And the award for Most Cynical Use of the Christmas Carol Plotline goes to…
...the Holby City Christmas special1. Likeable Character 1 is romantically involved with Likeable Character 2, who is leaving the show. In order to stop #1 leaving with #2, three ghosts visit and show her the relationship isn't going to work. That's all they do.
People. It was the Christmas special. That's just not nice.
- it's amazing what you can catch up on when there's an essay to write [↩]
Essaying en abyme
I'm currently writing an essay, and it's not my finest work. It's about 'photography en abyme', which is when a photo contains metaphorical references to the process of photography. Like: when the image includes a mirror reflecting part of the scene, this is just like the photograph itself. I use italics because people get quite excited about it all. I myself do not. As with all the topics last term, it took me forever to understand what they were saying, and when I did it was all pretty obvious. This is because my chosen degree suffers badly from science envy, and makes easy things sound complicated to justify itself (proper science, meanwhile, does the exact opposite). Photography en abyme tries very hard to sound deep, but isn't really, and you'd think writing an essay on it wouldn't be difficult. Not so much. I'm hitting a referencing wall.
My course is obsessed with referencing. You have to say the correct things, but only if you can find someone - a published someone - to say it for you. Essays at my level aren't about thinking, they're about reporting what other people think - almost all of my essay feedback has been about the size of the bibliography. There's an element of brainwork required to pull it all together, but it's learning how to write essays rather than using them to say anything. I think this is pretty weird, but hey; maybe you're not meant to start thinking for yourself until the dissertation. Anyway, I've been doing ok up to now, because I'm a better essay writer than I am a photographer - I can bullshit pretty well when necessary. The problem this time is I've run out of people to quote.
I've resorted to saying something original, which is a bit risky. I spent five parargraphs making up a bunch of metaphors to demonstrate the power of the en abyme concept - "the image is framed within the subject's glasses: he's seeing it through a lens, just like us" etc. - which boosted my word count enough that I'm in sight of the 2800 minimum, but is utterly devoid of references. This could be very bad. Also, I'm so desperate for content that I've been dissecting arguments, which might not go down well either.
You see, there is a little more to en abyme than just the metaphorical angle, but it's a bit silly. There's a convuluted attempt to link it to linguistics, and then to declare a 'genuine rhetoric of the image', which boils down to objective meaning: pretty much the holy grail of photographic theory. Again, once you strip away the verbiage it's pretty simple, and, sadly, moofed. Where it isn't vague, it confuses correlation and causation. When it's not doing that, it's invoking Lacanian theories of child psychology that no modern child psychologist looks twice at, and didn't have any evidence even at the time. I've torn it to shreds. I'm genuinely intrigued as to how my lecturers will react to this - one in particular is very fond of en abyme stuff.
I'm currently at 2275, with a large amount of I-could-get-in-trouble-for-this, and I figure a conclusion + references + bibliography1 should be enough to finish it off. I'm a little nervous. Last time I had a first draft written a month before the deadline. This time the deadline's on Thursday. Oops. If I have time, maybe I'll hit the library and try to dig out something to replace the thinking-for-myself parts.
- our VERY SHOUTY guidelines are quite clear that these must be included in the minimum word count, despite this penalising people who do more research and therefore being obviously broken [↩]
Letters to a Young Contrarian
Over the summer I read Christopher Hitchens' Letters to a Young Contrarian, twice. Its message is: bloody well stand up for what you believe in. It's an ode to rationality and fierce decency in a world where - it says - harmful behaviour is too often defended by well-meaning apologists. In a series of letters to a young student, it says that 'left-wing' does not have to mean 'relativist', and does not mean always trying to reach a compromise: sometimes it means putting your foot down and saying 'stop'1. It says that authority - of all kinds - should always be closely watched, and details the traps and pitfalls into which they will try to sucker you. It's not, though, a teenage paen to being generically anti-authority, or rebelling for the sake of it - it just says we shoudn't be ashamed to make moral judgments, regardless of who we end up allying with (but if you do end up with someone awful, don't be afraid to call them out). It's a sentiment plenty call bombastic or naive, to which plenty reply 'that's exactly the problem'. I don't agree with everything, and I am far, far from a natural rebel2 but I finished it wanting to fix the world and not caring who I annoy in the process.
Letters also gives the lie to popular commentary regarding Mr Hitchens. It was published in 2001, pre-9/11, yet his opinions then are almost entirely consistent with his opinions now. He's appalled by governments who refuse to make a moral stand against evil dictatorships, he's appalled by the cowtowing to fundamentalist Islam, he's appalled by the denigration of reason in the name of faith. Add 9/11 into the mix and it's obvious that his current stances are (at most) logical continuations, and often no different. This is far from the beloved 'he drove to the right after 9/11' trope so beloved of commenters. I'd properly bought into this, and it was quite the surprise to find I was wrong.
And, not for nothing, he also has a ridiculously impressive writing style. Here's something from his week, on the US election:
On "the issues" in these closing weeks, there really isn't a very sharp or highly noticeable distinction to be made between the two nominees, and their "debates" have been cramped and boring affairs as a result. But the difference in character and temperament has become plainer by the day, and there is no decent way of avoiding the fact. Last week's so-called town-hall event showed Sen. John McCain to be someone suffering from an increasingly obvious and embarrassing deficit, both cognitive and physical. And the only public events that have so far featured his absurd choice of running mate have shown her to be a deceiving and unscrupulous woman utterly unversed in any of the needful political discourses but easily trained to utter preposterous lies and to appeal to the basest element of her audience. McCain occasionally remembers to stress matters like honor and to disown innuendoes and slanders, but this only makes him look both more senile and more cynical, since it cannot (can it?) be other than his wish and design that he has engaged a deputy who does the innuendoes and slanders for him.
Regardless of the content, just look at the way your eyes glide over his sentences. They're not short or lacking complexity, yet there are no cognitive breakpoints - it's all effortless. How does he do that?
Letters is a short book, and I highly recommend it. And even if you disagree with everything he says, his writing is a thing to behold.
- I am, admittedly, a sucker for this kind of thing - I love the S3 West Wing scene where Oliver Babish explains to Abbey Bartlet why she will not settle her court case, but will instead stand up and take the bastards down. Bloody brilliant, that man. [↩]
- this weekend I was about to change my Facebook strapline to 'put a ribbon round my neck and call me a libertine', just because I like the poetry, until I realised I fit no definition of 'libertine'. [↩]
3 for 2
A few years ago I had a regrettable email exchange with an author I admire. At the time he'd written a few online-only stories, and was searching for a publisher.
I emailed to say I'd enjoyed his first novel-length piece; he replied and, noticing my email address, asked whether I had any tips for publicity in the uk. I couldn't think of any, but didn't want to reply as such, so said something like "most people I know can't resist the 3-for-2 tables". He tersely replied that he was a long, long way from those. Which was obvious when I thought about it, and I felt rather stupid. The conversation disintegrated from there, with me trying to be witty and him thinking I was insulting his dog (don't ask). This exchange occasionally pops up during internal debates on the subject of Why I Shouldn't Be Allowed to Talk to People.
This afternoon in Waterstone's I saw his now-published novel on the 3-for-2 table. Clearly I am a genius.
Keep the ribbon moving
Stephen King calls Neal Stephenson 'a god', and I agree. He seems to have a good idea every paragraph - it's practically Shakespearean, and frequently exhausting. Snow Crash is still one of my favourite books, although I admit I haven't yet finished Quicksilver. The latter is so crammed full of interesting bits and pieces that I like to read it when I can concentrate, which means not late at night. And it's bloody enormous (and only the first of a trilogy), so is taking a while.
I like the story of how his first novel came to be written:
It was a hot summer in Iowa City. Neal Stephenson had a regular job, and yet had a hunch that writing might be for him. He had written a "query" -- a plot summary, the outline of a book, biographies of characters, and a few sample chapters -- and started to send them to editors, which he picked at random from trade directories. Many rejection letters followed. Finally, one editor wrote that he was intrigued by the outline and the sample chapter and asked for the rest of the novel. After a brief exhilaration the reality set in: there was no novel yet. He had to write it. With all his vacation time and the 4th of July holiday there were 10 days, in which to write a novel. He rented a modern typewriter, secluded himself in his apartment and started to type. Soon a problem appeared: the typewriter had a modern plastic ribbon. The plastic mellowed and became sticky: it was July in Iowa City, and the apartment was hot. The only way to prevent the ribbon from getting stuck is to keep the ribbon moving. And the only way to keep the ribbon moving is to keep pressing the keys. That discovery did wonders for his productivity. He didn't have time to think: he had to keep pressing the keys and write the first thing that came into his mind. He sent thus created manuscript to the editor. The latter replied that his publishing house can't print that -- but the work was interesting and should be published. Eventually, Neal Stephenson got an agent, a publisher, and his first published book, "The Big U".
Now that's a good way to motivate yourself. Via.
Studio 60
I've recently been watching Aaron Sorkin's short-lived show, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. I missed most of it on More4, so I'm getting the DVDs from LOVEFiLM. Eight episodes in and I'm obsessed.
As you'd expect for anything written by Mr Sorkin, it's fast, unashamedly political, and full of references. It's most definitely written for its political climate, and is already starting to age a little in this respect, but I like that - watching it at the time must have been great, and seeing it with a later perspective adds another dimension. The show deals directly with the US culture wars, and doesn't shy away from battling the Religious Right (yay!), but in moral matters that bear no relation to religion there's always a general decency. Just like TWW, really - the characters start out behaving properly and the plots progress from the problems this causes, rather than the usual reversal. And all the moral stances are unapologetic. The most recent episode had Matthew Perry's character repeatedly laying into his Christian ex-girlfriend over her remarks on homosexuality, and didn't end with the usual 'we must try to understand each other' compromise. She's a main character, but was just plain wrong - she argued herself into a corner, and refused to play any more. His speech to her didn't end with 'when the President stands, nobody sits', but it was close.
I also like Amanda Peet's studio executive. I'm not halfway through yet, but it seems like she might be another of Aaron Sorkin's Perfect Women. Like Natalie in Sports Night and Amy in The West Wing, she's ridiculously beautiful and utterly flawless in character. I don't really have any issues with this, but Abi used to remark that while she's cool, it's still a male fantasy. Fair enough. I was, though, bizarrely pleased to read that Amanda Peet is apparently quite cool in real life too, having just launched a broadside against the current spate of celebrity anti-vaccination campaigners in the US. Hey, a guy can dream.
Matthew Perry, incidentally, is a revelation. I always thought he was quite good in Friends, but he's far, far cooler in Studio 60. I do find myself wanting to be him. And Bradley Whitford is Bradley Whitford (although he's still Josh, really) and therefore immune from criticism.
I'm already sad there's no second season. But there's lots still to go, and I might draw it out a little. Looking at Aaron Sorkin's Wikipedia page, it seems he's sticking with films for the meantime. I don't blame him, given his luck with TV. But I'd say TV is still the best game in town, and it's a shame that someone capable of churning out some of the best dialogue in the industry, week after week, is stuck writing two films a year.
Lisey’s Story
I just finished my book, Lisey's Story by Stephen King, and I immediately threw it away.
I've read a lot of Stephen King. As ever, the blog post began forming itself as soon as I started liking the book, and I wasn't sure what to say. I mean, I think it's a stunning novel, but I always rave about Stephen King, and while there's nothing wrong with repeating things worth saying, it's still boring to be boring.
But I wanted to write something, because he's somehow done it again. I've said before that people think he's a horror writer, but he's not, in the classic sense. His novels can be dark and sometimes terrifying, but not because of the events or the blood. I'm not bothered that terrible things are happening to the characters, I'm bothered that terrible things are happening to my friends. Because he gets under my skin, hooks into the personality centres and directly breathes living people into my mind's eye. And the worst kind of gore-fest is nothing compared to a character you love standing in the hallway, thinking someone might be in the house.
I know this isn't anything new, nothing that hasn't happened to everyone - it is, after all, what reading's all about. But he's the guy who gets me, who best fits my particular brain-shape, and his characters follow me around. I've been reading Lisey's Story for the last month, and it's lurked continually in the back of my head. Not as an excited I-must-go-and-read-this desire, or as an irritating why-can't-I-stop-thinking-about-this memeplex, but as another filter on the world, with reality-based roots but fantastical tentacles. It's a book of secret languages and private words, and it latched onto my worldview and twisted. And I wanted to blog about it, without it being the same old thing. I got lucky.
I'd nearly finished the book when I took it to the park this afternoon. My car was in for an MOT and I had 40 minutes to kill, so I found a shaded bench and slipped into the world of Lisey Landon, widow of celebrated author Scott. The book hadn't gone the way I expected, and I was intrigued to see if there were any surprises left. Then: splat. A pigeon delivered its verdict on my literary diversion in spectacular fashion. The book was big and hardback, and Mr Pigeon aimed perfectly for the centre crease. Backsplatter hit my hands, coat, jumper and I don't like to think where else - it was really quite the projectile from such a tiny animal - so I cleaned up as best I could and headed back to my car, hoping a) it would be ready and b) I didn't have anything in my hair.
Both were so, and once home I'm thinking, what am I going to do with this book? I could ditch it and buy a paperback copy, but that seems wasteful. I figured I'd cut out the affected pages so I could read the rest in comfort, so I grabbed the scissors and found the somewhat sticky pages where I'd left off. The book doesn't smell good and I realise there's really no saving the thing, but the outside is clean enough to put on the table. I made myself read through the two rapidly crustyflaking pages, then found the smearings had soaked through a fair few more. So I read those too. And then there were only 30 or so left. And before I know it I'm sitting at the table, reading a stinky, shit-stained book that really needs to be got rid of, and welling up.
Because it's a book about marriage, and loss, and chance. And it's a book about writing, and ideas, and storytelling. And when the things that happen at the end happen, I can't help being moved.
It's gone now, but the great thing about liking Stephen King is that his books are always in charity shops, so I'll find a replacement eventually. I can never figure out why I want a collection of my favourite fiction - I mean, what's the use? - but Lisey's Story will definitely be in there, next to all his others.
Should anyone fancy taking a look, I'd recommend not reading the blurb. I've been burned before so skipped it, and for this particular book it was the right call.
Overhead, without any fuss, a star has gone out
A man is walking home, following a road back to the city on an unfamiliar planet. I forget why. Perhaps he had an accident, perhaps he was stranded; it doesn't matter. He's walking, alone, in the black night, thinking. He remembers the rumours of monsters in the desert, but of course there's no such thing. He thinks of his life, and how it's going. He remembers the large holes in the ground he passed on the journey out. He's trying to think how far from the city they were, and therefore when he'll pass them by. He's trying not to think what could hide in such holes. He's glad it's night, so he can't see. He's trying to be rational, but it's hard, with no light. He's looking forward to seeing his family. The lights of the city grow closer, and closer. He's home. He's home, but for the clacking of enormous jaws, in the dark.
I don't know what story that is. I don't know which of the many collections it comes from. But it appears in my head roughly once a week, often for no discernible reason.
Arthur C. Clarke died today.
I finished Rendezvous with Rama last week. I was, and am, looking forward to the sequels. I've read all the 2001 series. I must have read most, if not all, of his short stories. I've read his collaborations with other authors. I once wrote a short screenplay completely ripping off The Nine Billion Names of God.
Others will be more knowledgeable, and eloquent. But Arthur C. Clarke introduced me to science fiction. His was the first sci-fi collection I ever read. I can still pick out his style a mile away. From him I found Asimov, and from them combined a thousand pathways opened, from Star Trek to Sagan to Tolkien. Their alien worlds sent me into a fascination with UFOs and the paranormal, but the underlying ode to science gave me a foundation to get out of it.
A million scenes are running through my head. A man struggling for shelter on the surface of Mercury. A spacecraft destroying a mountain. Wires of pure diamond, stretching across the solar system. A black sentinel, buried on the moon.
Here he is, last December:
You gave me delight, Mr Clarke. I couldn't forget your books if I wanted to.
The man was the most influential author of my childhood. I consider him a giant. RIP, Arthur C. Clarke. And thank you.
--
Tributes: Phil at Bad Astronomy has a lovely post.
Waiting for Cory Doctorow, as he always manages to express these things beautifully...
The Sizzling Case of the Soccer Saboteur
My seventh non-murder mystery, The Sizzling Case of the Soccer Saboteur, is now online and for sale at Kids Mysteries. This one's all-girl and has eight characters. Here's the editor's blurb:
The rolling cheer of a wave ripples around the stadium and the scent of hot dogs and burgers fills the air. It’s the finals of the All-Girl Starling Cup Soccer Championship - and it’s a sell-out! Many in the crowd have traveled hundreds of miles to watch the most-anticipated game of the year. The Rolling Hills Bluebirds are playing the Seashell Cove Wildcats, and the winners will be the State Champs! The sky is blue, the sun is shining, and everybody’s looking forward to a great game. But things are about to go terribly wrong.
The teams run out to wild applause. It’s tradition for the team captains to shake hands before the game starts. Bluebirds captain Rebecca Goodkicks and Wildcats captain Victoria Smee jog onto the field to roars from the crowd. They go to the center to shake hands, but before they reach each other, Rebecca starts slowing down. She looks uncomfortable. What’s going on? A few moments later she turns and runs back into the locker room! Is she limping? What’s happening?
A few minutes later, Ella Galaxy, the booth announcer, relays the news that the game will be delayed, and groans are heard from everyone. Rebecca’s soccer shoes have been sabotaged with Red Hot Itching Powder! Rebecca needs some time to recover. The Bluebirds coach, Ivana Winalot, is refusing to let her girls play until the mystery is solved and the culprit is found.
The crowd is getting restless. Everybody wants the game to begin. The guilty party must be brought to justice. The local police proclaim the game will be delayed until the case is solved. Everyone has been deputized and is ordered to help find the culprit.
It's described as a new mystery "from popular kids mystery writer Andrew West". This makes me absurdly happy.
Hello!
Hey, thanks for coming! I'm Andrew, and this is where my headthinks come to breed. They often meander around humanism and photography, but they're flighty and you can't trust them, so anything is possible.
Do feel free to email me - I get lonely:
Your hair looks swish, by the way - have you done something new?
Recent Comments
- vicky: going up this weekend having done all the welsh peaks except 4 snowdon, cant wait
on Climbing Snowdon. - vicky: what, how can u live in the 21 c and say that, probably a sexist thing
on Climbing Snowdon. - vicky: da iawn laura, cant believe what im hearing, all this fuss, anyway love the site, and i agree, normal people who swear and curse clomb mountains cos we live in the...
on Climbing Snowdon. - Andrew: Did a few quick test shots to check the light levels, then balanced the camera on the arm of a bench, set it for a 20s exposure and hoped for the best
on ISS. - lynsey: Wow, how did you take that photograph?
on ISS.
