Rachael Eyre's Blog - Posts Tagged "opinion"
Weird Girl Notes: A Spanish Interlude
(To expand my blog's scope, I've decided to include new pieces and some non fic writing from time to time. This is the first of a series I'll call Weird Girl Notes).
The week before the May bank holiday is generally an occasion for great joy in our household, since Cariad and I like to go away for a few days. Following a happy discovery the other year, our resort of choice is Sitges in Spain.
Sitges has a lot to recommend it. Italianate / Moorish architecture, gourmet food, a selection of peerless beaches (more later) - in a country blighted by package tourism, it's wonderfully unspoilt. It's also extremely gay. Thanks to a thriving scene, we don't have to do that wearisome routine where Cariad books the room and I hide around the corner, looking like a scruffy little gigolo.
I love abroad, but it does magnify certain facets of my personality. The first is that I'm jaw droppingly gauche. I'm convinced that while other people are kitted out with sophisticated social software, I was given a toaster manual by mistake, so muddle along the best I can. If I can unwittingly offend someone, blurt out a non sequitur or fall into a bin, I will do it. This tendency goes into overdrive in another country: I say "please" and "thank you" too often, misinterpret signs and can never get the hang of not paying until you leave. Add to that a preternatural ability to get sunburnt, even when I apply sunblock with a trowel, and I'm the archetypal British twit abroad.
The second, to my eternal chagrin, is I can't speak other languages. I do try - somehow I managed to scrape Bs in GCSE French and German - but they stubbornly refuse to stick. The stock response to my gabble is horrified fascination followed by pity, and a hasty switch to English. My strategy is to velcro myself to Cariad, who has a terrific ear for languages, and mumble sheepishly when required.
With these handicaps in place, I hope I haven't acquitted myself too shabbily. After a cosy evening with the in laws, we got up at silly o'clock to go to Liverpool John Lennon Airport. The taxi driver dropped us off miles from the terminal, claiming we'd be charged two quid if we went nearer. Is this true? It sounded fishy to us.
Once again we were "randomly" frisked (perhaps two women travelling together really is cause for comment); once again a family of gobshites hogged our luggage space. Though it could have been worse: the poor chap sitting next to me kept drooping against the chair in front, only for its occupant to lean back and wake up.
Returning to Sitges, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was so worried it would have altered in some indefinable but tangible way. Instead it retained its unique flavour: no compromises to pander to popular tastes, yet modern and cosmopolitan. We've spent the week both visiting old friends and making new ones.
One of our favourite features is the variety of beaches, catering for both families and pickups. Obviously we're interested in neither, but one is a must for the dedicated student of human nature: the nudist beach. I'll be honest: I have more hang ups than a coat rack. I'm shaped like a teddy bear and would never inflict myself in a bikini on the population. But once you've recovered from the false modesty imposed by society, it's liberating. It's amazing how quickly you become desensitised to the sight of so much flesh - after the first few titters at bits that wobble and bibble, naked tennis seems perfectly natural.
The primary goal of the holiday was to recharge our batteries, though arguably you could do that anywhere. Sitges belongs to Catalonia, and no trip to the region would be complete without a day in Barcelona. Whether you're gazing at a Gaudi fantasia or touring one of the many museums, it gives a glimpse of Spanish cultural life that the coastal towns can't touch. This time it fulfilled a long held wish: aged 29, I had never visited a zoo. Luckily Barcelona boasts one of the finest in Europe.
Cue three fun, informative hours where we strolled and snapped our furry, feathered and scaled friends. Cariad can provide proof that bears don't just crap in the woods; we were menaced by a peacock and his moll who wanted our ice creams. Speaking of peacocks, they kept photo bombing the other animals until we were sick of the sight of them. I was tickled by a sign that, taken at face value, warns: "Parents! Don't feed your children to the bears!" There was a roving gang of stray cats; one hopped into the lion enclosure and posed next to the sign.
An incorrigible pessimist, I expected my visit to be a letdown; instead seeing lions, tigers and bears genuinely inspired a sense of, "Oh, my!" I enjoyed creeping Cariad out by explaining the habits of the Komodo dragon and jigged when I met the ant eater, possibly my favourite animal. God's own weirdos, they're so outlandish and odd, you can't help but smile when one wiffles towards you. And at least you know it wouldn't devour you if its fence was blown down.
Spain is splendid, whether you're talking jugs of sangria, the defecating figurines known as caganers, churros dipped in molten chocolate or the subtle differences between Castilian Spanish and Catalan. Whatever the future of the area, I will always be its friend, and always want to visit.
The week before the May bank holiday is generally an occasion for great joy in our household, since Cariad and I like to go away for a few days. Following a happy discovery the other year, our resort of choice is Sitges in Spain.
Sitges has a lot to recommend it. Italianate / Moorish architecture, gourmet food, a selection of peerless beaches (more later) - in a country blighted by package tourism, it's wonderfully unspoilt. It's also extremely gay. Thanks to a thriving scene, we don't have to do that wearisome routine where Cariad books the room and I hide around the corner, looking like a scruffy little gigolo.
I love abroad, but it does magnify certain facets of my personality. The first is that I'm jaw droppingly gauche. I'm convinced that while other people are kitted out with sophisticated social software, I was given a toaster manual by mistake, so muddle along the best I can. If I can unwittingly offend someone, blurt out a non sequitur or fall into a bin, I will do it. This tendency goes into overdrive in another country: I say "please" and "thank you" too often, misinterpret signs and can never get the hang of not paying until you leave. Add to that a preternatural ability to get sunburnt, even when I apply sunblock with a trowel, and I'm the archetypal British twit abroad.
The second, to my eternal chagrin, is I can't speak other languages. I do try - somehow I managed to scrape Bs in GCSE French and German - but they stubbornly refuse to stick. The stock response to my gabble is horrified fascination followed by pity, and a hasty switch to English. My strategy is to velcro myself to Cariad, who has a terrific ear for languages, and mumble sheepishly when required.
With these handicaps in place, I hope I haven't acquitted myself too shabbily. After a cosy evening with the in laws, we got up at silly o'clock to go to Liverpool John Lennon Airport. The taxi driver dropped us off miles from the terminal, claiming we'd be charged two quid if we went nearer. Is this true? It sounded fishy to us.
Once again we were "randomly" frisked (perhaps two women travelling together really is cause for comment); once again a family of gobshites hogged our luggage space. Though it could have been worse: the poor chap sitting next to me kept drooping against the chair in front, only for its occupant to lean back and wake up.
Returning to Sitges, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was so worried it would have altered in some indefinable but tangible way. Instead it retained its unique flavour: no compromises to pander to popular tastes, yet modern and cosmopolitan. We've spent the week both visiting old friends and making new ones.
One of our favourite features is the variety of beaches, catering for both families and pickups. Obviously we're interested in neither, but one is a must for the dedicated student of human nature: the nudist beach. I'll be honest: I have more hang ups than a coat rack. I'm shaped like a teddy bear and would never inflict myself in a bikini on the population. But once you've recovered from the false modesty imposed by society, it's liberating. It's amazing how quickly you become desensitised to the sight of so much flesh - after the first few titters at bits that wobble and bibble, naked tennis seems perfectly natural.
The primary goal of the holiday was to recharge our batteries, though arguably you could do that anywhere. Sitges belongs to Catalonia, and no trip to the region would be complete without a day in Barcelona. Whether you're gazing at a Gaudi fantasia or touring one of the many museums, it gives a glimpse of Spanish cultural life that the coastal towns can't touch. This time it fulfilled a long held wish: aged 29, I had never visited a zoo. Luckily Barcelona boasts one of the finest in Europe.
Cue three fun, informative hours where we strolled and snapped our furry, feathered and scaled friends. Cariad can provide proof that bears don't just crap in the woods; we were menaced by a peacock and his moll who wanted our ice creams. Speaking of peacocks, they kept photo bombing the other animals until we were sick of the sight of them. I was tickled by a sign that, taken at face value, warns: "Parents! Don't feed your children to the bears!" There was a roving gang of stray cats; one hopped into the lion enclosure and posed next to the sign.
An incorrigible pessimist, I expected my visit to be a letdown; instead seeing lions, tigers and bears genuinely inspired a sense of, "Oh, my!" I enjoyed creeping Cariad out by explaining the habits of the Komodo dragon and jigged when I met the ant eater, possibly my favourite animal. God's own weirdos, they're so outlandish and odd, you can't help but smile when one wiffles towards you. And at least you know it wouldn't devour you if its fence was blown down.
Spain is splendid, whether you're talking jugs of sangria, the defecating figurines known as caganers, churros dipped in molten chocolate or the subtle differences between Castilian Spanish and Catalan. Whatever the future of the area, I will always be its friend, and always want to visit.
The Writing Life
Non writers have a romcom influenced notion of what being a writer is like. They picture an ageing, attractively dishevelled man - say, Colin Firth or Jeff Goldblum - brooding over his typewriter (yes, even in the computer age), clocking off at midday and spending the rest of the day frolicking with his quirkily monikered dog. He might give readings of his work, where identical velvet clad groupies drape themselves over him, or teach creative writing, where his mostly female students do the same. Female authors seldom feature - or, if they do, they tend to be obscenely wealthy, heavily made up crones who have regurgitated the same romance plot for forty years. Never mind that this must have taken considerable nous - she's rarely accorded the same respect as her male counterpart.
Real writers know this is bosh. The vast majority have another job to make ends meet, whether it's as a risk analyst or a barista at Starbucks. When you work full time it can be almost impossible to squeeze any writing in. You might declare week nights off limits, as you're knackered, but since your weekends are crammed with everything else you couldn't manage during the week, plus family / social engagements, days can pass before you do any actual writing. Cue guilt: how can you call yourself a writer if you can't dedicate time to your craft? Everyone knows you need to write every day in order to keep that creative muscle toned ... blah, blah, blah.
Let's clonk this particular myth on the head, shall we? Sure, you can force yourself to write a few paragraphs every day, but how do you know if they're any good? Wouldn't your time be spent more constructively cultivating other interests or catching up with friends? Your talent won't gurgle down the plug hole because, shock horror, you fancied a night off.
That said, you do need to emphasise that when you're writing you're not to be disturbed. Since it's such a solitary pastime, people are under the impression they can walk in on it, like they do with reading (grr). If you have a separate room to decamp to, great; if not, inform any interested parties you're on a roll and will only surface for food / sex / fag breaks etc. They'll soon get the message.
Once these ground rules have been established, you need to be similarly strict with yourself. Although the Net is a fantastic research tool / source of inspiration, it's also a procrastinator's paradise. We've all done it, we've all thought, "Oh, I must see what Sardonic Guy With Quiff thinks of X movie" - and, before we know it, we've viewed Sardonic Guy's back catalogue and graduated to zapping zombies with cake mix. Where possible, put all distracting gizmos to one side when writing. You can save the vlog, game etc. as a reward.
Although self publishing has taken some of the pain out of the process, other issues are alive and well. You still enter short story competitions, yearning for mainstream recognition; you still lose it when somebody on the other side of the Atlantic 'steals' your brilliant idea. You still research agents and publishing houses in the hope they'll take a chance on your book - then, reading the small print, learn they're against everything you stand for. There's the well meaning relatives who timidly suggest, "Perhaps you should do it as a hobby," or your douchey colleague who drawls, "They publish any old crap nowadays."
If writing is like anything, it's poor old Sisyphus rolling his boulder up and down the hill for all eternity. Unlike him, we're addicts, and couldn't give up if we wanted to.
Real writers know this is bosh. The vast majority have another job to make ends meet, whether it's as a risk analyst or a barista at Starbucks. When you work full time it can be almost impossible to squeeze any writing in. You might declare week nights off limits, as you're knackered, but since your weekends are crammed with everything else you couldn't manage during the week, plus family / social engagements, days can pass before you do any actual writing. Cue guilt: how can you call yourself a writer if you can't dedicate time to your craft? Everyone knows you need to write every day in order to keep that creative muscle toned ... blah, blah, blah.
Let's clonk this particular myth on the head, shall we? Sure, you can force yourself to write a few paragraphs every day, but how do you know if they're any good? Wouldn't your time be spent more constructively cultivating other interests or catching up with friends? Your talent won't gurgle down the plug hole because, shock horror, you fancied a night off.
That said, you do need to emphasise that when you're writing you're not to be disturbed. Since it's such a solitary pastime, people are under the impression they can walk in on it, like they do with reading (grr). If you have a separate room to decamp to, great; if not, inform any interested parties you're on a roll and will only surface for food / sex / fag breaks etc. They'll soon get the message.
Once these ground rules have been established, you need to be similarly strict with yourself. Although the Net is a fantastic research tool / source of inspiration, it's also a procrastinator's paradise. We've all done it, we've all thought, "Oh, I must see what Sardonic Guy With Quiff thinks of X movie" - and, before we know it, we've viewed Sardonic Guy's back catalogue and graduated to zapping zombies with cake mix. Where possible, put all distracting gizmos to one side when writing. You can save the vlog, game etc. as a reward.
Although self publishing has taken some of the pain out of the process, other issues are alive and well. You still enter short story competitions, yearning for mainstream recognition; you still lose it when somebody on the other side of the Atlantic 'steals' your brilliant idea. You still research agents and publishing houses in the hope they'll take a chance on your book - then, reading the small print, learn they're against everything you stand for. There's the well meaning relatives who timidly suggest, "Perhaps you should do it as a hobby," or your douchey colleague who drawls, "They publish any old crap nowadays."
If writing is like anything, it's poor old Sisyphus rolling his boulder up and down the hill for all eternity. Unlike him, we're addicts, and couldn't give up if we wanted to.
The Hound of the Spoilervilles
I have a confession to make. I'm notorious for spoiling plot lines.
Before you boo and hiss, hear me out. I would never deliberately spoil a story, that's petty and vindictive. I get so excited about a work, so eager to share my enthusiasm, I unwittingly blurt out Major Plot Developments without thinking. A friend was once furious with me for spoiling A Certain Character Death in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. To which I felt like retorting, "It's been out for months. A true fan would've read it by now -" but no, people can be really irate about this. My other half has told me off on countless occasions.
My problem seems to be that I view stories from a writer's perspective rather than a reader/viewer's. Shocks and twists should be part of a well crafted whole - if somebody manages to sneak one past me, I'm impressed. Non writers don't enjoy fiction like this; they're there for the ride, not picking up clues at the roadside. The way they see it, a spoiler robs them of an experience forever. Think of those moments in a film where the whole cinema jumps or gasps. If somebody was sitting beside you, whispering exactly what would happen next, wouldn't you be hacked off?
Take Jurassic Park. I think it's a perfect film, and watch it on average once every year. (TV schedulers find it Christmassy for some reason). I know every trick, every line, every instance where Ian Malcolm schmoozes or Ellie Sattler is badass. It's one of the few films where CGI works triumphantly - you truly believe in T-Rex and her cronies. Yet, for all my devotion, nothing compares to the thrill of first seeing it aged eight, when I genuinely had no idea if anyone would get out alive.
Which begs the question: what is the shelf life of a spoiler? Some stories filter into the public consciousness, meaning that even if you've never read or seen the work, you have a rough idea what happens. We know Dracula isn't a harmless foreign eccentric making a real estate transaction. We know Darth Vader's interest in Luke goes beyond a villain's for an enemy. (I saw the digitally remastered Empire Strikes Back aged twelve, before the Net; I remember how flabbergasted I was. It seems inconceivable there was ever a time where That Line wasn't quoted or parodied!)
With every retelling a story gains a new following. The Lizzie Bennet Diaries worked precisely because its teenage target audience didn't know if she'd end up with Wickham or Darcy; newbies to Carmilla loved the web series as a lesbian Buffy while old fans relished all the nods to the novella.
So what do you do if something's in danger of being spoilered? Err on the side of caution: wait for the other person to say how far they've got, so they don't have you pegged as "that tool who ruined X" for the rest of their lives. Spoiling, like all bad habits, must be broken in stages. My other half's currently reading Gone, Girl; if she reaches the end without me inadvertently revealing anything, it'll be a miracle.
Before you boo and hiss, hear me out. I would never deliberately spoil a story, that's petty and vindictive. I get so excited about a work, so eager to share my enthusiasm, I unwittingly blurt out Major Plot Developments without thinking. A friend was once furious with me for spoiling A Certain Character Death in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. To which I felt like retorting, "It's been out for months. A true fan would've read it by now -" but no, people can be really irate about this. My other half has told me off on countless occasions.
My problem seems to be that I view stories from a writer's perspective rather than a reader/viewer's. Shocks and twists should be part of a well crafted whole - if somebody manages to sneak one past me, I'm impressed. Non writers don't enjoy fiction like this; they're there for the ride, not picking up clues at the roadside. The way they see it, a spoiler robs them of an experience forever. Think of those moments in a film where the whole cinema jumps or gasps. If somebody was sitting beside you, whispering exactly what would happen next, wouldn't you be hacked off?
Take Jurassic Park. I think it's a perfect film, and watch it on average once every year. (TV schedulers find it Christmassy for some reason). I know every trick, every line, every instance where Ian Malcolm schmoozes or Ellie Sattler is badass. It's one of the few films where CGI works triumphantly - you truly believe in T-Rex and her cronies. Yet, for all my devotion, nothing compares to the thrill of first seeing it aged eight, when I genuinely had no idea if anyone would get out alive.
Which begs the question: what is the shelf life of a spoiler? Some stories filter into the public consciousness, meaning that even if you've never read or seen the work, you have a rough idea what happens. We know Dracula isn't a harmless foreign eccentric making a real estate transaction. We know Darth Vader's interest in Luke goes beyond a villain's for an enemy. (I saw the digitally remastered Empire Strikes Back aged twelve, before the Net; I remember how flabbergasted I was. It seems inconceivable there was ever a time where That Line wasn't quoted or parodied!)
With every retelling a story gains a new following. The Lizzie Bennet Diaries worked precisely because its teenage target audience didn't know if she'd end up with Wickham or Darcy; newbies to Carmilla loved the web series as a lesbian Buffy while old fans relished all the nods to the novella.
So what do you do if something's in danger of being spoilered? Err on the side of caution: wait for the other person to say how far they've got, so they don't have you pegged as "that tool who ruined X" for the rest of their lives. Spoiling, like all bad habits, must be broken in stages. My other half's currently reading Gone, Girl; if she reaches the end without me inadvertently revealing anything, it'll be a miracle.
Inspiration Corner: Disney
Like many kids of the Nineties I have a deep, abiding love of Disney films. Their animated films are among the first children see, shaping their expectations of what a "movie" should be like. The finest Disney is a heady brew: adventure, romance, gobsmacking animation, a villain you can loathe and sidekicks you chuckle over. I was fortunate to grow up during the 'Disney renaissance', where the company produced a clutch of outstanding pictures that are still revered today: The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin and The Lion King. Whether The Hunchback of Notre Dame belongs to this list is a matter of dispute; it's generally agreed that Pocahontas, Hercules and Tarzan do not. (I adore Hercules despite considerable flaws).
Although nobody has drawn up the winning formula, most successful Disney films have the following ingredients in common. They're based on a story already in the public domain. (The notable exception is The Lion King, which may or may not have been ripped off from Kimba the White Lion). They have a young protagonist, often female, who feels "different" and has an indefinable sense he / she is better than their lot. (Yet many of them are royalty. Go figure). They embark on an odyssey of self discovery, befriending wacky supporting characters along the way, and incidentally piss off powerful gods / sorcerors / tools with testosterone poisoning. Despite their aspirations they usually fall for the first beef/cheesecake they meet and get married - bye, bye adventures! In the best of the old movies the process was aided by spectacular musical numbers.
Considering Disney is the first fictional universe many of us encounter, its teachings are dubious at best. Quite aside from the message that "happily ever after means heterosexuality with 2.4 kids", it actively rewards unethical behaviour. Whole storylines revolve around the lead winning another character's love - Aladdin wants Jasmine, Ariel Eric - but the fact remains they do this via magic and deception, making them little better than the villain plotting their downfall. The Beast is a special case - it seems ignorance is one of the conditions of the spell, but since Belle is smart enough to realise most castles don't have singing and dancing furniture, chances are she guessed that part too. Either way, it isn't the same as tricking someone into believing you're a completely different person.
If "lie to win her heart" isn't iffy enough, what are we to make of the equation of goodness with beauty and evil with ugliness? Our youthful hero / ine is always a good looking all American kid, regardless of setting, while the baddies tend to be older, haggard and frequently uncomfortably ethnic. Why is Jafar the only convincingly Arabic character in Aladdin (with, may I point out, one of the only authentic Arabic names)? Why is Ursula morbidly obese? Even Gaston, object of many a girlhood crush, grows progressively uglier as the film goes on. When he finally stabs the Beast his face is twisted by a deranged slasher smile, not remotely handsome. The animators may claim his "true nature is revealed", or other such guff, but what are we to make of the Queen's transformation in Snow White, when she inexplicably turns into Jimmy Savile? Her stepdaughter's dimmer than a box of spent matches - all she had to do was put on a wig or disguise her voice. For whatever murky reasons, the company couldn't show an attractive character committing murder. You can't even cite the Beast as a subversion; his reward for reforming and earning Belle's love is being made - well, less bestial?
Perhaps I'm being unfair. The stories are mainly drawn from fairy tales, which aren't exactly bastions of logic. Cinderella's prince falls instantly in love, yet doesn't recognise the ragged urchin as his dream girl until she tries on that measly slipper. Prince Philip (heh) knows Aurora's bewitched and a kiss will release her, but what about Snow White's prince? Does he habitually wander around snogging dead girls? And why the hell doesn't Ariel find a pen and paper and explain her predicament to Eric?
The scenario that really sticks in my craw is the Beast's enchantment. We don't know why he was cursed in the original, but in the film he's only a child when the malicious bitch, sorry, beautiful enchantress transforms him - for not letting a creepy old hag into his castle. If we believe all Disney characters are contemporaries, perhaps he had the cautionary tale of Snow White drummed into him. In the event, he was absolutely right not to trust her.
Indeed, why are the women in these films so goddamn petty? Only Ursula is given a valid motive: revenge on Triton for banishing her (for reasons unspecified) and to rule the ocean (go, girl!) The rest seem to be driven by vanity and / or dislike: the wicked Queen can't stand that Snow White is prettier than her (debatable); Cruella wants a fabulous winter wardrobe; Lady Tremaine gets her kicks from bullying her stepdaughter. The prize definitely goes to Maleficent, who, after not being invited to a CHRISTENING, hexes a blameless girl and the entire kingdom. Overreaction much? I'd hate to forget her birthday.
More scholarly minds than mine have noted these issues and wondered if they might actually be harmful. Some feminists believe Beauty and the Beast perpetuates the myth that an abuser can be redeemed; psychologists have pointed out that the romance arc is easily attributable to Stockholm Syndrome. The racism of the older films is painful to modern sensibilities. Although the most objectionable sequences have been excised, we still have the torture happy, lisping Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp and the jaw droppingly offensive Why Is the Red Man Red in Peter Pan. Even class doesn't get an easy ride. While a hard done by heroine might dream of a better life, and achieve it through marriage (!), hardworking and ambitious Disney males have a tendency to be evil, e.g. Jafar, Edgar in The Aristocats, Hades to some extent. Their "superiors" are usually numbskulls, making their frustration perfectly understandable.
You can tell that the company is taking the years of negative feedback on board. We're seeing varied, proactive heroines, who have more to offer than looks and viable ovaries. Frozen was a magnificent subversion of Disney's traditional values: two well rounded, interesting heroines, the "charming prince" being a sociopath and the two girls rescuing each other. Enchanted was a glittering live action send up of the most annoying tropes: falling in love in a heartbeat, housework with rodents (ugh!) and the complex physics of kiss magic. It's both hilarious and heartwarming.
You might ask why, having all these nitpicks, I continue to watch Disney films. It's precisely because I love them that I find myself pitying the hyenas or wondering what on earth will happen on Ariel and Eric's wedding night. I'm itching to write the "ever after" for a whole host of fairy tale characters - none of which would be possible if I hadn't been introduced to them by Disney.
Although nobody has drawn up the winning formula, most successful Disney films have the following ingredients in common. They're based on a story already in the public domain. (The notable exception is The Lion King, which may or may not have been ripped off from Kimba the White Lion). They have a young protagonist, often female, who feels "different" and has an indefinable sense he / she is better than their lot. (Yet many of them are royalty. Go figure). They embark on an odyssey of self discovery, befriending wacky supporting characters along the way, and incidentally piss off powerful gods / sorcerors / tools with testosterone poisoning. Despite their aspirations they usually fall for the first beef/cheesecake they meet and get married - bye, bye adventures! In the best of the old movies the process was aided by spectacular musical numbers.
Considering Disney is the first fictional universe many of us encounter, its teachings are dubious at best. Quite aside from the message that "happily ever after means heterosexuality with 2.4 kids", it actively rewards unethical behaviour. Whole storylines revolve around the lead winning another character's love - Aladdin wants Jasmine, Ariel Eric - but the fact remains they do this via magic and deception, making them little better than the villain plotting their downfall. The Beast is a special case - it seems ignorance is one of the conditions of the spell, but since Belle is smart enough to realise most castles don't have singing and dancing furniture, chances are she guessed that part too. Either way, it isn't the same as tricking someone into believing you're a completely different person.
If "lie to win her heart" isn't iffy enough, what are we to make of the equation of goodness with beauty and evil with ugliness? Our youthful hero / ine is always a good looking all American kid, regardless of setting, while the baddies tend to be older, haggard and frequently uncomfortably ethnic. Why is Jafar the only convincingly Arabic character in Aladdin (with, may I point out, one of the only authentic Arabic names)? Why is Ursula morbidly obese? Even Gaston, object of many a girlhood crush, grows progressively uglier as the film goes on. When he finally stabs the Beast his face is twisted by a deranged slasher smile, not remotely handsome. The animators may claim his "true nature is revealed", or other such guff, but what are we to make of the Queen's transformation in Snow White, when she inexplicably turns into Jimmy Savile? Her stepdaughter's dimmer than a box of spent matches - all she had to do was put on a wig or disguise her voice. For whatever murky reasons, the company couldn't show an attractive character committing murder. You can't even cite the Beast as a subversion; his reward for reforming and earning Belle's love is being made - well, less bestial?
Perhaps I'm being unfair. The stories are mainly drawn from fairy tales, which aren't exactly bastions of logic. Cinderella's prince falls instantly in love, yet doesn't recognise the ragged urchin as his dream girl until she tries on that measly slipper. Prince Philip (heh) knows Aurora's bewitched and a kiss will release her, but what about Snow White's prince? Does he habitually wander around snogging dead girls? And why the hell doesn't Ariel find a pen and paper and explain her predicament to Eric?
The scenario that really sticks in my craw is the Beast's enchantment. We don't know why he was cursed in the original, but in the film he's only a child when the malicious bitch, sorry, beautiful enchantress transforms him - for not letting a creepy old hag into his castle. If we believe all Disney characters are contemporaries, perhaps he had the cautionary tale of Snow White drummed into him. In the event, he was absolutely right not to trust her.
Indeed, why are the women in these films so goddamn petty? Only Ursula is given a valid motive: revenge on Triton for banishing her (for reasons unspecified) and to rule the ocean (go, girl!) The rest seem to be driven by vanity and / or dislike: the wicked Queen can't stand that Snow White is prettier than her (debatable); Cruella wants a fabulous winter wardrobe; Lady Tremaine gets her kicks from bullying her stepdaughter. The prize definitely goes to Maleficent, who, after not being invited to a CHRISTENING, hexes a blameless girl and the entire kingdom. Overreaction much? I'd hate to forget her birthday.
More scholarly minds than mine have noted these issues and wondered if they might actually be harmful. Some feminists believe Beauty and the Beast perpetuates the myth that an abuser can be redeemed; psychologists have pointed out that the romance arc is easily attributable to Stockholm Syndrome. The racism of the older films is painful to modern sensibilities. Although the most objectionable sequences have been excised, we still have the torture happy, lisping Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp and the jaw droppingly offensive Why Is the Red Man Red in Peter Pan. Even class doesn't get an easy ride. While a hard done by heroine might dream of a better life, and achieve it through marriage (!), hardworking and ambitious Disney males have a tendency to be evil, e.g. Jafar, Edgar in The Aristocats, Hades to some extent. Their "superiors" are usually numbskulls, making their frustration perfectly understandable.
You can tell that the company is taking the years of negative feedback on board. We're seeing varied, proactive heroines, who have more to offer than looks and viable ovaries. Frozen was a magnificent subversion of Disney's traditional values: two well rounded, interesting heroines, the "charming prince" being a sociopath and the two girls rescuing each other. Enchanted was a glittering live action send up of the most annoying tropes: falling in love in a heartbeat, housework with rodents (ugh!) and the complex physics of kiss magic. It's both hilarious and heartwarming.
You might ask why, having all these nitpicks, I continue to watch Disney films. It's precisely because I love them that I find myself pitying the hyenas or wondering what on earth will happen on Ariel and Eric's wedding night. I'm itching to write the "ever after" for a whole host of fairy tale characters - none of which would be possible if I hadn't been introduced to them by Disney.
Weird Girl Notes: Living With Dyspraxia
It's one of the hoary chestnuts of Writing 101: Write What You Know. This being Dyspraxia Awareness Week, I thought I'd share my experience of this most misunderstood of conditions.
Growing up I never felt like the other children. I craved friendship but was so boisterous and noisy, I alienated my contemporaries; I retreated into a world of make believe instead. I scorned rules, spat on authority and seemed incapable of keeping myself tidy. My teachers must've thought I was a budding serial killer, but they missed the real seeds of my unhappiness: I couldn't bloody do anything.
I couldn't tie my laces, wash or style my hair, colour within the lines, catch, cartwheel, climb a rope, do joined up writing, tell the time - the list went on and on. Maths was anathema to me: the slippery hieroglyphs on the page made no sense and refused to tot up inside my head.
I hated being different. Everybody assumed I was "backward" - including, to my lasting chagrin, my own father. One of my earliest memories is him declaring I was "mentally deficient" to a roomful of my stepmother's relatives. I haven't seen him since I was six, thank God, but the damage was done; it has always been my berserk button. If anyone so much as implied I was stupid, blood was shed.
Fortunately Mum was stubborn and demanded answers. After years of mysterious cross examinations and being ordered to catch bean bags, I was diagnosed on my tenth birthday. You should see my expression on the photos. The Grumpy Cat is a novice.
You'd think that now my problem had been officially identified, the hard part would be over. Far from it. Challenges only shifted and proliferated as I grew older. As a teenager I worried about being picked last for the netball team; as an adult, my bluster and difficulty in pitching my feelings meant I performed dismally in interviews. This puts you in a bind with employers: do you disclose your condition and risk discrimination, or bumble along and be labelled incompetent? Even experienced health professionals claim you can't be disabled if you have a degree, which is arrant nonsense.
Thankfully this is beginning to change. It's estimated between 5 and 10 percent of the population have dyspraxia - and, contrary to common belief, they're not all male. Nor does it magically disappear when you get older. We now have an openly dyspraxic MP, Emma Lewell Buck; events like Dyspraxia Awareness Week boost its profile. Not long ago I had a lady earnestly explain that her daughter was dyspraxic, and what this entailed. It gave me an eerie feeling of deja vu.
It's great that kids are finally receiving the support they need, but what about the millions of adults with dyspraxia? If as many public figures as possible were to acknowledge they had the condition, it could make a real difference. If you're a writer with a disability, you can do your part by creating likeable, believable disabled characters, not the one note jokes or long suffering saints audiences are accustomed to.
Dyspraxia. Seldom a blessing, frequently a curse and a fact of life for many. Perhaps I'd have had a happier, easier life without it - but then I wouldn't be me.
Growing up I never felt like the other children. I craved friendship but was so boisterous and noisy, I alienated my contemporaries; I retreated into a world of make believe instead. I scorned rules, spat on authority and seemed incapable of keeping myself tidy. My teachers must've thought I was a budding serial killer, but they missed the real seeds of my unhappiness: I couldn't bloody do anything.
I couldn't tie my laces, wash or style my hair, colour within the lines, catch, cartwheel, climb a rope, do joined up writing, tell the time - the list went on and on. Maths was anathema to me: the slippery hieroglyphs on the page made no sense and refused to tot up inside my head.
I hated being different. Everybody assumed I was "backward" - including, to my lasting chagrin, my own father. One of my earliest memories is him declaring I was "mentally deficient" to a roomful of my stepmother's relatives. I haven't seen him since I was six, thank God, but the damage was done; it has always been my berserk button. If anyone so much as implied I was stupid, blood was shed.
Fortunately Mum was stubborn and demanded answers. After years of mysterious cross examinations and being ordered to catch bean bags, I was diagnosed on my tenth birthday. You should see my expression on the photos. The Grumpy Cat is a novice.
You'd think that now my problem had been officially identified, the hard part would be over. Far from it. Challenges only shifted and proliferated as I grew older. As a teenager I worried about being picked last for the netball team; as an adult, my bluster and difficulty in pitching my feelings meant I performed dismally in interviews. This puts you in a bind with employers: do you disclose your condition and risk discrimination, or bumble along and be labelled incompetent? Even experienced health professionals claim you can't be disabled if you have a degree, which is arrant nonsense.
Thankfully this is beginning to change. It's estimated between 5 and 10 percent of the population have dyspraxia - and, contrary to common belief, they're not all male. Nor does it magically disappear when you get older. We now have an openly dyspraxic MP, Emma Lewell Buck; events like Dyspraxia Awareness Week boost its profile. Not long ago I had a lady earnestly explain that her daughter was dyspraxic, and what this entailed. It gave me an eerie feeling of deja vu.
It's great that kids are finally receiving the support they need, but what about the millions of adults with dyspraxia? If as many public figures as possible were to acknowledge they had the condition, it could make a real difference. If you're a writer with a disability, you can do your part by creating likeable, believable disabled characters, not the one note jokes or long suffering saints audiences are accustomed to.
Dyspraxia. Seldom a blessing, frequently a curse and a fact of life for many. Perhaps I'd have had a happier, easier life without it - but then I wouldn't be me.
An Open Letter to Julian Fellowes: Please Don't Kill Off Thomas
I know what I'm about to say won't change matters one jot; filming finished months ago. But I think I speak for legions of Downton Abbey fans when I say: don't drive Thomas Barrow to suicide.
In the show's heyday Thomas was the servant viewers loved to hate. A kind of discount Iago, he and his equally reprehensible pal O'Brien used to skulk by the back door, sharing sneaky cigs and craftier schemes. We never learned the reason behind Sarah's motiveless malignity, but Thomas's secret torment was soon revealed: he's gay.
Normally I hate the "X is horrible because they're gay" hypothesis. It's cliched, lazy and smacks of homophobia. In this case, it's not only excusable, it's almost inevitable. Remember that Thomas lives in a world where most people believe the tenets of Christianity, and therefore Leviticus. Oscar Wilde's trial was within living memory; if someone with his fame and influence could be destroyed by the legal system, what chance does a friendless working class lad have? Thomas is forced to live at a time where he's considered mentally ill at best, a pervert and a sinner at worst. Otherwise likeable characters tell him his feelings are "foul", even while acknowledging he can't help who he is.
I know Thomas fan girls exist. I'm not one of them. I hate bullies, snobs and hypocrites, and he's all three. But over the past few seasons we've been made to appreciate the loneliness and emptiness of his life. How he hoards letters from a worthless ex; how he craves affection and will pursue men who aren't remotely interested; how at one point he started taking an abortive "cure", nearly poisoning himself in the process.
This past series has seen him suffer one humiliation after another. The staff don't bother to hide their dislike, he can't make friends with another young man without suspicion. He knows his job is on the line but has nowhere else to go. His future looks bleak - and, in the last few episodes he's reached breaking point. If this was a novel of the time there would be no path open to him but suicide.
That's the obvious direction to take. They'll probably try to justify it by saying "Thomas has always been a tragic figure" or "We've always had this arc in mind for him." I for one am sick of seeing gay characters as walking wounded or mere plot devices. In a cast of hundreds, why should the gay character be singled out for misery? We've seen other characters do appalling things - O'Brien, Rose's revolting mother, creator's favourite Lady Mary - but go unpunished.
Wouldn't it be great if Downton could break the mould? If, suddenly and wonderfully, Thomas finds love where he least expects it. If Bertie's cousin, currently painting boys in Tangiers, shows up and takes a shine to him. Or he gets a new situation and finds a likeminded friend. For all the men convicted for homosexuality, there must have been many more who had loving, fulfilled relationships - why should Thomas be cheated of a happy ending? Upstairs, Downstairs gave its gay character a sensitive, convincing love affair, so why can't Downton?
In the show's heyday Thomas was the servant viewers loved to hate. A kind of discount Iago, he and his equally reprehensible pal O'Brien used to skulk by the back door, sharing sneaky cigs and craftier schemes. We never learned the reason behind Sarah's motiveless malignity, but Thomas's secret torment was soon revealed: he's gay.
Normally I hate the "X is horrible because they're gay" hypothesis. It's cliched, lazy and smacks of homophobia. In this case, it's not only excusable, it's almost inevitable. Remember that Thomas lives in a world where most people believe the tenets of Christianity, and therefore Leviticus. Oscar Wilde's trial was within living memory; if someone with his fame and influence could be destroyed by the legal system, what chance does a friendless working class lad have? Thomas is forced to live at a time where he's considered mentally ill at best, a pervert and a sinner at worst. Otherwise likeable characters tell him his feelings are "foul", even while acknowledging he can't help who he is.
I know Thomas fan girls exist. I'm not one of them. I hate bullies, snobs and hypocrites, and he's all three. But over the past few seasons we've been made to appreciate the loneliness and emptiness of his life. How he hoards letters from a worthless ex; how he craves affection and will pursue men who aren't remotely interested; how at one point he started taking an abortive "cure", nearly poisoning himself in the process.
This past series has seen him suffer one humiliation after another. The staff don't bother to hide their dislike, he can't make friends with another young man without suspicion. He knows his job is on the line but has nowhere else to go. His future looks bleak - and, in the last few episodes he's reached breaking point. If this was a novel of the time there would be no path open to him but suicide.
That's the obvious direction to take. They'll probably try to justify it by saying "Thomas has always been a tragic figure" or "We've always had this arc in mind for him." I for one am sick of seeing gay characters as walking wounded or mere plot devices. In a cast of hundreds, why should the gay character be singled out for misery? We've seen other characters do appalling things - O'Brien, Rose's revolting mother, creator's favourite Lady Mary - but go unpunished.
Wouldn't it be great if Downton could break the mould? If, suddenly and wonderfully, Thomas finds love where he least expects it. If Bertie's cousin, currently painting boys in Tangiers, shows up and takes a shine to him. Or he gets a new situation and finds a likeminded friend. For all the men convicted for homosexuality, there must have been many more who had loving, fulfilled relationships - why should Thomas be cheated of a happy ending? Upstairs, Downstairs gave its gay character a sensitive, convincing love affair, so why can't Downton?
The Post Book Slump
You've finished your latest book. It's suited and booted on the website of your choice, the triumphant result of years of toil. Come on, you've scaled Everest! There should be ticker tape, singing ewoks and the rest!
So why do you feel like a burst crisp packet?
Welcome to the phenomenon known as the Post Book Slump. You're delighted that your book is out, you enjoy promoting it ... but.
You've spent so long polishing this plot, hanging out with these characters, that you can't help but feel a void. It sounds precious but the nearest analogy I can think of is an amicable breakup. Although you knew it was time for the relationship to end, you're still wistful and recalling the highlights. You should be moving on but part of you wants to wallow and eat chocolate by the kilo.
Some writers charge headlong into a new project. Though everyone's different, this approach didn't work for me. After finishing Rose Grubb I launched straight into another story, convinced I was on a winning streak. Four chapters later I was forced to admit that it wasn't inspiration but a need to write something, anything. I was writing on the rebound!
Your best bet is to take a few months off to recover. If a new story occurs to you, great, but don't go further than planning just yet. If it's a genuinely good idea it'll still be waiting after your sabbatical. Lose yourself in other media - read and watch with your inner critic switched off. Of course you'll be expected to market and discuss your book, but don't prolong it as an excuse to cling on. One of the undeniable perks of being an indie author is you can set your own deadlines; if you want to spend the next few months lindy hopping or taking photos of post boxes, that's your business.
Though the Post Book Slump can be a drag, it serves two valuable purposes. Not only does it act as a kind of exorcism, clearing the way for your next book, but it reminds you how much you love writing in the first place. You can't miss something you've never experienced, after all.
So why do you feel like a burst crisp packet?
Welcome to the phenomenon known as the Post Book Slump. You're delighted that your book is out, you enjoy promoting it ... but.
You've spent so long polishing this plot, hanging out with these characters, that you can't help but feel a void. It sounds precious but the nearest analogy I can think of is an amicable breakup. Although you knew it was time for the relationship to end, you're still wistful and recalling the highlights. You should be moving on but part of you wants to wallow and eat chocolate by the kilo.
Some writers charge headlong into a new project. Though everyone's different, this approach didn't work for me. After finishing Rose Grubb I launched straight into another story, convinced I was on a winning streak. Four chapters later I was forced to admit that it wasn't inspiration but a need to write something, anything. I was writing on the rebound!
Your best bet is to take a few months off to recover. If a new story occurs to you, great, but don't go further than planning just yet. If it's a genuinely good idea it'll still be waiting after your sabbatical. Lose yourself in other media - read and watch with your inner critic switched off. Of course you'll be expected to market and discuss your book, but don't prolong it as an excuse to cling on. One of the undeniable perks of being an indie author is you can set your own deadlines; if you want to spend the next few months lindy hopping or taking photos of post boxes, that's your business.
Though the Post Book Slump can be a drag, it serves two valuable purposes. Not only does it act as a kind of exorcism, clearing the way for your next book, but it reminds you how much you love writing in the first place. You can't miss something you've never experienced, after all.
Studying Creative Writing
Creative writing courses are the subject of intense debate among authors. Some say they helped enormously in terms of confidence and style; others make the excellent point that Dickens and the Brontes never went to a creative writing class. So I thought I'd share my experiences.
Upping sticks to Lancaster to study creative writing was the riskiest thing I'd done. The year was 2004; I'd achieved four good A-Levels (along with a belated GCSE Maths), and four of my chosen unis had made offers. There was only one serious contender: Lancaster, the one with a creative writing program. Yoink.
Cue commentary from concerned family and friends. "English Language sounds boring. Don't you want to do Lit instead?" "Why study at some arts college nobody's heard of?" "That's not a real degree!"
I won't say I didn't have reservations. The memory of my two rejected manuscripts was still fresh. Writing was my first love - what if I didn't have any talent? Could you be drummed off the course for being bad?
For the first few years the course was divided into two. You'd attend lectures about the tricks of the trade, given by various members of the department. These were optional but I went religiously. Then there was the real meat of the degree: the seminar, generally first thing on a Wednesday. You were expected to write a new work each week and submit it for your peers to critique. If it was a short piece you had to read it aloud. This done, your tutor weighed in with questions and suggestions.
I can still remember the first piece I submitted. Darling Loeb, a poem about the Chicago thrill killers Leopold and Loeb. I was so carried away by writing it, I never once considered how my colleagues might react. They didn't know me from Adam and I was writing about toxic gay relationships and murder! They were polite but obviously thought I was unhinged. Z (the tutor) said it reminded me of The Secret History, my then favourite book. I could've kissed her.
Z was a legend. She was intimidating to begin with - rusty voice, Gorgon stare - but her criticisms were always fair and pushed you to your limits. I couldn't have had a better first year tutor. Her speciality was plays and scripts - she'd written for Holby City - and she knew what worked, and what would sell.
Outsiders may dismiss creative writing as a soft option, but it's incredibly high maintenance. You're passing your innermost thoughts to strangers for judgement. If you've grilled them previously, don't expect them to go lightly on you. You could tell which students had taken it as an extra and which ones wanted to be writers; the former mostly dropped it by the end of the year. Or you had students like the guy we dubbed "Mozart", who wanted the cachet of being an artist without doing any of the work. He eviscerated other people's writing but refused to read or discuss his own. He didn't last a term.
I must have submitted dozens of pieces over the years, many of which were the germs for later projects. There was Daughters of Lilith, the dystopia I intend to finish someday; poems about mythological or literary characters; the Raven Street Diaries (forerunners to my blogs); miscellaneous stories, one of which starred a fiendish cat who wanted to kill her owner's girlfriend ... all of varying lengths and quality. As G (my wise and wicked third year tutor) used to say: "Your writing may be your baby, but someone has to tell you when your baby is ugly."
The classes established habits I have to this day. A first draft is never enough. Cut 10% - lots of prose is pointless background chatter. And, of course, the creative writing motto, "Show, don't tell." Don't underestimate your readers' intelligence, but don't assume they have the same esoteric tastes as you either. Always ask for a second opinion; it could be that the scene you think is innocuous is grossly offensive from another point of view, or your genius idea is a doppelgänger of a story that already exists.
When I was younger I wondered if the course was worth it. It didn't earn me a publishing deal or put me in touch with any big shots. I was also irritated by the snobbery of some of the people I met - they referred to "genre fiction" as though it was frivolous dreck, but it sold more copies than all their worthy literary tomes. Yes, I want to write the best fiction I possibly can, but I wouldn't mind making some money as well, however vulgar that may sound.
Now I'm the wrong side of thirty, I understand the lesson they were trying to impart. Writing isn't about instant gratification, it's about graft, rejection and tenacity. It's about believing in what you have to sell even when you're told to shut up and go away. Unless you're some kind of whizzkid, you won't be published at eighteen or even twenty one. You need to have training and experience before you can produce something worth reading.
Upping sticks to Lancaster to study creative writing was the riskiest thing I'd done. The year was 2004; I'd achieved four good A-Levels (along with a belated GCSE Maths), and four of my chosen unis had made offers. There was only one serious contender: Lancaster, the one with a creative writing program. Yoink.
Cue commentary from concerned family and friends. "English Language sounds boring. Don't you want to do Lit instead?" "Why study at some arts college nobody's heard of?" "That's not a real degree!"
I won't say I didn't have reservations. The memory of my two rejected manuscripts was still fresh. Writing was my first love - what if I didn't have any talent? Could you be drummed off the course for being bad?
For the first few years the course was divided into two. You'd attend lectures about the tricks of the trade, given by various members of the department. These were optional but I went religiously. Then there was the real meat of the degree: the seminar, generally first thing on a Wednesday. You were expected to write a new work each week and submit it for your peers to critique. If it was a short piece you had to read it aloud. This done, your tutor weighed in with questions and suggestions.
I can still remember the first piece I submitted. Darling Loeb, a poem about the Chicago thrill killers Leopold and Loeb. I was so carried away by writing it, I never once considered how my colleagues might react. They didn't know me from Adam and I was writing about toxic gay relationships and murder! They were polite but obviously thought I was unhinged. Z (the tutor) said it reminded me of The Secret History, my then favourite book. I could've kissed her.
Z was a legend. She was intimidating to begin with - rusty voice, Gorgon stare - but her criticisms were always fair and pushed you to your limits. I couldn't have had a better first year tutor. Her speciality was plays and scripts - she'd written for Holby City - and she knew what worked, and what would sell.
Outsiders may dismiss creative writing as a soft option, but it's incredibly high maintenance. You're passing your innermost thoughts to strangers for judgement. If you've grilled them previously, don't expect them to go lightly on you. You could tell which students had taken it as an extra and which ones wanted to be writers; the former mostly dropped it by the end of the year. Or you had students like the guy we dubbed "Mozart", who wanted the cachet of being an artist without doing any of the work. He eviscerated other people's writing but refused to read or discuss his own. He didn't last a term.
I must have submitted dozens of pieces over the years, many of which were the germs for later projects. There was Daughters of Lilith, the dystopia I intend to finish someday; poems about mythological or literary characters; the Raven Street Diaries (forerunners to my blogs); miscellaneous stories, one of which starred a fiendish cat who wanted to kill her owner's girlfriend ... all of varying lengths and quality. As G (my wise and wicked third year tutor) used to say: "Your writing may be your baby, but someone has to tell you when your baby is ugly."
The classes established habits I have to this day. A first draft is never enough. Cut 10% - lots of prose is pointless background chatter. And, of course, the creative writing motto, "Show, don't tell." Don't underestimate your readers' intelligence, but don't assume they have the same esoteric tastes as you either. Always ask for a second opinion; it could be that the scene you think is innocuous is grossly offensive from another point of view, or your genius idea is a doppelgänger of a story that already exists.
When I was younger I wondered if the course was worth it. It didn't earn me a publishing deal or put me in touch with any big shots. I was also irritated by the snobbery of some of the people I met - they referred to "genre fiction" as though it was frivolous dreck, but it sold more copies than all their worthy literary tomes. Yes, I want to write the best fiction I possibly can, but I wouldn't mind making some money as well, however vulgar that may sound.
Now I'm the wrong side of thirty, I understand the lesson they were trying to impart. Writing isn't about instant gratification, it's about graft, rejection and tenacity. It's about believing in what you have to sell even when you're told to shut up and go away. Unless you're some kind of whizzkid, you won't be published at eighteen or even twenty one. You need to have training and experience before you can produce something worth reading.
Why Can't We All Get Along? American vs British English
One of the many skills taught on writing courses is the development of a unique authorial voice. You may be lush and literary, clipped and matter of fact. Though you can't be 100% certain of the age and gender of an author you can hazard a guess.
One thing you can usually spot is the writer's nationality. Of course there are obvious giveaways - setting, how characters speak, spelling - but there are other, smaller ones like pop culture references and brand of humour. It helps provide colour and a sense of place, making the world of the story (and by extension the characters) more real.
My friends and I, as Brits who have lived in the UK all our lives, naturally bring this bias to our writing. We use British idiom, refer to British institutions and make allusions to British culture. Soaps, fish and chips, the Royal Family - these are the facts of growing up in the UK, immediately recognised by British readers. Non British English speakers often like this, describing a story's "quirky British way" or "British humor."
Not everyone is enchanted. There is a significant minority of American readers who seem to find it an impediment to enjoying a book and use it to justify a poor review. They fall back on the old phrase used for words you can't understand: 'slang.' They wonder, with a touch of paranoia, if the writer has deliberately chosen to alienate non British readers. If they thought about this, they'd realise it was crazy - why would you sabotage your own work?
When it happened to me, I was baffled. I flicked through my book, trying to find impenetrable passages, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I can understand frustration in the old days, when you had to dash for a dictionary, but all my books are on Kindle. If you come across an obscure word, nine times out of ten it's defined.
I asked fellow writers if they had a similar experience. The response was automatic. Yes, they'd received stinker reviews because they'd dared to throw in dialect or used Welsh place names. One reviewer demanded that the writer "talk American"; other reviews said such British books were intended for a 'snobby elitist group' ...
Since it threatened to become uncomfortably xenophobic, with people attacking American vernacular and attitudes, I thanked them for their insights and ended the discussion. I was grateful to the Americans who'd replied, who said they found the reviews embarrassing and in no way represented American opinion. The message seems to be that there's intolerance on both sides, roughly divided along age lines.
When I was growing up the teenage book market was dominated by long running American series: Sweet Valley High, The Babysitter's Club, Goosebumps, Point Horror. British kids were introduced to the exotic world of US high schools, never mind most of us would be hurled into the lockers on our first day. We discovered American football, summer camp, Presidents' Day. What were bangs? Was a majorette a female major? All our dictionaries were British so we had to use our imaginations. I assumed a malt shop was a seedy dive where people went around imbibing extract of malt.
A few years later Harry Potter came along, sweeping these franchises aside. There was a renaissance in British kids' books, to everyone's lasting benefit. Unfortunately it also means that fewer children were exposed to American culture, resulting in this knee jerk reaction to things they can't understand. It's no accident that these reviewers seem to be either very old or very young.
Readers both side of the Atlantic must accept that there is no right or wrong and no one nation speaks 'correct' English. Brits have to stop moaning about the adoption of customs like Black Friday and Groundhog Day. (Most Brits had no idea what a groundhog was before the movie). In turn, Americans have to understand that if they buy a book by a British author, it'll be chockful of swearing and Shakespeare quotes. The alternative would be a book of fake Americanisms, which would please neither market.
One thing you can usually spot is the writer's nationality. Of course there are obvious giveaways - setting, how characters speak, spelling - but there are other, smaller ones like pop culture references and brand of humour. It helps provide colour and a sense of place, making the world of the story (and by extension the characters) more real.
My friends and I, as Brits who have lived in the UK all our lives, naturally bring this bias to our writing. We use British idiom, refer to British institutions and make allusions to British culture. Soaps, fish and chips, the Royal Family - these are the facts of growing up in the UK, immediately recognised by British readers. Non British English speakers often like this, describing a story's "quirky British way" or "British humor."
Not everyone is enchanted. There is a significant minority of American readers who seem to find it an impediment to enjoying a book and use it to justify a poor review. They fall back on the old phrase used for words you can't understand: 'slang.' They wonder, with a touch of paranoia, if the writer has deliberately chosen to alienate non British readers. If they thought about this, they'd realise it was crazy - why would you sabotage your own work?
When it happened to me, I was baffled. I flicked through my book, trying to find impenetrable passages, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I can understand frustration in the old days, when you had to dash for a dictionary, but all my books are on Kindle. If you come across an obscure word, nine times out of ten it's defined.
I asked fellow writers if they had a similar experience. The response was automatic. Yes, they'd received stinker reviews because they'd dared to throw in dialect or used Welsh place names. One reviewer demanded that the writer "talk American"; other reviews said such British books were intended for a 'snobby elitist group' ...
Since it threatened to become uncomfortably xenophobic, with people attacking American vernacular and attitudes, I thanked them for their insights and ended the discussion. I was grateful to the Americans who'd replied, who said they found the reviews embarrassing and in no way represented American opinion. The message seems to be that there's intolerance on both sides, roughly divided along age lines.
When I was growing up the teenage book market was dominated by long running American series: Sweet Valley High, The Babysitter's Club, Goosebumps, Point Horror. British kids were introduced to the exotic world of US high schools, never mind most of us would be hurled into the lockers on our first day. We discovered American football, summer camp, Presidents' Day. What were bangs? Was a majorette a female major? All our dictionaries were British so we had to use our imaginations. I assumed a malt shop was a seedy dive where people went around imbibing extract of malt.
A few years later Harry Potter came along, sweeping these franchises aside. There was a renaissance in British kids' books, to everyone's lasting benefit. Unfortunately it also means that fewer children were exposed to American culture, resulting in this knee jerk reaction to things they can't understand. It's no accident that these reviewers seem to be either very old or very young.
Readers both side of the Atlantic must accept that there is no right or wrong and no one nation speaks 'correct' English. Brits have to stop moaning about the adoption of customs like Black Friday and Groundhog Day. (Most Brits had no idea what a groundhog was before the movie). In turn, Americans have to understand that if they buy a book by a British author, it'll be chockful of swearing and Shakespeare quotes. The alternative would be a book of fake Americanisms, which would please neither market.
Stupid Things Straight People Say
Coming out is the fun that never starts. Since you can't go around with a PowerPoint entitled "I Like Muff", you have to do it with every new acquaintance, employer, doctor ... Maybe you should have a card engraved.
In an ideal world the standard reaction would be "Okay" and carrying on as though nothing had happened. Alas, there will always be dingbats who come out with howlers. The following are all bona fide comments made to me or my friends ...
* "I'd've never guessed / You don't look gay" - What is this? White noise? They behave as though it's a compliment and you'd be mortified if anyone knew - despite the fact you just told them.
* "Who's the man in your relationship?" - Meaning what, exactly? If you mean logistics, that's none of your business. If you mean who's the bread winner or who's the handy one, congratulations. You've committed a double whammy of sexism and homophobia. Lesbian relationships aren't pallid imitations of straight ones.
* "It's a choice / selfish etc." - Are you seriously proposing I hook up with some poor man, never mind I won't find him in the slightest bit attractive, and breed despite having the maternal instincts of Atilla the Hun? Spend my life seething with resentment and having affairs? I'm sure that'll be hunky dory for everyone concerned.
* "You're the first gay person I've met" - You meet thousands of people a lifetime. How do you quantify your data?
* "I never thought I'd be friends with a gay person" - You're not now, either.
* "Don't you have any straight friends?" - Said by parents etc. when you're regaling them with your friends' wacky antics. Short answer: yes. Long answer: my best friends tend to be gay or bi because we have more in common. Like, duh.
* "Why do you write so many gay characters?" - Does anybody ask a straight author why they write so many straight characters? Double standards aside: it's what I know, what interests me and I'm offended by the two dimensional stereotypes in popular culture. There's no gay equivalent to Mulder and Scully, Claire and Jamie - and unless LGBT folk get scribbling, it'll stay that way.
* "I'll never read / watch anything with gay characters" - You've just locked yourself out of some of the best works of modern times. More fool you.
*On seeing two women holding hands: "LESBIANS!" - No shit, Sherlock.
* "Marriage is between a man and a woman" - Sorry, chuck, it's legal now. Whinging won't make it go away.
* "My sister in law / best friend / yoga teacher is gay" - Yes, all lesbians belong to the Grand Order of the Big Pink Dragon and know each other. Bonus points if they try and set you up.
* "When are you getting married / having kids?" - Bless, they're really trying. Now that the laws have changed they fondly imagine we're all sprinting to the nearest registry office and/or fertility clinic. The ultimate equality is allowing us to be as indecisive and apathetic as everyone else!
In an ideal world the standard reaction would be "Okay" and carrying on as though nothing had happened. Alas, there will always be dingbats who come out with howlers. The following are all bona fide comments made to me or my friends ...
* "I'd've never guessed / You don't look gay" - What is this? White noise? They behave as though it's a compliment and you'd be mortified if anyone knew - despite the fact you just told them.
* "Who's the man in your relationship?" - Meaning what, exactly? If you mean logistics, that's none of your business. If you mean who's the bread winner or who's the handy one, congratulations. You've committed a double whammy of sexism and homophobia. Lesbian relationships aren't pallid imitations of straight ones.
* "It's a choice / selfish etc." - Are you seriously proposing I hook up with some poor man, never mind I won't find him in the slightest bit attractive, and breed despite having the maternal instincts of Atilla the Hun? Spend my life seething with resentment and having affairs? I'm sure that'll be hunky dory for everyone concerned.
* "You're the first gay person I've met" - You meet thousands of people a lifetime. How do you quantify your data?
* "I never thought I'd be friends with a gay person" - You're not now, either.
* "Don't you have any straight friends?" - Said by parents etc. when you're regaling them with your friends' wacky antics. Short answer: yes. Long answer: my best friends tend to be gay or bi because we have more in common. Like, duh.
* "Why do you write so many gay characters?" - Does anybody ask a straight author why they write so many straight characters? Double standards aside: it's what I know, what interests me and I'm offended by the two dimensional stereotypes in popular culture. There's no gay equivalent to Mulder and Scully, Claire and Jamie - and unless LGBT folk get scribbling, it'll stay that way.
* "I'll never read / watch anything with gay characters" - You've just locked yourself out of some of the best works of modern times. More fool you.
*On seeing two women holding hands: "LESBIANS!" - No shit, Sherlock.
* "Marriage is between a man and a woman" - Sorry, chuck, it's legal now. Whinging won't make it go away.
* "My sister in law / best friend / yoga teacher is gay" - Yes, all lesbians belong to the Grand Order of the Big Pink Dragon and know each other. Bonus points if they try and set you up.
* "When are you getting married / having kids?" - Bless, they're really trying. Now that the laws have changed they fondly imagine we're all sprinting to the nearest registry office and/or fertility clinic. The ultimate equality is allowing us to be as indecisive and apathetic as everyone else!
