we thought brilliant at the time of writing; and we wonder what the hell we were thinking.
For me, if a book doesn't write well, I don't finish it; and that circumvents the need to edit. But when I've finished writing and set the tome aside, I come back and read through it with a fresh eye.
Most of the problems with Huntress are cosmetic: grammar, missing punctuation, a missing word here or there. I've only deleted a part of one scene and that's because no man has that kind of stamina. This book was, however, written for Nano 2003, and the aim then was the word count. Nothing boosts a word count like S.E.X. so, out that part goes.
There are more pages with corrections than not, but I should be done by tomorrow afternoon, and that makes me happy.
I may even give myself some of next week off, after I've done the story for Saturday and next Wednesday.
* * *
On another note, I was saddened to read on Sci Fi Weekly that Terry Pratchett has announced he's suffering from the early onset of Alzheimer's Disease.
I'm not a fan of his work, but I have heard him speak and he is as entertaining as he is erudite. He says he has time yet to write more books, but I can only say it is a tragedy to the sci-fi and fantasy genre to lose such a clever mind.
And yes, I have experience with this kind of disease; my father had it and there is nothing more cruel.
I'm not going to suddenly rush out and buy Terry Pratchett's books, as I said, I don't like them, but I know he has fans and they are legion. Maybe someone will come up with a cure in time to save him. We can only hope and pray.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Housewife 49
I saw the most amazing drama last night, called Housewife 49. It's based on the Second World War diaries of Nella Last, the wife of a terse, insensitive man and mother to two, less than ideal sons; one, just as carelessly cruel as his father, the other who shuns her after his 'friend' is killed during the war.
Victoria Wood - better known for her comic roles - stars as Nella Last and is brilliant in the role. Nella begins writing for the Mass-Observation, a project that examined the lives of 'ordinary' people and finds an outlet for expressing the feelings she can't share with her husband.
The astonishing thing about this movie is that you never see a war reel, never see anything of the war really, only the consequences; in lives lost suddenly and more importantly, how the war affected those who survived, in particular, Nella's favoured son, Cliff.
Victoria Wood goes from a woman who is lost within the confines of her marriage and the times, to someone filled with energy and hope as she helps with the local branch of the Women's Voluntary Service. She is no longer alone, no longer isolated in her marriage. As a glimpse into the ordinary lives of people in England during the war, it's a real eye-opener.
I didn't think I'd like it much, but I was riveted from the beginning; by Woods and by the storyline. The stoicism, the grief and the inability of John to communicate effectively with Nella is perfectly played, especially as the film goes on, you see him struggling to come to terms with his wife's new found independence. The world has changed and he doesn't know how to deal with it.
Stephanie Cole as Mrs Waite, head of the Women's Voluntary Service, is as formidable as she is progressive. It's easy to see the genesis of the 'liberation' of women in Housewife 49, and if you get the chance to see it, it's worth a look.
Victoria Wood - better known for her comic roles - stars as Nella Last and is brilliant in the role. Nella begins writing for the Mass-Observation, a project that examined the lives of 'ordinary' people and finds an outlet for expressing the feelings she can't share with her husband.
The astonishing thing about this movie is that you never see a war reel, never see anything of the war really, only the consequences; in lives lost suddenly and more importantly, how the war affected those who survived, in particular, Nella's favoured son, Cliff.
Victoria Wood goes from a woman who is lost within the confines of her marriage and the times, to someone filled with energy and hope as she helps with the local branch of the Women's Voluntary Service. She is no longer alone, no longer isolated in her marriage. As a glimpse into the ordinary lives of people in England during the war, it's a real eye-opener.
I didn't think I'd like it much, but I was riveted from the beginning; by Woods and by the storyline. The stoicism, the grief and the inability of John to communicate effectively with Nella is perfectly played, especially as the film goes on, you see him struggling to come to terms with his wife's new found independence. The world has changed and he doesn't know how to deal with it.
Stephanie Cole as Mrs Waite, head of the Women's Voluntary Service, is as formidable as she is progressive. It's easy to see the genesis of the 'liberation' of women in Housewife 49, and if you get the chance to see it, it's worth a look.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Small stuff
I was going to write a post on what a relief it will be to finally finish the second book (the first time I've ever finished on time and on word count). But my sister sent me an e-mail I thought I'd share, just in case something went awry for you this Nano:
"IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER - by Erma Bombeck
(Written after she found out she was dying from cancer).
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.
I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have sat on the lawn! With my grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner." There would have been more "I love you's"; more "I'm sorry's."
But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute...look at it and really see it... live it and never give it back. STOP SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF!!!
Don't worry about who doesn't like you, who has more, or who's doing what.
Instead; let's cherish the relationships we have with those who do love us."
* * *
Life is all about fresh starts and challenges. For me, the challenge to be able to write a book is over; the fear that I'll run out of ideas has faded under the pressure of Nano (thank you, inner athlete). The next challenge - not a New Year resolution, thanks - is to get some of those books to an agent or editor. It will me versus my greatest fear of all: accepting failure and moving on.
And since I'm in a philosophical mood, one last quote before I get back to work:
"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore, Dream, Discover."
Mark Twain
"IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER - by Erma Bombeck
(Written after she found out she was dying from cancer).
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.
I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have sat on the lawn! With my grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner." There would have been more "I love you's"; more "I'm sorry's."
But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute...look at it and really see it... live it and never give it back. STOP SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF!!!
Don't worry about who doesn't like you, who has more, or who's doing what.
Instead; let's cherish the relationships we have with those who do love us."
* * *
Life is all about fresh starts and challenges. For me, the challenge to be able to write a book is over; the fear that I'll run out of ideas has faded under the pressure of Nano (thank you, inner athlete). The next challenge - not a New Year resolution, thanks - is to get some of those books to an agent or editor. It will me versus my greatest fear of all: accepting failure and moving on.
And since I'm in a philosophical mood, one last quote before I get back to work:
"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore, Dream, Discover."
Mark Twain
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Money or Love?
In the past two weeks, I think I’ve been offered a piece of about $500 million if only I’d hand over my banking details.
Today, three more arrived in my e-mail: one about the assassinated deputy governor of Baghdad, with a hidden account – $30 million – a deceased foreigner in Burkina Faso whose money can only be taken out under the radar of the UN - $15 million – and 850,000 euros in the London Million International Lottery though the office is, apparently, in Ouagadougou, Burkina Fasa with an e-mail address in France all because my e-mail address was selected in a world-wide lottery.
I must, of course, keep these financial dealings confidential, or risk losing it all. I think I can cope with that; it’s only fake money.
* * *
I went to a job interview a few weeks ago and had a good time of it – I don’t really stress out at interviews anymore (I’m looking for something, and they’re looking for someone suitable, no big).
So earlier this week, I got a phone call telling me that I was unsuccessful by one place. Regrets all round, ‘we’ll keep you on our file in case someone doesn’t want the job’, yadda, yadda…
Yesterday, I told my parent. She stared at me, outraged: “What? How could there be ten other people better than you?”
Sometimes, all it takes is one instinctive, off-the-cuff comment to make you feel the love and the disappointment vanishes.
No amount of money can buy that.
Today, three more arrived in my e-mail: one about the assassinated deputy governor of Baghdad, with a hidden account – $30 million – a deceased foreigner in Burkina Faso whose money can only be taken out under the radar of the UN - $15 million – and 850,000 euros in the London Million International Lottery though the office is, apparently, in Ouagadougou, Burkina Fasa with an e-mail address in France all because my e-mail address was selected in a world-wide lottery.
I must, of course, keep these financial dealings confidential, or risk losing it all. I think I can cope with that; it’s only fake money.
* * *
I went to a job interview a few weeks ago and had a good time of it – I don’t really stress out at interviews anymore (I’m looking for something, and they’re looking for someone suitable, no big).
So earlier this week, I got a phone call telling me that I was unsuccessful by one place. Regrets all round, ‘we’ll keep you on our file in case someone doesn’t want the job’, yadda, yadda…
Yesterday, I told my parent. She stared at me, outraged: “What? How could there be ten other people better than you?”
Sometimes, all it takes is one instinctive, off-the-cuff comment to make you feel the love and the disappointment vanishes.
No amount of money can buy that.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Look! Up in the sky
I have all the movie channels free this week on cable; I’m not asking why, I’m simply enjoying them.
The second three of the Star Wars movies played; not the originals, but the 20th Anniversary ones from 1997. I watched them all with nostalgia and interest – since I hadn’t seen the digitally remastered versions.
My parents took me to see Star Wars when it was first released and I was enchanted. Can you imagine? Two adults and six kids sitting in the balcony seats without a murmur, without popcorn or Coke, staring wide-eyed at the screen. The drive home was silent, each of us enthralled by the adventure we’d just seen.
I even remember sitting by my window at home, staring up at the night sky and wondering ‘what if’. My imagination had already been stirred by Space 1999, Doctor Who, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century and Battlestar Galactica.
I was reading Ann McCaffrey and Andre Norton, along with JT Edson – books I still have on the shelf – listening to Yes, Rick Wakeman and Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds (that red weed bit really scared me; I still can’t listen to it at night).
As I grew older, I remained a fan of science fiction; it was the best. But I still didn’t know how to create my own worlds. My first fiction piece, in fact, was a spy novel – light on words, heavy on action – written before I’d ever heard of Ian Fleming.
What intrigued me about Star Wars is that it started at number 4. Like a lot of other people, I wondered what happened to the first three: did we miss them? Where they not released in Australia?
Now, I know different and there are a number of series that don’t start at the… well, start. Anita Blake is already scarred in Guilty Pleasures with relationships established and references to what came before. So, too, Honor Harrington had already commanded a starship before On Basilisk Station, Diana Tregarde, Rachel Morgan, all had adventures before the first books; even Bilbo Baggins had a life before he found the One Ring.
So where to start in a series? If your character has had adventures before hand, the first book is simply a part of a series, albeit an unwritten one. Is it simply a device to lure readers in to wanting more? To wanting to know what came before? To understand how a character came to be like they are?
Well, if readers are asking that, you’ve hit the jackpot, because what it means is that you’ve written a three-dimensional character; more importantly, it means you know more about your character than you need to.
I’m still working on that, but for now, Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country is on. One of the best lines in Wrath of Khan is Spock telling Kirk: “You forget, I am Vulcan; I have no ego to bruise.” I wish I’d written that; maybe one day I will.
The second three of the Star Wars movies played; not the originals, but the 20th Anniversary ones from 1997. I watched them all with nostalgia and interest – since I hadn’t seen the digitally remastered versions.
My parents took me to see Star Wars when it was first released and I was enchanted. Can you imagine? Two adults and six kids sitting in the balcony seats without a murmur, without popcorn or Coke, staring wide-eyed at the screen. The drive home was silent, each of us enthralled by the adventure we’d just seen.
I even remember sitting by my window at home, staring up at the night sky and wondering ‘what if’. My imagination had already been stirred by Space 1999, Doctor Who, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century and Battlestar Galactica.
I was reading Ann McCaffrey and Andre Norton, along with JT Edson – books I still have on the shelf – listening to Yes, Rick Wakeman and Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds (that red weed bit really scared me; I still can’t listen to it at night).
As I grew older, I remained a fan of science fiction; it was the best. But I still didn’t know how to create my own worlds. My first fiction piece, in fact, was a spy novel – light on words, heavy on action – written before I’d ever heard of Ian Fleming.
What intrigued me about Star Wars is that it started at number 4. Like a lot of other people, I wondered what happened to the first three: did we miss them? Where they not released in Australia?
Now, I know different and there are a number of series that don’t start at the… well, start. Anita Blake is already scarred in Guilty Pleasures with relationships established and references to what came before. So, too, Honor Harrington had already commanded a starship before On Basilisk Station, Diana Tregarde, Rachel Morgan, all had adventures before the first books; even Bilbo Baggins had a life before he found the One Ring.
So where to start in a series? If your character has had adventures before hand, the first book is simply a part of a series, albeit an unwritten one. Is it simply a device to lure readers in to wanting more? To wanting to know what came before? To understand how a character came to be like they are?
Well, if readers are asking that, you’ve hit the jackpot, because what it means is that you’ve written a three-dimensional character; more importantly, it means you know more about your character than you need to.
I’m still working on that, but for now, Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country is on. One of the best lines in Wrath of Khan is Spock telling Kirk: “You forget, I am Vulcan; I have no ego to bruise.” I wish I’d written that; maybe one day I will.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Inspired
Carly Simon recently said in an interview, “You can never predict what will inspire you.” It struck a chord (if you’ll excuse the pun) with me because it goes to the heart of what a lot of writers fear: that of running out of ideas. Call it writer’s block, call it Muse strike action or call it a ‘hiatus’, it’s all the same.
No writer wants to ever find themselves with nothing to write.
Daily stress, deadline pressure, fan demands and self-condemnation can all play a part in torpedoing a writer’s creativity. So too can producing a less than optimum piece of work. Who hasn’t read a ‘pot boiler’ from one of their favourite authors and been disappointed?
Whether it’s the pursuit of that first published novel or the next best seller, the pressure to perform is extreme. Editors, publishers and fans apply the blowtorch to writers with their expectations.
Writers are well aware that they are only as good as the next novel. Which is the more difficult: stand alones or series? The former requires all the ingredients, from world building to dialogue; the latter requires an initial investment of everything, but from there, new plot lines, adhering to the characterisations and story arc are paramount. Fans expect a high standard from authors, and howl with outrage if that standard isn’t maintained. So the answer is that neither is more difficult than the other; they’re both hard.
One author went so far as to announce he wouldn’t write horror anymore because it was too difficult to scare people in today’s environment. For those who read Stephen King, it’s fortunate that he still writes at all. He’s probably the most well-known example.
Today’s fans are more canny, more knowledgeable about life and technology than ever before and their expectations reflect that knowledge. It means an author can fail spectacularly, or rise beyond that brass ring. The consequences of either can be catastrophic. Fail, and you may never be published again; succeed and you’ve set yourself a very high bar indeed.
But, for all the doom and gloom, writers are hardy folk. Writers must write; like teachers teaching, politicians lying… er, politicking, scientists investigating. It’s a fundamental part of us… whether we succeed or not.
Everything is up for grabs and nothing is too sacred to be written about or used as inspiration.
We can pluck an amorphous thought or idea out of thin air and turn it into something wonderful. We can hear a snippet of innocent conversation and turn it into a global conspiracy. We can see a flash of light, or dark shadow, and create scariness. We can do anything. We are the Gods and Goddesses of the written word and we can twist anything to suit our purposes.
So, while we can’t “predict what will inspire” us, we can certainly look around at this world of ours and tempt the Muse with what we see.
No writer wants to ever find themselves with nothing to write.
Daily stress, deadline pressure, fan demands and self-condemnation can all play a part in torpedoing a writer’s creativity. So too can producing a less than optimum piece of work. Who hasn’t read a ‘pot boiler’ from one of their favourite authors and been disappointed?
Whether it’s the pursuit of that first published novel or the next best seller, the pressure to perform is extreme. Editors, publishers and fans apply the blowtorch to writers with their expectations.
Writers are well aware that they are only as good as the next novel. Which is the more difficult: stand alones or series? The former requires all the ingredients, from world building to dialogue; the latter requires an initial investment of everything, but from there, new plot lines, adhering to the characterisations and story arc are paramount. Fans expect a high standard from authors, and howl with outrage if that standard isn’t maintained. So the answer is that neither is more difficult than the other; they’re both hard.
One author went so far as to announce he wouldn’t write horror anymore because it was too difficult to scare people in today’s environment. For those who read Stephen King, it’s fortunate that he still writes at all. He’s probably the most well-known example.
Today’s fans are more canny, more knowledgeable about life and technology than ever before and their expectations reflect that knowledge. It means an author can fail spectacularly, or rise beyond that brass ring. The consequences of either can be catastrophic. Fail, and you may never be published again; succeed and you’ve set yourself a very high bar indeed.
But, for all the doom and gloom, writers are hardy folk. Writers must write; like teachers teaching, politicians lying… er, politicking, scientists investigating. It’s a fundamental part of us… whether we succeed or not.
Everything is up for grabs and nothing is too sacred to be written about or used as inspiration.
We can pluck an amorphous thought or idea out of thin air and turn it into something wonderful. We can hear a snippet of innocent conversation and turn it into a global conspiracy. We can see a flash of light, or dark shadow, and create scariness. We can do anything. We are the Gods and Goddesses of the written word and we can twist anything to suit our purposes.
So, while we can’t “predict what will inspire” us, we can certainly look around at this world of ours and tempt the Muse with what we see.
Monday, January 01, 2007
A New You
The New Year brings all sorts of easily broken promise. We all do it: out with the old attitude and in with the new. "This year, I'm gonna...", "My New Year's resolution is:...", and so on.
I don't have the energy. Really. By year's end, I'm tired and looking for a break, not making more plans, creating extra obligations and making promises I won't keep. I only make promise I can keep; that's what integrity is about.
The end of January - the end of school holidays - is when I start making plans. Living in a tourist town, we locals are constantly battling with arrogant, traffic-blind, drop-the-trash-in-the-street, strip-the-shops, whinging, whiney, loud, obnoxious, tourists!
I don't get it. They (and yes, I'm generalising) seem to leave their manners and brains at home. The crime rate lifts by 500%; prank phone calls every bloody week, litter, drunkeness, fights... They don't do it at home, so why here in this pristine environment?
Come February, they're mostly gone and we can get back to the quiet life. Those tourists who remain are polite and blend in; they enjoy the sun, the surf, the peaceful existence and plan to retire here. And we welcome them.
I'm in a bit of a pissy mood, as you've guessed. My week off from work has been... well, work, with various family members plus children turning up. It's been like a hotel around here and Saxon - my elderly sixteen-year-old dog - is exhausted from avoiding small, grasping hands and the loud squealings of excited children. Oy.
I love my family. I do. I enjoy their company, enjoy catching up, seeing the kids growing up, the laughter, the glee, the... life in them; but not all at once. It's a lot of catering, cleaning, entertaining, shopping for more food...
I've done no writing, as I'd planned: being a favoured aunt is tough work. Kids follow you everywhere - even to the bathroom, depending on the age of the aforementioned child. What's up with that?
They've all had a wonderful time, though, with the beach and each other. That's the most important part, no matter how much I want to escape. I have no energy left to make plans for a new me; that can wait until I recharge the batteries.
Tomorrow, it's back to the day job and it's going to be busy. The last of the relatives leave then too. From Christmas Eve to tomorrow, we've had family here; a constant barrage of noise and family-work for me. Finding a quiet place has been impossible, whether physically or in my head.
That's what life is all about - the sensory overloads; it makes you appreciate the quiet times all the more.
Happy New Year to one and all
I don't have the energy. Really. By year's end, I'm tired and looking for a break, not making more plans, creating extra obligations and making promises I won't keep. I only make promise I can keep; that's what integrity is about.
The end of January - the end of school holidays - is when I start making plans. Living in a tourist town, we locals are constantly battling with arrogant, traffic-blind, drop-the-trash-in-the-street, strip-the-shops, whinging, whiney, loud, obnoxious, tourists!
I don't get it. They (and yes, I'm generalising) seem to leave their manners and brains at home. The crime rate lifts by 500%; prank phone calls every bloody week, litter, drunkeness, fights... They don't do it at home, so why here in this pristine environment?
Come February, they're mostly gone and we can get back to the quiet life. Those tourists who remain are polite and blend in; they enjoy the sun, the surf, the peaceful existence and plan to retire here. And we welcome them.
I'm in a bit of a pissy mood, as you've guessed. My week off from work has been... well, work, with various family members plus children turning up. It's been like a hotel around here and Saxon - my elderly sixteen-year-old dog - is exhausted from avoiding small, grasping hands and the loud squealings of excited children. Oy.
I love my family. I do. I enjoy their company, enjoy catching up, seeing the kids growing up, the laughter, the glee, the... life in them; but not all at once. It's a lot of catering, cleaning, entertaining, shopping for more food...
I've done no writing, as I'd planned: being a favoured aunt is tough work. Kids follow you everywhere - even to the bathroom, depending on the age of the aforementioned child. What's up with that?
They've all had a wonderful time, though, with the beach and each other. That's the most important part, no matter how much I want to escape. I have no energy left to make plans for a new me; that can wait until I recharge the batteries.
Tomorrow, it's back to the day job and it's going to be busy. The last of the relatives leave then too. From Christmas Eve to tomorrow, we've had family here; a constant barrage of noise and family-work for me. Finding a quiet place has been impossible, whether physically or in my head.
That's what life is all about - the sensory overloads; it makes you appreciate the quiet times all the more.
Happy New Year to one and all
Monday, November 20, 2006
300
This is post number 300, and I have to admit I didn't think I'd get this far.
I've never been a diary or journal keeper; it took time and what I wanted to write was the prey of nosy and sometimes cruel siblings. That much I did learn. Instead, I kept what I wanted to say to myself, certain that no one was interested and if they were, I would be subject to derision and I-already-knew-thats, as I'd already experienced.
Once out of the familial home, that attitude never changed, until the advent of blogging. Even this I resisted; I ummed and ahhed over what the hell I could possibly talk about that anyone would be interested in.
And then it occurred to me: What did it matter?
In this place, I had an open forum to say whatever I wanted. I could wax lyrical on whatever took my fancy and if someone took me to task about it, that was their right as much as it is mine to put it here in the first place. There are, allegedly, millions of blogs, and mine can hide amongst them, stumbled upon by accident, or deliberately visited, it's here, hopefully to stay a while.
Freedom of speech, means just that: I am free to make a speech, which is more than I had as a kid.
So. Three hundred posts later, and I'm still going. It matters not whether people read it or not, post comments or not, because this is where I come to vent my spleen, share a joke, some information, or just rant. Because I can.
I hope I have enough to say for another 300 posts, and another 300. Who knows? One day, I may very well button my lip - but I don't think so; I spent too many years doing that.
I've never been a diary or journal keeper; it took time and what I wanted to write was the prey of nosy and sometimes cruel siblings. That much I did learn. Instead, I kept what I wanted to say to myself, certain that no one was interested and if they were, I would be subject to derision and I-already-knew-thats, as I'd already experienced.
Once out of the familial home, that attitude never changed, until the advent of blogging. Even this I resisted; I ummed and ahhed over what the hell I could possibly talk about that anyone would be interested in.
And then it occurred to me: What did it matter?
In this place, I had an open forum to say whatever I wanted. I could wax lyrical on whatever took my fancy and if someone took me to task about it, that was their right as much as it is mine to put it here in the first place. There are, allegedly, millions of blogs, and mine can hide amongst them, stumbled upon by accident, or deliberately visited, it's here, hopefully to stay a while.
Freedom of speech, means just that: I am free to make a speech, which is more than I had as a kid.
So. Three hundred posts later, and I'm still going. It matters not whether people read it or not, post comments or not, because this is where I come to vent my spleen, share a joke, some information, or just rant. Because I can.
I hope I have enough to say for another 300 posts, and another 300. Who knows? One day, I may very well button my lip - but I don't think so; I spent too many years doing that.
Friday, August 19, 2005
Circular arguments
Circles within circles. If you haven't thought about it, that's what life is all about. On the physical level, on the mental level and on the emotional level. We are all revolving ever onward. Think about it, don't just click your tongue, of course it's stating the bleedin' obvious. Look deeper.
You meet up with a school friend you haven't seen in twenty odd years, you find a piece of jewellery you thought lost forever, you see someone driving a car exactly like your first one. Your mind immediately thinks of how that friend looked at school, when you last saw that ring, what you did in the back seat of that car. As a result, something in your life has come full circle. It's up to you to make what you will of it.
I recently bumped into the brother of a friend I'd had for twenty years. We'll call her Tanya and the brother Gareth. I met Tanya at high school. She was fresh from England where her dad had been in the Navy, now he was in the Australian Navy. She and I got on well, became very good friends. We finished high school and kept in touch. I could see, early on, that she was dissatisfied, but with what, I couldn't say - and that proved telling.
After being friends for twenty years, we were celebrating my birthday, as you do, with plenty of liquid refreshment. We were talking, a subject I remember well for it's strangeness: Darwinian Theory. At one point her face darkened. It was like a switch being thrown and all sorts of venom spewed out. She expressed a wish never to see me again or hear my voice. Still being relatively sober, I demanded that she be very sure. She was. That she remember her words the following day. She would, she promised. Okay. Nothing more I could say, it was a done deal. Twenty years of friendship, thrown away.
For nigh on seven years, I abided by her wish. She did write. Twice. Once to ask to get together, and the other to apologise for her behaviour and confess no memory of the night.
Then I bumped into Gareth. He said that Tanya had been diagnosed with schizophrenia and had, apparently, had it for some time, although he couldn't say for how long. He also said he didn't know how to contact her as he'd found out she'd moved.
My first reaction was to help him find her, but I held my tongue. Circles within circles. The final tragic confrontation wasn't the first time I'd been subjected to her volatile mood swings. Did I really want to go through that kind of hurt again? Absolutely not. Did I want to help? Her, no, him, yes. Gareth I could help. Help him understand his sister's illness better by giving him a timeline.
I have no guilt in this, that finally passed the year she sent the apology. I knew then that she was ill, and wrote to her that unless she got help, I couldn't put myself into the situation where she might turn violent and not remember. I had broken the circle that had been around me for those long years.
It is not that I'm unsympathetic to her plight, but neither am I a martyr to a lost friendship. For me, that has been resolved. I'm sad that an intelligent woman should be on the downward spiral, but we all make choices and have to live with the consequences. Her choice was continued drug abuse and denial in that it was harming her in any way. My choice was to walk away, and sometimes, that's all you can do, if only for your own health.
There are many circles we face every day. Some are bigger than others, but all need to be adjusted or broken to be able to move on with our own lives. If we don't do anything, that situation will return, and return until we figure out how to make changes.
Watch for the memories, smile or pause in thought, but don't wait... Do Something. Make the choice and live.
You meet up with a school friend you haven't seen in twenty odd years, you find a piece of jewellery you thought lost forever, you see someone driving a car exactly like your first one. Your mind immediately thinks of how that friend looked at school, when you last saw that ring, what you did in the back seat of that car. As a result, something in your life has come full circle. It's up to you to make what you will of it.
I recently bumped into the brother of a friend I'd had for twenty years. We'll call her Tanya and the brother Gareth. I met Tanya at high school. She was fresh from England where her dad had been in the Navy, now he was in the Australian Navy. She and I got on well, became very good friends. We finished high school and kept in touch. I could see, early on, that she was dissatisfied, but with what, I couldn't say - and that proved telling.
After being friends for twenty years, we were celebrating my birthday, as you do, with plenty of liquid refreshment. We were talking, a subject I remember well for it's strangeness: Darwinian Theory. At one point her face darkened. It was like a switch being thrown and all sorts of venom spewed out. She expressed a wish never to see me again or hear my voice. Still being relatively sober, I demanded that she be very sure. She was. That she remember her words the following day. She would, she promised. Okay. Nothing more I could say, it was a done deal. Twenty years of friendship, thrown away.
For nigh on seven years, I abided by her wish. She did write. Twice. Once to ask to get together, and the other to apologise for her behaviour and confess no memory of the night.
Then I bumped into Gareth. He said that Tanya had been diagnosed with schizophrenia and had, apparently, had it for some time, although he couldn't say for how long. He also said he didn't know how to contact her as he'd found out she'd moved.
My first reaction was to help him find her, but I held my tongue. Circles within circles. The final tragic confrontation wasn't the first time I'd been subjected to her volatile mood swings. Did I really want to go through that kind of hurt again? Absolutely not. Did I want to help? Her, no, him, yes. Gareth I could help. Help him understand his sister's illness better by giving him a timeline.
I have no guilt in this, that finally passed the year she sent the apology. I knew then that she was ill, and wrote to her that unless she got help, I couldn't put myself into the situation where she might turn violent and not remember. I had broken the circle that had been around me for those long years.
It is not that I'm unsympathetic to her plight, but neither am I a martyr to a lost friendship. For me, that has been resolved. I'm sad that an intelligent woman should be on the downward spiral, but we all make choices and have to live with the consequences. Her choice was continued drug abuse and denial in that it was harming her in any way. My choice was to walk away, and sometimes, that's all you can do, if only for your own health.
There are many circles we face every day. Some are bigger than others, but all need to be adjusted or broken to be able to move on with our own lives. If we don't do anything, that situation will return, and return until we figure out how to make changes.
Watch for the memories, smile or pause in thought, but don't wait... Do Something. Make the choice and live.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)