Children's Books I

After 57 years of living in the same house, my parents recently moved; a different town, a different county.  (Good on 'em.)  As part of that process, they had a massive sorting out, which resulted in my mother sending me a book that played a role in both her childhood and mine: Albert, 'Arold and Others, written by Marriott Edgar and published by Francis, Day & Hunter Ltd of Charing Cross Road, London.  There's no date in the book, but I gather it was released in 1938 or 1939.

As a kid, what I loved about this book was its black humour and the fact that much of it was written for a Lancashire working-class accent.  What I particularly liked was that, in The Lion and Albert, young Albert, when visiting the zoo, gets eaten by Wallace the lion, and his parents are peeved for the wrong reasons.  It was one of those books I never tired of, and I wonder whether the books we read as children shape what we read (or write) as adults, and whether they shape us in other ways too.  What do you think?

The manager had to be sent for.

He came and he said "What's to do?"

Pa said "Yon Lion's 'et Albert,

And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too."

Then Mother said, "Right's right, young feller;

I think it's a shame and a sin

For a lion to go and eat Albert,

And after we've paid to come in."

The manager wanted no trouble,

He took out his purse right away,

Saying "How much to settle the matter?"

And Pa said "What do you usually pay?"

I had three other favourites from this time, which are still on my bookshelves: Emil and the Detectives by Erich Kastner (I read this seven times, so possibly wasn't a particularly adventurous reader), The Story About Ping by Flack and Wiese, and The Otterbury Incident by C.Day Lewis.  Comics and annuals were part of my literary world too, but these had a much shorter shelf life, and I borrowed Enid Blyton's Famous Five adventures from the library on occasion.

To this day, I love kids' books, and relished that part of parenthood when there was a ready excuse to start buying and reading them all over again.  The cupboards and bookshelves are crammed with these too, and it's good to take them out and read again every once in a while.  I have many, many more favourites amongst them, but that's another story.

The sacred dance of the fields

She was old now, bent and heart-bruised. It took her longer to dance the fields.

As a girl only her village danced by the light of the moon. But the slowing of age had made her aware of the others.

Some danced. Some stood or sat in meditation as the monks at the monastery. Some walked with paddles and strings beside her, unaware.

These others were like the morning mist, gossamer shapes so differently clothed as if each came from their own time and place, as if gathered together by the dance of the fields – and the pattern of the steps.

The pattern always returned to the spiral, to the memory with which she was born but could not grasp like a butterfly just out of reach.

She danced to capture the butterfly.

First published in RedBubble and in answer to the question, "What is a crop circle?"

Around the traps

There's been a fair whack of writerly stuff written around the traps these last few days.

• Jay Kristoff advises on the benefits of sucking up every grain of despair when the manuscript you're working on is rapidly morfing into a pile of crap.  A little bit of hate, he reckons, may make you a better writer.
• Patrick O'Duffy responds to the perennial question writers have to ask themselves: What's the damned book about? He looks at the distinctions between premise and theme, and makes the point that the "premise is the hook that distinguishes your work from all the other bait out there."
• Michael Pryor desribes how writing is like magic, and how he got involved in learning conjuring tricks as a result of his writing.
• Over at Alan Baxter's site, Foz Meadows has written a fine guest post about Piracy and Free Content, and the implications of this for writers.  Foz has since added to her thoughts about this on her own site.
• The View From Here has posted some great articles recently.  I particularly enjoyed Catherine McNamara's piece about interlinked short stories and whether these constitute a novel.
• Oh, and with magic in mind, and never having thought much about the work of voice artists before, I was gob-smacked to hear this demo of Kevin Powe's work.  (You can also find Kevin's KAPOWE! blog here.)

Benefactors of the Fukushima legacy

It is easy to ignore the invisible. As humans, we do it all the time.

Radiation is invisible and, so, we choose to forget the Fukushima fallout in our rain and the creeping sickness spreading into our seas.

Ignoring between 5 and 20 tonnes of debris, some of which is likely to contain Fukushima contaminants, is not easy.

That debris is heading toward North American shores like a slow, lumbering monster - the stuff of nightmares, except, this time, we do not get to wake up.

 The water in the wake of the debris is radioactive.

While the Japanese government and TEPCO assure us that the ocean will dilute the contamination, early research results indicate that this is not true.

There could have been a reprieve if the contamination was related only to the March explosions at the nuclear plant, and the initial emergency dumping of tonnes of radioactive water off the Fukushima coastline. Could have been.

The contamination continues - 7 months after the explosions.

In a few years from now, children will be splashing in radioactive waves off the west coasts of Canada and the United States.

Long before then, these children will eat fish caught in contaminated waters, and sample rice which Japan continues to export despite the fact that exporters and government officials know the rice is toxic.

I would like to believe that Japanese authorities are suffering from a case of uncontrollable self-denial. That would lend a sense of human frailty to their decision-making.

But the decisions are cold, calculated economic ones.

Exporters need a market to survive even when that market is threatened by the toxicity of the exports.

This is no different to a parasite which survives only because it has a host - even when its dependence kills the host.

Perhaps, even more pathetic, is the realization that Japan as exporter is also taking the lives of its own children.

Fukushima released a monster, and we are all in its way.

***

This post is based on a personal summary of articles found on Enenews and Fairewinds websites.

The rescue cat

I stretch because I can,

because I have no fear of falling.

When I over-reach the chair
you’ll be there,
to catch and to cuddle,
you’ll be there.

In different lives,
my first and second,
stretching was an angst
punctuated by terror
and more meaningless error.

My third life was a cage,
an endless line of faces
which passed me by
for others, as yet more
took their places.

My fourth life began with a scratch,
with a click of the latch,
with fresh air.

A caring embrace and a collar,
a food bowl, all mine
with a friend to the end,
to the very end.

Now, I stretch because I can,
because I have no fear of falling.

Those who speak to Gnomes

The Arboretum, Burlington, Ontario.

According to Maria Thun, Gnomes believe that the shell is the best part of an egg. They are utterly baffled by the human habit of eating the flesh and throwing away the shell.

Pavement plodders never meet Gnomes, gardeners do. Gnomes are no more or no less than the personification of the earthly wisdom that comes to those who spend hours running their fingers through the soil.

One of the eternal secrets which gardeners learn is the art of composting, and the very wisest among them knows that eggshell is royalty in the mix because of its high calcium content.

Calcium is the fifth most common element in the earth’s crust, present in all living matter, and alkaline which helps restore the soil’s pH balance.

Calcium is the dominant component in limestone, and limestone, in paranormal circles, is said to channel psychic energies.

Gnomes are psychic energies which manifest themselves to gardeners and, I am tempted to believe, specifically to those who have perfected the art of composting with eggshell.

So, next time someone claims to speak to Gnomes ask to share their garden. It will be peaceful there.

Recent Reads: Being Dead by Jim Crace

Alleluia! After three disappointments, I finally found a book I could enjoy: Jim Crace's novel Being Dead.

Seriously, I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me.  Perhaps I'd got so caught up in my own writing that, when searching for something in the fiction of other authors - some sort of escape, some sort of enchanting surprise, some sort of entertainment - I'd unwittingly doomed myself to being forever disappointed.  As if I might, stupidly, be searching for the book I wanted to write.  But, no, I just had a bad trot, that's all, and Jim Crace proved it.  Cheers, Jim.

 I must confess that I hadn't read Mr Crace before, but the quality of Being Dead is such that I'll soon be ordering a couple of his other titles (Quarantine will probably be one, as this took the 1997 Whitbread Award and was short-listed for the Booker Prize of that year).

It might sound depressing, but it's not.  It's lyrical, imaginative and engaging from start to finish.

On Baritone Bay, in mid-afternoon, Joseph and Celice, married for almost thirty years, lie murdered in the dunes.  The shocking particulars of their passing make up the arc of this courageous and haunting novel.  The story of life, mortality and love, Being Dead confirms Jim Crace's place as one of our most talented, compassionate, and intellectually provocative writers. (Picador edition)

In finding out a little more about the author and the novel, I came across a fine blog, The Age of Uncertainty.  You can read more about Being Dead, Jim Crace, and much more besides, here.

The difference between a skeptic and a cynic

The cycle of life: 1900 - 1950 - 2011
Public domain photo

A skeptic believes there is an argument to be won.

A cynic knows there isn't.

District 9 as memory

I watched a rerun of District 9 last night. I knew it was a story about aliens produced in South Africa, and that it had won acclaim in science fiction circles, but nothing more. So, expecting a good dose of escape, I settled in with my happy mood popcorn.

The happy mood evaporated within seconds, and the popcorn remained untouched because I had a sudden and continued urge to throw up.

What the world perceived as science fiction, I saw as memory.

Only, in my version of the story, the aliens were humans severed from their birthright and dignity. In my memory, I can put faces and names to the prawns.

What I saw was a script writer subliminally haunted, unable to reach beyond memory into fantasy but, because his audience was ignorant of the past, his angst was perceived as genius.

The crime of complicity and the dotage of men

I have been thinking about the crime of complicity a lot since watching A is for Atom, an Adam Curtis documentary on nuclear history in which many of the participants at the dawn of nuclear power display moments of contrition and the common statement that things were so good for them that they “overlooked” critical issues.

This is not the first time I have thought about aging men and their propensity for penitence.

The thought came to mind with the murder of Eugène Ney Terre'Blanche, a rightwing extremist in South African politics. Many muttered about the brutality of his death, an old man who could no longer defend himself. True. But in his stronger days his political brutality supported a system which perpetrated unspeakable acts, destroying lives and leaving lifelong scars upon untold generations of people. Was Terre’Blanche a penitent at the time of his death? I don’t know. But there is a long line of his compatriots who are. Forgiven grandfathers who rock their wee ones on the knee while Time heals their guilt.

The thought crosses my mind each time someone is arrested for a war crime. These perpetrators of heinous crimes against humanity are usually of a certain age when they are finally brought to justice. Dressed in ties and jackets - with thinning, speckled hair - they seem so benign between the almost over-sized police guard. How could someone so respectable be such a monster?

The thought crosses my mind as a matron pleads for respect under oath, begging to be believed that she was molested by her father, that elegantly dressed, calm man whose great grandchild sits a few rows back in the courtroom. Her wrinkles and dowdiness versus his timeless image of propriety.

The thought crosses my mind when rows of broken men and women wring their hands in a guilt that is not theirs as they drag out the inner courage to accuse a childhood rapist.

The dotage of men seems to carry with it a socially sanctioned forgiveness for unforgivable crimes committed in youth and inspired by greed, amorality, ego, ego and ego.

Yet, society never forgives the wrong doing of their victims whose lives were cast onto the path of inevitability by the very act committed against them. Their pain is, according to the law, just an excuse for a life of crime.

Society never acknowledges the disease and compromise of the victims of Science, assigning these to the consequences of indistinguishable background noise.

We forgive the dotage of men, and I do not understand why.

***

Those who have crossed

With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom

Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost

Violent souls, but only

As the hollow men

The stuffed men.

The Hollow Men. T.S. Eliot.

Conflux

Speculative fiction ain't fully my thing.  Nor fantasy.  Not yet.  They might be if there were more hours in the day, and at some point in the future I might want to make them more my thing, but for the time-being I'm happy doing what it is I do - whatever that is.  However, recently heard about Conflux and, seeing that I'd never heard its name before, thought I should find out and share.

Conflux is an annual Speculative Fiction conference held in Canberra and, from what I gather, has grown from a rich history of 50+ Science Fiction conferences.  It's got all you'd expect to find at a literary conference - guest speakers, discussion panels, workshops, author readings, book signings, wining, dining and networking - and more...

Under the 7 FAQs at the Conflux website, I thought this an interesting, if not telling inclusion:

What is the Weapons Policy?
No weapons are to be brought to, worn or carried at any time during the convention (including water pistols, real or replica guns, swords or knives), unless approved as part of an official event. Only the convention organisers may approve such weapons and their participation in any event.

What are they expecting? Or rather, who are they expecting?

Tracked down some answers at Talie Helene's spot, where it's revealed on a promo video that dress-up banquets have featured for the last five conventions - Medieval, Regency Gothic, 1920s New York, Southern Gothic, On board the Graf Zeppelin (hmm).  There's a Conflux Cookbook, written by Dr Gillian Polack, to celebrate these.  Talie tells more about her time at this year's banquet (and describes a bizarre conversation she had) close to this spot.

Weapons?  Why wouldn't you bring a sword to a Medieval feast?  Although might be a little awkward on a Graf Zeppelin hydrogen airship.

Alan Baxter was a guest at this year's Conflux (with or without weaponry), and you can get a flavour of workshops by looking at his schedule here and his report (with pics) here. 

Reckon I've sold myself on this now.  Will be signing up before long.

Crone power

While on a visit to the Museum of London I was drawn to the archaeological remains of a woman displayed in the same room as a crystal skull.

Other visitors were drawn to the crystal skull like iron shavings to a magnet.  When released from its gaze they wandered from the room, blind to all else, including the bones of the ancient crone.

The metaphor, to me at any rate, was palpable.

Once girl power dwindles women become increasingly invisible.

Old bones, with or without flesh, are trodden underfoot in the scramble to play with something new and shiny.

But there is a reason why women of a certain age around the world have been, and continue to be, burned alive as witches. Their accusers believe they have unholy powers - and they do.

Invisibility is the essence of crone power.

When a woman has nothing more to lose she has everything to fight for.

Oh, and the burning thing?

Doesn't work.

No need to reincarnate.

Each generation of humans recreates this nifty little invisible monster over and over again for itself.

***

Witch nailed down to stop her rising.

My ancestor was killed by a watermelon

History shows that people will steal to feed themselves and their families. If pushed, they will even kill. In this world of hunger, there is no exploiter or exploited, only varying levels of very desperate individuals.

Dutch colonization of the Cape was a strategic business move by the Dutch East India Company designed to supply its ships with fresh produce on the journey between Europe and Asia. Like all big business the company wanted the most profit for the least amount of expenditure.

To this end, Europeans of different nationalities were lured with the promise of freehold land and a horizon of opportunity. To refugee Huguenots in the Netherlands it was a chance to kick start their lives in a place where they would not be murdered in their beds for their religious beliefs.

They arrived at the Cape laden with a casket of seeds and farm implements.

They thought, because there was no precedent for thinking otherwise, that they were moving to a secure, settled colony. In reality, they were dumped onto ox wagons and taken into the wilderness, to the base of a line of mountains which separated Dutch East India Company land from a group of very angry indigenous people who had been barred from roaming the Cape Peninsula at will.

The Huguenots were, in essence, the first line of defence for the Company, the expendable cannon fodder which would take the brunt of the anger and buy time for the Company's employees to build additional and layered levels of protection.

The Huguenots were not the first group of Europeans to find themselves in this position. Mercenary Germans and even Company employees, freed from their employment bonds, had preceded them. The difference was that the Huguenots were farmers and craftsmen with a smattering of military men - very few military men - in the mix.

Our family had one of the few military trained men in the mix. He had been an Army officer in Paris, so the story goes, and he was part of an underground movement which gave safe passage out of France to Huguenots.

Whether he was discovered, or whether he thought it was time to go, is lost in time, but he and his family migrated to Holland along the same escape system, and from there to their uncertain fate in the wilds of Africa.

The family arrived at the Cape and were taken to a patch of tenacious shrub and grass where they were unloaded and left to their own devices.

I have often tried to imagine how they felt as the truth of their situation dawned on them.

An alien world filled with the forlorn sound of night predators with only the flimsy walls of a makeshift shack between.

What little food they had was rationed as they scrambled to figure out how to reach the Dutch East India Company which lay at a distance across miles of sand and foliage - as they tore out scrub with bare hands and pitifully inadequate implements to expose a patch of land for seed.

And the desperation of knowing that that seed was their sole source of food and income.

Six months into the nightmare, my ancestors had a patch of green watermelon to show for their efforts. They guarded it with life and limb, and, so, when a Khoi made his way into the patch and asked for an unripe melon, the head of the household said no.

During the ensuing argument, the Khoi picked up a watermelon and threw it with some force at my ancestor's chest. The impact ruptured an artery.

A crazy way to die - in a food fight between two hungry people.

Down at the Factory of the Imagination in September

Although I'm only about 20,000 words away from the end of Number Three, I haven't added a single page to the manuscript during September.  This has been a deliberate and liberating decision.  Instead, apart from editing the first few sections of the novel - demolishing redundant words and sentences, building pace, strengthening impact - I've spent most of the month thinking about writing.

While this may sound wanky, it's an essential part of the writing process for me.  It's what I do before I start writing, but I also like to punctuate the process of writing - when everything's going reasonably well - with taking time out from committing words to the page and simply thinking about writing instead.  Not only does abstinence make me hungry to write again, to get back to the characters and their stories, but in distancing myself from them for a short while, I find I can think about them afresh.  If I do a little editing at the same time, visit a gallery or two, get hooked into some new music, read a good book, watch a few films, then new ideas start fermenting, and though I might not be adding dialogue, narrative or description to the novel, I end up scribbling lots of notes and with a stronger sense of what I'm writing - and how.  New layers reveal themselves, extra dimensions to the characters become apparent, I see opportunities I'd missed before.

That's where I'm up to.

Good stuff

I've been on the road these last few days; driving through thunder, lightning, flash floods, aquaplaning towards concrete crash barriers, sitting in traffic jams, waiting for delayed planes - that sort of thing.  Not doing a lot of writing, but taking the opportunity to catch up with reading and with simply thinking about writing (a worthwhile thing to do at times), but I'll say more about that in a future post.

What I want to do here is give a shout-out or two, by way of celebrating just some of the good stuff that's happening around the writing community.

To Louise Cusack, who signed a three e-book deal (or is that threee-book deal?) with Pan Macmillan's digital publishing subsidiary, Momentum Books, to re-release her fantasy trilogy, Shadow Through Time, to the international market.

To Mike French, whose debut novel The Ascent of Isaac Steward (Cauliay Publishing), was waiting on the doorstep for me at the end of my journey, after a bizarre journey of its own (Amazon failed to send my pre-ordered copy, Fishpond spent two months losing the copy I requested from them, and then told me last week it was no longer available and so wouldn't be sending a replacement copy... but managed to post it to me on the same day).  Likened by R.N.Morris to "the surrealist literary experiments of James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake but blessedly readable", I'll enjoy starting it soon.  Big CONGRATULATIONS to Mike too for being long-listed by the Galaxy Book Awards under New Writer of the Year category.

To Cam Rogers, whose claim that Fight Club is one of the "best zombie films ever made" got me thinking about this favourite movie in a whole new light.  He presents a weirdly convincing case.

To Jay Kristoff, who tapped into my doubts about the value of tweeting and had me cheering at the same time, with his Ten reasons you can Follow THIS.

To Dmetri Kakmi, whose article on why Australia's constitution should be rewritten to recognise the country's indigenous inhabitants has had me wondering if a group of writers couldn't harness the net to make this happen.  Or whether this is something that Avaaz might be prepared to take on.

And I have to stop there, so you can check out the links.  There's so much good stuff happening at the moment.  This is just a flavour.