Rachael Eyre's Blog, page 12
June 13, 2015
Weird Girl Notes: Sister, Not Mister
In some of my Weird Girl blogs I'll be discussing issues that affect women, and gay and bi women in particular. Today we'll look at something that happens to far too many of us: being mistaken for male.
The first time this happened to me I was seventeen and working on a checkout. I was wearing the standard supermarket uniform - blouse, scarf and gilet, my name prominently displayed. I was helping a customer with her shopping and she said, "Thanks, lad."
I thought I had misheard, but when she repeated it moments later, I realised she genuinely believed I was a boy. Yes, my hair was bobbed and I wasn't wearing makeup (I still don't), but surely my voice, face and the fact I was wearing a freaking badge with my name on it should have tipped her off?
Once you've let somebody get away with it, it's surprisingly difficult to turn round and say, "Actually I'm a girl." It seems rude, even though they're the ones who made the faux pas in the first place. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt - she was an older lady, so perhaps her vision wasn't the best. When it started to happen on a regular basis, in and out of work, it went from being mildly entertaining to downright infuriating. It still happens often enough - at least once every few months - for me to be stung, and I never recover in time to put them right. The last time was last week, when I was going through customs at Manchester airport.
The strangest thing about this continued misidentification is I honestly don't resemble a boy. At all. I'm not tall and wiry - I'm below average height for a girl (five foot four) and on the voluptuous side. Yes, I never wear skirts, but my clothes are definitely female clothes: trousers or jeans, smart tops or T-shirts. I favour my Converse sneakers above all other footwear, but it can't be outside the realm of possibility for a woman to wear them. Even now I've swapped my androgynous square glasses for a daintier set, the offensive mix up goes on. I've had people say, "I can't tell if you're male or female" when I've been wearing a dress.
I thought my problem was unique, but when I chatted about it with my female friends, many of whom are lesbian or bi, a pattern emerged. The most frustrating part, we all agreed, is that even when the person realises they've made a mistake, they make no attempt to apologise. One woman had the nerve to say to a friend - a soft butch - "whatever [sex] you might be." While most people aren't as obnoxious, they pull a face that says, "If you didn't look like that, I wouldn't have cocked up", as though their lousy observational skills are your fault.
To put it bluntly: if many people see something other than the quintessential long hair, makeup and skirts of femininity, it doesn't compute that the person they're looking at is female. I was once advised in an interview - by a woman, no less - to wear cosmetics and jewellery "so they can tell you're a girl." Complete strangers think they have the right to critique your appearance; I can't go into certain stores without the fake baked, garishly painted staff harassing me to have a makeover. Perhaps I'm being overly sensitive, but since this seems to happen to a disproportionate number of lesbian and bi women, you wonder if it's a veiled form of gay bashing.
Whichever spin you put on it, this trend isn't positive. In the best case scenario they're ignorant and haven't looked at you properly. In the worst their worldview only accepts a toilet door notion of women and they feel threatened by anything that challenges it.
A common response to my dilemma is to say, "Well, if it upsets you so much, why don't you ..." with undoubtedly well meaning suggestions to glam up. This is playing into the precise prejudice I'm talking about: that the problem is somehow with me, not with society. Why should women have to change their appearance for the sake of a few yahoos?
Stay fabulous, ladies!
The first time this happened to me I was seventeen and working on a checkout. I was wearing the standard supermarket uniform - blouse, scarf and gilet, my name prominently displayed. I was helping a customer with her shopping and she said, "Thanks, lad."
I thought I had misheard, but when she repeated it moments later, I realised she genuinely believed I was a boy. Yes, my hair was bobbed and I wasn't wearing makeup (I still don't), but surely my voice, face and the fact I was wearing a freaking badge with my name on it should have tipped her off?
Once you've let somebody get away with it, it's surprisingly difficult to turn round and say, "Actually I'm a girl." It seems rude, even though they're the ones who made the faux pas in the first place. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt - she was an older lady, so perhaps her vision wasn't the best. When it started to happen on a regular basis, in and out of work, it went from being mildly entertaining to downright infuriating. It still happens often enough - at least once every few months - for me to be stung, and I never recover in time to put them right. The last time was last week, when I was going through customs at Manchester airport.
The strangest thing about this continued misidentification is I honestly don't resemble a boy. At all. I'm not tall and wiry - I'm below average height for a girl (five foot four) and on the voluptuous side. Yes, I never wear skirts, but my clothes are definitely female clothes: trousers or jeans, smart tops or T-shirts. I favour my Converse sneakers above all other footwear, but it can't be outside the realm of possibility for a woman to wear them. Even now I've swapped my androgynous square glasses for a daintier set, the offensive mix up goes on. I've had people say, "I can't tell if you're male or female" when I've been wearing a dress.
I thought my problem was unique, but when I chatted about it with my female friends, many of whom are lesbian or bi, a pattern emerged. The most frustrating part, we all agreed, is that even when the person realises they've made a mistake, they make no attempt to apologise. One woman had the nerve to say to a friend - a soft butch - "whatever [sex] you might be." While most people aren't as obnoxious, they pull a face that says, "If you didn't look like that, I wouldn't have cocked up", as though their lousy observational skills are your fault.
To put it bluntly: if many people see something other than the quintessential long hair, makeup and skirts of femininity, it doesn't compute that the person they're looking at is female. I was once advised in an interview - by a woman, no less - to wear cosmetics and jewellery "so they can tell you're a girl." Complete strangers think they have the right to critique your appearance; I can't go into certain stores without the fake baked, garishly painted staff harassing me to have a makeover. Perhaps I'm being overly sensitive, but since this seems to happen to a disproportionate number of lesbian and bi women, you wonder if it's a veiled form of gay bashing.
Whichever spin you put on it, this trend isn't positive. In the best case scenario they're ignorant and haven't looked at you properly. In the worst their worldview only accepts a toilet door notion of women and they feel threatened by anything that challenges it.
A common response to my dilemma is to say, "Well, if it upsets you so much, why don't you ..." with undoubtedly well meaning suggestions to glam up. This is playing into the precise prejudice I'm talking about: that the problem is somehow with me, not with society. Why should women have to change their appearance for the sake of a few yahoos?
Stay fabulous, ladies!
May 21, 2015
Taking another break
I'm desperately behind on the book. I'd always intended to be finished by the summer, but recent events have thrown my plans out of whack.
In short, I'll be taking a break from Goodreads while I get my poor, beleaguered story finished. I'll still be making updates on Twitter (https://mobile.twitter.com/Alrightpunk) and Facebook (https://m.facebook.com/raccaseyre?ref...).
See you soon!
In short, I'll be taking a break from Goodreads while I get my poor, beleaguered story finished. I'll still be making updates on Twitter (https://mobile.twitter.com/Alrightpunk) and Facebook (https://m.facebook.com/raccaseyre?ref...).
See you soon!
May 10, 2015
Performing Your Work
From experience I've found that writers tend to fall into two camps. There are the outgoing, talkative and industrious types, who don't mind discussing themselves and their work, and there are the shy, reclusive types who find any form of self promotion acutely embarrassing. Guess which camp I belong in?
Don't get me wrong, I love writing. It's been my life for as long as I can remember. But the instant I'm asked to push myself and my work, I clam up. I'm afflicted by one hundred and one complexes: my gran's stern pronouncement "Self praise is no recommendation," my mum's horrible ex declaring that no one would be interested in what I have to say, my own crippling self doubt. In no area is this more entrenched than performing my own work.
Psychoanalysis time: my mum was a terrific reader when my sister and I were kids, putting on all the voices. She's still the yardstick by which I measure all storytelling. When I went to school, I copied her, because I assumed that's what you did. Unfortunately this helped establish me as a complete weirdo; teachers and classmates alike were unnerved by my enthusiasm. It made me so wretchedly self conscious, I'd stammer and stumble on words, meaning I was stuck in a low reading group for years. I flew through books in my spare time but couldn't manage a simple passage if asked to read aloud. We even had to wear badges according to our reading grade, for Pete's sake.
As you can imagine, my hangup increases tenfold if I'm asked to perform my own writing. The issue lies with that word "perform"; you're no longer expected to drone from the page, as was customary at school. The received wisdom is that if you hope to be a success, you'll be expected to read aloud, but what if you're an atrocious reader? What if you freeze up at the thought of all those pairs of eyes staring at you? You can't even say, "Oh, Stephen Fry can do the audiobook," because chances are there won't be an audiobook.
This is where the performance cheerleaders cite the example of Charles Dickens, a member of Camp 1 if there ever was one. His enormous success can partly be attributed to regular performances of his work; his favourite extract seems to have been Nancy's murder in Oliver Twist, which he enacted with creepy gung ho. If Dickens wasn't too proud to perform his work, the reasoning appears to be, then you should put up with it, you awkward little gobshite. You could argue that Dickens was already a celebrity, and people would have heard him recite any old tosh, but that's besides the point.
I was forced to confront my monster when I was asked to perform some of my work earlier this week. It was a twenty five minute set, mine to do whatever I liked with. I had an existing story that lasted fifteen minutes, pruned of my more subversive elements, but what the heck was I going to do with the remaining fifteen?
This being Election Night, it obviously had to refer to the occasion in some way. I was stumped until one of the girls in the staff canteen commented that the party leaders were "working like robots"; I quickly had an idea that there was a government facility creating bespoke politicians. One of these days I'll feature it on this blog, but because it includes a character from my current book and might be regarded as a spoiler, I'll leave it for the time being. I timed myself reading the new piece: ten minutes thirty seconds. I could always knock out bits I didn't think flowed.
The night of the show, my only props were the stories (in massive font, double spaced), a large Coke and a microphone. I dragged myself over to the performance space, my legs seemingly fused. A maddening tickle developed in my throat. I took a deep breath and started to read.
It was ... okay, I suppose. As you'd expect from having the last set on Election Night, attention was waning and people were checking the results none too subtly on their phones, but the people who were actually listening laughed at the jokes. Overall, it was useful practice, and earned £16 I wouldn't have had otherwise. Maybe I should brush up on my projection skills and perform at the next open mike night ...
Don't get me wrong, I love writing. It's been my life for as long as I can remember. But the instant I'm asked to push myself and my work, I clam up. I'm afflicted by one hundred and one complexes: my gran's stern pronouncement "Self praise is no recommendation," my mum's horrible ex declaring that no one would be interested in what I have to say, my own crippling self doubt. In no area is this more entrenched than performing my own work.
Psychoanalysis time: my mum was a terrific reader when my sister and I were kids, putting on all the voices. She's still the yardstick by which I measure all storytelling. When I went to school, I copied her, because I assumed that's what you did. Unfortunately this helped establish me as a complete weirdo; teachers and classmates alike were unnerved by my enthusiasm. It made me so wretchedly self conscious, I'd stammer and stumble on words, meaning I was stuck in a low reading group for years. I flew through books in my spare time but couldn't manage a simple passage if asked to read aloud. We even had to wear badges according to our reading grade, for Pete's sake.
As you can imagine, my hangup increases tenfold if I'm asked to perform my own writing. The issue lies with that word "perform"; you're no longer expected to drone from the page, as was customary at school. The received wisdom is that if you hope to be a success, you'll be expected to read aloud, but what if you're an atrocious reader? What if you freeze up at the thought of all those pairs of eyes staring at you? You can't even say, "Oh, Stephen Fry can do the audiobook," because chances are there won't be an audiobook.
This is where the performance cheerleaders cite the example of Charles Dickens, a member of Camp 1 if there ever was one. His enormous success can partly be attributed to regular performances of his work; his favourite extract seems to have been Nancy's murder in Oliver Twist, which he enacted with creepy gung ho. If Dickens wasn't too proud to perform his work, the reasoning appears to be, then you should put up with it, you awkward little gobshite. You could argue that Dickens was already a celebrity, and people would have heard him recite any old tosh, but that's besides the point.
I was forced to confront my monster when I was asked to perform some of my work earlier this week. It was a twenty five minute set, mine to do whatever I liked with. I had an existing story that lasted fifteen minutes, pruned of my more subversive elements, but what the heck was I going to do with the remaining fifteen?
This being Election Night, it obviously had to refer to the occasion in some way. I was stumped until one of the girls in the staff canteen commented that the party leaders were "working like robots"; I quickly had an idea that there was a government facility creating bespoke politicians. One of these days I'll feature it on this blog, but because it includes a character from my current book and might be regarded as a spoiler, I'll leave it for the time being. I timed myself reading the new piece: ten minutes thirty seconds. I could always knock out bits I didn't think flowed.
The night of the show, my only props were the stories (in massive font, double spaced), a large Coke and a microphone. I dragged myself over to the performance space, my legs seemingly fused. A maddening tickle developed in my throat. I took a deep breath and started to read.
It was ... okay, I suppose. As you'd expect from having the last set on Election Night, attention was waning and people were checking the results none too subtly on their phones, but the people who were actually listening laughed at the jokes. Overall, it was useful practice, and earned £16 I wouldn't have had otherwise. Maybe I should brush up on my projection skills and perform at the next open mike night ...
May 2, 2015
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.
April 20, 2015
How to Train a Damsel
From time to time I'll be using the blog to try out short pieces. This one practically wrote itself.
**
How to Train a Damsel
A damsel can be any gender, age, colour or creed. It doesn't matter. They're yours.
Be gentle at first. You need to win their trust. They've waited a long time for somebody like you.
Remember their likes, hobbies and dreams. They'll never have met anyone as thoughtful and attentive. Go for spontaneity and romantic gestures. They'll know you're somebody special.
Meet their parents. Bond with them. Be the in law they crave after so many black sheep.
Don't allow them to talk about past relationships. Why do they even remember them? They're with you now, aren't they?
You don't laugh at the same jokes. Their opinions differ from yours. This is not to be tolerated.
Why should they spend time with other people? You're the only friend they need.
Ask them why they need a separate social media account, phone or bank balance. What are they planning?
They may not socialise, engage in favourite pastimes or alter their appearance without your permission.
You can say and do whatever you like to them, with no repercussions. They've brought it on themselves. If they were different, you wouldn't need to correct them.
You are free to leave them at any time; you can easily find another model. They may not attempt another relationship themselves. They still belong to you.
If you had children together, use them as weapons. You are their keeper, after all.
Your damsel is yours, to cherish and destroy. Never let them go.
**
A relationship is founded on mutual love, respect and trust. One without these qualities is not a relationship.
**
How to Train a Damsel
A damsel can be any gender, age, colour or creed. It doesn't matter. They're yours.
Be gentle at first. You need to win their trust. They've waited a long time for somebody like you.
Remember their likes, hobbies and dreams. They'll never have met anyone as thoughtful and attentive. Go for spontaneity and romantic gestures. They'll know you're somebody special.
Meet their parents. Bond with them. Be the in law they crave after so many black sheep.
Don't allow them to talk about past relationships. Why do they even remember them? They're with you now, aren't they?
You don't laugh at the same jokes. Their opinions differ from yours. This is not to be tolerated.
Why should they spend time with other people? You're the only friend they need.
Ask them why they need a separate social media account, phone or bank balance. What are they planning?
They may not socialise, engage in favourite pastimes or alter their appearance without your permission.
You can say and do whatever you like to them, with no repercussions. They've brought it on themselves. If they were different, you wouldn't need to correct them.
You are free to leave them at any time; you can easily find another model. They may not attempt another relationship themselves. They still belong to you.
If you had children together, use them as weapons. You are their keeper, after all.
Your damsel is yours, to cherish and destroy. Never let them go.
**
A relationship is founded on mutual love, respect and trust. One without these qualities is not a relationship.
April 11, 2015
When Updating Works: Paddington
I must confess, I was dubious when the Paddington movie was announced. Our childhood loves are often our deepest, and so it is for me and Paddington. He's clumsy but well meaning, like me; hates rudeness and unfairness, like me; takes everything literally, like me. (Perhaps on some level I thought I was Paddington. It'd explain a lot, like my penchant for huge coats. I never liked marmalade, alas).
Time to backtrack. Paddington is the hero of a series of books by British author Michael Bond; they're a childhood institution. He lives in a timeless London with his adopted family, the Browns, and constantly lands himself in scrapes. He is indefatigably polite, upbeat and charming. Practically every British child owns a Paddington toy at one stage: a small brown bear in a blue duffle coat, floppy hat and scarlet wellies. Oh, did I mention that? Paddington's a bear, though everyone takes it in their stride (apart from Mr Curry, his miserable git of a neighbour).
This is why I worried about it being made into a film. I didn't want him to be yet another funny cartoon animal; anyone who has seen the films of Scooby Doo and Garfield knows how gruesome that can look. Nor did I want him to be a teddy bear brought to life (the chief reason why I've never warmed to the stop motion animation). There's a tendency for filmmakers to change likeable characters into snide wisecrackers in the mistaken belief it's more appealing to audiences. I had nightmarish visions of him burping, farting and making non stop bear puns.
Last weekend I took the plunge. I was cheered by the unanimously positive reviews; it was on sale in Asda at a reasonable price. (Another Paddingtonish trait: I have an eye for a bargain). I popped it into the DVD player and prayed it would be alright.
It was more than alright. It was delightful. A funny, engaging, big hearted family film - the sort of write up that sounds like sappy advertising copy until you actually watch it. It cleverly met the expectations of fans while establishing that this was its own creature and would tell the story in its own fashion. Like the books, it's set in present day but could equally have happened ten years ago or decades into the future. It has all the ingredients for a classic, and I don't use that word lightly.
The opening attempts to answer perhaps the biggest mystery of all: why did Paddington come to the UK and why is he so terribly British? By introducing a kindly explorer who befriends Paddington's aunt and uncle and teaches them English, it solves that puzzle as well as setting the film firmly within a world where anything can happen, and where a young Peruvian bear can grow up with an English gentleman's code of conduct.
A earthquake hits Darkest Peru, destroying Paddington's idyllic existence. His uncle dies - a genuinely moving moment despite the character's limited screen time. Aunt Lucy believes the time is right for him to go to the mythical city that has featured so heavily in this family's hopes and dreams: London. (Sticking two fingers up at the anti immigration lobby - by now we're very much on Paddington's side and all for him settling here).
Which brings us to the main action of the film. One: can Paddington become a loved and valued member of the Brown clan, and two: can he escape the clutches of Nicole Kidman's slinkily evil taxidermist? Though we know the answers to both these questions, it's the ride that's important.
Updating the Browns is possibly the key to the film's success. In the books they were always the nice, bland, tolerant backdrop to Paddington's wacky antics, with only Mr Brown and Mrs Bird emerging as separate personalities. Here care has been lavished upon each one, making them interesting in their own right.
As in the books, Mr Brown is the hardest to win round. He's reimagined as a risk analyst who's stagnated over the years to become a dull stick in the mud, damaging his home life in the process. In fact, if we regard the film as a spiritual successor to Mary Poppins, you could almost subtitle it The Redemption of Mr Brown, as he rediscovers how to be a loving husband and father. When we meet him, he warns the children not to look at the strange bear on the platform, saying he's probably selling something, and makes loud and cynical remarks throughout Paddington's story of how he came to London. Barking, "No, thank you" when a stranger accosts you - such a British response!
Fortunately for the kids, Mrs Brown is nowhere near as dour and unbending. An emotional free spirit who believes in cuddles and nicknames, you can tell she looks at her husband sometimes and wonders what on earth happened to the man she married. Characteristically, she is the first to offer Paddington help - and to support him later, when his future is in doubt. Unlike her book counterpart, she has a career as an adventure story illustrator (which results in one of the funniest gags in the film).
With Judy and Jonathan, the film had more or less blank canvases to work with, so was free to invent. Here Judy is a perfectly realised sullen teenager, mortified by her parents and desperate to fit in with her new school, not to mention her new boyfriend. When all you want is to be like everyone else, the last thing you need is for your family to adopt an accident prone bear! A miniature edition of her father, her defrosting foreshadows his.
Speaking of mini mes, Jonathan is definitely his mother's son. Perky, precocious and boisterous, he's one of those kids who excel in making ginormous working models and longs to be an astronaut one day. Tellingly, he likes Paddington from the start. The message is clear: the sensitive and young at heart take to him off the bat; the screw ups take longer.
The family unit is rounded off by Mrs Bird. Their live in housekeeper in the original, she's been promoted to a relation, but retains her affection for Paddington and no nonsense attitude in a part custom made for Julie Walters. If Paddington seems exotic to them, he's equally intrigued by their quirks.
One screw up who was never destined to like Paddington was Millicent, the film's villain. She does have a motive for her perfidy, which I won't divulge here, but she obviously loves her macabre hobby and will do anything to indulge in it. Opinion may vary but I thoroughly enjoyed Kidman's Cruella de Vil style turn, clad head to toe in snakeskin. It shows how she would have played Mrs Coulter, had they continued making His Dark Materials. Fans have protested at her inclusion, but they need to consider the medium. The books are gentle comedies; while you'd happily consume several chapters of slapstick and misunderstandings, it wouldn't translate well to film.
Millicent becomes unexpectedly involved with Paddington's real, actual bad guy - none other than Mr Curry. The prototypical sitcom neighbour, he's notorious for dropping in on the Browns and borrowing Paddington for errands, oblivious to the fact none of them can stand him. Here the subtext becomes text: he's a socially inept, curtain twitching, racist old loon, and when an attractive woman voluntarily speaks to him for probably the first time in years, the inevitable happens. He's smitten.
The scenes that follow give us an unsettling glimpse into his psyche. Looking around his squalid Seventies bachelor pad, complete with ogee decor and squashed flies, you find yourself wondering: is this why he's so horrible? Is he so twisted, dysfunctional and lonely, Paddington is the nearest he has to a friend? It almost made me feel sorry for him (but then I'm a huge sucker for Peter Capaldi). You expected to see a message scrolling at the bottom of the screen: 'UKIP, this is your target demographic!'
We can't mention Mr Curry without mentioning another stalwart: Mr Gruber, antiques dealer on the Portobello Road and Paddington's best friend. He only has a cameo, not having overmuch to do with the plot, but Jim Broadbent conveys the geniality of the man despite his iffy Hungarian accent. His scene helps do away with those idiotic "Mr Gruber is a Nazi!" speculations - he's confirmed to have come here on the Kindertransport.
But what of Paddington himself? The film could have had all of the above but still failed due to mediocre special effects or a misinterpretation of his personality. Thankfully they stuck as closely to the source as possible. Their Paddington is courteous, inquisitive, unfailingly nice and utterly genuine. He never shouts or shows off. The one time he's angry, it's via his famous 'hard stare' - hilariously recreated. You can see every strand of his fur; he doesn't have the glassy eyed constipated look so common to animated characters. I soon forgot I was watching a computer graphic and accepted him as Paddington; this is doubtless due to Ben Whishaw's vocal performance. He's youthful and naive, but intelligent and no pushover - in other words, Paddington.
In this instance the praise was richly deserved. Next time you want to see a family film, or just a warm, uplifting one, I recommend that you watch Paddington.
Time to backtrack. Paddington is the hero of a series of books by British author Michael Bond; they're a childhood institution. He lives in a timeless London with his adopted family, the Browns, and constantly lands himself in scrapes. He is indefatigably polite, upbeat and charming. Practically every British child owns a Paddington toy at one stage: a small brown bear in a blue duffle coat, floppy hat and scarlet wellies. Oh, did I mention that? Paddington's a bear, though everyone takes it in their stride (apart from Mr Curry, his miserable git of a neighbour).
This is why I worried about it being made into a film. I didn't want him to be yet another funny cartoon animal; anyone who has seen the films of Scooby Doo and Garfield knows how gruesome that can look. Nor did I want him to be a teddy bear brought to life (the chief reason why I've never warmed to the stop motion animation). There's a tendency for filmmakers to change likeable characters into snide wisecrackers in the mistaken belief it's more appealing to audiences. I had nightmarish visions of him burping, farting and making non stop bear puns.
Last weekend I took the plunge. I was cheered by the unanimously positive reviews; it was on sale in Asda at a reasonable price. (Another Paddingtonish trait: I have an eye for a bargain). I popped it into the DVD player and prayed it would be alright.
It was more than alright. It was delightful. A funny, engaging, big hearted family film - the sort of write up that sounds like sappy advertising copy until you actually watch it. It cleverly met the expectations of fans while establishing that this was its own creature and would tell the story in its own fashion. Like the books, it's set in present day but could equally have happened ten years ago or decades into the future. It has all the ingredients for a classic, and I don't use that word lightly.
The opening attempts to answer perhaps the biggest mystery of all: why did Paddington come to the UK and why is he so terribly British? By introducing a kindly explorer who befriends Paddington's aunt and uncle and teaches them English, it solves that puzzle as well as setting the film firmly within a world where anything can happen, and where a young Peruvian bear can grow up with an English gentleman's code of conduct.
A earthquake hits Darkest Peru, destroying Paddington's idyllic existence. His uncle dies - a genuinely moving moment despite the character's limited screen time. Aunt Lucy believes the time is right for him to go to the mythical city that has featured so heavily in this family's hopes and dreams: London. (Sticking two fingers up at the anti immigration lobby - by now we're very much on Paddington's side and all for him settling here).
Which brings us to the main action of the film. One: can Paddington become a loved and valued member of the Brown clan, and two: can he escape the clutches of Nicole Kidman's slinkily evil taxidermist? Though we know the answers to both these questions, it's the ride that's important.
Updating the Browns is possibly the key to the film's success. In the books they were always the nice, bland, tolerant backdrop to Paddington's wacky antics, with only Mr Brown and Mrs Bird emerging as separate personalities. Here care has been lavished upon each one, making them interesting in their own right.
As in the books, Mr Brown is the hardest to win round. He's reimagined as a risk analyst who's stagnated over the years to become a dull stick in the mud, damaging his home life in the process. In fact, if we regard the film as a spiritual successor to Mary Poppins, you could almost subtitle it The Redemption of Mr Brown, as he rediscovers how to be a loving husband and father. When we meet him, he warns the children not to look at the strange bear on the platform, saying he's probably selling something, and makes loud and cynical remarks throughout Paddington's story of how he came to London. Barking, "No, thank you" when a stranger accosts you - such a British response!
Fortunately for the kids, Mrs Brown is nowhere near as dour and unbending. An emotional free spirit who believes in cuddles and nicknames, you can tell she looks at her husband sometimes and wonders what on earth happened to the man she married. Characteristically, she is the first to offer Paddington help - and to support him later, when his future is in doubt. Unlike her book counterpart, she has a career as an adventure story illustrator (which results in one of the funniest gags in the film).
With Judy and Jonathan, the film had more or less blank canvases to work with, so was free to invent. Here Judy is a perfectly realised sullen teenager, mortified by her parents and desperate to fit in with her new school, not to mention her new boyfriend. When all you want is to be like everyone else, the last thing you need is for your family to adopt an accident prone bear! A miniature edition of her father, her defrosting foreshadows his.
Speaking of mini mes, Jonathan is definitely his mother's son. Perky, precocious and boisterous, he's one of those kids who excel in making ginormous working models and longs to be an astronaut one day. Tellingly, he likes Paddington from the start. The message is clear: the sensitive and young at heart take to him off the bat; the screw ups take longer.
The family unit is rounded off by Mrs Bird. Their live in housekeeper in the original, she's been promoted to a relation, but retains her affection for Paddington and no nonsense attitude in a part custom made for Julie Walters. If Paddington seems exotic to them, he's equally intrigued by their quirks.
One screw up who was never destined to like Paddington was Millicent, the film's villain. She does have a motive for her perfidy, which I won't divulge here, but she obviously loves her macabre hobby and will do anything to indulge in it. Opinion may vary but I thoroughly enjoyed Kidman's Cruella de Vil style turn, clad head to toe in snakeskin. It shows how she would have played Mrs Coulter, had they continued making His Dark Materials. Fans have protested at her inclusion, but they need to consider the medium. The books are gentle comedies; while you'd happily consume several chapters of slapstick and misunderstandings, it wouldn't translate well to film.
Millicent becomes unexpectedly involved with Paddington's real, actual bad guy - none other than Mr Curry. The prototypical sitcom neighbour, he's notorious for dropping in on the Browns and borrowing Paddington for errands, oblivious to the fact none of them can stand him. Here the subtext becomes text: he's a socially inept, curtain twitching, racist old loon, and when an attractive woman voluntarily speaks to him for probably the first time in years, the inevitable happens. He's smitten.
The scenes that follow give us an unsettling glimpse into his psyche. Looking around his squalid Seventies bachelor pad, complete with ogee decor and squashed flies, you find yourself wondering: is this why he's so horrible? Is he so twisted, dysfunctional and lonely, Paddington is the nearest he has to a friend? It almost made me feel sorry for him (but then I'm a huge sucker for Peter Capaldi). You expected to see a message scrolling at the bottom of the screen: 'UKIP, this is your target demographic!'
We can't mention Mr Curry without mentioning another stalwart: Mr Gruber, antiques dealer on the Portobello Road and Paddington's best friend. He only has a cameo, not having overmuch to do with the plot, but Jim Broadbent conveys the geniality of the man despite his iffy Hungarian accent. His scene helps do away with those idiotic "Mr Gruber is a Nazi!" speculations - he's confirmed to have come here on the Kindertransport.
But what of Paddington himself? The film could have had all of the above but still failed due to mediocre special effects or a misinterpretation of his personality. Thankfully they stuck as closely to the source as possible. Their Paddington is courteous, inquisitive, unfailingly nice and utterly genuine. He never shouts or shows off. The one time he's angry, it's via his famous 'hard stare' - hilariously recreated. You can see every strand of his fur; he doesn't have the glassy eyed constipated look so common to animated characters. I soon forgot I was watching a computer graphic and accepted him as Paddington; this is doubtless due to Ben Whishaw's vocal performance. He's youthful and naive, but intelligent and no pushover - in other words, Paddington.
In this instance the praise was richly deserved. Next time you want to see a family film, or just a warm, uplifting one, I recommend that you watch Paddington.
April 7, 2015
The Writing Drinking Game
The rules are simple: take a sizeable quaff of the beverage of your choice if anyone has ever said any of the following to or about you ...
1) "You write? Nice hobby / sounds like a cushy job / but what do you really do?"
2) (If you write fantasy) "Oh, you mean like JK Rowling?" (or any other author you aren't remotely like)
3) "They say everyone's got a book in them ..."
4) "Oh, I could never write a book, I'm not clever enough ..."
5) "Put in lots of raunchy bits, that'll help it sell!" (Take another drink if oracle is an elderly relative)
6) "How is your book 'going'?" (Generally asked in the middle of a social gathering, where all the other guests gawp at you)
7) "Haven't you finished that yet?"
8) (If you tell them the plot of your latest) "Oh, I don't like the sound of that, I prefer books that are more ..."
9) "Why don't you write more books like [insert the name of your debut novel]?"
10) "How can blogging be a job? It's just writing stuff!"
11) "Are any of your characters based on people you know?" (Extra drink if they've inspired one, but you'd rather they didn't know ...)
12) "I liked everything but the main character; I didn't like him / her at all ..." - when the story is autobiographical!
13) "There were too many Britishisms -" re: a UK based story with a British lead
14) "It wasn't my cup of tea, I don't like paranormal romance / sci fi / historical novels -" despite that being your book's genre, and it's clearly advertised as such
15) "I didn't know this was a gay book" (same as above)
16) (Describing your book to somebody else in front of you) "Oh, it's about ..." and getting every last plot point wrong, including the story's intended message. It seems rude to correct them!
17) "You write? My ex / uncle / vicar's an author; they're a little bit weird ..."
18) (Re: an acquaintance who's a well known writer) "They bashed their head and they've been funny ever since." (It's startling how many writers this has happened to!)
19) "Why don't you write a book where ..." They go on to describe something that already exists. When you gently point this out, they say, "But the main character's a [insert outré feature here]." Extra drink if it resembles Star Wars
20) (If you say you work from home) "Oh, that sounds boring ..."
21) "Who's interested in what you have to say?"
22) "There are millions of books already, how is yours any different?"
23) "Self publishing? Isn't that like vanity publishing?"
24) (If you say you're self published) "Good for you. There's too many gatekeepers in traditional publishing ..."
25) "Writers' block doesn't exist, it's just an excuse ..."
26) "Why are you writing this blog rather than getting on with your book?"
1) "You write? Nice hobby / sounds like a cushy job / but what do you really do?"
2) (If you write fantasy) "Oh, you mean like JK Rowling?" (or any other author you aren't remotely like)
3) "They say everyone's got a book in them ..."
4) "Oh, I could never write a book, I'm not clever enough ..."
5) "Put in lots of raunchy bits, that'll help it sell!" (Take another drink if oracle is an elderly relative)
6) "How is your book 'going'?" (Generally asked in the middle of a social gathering, where all the other guests gawp at you)
7) "Haven't you finished that yet?"
8) (If you tell them the plot of your latest) "Oh, I don't like the sound of that, I prefer books that are more ..."
9) "Why don't you write more books like [insert the name of your debut novel]?"
10) "How can blogging be a job? It's just writing stuff!"
11) "Are any of your characters based on people you know?" (Extra drink if they've inspired one, but you'd rather they didn't know ...)
12) "I liked everything but the main character; I didn't like him / her at all ..." - when the story is autobiographical!
13) "There were too many Britishisms -" re: a UK based story with a British lead
14) "It wasn't my cup of tea, I don't like paranormal romance / sci fi / historical novels -" despite that being your book's genre, and it's clearly advertised as such
15) "I didn't know this was a gay book" (same as above)
16) (Describing your book to somebody else in front of you) "Oh, it's about ..." and getting every last plot point wrong, including the story's intended message. It seems rude to correct them!
17) "You write? My ex / uncle / vicar's an author; they're a little bit weird ..."
18) (Re: an acquaintance who's a well known writer) "They bashed their head and they've been funny ever since." (It's startling how many writers this has happened to!)
19) "Why don't you write a book where ..." They go on to describe something that already exists. When you gently point this out, they say, "But the main character's a [insert outré feature here]." Extra drink if it resembles Star Wars
20) (If you say you work from home) "Oh, that sounds boring ..."
21) "Who's interested in what you have to say?"
22) "There are millions of books already, how is yours any different?"
23) "Self publishing? Isn't that like vanity publishing?"
24) (If you say you're self published) "Good for you. There's too many gatekeepers in traditional publishing ..."
25) "Writers' block doesn't exist, it's just an excuse ..."
26) "Why are you writing this blog rather than getting on with your book?"
March 31, 2015
Writing Monsters
Most Shakespeare tragedies. Paradise Lost. A Clockwork Orange. House of Cards.
What do the above works have in common?
They feature a protagonist who is thoroughly reprehensible - yet, since they're the focalising character, we're forced to view events from their perspective. We watch Iago gleefully wreck a marriage and egg on Urquhart / Underwood as he schemes into the corridors of power. A certain school of thought claims that by letting ourselves be deceived by Milton's Satan, only to be gradually disillusioned, we're enacting the Fall ourselves.
Employed well, it's a fantastic device, making for an unforgettable (albeit twisted) story. It isn't to everybody's taste, however. Some readers won't thank you for sharing the thoughts of a psychopath and may complain even when you gave them ample warning.
Today I'm going to look at one of the most controversial leads in fiction, Lolita's Humbert Humbert, and how he influenced the writing of my own monstrous protagonist, Miss Benson.
An enchanted hunter?
Lolita is simultaneously one of the most lauded and vilified novels of the last century. On discovering its plot - pedophile abducts and terrorises his orphaned stepdaughter - many declare they'll never read it. Thanks to the Kubrick film, it's filtered into popular consciousness as a teen sex pot seducing a hapless academic. Even a chunk of readers interpret it this way. This is how Humbert presents it, and who's going to doubt the word of a serial sex offender on trial for murder? Of course he'll be scrupulously honest.
Read carefully, Lolita is actually the story of a pathetic, deluded man in love with his own lies. Nabokov lampoons him mercilessly, whether through his own narration, where he's ludicrously vain and pretentious (he describes himself as a "big hunk of movieland manhood" and uses such risible gems as "the vortex of the toilet" or "the sceptre of my passion") or through tactless, down to earth Lo, who's stuck listening to his drivel ("Speak English!") This is a man who blanches at slang, swearing and anything else he deems vulgar, but thinks it's acceptable to prey upon children. He defends his behaviour by claiming there's a rare breed of demoniac girls he calls nymphets, who have knowledge and guile beyond their years, yet manages to find one wherever he goes.
Bizarrely, some readers take him at face value. They only see the suave, erudite surface, and agree with him that because Lolita has lost her virginity to an older boy, she has no innocence to protect. (How do we know this isn't one of Humbert's face saving lies? He planned to ravish her before he knew this). They prefer to recast it as an unorthodox love story, with Lo the knowing minx and Humbert her bedazzled slave.
Perhaps it's because of the inclusion of Quilty, Humbert's rival, who's far closer to the image of a "real" pedophile. Quilty's tendencies are an open secret but he's protected by his status as a famous playwright; he's bombastic, unalluring and sports a sinister moustache. Chuck into the mix Gaston Godin, a lonely old professor with a yen for young boys, and you realise what Humbert's up to. Since he isn't a sleazy crook like the one or a sad sack like the other, he can't possibly be a congenital pervert.
Write your own monster
I first borrowed Lolita aged sixteen (cue splutters from the librarian, scandalised family friends etc.) Though much of it went over my head - and likely always will - I was fascinated by its depiction of a deranged criminal with zero self awareness, and filed it away for future use. I went on to uni, studied creative writing. Although I had various projects on the go, the time was never right for a Humbertian figure. There was only one condition: she had to be female. Evil women are woefully underrepresented in fiction, possibly because they're taken as an attack on the sex when they do appear. (Saying more about the misogyny of critics, surely).
I was rummaging through my old papers, trying to kickstart a new story, when I came across a poem I'd written called Miss Amy. A morality piece about an aristocrat racking up dead lovers, it's narrated by a judgemental servant - but who was this unknown woman, and what was her relationship to Amy?
Suddenly Benny materialised: the ghastly, egocentric female Humbert I'd been brewing for years. Like him, she professes to be in love but has no understanding of or interest in her beloved; like him, she sneers down her nose at everybody else despite her inferior rank and moral turpitude. It was so liberating debunking all those hoary old governess stories! Don't tell me that The Sound of Music wouldn't be greatly improved by intrigue and sapphic shenanigans.
I lightly pencilled in a backstory - a cruel and neglectful mother, a dalliance with a teacher - but that doesn't really matter. Sociopaths have no conscience so they have no memory. Benny begins when the story proper begins: when she claps eyes on Amy and falls head first into obsession.
What do the above works have in common?
They feature a protagonist who is thoroughly reprehensible - yet, since they're the focalising character, we're forced to view events from their perspective. We watch Iago gleefully wreck a marriage and egg on Urquhart / Underwood as he schemes into the corridors of power. A certain school of thought claims that by letting ourselves be deceived by Milton's Satan, only to be gradually disillusioned, we're enacting the Fall ourselves.
Employed well, it's a fantastic device, making for an unforgettable (albeit twisted) story. It isn't to everybody's taste, however. Some readers won't thank you for sharing the thoughts of a psychopath and may complain even when you gave them ample warning.
Today I'm going to look at one of the most controversial leads in fiction, Lolita's Humbert Humbert, and how he influenced the writing of my own monstrous protagonist, Miss Benson.
An enchanted hunter?
Lolita is simultaneously one of the most lauded and vilified novels of the last century. On discovering its plot - pedophile abducts and terrorises his orphaned stepdaughter - many declare they'll never read it. Thanks to the Kubrick film, it's filtered into popular consciousness as a teen sex pot seducing a hapless academic. Even a chunk of readers interpret it this way. This is how Humbert presents it, and who's going to doubt the word of a serial sex offender on trial for murder? Of course he'll be scrupulously honest.
Read carefully, Lolita is actually the story of a pathetic, deluded man in love with his own lies. Nabokov lampoons him mercilessly, whether through his own narration, where he's ludicrously vain and pretentious (he describes himself as a "big hunk of movieland manhood" and uses such risible gems as "the vortex of the toilet" or "the sceptre of my passion") or through tactless, down to earth Lo, who's stuck listening to his drivel ("Speak English!") This is a man who blanches at slang, swearing and anything else he deems vulgar, but thinks it's acceptable to prey upon children. He defends his behaviour by claiming there's a rare breed of demoniac girls he calls nymphets, who have knowledge and guile beyond their years, yet manages to find one wherever he goes.
Bizarrely, some readers take him at face value. They only see the suave, erudite surface, and agree with him that because Lolita has lost her virginity to an older boy, she has no innocence to protect. (How do we know this isn't one of Humbert's face saving lies? He planned to ravish her before he knew this). They prefer to recast it as an unorthodox love story, with Lo the knowing minx and Humbert her bedazzled slave.
Perhaps it's because of the inclusion of Quilty, Humbert's rival, who's far closer to the image of a "real" pedophile. Quilty's tendencies are an open secret but he's protected by his status as a famous playwright; he's bombastic, unalluring and sports a sinister moustache. Chuck into the mix Gaston Godin, a lonely old professor with a yen for young boys, and you realise what Humbert's up to. Since he isn't a sleazy crook like the one or a sad sack like the other, he can't possibly be a congenital pervert.
Write your own monster
I first borrowed Lolita aged sixteen (cue splutters from the librarian, scandalised family friends etc.) Though much of it went over my head - and likely always will - I was fascinated by its depiction of a deranged criminal with zero self awareness, and filed it away for future use. I went on to uni, studied creative writing. Although I had various projects on the go, the time was never right for a Humbertian figure. There was only one condition: she had to be female. Evil women are woefully underrepresented in fiction, possibly because they're taken as an attack on the sex when they do appear. (Saying more about the misogyny of critics, surely).
I was rummaging through my old papers, trying to kickstart a new story, when I came across a poem I'd written called Miss Amy. A morality piece about an aristocrat racking up dead lovers, it's narrated by a judgemental servant - but who was this unknown woman, and what was her relationship to Amy?
Suddenly Benny materialised: the ghastly, egocentric female Humbert I'd been brewing for years. Like him, she professes to be in love but has no understanding of or interest in her beloved; like him, she sneers down her nose at everybody else despite her inferior rank and moral turpitude. It was so liberating debunking all those hoary old governess stories! Don't tell me that The Sound of Music wouldn't be greatly improved by intrigue and sapphic shenanigans.
I lightly pencilled in a backstory - a cruel and neglectful mother, a dalliance with a teacher - but that doesn't really matter. Sociopaths have no conscience so they have no memory. Benny begins when the story proper begins: when she claps eyes on Amy and falls head first into obsession.
March 4, 2015
The Woman's Right to Opt Out
At the risk of sounding grandiose, this is possibly the most important blog I'm going to write. I'll go further: this might well be the most important piece I'll write, period. I regret that only a tiny corner of the Internet is destined to see it.
It's about feminism.
Don't yawn, don't scoff. When I typed 'feminism' into Twitter, I was shocked by the animosity it provokes - charming hashtags such as FeminismisAwful, SayNotoFeminism, FeminismHasGoneTooFar.
What exactly are they objecting to again?
Feminism isn't about hating men or believing women to be inherently superior; misandry is bigotry too. It's about having the right to equal pay, the fair division of labour and childcare, decent representation in the public arena. It's about women being able to participate on an equal footing with men, about being able to walk freely without being verbally abused, attacked or killed. Anybody who's threatened or upset by this should look deep within themselves and ask why.
When I discovered feminism aged twelve, I nearly cried with happiness. I'd spent so much of my early life knocking against societal pressures - why did I have to wear a skirt, why did most of the women I knew stay at home, why were some men so vile towards women - only to receive the same sad, dreary answer, "Because that's how life is." Feminism taught me that you didn't have to swallow this injustice but fight it.
Yes, we're gaining victories all the time. Emotional abuse is a criminal offence; posting 'revenge porn' of an ex partner is illegal; men can now take paternity leave. But there are mindsets that seem to be entrenched no matter what, and it's these that I'd like to call out. Women have them foisted upon them from a very early age, despite having no foundation in fact.
1) Stop suffocating little girls in pink
I mean it. I grew up in the Nineties - a far less enlightened era - yet don't remember such an insistence on colour coding our children. Go into your average toy shop and it's like gender apartheid.
"But my little girl loves pink!" adults protest.
Does she? Does she really? They're the ones who have been dressing her and buying her toys before she was able to form her own opinions. I've witnessed adults actively rewarding "feminine" behaviours and denigrating "masculine" ones - "You don't want that, it's for boys!" It's basic conditioning; it's teaching her to think: "pink= good, blue = bad." The tomboy, the blue print for so many smart, independent women, seems to have died the death.
2) Stop continuing the leitmotif into adulthood
If a little girl's wants and needs are determined by her parents, the media takes over once they're adults. Look at the 'For Her' gift suggestions in catalogues or the women's magazines sections in shops. It's back to nursery colour schemes: festoons of pink, flowers, cute fluffiness, more sodding glitter. I once saw a 'Learning to Drive' CD ROM decked out in pink and cutesy drawings, as though women were incapable of understanding the regular kind. We don't have diamanté in our brains!
If somebody wants all her accessories to be hot pink or encrusted with crystals, that's fine. But please stop assuming that you speak for all women. And while we're at it, can we please have birthday cards that don't have a shoe, handbag or cheap bubbly fetish?
3) Let us look however we want
One of the most odious publications in existence is the celebrity gossip mag. Whenever a public figure steps out looking like a normal woman - e.g. she hasn't dried her hair, she isn't wearing makeup, she's thrown on jeans and a top - it appears on the front page, expressing faux concern about her mental and physical well being. For going down the shops? Come on!
True, there's a lucky minority of women who look stunning in makeup and dresses of all cuts and hues. Some of these women are in professions that showcase this gift. But for those of us who look like Pennywise when we apply makeup, or can't walk in heels, or only feel comfortable in trousers - leave us the hell alone. We're dressing for ourselves, not you.
4) Stop interfering in our personal lives
If you're a single woman heading into your thirties, you become an object of morbid fascination for family and friends. It doesn't matter if you're fine the way you are or if you haven't the time for romance - before long they'll be engaging in increasingly desperate attempts to fix you up.
This obsession with seeing everyone paired off is a hang up from a bygone age. If a woman has children already or can support herself, she doesn't need a partner to prove her credentials.
That seems to be the message behind these ridiculously extravagant weddings, more for the parents than the couple themselves - "Look! Our kids are normal! We didn't raise mutants!" There's nothing quite as idyllic as beginning a new life with ten thousand pounds of debt. And considering how much you can accomplish if you put your mind to it, is your wedding truly the biggest day of your life?
5) Stop harping on about kids
This has to be the most toxic conviction of all: that women are walking reproductive systems, counting down to zero. It's this preoccupation that forces women to have children they're not ready for, causes them to marry louses for 'security' and gives infertile couples no end of grief.
Even more controversial is when a woman has no intention of having children whatsoever. It doesn't matter if she has valid reasons; everyone will try to shoot them down. The word "selfish" is bandied about. But what's more selfish: bringing a child you never wanted into the world and regretting them every day of their lives, or realising it holds no appeal and abstaining? If a woman can frankly assess her life and not see any room for a child in it, she has every right to say no.
Yes, there are many excellent parents who enjoyed every moment with their kids and considered it the most rewarding thing they ever did. But they presumably always included children in their life plans and made sure they had a certain amount of experience behind them first. An idle, feckless young girl isn't going to become a responsible one because a baby's on the way. Somebody who wants to dedicate her life to her career or vocation shouldn't have to take time out because convention says so.
6) Respect our feminism
Feminism seems to have become a convenient bogeyman for certain people - few of whom I'd go for a drink with. Next time somebody says, "I'm not a feminist, but ...", challenge them. Ask them what it is about living in a liberal democracy that they find so alarming. If they're a woman, patiently remind them that if it hadn't been for feminism, no one would be listening to their views.
If something offends you, speak up. You wouldn't expect to see a man's schlong while you're tucking into your egg and chips, so why should you tolerate girlie mags? Why do they keep funding these tiresome and pathetic studies that "prove" men and women's brains work differently? Why is the word "feminist" nearly always accompanied by "strident" or "militant" in the popular media? Would they describe activists for any other cause in this way?
Feminism isn't passé or a dirty word. Let women have the right to opt out of these harmful narratives and achieve lives of greatness.
It's about feminism.
Don't yawn, don't scoff. When I typed 'feminism' into Twitter, I was shocked by the animosity it provokes - charming hashtags such as FeminismisAwful, SayNotoFeminism, FeminismHasGoneTooFar.
What exactly are they objecting to again?
Feminism isn't about hating men or believing women to be inherently superior; misandry is bigotry too. It's about having the right to equal pay, the fair division of labour and childcare, decent representation in the public arena. It's about women being able to participate on an equal footing with men, about being able to walk freely without being verbally abused, attacked or killed. Anybody who's threatened or upset by this should look deep within themselves and ask why.
When I discovered feminism aged twelve, I nearly cried with happiness. I'd spent so much of my early life knocking against societal pressures - why did I have to wear a skirt, why did most of the women I knew stay at home, why were some men so vile towards women - only to receive the same sad, dreary answer, "Because that's how life is." Feminism taught me that you didn't have to swallow this injustice but fight it.
Yes, we're gaining victories all the time. Emotional abuse is a criminal offence; posting 'revenge porn' of an ex partner is illegal; men can now take paternity leave. But there are mindsets that seem to be entrenched no matter what, and it's these that I'd like to call out. Women have them foisted upon them from a very early age, despite having no foundation in fact.
1) Stop suffocating little girls in pink
I mean it. I grew up in the Nineties - a far less enlightened era - yet don't remember such an insistence on colour coding our children. Go into your average toy shop and it's like gender apartheid.
"But my little girl loves pink!" adults protest.
Does she? Does she really? They're the ones who have been dressing her and buying her toys before she was able to form her own opinions. I've witnessed adults actively rewarding "feminine" behaviours and denigrating "masculine" ones - "You don't want that, it's for boys!" It's basic conditioning; it's teaching her to think: "pink= good, blue = bad." The tomboy, the blue print for so many smart, independent women, seems to have died the death.
2) Stop continuing the leitmotif into adulthood
If a little girl's wants and needs are determined by her parents, the media takes over once they're adults. Look at the 'For Her' gift suggestions in catalogues or the women's magazines sections in shops. It's back to nursery colour schemes: festoons of pink, flowers, cute fluffiness, more sodding glitter. I once saw a 'Learning to Drive' CD ROM decked out in pink and cutesy drawings, as though women were incapable of understanding the regular kind. We don't have diamanté in our brains!
If somebody wants all her accessories to be hot pink or encrusted with crystals, that's fine. But please stop assuming that you speak for all women. And while we're at it, can we please have birthday cards that don't have a shoe, handbag or cheap bubbly fetish?
3) Let us look however we want
One of the most odious publications in existence is the celebrity gossip mag. Whenever a public figure steps out looking like a normal woman - e.g. she hasn't dried her hair, she isn't wearing makeup, she's thrown on jeans and a top - it appears on the front page, expressing faux concern about her mental and physical well being. For going down the shops? Come on!
True, there's a lucky minority of women who look stunning in makeup and dresses of all cuts and hues. Some of these women are in professions that showcase this gift. But for those of us who look like Pennywise when we apply makeup, or can't walk in heels, or only feel comfortable in trousers - leave us the hell alone. We're dressing for ourselves, not you.
4) Stop interfering in our personal lives
If you're a single woman heading into your thirties, you become an object of morbid fascination for family and friends. It doesn't matter if you're fine the way you are or if you haven't the time for romance - before long they'll be engaging in increasingly desperate attempts to fix you up.
This obsession with seeing everyone paired off is a hang up from a bygone age. If a woman has children already or can support herself, she doesn't need a partner to prove her credentials.
That seems to be the message behind these ridiculously extravagant weddings, more for the parents than the couple themselves - "Look! Our kids are normal! We didn't raise mutants!" There's nothing quite as idyllic as beginning a new life with ten thousand pounds of debt. And considering how much you can accomplish if you put your mind to it, is your wedding truly the biggest day of your life?
5) Stop harping on about kids
This has to be the most toxic conviction of all: that women are walking reproductive systems, counting down to zero. It's this preoccupation that forces women to have children they're not ready for, causes them to marry louses for 'security' and gives infertile couples no end of grief.
Even more controversial is when a woman has no intention of having children whatsoever. It doesn't matter if she has valid reasons; everyone will try to shoot them down. The word "selfish" is bandied about. But what's more selfish: bringing a child you never wanted into the world and regretting them every day of their lives, or realising it holds no appeal and abstaining? If a woman can frankly assess her life and not see any room for a child in it, she has every right to say no.
Yes, there are many excellent parents who enjoyed every moment with their kids and considered it the most rewarding thing they ever did. But they presumably always included children in their life plans and made sure they had a certain amount of experience behind them first. An idle, feckless young girl isn't going to become a responsible one because a baby's on the way. Somebody who wants to dedicate her life to her career or vocation shouldn't have to take time out because convention says so.
6) Respect our feminism
Feminism seems to have become a convenient bogeyman for certain people - few of whom I'd go for a drink with. Next time somebody says, "I'm not a feminist, but ...", challenge them. Ask them what it is about living in a liberal democracy that they find so alarming. If they're a woman, patiently remind them that if it hadn't been for feminism, no one would be listening to their views.
If something offends you, speak up. You wouldn't expect to see a man's schlong while you're tucking into your egg and chips, so why should you tolerate girlie mags? Why do they keep funding these tiresome and pathetic studies that "prove" men and women's brains work differently? Why is the word "feminist" nearly always accompanied by "strident" or "militant" in the popular media? Would they describe activists for any other cause in this way?
Feminism isn't passé or a dirty word. Let women have the right to opt out of these harmful narratives and achieve lives of greatness.
March 1, 2015
What I've Learned About Self Publishing
It's coming up for three years since I first embarked upon the crazy venture of self publishing. Here, in no apparent order, are the lessons I've learned.
People will be snobbish
Something you'll discover early on: when some people hear the words "self publishing," they'll hear "vanity publishing", and nothing will convince them otherwise. If you decide to self publish, you have to do it for the right reasons. If you think you're not ready or your writing isn't good enough, I urge you to reconsider.
I know exactly why I self published. I'd repeatedly been told that although my plots and writing were fine, my inclusion of LGBT characters meant my books were "niche", with the oft heard phrase, "If you made them straight ..." I researched lesbian publishing houses but the books always gave the impression of having been knocked up by a dirty old man in his shed, the typical cover showing an orgasmic blonde straddling a butch brunette's face.
I knew this mindset was wrong. There was a market for my kind of story, and I was determined to find it. The success of self published authors like Kiki Archer has proved that the Kindle is the natural home for lesbian books.
It won't make a fortune
If the media condescends to mention self publishing, it's always in the same breath as multi million bestsellers like Amanda Hocking or E L James. This may give fledgling writers the impression that it's a cakewalk. Quick reality check: your average traditionally published author earns around £11,000 a year. Your average self published author, having far fewer resources, will inevitably make less.
Some of the guides I've read have been astonishingly cavalier, recommending that writers jack in their day jobs and promote their book 24/7. Unless you're Bruce Wayne or a stay at home parent, this isn't an option for most people. In my experience, your earnings from your ebook will be a supplement to your main income rather than a living.
Use social media
Some writers regard social media with a mixture of distaste and suspicion, arguing that the greats managed perfectly well without it. Time to get real: if your novel only exists as an ebook, it's your number one resource. It won't survive without it.
Traditionally published authors have marketing teams working on their behalf. When you're self printed, you're your publicist, and you have to make every piece of communication count. Don't rest on your laurels. You need to use a variety of platforms; you should at the very least be on Facebook and Twitter, and I strongly advise having a presence on Goodreads as well. Don't make all your posts sales oriented; just as you wouldn't buy from someone who pursued you down the street, hitting you on the head with a hammer, no one will succumb to heavy handed techniques. Take part on writer and reader forums and make friends. If people get to like you, you'll have allies and potential readers.
Blog!
Blogging is an essential part of a writer's utility belt, whatever the cynics might think. It's the most versatile way to communicate with your audience, whether it's discussing tricks of the trade or commenting on news stories. The best thing about it is you can update as little or often as you wish, and cover whatever you like. Like participating on forums, it allows readers to see the real you.
You can't guess what people will like
A truth readers might not realise: every writer firmly believes their latest book is their best. And since they're human, they're bound to have favourites. They might hate one book because it reminds them of their ex, might like another because they had a ball writing it.
This doesn't translate to sales. The Revenge of Rose Grubb is a very personal book, and I think it's better than The Governess, but it lags far behind the older book in terms of popularity. Like anything else, a book can capture readers' imaginations or be in the right place at the right time; a genre might drop in or out of fashion. You can't guess if a book will be a bestseller - and if you deliberately write to tick boxes, you'll end up with a shallow, derivative work.
Don't get disheartened
There's a human tendency to expect instant results - and to feel like a failure when they're not forthcoming. If you're the kind of person who checks their sales every few hours or cries over a bad review, self publishing may not be for you.
Writing is one of the most personal occupations there is. It hurts when a stranger criticises your creation. But if you genuinely want to make writing your career, you'll have to keep on going. Just as a salesperson can't lock themselves in the toilet and refuse to come out, you can't let a bad experience put you off.
Ultimately the pros outweigh the cons. I've had enjoyable chats with readers about certain plot points and received reviews that made me walk on air. One reviewer found Grubb after the search term "lesbian" yielded pages of tasteless threesome fics; while it wasn't quite what she had been looking for, she couldn't put it down. That put a huge dopey smile on my face.
People will be snobbish
Something you'll discover early on: when some people hear the words "self publishing," they'll hear "vanity publishing", and nothing will convince them otherwise. If you decide to self publish, you have to do it for the right reasons. If you think you're not ready or your writing isn't good enough, I urge you to reconsider.
I know exactly why I self published. I'd repeatedly been told that although my plots and writing were fine, my inclusion of LGBT characters meant my books were "niche", with the oft heard phrase, "If you made them straight ..." I researched lesbian publishing houses but the books always gave the impression of having been knocked up by a dirty old man in his shed, the typical cover showing an orgasmic blonde straddling a butch brunette's face.
I knew this mindset was wrong. There was a market for my kind of story, and I was determined to find it. The success of self published authors like Kiki Archer has proved that the Kindle is the natural home for lesbian books.
It won't make a fortune
If the media condescends to mention self publishing, it's always in the same breath as multi million bestsellers like Amanda Hocking or E L James. This may give fledgling writers the impression that it's a cakewalk. Quick reality check: your average traditionally published author earns around £11,000 a year. Your average self published author, having far fewer resources, will inevitably make less.
Some of the guides I've read have been astonishingly cavalier, recommending that writers jack in their day jobs and promote their book 24/7. Unless you're Bruce Wayne or a stay at home parent, this isn't an option for most people. In my experience, your earnings from your ebook will be a supplement to your main income rather than a living.
Use social media
Some writers regard social media with a mixture of distaste and suspicion, arguing that the greats managed perfectly well without it. Time to get real: if your novel only exists as an ebook, it's your number one resource. It won't survive without it.
Traditionally published authors have marketing teams working on their behalf. When you're self printed, you're your publicist, and you have to make every piece of communication count. Don't rest on your laurels. You need to use a variety of platforms; you should at the very least be on Facebook and Twitter, and I strongly advise having a presence on Goodreads as well. Don't make all your posts sales oriented; just as you wouldn't buy from someone who pursued you down the street, hitting you on the head with a hammer, no one will succumb to heavy handed techniques. Take part on writer and reader forums and make friends. If people get to like you, you'll have allies and potential readers.
Blog!
Blogging is an essential part of a writer's utility belt, whatever the cynics might think. It's the most versatile way to communicate with your audience, whether it's discussing tricks of the trade or commenting on news stories. The best thing about it is you can update as little or often as you wish, and cover whatever you like. Like participating on forums, it allows readers to see the real you.
You can't guess what people will like
A truth readers might not realise: every writer firmly believes their latest book is their best. And since they're human, they're bound to have favourites. They might hate one book because it reminds them of their ex, might like another because they had a ball writing it.
This doesn't translate to sales. The Revenge of Rose Grubb is a very personal book, and I think it's better than The Governess, but it lags far behind the older book in terms of popularity. Like anything else, a book can capture readers' imaginations or be in the right place at the right time; a genre might drop in or out of fashion. You can't guess if a book will be a bestseller - and if you deliberately write to tick boxes, you'll end up with a shallow, derivative work.
Don't get disheartened
There's a human tendency to expect instant results - and to feel like a failure when they're not forthcoming. If you're the kind of person who checks their sales every few hours or cries over a bad review, self publishing may not be for you.
Writing is one of the most personal occupations there is. It hurts when a stranger criticises your creation. But if you genuinely want to make writing your career, you'll have to keep on going. Just as a salesperson can't lock themselves in the toilet and refuse to come out, you can't let a bad experience put you off.
Ultimately the pros outweigh the cons. I've had enjoyable chats with readers about certain plot points and received reviews that made me walk on air. One reviewer found Grubb after the search term "lesbian" yielded pages of tasteless threesome fics; while it wasn't quite what she had been looking for, she couldn't put it down. That put a huge dopey smile on my face.
