I've spent the last few weeks updating my websites in an attempt to embrace all this modern technology and stuff. Heck, I may even Tweet soon.
In the process of my updating, I've installed two walking, talking versions of myself onto the sites courtesy of the marvellous chaps at Personal Web Presenter (www.personalwebpresenter.co.nz).
Only when I looked at them afresh did I realise how many versions of myself actually exist. To begin with, there is Marketing Savvy Jill ), the version who decides that putting video clips of oneself onto a website is going to increase one's Google rating. Or something like that. Look, I'm trying, okay?
Then there's Children's Entertainer Jill, in obligatory bright clothing and doing strange 'come closer' gestures to my imaginary audience (www.jillmarshallbooks.com). I'm hoping the readers I'm trying to entertain appreciate me making an idiot of myself, yet again.
And now, in the attempt to convince my adult writer clientele that I am, in fact: 1, a genuine author; 2, a genuine adult and 3, not an idiot at all, there's Calm Consultant Jill on www.writegoodstuff.co.nz .
They're all me, and they're all real, which leads me once more to the multi-faceted life of the author. Or schizophrenic, to give it its proper name.
Now I'm starting to get a little worried. People are always asking me if Jane Blonde is my daughter, and I always tell them that no, Jane Blonde is me as a child. Well, not marvellous Jane Blonde, but shy and awkward Janey Brown. Jean Brown, her mum, is probably me. G-Mamma? Mad Me.
When I come to think of it, most of my female characters are based to a greater or lesser extent on ... yes, me.
So now I'm thinking ... hmmm, what if I just write a rich version of myself? A staggeringly beautiful version of me whose age is magically reversing? A fascinating chat show host version of me who interviews all the other versions of me and gets Oprah-like ratings ... oh, think of the book club!
Can I write myself real? Or is that just another book in the making?
Anyway, the human just-walked-the-dog-and-made-tea-for-my-daughter version of me (which is the most prevalent of the Mes) needs a cup of tea and a session in front of the television to stop me worrying about it. Why not get the curious-and-what-is-the-mad-woman-on-about version of you to have a look at my websites.
SEE YA, BOYS AND GIRLS!
Bye for now, fellow writers.
The kettle's boiled, gotta go, buddy.
x
Monday, September 27, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
The madness of writers
I just read a fabulous article in The Author - the UK Society of Authors' mag - about links between creativity and psychoanalysis (CAN YOU FACE IT? Psychotherapy and writing, by Edward Marriott).
Apparently Freud believed there were many similarities between creative writers and healthy children at play, and he pinpointed five common characteristics: both create an imaginary world; both take it seriously; both invest it with considerable emotion; enliven it with material from external reality; and manage to keep it separate from reality.
I often tell kids when I'm talking at their schools that I love my work because I am allowed, or even required to day-dream for a living. Isn't that just like the best job EVA?
Although more and more, these days (as witnessed by me suddenly breaking out into incidents of tween/teen-speak), the lines are getting rather blurry, particularly on that last point - keeping the day-dream separate from reality. For instance, I'm now blogging in character (http://www.g-mammaraps4u.blogspot.com). Try doing that for a while and then zipping off to the supermarket. It can make for some very strange exchanges with other customers, not to mention some odd choices in the shopping trolley ...
Anyway, I don't care. It's what I do; I love it; and I'm not quite ready for an institution yet. And if Freud says it's okay, then who am I to argue?
So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to run barefoot through some paint and then trail it through the house and see what kind of shapes it makes. L8r.
Apparently Freud believed there were many similarities between creative writers and healthy children at play, and he pinpointed five common characteristics: both create an imaginary world; both take it seriously; both invest it with considerable emotion; enliven it with material from external reality; and manage to keep it separate from reality.
I often tell kids when I'm talking at their schools that I love my work because I am allowed, or even required to day-dream for a living. Isn't that just like the best job EVA?
Although more and more, these days (as witnessed by me suddenly breaking out into incidents of tween/teen-speak), the lines are getting rather blurry, particularly on that last point - keeping the day-dream separate from reality. For instance, I'm now blogging in character (http://www.g-mammaraps4u.blogspot.com). Try doing that for a while and then zipping off to the supermarket. It can make for some very strange exchanges with other customers, not to mention some odd choices in the shopping trolley ...
Anyway, I don't care. It's what I do; I love it; and I'm not quite ready for an institution yet. And if Freud says it's okay, then who am I to argue?
So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to run barefoot through some paint and then trail it through the house and see what kind of shapes it makes. L8r.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
The author in public
Rccently a friend of mine, a screenwriter writing his first novel, asked me what I enjoyed about writing books. I told him that I love the writing itself, and I love it when someone tells me that my book has affected them in some way, and that I could really do without all the stuff in the middle (the editing, the packaging, the marketing and promotion etc).
Last week, however, which I spent in the company of eight other writers and illustrators touring the schools of the Taranaki, I realised anew that you don't reach that point of meeting a beaming, tongue-tied fan without going through all those other parts of the process too. And that, really, promoting children's books in this way is an absolute joy.
Much of that pleasure came from talking to the kids themselves. We all spoke to three schools a day for three days, with audiences ranging from 16 kids who made up the entire school, to 60 odd students who were just some of the classes in a bigger school. It was exhausting, but I couldn't fail to be energised by the enthusiasm, talent and brilliant questions that those children brought to the discussions, though some were barely five years old and some already teenagers.
The other element in that fun-filled five days, however, was the other adults: the fabulous librarians who organised and chauffeured and chaperoned; the teachers and school library staff who pass on their love of books and reading to their pupils, and the other writers and illustrators on the tour. I felt honoured to be in their company, and in this wider appreciation of the world of children's books.
Check out the books, websites and personal appearances of those I was lucky enough to share a bus with: Gabrielle Lord, Michelle Osment, Nikki Slade-Robinson, Ben Galbraith, Katz Cowley, Trudy Nicholson, Tim Tipene, and Craig Smith. All different, all talented, all excellent. The only downside of being on this tour was that I had to speak myself and didn't get chance to hear what they were all up to. Next time I'll be in their audience, and I'll look forward to reading their books along with all those Taranaki kids they inspired.
Last week, however, which I spent in the company of eight other writers and illustrators touring the schools of the Taranaki, I realised anew that you don't reach that point of meeting a beaming, tongue-tied fan without going through all those other parts of the process too. And that, really, promoting children's books in this way is an absolute joy.
Much of that pleasure came from talking to the kids themselves. We all spoke to three schools a day for three days, with audiences ranging from 16 kids who made up the entire school, to 60 odd students who were just some of the classes in a bigger school. It was exhausting, but I couldn't fail to be energised by the enthusiasm, talent and brilliant questions that those children brought to the discussions, though some were barely five years old and some already teenagers.
The other element in that fun-filled five days, however, was the other adults: the fabulous librarians who organised and chauffeured and chaperoned; the teachers and school library staff who pass on their love of books and reading to their pupils, and the other writers and illustrators on the tour. I felt honoured to be in their company, and in this wider appreciation of the world of children's books.
Check out the books, websites and personal appearances of those I was lucky enough to share a bus with: Gabrielle Lord, Michelle Osment, Nikki Slade-Robinson, Ben Galbraith, Katz Cowley, Trudy Nicholson, Tim Tipene, and Craig Smith. All different, all talented, all excellent. The only downside of being on this tour was that I had to speak myself and didn't get chance to hear what they were all up to. Next time I'll be in their audience, and I'll look forward to reading their books along with all those Taranaki kids they inspired.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The reason I write is ...
Okay, I'll admit it. Just occasionally I do forget why it is that I write in the first place. On those rare occasions - like when I have a deadline due, or I'm in debate with an editor or a publisher or basically anyone who might not completely agree with me over something to do with my books - it can feel like a job. Then, because it's become a job, you suddenly get cross about all the things that would work properly if this was a real job: getting paid on time, getting paid at all, having someone to talk to over a coffee in the lunchbreak ...
And then there are weekends like last weekend, when I remember with a bolt to my heart why it is that I write. Other than just a burning desire to do it, like many authors I write because I want an audience. Then when you meet your audience face-to-face, and those faces are beaming and bashful and alight with brilliantly intelligent questions, you are truly humbled. How could I be so base as to care about filthy lucre when the Taylors, Katjas, Yanas, and Zoes of the world drag their parents out of bed early on a weekend morning just so that they can come and meet you, and greet you with such awe and gratitude and fantastic new ideas?
Last week it was the Storylines children's lit festival. I was lucky enough to run a workshop on plotting with 17 of Manurewa's most creative children, and between them they came up with a fabulous story - A Sticky Situation - which I'm going to post on my website as soon as I've written it up.
Then on Sunday it was the family day in the Aotea Centre, and that's where all these wonderful girls and boys appeared at my side, so knowledgeable about the contents of my books that they put me to shame, and so thrilled to meet me that I could only disappoint them in the flesh. I hope I didn't. They deserve - indeed, I hope they feel they have - the very best of me.
Love and respect and G-Mamma raps and Bone-type mimes to all those lovely young readers and writers I met last weekend. And this week it's the Taranaki Children's Lit Festival, so here's to the many more I shall meet over the next few days. You're all gorgeous. xx
And then there are weekends like last weekend, when I remember with a bolt to my heart why it is that I write. Other than just a burning desire to do it, like many authors I write because I want an audience. Then when you meet your audience face-to-face, and those faces are beaming and bashful and alight with brilliantly intelligent questions, you are truly humbled. How could I be so base as to care about filthy lucre when the Taylors, Katjas, Yanas, and Zoes of the world drag their parents out of bed early on a weekend morning just so that they can come and meet you, and greet you with such awe and gratitude and fantastic new ideas?
Last week it was the Storylines children's lit festival. I was lucky enough to run a workshop on plotting with 17 of Manurewa's most creative children, and between them they came up with a fabulous story - A Sticky Situation - which I'm going to post on my website as soon as I've written it up.
Then on Sunday it was the family day in the Aotea Centre, and that's where all these wonderful girls and boys appeared at my side, so knowledgeable about the contents of my books that they put me to shame, and so thrilled to meet me that I could only disappoint them in the flesh. I hope I didn't. They deserve - indeed, I hope they feel they have - the very best of me.
Love and respect and G-Mamma raps and Bone-type mimes to all those lovely young readers and writers I met last weekend. And this week it's the Taranaki Children's Lit Festival, so here's to the many more I shall meet over the next few days. You're all gorgeous. xx
Sunday, July 4, 2010
The Pursuit of Happiness
Crikey. Over a month since I last posted a blog. And it's not as if I've done very much of any other kind of writing either ...
It's been a funny month, with the burglars mentioned below revisiting three weeks later to clear out what they'd missed before; My Girl having some troubles at school; finding myself constantly treading that tightrope in my career, stretched taut between doing what I want to do, and trying to make a living.
All in all it hasn't been the most perky of times. Last week, however, saw an upward curve which became exponential as the days progressed. First of all, I decided we couldn't let this burglary business get us down too much, so I convened a 'Beat the Burglary Blues' party, invited all the neighbours including the many I hadn't yet met, along with lots of friends, and we ate comfort food washed down with comfort wine. It put a whole different spin on your home being invaded. Here it was, invaded again, by lovely people this time. New friends and old. Ha, burglars. You may take our TVs, our laptops, and our Bobbi Brown make-up, but you may never take our spirit ...
Then came a series of events towards the tail end of the week that saw my smile brightening ever more.
Thursday night: comedy class, where several would-be comedic actors/writers are tutored by the sparkling and generous Fiona Edgar. We had an end of year performance for an audience of two - Fiona herself, and Jacob's dad. It was plenty: we made each other laugh, felt proud of ourselves for being brave enough to act stupid and make each other laugh, and then we retired to the bar and made each other laugh some more. My friend and I were so inspired by all the laughter that we're going to commit our sketches to print and send them off to some TV show or other - maybe they'll make other people giggle too.
Friday morning: I went along with my lovely friend, Catherine Milford of Woman's Day mag, to the book parade at her kids' school. Her daughter, Jess, was dressing up as Jane Blonde, so I could hardly resist going to see that, and I offered to talk to some of the school while I was there.
Well, it was a thing of joy. Jess was a sensationally triumphant spylet, and Charlie her brother was the most adorable knight (and while I didn't get to talk to him, I was party to one of those gorgeous skull-type smiles kids do when they can't smile for the camera properly, so they sort of bare their lower teeth and gurn, like Wallace of Wallace and Grommet fame). The talk with years 4,5 and 6 was properly rowdy with lots of great questions and a foot-stomping G-Mamma rap in the middle. That's what it's about, really, this writing lark - eyeballing some readers and reminding yourself that this is why you do it. What made me smile the most, however, was at the end of the book parade, when the 71 year old caretaker took to the stage as Bob the Builder and danced the length of the catwalk with 'Wendy', to the raucous applause of the whole school. I actually had tears in my eyes. That's a school that loves its pupils.
Friday afternoon: I trudged into my dancing lesson, a little tired and even more hoarse from rapping over 150 shouting children, still a bit worried about the events of the last few weeks. And then ... the magic of dance chased it all away. I swear, my teacher is a shining creature put on this earth by God or Richard Dawkins to spread light. (He's also, I discovered somewhat belatedly, a most courageous soul for what he's been through and what he's doing about it). A dance lesson with Aaron Gilmore is like a game of LaserQuest with light-beams. After just a few minutes your feet are light, your heart is light, your eyes start to glimmer with it. Forty five minutes later, I sashayed out of that studio, zapped with happy, troubles forgotten and a full three-quarters of an inch taller. And I could cha-cha a bit more, too.
So, re-energised with my three blasts of joy, I set about running a workshop on Saturday, on writing picture books. As I erected my flip-chart, I pondered on the stages of happiness I'd gone through the previous few days, and those generous people who pass on their passion so the rest of us can experience it. Suddenly I remembered that writing used to feel like that, all the time. I'd just get that hit of energy in the sternum, open up, and start channelling. Much of the time it's still like that, but sometimes these days it's also about deadlines, and getting a cheque, and not really wanting to but having to ...
Well, I don't think it's any coincidence that I got that shot in the solar plexus again, on Saturday, in the middle of my training course. I always love running workshops, but this time I got more out of it than ever before: namely, a whole book. I'd just been running through a plotting technique with my enthusiastic delegates, when suddenly all the pieces gelled. The roof above my head opened up with the sound of singing angels; seraphim clustered around the edge, giving me a thumbs-up while directing a ray of light onto the table; the beam swirled into a story vortex that suddenly flung all the words onto the page in the right order and with all the right emphasis.
It's good, this little book. I know it's good. It has to be, because it came from on high, from somewhere called Joy. We'll have to watch this space on how good other people think it is, of course. But whether or not it leads to anything, it's nice - no, great - to have that feeling back. In spades. And it's made me think a great deal about what brings us happiness, and how lucky we are that there are people who pass on their passion (and I never noticed before the similarity between those words - 'pass on' is 'passion' with 'I' taken out of it. ...).
So I'm on the lookout now, for joy. If I find it, I'll let you know, and I'll pay it forward. And I'm back to full-on, passion-induced writing, right now. It started with a blog ...
It's been a funny month, with the burglars mentioned below revisiting three weeks later to clear out what they'd missed before; My Girl having some troubles at school; finding myself constantly treading that tightrope in my career, stretched taut between doing what I want to do, and trying to make a living.
All in all it hasn't been the most perky of times. Last week, however, saw an upward curve which became exponential as the days progressed. First of all, I decided we couldn't let this burglary business get us down too much, so I convened a 'Beat the Burglary Blues' party, invited all the neighbours including the many I hadn't yet met, along with lots of friends, and we ate comfort food washed down with comfort wine. It put a whole different spin on your home being invaded. Here it was, invaded again, by lovely people this time. New friends and old. Ha, burglars. You may take our TVs, our laptops, and our Bobbi Brown make-up, but you may never take our spirit ...
Then came a series of events towards the tail end of the week that saw my smile brightening ever more.
Thursday night: comedy class, where several would-be comedic actors/writers are tutored by the sparkling and generous Fiona Edgar. We had an end of year performance for an audience of two - Fiona herself, and Jacob's dad. It was plenty: we made each other laugh, felt proud of ourselves for being brave enough to act stupid and make each other laugh, and then we retired to the bar and made each other laugh some more. My friend and I were so inspired by all the laughter that we're going to commit our sketches to print and send them off to some TV show or other - maybe they'll make other people giggle too.
Friday morning: I went along with my lovely friend, Catherine Milford of Woman's Day mag, to the book parade at her kids' school. Her daughter, Jess, was dressing up as Jane Blonde, so I could hardly resist going to see that, and I offered to talk to some of the school while I was there.
Well, it was a thing of joy. Jess was a sensationally triumphant spylet, and Charlie her brother was the most adorable knight (and while I didn't get to talk to him, I was party to one of those gorgeous skull-type smiles kids do when they can't smile for the camera properly, so they sort of bare their lower teeth and gurn, like Wallace of Wallace and Grommet fame). The talk with years 4,5 and 6 was properly rowdy with lots of great questions and a foot-stomping G-Mamma rap in the middle. That's what it's about, really, this writing lark - eyeballing some readers and reminding yourself that this is why you do it. What made me smile the most, however, was at the end of the book parade, when the 71 year old caretaker took to the stage as Bob the Builder and danced the length of the catwalk with 'Wendy', to the raucous applause of the whole school. I actually had tears in my eyes. That's a school that loves its pupils.
Friday afternoon: I trudged into my dancing lesson, a little tired and even more hoarse from rapping over 150 shouting children, still a bit worried about the events of the last few weeks. And then ... the magic of dance chased it all away. I swear, my teacher is a shining creature put on this earth by God or Richard Dawkins to spread light. (He's also, I discovered somewhat belatedly, a most courageous soul for what he's been through and what he's doing about it). A dance lesson with Aaron Gilmore is like a game of LaserQuest with light-beams. After just a few minutes your feet are light, your heart is light, your eyes start to glimmer with it. Forty five minutes later, I sashayed out of that studio, zapped with happy, troubles forgotten and a full three-quarters of an inch taller. And I could cha-cha a bit more, too.
So, re-energised with my three blasts of joy, I set about running a workshop on Saturday, on writing picture books. As I erected my flip-chart, I pondered on the stages of happiness I'd gone through the previous few days, and those generous people who pass on their passion so the rest of us can experience it. Suddenly I remembered that writing used to feel like that, all the time. I'd just get that hit of energy in the sternum, open up, and start channelling. Much of the time it's still like that, but sometimes these days it's also about deadlines, and getting a cheque, and not really wanting to but having to ...
Well, I don't think it's any coincidence that I got that shot in the solar plexus again, on Saturday, in the middle of my training course. I always love running workshops, but this time I got more out of it than ever before: namely, a whole book. I'd just been running through a plotting technique with my enthusiastic delegates, when suddenly all the pieces gelled. The roof above my head opened up with the sound of singing angels; seraphim clustered around the edge, giving me a thumbs-up while directing a ray of light onto the table; the beam swirled into a story vortex that suddenly flung all the words onto the page in the right order and with all the right emphasis.
It's good, this little book. I know it's good. It has to be, because it came from on high, from somewhere called Joy. We'll have to watch this space on how good other people think it is, of course. But whether or not it leads to anything, it's nice - no, great - to have that feeling back. In spades. And it's made me think a great deal about what brings us happiness, and how lucky we are that there are people who pass on their passion (and I never noticed before the similarity between those words - 'pass on' is 'passion' with 'I' taken out of it. ...).
So I'm on the lookout now, for joy. If I find it, I'll let you know, and I'll pay it forward. And I'm back to full-on, passion-induced writing, right now. It started with a blog ...
Thursday, June 3, 2010
It's really bad.
Laptop stolen. Ouch. No problem though, I thought stoically as I called locksmiths and policemen. I had my external hard drive in a drawer, and they didn't take that, so I was not too worried about restoring everything to a new computer.
External hard drive? OUch. Might just as well have been a matchbox. And at least with a matchbox I could have set fire to my desk or something constructively angry. There is nothing on it - nada, zilch, not one jot of info.
I don't really know why I'm not more despairing than I am. The only saving grace, I suppose, is that I wasn't in the middle of a new book, or worse, nearly at the end of a new book which I thought I'd been carefully saving oton my posh external hard drive. I don't have a single one of my books in hard copy or any other kind of copy, but the publishers do, and my mum, to whom I send every book as soon as I've finished it. There are a few I will never see again, but I'll try not to think about those.
What I'm missing most is all the other stuff on my laptop - the non-work stuff. Photos, music, emails, emails, emails. I don't even have an address book any more, and don't tend to keep people's home addresses and phone numbers. All I've had for years is a massive contact list, and seeing as I'm always at my computer it's the easiest of communication to whizz across a quick email. And now here I am, feeling bereft, and without email addresses I can't even let my friends know.
So here's my plea: if you know me, please send me an email. either at my personal address if you know it, or via jill@writegoodstuff.co.nz. I'm going to have to start from scratch, building everything up again. And yes, backing up properly this time. There are too many lessons in this for me even to contemplate at this stage, but I do know that hearing from a few sympathetic people, and then storing their addresses, is going to make everything seem a lot better.
External hard drive? OUch. Might just as well have been a matchbox. And at least with a matchbox I could have set fire to my desk or something constructively angry. There is nothing on it - nada, zilch, not one jot of info.
I don't really know why I'm not more despairing than I am. The only saving grace, I suppose, is that I wasn't in the middle of a new book, or worse, nearly at the end of a new book which I thought I'd been carefully saving oton my posh external hard drive. I don't have a single one of my books in hard copy or any other kind of copy, but the publishers do, and my mum, to whom I send every book as soon as I've finished it. There are a few I will never see again, but I'll try not to think about those.
What I'm missing most is all the other stuff on my laptop - the non-work stuff. Photos, music, emails, emails, emails. I don't even have an address book any more, and don't tend to keep people's home addresses and phone numbers. All I've had for years is a massive contact list, and seeing as I'm always at my computer it's the easiest of communication to whizz across a quick email. And now here I am, feeling bereft, and without email addresses I can't even let my friends know.
So here's my plea: if you know me, please send me an email. either at my personal address if you know it, or via jill@writegoodstuff.co.nz. I'm going to have to start from scratch, building everything up again. And yes, backing up properly this time. There are too many lessons in this for me even to contemplate at this stage, but I do know that hearing from a few sympathetic people, and then storing their addresses, is going to make everything seem a lot better.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Whoa, back up there ...
A writer's worst nightmare. So nightmarish it's barely imagineable.
Yesterday my house was burgled. That's bad enough - strangers in the house, possessions stolen, the thought they might come back for the rest ...
The most disastrous part though - they took my laptop. My life is on there, and more to the point, every book I've ever written and quite a few ideas for books I haven't. I don't keep hard copies any more, and I can only hope that the back-up I've believed myself to be doing has actually worked. I won't know until tomorrow when some computer expert tries to move the info across for me.
This is not the first time I've been caught out by not backing-up properly, but it could very well be the most tragic.
Be warned, writer friends. It could happen to you. Be sensible, unlike me.
And if someone tries to flog you a lap-top in the Auckland region, let me know.
Yesterday my house was burgled. That's bad enough - strangers in the house, possessions stolen, the thought they might come back for the rest ...
The most disastrous part though - they took my laptop. My life is on there, and more to the point, every book I've ever written and quite a few ideas for books I haven't. I don't keep hard copies any more, and I can only hope that the back-up I've believed myself to be doing has actually worked. I won't know until tomorrow when some computer expert tries to move the info across for me.
This is not the first time I've been caught out by not backing-up properly, but it could very well be the most tragic.
Be warned, writer friends. It could happen to you. Be sensible, unlike me.
And if someone tries to flog you a lap-top in the Auckland region, let me know.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
A Writer's Life
I just attended the Yarns in Barns festival in Masterton, and though I didn't see any barns, I did hear a few yarns. Very entertaining they were, too. Unfortunately I only have the notes to my own bit of what turned out to be a hilarious debate on the Friday night (in the post below) so you can't get the full flavour of just how much fun it was, but I had a ball. Met some wonderful people, exchanged some authorly bon mots, talked a lot of rubbish. It was marvellous.
As I soldiered home yesterday with a hangover, I was newly aware of how being a writer can mean a life of wild contrasts - on the one hand, the writing, and on the other, the promotional stuff.
It's lonely, writing. There's no other description for it. You spend hours, days, eons all alone, with only the clanking spaces of the inside of your own head for company. If you're very lucky, you might find your brain populated by a chatty character, and that can sometimes break up the silence a little, though there's always that worrying little accompanying undercurrent (I'm hearing voices. No, it's just a character. But will it ever shut up? I'm hearing voices).
Then you grow to crave the silence. Your hearing becomes hyper-sensitised: you can hear a baby cry two streets away; what you think is full-scale renovations next door is simply someone at the other end of the street wheeling out the dustbin; lawnmowers sound as though they're shaving the hair off your head. 'How am I supposed to work like this?' you wail. To nobody. Or, occasionally, to the chatty character in your head who, let's be honest, doesn't really like to be interrupted and can make you pay for it in many, many ways.
At times like these, I find there's nothing else for it than to head for where there's some life. An hour or two working in a cafe restores the balance in your ears, and reminds you that there are real people having real conversations, while drinking great coffee and eating actual food instead of re-toasted old toast and scapings from the bottom of the oven.
And then you have the complete opposite end of the scale, like the Yarns in Barns Festival - shoved out into the limelight, expected to be outspoken and witty and engaging with strangers, when you might not have used your voice for forty two hours straight and aren't completely positive you've even got one any more (other than the narrative variety).
For some writers it's completely anathema, like dragging a kiwi out of its darkened case and demanding that it tapdance in a spotlight. The two natures do not, cannot go together. For my own part, though, it's something I really enjoy. I love performing, and even do it voluntarily in acting classes and the like. And I love training, so it's no hardship to be suddenly on my feet in front of 20 people (or 220 people as it was on Friday night), generally being a bit gobby.
It's so different to my usual life, however, that I can go a little mad in the headiness of it all, like a kid on a sugar-high. More used to not going out at all, I try to have all my nights out in one evening, having as many high-speed conversations as possible, making all the new friends I can, drinking (apparently) my entire quota of wine for the last month or so, or whenever it was I last went out.
Well, all I can say is, it was worth it. The high-speed conversations were ennervating as well as entertaining, and the new friends will turn out to be just that, I hope. Maybe even some new clients, as well, who often turn out to be friends in time. As for the wine, I can just regret poisoning my liver with it but not a second of the bonhomie in which it was imbibed, and try to do better next time.
Because there will be a next time, of course, someday. After I've spent a few days or weeks or eons placating those little characters in my head. Shush now. I'm home again. Shush. Shshshshshsh. Don't make me come up there ...
As I soldiered home yesterday with a hangover, I was newly aware of how being a writer can mean a life of wild contrasts - on the one hand, the writing, and on the other, the promotional stuff.
It's lonely, writing. There's no other description for it. You spend hours, days, eons all alone, with only the clanking spaces of the inside of your own head for company. If you're very lucky, you might find your brain populated by a chatty character, and that can sometimes break up the silence a little, though there's always that worrying little accompanying undercurrent (I'm hearing voices. No, it's just a character. But will it ever shut up? I'm hearing voices).
Then you grow to crave the silence. Your hearing becomes hyper-sensitised: you can hear a baby cry two streets away; what you think is full-scale renovations next door is simply someone at the other end of the street wheeling out the dustbin; lawnmowers sound as though they're shaving the hair off your head. 'How am I supposed to work like this?' you wail. To nobody. Or, occasionally, to the chatty character in your head who, let's be honest, doesn't really like to be interrupted and can make you pay for it in many, many ways.
At times like these, I find there's nothing else for it than to head for where there's some life. An hour or two working in a cafe restores the balance in your ears, and reminds you that there are real people having real conversations, while drinking great coffee and eating actual food instead of re-toasted old toast and scapings from the bottom of the oven.
And then you have the complete opposite end of the scale, like the Yarns in Barns Festival - shoved out into the limelight, expected to be outspoken and witty and engaging with strangers, when you might not have used your voice for forty two hours straight and aren't completely positive you've even got one any more (other than the narrative variety).
For some writers it's completely anathema, like dragging a kiwi out of its darkened case and demanding that it tapdance in a spotlight. The two natures do not, cannot go together. For my own part, though, it's something I really enjoy. I love performing, and even do it voluntarily in acting classes and the like. And I love training, so it's no hardship to be suddenly on my feet in front of 20 people (or 220 people as it was on Friday night), generally being a bit gobby.
It's so different to my usual life, however, that I can go a little mad in the headiness of it all, like a kid on a sugar-high. More used to not going out at all, I try to have all my nights out in one evening, having as many high-speed conversations as possible, making all the new friends I can, drinking (apparently) my entire quota of wine for the last month or so, or whenever it was I last went out.
Well, all I can say is, it was worth it. The high-speed conversations were ennervating as well as entertaining, and the new friends will turn out to be just that, I hope. Maybe even some new clients, as well, who often turn out to be friends in time. As for the wine, I can just regret poisoning my liver with it but not a second of the bonhomie in which it was imbibed, and try to do better next time.
Because there will be a next time, of course, someday. After I've spent a few days or weeks or eons placating those little characters in my head. Shush now. I'm home again. Shush. Shshshshshsh. Don't make me come up there ...
The Yarns in Barns Debate Moot - that comedy is just a funny way of being serious
I have to admit that I needed some advice on how to address this weighty issue most effectively – that the best way to get across a serious message is with a light touch; a humourous touch.
Unlike my esteemed team-mate, I am not a comedian. I’m a writer. And I’m a serious writer, but not in the most common interpretation of the word. I’m not literary, grave or overly earnest in my writing – I write about girl spies, flaky women, and boys who turns into dogs – but I do take my writing very seriously. It’s my job, my chosen career, and I deal with serious issues: the breakdown of families and marriages, the loss of hope, of love, even of children. Yet I still believe that the most important part of my job is to entertain, and it is by entertaining, with laughter and humorous characters, that I manage, I hope, to discuss these other issues which form the heart of each story.
So to take a sombre and literary route to this discussion, I decided to look up the dictionary definitions of the words “serious” and “comedy”. I turned first to the Cambridge Dictionary, and looked up “serious.” The first definition given there was ... bad. The second definition of “serious” was ... not joking. While I was pondering the rather impoverished vocabulary used in a dictionary from what is arguably – well, not arguably, it just IS – the finest university in the world, my eye was drawn instead to the little advert that appeared twice around the definition, top and bottom.
The advert was this: TRICK OF A TINY BELLY! Cut down a bit of your belly every day by using this 1 weird tip. Next to this was a diagram of a woman lying on her side on the floor, doing some peculiar side lift. When she was up on her elbow, she was plump, when she was flat on the floor she was thin. Amazing.
And from this I deduced three things:
1 – how easy it is to be distracted from a serious agenda by something lighter, like that woman up on her elbow.
2 – that the students of Cambridge University, of whom I was one many years ago, will in the future probably be very dim, but extremely toned ....
And 3 – that I really must lie on my side on the floor more often.
Anyway, I gave up on the Cambridge dictionary and turned to another, where “Serious” meant “requiring deep thought or application”. And I thought – yes, so for those not given to deep thought or application, which is, after all, most of us, then comedy is the perfect conduit for feeding us with serious information.
And what is comedy, according to the dictionary? It is: a piece of drama of light and humorous character in which the central motif is triumph over adversity. And what could be more serious than triumph over adversity? The origins of the word came about in the latter half of the fifteenth century, and lord knows they needed a bit of triumph over adversity then, what with Black Death and plagues, life expectancy of about 14 and a half, and a fashion statement being the wearing of a wimple.
Comedy came about, I’m sure, because of the need to make sense of, to deal with the weightiest and darkest of situations – sickness, loss, pestilence, death, war. And isn’t it true that comedians themselves often developed the art of being funny in order to survive the most serious of personal situations: bullying, being ostracised, even massive and manic depression. Some of the greatest comedians of all time, present company excepted, have used humour to exorcise the demons of their dark and serious minds – John Cleese, Tony Hancock, Robin Williams to name but a few.
They worked out that it’s much harder to be angry, to victimise someone, to beat them up, even to kill someone if they’re making you laugh. My teenage daughter worked this out for herself when she was still very small. Now she’s 13 she’s got a whole stand-up routine to divert me when the need arises, and I find it really hard to seriously consider murdering her ...
Building on that, I’d like to pick up on a suggestion made by comedian Sanjeev Baskhar in a recent episode of the Monty Python series. He pointed out how good comedy crosses age and religious and cultural barriers like nothing else on earth. His idea was this: to drop Mpegs of Monty Python’s fish dance scene into war zones, because it would be so much harder to want to kill someone when you’re watching a famous man in silly shorts being slapped with a snapper. Or the more likely image these days of a famous man in silly shorts being photographed with a celebrity wannabe stripper, which is not being slapped with a snapper, but being snapped with a slapper.
In fact, I like the idea so much that I’ve got an even bigger suggestion to make. Why stop at Mpegs and videos? Now that the Comedy Festival’s all over, we’ve got hoards of NZ comedians with nothing to do– why not drop them bodily into war zones to do a bit of a routine and take the attention away from people killing each other. Picture it, people - Dai Henwood in a little flak jacket; Jeremy Elwood in fatigues. They wouldn’t just record the news of the last Seven Days, they would BE the last seven days. And if we get a few of the manically depressed ones as well we’d be killing two birds with one stoned comedian ... the comedy antidote to Al Quaeda suicide bombers. We’ll call them ... the ComiKazes. And furthermore, by sending a dozen comedians into battle, we’ll be doubling the size of the New Zealand Armed Forces, so it’s an all-round winner. The triumph of humour over adversity.
I think it would work. Because there is no doubt in my serious writer’s mind that comedy is the best way to tackle the dark issues of the world. And if you take away only one thing, one useful tip, from this debate, then I hope it’s this:
Monday, May 10, 2010
Come along to this!
Too busy writing books to do blogs this week, but check out Yarns in Barns during the last weekend in May. Have been roped into doing a debate which terrifies me (but should be massive fun) and then a workshop on the Saturday which doesn't (and should also be fun). http://www.writegoodstuff.co.nz/yarns_in_barns_2010.pdf
Thursday, April 29, 2010
I love being in my forties
Seriously, it's a wonderful age. Last night at a Spandau Ballet and Tears For Fears concert, I was almost completely surrounded by people in their forties (the bands included), and what a civilised yet fun, attractive yet dignified bunch we were.
As I watched the video footage of the Spandau boys on their tour bus in the eighties, looking ludicrously skinny and floppy-fringed, I remembered watching them the first time around at age 15 or 16, and thought, 'Jeez. What a relief I don't have to go through all that again.'
I'd never have seen them live the first time around, of course. Too young, too broke, too lacking in transport and indulgent approving parents. This time I could afford the ticket, I could afford a babysitter, I could afford the cab to get me there on time and even an exorbitantly-priced drink in the interval.
This isn't because I'm forty plus and rich, I hasten to add. It's because I go out about as often as the moon is full, as it was last night. These days, if you do get dressed up and head out to bars as a woman in your forties, you're in grave danger of being labelled a cougar. Last time I risked being in a pub late on a Saturday, I had to approach some pimply youth. (I declare, hand on heart, that I have no interest in boys of 20 who are still wet behind the ears, and probably some other places too. Shudder). He rolled his eyes as I got closer and I realised this must have happened before - some saddo old enough to be his mother must have made a move on him. Except in this case, it was only because his bony behind was on my coat. I told him so, too, as I yanked it out from under him (and I can do that because I'm over 40).
That wouldn't be sufficient reason to keep me at home, of course. But honestly, why would I put myself through that kind of horror when I can stay in and catch up with the entire season of Lie To Me on My Sky. I have My Sky. I love My Sky! That's a definite advantage of being over forty. I can have my own My Sky. Plus I don't need permission, I don't need approval, and I feel like I've earned the right to do what the heck I like, and if that's spending a whole day catching up on House then so be it. But I've also learned that it's only good to indulge yourself if you're not hurting anyone else in the process. In my forties I slowly became aware that I don't have to put up with any rubbish in my life, but by the same token, I don't have to be the cause of it in anyone else's life either.
I can't wait for the foursome who were in front of us at the concert to figure this out. There were two women in their late twenties who stumbled drunkenly to their seats, next to two guys who were old enough to know better but clearly thought all their birthdays (their 18ths?) had come at once. They were in and out of their seats getting more alcohol, standing on their chairs, and acting out their whole four-way flirtation for anyone who might perchance be bored with the fantastic concert they'd paid to see. One of the women seemed inordinately proud of her large and unfettered breasts, and swung them about like an executive toy until they practically took up the seats either side of her. God, they were unpleasant. The people, not the boobs - but oh well, yes, the boobs too. She could have had someone's eye out, and only two people in the entire arena might have been pleased about it.
And it's not like everyone else looked old and past it, either. There were some very beautiful people around, both in the audience and on the stage. Steve Norman, Spandau's saxophonist, looked fantastic, and he's 50. In fact, he looked younger on stage than he did in the eighties footage they played as a backdrop. He didn't seem to have aged one bit; there must be a Steve portrait in his attic in which he resembles Keith Richards.
But that's when it occurred to me. They still look good, it's True. Back in the eighties, though, that's all I would have cared about. They were pretty, and I had a vague awareness that Tony Hadley could really sing. Oh, and he was pretty. So tall, and with that fringe, and pretty ...
Last night, what came across more than anything was that they are fabulous musicians. That voice hasn't lost an atom of its power and brilliance, and the musicality of these eighties fops just radiated around the arena (same with Tears For Fears, incidentally). In their forties and beyond, they showcased their not insignificant skills, and that's what made them gorgeous to behold. Maybe that's what this age is about - being able to be proud of what you've achieved, even if it's only that you've learnt a few life lessons and know what not to do again in the future.
Oh, sure, there are less appealling aspects to your forties. I have a twingey knee. I'm dancing and exercising three or four times a week and it spikes me regularly with pain. When I explained to my 25 year old Pilates teacher that I had a twingey knee, she asked me how I'd injured it. 'I turned 40,' I said.
She appeared to be waiting for a more detailed explanation, but that's really all there is to it. My knee's just a bit old, like the rest of me. But not so old that I can't dance on it. I've had 20/20 vision for my whole life - so what if I now have to stretch my arm out full-length to read the label on a bottle? I think glasses can look very foxy. I drove around this morning in such a dream that I committed three traffic violations on the trot. To cut a long story short, I'd lost my mind. But I survived, and so did everyone else, and I now have a new chapter for my book which I was struggling with.
Anyway, who cares if my knee and my eyes and my ability to concentrate give out occasionally? If I don't, why should anyone else? Other people's opinions matter so much less to me these days, and that gives me such a sense of freedom that I wouldn't trade it for the world, even to get back a twinge-free and well-oiled knee .
Tonight, I'm off to see Ironman 2. It wll be very silly and completely unedifying and I will absolutely love it. I won't take any notice of any reviews because I will make up my own mind about it, and I won't be at all bothered if nobody else concurs. Furthermore, I'm going to see it in Gold Class where I can stretch out my shonky knee in my fully-reclining seat, and have a drink and something very slightly gourmet to eat. I can do that, see, because I'm in my forties.
And if you don't agree and think your twenties or thirties have to be your best-ever decade? Well, I don't really care ... It's not my job to convince you. Anyway, all in good time. You'll see, my friend. You'll see.
As I watched the video footage of the Spandau boys on their tour bus in the eighties, looking ludicrously skinny and floppy-fringed, I remembered watching them the first time around at age 15 or 16, and thought, 'Jeez. What a relief I don't have to go through all that again.'
I'd never have seen them live the first time around, of course. Too young, too broke, too lacking in transport and indulgent approving parents. This time I could afford the ticket, I could afford a babysitter, I could afford the cab to get me there on time and even an exorbitantly-priced drink in the interval.
This isn't because I'm forty plus and rich, I hasten to add. It's because I go out about as often as the moon is full, as it was last night. These days, if you do get dressed up and head out to bars as a woman in your forties, you're in grave danger of being labelled a cougar. Last time I risked being in a pub late on a Saturday, I had to approach some pimply youth. (I declare, hand on heart, that I have no interest in boys of 20 who are still wet behind the ears, and probably some other places too. Shudder). He rolled his eyes as I got closer and I realised this must have happened before - some saddo old enough to be his mother must have made a move on him. Except in this case, it was only because his bony behind was on my coat. I told him so, too, as I yanked it out from under him (and I can do that because I'm over 40).
That wouldn't be sufficient reason to keep me at home, of course. But honestly, why would I put myself through that kind of horror when I can stay in and catch up with the entire season of Lie To Me on My Sky. I have My Sky. I love My Sky! That's a definite advantage of being over forty. I can have my own My Sky. Plus I don't need permission, I don't need approval, and I feel like I've earned the right to do what the heck I like, and if that's spending a whole day catching up on House then so be it. But I've also learned that it's only good to indulge yourself if you're not hurting anyone else in the process. In my forties I slowly became aware that I don't have to put up with any rubbish in my life, but by the same token, I don't have to be the cause of it in anyone else's life either.
I can't wait for the foursome who were in front of us at the concert to figure this out. There were two women in their late twenties who stumbled drunkenly to their seats, next to two guys who were old enough to know better but clearly thought all their birthdays (their 18ths?) had come at once. They were in and out of their seats getting more alcohol, standing on their chairs, and acting out their whole four-way flirtation for anyone who might perchance be bored with the fantastic concert they'd paid to see. One of the women seemed inordinately proud of her large and unfettered breasts, and swung them about like an executive toy until they practically took up the seats either side of her. God, they were unpleasant. The people, not the boobs - but oh well, yes, the boobs too. She could have had someone's eye out, and only two people in the entire arena might have been pleased about it.
And it's not like everyone else looked old and past it, either. There were some very beautiful people around, both in the audience and on the stage. Steve Norman, Spandau's saxophonist, looked fantastic, and he's 50. In fact, he looked younger on stage than he did in the eighties footage they played as a backdrop. He didn't seem to have aged one bit; there must be a Steve portrait in his attic in which he resembles Keith Richards.
But that's when it occurred to me. They still look good, it's True. Back in the eighties, though, that's all I would have cared about. They were pretty, and I had a vague awareness that Tony Hadley could really sing. Oh, and he was pretty. So tall, and with that fringe, and pretty ...
Last night, what came across more than anything was that they are fabulous musicians. That voice hasn't lost an atom of its power and brilliance, and the musicality of these eighties fops just radiated around the arena (same with Tears For Fears, incidentally). In their forties and beyond, they showcased their not insignificant skills, and that's what made them gorgeous to behold. Maybe that's what this age is about - being able to be proud of what you've achieved, even if it's only that you've learnt a few life lessons and know what not to do again in the future.
Oh, sure, there are less appealling aspects to your forties. I have a twingey knee. I'm dancing and exercising three or four times a week and it spikes me regularly with pain. When I explained to my 25 year old Pilates teacher that I had a twingey knee, she asked me how I'd injured it. 'I turned 40,' I said.
She appeared to be waiting for a more detailed explanation, but that's really all there is to it. My knee's just a bit old, like the rest of me. But not so old that I can't dance on it. I've had 20/20 vision for my whole life - so what if I now have to stretch my arm out full-length to read the label on a bottle? I think glasses can look very foxy. I drove around this morning in such a dream that I committed three traffic violations on the trot. To cut a long story short, I'd lost my mind. But I survived, and so did everyone else, and I now have a new chapter for my book which I was struggling with.
Anyway, who cares if my knee and my eyes and my ability to concentrate give out occasionally? If I don't, why should anyone else? Other people's opinions matter so much less to me these days, and that gives me such a sense of freedom that I wouldn't trade it for the world, even to get back a twinge-free and well-oiled knee .
Tonight, I'm off to see Ironman 2. It wll be very silly and completely unedifying and I will absolutely love it. I won't take any notice of any reviews because I will make up my own mind about it, and I won't be at all bothered if nobody else concurs. Furthermore, I'm going to see it in Gold Class where I can stretch out my shonky knee in my fully-reclining seat, and have a drink and something very slightly gourmet to eat. I can do that, see, because I'm in my forties.
And if you don't agree and think your twenties or thirties have to be your best-ever decade? Well, I don't really care ... It's not my job to convince you. Anyway, all in good time. You'll see, my friend. You'll see.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
This is not about Rent.
Oh, all right, it is a bit. But I'm aware that this blog is in danger of becoming more like a review column, so I will only mention briefly that I saw Rent today, and it was excellent, although I really wished Paul Fagamalo could have seen his way to belting out 'Old Man River' from the scaffolding as he did such a fine job of it in Showboat. Made me cry, he did.
This time around, Michael Murphy made me cry, and not because he was bad as I was secretly half-expecting him to be. I thought he was marvellous, with a raw quality to his singing that fitted the role extremely well, and some very poignant acting. Well. What a turn-up that was.
We met him once, Me and My Girl, at one of my rare appearances on Good Morning. I suspect I was there reviewing other people's books as I don't believe I had any out myself at the time. Michael, meanwhile, had very recently not won NZ Idol, and seemed to be doing quite nicely out of his it - better than the winner, at any rate. My daughter, who was only about seven at the time, was completely overwhelmed; Michael was really lovely and called her 'Gorgeous' which incapacitated her still further, while fluffing his hair in the mirror in the Green Room rather a lot. He posed for a photo which we still have somewhere, Michael looking ludicrously young and fluffy-haired and my girl completely fan-faced, frozen to his side in a thrilled-yet-terrified pose. Then we picked up our new car in Christchurch, drove it all the way back to Auckland, and sang his song 'All We Are' for ten days straight in our open-topped Nissan Figaro. Ah, memories.
As for Rent itself - well, I do have to mention it just a little. For a start, I've now sung Seasons of Love in two different miniscule productions, and realised anew how appalling we were (or I was, at least) by comparison. Or perhaps not even by comparison.
Today, however, I spent a large part of the production reminiscing about when I first saw Rent, which was in about 1998, off-Broadway. I'd gone to New York for a hen weekend of all things (living in the UK and flush with money at the time, this was the sort of thing I could do. This was obviously before I became a writer). Being unable to get into any of the shows we'd heard of and actually wanted to see, we ended up with ragged seats in a crumbly theatre with vagrants in the doorway, wondering what on earth we'd let ourselves in for. And then the magic began ... Christmas bells are ringing!
Despite the near-constant screaming of fans, and the crowds waiting to mob the cast out on the street, we had no idea that we were there during the infancy of something very special, in the place where it belonged, at a time when the show's contents still had a potent and immediate resonance. When I went back to NY just a couple of years later, all the vagrants were all gone; I've no idea where Rent had got to.
That night, full of song and bonhomie and cheap wine, with at least one of us wearing a veil and waving a blow-up penis, we blew our budgets a little and travelled to the top of the World Trade Center for cocktails. Now that's gone too. Hard to imagine. Aids and drug abuse have apparently disappeared, too, cleared off the streets by the Mayor's road-sweepers, only to be replaced by other ills - although people are still being squeezed out of their homes by profiteering property nasties like Benny.
Hey, I know what I'll do - I'm going to write the New Millenium version of Rent. Picture this: four people meet on death row. One has had to sell his wife and children into the Philippino sex trade; another has robbed a bank and gunned down the teller; the other two were in a race to murder their broker from Goldman Sachs and ending up taking down the whole Futures floor. It'll feature anguish and loss and destitution, and, naturally, many many great songs like: 'Will you charge my I-Pad?' and 'Christmas Bells are Outlawed'. I'll call it (cue jazz hands) ... "MORTGAGE!"
Plus, I can start writing the first review straight away ... featuring brilliant performances from Michael Murphy, Paul Fagamalo, John Barrowman and the newly-trained and frankly fantastic Jill Marshall, this is a searing comment on corporate capitalist America that blah de blah de blah ...
Ah, yes, I can hear it all now. New plays, me in the plays, reviews, blogs about reviews. So, so many ways to listen to the sound of my own voice ...
This time around, Michael Murphy made me cry, and not because he was bad as I was secretly half-expecting him to be. I thought he was marvellous, with a raw quality to his singing that fitted the role extremely well, and some very poignant acting. Well. What a turn-up that was.
We met him once, Me and My Girl, at one of my rare appearances on Good Morning. I suspect I was there reviewing other people's books as I don't believe I had any out myself at the time. Michael, meanwhile, had very recently not won NZ Idol, and seemed to be doing quite nicely out of his it - better than the winner, at any rate. My daughter, who was only about seven at the time, was completely overwhelmed; Michael was really lovely and called her 'Gorgeous' which incapacitated her still further, while fluffing his hair in the mirror in the Green Room rather a lot. He posed for a photo which we still have somewhere, Michael looking ludicrously young and fluffy-haired and my girl completely fan-faced, frozen to his side in a thrilled-yet-terrified pose. Then we picked up our new car in Christchurch, drove it all the way back to Auckland, and sang his song 'All We Are' for ten days straight in our open-topped Nissan Figaro. Ah, memories.
As for Rent itself - well, I do have to mention it just a little. For a start, I've now sung Seasons of Love in two different miniscule productions, and realised anew how appalling we were (or I was, at least) by comparison. Or perhaps not even by comparison.
Today, however, I spent a large part of the production reminiscing about when I first saw Rent, which was in about 1998, off-Broadway. I'd gone to New York for a hen weekend of all things (living in the UK and flush with money at the time, this was the sort of thing I could do. This was obviously before I became a writer). Being unable to get into any of the shows we'd heard of and actually wanted to see, we ended up with ragged seats in a crumbly theatre with vagrants in the doorway, wondering what on earth we'd let ourselves in for. And then the magic began ... Christmas bells are ringing!
Despite the near-constant screaming of fans, and the crowds waiting to mob the cast out on the street, we had no idea that we were there during the infancy of something very special, in the place where it belonged, at a time when the show's contents still had a potent and immediate resonance. When I went back to NY just a couple of years later, all the vagrants were all gone; I've no idea where Rent had got to.
That night, full of song and bonhomie and cheap wine, with at least one of us wearing a veil and waving a blow-up penis, we blew our budgets a little and travelled to the top of the World Trade Center for cocktails. Now that's gone too. Hard to imagine. Aids and drug abuse have apparently disappeared, too, cleared off the streets by the Mayor's road-sweepers, only to be replaced by other ills - although people are still being squeezed out of their homes by profiteering property nasties like Benny.
Hey, I know what I'll do - I'm going to write the New Millenium version of Rent. Picture this: four people meet on death row. One has had to sell his wife and children into the Philippino sex trade; another has robbed a bank and gunned down the teller; the other two were in a race to murder their broker from Goldman Sachs and ending up taking down the whole Futures floor. It'll feature anguish and loss and destitution, and, naturally, many many great songs like: 'Will you charge my I-Pad?' and 'Christmas Bells are Outlawed'. I'll call it (cue jazz hands) ... "MORTGAGE!"
Plus, I can start writing the first review straight away ... featuring brilliant performances from Michael Murphy, Paul Fagamalo, John Barrowman and the newly-trained and frankly fantastic Jill Marshall, this is a searing comment on corporate capitalist America that blah de blah de blah ...
Ah, yes, I can hear it all now. New plays, me in the plays, reviews, blogs about reviews. So, so many ways to listen to the sound of my own voice ...
Sunday, April 18, 2010
It's not you, it's me.
I couldn't believe I'd actually uttered those awful, cliched words. I meant them, though. It was me who'd had enough. I was the one who wasn't prepared to try any more, the one who wanted out.
It had been coming for a long time, I'm sure, but it wasn't until I got some distance, literally putting the miles between us when I headed back to the UK for Christmas, that I realised the truth. It was over. It couldn't go on any more. I just had to say something.
I've never been very good at ending relationships. Somehow I always seem to take the cowardly way out, waiting until the next person's firmly in my sights, or just absenting myself until the other party has no choice but to end it for me. At least this time I was pretty honourable. Direct and honourable, with nobody else lined up and waiting in the wings.
Well, hardly, anyway. And I honestly did not go to the UK intending to ... well, look for someone new. God knows, if I'm bad at ending relationships, I'm even worse at starting them, becoming either tongue-tied and teenage or a blathering fool whenever I have a spark of interest in someone. This time, though, I handled it as well as I know how. Just an email. A simple, 'Hi, I think we should meet. How about a coffee?'
It really was just a coffee. Okay, there may have been scones involved, but beyond that, nothing actually happened. It was a great meeting though, and I really hoped it would lead to more.
So I came home and ended something that was probably crawling to a natural death anyway. Ended it without knowing where I would go next. Without being certain that there would be someone new. Without rancour and bitterness and accusations too. 'We've just grown apart. It's time to go our separate ways.' If only I'd known how to say that on a few previous occasions, I could have saved several people a chasm of heartache - myself included.
It was a good couple of weeks before I heard from Coffee and Scones. I really didn't know what to expect, but the outcome was good. Great, in fact ...
So now it's official: I have a new agent. I sense exciting times ahead, and I can't wait to see where this new relationship leads. Oh, I know right now it's new and mysterious and thrilling, but I also feel that it's really workable. Mutually beneficial. The Author and the Agent - a winning combination. Long may it continue.
It had been coming for a long time, I'm sure, but it wasn't until I got some distance, literally putting the miles between us when I headed back to the UK for Christmas, that I realised the truth. It was over. It couldn't go on any more. I just had to say something.
I've never been very good at ending relationships. Somehow I always seem to take the cowardly way out, waiting until the next person's firmly in my sights, or just absenting myself until the other party has no choice but to end it for me. At least this time I was pretty honourable. Direct and honourable, with nobody else lined up and waiting in the wings.
Well, hardly, anyway. And I honestly did not go to the UK intending to ... well, look for someone new. God knows, if I'm bad at ending relationships, I'm even worse at starting them, becoming either tongue-tied and teenage or a blathering fool whenever I have a spark of interest in someone. This time, though, I handled it as well as I know how. Just an email. A simple, 'Hi, I think we should meet. How about a coffee?'
It really was just a coffee. Okay, there may have been scones involved, but beyond that, nothing actually happened. It was a great meeting though, and I really hoped it would lead to more.
So I came home and ended something that was probably crawling to a natural death anyway. Ended it without knowing where I would go next. Without being certain that there would be someone new. Without rancour and bitterness and accusations too. 'We've just grown apart. It's time to go our separate ways.' If only I'd known how to say that on a few previous occasions, I could have saved several people a chasm of heartache - myself included.
It was a good couple of weeks before I heard from Coffee and Scones. I really didn't know what to expect, but the outcome was good. Great, in fact ...
So now it's official: I have a new agent. I sense exciting times ahead, and I can't wait to see where this new relationship leads. Oh, I know right now it's new and mysterious and thrilling, but I also feel that it's really workable. Mutually beneficial. The Author and the Agent - a winning combination. Long may it continue.
When the House was too Crowded
I will preface this blog by stating that this is not a complaint about Crowded House. Not at all. They were as gorgeous as ever, with Neil whirling his way across the stage between heart-aching vocals (a Spinning Finn, no less), and fabulous effects and backing and tune choice and all those things that make a gig great. Okay, they should really, REALLY have sung Better Be Home Soon, so I could have been transported back to the Manchester Apollo fifteen or more years ago when I first fell inexorably in love with them. But other than that, it was wonderful. Crowded House on their home turf. Who could ask for more?
But the crowd?! Who let them in? What is wrong with audiences these days, that they come to a sold-out concert and barely make it out of the bar, and then stand at the back in knots and talk at the top of their voices so that Spinny Finn and his cohorts are inaudible?
I experienced the same thing on Christmas Eve a few months ago, only that was at a pantomime in the suburbs of Manchester. The audience was mainly kids, and their parents who were hardly more than kids. Their mass ADHD inability to concentrate for more than two seconds without beating each other with a glow-stick appalled me (and that was the parents), but then at least the pantomime was badly-acted and poorly-scripted and probably didn't warrant much more attention.
But this was Crowded House, people - NZ legends and icons and all those other words we overuse so regularly these days. They performed with poise and elegance and gusto, while twenty rows of 'fans' at the back yelled into each other's faces, spitting beer phlegm, and would have been more suited to the Manchester scene. Manchester United. On Derby day.
Of course, the only time they weren't all making a racket was the one moment when I appeared to be the only person in the room who knew what was coming. The lights broke during Don't Dream It's Over (when I was actually wishing it was), and a lone light bulb swung out over the audience. Okay. Seen this before at the many CH concerts I've attended. Neil will strum, then it's over to the audience. Sure enough, next second, he strummed, and I opened my mouth wide as taught at my many TAPAC courses and belted out: 'Hey now, HEY no--ow ...'
Not another soul was singing. Well, actually - one other soul was singing: Neil Finn. But he was right down the front. The whole footy crowd in the back third of the room turned around and stared at me. 'Oh, that's right,' I thought. 'NOW you're quiet.'
Anyway, soon the rest of the audience caught on, and the crowd around me turned back to their beer-swilling and ignoring the music. And then it was over and we ran out. Better be home soon, I thought with menace. I was. And seeing as Neil and co didn't do it, I got out my guitar and slaughtered the whole song all by myself.
Next time (if there is a next time) I'm paying for the Royal Box.
But the crowd?! Who let them in? What is wrong with audiences these days, that they come to a sold-out concert and barely make it out of the bar, and then stand at the back in knots and talk at the top of their voices so that Spinny Finn and his cohorts are inaudible?
I experienced the same thing on Christmas Eve a few months ago, only that was at a pantomime in the suburbs of Manchester. The audience was mainly kids, and their parents who were hardly more than kids. Their mass ADHD inability to concentrate for more than two seconds without beating each other with a glow-stick appalled me (and that was the parents), but then at least the pantomime was badly-acted and poorly-scripted and probably didn't warrant much more attention.
But this was Crowded House, people - NZ legends and icons and all those other words we overuse so regularly these days. They performed with poise and elegance and gusto, while twenty rows of 'fans' at the back yelled into each other's faces, spitting beer phlegm, and would have been more suited to the Manchester scene. Manchester United. On Derby day.
Of course, the only time they weren't all making a racket was the one moment when I appeared to be the only person in the room who knew what was coming. The lights broke during Don't Dream It's Over (when I was actually wishing it was), and a lone light bulb swung out over the audience. Okay. Seen this before at the many CH concerts I've attended. Neil will strum, then it's over to the audience. Sure enough, next second, he strummed, and I opened my mouth wide as taught at my many TAPAC courses and belted out: 'Hey now, HEY no--ow ...'
Not another soul was singing. Well, actually - one other soul was singing: Neil Finn. But he was right down the front. The whole footy crowd in the back third of the room turned around and stared at me. 'Oh, that's right,' I thought. 'NOW you're quiet.'
Anyway, soon the rest of the audience caught on, and the crowd around me turned back to their beer-swilling and ignoring the music. And then it was over and we ran out. Better be home soon, I thought with menace. I was. And seeing as Neil and co didn't do it, I got out my guitar and slaughtered the whole song all by myself.
Next time (if there is a next time) I'm paying for the Royal Box.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
How to avoid distraction
For the last couple of days, in the interests of actually getting some writing done, I've hired the front room in the Michael King Writers' Centre in Devonport. It's in the most extraordinary position: halfway up Mount Victoria, looking out onto the harbour, opposite the tennis courts, just up from Devonport Primary.
The reason I work here is to avoid distraction. Ha! What a joke. It's the most distracting place in New Zealand, especially from that front bedroom. Every thirty seconds someone walks up Mount Victoria, or cycles down Mount Victoria (rarely the other way round, I've found), and they're always far more fascinating than whatever I'm supposed to be writing.
Today, for instance, I watched a school class go by. The stragglers were a good ten minutes behind the others, with a frustrated teacher shepherding them from behind. A couple of sweaty guys sweated up the hill and played a quick sweaty game of sweaty tennis (can't help thinking this should only be a winter occupation for them, yes?). There are always various people - this is my favourite part of being there - who wander into the driveway, past my pink car, to study the placards telling them what the MK centre is, and then think they'll have a look around, little expecting to find real live writers peering out at them from behind the blinds. I shock a good few tourists a day. It's great. And there's Martin in the studio who has a residency there; I expect he takes a good few out as well.
To my very great delight, after I'd spent a good hour gossiping with the wonderful Karren who runs the place, I sat behind my secret blinds and watched a whole family of tourists whizz up the pathway on Segues (those little platforms on wheels, with tall handlebars). It was like seeing the Jetsons doing their shopping, and it felt like one of my own creations come to life. Then as I made a cup of Earl Grey to tide me through the last chapter I wrote today, a paddle steamer went by, from one side of the kitchen window to the other. How beautiful. Paddle steamers -who even has those any more? It was a gorgeous NZ contrast - the very modern with the very trad.
Amazingly, however, with all these things to look at I did manage to get a monumental amount of work done. I don't really know why it is, when my own house is quiet and lovely and has my desk in it, that I can spend hours doing no work at all, and yet when I'm perpetually distracted by stuff going on outside, I seem to be able to do heaps. Perhaps it's to do with the fact that I'm paying for this place and feel I need to get my money's worth.
Actually I think it may have more to do with the quality of the distractions. At home the distractions run roughly in this order - other writing work, housework especially loading and unloading dishwasher, dog-walking, emails, MySky, Googling random things. At the Michael King Centre, distractions are inspirations. I'm sure time-travelling paddle-steamer passengers are going to leap onto Segues and play sweaty tennis within a couple of chapters of me seeing them.
I adore the MK centre. I spent Christmas and New Year 2008/9 and most of January there, and it was the most wonderful Kiwi Christmas I've ever had. We had heaps of visitors because we were in this wonderful place, and whole weekends could pass by without me moving off the verrandah. We skulled wine, watched sunsets and ferries galore, played guitar and sang badly and for too long, saw New Year fireworks from the top of the volcano with 500 drunken 20 year olds , and probably drove Devonport mad. Devonport is lovely; it doesn't deserve to be driven mad. Apologies, Devonport.
But you do have a bit of a gem in your midst. Writers should all know that these wonderful vistas are available for hire, but it's one of those secrets you'd rather keep to yourself. And hopefully, with a few more days of spying on the outside world, I'll produce a gem of my own. Here's to you, Michael K. http://www.writerscentre.org.nz/
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Importance of Being ... well, just being.
Last night I went to see The Importance of Being Earnest, one of my favourite plays - in fact, one which I practically consider to be my own, having been in it twice (more later).
To begin with, I just couldn't get my head around this version of it. The first act was louche and lewd, and I really could not fathom the disconnect between the content and context of the play and what was going on before our eyes on the stage. Why would anyone, for instance, still be bothered about getting Mama's permission to marry when they could openly grope their intended in front of a room full of people, dressed in a tranny-type of PVC mini-dress? The two ages - this and Oscar Wilde's - just didn't fit together to me. I was probably somewhat affected, too, by the prospect of having to explain to my daughter just what they were chopping and snorting, chucking down their throats, or unzipping on each other. It was a loss of innocence -for both of us.
I don't know if the glass of wine in the interval changed my perspective, though, because I just loved the second half. The acting was rapier-sharp and I'm sure just as Wilde would have intended, and the laughs rolled over the audience in tinkling waves. Laurel Devenie as Cecily was hilarious, and the denouement was delivered so brilliantly that I was actually holding my breath to hear the outcome even though I know the play back to front.
And that's when I realised what my problem had been: I'd gone in with EXPECTATIONS. Instead of accepting this was going to be a whole lot different to any performance of the play that I'd ever seen before (and there have been many), and that would be the joy of it, I sat down expecting to see a direct reproduction of Edith Evans or even Judy Dench, and it took a while to let those thoughts be jostled out of one ear while the freshness and humour of this version entered via the other.
As mentioned, I've actually been in the play twice, first at grammar school and then at Sixth Form College. Both times I was Lady Bracknell. At the time I hoped and dared to believe that it was because I had enough dramatic gravitas to carry off the part. In hindsight, the truth was probably far less flattering. I was at an all-girl's secondary school, and wasn't one of the petite pretty pixie ones who got chosen for the female leads. I always played men or old women. Not that I minded - I got some pretty juicy parts out of it (Lady B, Nurse in Romeo and Juliet, Sir Peter Teazle in School for Scandal) but just once it would have been nice to skip on stage in a flouncy dress. I guess I was Lady Bracknell again at Sixth Form for the same reasons, and because I'd done it before so it wouldn't take long to learn my lines. My boyfriend at the time played Jack/Ernest while I was his overbearing, wrinkly mother-in-law to be; we broke up not long afterwards and I couldn't help wondering if he got a nasty flash-forward moment and decided then and there that the prospect was unbearable.
What I realised last night was that Lady Bracknell has truckloads of fairly unpalatable lines with the odd gem thrown in, and anyone who can make light of them and cause them to zing even a little deserves applause. Maybe I didn't do such a bad job of it after all.
On top of that, I understood myself a bit better. I'd brought all my past along to this production, and it wasn't until I chucked it out along with my Pringles packet during the interval that I gave this production the attention and courtesy it deserved.
It's fab. Go and see it. And if you're old-school English as I discovered I am, have a glass of wine before you go in. Relax, dude, and have some fun with it.
To begin with, I just couldn't get my head around this version of it. The first act was louche and lewd, and I really could not fathom the disconnect between the content and context of the play and what was going on before our eyes on the stage. Why would anyone, for instance, still be bothered about getting Mama's permission to marry when they could openly grope their intended in front of a room full of people, dressed in a tranny-type of PVC mini-dress? The two ages - this and Oscar Wilde's - just didn't fit together to me. I was probably somewhat affected, too, by the prospect of having to explain to my daughter just what they were chopping and snorting, chucking down their throats, or unzipping on each other. It was a loss of innocence -for both of us.
I don't know if the glass of wine in the interval changed my perspective, though, because I just loved the second half. The acting was rapier-sharp and I'm sure just as Wilde would have intended, and the laughs rolled over the audience in tinkling waves. Laurel Devenie as Cecily was hilarious, and the denouement was delivered so brilliantly that I was actually holding my breath to hear the outcome even though I know the play back to front.
And that's when I realised what my problem had been: I'd gone in with EXPECTATIONS. Instead of accepting this was going to be a whole lot different to any performance of the play that I'd ever seen before (and there have been many), and that would be the joy of it, I sat down expecting to see a direct reproduction of Edith Evans or even Judy Dench, and it took a while to let those thoughts be jostled out of one ear while the freshness and humour of this version entered via the other.
As mentioned, I've actually been in the play twice, first at grammar school and then at Sixth Form College. Both times I was Lady Bracknell. At the time I hoped and dared to believe that it was because I had enough dramatic gravitas to carry off the part. In hindsight, the truth was probably far less flattering. I was at an all-girl's secondary school, and wasn't one of the petite pretty pixie ones who got chosen for the female leads. I always played men or old women. Not that I minded - I got some pretty juicy parts out of it (Lady B, Nurse in Romeo and Juliet, Sir Peter Teazle in School for Scandal) but just once it would have been nice to skip on stage in a flouncy dress. I guess I was Lady Bracknell again at Sixth Form for the same reasons, and because I'd done it before so it wouldn't take long to learn my lines. My boyfriend at the time played Jack/Ernest while I was his overbearing, wrinkly mother-in-law to be; we broke up not long afterwards and I couldn't help wondering if he got a nasty flash-forward moment and decided then and there that the prospect was unbearable.
What I realised last night was that Lady Bracknell has truckloads of fairly unpalatable lines with the odd gem thrown in, and anyone who can make light of them and cause them to zing even a little deserves applause. Maybe I didn't do such a bad job of it after all.
On top of that, I understood myself a bit better. I'd brought all my past along to this production, and it wasn't until I chucked it out along with my Pringles packet during the interval that I gave this production the attention and courtesy it deserved.
It's fab. Go and see it. And if you're old-school English as I discovered I am, have a glass of wine before you go in. Relax, dude, and have some fun with it.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Harry Connick Jr Auckland
It must be 15 years since I last saw Harry Connick Jr live. It's certainly so many years that I've since managed to grow a whole daughter who thinks he's just the dude from Will and Grace and that nice guy in PS I Love You ...
Well, of course he IS all those things, and very nicely he does in them too. But can I just pause here to complain about the unfair distribution of talent? How did one guy - one NICE guy - end up with demon pianist fingers, good looks, raconteur abilities that would put most stand-ups to shame, AND be able to lead a sob-worthy band with a voice that regularly makes your eyebrows hit your hairline and lump surge up in your throat? Oh, and a sweet ass. (Anyone who was there last night will appreciate the reference). Sweet, sweet as, bro. So how? How?
I mean, gimme your front row tickets for Christchurch! Oh, sorry, that just slipped out. Try again ...
I mean, gimme a break! Was it a Faustian deal? Is he going have to hand over his children on their sixteenth birthdays (including the lovely unaffected Kate who was dragged out onto the stage last night)? I'm sure someone more intelligent than I am could point out the genetic soup that created him is the cause, or direct me to some nature v nurture argument, or explain it to me in some way that makes sense.
Anyway, I would just like to point out that it's not fair. I'm very accepting of the fact that being fabulous at something doesn't mean you can't be fabulous at other things too. An obvious exception to this in most cases might be celebrity authors (don't even get me started on Madonna and bloody Jordan), but you know ... Jamie Lee Curtis can turn out a very beautiful book or two.
So I'm not saying that it's not fair he's so multi-talented and sweet as. Not really. What is not fair is that he was far too brilliant last night to be on for only two hours. Me and My Girl were quite near the front, and it was so cosy and effortless I felt as if we'd somehow gate-crashed his Christmas party. He sang and laughed and entertained us, and I found it so hard not to leap to my feet and dance that I must have looked as if I was strapped into an electric chair. And then all too soon, it was over.
I've a suspicion it may have been all too soon even for Harry and the Band. To say the lighting was a little curious at the Civic last night would be an understatement. We all had to find our seats in the dark, guided only by the distant twinkle of the stars on the ceiling, the beam from our mobiles and people kindly shouting out what seat number they were in as we stumbled over their feet and plastic wine glasses. Inexplicably, the house lights then came up for two minutes just before the show started, when most people were seated (in the wrong seat/row/each other's laps). And then at the end-which-might-not-have-been-the-end, HJC and the band were waving at the cheering, clapping, crying audience who were fully anticipating another encore, and suddenly - whump! Curtain down, lights up, everybody out. I could still see the tips of Harry's shoes beneath the curtains, facing forwards, and they looked pretty startled too.
Still, that was definitely that. We schlepped out expecting to buy his new CD in the foyer but there was no merchandise on sale (maybe someone had nicked it during the black-out?), and overall it was a bit puzzling and rather an anti-climax.
You have been warned, Wellington and Christchurch! You lucky people still have him to come. Make the most of him, and do please consider hijacking the lighting director (after you've placed a traffic cone in your seats). And if you have spare tickets, let me know.
Well, of course he IS all those things, and very nicely he does in them too. But can I just pause here to complain about the unfair distribution of talent? How did one guy - one NICE guy - end up with demon pianist fingers, good looks, raconteur abilities that would put most stand-ups to shame, AND be able to lead a sob-worthy band with a voice that regularly makes your eyebrows hit your hairline and lump surge up in your throat? Oh, and a sweet ass. (Anyone who was there last night will appreciate the reference). Sweet, sweet as, bro. So how? How?
I mean, gimme your front row tickets for Christchurch! Oh, sorry, that just slipped out. Try again ...
I mean, gimme a break! Was it a Faustian deal? Is he going have to hand over his children on their sixteenth birthdays (including the lovely unaffected Kate who was dragged out onto the stage last night)? I'm sure someone more intelligent than I am could point out the genetic soup that created him is the cause, or direct me to some nature v nurture argument, or explain it to me in some way that makes sense.
Anyway, I would just like to point out that it's not fair. I'm very accepting of the fact that being fabulous at something doesn't mean you can't be fabulous at other things too. An obvious exception to this in most cases might be celebrity authors (don't even get me started on Madonna and bloody Jordan), but you know ... Jamie Lee Curtis can turn out a very beautiful book or two.
So I'm not saying that it's not fair he's so multi-talented and sweet as. Not really. What is not fair is that he was far too brilliant last night to be on for only two hours. Me and My Girl were quite near the front, and it was so cosy and effortless I felt as if we'd somehow gate-crashed his Christmas party. He sang and laughed and entertained us, and I found it so hard not to leap to my feet and dance that I must have looked as if I was strapped into an electric chair. And then all too soon, it was over.
I've a suspicion it may have been all too soon even for Harry and the Band. To say the lighting was a little curious at the Civic last night would be an understatement. We all had to find our seats in the dark, guided only by the distant twinkle of the stars on the ceiling, the beam from our mobiles and people kindly shouting out what seat number they were in as we stumbled over their feet and plastic wine glasses. Inexplicably, the house lights then came up for two minutes just before the show started, when most people were seated (in the wrong seat/row/each other's laps). And then at the end-which-might-not-have-been-the-end, HJC and the band were waving at the cheering, clapping, crying audience who were fully anticipating another encore, and suddenly - whump! Curtain down, lights up, everybody out. I could still see the tips of Harry's shoes beneath the curtains, facing forwards, and they looked pretty startled too.
Still, that was definitely that. We schlepped out expecting to buy his new CD in the foyer but there was no merchandise on sale (maybe someone had nicked it during the black-out?), and overall it was a bit puzzling and rather an anti-climax.
You have been warned, Wellington and Christchurch! You lucky people still have him to come. Make the most of him, and do please consider hijacking the lighting director (after you've placed a traffic cone in your seats). And if you have spare tickets, let me know.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Hello world - read this.
More news to follow! Just getting used to this whole thing. In the meantime, here's a little taster of my new book.
What do a housewife from Hampshire, a pole dancer from Taranaki, a London publisher and an LA soap starlet all have in common?
All their lives have been impacted by The Most Beautiful Man in the World.
It's only when he's found floating face-down in his Hollywood pool that they discover the ugly truth - about themselves, about each other, and about the man they've chased around the world and across the dedades ...
What do a housewife from Hampshire, a pole dancer from Taranaki, a London publisher and an LA soap starlet all have in common?
All their lives have been impacted by The Most Beautiful Man in the World.
It's only when he's found floating face-down in his Hollywood pool that they discover the ugly truth - about themselves, about each other, and about the man they've chased around the world and across the dedades ...
Saturday, February 27, 2010
An ocean of books
Jeff has had the wonderful idea to get books into schools in the Pacific Islands, and he's gratefully accepting all donations - not just for the books themselves, but for packaging, assistance with shipping, media attention and so on.
I've just handed over two boxes of books I got together for him - the first a box of all my gratis copies that I get when a new title comes out, that usually gather dust or are given away to people who could actually afford to buy them (which, let's face it, would make me very happy as an author); the second a bunch of books I've bought for my own research to see what's in the market, or just to read for pleasure. I've held on to my Harry Potters and signed originals by my friends, but everything else if fair game ...
I know Wheelers have been fantastic in helping out, and have provided entire class-loads of certain titles. Impressive, huh? I know we can't all offer help on that scale, but I'm sure there are other authors with the odd box of back-list titles sitting around in the shed. Send them to a good home and dig out those spare books for a good cause! Readers too, of course - de-clutter and do some good at the same time.
And if you happen to be a media-savvy shipping magnate with ties to the Islands, get in touch with Jeff - he'll be very glad to hear from you. www.anoceanofbooks.org
I've just handed over two boxes of books I got together for him - the first a box of all my gratis copies that I get when a new title comes out, that usually gather dust or are given away to people who could actually afford to buy them (which, let's face it, would make me very happy as an author); the second a bunch of books I've bought for my own research to see what's in the market, or just to read for pleasure. I've held on to my Harry Potters and signed originals by my friends, but everything else if fair game ...
I know Wheelers have been fantastic in helping out, and have provided entire class-loads of certain titles. Impressive, huh? I know we can't all offer help on that scale, but I'm sure there are other authors with the odd box of back-list titles sitting around in the shed. Send them to a good home and dig out those spare books for a good cause! Readers too, of course - de-clutter and do some good at the same time.
And if you happen to be a media-savvy shipping magnate with ties to the Islands, get in touch with Jeff - he'll be very glad to hear from you. www.anoceanofbooks.org
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