K.A. Laity's Blog, page 166

Wombat Day

I did not start this particular celebration, but you know I'm willing to lend a hand for a good cause. So join the dance for Wombat Day. Wombat cake below made by the Wombies. How to celebrate: Eat chocolate, think marsupial thoughts, put something in a pouch. Smile. Hug a wombat.

BitchBuzz: Are We Getting Nicer?

Well now, don't go getting your hopes up: it's just my latest column --

Is the World Becoming Nicer? (Probably not) People around the world watched and cheered as the Chilean miners were freed, one by one, from their underground prison. I was surprised to find my friends, normally hard-hearted cynics, dabbing away tears as they watched this "miracle," this "triumph of the human spirit." No, let's not get distracted by the fact that the miners had their pay docked for not working, because it's possible that this emotional tide is the sign of a cultural sea change.



After all, as BitchBuzz's own Rebecca Thompson reported, our favourite grumbling misanthrope pin-up, Charlie Brooker has given notice on his bitch-fest Screen Burn, the better to embrace marital bliss and pumping our babies in the suburbs (Sob! No!). And spanky gossipist extraordinaire, Perez Hilton has sworn to turn over a newer, kinder leaf as well, asking for absolution upon the altar of Ellen, the Archbishop of Nice. As I write this, Facebook and Twitter are a sea of purple in honor of GLAAD's Spirit Day "to show support for the teens who took their lives because of anti-LGBT bullying."



Are we getting nicer?

Read more: http://news.bitchbuzz.com/is-the-world-becoming-nicer-probably-not.html#ixzz131OcIapg

I'm doing my best to fight off a cold that tried to start yesterday. Not sure if I've been successful, but I keep drinking liquids and soup (semi-liquid?). Just when I was beginning to feel as if I were getting caught up -- there's not time to be sick!

Le Ronde, Part Three: Provocateur

Here's a fun thing: I'm part of a Round Robin story sequence thanks to Patti Abbott, which circles around envy. One character envies another in Patti's story, then that character envied, envies another in Dana's story and now I'm writing about that character envying a third. 



Hence the lovely woodcut of the punishment of the envious.



I figured it was about time to get a female character into the story :-) so without further ado --







Provocateurby K. A. Laity

James Preston basked in the warmth the congratulatory accolades. People swarmed around him, touching him, smiling at him and it was bliss. The glowering presence of that ponderous fool Disch nearby only made the golden glow burn brighter.

How ridiculous he had been! Amateur! Trying to steal the spotlight from him? A smile curled his lip as he remembered the way the man had floundered through his ponderous pontificating. What a contrast it made to Preston's own witty, economical—and studiously humble—speech. Who would be quoted in the papers tomorrow? Me, that's who, Preston thought as he accepted another congratulatory accolade with what appeared to be an abashed modesty.

I've reached the tipping point at last! My sonorous voice will be the vehicle that takes me to the pinnacle of success. His smile broadened.

The party had gone on long enough, however.  With the expertise lent by years of practise, Preston could sense that the peak had passed and folks were thinking about the after-parties. That was his cue: he looked around to find Jeannette.

Preston's personal assistant had been flitting around all night, working on his behalf, pressing the flesh he'd rather not have to press. Jeannette was perfect: bubbly, persistent and pleasantly zaftig. He spotted her talking up Rav Noonan, the producer of last year's sleeper hit and doubtless casting something new. Good work, Jeannette, he thought as, smiling left and right as if warding off bad luck, he made his way through the parting waves of partiers. Jeanette's ample breasts rose and fell with excitement as she gestured toward him, waving him over to the conversation. Her long brunette hair retained its perfect curls from that afternoon. He must remember to ask about her styling products.

"Wouldn't you, James?" Jeanette said with a grin, laying her hand on his arm which caused her silk blouse to part a little more and show a peek at her black satin brassiere. 

Preston smiled warmly at the two women, but his thoughts ran ahead with delight. It must still be tucked away upstairs! "If it's a fabulous opportunity to work with Ms. Noonan, the yes, of course I would be delighted." There were chuckles and more words, but his thoughts were racing ahead to the suite upstairs.

Noonan made a lot of grandiose plans and vague promises, but he took it as a sign that she said she'd be calling him the following week.  At last he thought the time was right to announce, "This pumpkin needs to go to bed, my dears. Actors hours," he said, his voice ruched with regret.

"But James," his PA said, her eyes wide with surprise, some of which might have been genuine, "there's the party UNM has put together for Grady.  You must go."

"Oh, my dear," Preston said, his voice filled with longing and just a soupçon of regret. He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, where he could feel the strap of her brassiere just beneath the filmy material. "You will make my apologies to everyone and be your charming self. I'm counting on you."

Jeannette looked up him, her brown eyes wide. She leaned in and whispered, "You're not snubbing him for that tedious speech of his, are you?"

"Tedious?" he whispered back, giving his words a conspiratorial tone. "I thought it riveting."

Jeanette laughed behind her hand, her breasts jiggling ever so slightly within the confines of her undergarment. A warm flush rose up the back of Preston's neck and at once he was impatient to get away, but he had to play by the rules.

He willed his eyes to meet hers with something approaching sincerity. "I'm counting on you to make it clear that I wont be there because I don't want Grady to have to share the spotlight. It is his night after all."

"You're being generous."

Preston chuckled. "Indeed I am. But you will have to do yeoman's duty, my girl, to make sure everyone understands how generous I am." He pecked her on the cheek. "Good night—and don't worry about making noise when you come in. You know I sleep like the dead." Especially tonight, he promised himself.

When he locked the door behind him, Preston could barely stifle the urge to run at once into her room, but he took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe, first and took out his cufflinks. He began unbuttoning his shirt as he walked into her room, slipping through the door she'd left ajar this afternoon. Jeanette's table was strewn with papers, though her business card binder left an impression of neatness.

Preston pulled the top drawer open and there it was: the pink box with the name in script.  The black ribbon had been undone, but it didn't matter. He knew she had tried it on. Blushing she had said, yes, it fit, it was the right size, and oh, how extravagant he was. Preston grinned and picked up the brassiere, his excitement growing. His thumb brushed the purple silk gently, then he traced the black Chantilly lace with his finger. He didn't even realise that he had sighed.

He laid the brassiere on the bed, his eyes upon it as he removed his shirt and lay it on the bed, too, as if they were lovers. Preston picked up the brassiere, his touch reverent as he turned toward the mirror. He shivered as he let the straps slip down his upraised arms. The silk kissed his skin, its touch slightly cold, but warming quickly. Reaching behind he fastened the hooks, his eye riveted on his image in the mirror. It was a snug fit but that only added to his delight—and his excitement.

If only he had breasts like Jeanette's, Preston thought as he allowed his fingers to make lazy circles across the expanse of silk and lace. He grinned at himself. If you did, you'd never work again. Excitement surged within him as he pictured Jeanette's creamy breasts encased in the purple silk, getting nearer and nearer the breaking point, his breath getting ragged as his fingers moved more quickly.

Preston didn't recognize the sound that preceded the door opening—those damned little cards—but he couldn't miss Jeanette's startled expression as she stood in the doorway. What he must look like, he had time to think, his chest tightly bound by her brassiere, his chinos tented with barely contained desire.

"Oh god no," he whispered, but she already had her phone out and aimed at him. In the camera's click her heard the end of his brilliant career.

[For the curious, a link to Agent Provocateur's Stephanee brassiere featured in the story]

Laurie Anderson's 'Delusion' & Nowhere Boy

Friday I had the chance to catch a couple of fun things: Laurie Anderson's Delusion at EMPAC (my favourite local venue) and Sam Taylor-Wood's Nowhere Boy at the Spectrum 8 (as usual). Of course there were several other things possible that night -- among them, Nick Lowe sob! -- but one can't do everything (but two might try, but how to make two of me...?).



Nowhere Boy tells the story of John Lennon's teenage years living with his aunt Mimi (Kristen Scott Thomas) while getting reacquainted with his mother (Ann-Marie Duff)who had left him at the age of five and the emotional turmoil inherent in that situation, as well as the budding musical career he got off the ground between various hooliganish larks. Initially the film's release was overshadowed by director Taylor-Wood's relationship with her much younger lead actor, Aaron Johnson -- a disparity and relationship that would raise few eyebrows if the genders were reversed. The film has a brilliant cast all around (and not too terrible with the Liverpudlian accents for the most part) and definite emotional hooks, but the script doesn't really hang together well. Despite its basis in fact, it's not always compellingly believable, but I did enjoy it on the whole. There are plenty of little tidbits for the fans, like the drawings hanging on the wall that later show up on Lennon's Walls and Bridges LP. The visual accuracy of recreating existing photos through careful wardrobe choices: a pity the same care is seldom applied to crafting the script (cf. Sid & Nancy where the "My Way" sequence mimics the video precisely, but the filmmakers can't be bothered to find out how many siblings Nancy has).



Laurie Anderson is always an interesting performer. I had seen her talk about developing this piece at MassMOCA months ago, so I was already curious to see what had come. It was a much more visual show than some of the others I'd seen in recent years, with images and words projected on the giant screen behind her, on a sofa as well as two uniquely shaped screens on either side of the stage. The show, "a meditation on life and language", ranged widely across a wide variety of subjects in a dialogue between her own voice and the "male voice" she's been using for years that now has the name of Fenway Bergamot. Many of the themes had great resonance for me particularly her thoughts on the impact of silence and her descriptions of her travels in Iceland and how they sparked revelations about her own family. She rode Icelandic ponies at Halldór Laxness' farm (I only rode them at the farm across the way) and met a man who had a brilliant idea to turn a decrepit barn into dance club. Looking around the bleak landscape, Anderson realised at last who this man reminded her of: her own father and his enthusiasm for completely impractical notions.



In one of the most moving -- and difficult -- parts of the evening, she spoke of her mother's death and her difficulty in dealing with the loss of someone she "did not love". A priest she talked to suggested that she simply say that she had always cared about her, but she never got the chance to say those words. Anderson described her mother's delusions at the end of her life, animals she could see on the ceiling, and her gratitude, thanking everyone for coming, for all they had done. It was a really naked moment. She described a dream in which she gave birth to her dog, but also caught herself out in the dream because she had engineered the experience.



There was enthusiastic applause at the end, which continued even after she had come out for another bow, and I had just thought, "well, it's not as if she could do an encore..." when she stepped out again and did just that, picking up the electric violin and stepping to the edge of the stage where we could see her without the lighting (we were in the second row) and played a plaintive tune that held the audience spellbound.



Wonderful.

BitchBuzz: The Social Network

My latest for which I cannibalize a bit of my review of The Social Network in order to make a different point, namely that women need to continue to squeeze their way into these clubs and make friends with the boys despite their resistance -- oh, and have the skills to do so:



The Social Network aka The Old Boys ClubBy K.A. Laity  I tweeted my initial review of The Social Network: Why not spend a couple of hours with really unpleasant people? No? Well, I did so you don't have to do so. As many of you know, I am a happy user of "The Facebook" and have written about it once or twice - or maybe a lot. So I had to see The Social Network for professional reasons.



Sigh.

Despite the inexplicably glowing notices for it, there are all kinds of problems with this film but let me start with the most irksome because it's a problem bigger than this picture. Sorkin's screenplay paints Zuckerberg as a pathetic misogynist whose empire is based on rejection by one woman. No, I don't have a problem with that portrayal, it looks to jibe with the facts as known. It rings a little hollow, however, coming from the same misogynist Hollywood system that cannot conceive of women as anything but sexual trophies or emotional security blankets. This is film is yet another example of the dread Movies Without Women™.

Read more: http://tech.bitchbuzz.com/the-social-network-aka-the-old-boys-club.html#ixzz12Qez7EvH Isn't that a lovely picture from Women in Technology?  It would be tedious to mention yet again how busy I have been -- same old, same old -- so I'll just say I'm seeing Laurie Anderson tonight at EMPAC, that gorgeous venue! But right now, I'm going to head out for a walk if it's stopped raining. Much writing to do this weekend and a bit of grading, too. Still feeling fatigued -- can I keep blaming Albacon for it?

Review: Phèdre

Despite being exhausted by Albacon, I decided to head out to the Spectrum Monday night with my pals Ron and Peg because they were rebroadcasting Helen Mirren's star turn in Ted Hughes' translation of Racine's Phèdre at the National Theatre in London. I was sighing from the get go: they had a new introduction from one of the execs at NT, who was speaking from somewhere up high, so you could see Waterloo Bridge and the Southbank Centre in the background across the Thames.



I miss London so much :-(



But the production at the Lyttleton (the medium size of the three stages) quickly made me forget about London as it thrust us back to ancient Greece and the illicit longings of the queen for her stepson, Hippolytus, played by the smoldering Dominic Cooper. It's amazing to think how much fear and disgust an older woman's sexuality can still arouse (hence the existence of the disparaging term "cougar"). In the play, it brings down a nation.



The absolutely gorgeous Ruth Negga plays Aricia, the true love of Hippolytus and the rival to power in the vacuum created by the supposed death of Theseus. The only other older woman, Oenone, played by the always amazing Margaret Tyzack, proves to be scheming and trouble-making even more so than her queen, condemning them all in this tragedy by her maneuverings. John Schrapnel as Théramène, not only has to act as wise adviser to Hippolytus, but also has to relate a tragic death that happens off-stage (as is normal for Greek drama). Schrapnel brought the audience to tears with his moving re-enactment with just words and gestures. The real power of theatre.



The only weak link was Stanley Townsend's Theseus; perhaps he was having an off night, because at times he seemed to capture the magic that the others made look effortless, but all too often his movements and speech fell flat, losing that fragile connection to the imitation of life. A pity.



I love the NT and I am really grateful that the Spectrum 8 carries their broadcasts -- really looking forward to the Hamlet with Rory Kinnear and Danny Boyle's Frankenstein.

Kit Marlowe & The Big Splash

Today's the day! Kit Marlowe's debut novella is now available from Noble Romance. Here's the blurb:



It's London in the Jazz Age: the times are fast and the women faster. Constance Wynne Hare has men eager to throw themselves at her feet—so why does she pine for the one man who takes her for granted? 



I wrote this story in a rush last Christmas, inspired in equal parts by Winifred Watson (author of Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day) and P. G. Wodehouse, creator of Jeeves and Wooster. I tried to capture that same sense of madcap wildness, humor and adventure. It's such a sparkling era -- at least for the well-to-do. As I discovered in my research, the era produced its own Lady Gaga and a whole host of Bright Young Things. And yes, I hope to have more Constance and Collier stories.



All right, time to recover from Albacon and get work done. I'll write up my adventures when I get a chance. I got to hang out with a bunch of writer pals, sat on a couple of panels, sold some books and got some new ideas.

Albacon!

Crazy, busy -- wild times! Check the program to see what's up: more when it's over but here's my tea.



Fab friends here: Susan Hanniford Crowley, Stella Price, Morven Westfield (who just gave me some Cadbury Whole Nut!!), KT Pinto, Isabel Roman (yes both of them :-), Jackie Kessler and a whole lot more. Dancing last night, so tired this morning, and there's a long day ahead, but filled with fun.



Thanks, Debi, for the Reese's!

Utter Nonsense

Thanks to the fabulous Adele at Un:Bound, I have a post up at Everybody's Reading, the site for the festival of reading in Leicester this week. I wish I could be in Leicester for the celebration, but I suppose this will be the next best thing.



I write about my love of nonsense and its roots in Lewis Carroll's books (which is of course why I insert a picture of me in my Mad Hatter hat from Brussels):



If there is one theme of my life, it has to be nonsense. I blame Lewis Carroll. I had a jacket-less hard cover edition of both Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There that was the lynchpin of my childhood. Along with the Mary Poppins series, Alice's adventures filled my head as a child in some profound kind of way that – looking back – I realised has shaped me ever since. Carroll's books prepared me to discover Peter Cook, Monty Python and Vic Reeves and put me permanently out of step with my contemporaries.



I don't care. 



Read the rest over at their site and please consider leaving a comment so they know you dropped by. By the by, if you're wondering where my BitchBuzz columns are, my editor is on holiday in Greece and I didn't get it together to write posts in advance (madness! utter madness!), so I got a two week holiday, too. However, there are still fantastic columns by our other writers so drop by.



I have to run to campus now because I realise it's probably my duty as programming chair to print the placards for all the panelists so you can know who's talking in the panels at Albacon. Sigh. At least I remembered!



Kit Marlowe and I will be there, of course, flogging our books. Kit's got her own Facebook page now, so drop by and "like" it as we say in the parlance of our times. Look for our lovely promo postcards -- and our lovely selves who are really one. Of course. But I'm talking nonsense again...

Albacon & Publishing News

Yes, I'm going to be tied up all this weekend at Albacon, so if you're trying to reach me, you may have to wait a bit for me to get back to you. Here's my schedule, but you can see the entire schedule on the wiki and see the website for a full list of guests who are not me (there are many friends!):



Thu 7.30pm

Writers & Artists Reception



Fri 3pm

Social Media & Promotion

How to use the myriad frequencies of social media to promote your work without allowing it to suck up all your time

Alexandre (M), Holzner, Laity, Roman, Ventrella



Fri 5pm

General Signing with All Workshop Authors



Fri 8pm

Ice Cream Social AKA Meet the panelists



Fri 9pm

Fantasy Ball



Sat 1pm

Broad Universe Rapid-Fire Reading:

Arthen, Kempe, Laity, Rogow, Westfield



Sat 11pm

Steamy Romance Reading

The stories don't have to be scorching, but it helps! This is a 18+ event. Attendees will have the chance to win some swag thanks to Authors After Dark. 

Alexandre, Arthen, Crowley, D'Arc, Darvill, Jamison, Kempe, Lynne, Marlowe, Price, Westfield [MC: Laity]



Sun 2pm

Comics that Rock

What should you be reading right now?

Fludd (M), Laity, Martineck, Prellwitz



And of course, I will be running around meeting and greeting all weekend. It's also Kit Marlowe's debut on Monday :-) She's pretty excited about her cover for her first publication, the novella:



Though I'd have loved to have something like you find here, but I understand the need for corporate branding -- and the need to keep costs low! And I just got the proofs for the zombie Western novella, High Plains Lazarus, in the collection that now has the name Rotting Tales from Pill Hill Press. Now I just need time to go through them carefully -- why do I write such long stories! The edits for The Mangrove Legacy took a long long time because it's over 100,000 words -- insane! But you knew that, right?