#this is an excerpt from the novel I’m perpetually working on

[duine-aiteach]

Fascinating. Apparently Word doesn’t like me a) writing alternatively in English and Irish, and b) Irish, as it changed the language in the second line to German and the third line to French. I have the proofing tools for English (Ireland, UK and US) installed as well as Irish and French.

[reneesbooks]

WIP Intro: Hurts, Doesn't It?

I figured it was about time I introduced the novel I'm working on for Camp Nano :)

Will's a florist, not an expert on politics, but he knows a few things: the Executive runs things from the Capitol, which was rebuilt after the Second Civil War, and eventually his son will be the Executive. He never thought about it much; he was focused on going to NYU for botany and horticulture and the Olympics for archery. But now? Now, he's in prison for smuggling forged art (which he didn't do) and all his cellmates want to talk about it how the government is horrible and the Resistance (terrorists) are actually the good guys.

Enter Kat Barrick--the girl who got Will put in prison in the first place. When she breaks him out and offers her help getting him home, he is reasonably skeptical. Despite her secrets, she is trying to help him. He'll give her a chance to get him home. But as he learns more about her world and the truth behind his history books, he begins to wonder if home is still within reach.

my baby my novel that i've been writing for years my beloved. here are the main characters (picrew used):

Will Moore: He's a florist from Jersey who did NOT sign up for any of this. that's okay, though. he's figuring it out. His favorite hobbies are archery and talking to people about flowers. He will find a way to mention the fact that he's a florist in any conversation. wants to go to the olympics but already won the himbolympics

Kat Barrick: she's an art forger who ran away from home at seventeen and supports her family by selling her paintings on the black market. yes she throws knives no you don't get to know where she learned to. not here to fuck around, just trying to get through the day. she WILL stab you if you get in her way though

Peyton Barrick: Kat's older brother and perpetually exhausted mother hen. Great public speaker but prefers to be cooking most of the time. Definitely going to trick you into being a vegetarian because he is and knows his way around a spice rack enough to convince you that you are eating pork, not eggplant. why is he a vegetarian? none of your fucking business.

Scarlett Carter: battle-worn leader of the Resistance and antique revolver enthusiast. yes it's very funny that she has a gigantic scar across her face and her name is Scarlett. mention it again and she'll show you one of those revolvers up close. these new kids are giving her grey hairs.

Hayden Stone: Scarlett's husband and the brains of the Resistance. NOT a morning person, will greet you with a shotgun if you wake him up. loves his daughter and is very sad that she decided to be a spy when he's just trying to keep her safe. thinks Will's puns are shitty and has a bet going on how long it'll take Kat to kill him.

My goal for Camp Nano has been to write 25,000 words and as of 4/11 I'm about halfway there :D

Posts tagged for this novel can be found here. A few highlights so far:

Kat and Will getting drunk and watching the news

15-question character interview of Kat and Will

Kat and Will having an Emotional Talk

Will taking a serious risk

The following excerpt is the opening scene, where Will meets Kat in his shop for the first time. let me know if you're interested in being added to the taglist for this wip! <3

I nudged the unconscious man with the bristles of the broom. “Are you dead?”

A small groan escaped. “She left me…”

“Jesus, you’re a sad drunk,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Dude, you have to make like a tree and leave.”

He mumbled something that sounded like an insult and turned over, face-down on the floor. I nudged him again with the broom, then smacked him when he didn’t move. He lurched up into a sitting position, swearing vaguely in my direction, and nearly knocked over a potted plant on a stand.

“I’m calling the cops if you don’t leave,” I said, moving towards the counter. “Whatever your deal is, it’s none of my business, but you gotta do it somewhere else.”

He grumbled and groaned but another smack with the broom had him up and stumbling out of the store. I rearranged the vases and potted plants that he’d disturbed and swept up the fallen leaves and petals.

The bell over the door rang and I turned to greet the customer. “Welcome to Lydia’s Fine Flowers, how can I help you?”

The young woman smiled, running her fingers over the head of one of the flowers near the door. “Just looking, thank you,” she said. “Who’s Lydia?”

“My mom,” I said, retreating behind the counter. “She grows all these flowers herself. Best florist in Jersey.”

“Not that you’d ever brag,” the young woman said with a smirk.

“That would be utterly unbe-leaf-able,” I replied, setting the broom back in its spot. “Bragging is very unbecoming.”

“Plant puns must be part of the job,” she said.

“The fun part.”

“Hmm.” She turned to look at the refrigerated arrangements. I went back to the shop computer, squinting at the inventory numbers. We would need to sell the summer arrangements soon, with fall coming up. I bit my lip. My mom would be on her own in a few months. I’d been helping out in the shop for as long as I could remember, and now I was off to college. How would she fare without me?

I turned around, shaking off the worry. My mom would be fine. I spotted the young woman frowning at a bouquet and walked over.

She jumped a little when I got close, her hand going to her waist. She relaxed when she saw it was me. I grinned at her. “Forget me not.”

She blinked. “What?”

I gestured at the display. “Forget-me-nots. I can check the pricing if you’d like.”

She sighed, her hand dropping away from her waist. “No, thanks. I was just thinking about a picture I saw once. I recognized the flowers from that.”

“I see. Let me know if you have any questions,” I said, returning to the counter. I picked up my book from behind the register and flipped through the pages until I found the spot I had left off at.

Olympic Committee Requirements

My fingers itched, imagining myself at the Olympic tryouts the next summer. I would win gold, I was sure of it. I'd already won state and regional archery competitions, gone to nationals, and beaten more experienced archers who were twice my age. I was more than cut out for it.

I was going to make it.

The crinkle of tissue paper jolted me out of the book. “Will?”

I glanced up at the young woman, startled. She smiled at me, her eyes flicking down to my nametag. I grinned back. “I feel like I’m at a disadvantage here. You don’t have a nametag.”

“How much for these?” she asked, gesturing at the bouquet of lilies she’d set on the counter.

“Fifteen.” I punched it into the register. “Cash or card?”

“Cash.” She set the money down on the counter and fiddled with the lilies as I made change.

“Are those a gift for someone or just for you?” I wrapped them up in paper and added a packet of plant food.

“They’re for my little sister.” Her lips twitched. “They’re her favorite.”

“That’s sweet.” I handed her the change. “I never did get your name.”

“Hmm.” She turned, curling brown hair swinging over her shoulder. I caught the faint whiff of mint before the bell chimed and she was gone. I stared after her for a second before returning to my book.

I had bigger things to worry about.

if you want to get into the mood, this wip does have a playlist

[midnight-aether]

Why Vox by Christina Dalcher is not a good novel: Review & Analysis

The premise of this novel is incredibly interesting, don’t get me wrong: Vox (2018) is about a dystopian future, in which US American women are only allowed to speak 100 words per day and must wear a bracelet that shocks them if they go over that limit. Women also aren’t allowed to write, read or use sign language. The main character is a genius linguist called Jean who hates every man in her life, including her husband Patrick and her own sons.

The first sentence already tells us three things about this novel: (1) it’s told from a first-person perspective, which means the reader will be aware of the protagonist’s every thought, (2) the oppressive regime in the novel goes by the name of Pure Movement, so it’s probably going to have something to do with religion, and (3) the action takes place in the span of a week, which I feel like it’s a huge spoiler for the fact that I won’t care for any of the characters at the end of the book, since there’s only so much character development that can happen in that time.

If anyone told me I could bring down the President, and the Pure Movement, and that incompetent little shit Morgan LeBron in a week’s time, I wouldn’t believe them.

There will be spoilers from this point on.

The Setting and the Protagonist

The main character in Vox, Dr. Jean McClellan, is a specialist researcher in the field of aphasia, that is, according to Wikipedia, “an inability to comprehend or formulate language because of damage to specific brain regions”. At some point in the novel we are made aware that a colleague of Jean’s, with her help, has discovered a cure for aphasia, even though they are both linguists and neither a chemist nor a medical researcher. However, she was unable to publish this discovery, due to the conveniently timed sexist apocalypse that stripped her of all her academic titles, as the reader is often reminded.

Jean is married to her husband Patrick and has four children with him:  three boys and a girl. Jean evidently resents every man in her family,  especially Patrick and their 17-year-old son, Steven. Apparently they’ve  all been very quickly indoctrinated to believe women shouldn’t be  allowed to speak, so they treat Jean and Sonia, the daughter,  accordingly.

There is a whole subplot about Steven, but it’s so plain and uninteresting that there isn’t much to say about it. Basically, he is all for the Pure Movement and their ideals of purity for women, but then still sleeps with his high school girlfriend and proceeds to tattle on her. When she is taken away to a camp, he realizes his mistake a leaves to save her. At some point he is captured by the Movement and ridiculed on TV. Jean doesn’t really care that he’s gone, but is pleasantly surprised when he reappears at the end safe and sound.

At this point, the Pure Movement has only been in power for less  than a year and a half. This movement is very overtly described as a Christian uprising that originated within the bible belt  and had spread to the entirety of the USA. The followers of the  Movement also adopt overly conservative views on gender roles, marriage  and sex, leaving very little doubt about the roots of the oppressive regime in Vox.

The Plot

The main intrigue in Vox begins when the brother of the US president starts suffering from aphasia after a “skiing accident” and the government comes to Jean for help, despite her being a woman in a society that literally won’t let women speak. Why do they come to her instead of going to any other male scientist? Because apparently Jean is the best linguist in the whole country... even though, as far as the government (and the reader) knows, she’s only been researching aphasia for a couple of years and hasn’t found a cure yet. Well, the author herself has a doctorate in linguistics (not in the field of aphasia), which brings me to my first problem with this novel: the blatant and, quite frankly conceited, self-insert.

You may have noticed that I wrote “skiing accident” in quotation marks on the last paragraph. That’s because it’s hinted a couple of times throughout the novel that the president’s brother was actually injured on purpose by the government, but this turns out to be false. Later it seems like he was never even injured in the first place, but this is never clearly resolved, as the character himself never appears “onscreen”; however, it’s not a cliffhanger that perpetually haunts the reader.

Back to the story: Jean agrees to help because, by taking the job, she and her daughter get to remove the shock bracelets for the duration of the research. The government then proceeds to give Jean one week (remember the novel’s first sentence) to produce a cure that, to the best of their knowledge, hasn’t even been found yet. If that sounds like a stretch, they even let her work with her old research team of three people, which is supposed to fully convince the reader that a week is a completely plausible time frame to discover, produce, test and approve a cure for an illness.

The Side Characters

This team is composed of Jean, her former colleagues Lin and Lorenzo, and their supervisor Morgan, who you might remember from the novel’s opening sentence. Morgan is apparently an idiot linguist who is very unfit for his position, which is supposed to show how twisted the society in Vox is, as they put the dumb people in charge just because they’re men, and silence the smart women. What it actually does is show that this version of the USA apparently only has a handful of linguists and no other skilled scientists.

This is the novel’s description of Lin:

Lin Kwan is a small woman. I often told Patrick she could fit in one of my pant legs – and I’m only five and a half feet and 120 soaking wet, thanks to the stress diet I’ve been on for the past several months. Everything about her is small: her voice, her almond eyes, the sleek bob that barely reaches below her ears. Lin’s breasts and ass make me look like a Peter Paul Rubens model. But her brain – her brain is a leviathan of gray matter. It would have to be; MIT doesn’t hand out dual PhDs for nothing.

Here we learn that Lin is small, not conventionally attractive (read: small boobs and ass), and finally that she is incredibly intelligent. For some reason, Jean finds it important to describe Lin’s curves, as well as her own, before mentioning Lin’s intelligence. No, this novel was not written by Michael Bay. Also, for representation’s sake, Lin is Asian and a lesbian, yet every other major character in this novel is a white straight person.

Well, there is another lesbian in this story, actually. Jean’s old college roommate, Jackie Juarez, who Jean hasn’t seen since before the machocalypse. We get to know Jackie through flashbacks: the novel tries to portray her as this loud, over-the-top feminist who often tries to make Jean join the rallies and protests against the growing Pure Movement. Alas, Jean chooses to focus on school instead of going to protests and forever regrets this, thinking that if only she had fought, she might have changed history.

I don’t know how to feel about this novel’s depiction of Jackie. She is made out to be a stereotypical feminist lesbian, who actively protests against the uprising of the Pure Movement, and yet whose efforts are in vain. Here is an excerpt that characterizes how Jean sees Jackie, and therefore how the reader is supposed to see her:

“You have to vote, Jean,” [Jackie] said, throwing down the stack of campaign leaflets she’d been running around campus with while I was prepping for what I knew would be a monster of an oral exam. “You have to.”

“The only things I have to do are pay taxes and die,” I said, not holding back the sneer in my voice. That semester was the beginning of the end for Jackie an me. I’d started dating Patrick and preferred our nightly discussions about cognitive processes to Jackie’s rants about whatever new thing she had found to protest.

Here you can see that Jean clearly dismisses Jackie and “whatever new thing she had found to protest”, and instead muses about what an intellectual she is. I understand that this is a flashback, and it’s supposed to show that Jean was wrong not to care about protesting the Pure Movement, but this is told from present Jean’s perspective, so it’s clear she still rolls her eyes at Jackie’s activism in general. It feels like Vox is trying to say that actively expressing your ideas and concerns is useless, since Jean eventually overthrows the government with science and not through activism – and it even takes her no longer than a week to do it, as we learn at the beginning of this novel. There is a lot to unpack here,  but I still wouldn’t recommend thinking too hard about the ideas in this book.  

Jackie only becomes relevant to the plot towards the end. At some point she is held hostage by the government, so that Jean is forced to finish her work. Why the government chose to kidnap Jean’s old college roommate who she hasn’t seen or spoken about in years instead of, say, her daughter, we will never know. In the end, Jackie is only there so that Jean can save her and “redeem” herself for not having been there for Jackie in the past.

Lorenzo, the last member of the team, is Jean’s love affair since way before the Pure Movement effectively took over. The novel likes to remind the reader that Jean is with the Italian hunk Lorenzo because she despises her husband Patrick, so that makes cheating okay. Eventually we learn that Jean is pregnant with Lorenzo’s child, so he offers to let her escape with him to Italy as his wife. Yet Jean can’t allow herself to leave without her daughter Sonia – she’s fine with never seeing any of her sons again, though. She considers this for a while as she works on the cure for aphasia.

The Ending

At some point during the week, Lin disappears (we later learn she was imprisoned due to big gay activity). Jean and Lorenzo announce that they’ve discovered the cure and even test the serum on a random neighbour of Jean’s who happens to have aphasia as well. Also, Jean’s mother had an aneurysm earlier that week and also started suffering from aphasia. The government is pleased with the results and take the serum away.

Later, Morgan, the supervisor, takes Jean and Lorenzo to a strange lab underground to have them further develop the cure. There they walk through a hallway full of chimpanzees in cages, and there is a bizarre scene in which Jean gets too close to a cage and is attacked by a chimpanzee. There is no purpose to this scene other than to shock the reader, honestly. Here, the novel briefly, yet disrespectfully brings up a very real woman who was mauled by a chimpanzee in 2009 and managed to survive (Wikipedia link, no pictures), by having Jean think something along the lines of “oh no, I don’t want to end up like her!” during the attack.

Jean is fine, obviously. We’re over 200 pages in and nearing the end of the novel when the first interesting development happens in the form of a plot twist: the government has been using their cure in order to create an anti-serum that gives people aphasia. Their plan is to create a more effective means to silence women, of course, since they  wouldn’t be able to comprehend or formulate language any more. When Jean discovers this, she wants to quit, but is forced to stay when they reveal they’ve been keeping Jackie, Lin and Lin’s girlfriend hostage in the same building for this very occasion. And maybe also Steven back at that camp, but we don’t even care about him at this point.

The climax of the story arrives, and everything happens so quickly the reader doesn’t have time to digest it. I had to reread what actually happened at the end, because I couldn’t remeber it anymore. I’ll try to recreate the pacing of the ending in the following paragraph, so you can understand what I mean:

Jean and Lorenzo save the lesbians (who are the only likeable characters, so that made me happy), Morgan dies, I think, and they escape with the anti-serum. Patrick appears and decides to help, so they send him to the White House with an anti-serum bomb that suceeds, giving the president and all evil politicians aphasia. Patrick is killed during this, freeing Jean from their marriage and allowing her to escape with Lorenzo and all of her children, whom she suddenly stopped resenting. The Pure Movement collapses and all is well, thanks to... well, thanks to Patrick and Lorenzo.

Conclusion

Vox is a mess of a novel. The characters are unlikeable, the plot is badly paced and the ending is too sudden. I really didn’t care about what happened to any character at any point, which is incredibly disappointing. Additionally, there are many things wrong with the political message in Vox, namely the idea that all religious people are inherently evil and that men generally wish to control and silence women. The premise was good, the writing was fine, but the performance was terrible, unfortunately. Vox feels like it was rushed to come out in time for the dystopian fiction craze of 2017-18 caused by the release of The Handmaid’s Tale TV series. Hopefully we’ll see better work from the author in the future.

Blog | Goodreads

[rebeccaheyman]

reading + listening 10.12.20

The Love Square (Laura Jane Williams), eBook ARC (pub date February 2021). If the marketing/cover on this title made you think it might nestle in nicely beside your small-UK-town romances, think again. Here’s my 2-star NetGalley review (and an added bonus, my recommendation to simply read The Bookshop of Second Chances instead, reviewed in my roundup from 9.21.20): 

Sadly, I found THE LOVE SQUARE neither as funny nor as smart as the publisher's market copy suggests. The book revolves around a profoundly self-centered, borderline-unlikeable heroine and the three men with whom she has romantic liaisons. Her external conflicts include running her own cafe, helping run her uncle's pub/restaurant, and deciding whether or not to engage a surrogate for the fertilized embryos she had prepped prior to undergoing treatment for breast cancer. There's not much in the way of lightness or humor throughout -- rather, we see a lot of angst, pining, crying, and uneven character development.

If love triangles are a somewhat hackneyed convention in storytelling, we might expect a new shape -- the square! -- to solve the problem of predictability. But THE LOVE SQUARE takes the guess-work out of Penny's choices by painting one of her lovers as the clear, capital-L Love she's been waiting for. The others are mere distraction, which rather undermines the scenes/tension based around these characters.

My biggest problem with THE LOVE SQUARE was Penny herself, however. She makes childish choices that perpetuate the story's primary "conflict" (it's not really a conflict if it can be solved with a single conversation, eh?), and Act III finds her laying claim to Big Feelings about her time in Derbyshire despite the fact that little-to-none of those feelings make it to the page. "I was crying a lot before," Penny claims, when reflecting on her time at her uncle's pub. "Like, I would cry if I burnt my hand in the kitchen, which, well, I'm a chef, so that happens all the time and we're literally trained to withstand it. Or I'd cry at what was on TV, not just the movie or whatever, but the adverts too." In sum, Penny is depressed at the book's start, gets more depressed as she conveniently denies feeling depressed throughout the novel, then settles on the epiphany that her depression will likely right itself if she finally gets what she really wants: A BABY.

Le sigh.

There are some strange narrative features here, including: the integration of Lizzo as a significant tertiary character; low-key slut-shaming; awkward turns of phrase ("...his manly fingers proved too chubby for the fine work of knotting the latex [balloon]."; and an overall lack of tension. If a mystery resides at the heart of every novel, then the grand question here is, Will Penny stop being such a self-centered brat and learn to treat others/herself with respect? Not the most compelling question, I'm afraid.

It's worth noting that Williams includes the most gracious, inclusive, kind set of Acknowledgements I've ever read at the end of her book. I wish her protagonist could have reflected even a modicum of the grace demonstrated in the back matter.

It might be worth noting that a different structural approach to this story might have made it far more enjoyable. I’ll be discussing this further in my new series, Read Like A Writer, on the Reedsy YouTube channel.

Spoiler Alert (Olivia Dade), aBook (narr. Isabelle Ruther). I’ve been following Olivia Dade on Twitter for some time, and find her so witty and lovely that I made a point of pre-ordering the audio for SPOILER ALERT. The concept here, that an avid fan of a GoT-style show, who writes fan fic, designs and wears cos-play, and also happens to be fat, goes on a date with one of the stars of the show -- unaware that he also happens to be her dyslexic bestie from the fan-fic server. No spoiler alert needed for this review, but suffice it to say the shenanigans you might expect are augmented (and much improved) by Dade’s deep focus on the emotional trauma of childhood, the challenge of vulnerability as an adult, and the complications of defying society’s expectations -- whether you’re a fat woman or a brawny, pretty-boy celeb man. 

If you found Lucy Parker’s LONDON CELEBRITIES series charming (as I did), you’ll love the behind-the-scenes dynamics of Marcus’s show/costars -- and Dade writes at a comparable heat level, too. There’s something here for fans of Jen Deluca’s WELL MET, too, in the way the fan fic and show communities create a kind of world-building overlay on the otherwise familiar setting. I was exceedingly charmed by the intertextual elements in SPOILER ALERT -- message exchanges, fan fics, script excerpts -- which brought Gods of the Gates to life in interesting, dynamic ways. If you liked FANGIRL by Rainbow Rowell, you’ll find the same commitment to a fictional fiction here, rendered even more inception-y by the simultaneous presence of books, a TV show, the actors who have feelings about said show, and fan fics -- plus the writers of those fics in real life. Phew! 

All in all, I am an Unapologetic Olivia Stan, looking ever so forward to Dade’s next title.

His Only Wife (Peace Adzo Medie), aBook (narr. Soneela Nankani). LUSTER meets CRAZY RICH ASIANS in this fascinating portrait of Afi Tekple, a young Ghanaian woman who, at the book’s start, is being married off to Elikem, who doesn’t actually show up for his own wedding. Eli’s mother hopes marriage to Afi is enough to make her son set his current paramour aside -- despite the fact that the two have a child together. Afi leaves her small hometown for capital city Accra, and there finds herself caught up in a world -- and love affair -- that challenges the very notion of who she is.

HIS ONLY WIFE was the first book I’ve read set in Ghana since Yaa Gyasi’s HOMEGOING, and I loved getting this contemporary view of a country where a town like Ho and a city like Accra coexist. More books in Ghana, please!

Perhaps because Ghana plays such a significant role in the book itself, I found the choice of narrator here extremely strange. I loved Soneela Nankani on THE MARRIAGE GAME, but found her American accent drew me out of the story in HIS ONLY WIFE. Ghanaian accents sound vaguely British to my untrained ear, so if casting a Ghanaian actress/narrator like Akosua Busia wasn’t an option, the publisher might have opted for a Brit with an ear for Ghanaian accents, Adjoa Andoh. As any dedicated audiophile knows, a narrator can make-or-break a recording...Soneela Nankani is incredibly talented, but she did seem somewhat misplaced here.

The Invisible Life of Addie Larue (V.E. Schwab), eBook and aBook (narr. Julia Whelan). Apparently I was looking so forward to this title, I pre-ordered both the eBook and aBook?? No matter -- at nearly 500 pages and 17+ hours of audio, it was nice to be able to switch off. 

ADDIE LARUE boasts all the signatures of Schwab’s narrative style: characters whose very humanness is their greatest asset and foible; stories with sweeping scope distilled to the experience of only one or two characters; lush, endlessly quotable prose; strong, subtle, deeply-feeling women looking to make their own way in a world that would very much like them to shut up and know their place.

In a moment of desperation, Adeline “Addie” Larue makes a Faustian bargain with a god who comes from the shadows. She gets what she wants -- time, freedom -- and what she doesn’t: no one who meets Addie can remember her. Until someone can.

No spoilers here, but it was impossible not to be swept away by the nuance and inventiveness of Schwab’s latest. Did it transport me as far or as fast as SHADES OF MAGIC? No. But was it lovely to be in expert narrative hands, on a journey tracing one woman’s defiance of everything the world thought she should be? You bet. 

This was probably Julia Whelan’s finest narration since EDUCATED, so it goes without saying, I highly recommend the audio.

[marginalgloss]

A little while ago I wrote about Swimming to Cambodia, a copy of which I discovered in a charity shop. I read it and I liked it a lot. And then for a while I forgot about Spalding Gray until one day my wife pointed him out to me in the film Beaches. I think he played a doctor of some kind — I wasn’t really paying attention — but it was enough to get me thinking about his stuff again.

I started trawling YouTube for what I could find. Most of his stuff is out of print, but there at least you can find a few of the monologues — Terrors of Pleasure, Gray’s Anatomy and It’s a Slippery Slope are all delightful. The most interesting primer is Steven Soderbergh’s documentary And Everything is Going Fine, which is assembled entirely from excerpts from Gray’s monologues and interviews. It’s a deft, skilful, and beautifully elegiac piece of work which feels more like one great final performance than it does a conventional biography. Appropriate, perhaps, given that so much of what Gray did was rendering up his life through storytelling. 

I also bought a couple of books: Impossible Vacation, which is the only novel Gray published, and the posthumous collection of extracts from his journals. Apparently he laboured for years over the text of Impossible Vacation, with the original draft running to over a thousand pages — the monologue Monster in a Box was actually performed with the manuscript sitting in a scruffy cardboard box at his elbow. The final published form of Impossible Vacation is a relatively svelte few hundred pages in paperback, which is enough to make anyone wonder about the scale of the original. 

I was expecting Impossible Vacation to be a bit more novel-like. I was expecting a modern American comic story along the lines of A Confederacy of Dunces, perhaps. But in fact, the novel is a lightly fictionalised version of Gray’s own life. And that’s about as ‘light’ as it gets: it’s funny, but it’s also just as self-involved as any of his monologues. Gray’s protagonist is renamed Brewster North, but not much detective work is required to map North to the author. Much of the novel is mirrored elsewhere in Gray’s stories from the stage: the trip to India, his brief stint as an actor in pornographic movies, the experimental theatre scene in New York; and above all the memory of his mother, and the lasting effects of her suicide. 

If you read (and watch) far enough into Gray’s work it feels a little like wandering into a hall of mirrors: we see the same selves and preoccupations reflected over and over again, sometimes in distorted or disturbing ways. Glimpsed in passing the effect is comic, but after a while the effect becomes haunting. There is a moment in Gray’s Anatomy where he describes watching a student in a storytelling workshop, and staring into her eyes, and watching her face somehow disintegrate until the flesh falls from her skull and her face becomes a sort of ball of white light. Sometimes that’s what reading his stories feels like: the contortions of history and storytelling are subject to a relentless focus that becomes so intense that the reader is lulled into a sort of hypnotic compliance. 

This feeling of falling into a sort of dissociative trance is not uncommon in his work; it seems emblematic of a sort of transcendental feeling that Gray was perpetually striving for. Hence the dream of the ‘perfect moment’ in Swimming to Cambodia, hence escapism via skiing in It’s a Slippery Slope. Set against that dream of escape is everything the real world has to offer: the anguish of the domestic; the problems caused by anxiety, depression, drinking; the sad, strange, tortuous complications of his love life. In these respects, it hasn’t aged well – I can imagine audiences today having a little less patience for Gray’s occasional sways into mysticism. And his attitude towards women might at times be generously described as ‘problematic’. In the 90s perhaps it was easier to dismiss his casual reports of philandering as the trappings of the tortured artist; today it only seems sad, and a little wearying.

So why is it that I find his stuff so appealing? I’m not in the habit of reading biography. I like podcasts, but while Gray seems like a model for all kinds of modern tendencies in vlogging, I’m not aware of anyone who is doing exactly what he did in the same way he did it. Current trends towards the confessional in stand-up comedy don’t quite fit, either. The form of the thing is so important. He was as much a performer as he was a storyteller. The closest equivalent that I know of is David Sedaris, and I find his stuff intolerable. There are a few reasons for this, but to me Sedaris always seems convinced that the problem is with other people. He is stuck in a mode of perpetual disdain. But with Gray, we are never really left in any doubt that this author is in fact the only author of his own troubles. And yet he also knows how to have fun, sometimes; and I find that endearing because it seems to me more honest, and less spiteful.

One point of comparison is Proust. I don’t mean to say Gray’s prose is exactly Proustian, but they have an endearing amount in common. There’s a perpetual anxiety about death and entropy that often manifests itself as hypochondria. There’s the obsession with the mother, the retiring nature, the preoccupation with irony. The pursuit of the perfect moment through which emotion can become recollected in tranquility. And though both took to entirely different forms of media, it seems like both were attempting something a level of formal innovation which, while initially seeming familiar, approached a new way of committing memory and experience into art.   

Impossible Vacation is often intense but it’s not always laugh-out-loud funny. More often it seems possessed by a restless, struggling, enquiring energy. Sometimes the writing is inspired, but it lacks form – the feeling of form that was so dominant in the monologues themselves. As it stands, you wouldn’t consider half of the things that go on in the book as the plot for a novel because (like life) they don’t entirely cohere. And the story ends before it ever really begins, though it does at least contrive a neat circular ending that recalls (lightly) Finnegans Wake. 

Still, it’s a shame that the novel is out of print because, much like his monologues, it’s certainly worthwhile; the published journals of Spalding Gray are an entirely different and more difficult thing. The journals are kind of a mess. An enormous amount of biographical heavy lifting is provided by the notes and annotations by the editor, Nell Casey, and without this context any reader would struggle to discern what was going on. But the notes are pretty comprehensive, and in the end this seems as close to a biography as we are ever likely to get. It does, however, take a long time to get going. The journal entries all through the 70s and early 80s are sketchy, and not especially interesting. A lot of the time they’re purely expressive, and we have to be told what it is exactly that they are referring to. It’s only once the monologues get going that his private style becomes elaborate and involved enough to be worth reading.  

The picture we get of Gray is less of a single-minded auteur and more of a man who sort of wandered-or-fell into fame as a monologuist. After the fame and exposure of Swimming to Cambodia there is a sense of freewheeling — of doing what he’s doing because it’s what he does, and it’s rarely entirely under his own steam. He is perpetually worried, questioning, uncomfortable. Eventually he would become concerned with the idea that he had used himself up, and that he had no private life worth living outside the performances. But some of this was ameliorated by the late in life arrival of children and a more settled family situation. For a while, he thought himself happier than he had ever been.

In 2001, Gray was involved in a terrible car crash while on holiday in Ireland. His injuries included a broken hip and a fractured skull that likely caused brain damage. The accident changed his life, and afterwards he was never the same. The journal entries from after this point are harrowing — there is no other word for it. I knew of his eventual suicide, but I had no idea until of the extent to which depression utterly consumed his life. I didn’t know about the frequent hospitalisations, the shock treatment, and the pain his failed suicide attempts caused on others. There aren’t many extracts from this time shown, but what we are given was enough at times to make me wonder if any of it should have been published at all. But perhaps there is a purpose in trying to give a picture of the anguish he was in. 

All through his life Gray had been preoccupied with the idea of his mother taking her own life. The story he told about this was that this was precipitated by his parents moving house, to a new place away from the ocean, which his mother could never feel at home in. After the accident he and his family also moved house, and he came to regret this decision intensely. The editor Nell Casey calls this ‘his obsession, a mythic rant’. Gray cannot seem to accept the idea that a house might be, as a psychologist puts it, ‘a pile of sticks’. Here is how Gray considers trying to explain it to his sons:

‘…And they said, I’m sure, that, you know, Mrs. Gray—my mom—has other problems about the house, it must be symbolic of something, that same old Freudian rap, you know, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, sometimes a house is just a house. She missed the house. It wasn’t symbolic of something, she really missed walking along the sea. I miss walking in the village, I miss the cemetery, I miss hundreds of things. But boys, listen: when you get to that point, where you have been driven so crazy by something, like for me, when I think about the house, it’s not me thinking about it, it’s thinking me…’

[fyeahwaywardvictorians]

Some ramblings about the Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls and Victorian attitudes towards women and suicide

Despite it being my main hyperfixation at the moment, one of the things that bugs me about the asylum book is the framing of Emily’s suicide attempt as an act of rebellion against society.

Throughout my years of obsessing over Victorian culture, one thing that comes up again and again is the disturbing implication that suicide was considered the inevitable, or even honorable, course of action for certain women--namely those who lost their virginity before marriage, or “fallen women” as they were often referred to.

The romanticized depictions of women drowning themselves that are discussed--and unintentionally(?) perpetuated--in the book, existed not in spite of attitudes towards female suicide, but because of them. Because a woman’s role in Victorian society was that of a wife and mother, one who was made unsuitable for such a role by premarital sex--even in the case of rape--would be viewed as a burden on society at best, and an actively destructive influence at worst.

Don’t get me wrong here; there was absolutely a stigma against suicide regardless of circumstances, and it is historically accurate that Emily would be shamed and sent to the asylum for it. It was a classic “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” kind of double bind.

Probably the most blatant instance of a fallen woman’s suicide being romanticized in Victorian literature comes from Thomas Hood’s poem, The Bridge of Sighs, which is essentially an ode to the corpse of a prostitute. An excerpt:

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonour Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

The clear implication here is that the woman in question has been at least partially redeemed by her suicide. (Note that this poem was controversial for being too sympathetic to prostitutes.)

Likewise, Charles Dickens tended to treat the suicides of fallen women as tragic, but more or less inevitable. In Oliver Twist, the prostitute Nancy remarks:

How  many  times  do  you  read  of  such  as  me  who  spring  into the  tide,  and  leave  no  living  thing  to  care  for  or  bewail them.  It may  be  years  hence,  or  it  may  be  only  months,  but I shall  come  to  that  at last.

It’s worth noting that, on the whole, Nancy is portrayed sympathetically, and that she ultimately dies by murder rather than suicide. (She is brutally beaten to death by her pimp.)

Regardless of how much sympathy they receive from their authors, the majority of fallen woman in Victorian literature die by the end of the stories they feature in, either by suicide or circumstance. The title character of Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary swallows arsenic after a string of extravagant spending and extramarital affairs. In Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey, Dorian’s first major crime is unceremoniously dumping his fiance for petty reasons, resulting in her suicide. The breaking of the engagement is framed as being equivalent to murder, implying that suicide is the inevitable fate of a woman scorned. 

Those who do not die by suicide are killed off by illness or circumstance, usually after a great deal of suffering. Examples include the eponymous character of Elizabeth Gaskell’s Mary Barton, and Lady Isobel in Ellen Wood’s East Lynne.

Even rape victims are not exempt. More the most part, Thomas Hardy’s novel Tess of D’Ubervilles is a deconstruction of the fallen woman trope; the title character is described by the author as “a pure woman,” and the mistreatment that she experiences as a result of being raped is overtly framed as an injustice on the part of society. Nonetheless, she is hanged after killing her rapist. 

Even the few fallen women who are not killed by their authors suffer for their actions, and typically deliver a monologue or two about their suicidal feelings. Charles Dickens includes two characters of this archetype, Martha Endell and Emily Peggotty, in David Copperfield. Although both are ultimately redeemed, they express deep shame and suicidal feelings.

Standing at the edge of the Thames, Martha exclaims:

I know that I belong to it. I know that it’s the natural company of such as I am! It comes from country places, where there was once no harm in it—and it creeps through the dismal streets, defiled and miserable—and it goes away, like my life, to a great sea, that is always troubled—and I feel that I must go with it!

In the same scene:

How can I go on as I am, a solitary curse to myself, a living disgrace to everyone I come near!

In the same novel, Emily Peggotty runs away from home in disgrace after a one night stand. She mentions on a few occasions that that she considers her disgrace to be a fate worse than death. Later on, her rival Rosa Dartle outright suicide-baits her:

‘Hide yourself... if not at home, somewhere. Let it be somewhere beyond reach; in some obscure life—or, better still, in some obscure death. I wonder, if your loving heart will not break, you have found no way of helping it to be still! I have heard of such means sometimes. I believe they may be easily found.’    

Although both Martha Endell and Emily Peggotty are implied to live out full, normal lives, they must flee to Australia in order to escape their own reputations.

Circling back to Emily with a Y and the Asylum, I agree with the book’s assertion that Emily and Anne’s suicide attempt was by no means an act of madness or even mental illness in the modern sense, but I don’t think it was an assertion of defiance or the most rational way of dealing with the situation, either.

Simply put, they were manipulated into it. Not only by the Count DeRothsburg--given that several of his previous victims wound up in the Asylum, and the fact that having any witnesses to his crimes going insane and/or killing themselves would be very convenient for him, it would not be unreasonable to suspect that he intentionally drove them to suicide--but by a society that saw little use for the victims of sexual exploitation.

This interpretation works from the standpoint of character arc, as well. The first time she is victimized, Emily naively assumes that suicide is her only option. By the climax of the novel, she has learned to question social norms and recognize the systemic injustice that pushed her to that conclusion, and, with this knowledge, she instead makes the decision to destroy these institutions rather than herself, and ultimately comes out victorious.

(Until the contrived mass suicide at the ending, which pretty much obliterates all that, so I’m just gonna pretend it’s non-canon.)

Note: Here’s some sources/more reading on the fallen woman archetype and Victorian attitudes towards suicide, in case you’re as nerdy as I am and wanted to read more:

https://opus.uleth.ca/bitstream/handle/10133/241/MR17382.pdf?sequence=3&isAllowed=y

http://www.victorianweb.org/books/suicide/07.html

[annarellix]

HERE FOR THE DRAMA by  Kate Bromley  - EXCERPT

Book Summary: This summer, it's much ado about everything.

Becoming a famous playwright is all Winnie ever dreamed about. For now, though, she'll have to settle for assisting the celebrated, sharp-witted feminist playwright Juliette Brassard. When an experimental theater company in London, England decides to stage Juliette's most renowned play, The Lights of Trafalgar, Winnie and Juliette pack their bags and hop across the pond.

But the trip goes sideways faster than you can say "tea and crumpets". Juliette stubbornly vetoes the director's every choice, and Winnie's left stage-managing their relationship. Winnie's own work seems to have stalled, and though Juliette keeps promising to read it, she always has some vague reason why she can't. Then, Juliette's nephew Liam enters stage left. He's handsome, he's smart, he is devastatingly British, and he and Winnie have sizzling chemistry. But as her boss's nephew, Liam is definitely off-limits, so Winnie has to keep their burgeoning relationship on the down-low from Juliette. What could go wrong?

Balancing a production seemingly headed for disaster, a secret romance, and the sweetest, most rambunctious rescue dog, will Winnie save the play, make her own dreams come true, and find true love along the way--or will the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune get the best of her?

Buy Links: BookShop.org Harlequin Barnes & Noble Amazon Books-A-Million Powell’s

The Author: KATE BROMLEY lives in New York City with her husband, son, and her somewhat excessive collection of romance novels (It’s not hoarding if it’s books, right?). She was a preschool teacher for seven years and is now focusing full-time on combining her two great passions – writing swoon-worthy love stories and making people laugh. She is also the author of Talk Bookish to Me.

Social Links: Author Website Twitter: @kbromleywrites Instagram: @katebromleywrites Facebook: @katebromleywrites Goodreads

EXCERPT:

“I’m here and I have coffee!” After five years as a personal assistant, I have found that entering a chaotic scene with caffeine is the quickest way to ease panic. It’s a distraction, it boosts morale, and if you’re working in the ever-intense theater world, it’s often as necessary as breathing. Roshni, our second assistant, is quick to approach as the penthouse door swings closed behind me. She’s wearing a knee-length floral romper, and her flawless ebony hair is parted just off to the side. If I wore a romper, it’d look like a man’s bathing costume circa 1916, but on Roshni, it’s the ultimate embodiment of summer fun. I’m still not positive if I want to be her or marry her, but we’ve happily settled on being ride or die work friends in the meantime. “Thank you so much,” she says, scooping her iced hazelnut coffee out of the to-go tray I’m carrying and casting a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Okay, so, two things. One, I accidentally knocked a pile of papers off Juliette’s desk, which then led to her calling me an anarchist and threatening to have me arrested. And two, she thinks you’re going to London.” “What makes you say that?” “She straight-up told me you were going to London.” “I am not going to London,” I announce, making my voice loud enough to carry through the spacious four-bedroom apartment. With almost a decade of drama study under my belt, my vocal projection is legit. “Why are you always so resistant to anything remotely ex-citing? To stand still is to go backwards, Winnie.” I hear her before I see her. Juliette Brassard. My boss of five years, my pseudo-mother, my often-combative sibling, and the perpetual bane of my existence. Working for her is tiring, demanding, slightly monotonous and bizarre, but I love every second of it. She looks the same as she does most days. Wide-legged pants and a layered top. Always layered. Today it’s a beige cotton shirt and a charcoal vintage vest. Her straight gray-brown hair just reaches her shoulders and thick-rimmed glasses cover her ceaselessly curious chestnut eyes. Her style is a fair reflection of her life—eclectic and casual but secretly expensive. “It was never the plan for me to go to London,” I tell her. “Roshni is going with you, and you were perfectly happy with the arrangements yesterday.” “Yes, well, happiness is fleeting, and I realized today that I need my whole team with me if this trip is going to be a success.” “I checked with the airline this morning,” Roshni says, taking a tentative step forward. “And apparently there’s one seat left in first class.” I shoot her a loving glare as Juliette raises a victorious arm in her direction. “You see? It’s a sign from the universe.” “It’s not a sign from the universe,” I counter. “It’s a ridiculous amount of money to pay, and you’re probably the only non-tech billionaire who’s willing to spend that much for a fully reclining seat.” “A noble sentiment. You should preach that sermon to the bare foot that caressed our cheeks the last time we sat in coach.” “Okay, we had one uncomfortable flight from LA, and you know full well that the guy was wearing socks.” “I don’t know that, Winnie. I’ve repressed the memory so deep into my subconscious that I’ll be shuffling around this apartment and whispering about phantom feet until I’m ninety.” She spins away with her typical dramatic flair, opting to walk over to the windows and gazing out at the traffic below. She also covertly checks to see if I’m still watching her. I choose to ignore her attention-seeking behavior and in-stead place our drinks down on an antique side table. With my hands now free, I pick up a stack of opened event invitations that I left there the day before, giving them one final look over before handing them to Roshni, who’s still standing nearby. “I’ll reorganize the papers on her desk,” I tell her. “Just RSVP to these, and then we can go over tomorrow’s itinerary. Blue Post-its are a yes. Yellows are a no.” “Blue, yes. Yellow, no. Got it.” She exits the room with her coffee and the invites, seemingly happy to get out of the fray. If only I was so lucky. Juliette’s been dropping hints about me going on this trip with them for the past week, but I’ve always managed to side-step the issue. And now, she’s brought the battle to my door-step. Or I guess it’s really her doorstep, since she lives here. And what a doorstep it is. Twenty floors up on a cobbled Tribeca street, you’d either have to be born into money or wildly successful to own one of these grandly scaled units. Juliette is both. Already a border-line heiress thanks to her Manhattan real-estate mogul father, she then went on to become one of the city’s most celebrated playwrights. She was given everything but still hustled like crazy for her career and threw all of her time and energy into mastering her craft. Luckily for her, it proved to be a lethal combination. As a native New Yorker and a fiercely proud West-Sider, Juliette’s lived in this apartment for as long as I’ve worked for her. The furniture is mismatched and romantic, and white walls are splashed with green from her dozens of potted plants. Every available surface is covered with old scripts, books, or mugs with half-drunk cups of tea. It’s scholarly chic. If Jane Austen ever traveled forward through time, I like to imagine that this is what her apartment would look like. Alas, dear Jane is nowhere to be found as Juliette steps away from the windows, moving through the space to sit on the arm of her tufted couch. “Give me one good reason why you can’t go on this trip.” I roll my shoulders, trying to relieve a sudden stress knot before taking a much-needed sip of my latte. “Because you’re leaving tonight. I’m not mentally or physically prepared, and this is supposed to be my yearly vacation time. I have projects that I need to work on, too.” “Yes, your grand opus of a play that you’re forever editing. Maybe the change of scenery will inspire you. In London, love and scandal are considered the best sweeteners of tea.” “Don’t try to mind-trick me with John Osborne quotes.” Juliette groans and pushes up off the sofa. “I’m only trying to help you.” “It would help me if you read my play and told me what you think.” She just looks at me then and says nothing, no doubt trying to come up with another lackluster excuse. I’ve asked her to read my play dozens of times over the years, but she always finds a reason not to. She’s too busy, her mind is clouded, she’s not in the right mood. “I’ll read it when it’s finished. Whatever I say now would alter your creative course.” Ah, so she doesn’t want to sway my process. Not likely. Juliette’s perpetually happy to give her two cents on everything, especially on another playwright’s work. “As far as London,” she goes on, “you just need to think about it more. Mull it over, let the idea sink in, and if you could agree to come with us in the next ten to fifteen minutes, that would be great.” She goes to leave the room after that but stops short when her cell phone starts ringing. She looks around but doesn’t find it. I do the same until she digs into the couch cushions and eventually plucks it out. She checks the caller ID and smiles as she answers. “Liam! To what do I owe the pleasure?” A little out of breath from her impromptu sofa wrestling match, she twists around and away from me, walking over to the windowsill and picking up a small watering can. She sprinkles her first row of plant babies as she listens to his response. Liam is her nephew and lives in London, which is also where her sister, Isabelle, has lived since she moved there in her twenties. I’ve never met her or him, but I have sent Liam gifts on Juliette’s behalf every Christmas and on his birthday. “That’s right,” she says, moving on to the next row of plants. “I’m getting in tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. Will I be seeing you?” She tries to water the oversized ficus in the corner, but the can is empty. “Sounds great! Here, I’m passing you over to Winnie for a second. Do me a favor and convince her to come on the trip with me. She’s being obstinate.” “What? No.” My protest is in vain as Juliette’s phone is already in flight. I barely catch it as she disappears into the kitchen, shaking the empty watering can over her shoulder in response. I clear my throat and put the phone to my ear. “Hello, Liam.” “Hello, is Winnie there, please?” he asks with mock seriousness. I fail to suppress my involuntary smile at his polite request and inviting British accent. “This is she,” I answer back. “Excellent, just the person I was hoping to speak to.” “My sentiments exactly. To be honest, I’ve secretly been dying to talk to you for years.” “Have you really?” he asks, surprised. “No, not really. I don’t even know you.” He says nothing, and I think I might have scared him a bit. “Sorry,” I lightly amend, “I thought we were pretending that we actually meant to have this conversation.” “Yes, well, that was my initial intention, but it turns out you’re much more convincing than I am. I can only assume that you’ve had formal training?” “That assumption would be correct.” “I should have figured.” His voice is surprisingly calm, sounding more like one of my old improv buddies and less like a stranger who’s thousands of miles away. “So,” he goes on, “I’ve been instructed by my aunt to convince you to come to London.” “She does seem to have that idea stuck in her head.” “There’s much to recommend it, of course. Red buses. A phenomenal bridge. How do you feel about museums?” “I hate them,” I tease. “Absolutely. Nothing to be learned from there. And what about parks?” “Not into them at all.” “Couldn’t agree more. I’m violently allergic to pollen, and why should I be forced to carry an EpiPen just so everyone else can enjoy natural beauty? Pure selfishness on their end.” I smile to myself and pivot around so I’m no longer standing still. “I knew you couldn’t be as normal as you originally sounded. It’s to be expected, though, since you do share a bloodline with Juliette.” “Yes, we had hoped lunacy would skip a generation, but apparently not.” He pauses then, and I somehow know that he’s smiling, too. “So, how am I faring on my quest so far? Are you packing your bags at this very moment?” “Unfortunately not. I somehow forgot to bring all my lug-gage and clothes with me to work today, but still, this has been a very pleasant verbal exchange thus far.” “For me as well. Can I ask what’s holding you back from taking the trip?” “You may, but I may also choose not to answer.” “Ah, a lady of secrets, are we?” “Oh yes,” I answer dramatically. “A lady of many secrets and a play that I need to finish in seventeen days if I’m going to make a contest deadline.” “Really? I take it that you’re a playwright as well, then?” “Afraid so.” “In that case, as you have a very good reason to stay at home rather than crossing the Atlantic, I won’t try to sway you any further…but know that I do so very reluctantly.” “I appreciate that.” Juliette sashays back into the room then, the watering can forgotten as she plops down onto the couch with one of her many notebooks. I’ll have to see to the rest of the plants later. She props her feet up on the coffee table and begins to write as I make my way towards her. “Alright, well, your aunt is now back, so I’ll get going.” “It was very nice meeting you, Winnie.” “We didn’t actually meet,” I say, correcting him. “But it sort of feels like we did.” I find myself grinning once more and shift away so Juliette won’t notice. “I guess it does,” I admit. “Bye, Liam.” “Goodbye, Winnie.” I pivot back around and hand the phone over. Juliette looks at me with a mischievous sort of smirk as I shake my head and step away to hang my bag in the entryway closet.

Excerpted from Here For the Drama by Kate Bromley, Copyright © 2022 by Kate Bromley Published by Graydon House Books.

[maddysacademics]

Update!

I’ve been away on hiatus as I’ve been revising for mocks, then doing mocks, then taking a well-deserved break. I’m super proud to let you guys know that I got A*A*A in my mock exams!!!! My lowest grade was English with an A+, which is an excellent achievement for year 12. I’m also currently working on English coursework, Media coursework, an EPQ and another project. Here’s some info on them!

My English coursework requires me to read Frankenstein independently and analyse for themes and language. I then have to read a plethora of other literature- whether that’s summaries or excerpts before the whole book- and compare it to one other piece. This could be a poetry collection, a novel, a collection of short stories, or a play. I’m unsure of what I’d like to do, I have a list of literature I’m going to research, then I’ll whittle it down and read a few pieces in whole before making my final decision. Currently some pieces I’m considering are:

1984

Songs of Innocence and Experience

The Tempest

Machinal

I am open to all themes to study at the moment (except science, I hate science). I’d love to pick something where I could show off my political knowledge, using it to give further insights into ideologies that are perpetuated through small narrative arcs and symbolism.

My Media coursework is all about producing a magazine aimed at 16-24 year olds produced by an independent company; therefore it needs to be a niche topic, since indie companies usually produce niche-orientated products. My niche is punk, and I’m going to be exploring punk music, fashion and ideology all wrapped into one. I think it’s going to be an advantage that we’re in this age range as it’s all about playing to your own strengths and making a product you’d enjoy, because if you do that, you’ve done the task. I have to write all my own text, use all original images, and photoshop it myself. Currently we’re in pre-production, and here’s what I have to produce:

Two front covers of different editions (I’m doing a Pride Month edition and World Cultural Day edition)

A double page spread (Mine is on international punk music)

A website home page with one hyperlink

One article accessed from the website

An audiovisual clip either on the home page or the article

My EPQ is going to be about something I find fun and interesting that I won’t get bored of, but also about something that will be relevant to my university courses, specifically the sociological side. The question I’ll be answering is “Examine how romantic relationships are presented in children’s (8-12) TV shows”. I’ll be using Adventure Time (AT), The Next Step (TNS), and Steven Universe (SU)  to refer to in their entirety, as well as other shows that have potentially influenced kid’s TV, such as Looney Tunes. I’ll be interviewing my media teacher for his opinion, and talking to the children I babysit informally about how they view relationships based on what they watch.

The additional project I do will be purely for supercurricular purposes, and I’d like it to be about politics. I’ve covered the sociological and psychological aspect of my courses in my EPQ, so I want to challenge myself to also look at politics. I think I’m going to do a similar thing and look at politics in conjunction with something else, such as a piece of literature or a media product. I was thinking maybe evaluating if Animal Farm is about George Orwell’s pessimism towards all forms of government or about his communistic ideals- but this is all under review for now!

All I can say is I’m back to blogging about extra academic bits and bobs for now until next time we have major exams. I should be somewhat active during summer, but I do also need to rest after my hard work. See you next time for actual academic input!

[gadgetgirl71]

Book Blitz: Blood and Bone by Paula Dombrowiak

Blood and Bone Paula Dombrowiak (The Blood and Bone Series, #1) Publication date: October 30th 2020 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Love is complicated, messy, and sometimes painful but oh so worth it. A heartbreaking journey through love, friendship, family, and fame.

Music brought them together, addiction tore them apart, loyalty saved them. It was always Jack and Mia, everyone else was just collateral damage.

Jack O’Donnell‘s life was teetering on the edge. Forced, as a teenager, to make a decision that would change his life forever, he left his hometown to pursue a music career with collaborator Mia Stone. Living in a van by the beach was not the glamorous Los Angeles lifestyle they had envisioned but sparked the most creative time of their lives. Making it big was all they ever wanted but when it happened, friendships were tested, hearts were broken, and lives were changed forever.

Erin Langford is a seasoned journalist tasked with writing a feature on Jack O’Donnell. Being at the right place at the right moment puts Erin in a unique position to get the story, but at what cost? Having preconceived notions about Jack’s rock star image, she learns there is more to a story than just the headlines. The two embark on a journey through Jack’s past where he recounts the rise and fall of his band Mogo and the irreplaceable bond between himself and collaborator Mia Stone. The feature she thought she was going to write, turns into so much more.

Blood and Bone is an evocative story told in alternating time periods, from the early ’90s to the present day about deep bonds between flawed people whose only outlet of self-expression is through their music.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Smashwords

—

EXCERPT:

“I didn’t get this gig because of my looks.” Erin explained but he seemed unfazed. “Just so you know.” Never had she cared about such a thing from any other interview, but she wanted Jack to respect her. That was the only way this interview would be taken seriously.

“If you say so.” He did not seem convinced.

“I have a pretty extensive portfolio.” She felt compelled to make him understand that she was not being used as bait or whatever he thought. “Edge is just one of the magazines that I’ve written for.” She clarified. “You can look up my work.”

“I believe you.” Jack said putting his hands up but it was Erin who was not convinced now.

Returning to business. “I’m going to turn on my recorder.” She told him.

“Ah, we’re getting serious now.” Jack leaned back in his seat, trying to appear comfortable but everything about him was tense.

“Where should we start?” Jack asked, smoothing his hair with one nervous swipe of his fingers.

Erin took out her notebook and clicked the pen open, always well prepared. The waitress dropped off their drinks. She discretely placed a napkin near Jack with her name and number written on it. This angered Erin as she felt slightly protective over Jack after the events of the morning and gave the waitress the stink eye as she left the table.

Jack ignored the waitress and gave all his attention to Erin, waiting for her to continue. “You look displeased.” Jack suggested.

“I just think that’s presumptuous.” Erin motioned to the napkin.

“How so?” Jack cocked his head.

“Well, for one, we could be on a date.” Erin said in an annoyed tone.

“Would you like for us to be on a date?” Jack’s smile unnerved her.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Erin scoffed.

“You brought it up.” Jack shrugged innocently.

“Ok, that’s not…” Erin was frustrated. “Never mind.” She settled back in.

Erin cleared her throat and went back to business. “It’s been 20 years since the first album came out. I’d like to go back to how the band was formed. There’s not a lot of information on this subject, other than you being high school friends, but I’d like to go a little deeper and talk about what it was like before the fame.” She said.

Erin could see a slight tick at the corner of Jack’s eye. “If that’s ok.” She added, swallowing hard.

Jack took a sip of his cappuccino and Erin could tell he was very pleased with it. “I was a sixteen-year-old asshole of a kid who was destined to drop out of school and end up in jail.” He said. “Music was all I had.”

“Well, you did drop out and you did end up in jail, on more than one occasion.” Erin sifted through her notes. “But my guess is that there was a lot that happened in between.” She took a sip of her latte. Every place made chai differently and she was not impressed but it was drinkable. She was partial to a shop around the corner from her apartment in Queens.

Jack chuckled. “That’s a matter of public record.”

“You said music was all you had. Why?”

Jack’s expression darkened.

“How did the band get formed?” Erin rephrased.

“It’s how every great love story begins.” A touch of nostalgia in his eyes. “I met a girl.” A smile spread across his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I met a girl and she ruined me forever.”

Erin could not tell if he was talking about Mia or Amber. She only knew that she wanted to find out.

Author Bio:

Paula Dombrowiak grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois but currently lives in Arizona. She is the author of Blood and Bone, her first adult romance novel which combines her love of music and imperfect relationships. Paula is a lifelong music junkie, whose wardrobe consists of band T-shirts and leggings which are perpetually covered in pet hair. Music is what inspires her storytelling.

Paula is currently working on a sequel to Blood and Bone which focuses on Hayley O'Donnell's music career while living in her fathers shadow.

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[ladyjaneasher-blog]

Hey I came across Philip Normans book and as I'm not familiar with him I was wondering what was wrong with him as a lot of people seem to dislike him

short answer:

pictured here is philip norman writing anything ever.

long answer:

i honestly don’t know where to even start, dear anon. it would be easier for me to list what isn’t wrong with philip norman. i can’t tell you what people as a whole dislike about him, but i can tell what i dislike about him. my immediate kneejerk reaction to your question was this poem of norman referencing paul published in the sunday times in the early 70s:

O deified Scouse, with unmusical spouseFor the clichés and cloy you unload,To an anodyne tune may they bury you soonIn the middlemost midst of the road.

to paraphrase a comment i read on heydullblog a while ago: nothing like a biographer hoping for the speedy death of one of his (later) subjects. 

it exemplifies my problem with norman: he’s made a living out of holding a grudge for the pettiest reasons. he envied paul, not only because he was “good-looking” (and boy, does he veer off into paragraphes about paul’s “doe-eyes”, “angelic” “delicate features” only “saved” from girlishness by his “five-o’clock-shadow”) but also for his “mounting riches” and his dating of “a classy young actress”. his envy turned into outright dislike for paul. norman saw paul’s failed relationship with jane as his “public sense of duty” weakening; he blamed paul for the end of the beatles, felt that he had turned into a “self-satisfied lightweight” and you can almost feel his satisfied glee whenever he feels that paul’s life veers of its “perfectly polished-rails”.    

i’ve read a few books by norman – most recently paul mccartney: the life – and excerpts of others, and each time i’ve come to the same conclusion: norman comes across as a very peculiar mix of a self-importantance, jealousy and nastiness. much like other authors of his caliber – sounes comes to mind – he seems to have been motivated by these emotions that had left him embittered enough to write books, rampant with confirmation bias, one-sided accounts, mistakes, snipes, digs and disproven or outdated anecdotes, hardly offering any new insights. yet i don’t want to dictate how you think about norman, so i present to you some pearls of wisdom by our dearest of beatles biographers to make up your own mind about how much he’s on the mark – or how far off:

“Barrow later discovered that when they’d signed their management contract, Paul had told Brian that if the Beatles didn’t work out, he was determined to become a star on his own.”

‘[And] unlike John (and Brian), Paul did not seem to have any half-concealed demons to deal with.’

“Over the next six years, Barrow would realise that the inexhaustible geniality Paul showed the world was not always replicated in private.”

“[…] Frieda Kelly[…]” (throughout the entire book, I might add)

“With the Beatles brought a radical change of image, illustrating the vastly altered demographic of those who were now with them. On the Please Please Me album cover, four cheery, unabashedly working-class lads had grinned down a stairwell at EMI’s Manchester Square headquarters, with Paul’s good looks barely noticeable. Now they were shown as solemn, polo-necked faces half in shadow against a plain black background, less like pop musicians than a quartet of Parisian art students. It was an ambience which suited none of them better than Paul, that one-time art student manqué.”

[1968/1969] “John had always been recognised as an uncontrollable maverick, but being a Paul fan involved a strong feeling of proprietorship. Like so many tut-tutting aunts, the gate pickets now observed the change from his former dandified, fastidious self; the bushy black beard, the perceptible weight-gain, the baggy tweed overcoat he seemed to wear all the time. To the fans, it signified how ‘she’ [Linda] had got her hooks into him; what it actually signified was that he was happy.”

[1968/1969] “His [Paul’s] personal life thus replenished and stabilised, he now turned his attention to replenishing and stabilising the Beatles after their ordeal with the White Album.”

“Knowing now just how much McCartney meant to Paul–and feeling a twinge of compassion for one who’d never before invited such an emotion–Ringo talked the others into reinstating its 17 April release.”

In the same week, Stella’s first collection for Chloé was shown in Paris with the help of her ‘mates’ Kate Moss, Naomi Campbell and Yasmin Le Bon. Paul and Linda were both seated beside the catwalk: he [Paul] in the novel position of applauding someone else, she still with close-cropped hair, the result of prolonged chemotherapy, which gave her face a new gentleness and repose.

The order of [Linda’s] service was as meticulously planned and arranged as a McCartney album tracklist.

However, when the Beatles made the Decca tape, Best had still been with them, so was due a share of royalties from ten tracks used on the Anthology. The first he knew about it was a phone call from the one who’d been so keen to get rid of him [Paul] –the first time they’d spoken since it happened.

all of the above quotes – and keep in mind: these are just a select few that i had at hand from a book that spans around 800 pages of much the same quality of writing – are from paul mccartney: the life, published in 2016(!!!). while norman proclaims to have had a change of heart over the years from his previous assessment of paul in shout!, which he in the very same breath during promotion claims wasn’t really anti-paul:

…it rings hollow. to the point of where i’m not the only one wondering about how much he truly means his words, and how much of it is simply trying to save face in light of his waning monopole on being an authority when it comes to beatles history. he still heavily relies on the same old tired clichés: paul the master manipulator of all around him lacking heart and substance, paul the ambitious starlet ready to sacrifice everything and everyone, determined to make it big, paul the stingy boss of wings, paul the borderline abusive husband to linda’s dichotomy of easy american groupie vs fraught shy housewife trying to escape her domineering husband by way of her career as a photographer and writer. some of them may perhaps contain a kernel of truth, but norman seemingly lacks the ability to acknowledge nuances and the willingness to dig deeper, search for other viewpoints, or consider context. 

he still uses every other opportunity to get his digs in no matter how macabre it may be in the light of events he’s referencing as evidenced by his description of linda’s funeral procession; he, at times, solely relies on people with questionable motives like peter cox for entire chapters without questioning a thing they are saying, or letting the reader hear other voices to provide a more balanced view; he lacks the insight into his subjects as portrayed by his claim that paul’s weight gain and drastic change of looks from ‘68 to ‘70 was brought on by being “happy” with linda or his equally outrageous claim of ringo never having felt a “twinge” of “empathy” for one of his closest friends; paul and john’s relationship is reduced to a rivalry that even to john’s last breath was defined by one-upping each other. although, is it perhaps no wonder considering that paul mccartney: the life seems to be mostly a copy/paste job of his previous books (here a part of shout!, here a part of his john biography).

the less said about shout!, published in the early 80s, the better. suffice it to say that during its promotion, norman titulated john as “three-quarters of the beatles”. yes. i repeat: the less said, the better. it’s only sad that this book helped shape entire generations of authors that would buy into norman’s narrative and perpetuate it decades later.

yet my excerpt of philip norman’s books simply don’t do the man’s tastelessness and scope of grudge-holding justice. for your reading consideration i present you philip norman’s letter to paul from 2005 as well as his obituary for george harrison and his complete dismissal of ringo from an interview in 1987.

to not let this already too long post end on such a note, i feel obliged to throw in this quote by mark lewisohn, who was partly motivated by norman’s… skill, to research the topic on his own:

Mark Lewisohn: “I came to meet Philip Norman. He wanted to meet someone who was a kind of studious Beatles fan, if you like. And when we met it became clear that there were certain areas of the story he was unclear of. There were certain areas that were cloudy. And I said I would research them for him. I was 21 and he said, yes, that would nice. So I still had a job, but in my weekends and evenings I did this research for him. I was so intrigued by the findings, that I just carried on after that. I gave him what he wanted and then carried on researching and I haven’t stopped to this day.”DK: “By the way, what do you think of his book, Shout!? I don’t mean to be putting words into your mouth, but your intent, I think, is to correct a lot of mistakes that have become fact as a result of other people’s biographies of the band. Could you bring that into perspective?”Mark Lewisohn: “Well, when I was less mature, I did want to correct other people’s errors. Errors always offended me, particularly when they resulted from laziness. And I had always wanted to correct other people’s errors. But I’ve grown up, a bit, since then, and with these three books I’m writing, I’m not interested in correcting anything. I’m just telling the story from the beginning. I am starting fresh. And along the way, I am debunking myths right, left and centre. But I am not pointing out what they are, because it is not relevant. Shout!, when it came out in 1981, just after John Lennon was murdered, was the second Beatles biography, with the first being the Hunter Davies biography which came out in ‘68. And it was reckoned by a lot of people to be better than the Hunter Davies book. And because I am in it, and because I was young, and because I was blinded to it, I thought it was a great book. And a lot of people do. It is so stylishly written, and all of that. But the older I’ve got, the more I see where I can no longer agree with my original opinion. Well, Philip Norman came up to me at a recent event and said he professed himself unhappy with some of the things I’ve been saying about his book, so I need to be delicate here. But I do think that it is out of date. It left scope for the job to be done again. That book has had 30 years in the sunshine, but it is in no way the definitive book. I am hoping to write the definitive book that is a lot more comprehensive and is also much more deeply rooted in research.“

mark lewisohn: beatles researcher extraordinaire and classy thrower of shade.

[jenniferfaye34]

#Giveaway + Excerpt ~ The Matchmaker's Rogue by Regina Scott... #books #historical #romance #readers

On Tour with Prism Book Tours

We hope you enjoyed the tour! If you missed any of the stops

you'll find snippets, as well as the link to each full post, below:

Launch - Note from the Author

Welcome to Grace-by-the-Sea, a Regency spa village where everything is designed for your comfort and delight. Just don’t look too closely at those who pass silently in the night. . .

Bookworm Lisa - Review

"The Matchmaker's Rogue was a pleasure to read. I loved the characters. The eccentric residents and the "crazy" aunt all added a wonderful feel to the book. . . . It was the perfect blend of romance, mystery, and townsfolk. I can't wait to see who is matched in the next installment of the series."

Jorie Loves A Story - Excerpt

One of the reasons Jesslyn Chance loved the village of Grace-by-the-Sea is that it rarely changed. The same hot mineral water had been bubbling out of the limestone cliffs since before the Romans had landed in the little horseshoe-shaped cove below. The same families fished from the cove, farmed the chalk Downs above, worked at the spa, married at St. Andrew’s Church, and had babies who grew up to marry and have more babies. For the last hundred years, the same sorts of people, from young misses nervously awaiting their come out to venerable military gentlemen nursing war injuries, had come to drink the spa waters and bathe in the sea. The village had grown up to cater to the needs of its guests, boasting shops and conveniences few of its size ever managed. It was all very civilized. Until you introduced a rogue.

Among the Reads - Review

"It was such fun reading and trying to figure out who to trust and who the smugglers were. . . . While things wrapped up neatly, they didn’t. The ending hints at much more to come in this series: more mysteries to unravel, more adventures. I can’t wait!!"

Christy's Cozy Corners - Review

"I’ve read books and novellas by Regina Scott before, and I am a fan! Her characters are always so well written and lively. The characters in The Matchmaker’s Rogue are no exception. . . . The Matchmaker’s Rogue is a mystery that will keep you guessing and a romance that will leave your heart feeling happy. I can’t wait for more Grace-by-the-Sea books."

Beauty in the Binding - Excerpt

“You see it, don’t you?” her aunt whisper, nodding toward the man approaching them across the polished floor of the Grand Pump Room. “He’s a pirate, a rogue. He’s out to steal our greatest treasure.” Jess took a deep breath and raised her head. “Larkin Denby is no pirate. His mother and sisters live in Upper Grace. Very likely he’s merely here for a visit.”

Heidi Reads... - Excerpt

“Good afternoon, Mr. Denby,” she said, launching into her prepared speech. “Welcome to the spa at Grace-by-the-Sea. I am your hostess, Miss Chance, and this is my assistant Mrs. Tully. If you have any questions or would like an introduction, you have only to ask.” His head snapped up. Though he held her gaze only a moment, as was proper, she felt as if he were memorizing every feature, from the blond curls clustered around her face to her gloved hands resting on the table beside the book. His smile bloomed, and something inside her bloomed with it. “Miss Chance. How nice to see you and your charming aunt again.”

Andi's Book Reviews - Excerpt

“Mr. Denby will get on with the others famously,” she assured her aunt, letting go of her cautiously. “Look, he’s talking with the general like a gentleman.” The two men chatted, strangers making idle conversation as so many of their guests did. Then Lark moved on, leaving the general smiling as he rubbed the paunch straining his waistcoat. “Mr. Denby doesn’t fit in the spa,” Maudie argued. “He doesn’t look the least bit ill. He has no limp, no squint, no sign of a scrofulous cough.” “Neither did most of our visitors to arrive this summer,” Jess pointed out. “Not everyone comes to the spa because they are ill.” She tidied the stack of pamphlets, noticed her hands were trembling, and shook them out. At this rate, her aunt might suggest that Jess take the waters!

Locks, Hooks and Books - Review

"I love Regina’s writing and this one is probably among one of my favorites I have read by her to date. . . . I am giving The Matchmaker’s Rogue five plus stars. I can not wait to see what happens next in the Grace by the Sea series."

Becky on Books - Excerpt

“I am your devoted servant, sir,” he told the commissioner. “But surely there are other ways to identify these smugglers than to spend my time sipping the waters.” “I don’t care if you sip them, dunk yourself in them, or pour them on the ground,” the commissioner had replied, face tight and eyes steely. “Our source says the man we’re after sails from Grace Cove, and we have reason to believe he moves among the gentry, perhaps even the aristocracy. Where else would you expect to find him but at the spa?”

I'm All About Books - Excerpt

Yet it was her eyes that drew him. Large, wide-spaced, and a delicate blue, they made her look as if she were perpetually amazed by the world around her. He and Jess had been close when he’d visited eight years ago, the only two people that young at the spa then. They’d spent every day together, talking, walking, dancing at the assembly, attending church. Nothing had come of it. Nothing could come of it. They were too different—her content with life, him determined to see and do more. Still, perhaps she would indulge in a little gossip now. “Mr. Denby?” she persisted in that soft, lilting voice. “Might I be of assistance?”

Rockin' Book Reviews - Review

"I loved this story about Jesslyn and Lark. It is a sweet romance but has a lot more to offer with all that happened in Grace by the Sea and the spa that is so important to the families that live there. . . . I highly recommend this book to others to read and enjoy."

Remembrancy - Review

"Scott combines intrigue, romance, and small-town loyalty with a setting and characters I want to visit again. Not to mention an ending that makes me want to discover more about this sleepy little village. If you’re a fan of Regency and haven’t read Regina Scott’s books yet, you’re missing out."

Reading Is My SuperPower - Review

"Regina Scott’s books are always great reads, but I’m pretty sure that The Matchmaker’s Rogue is my favorite of hers so far. I can’t wait for book 2 to release – especially after the way this book ends! A story with romance, intrigue, adventure, and endearing humor, The Matchmaker’s Rogue is the perfect next read for fans of Jen Turano, Tessa Dare or Mary Connealy."

The Power of Words - Review

"The Matchmaker’s Rogue is filled with charming and sometimes quirky secondary characters. . . . In addition to the criminal element of smuggling, there’s also the concern of spies and passing of England’s secrets to Napoleon. The author skillfully aroused this reader’s suspicion of almost all of Grace-by-the-Sea residents . . . . The ending arrives at a very satisfying conclusion, with the village coming together in a unique way. Very little is quite as it seems on the surface! I hated to leave Grace-by-the-Sea and its many endearing characters, but there’s the promise of much more to come."

Tell Tale Book Reviews - Excerpt

He smiled at her. “I’m staying at the Mermaid for a few days, and I find myself wondering what to do for entertainment.” “It depends on what you find entertaining.” Said in such a disarming tone, he should not hear iron beneath the words, yet he did. She was being polite but letting him know she expected him to respond in kind. This was no time for coy comments, teasing remarks. She was no longer the young lady looking for companionship to while away the summer.

Singing Librarian Books - Spotlight

Historical Graffiti - Excerpt

Over the next while, she looked for her opportunity. But it soon became apparent she wasn’t the only one interested in the Newcomer. “And what can you tell us about Mr. Denby?” Miss Montgomery, the eldest sister, asked over tea that afternoon. Jess handed her a snowy white porcelain cup of the steaming brew from the wheeled teacart she or Maudie generally rolled from chair to chair. “His family lives nearby, a mother and two sisters.”

Red Headed Book Lady - Review

"My second book by this author and once again she has written another wonderful story. Great characters with a great plot that will keep you reading until the book is finished."

Don't forget to enter the giveaway at the end of this post...

The Matchmaker's Rogue (Grace-by-the-Sea #1) By Regina Scott Historical Romance Paperback & ebook, 272 Pages January 8th 2020 Grace-by-the-Sea: Where romance and adventure come home. Polished Jesslyn Chance has one of the most enviable positions in the little Regency coastal village of Grace-by-the-Sea. She is the hostess of the spa, arranging introductions and entertainments and playing matchmaker to the ladies and gentlemen who come to take the waters, promenade through the shops, and dance at the assembly. But when a rogue returns from her past, Jess finds herself suddenly at sea. Always an adventurer, Larkin Denby left Grace-by-the-Sea to right the wrongful death of his father. Now he’s back on a mission: to identify the mysterious Lord of the Smugglers who allegedly sails from Grace Cove and takes England’s secrets to France. But Grace-by-the-Sea is the perfect little spa town, run by the still oh-so-perfect Jesslyn Chance. When the village’s future is threatened, Jess must work with Lark to solve the mystery and protect the town’s own. In doing so, the matchmaker of Grace-by-the-Sea may just find that the best match for her is the rogue who stole her heart years ago.

(Affiliate links included.)

Goodreads | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Book Depository

About the Author

Regina Scott started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t sell her first novel until she learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian, and Portuguese. She now has more than forty-five published works of warm, witty romance. She loves everything about England, so it was only a matter of time before she started her own village. Where more perfect than the gorgeous Dorset Coast? She can imagine herself sailing along the chalk cliffs, racing her horse across the Downs, dancing at the assembly, and even drinking the spa waters. She drank the waters in Bath, after all! Regina Scott and her husband of 30 years reside in the Puget Sound area of Washington State on the way to Mt. Rainier. She has dressed as a Regency dandy, learned to fence, driven four-in-hand, and sailed on a tall ship, all in the name of research, of course. Learn more about her at her website.

Website | Blog | Goodreads | Bookbub | Facebook | Pinterest

Tour Giveaway

One winner will receive print copies of all six books in Fortune's Brides series (Never Doubt a Duke, Never Borrow a Baronet, Never Envy an Earl, Never Vow for a Viscount, Never Kneel to a Knight, and Never Marry a Marquess) US only

Ends January 29, 2020

ENTER HERE

[maiatries-blog]

Embrace the Jiggle: The Body Image Philosophy I Never Thought I Could Accept

TW: Discussion of Body Image and Eating Disorders.

There are thousands upon thousands of articles which note the importance of loving your body.

I agree with the general concept of it. It is vital for one to be comfortable in the being which holds their mind, heart and soul. However, no one really explains how to realistically apply this in the long term. All these pieces seem to give is an initial inspiration and feelings of self empowerment which quickly fades when we again see ourselves again at an unflattering angle.  

This is something that a lot of “body posi” posts seem to miss; we have to be entirely okay with our insecurities at all times. Not just when we feel confident, but when we have our sh*tty days or as some people tend to call it, their “fat” days. I was asked to name this feeling in therapy. I coined the phrase, Steve Bannon days. My therapist thought it was pretty funny.

I’ve touched on this idea of full body acceptance a bit before in my other editorial Moving Past Body Image Comparisons. But today I want to touch on something which I’ve only recently been able to do, which is to Embrace the Jiggle.

We Can’t Control Everything

Just a few months ago I began therapy for my eating disorder. I’ve had a tricky relationship with food ever since I was a child and dealt with bulimic tendencies since I was an adolescent. Therapy helped me explore the ways which can help me be more in touch with my hunger signals and to embrace the most shocking fact which my self deprecating mind and diet orientated brain told me was always a lie: I am not in control of my weight.

Before the keyboard warriors who argue that body positivity of this kind perpetuates unhealthy lifestyles, I will state that this notion comes with a few underlying assumptions. The main one being that you are in touch with your hunger signals. This meaning that you understand when you’re actually hungry, you are able to stop eating when you’re full and are in control of your food thoughts. Essentially, being mindful.

What I learned was that genetically, our bodies tend to have a “natural weight range”. This being that one’s body will self regulate and eat what it needs to survive and, in this, it will maintain itself within a weight range, typically varying between 5-10 pounds.

The tricky part is accepting that your natural weight range may not be where you want it to be. Dieting is only a temporary “fix” which can actually raise your natural weight range as your body is constantly fighting itself to get what it needs.

I found the entire concept fascinating, though I did have a few questions which were pretty well answered by my therapist. His words similarly matched this excerpt from this article on  MirrorMirror.org.

There is no test available to tell you what your body’s natural set point is. However, you can find your own set point by listening to your body and eating normally and exercising moderately. If you have been dieting for years, it can take up to a year of normal eating for your body’s metabolism to function properly and return you to the weight range that is healthy for you.

Learning to accept the fact that your body needs to be at a certain weight is a good way to stop the vicious cycles of dieting. The more you try to go below your body’s set point range, the harder your body will fight to retain it’s natural weight. Engaging in a healthy eating and exercise routine will allow your body to go to the weight it wants and needs to be at.

Absolving Yourself from the Numbers

It’s prudent to mention that before beginning therapy, I had weighed myself every morning for nearly two and a half years, that being over 900 times of habitually stepping on the scale.

At the beginning of each weekly session, I was weighed by my therapist – This was so he could monitor my weight, and keep my fear of “ballooning up” under control.  I stood facing away from the numbers and was not told my weight.

In our last session, he mentioned a key point which was reinforcement of my progress: During that three months where I ate mindfully, my weight maintained itself within a natural 2-3 pound range.

That was unbelievable to me.

I didn’t have to count my calories, weigh myself every morning and worry about exercising for my weight to maintain itself? What a novel concept.

This joy of knowing my body self maintained came with a disappointing but: my weight range was 20 pounds above where my ‘goal’ weight was.

Part of me was torn up. I’d spent nearly 3 years working on losing weight. Finally, as I’m 75% toward reaching my goal, I learn that it’s just not realistic. Funny thing is, my obsession with trying to control my weight likely contributed to my set weight range being higher, at least for right now.

Also with this frustration came a familiar voice; That voice being Brain. Brain was not willing to accept this information. Brain liked to tell me “This is just an excuse for you to stay fat. This isn’t legitimate, it’s just what they tell you to stop your habits. You can change your set weight range. Stop coming up with reasons to justify being overweight”.

In therapy I learned a valuable skill. After nearly 20 years, I was able to say “Thank you for the input, Brain. I’m going to move forward from those thoughts”.

Despite that big looming but … I was proud.

Honestly, I was ridiculously proud.

I didn’t have to purge every day to keep from gaining weight

or weigh myself every morning

or constantly log and count calories

or exercise obsessively

or body check every hour

No.

I just had to live.

I never thought I could just LIVE like a “normal” person.

Facing the Fat-cts

This experience brings me to one of the most challenging conclusions of this journey to accept; More challenging than releasing myself from the pseudo need to constantly crunch the numbers faster than I do a bag of chips in order to maintain my weight.

Embrace the Jiggle.

Oh yes.

Every part of myself that shakes n quakes with the slightest of movements.

To embrace it.

To be okay with it.

To not obsess about working out in order to keep my body from feeling like a giant sack of pudding but to instead embrace that jello-y goodness and to simple focus on being healthy.

That was unimaginable to me.

Let me tell ya, my arms have always been one of my most self disgusted parts of my body. My FOBW (fear of bingo wings) has been prominent since I heard that term first used.

My stomach is protruding, and there’s been plenty of times where I thought a cute tight dress would be perfect if it weren’t for that stupid tummy being in the way.

My thighs do the classic “spread out three times their size” when I sit down and sometimes clap together when I run up the stairs (though to be fair, that shit’s just funny to me)

I’ve got plenty of jiggle, and I slowly am coming to accept it through humor, a possibly unhealthy coping mechanisms. But I mean, whatever works, right?

I think people of all sizes and weight ranges have their own jiggly insecurities and fears.

A jutting stomach, neck fupa, cellulite, un-toned limbs; all of these are things to be ashamed of  – or at least, that’s what we tell ourselves.

“Jiggle” shouldn’t be a term to make you feel bad about yourself. I refer to this term because I believe it helps one be self aware and accepting without being self deprecating. Many people have their own jiggles, it’s just a fact. It’s almost as if we’re all human and are incapable of perfection…

For me, embracing the jiggle was also accepting the fact that at a certain point, I have no control over my weight and that’s okay. What’s important is that I respect my body’s needs and take care of my health.

The phrase in itself is silly and honestly that’s kinda the point – we have to have a sense of humor about our insecurities.

We have to live comfortably in our own body and to embrace each part, good or bad in order to truly live.

So to you I say: Start your personal journey. Learn to embrace your jiggle.

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[kootenaygoon]

So,

They called it the suicide blanket—the ominous, low-hanging fog that settled over Kootenay Lake and plunged Nelson into a perpetual grey gloom. 

Paisley and I huddled under porch blankets as the trees frosted at the summit of Elephant Mountain, the white descending slowly on to the city. Winter is coming. From the comfy warmth of our little hermitage I watched YouTube theory videos about Game of Thrones and scribbled on my chalkboard wall, creating character lists and fine-tuning a timeline for my ever-evolving thesis manuscript. I wanted it to be composed of multiple interlinking stories, like my favourite novel A Visit from the Goon Squad, but I was constantly swapping out one story for another, never reaching any conclusion. 

While Paisley worked on her desserts I huddled down at my laptop and hammered away at my real work. Journalism was still only a secondary concern in my head, a means to make money until I sold this manuscript and vaulted up into the world of novelists. I sent out excerpts to literary journals, receiving a flurry of rejection letters in response, and tried to ignore the fact that I hadn’t made any legit progress on my fiction since arriving in Nelson. I felt this insistent fear that I wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t going to live up to my ambitions, while meanwhile Paisley would remind me that we had a pretty nice life and maybe I needed to chill out a bit, okay?

“I don’t think I can go into work today,” I said one morning. “I feel like somebody’s sitting on my chest. I can’t do this.”

“So take a sick day.”

“I don’t have any yet. You have to be an employee for like a year before you start getting them.”

“This is your mental health, Will. Calvin can handle things without you.”

I hesitated.

“Stay home and I’ll take care of you, okay? I don’t have a co-op shift today.”

Around that time I wrote a story for the Star about a music video called “Junkyard Bettie”. It was directed by a local dude named Jonathan Robinson and featured an Aussie singer named Sofiella Watt. She was backed up by her banjo-plucking hipster band the Huckleberry Bandits. Set in an actual junkyard just outside of town, the video told the story of a lonely young traveler struggling to make it through a Canadian winter. Oh, lady winter, you have done me wrong, you’ve done me wrong. Oh dark December, won’t you please be gone, please be gone? Played by Sofiella’s friend Lauren Herraman, the dark-eyed protagonist wanders morosely through a bleak landscape populated by derelict cars, only to discover some friends and end up at a barnyard dance party. When I interviewed Sofiella, she told me the lyrics were a true story she picked up from a housekeeping co-worker at a local hotel. The woman’s boyfriend had left her, her cat went missing, and all her missing posters were rained on and got torn down. 

Then the junkyard dog bit her.

“It was one of those quintessential blues song scenarios where everything goes wrong. I said ‘that’s terrible, but such an amazing story’. I asked her if I could write a song about that, because I could never make up something that good.”

I admired Sofiella’s ability to take a dark experience and create something beautiful out of it, but wasn’t sure how to accomplish that in the Star newsroom. Calvin had found himself embroiled in a number of community conflicts, and his stress level was rubbing off on everyone around him. I made excuses to leave the office when he was upset, setting up interviews across town or just wandering down to the park to take some pictures, because I couldn’t stand being around his energy. Tamara felt the same way, and when he wasn’t around we’d sit commiserating over all the unnecessary drama he’d brought into our lives.

“At the end of the day, you have to take care of yourself. And if Calvin’s negatively affecting your mental health, maybe that’s something you should report to management,” she said.

“I feel like such a whiner.”

“You’re not whining — you’re just expressing your truth.”

“The truth is I think he’s going to quit any day now, and I can’t wait.”

It wasn’t just work getting me down. Though I couldn’t admit it to myself, cannabis had become my primary mental health problem. In Victoria we’d been consuming a little baggie of weed a week, maybe two, while in Nelson we were literally burning through hundreds of dollars’ worth of pre-rolled joints a month.  Was it the solution, or was it the problem? It was like an extra rent payment. Somewhere along the line we started buying pot before groceries, and a few times we ended up with an empty fridge while we waited days for the next paycheck. Sometimes we went begging to our parents. It was our ritual, the way we bonded, watching Pineapple Express and making candy runs to 7-11, but it was also the way we coped with our feelings post-fight, it was how I treated my depression and she treated her pain, and increasingly it was more of a chore than a fun time.

As we started to make friends our age, it became apparent that we weren’t alone. We were surrounded by functional chronics, people who operated in a perma-stoned state, and for many of them cannabis was nearly interchangeable with coffee. Both were something you consumed to tweak your mood and outlook, both lasted a few hours, and both cost around five bucks a hit. I found myself hosting never-ending debates in my head about the benefits and drawbacks of my new lifestyle, trying to weigh what it was costing me against all the benefits I was becoming dependent on. Was my memory worse? Was I less present? Could I really stop smoking if I wanted to? Paisley and I repeatedly made vows to quit, sometimes lasting a few days, but inevitably it crept back into our lives. Whenever her parents visited we had to do a thorough job of hiding the evidence.

“I never would have predicted that I’d become a stoner,” said Paisley. “My whole life I avoided it, never touched it, was never interested. And now it’s got this fucking hold on me.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Watch me.”

Despite this, Paisley’s job at Kootenay Co-op was going well and she was making new friends. Her desserts were generating us a third income, and she was writing recipes and coming up with new culinary innovations all the time. From September to December she was happily busy, walking downtown once a week to practice her burlesque routines at Boob Camp with Charlotte Coco Orchid, and the rest of the time she spent nesting with the dogs and decorating our house. She went out and purchased the costume she was going to need for the upcoming show, then showcased it in our living room before heading out to a photo shoot with the other women. She looked adorable, in clown makeup and fishnet stockings, and I held her in my arms.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Maybe you should be in the show.”

I snorted. “It’s next week.”

“Charlotte’s looking for a male performer to pick up the clothes left on stage between sets. I was thinking about it, and you went to theatre school. You should totally do it.”

“I’m not going to do burlesque.”

“Why not?”

That was a good question. She continued to push the issue until I agreed to talk to Charlotte, and pretty soon I’d been recruited. Paisley took me out shopping for a pair of white “manties”, a baggy Speedo decorated with bright red hearts, then we bought a set of blood-coloured wings that matched the plush bow and arrow I would be carrying. I did love being onstage, and had arguably done more outrageous things in high school, but the concept of prancing around in my underwear in front of a bunch of Kootenay strangers definitely gave me pause. It would be a spectacle. For it to work properly I was going to have to be thoroughly shit-faced, I knew. I worked my way through four or five beers before we even headed down the hill to the show, at the Hume Hotel.

“You’re not allowed to hit on the other girls,” she said. “And don’t be creepy.”

“I won’t be creepy.”

“I mean it.”

“The only one I care about is you, okay?”

Once we arrived in the warm-up room, it was game on. Women were rushing in and out, changing from one costume into another, and some wild-haired dude was giving himself a sponge bath in the sink. Show-tunes and party anthems were blaring from nearby speakers. I met a little person named Cotton Candy and an older burlesque legend named Suzanna Sultry who the women all worshipped. We all posed together for a photo. One of Paisley’s friends took charge of decorating my torso with lipstick, inviting the others to leave kisses from my treasure trail to my collarbone. Don’t be creepy, I reminded myself, as they took turns kneeling in front of me. Over the months that Paisley’d been doing Boob Camp I’d come to know a bunch of them, and a few of us ducked into a back alley to smoke a joint. Upon my return the photographer grabbed me, and said she wanted a few shots of me with Paisley. I turned to her, held her close to my chest, and gave her a gentle kiss as the shutter snapped. Eventually Charlotte gathered everyone into a circle for a pep talk. The topless woman standing across from me was missing one of her nipple tassels, so was clutching her boob with one hand.

“Look at all the power in this room,” Charlotte said. “I am so proud of each and every one of you. You’re going to go out there and blow them away. You’ve done all the hard work, and now you get to reap the reward.”

Standing back-stage clutching a beer, feeling cold sweat collect in my hairline, I wondered if I was about to humiliate myself. There had been no rehearsals, no real instructions. Was I supposed to go out between every number, or just a select few? Was I supposed to dance, and if so, what kind of dance was I supposed to do? There’s a subversive element to burlesque, I knew, and a sense that nothing is sacred and everything is silly. I could get down with that. For her first performance Paisley marched out with the five other women, working her way through an elaborately choreographed sequence that saw the women crawling across the floor, hurling themselves on to their backs and spreading their legs wide. I congratulated her as she came breathlessly off-stage, then kissed her as Charlotte beckoned me forward. I was in bare feet, brandishing my bow and arrow, and upon my entrance the audience roared with approval. I gyrated, spinning around to bend over like a porn star, and frolicked drunkenly as I went searching for the various layers and lacy bits that had been left behind. Charlotte was loudly announcing something into the microphone as I gave the audience a last wink and departed. My back and shoulders were shimmering with sweat, my hair wet against my forehead, my limbs vibrating.

I can’t believe I just did that, I thought.

While the show progressed I stood at a gap in the curtains and looked out at the rowdy crowd, some of them in costumes, who were roaring and shouting for the performers onstage. These are my people, I thought. Charlotte was a champ, commandeering the entire thing while performing multiple sets herself, and Paisley cuddled up beside me. Charlotte chased Cotton Candy around the stage, both of them half-naked, and then a boylesque performer did a leather-clad striptease. I was continuing to drink, and somewhere along the way I’d been forgotten — which I was fine with. I wanted to get back into my real clothes, but that would mean cutting through the parking lot in my underwear. I was just planning my escape when Charlotte introduced Isla Valentine, who was performing her first ever solo set. A milky-skinned brunette, she slinked across the stage and threw herself down on a chair. She smiled languidly at the audience, undoing her bra. Upon release she whipped it into the air triumphantly and flung out her jiggling breasts — dislodging both her pasties, which flew into the audience.

“Oh, shit,” said Paisley, as the crowd gasped. “She must not have glued them right.”

Isla quickly clasped her hands to her nipples, her face furrowed, and for a moment it looked like the number would be over. But as we watched, a look of determination crossed Isla’s face. Fuck it. She dropped her hands, stood up, and continued dancing to elated whoops. Striding from one edge of the stage to the other, she jutted out her hips and whipped back her hair, grinning defiantly.

“Wow, she really went with that,” I said. “Good for her.”

“No, not good for her. She’s going to get Charlotte in trouble. She told us ahead of time: the hotel can get fined for nudity.”

“Really? You think they’ll actually fine Charlotte?”

“They could.”

“It was a mistake! What was she supposed to do?”

Paisley frowned. “You don’t get it.”

The remainder of that evening is a haze, but one memory remains intact: meeting Ryan Martin, the owner of the hotel. I’d heard from multiple people in town that he was an important person to know, a powerhouse in the business community, but we hadn’t crossed paths yet. While I padded along the carpet coming back from the bar, double-fisting and still in my underwear, I nearly bowled him over coming around a corner. As soon as I realized who he was I was embarrassed, and felt like I needed to explain myself. Nearly naked, with lipstick smeared all over my stomach and the crimson wings drooping over my shoulders, I knew I was something of a radical sight. I stammered out that I don’t actually drink that much, told him this wasn’t usual behaviour for me. He grinned and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “This is the Kootenays.”

The Kootenay Goon

[nicolesqueloquence]

Recommended auditory pleasure: 

As I lay on my back watching a random Youtube video on the refugee situation and a proposed solution, it suddenly hit me how much grounding I’m in need of. The sun, perpetually streaming through my bedroom window onto my catatonic body covered in the usual loose shirt and boxer shorts, is not enough to quell the thirst of my soul as a desire for the unknown, the stimulating possesses me to look up when the next Oneness meditation session will be held at the center down the street.

Not this week, but next. Not soon enough. But where could I go? I look at my face, still pale despite countless attempts at tanning in the 108-degree sun and barren from any make-up, and cringe at the thought of leaving my room. ‘As I get older…’ a thought begins and is interrupted by another, ‘Am I really getting older? I’m 25..’

The newfound relief at realizing how young that is going to sound later on in life, as many of my older counterparts at work have remarked to me upon learning my age, sets in and I am happy to be this young but I am just so restless. Almost as if I’m not enjoying it, I’m simply not active anymore. I want to get out there, see things, and taste things that my tongue has yet to be blessed with besides the cursed vitriol of strong liquor, medication, and Fiber with B-Vitamin gummies that I’ve elected to aid me in the process of reaching my annual goal weight that seems to be much of an afterthought when I crave chocolate and post-indulgent guilt.

It’s all a toxic process of seeking more from the mundane while simultaneously fearing mediocrity with a passion that rivals that of my hatred of standing still. On paper, my life doesn’t look too basic: school, work, gym schedule, some books here and there to escape the black and white frame of my daily life through the fictional mind of another’s. But it doesn’t feel like enough. It never feels like enough.

Next to my fear of mediocrity is my phobia of complacency. That I will continue to feel the restless ache to constantly have something new and exciting happen to me in addition to every other endeavor I am on, and I will continue to wake up every year in the same bitter discontent. That I will get married and never fall in love. That I will have kids and it won’t satisfy this maternal urge to actualize my dreamed up image of Lili that I’ve had since I was 14.

The idealist in me still daydreams, still desires for more.. But when will it be enough? Will I ever find it?

Hurry up and wait, adulthood says. Wait to text him back. Wait for the next outing. Wait for next week to step on the scale to avoid any further disappointment. Wait for next semester to get further into my program. Wait for next year to feel more successful, more stable. Wait for my friends to have time for me and vice versa. Wait, wait, wait.

I’m terrible at waiting. If patience is a virtue, then I am simply immoral at best then.

I’ve always felt, even as a child, that I had this innate ability to perceive and even “feel” the atmosphere of other worlds. This strange feeling was further fulfilled by reading and diving through the portals of literature to explore these other worlds, see the novel happening in my mind’s eye as if it were a movie, and literally place myself so deeply into what was occurring that almost every single last past of every book I’ve read has been met with tears.

But here, in this life, I feel like I am in a bubble. I want to stretch out, abandon the protection of my mundane existence, and see what is truly out there for me. I want –

I want to see what’s out there for me. You’ve always gotten to date other people, and I haven’t.

Like a bullet, those words graze through my mind all over again. This was almost exactly three years ago.

And just like that my bubble becomes a prison. I’m a huge proponent of people fixing themselves if that is what they want, but they have to want that or it just won’t happen. But I’m also a huge hypocrite, because I have yet to do this for myself and reach out from this emotional jail cell that he kept me in for so long.

There’s more out there but I can’t keep saying that and not venturing out to find it. Of course there are obstacles like money, time, transportation- But if I hurry up and wait some more, I’ll have enough to finally go out and see some shit.

Because my life isn’t permanent. My time here is limited. I never once imagined when I was younger that I would make it to 26. I really didn’t want to, honestly. To me, it would have been blissful and better to die young. Even my own father voiced these words to me when I brought up all of the physical ailments I witness every single day by those who are either elderly or approaching old age.

The thing is, we take all of it for granted. The ability to walk, to talk, to sleep, to wake up and feel awake and alive for the most part. The ability to go to the bathroom without assistance, take a shower without someone to help, just basic functioning that we could never even imagine would be taken away from us by time.

And all at once, I felt ashamed of the years I tried to take all of this away from myself. But at the same time I felt an ambivalent gratitude because after all the damage I caused, none of it had lasting consequences, hence it took so long for me to learn to actually take care of myself and my body rather than constantly attempt to destroy it.

So many of us look in the mirror and think what we see isn’t good enough. And me, as I type a blogpost about complacency and the desire for moremoremore, I look around me and ask if this is really my life. Shouldn’t there be something more glamourous or exciting or spiritual for me? Aren’t there so many other places with that sleepy community feeling where chasing the US dollar and the American dream are not a 24/7 operation? There has to be people out there who ARE complacent, but they are comfortable and they are content living in a rural area with nothing more than an old radio and some dogs.

I don’t necessarily want the finer things in life, just because those places for me are something I want to taste. I want the diversity and the difference from this fish bowl of limited culture I’ve grown up in.

I can feel it from music. Especially the song I’ve linked for this post. I used to feel it the most in middle school and high school. This nostalgic, fuzzy feeling that there were so many more places linked to the one I was in. It’s transcendental really, and nothing that any amount of words would be adequate enough to describe.

So instead of keeping myself caged in this daily battle with anxiety over what may be happening or not in the confines of my PTSD-like mentality, it’s time to branch out. I’m going to try to make it a goal to see more things, go more places, and try something new for once. If my old lady preference of keeping everything the same can handle it, that is.

I wrote a poem yesterday to go with a selfie of mine in lieu of good lyrics because I am currently out of those:

She keeps her secrets close

Like the hidden thorns of a rose

The dark will always haunt her

But light will always find her

~Nicolesque, 6/24/2017

It’s honestly not my best, but it will do. And it is true, after all of the dark pathways in life I have taken, God had somehow always led me to the light that I could never foresee.

Trust is also not an easy thing for me to do.. But in His case, I think it’s essential. At this point in my life, if nothing else, the fact that I’m alive is more than enough evidence that His intervention has been more than enough. This is enough, I just have to know that and not question it so much while also making moves to explore other things around me.

Because nothing really is and everything really isn’t. Jhene Aiko lyrics that I live by.

There was a blog I was obsessed with in middle school, written by a young woman in Singapore called “infrarouge” and something like 1..2..3.. breathe. Or something like that. But the enormous amount of nostalgia I felt from reading her excerpts of traveling, drinking tea at 6 in the morning, and all of these things that seem super hipster now gave me this sense that I was traveling through her and into the experiences of another person.

That blog is now long gone but I saved most of the drawings she made and had uploaded. There are definitely not in good resolution as I believe I downloaded them from my Myspace but they inspired me to emulate it with my own style of SharpieArt.

I’m honestly unsure if these were the blogger’s drawings, but I’d like to think they were because I still have remnants of a world long forgotten in the vast dimensions of webpages that have vanished without explanation. I feel like so much of the world I had built for myself at that age is now missing in the pandemonium of speed of advancement surrounding the Internet and I’m grateful for absolutely everything I’ve digitally hoarded from then.

The only thing missing are my blogs from Freshman and Sophomore year of HS but part of me thinks it’s probably best that I didn’t save those because of the frazzled nature of my self-destructive spontaneity. Despite my blinding light of free spirited nature that lured so many innocent people into my web of catastrophe, I feel like my intentions back then were so pain-driven that they were practically nefarious at best.

This is different though. I’m a lot older now, I’m a lot more grounded in terms of sobriety and well-matured decisions, but I feel like I need even more. Something to bring me back to the ground from the irrational heights of my conditioned fear responses to imagined abandonment and anger towards me.

I know it will take time. I know it will take waiting, as much as I hate it. I want to be okay now. I always have been, for all of my life. I just wanted to be healed and after years of both studying and abusing medicine, there is just no quick fix to feeling this way. No amount of relationships or promises of young love will close the void either. It will take me and me alone to do so. And I like to think that is exactly what I am doing, even if it doesn’t feel like enough to keep me centered and focused sometimes.

My restless nature has always been prevalent, especially in my younger years when multiple teachers hypothesized and even attempted to diagnose me with ADHD. This was definitely not the case per my very skilled and competent pediatrician. “She is just bored,” he told my mother. “She is too intelligent to have nothing to do.”

Intelligence, creativity and bipolar disorder may share underlying genetics ~ The Guardian

This is also my mother’s consensus. When I asked her, as well as my father, if she thought a diagnosis of Bipolar II would fit most of my life’s treacherous and unstable periods, she replied no. She thinks I’m simply too smart to have idle hands, and couple that with what I’ve been through, they certainly make for a bad combination.

There is also cyclothymia, which is kind of a watered down Bipolar II with the same cycling between depression and euphoria. I’d be more akin to that simply because I’m a lot more functioning these days than ever before. But even now as I type this, the tears have already started and I couldn’t even tell you why. My appetite has suffered a bit, hardly existing except for when I wake up and when I take my medication.

She just wants to feel something, and I don’t think that’s asking for too much

~ The 1975 lyrics, “She Lays Down”

Because of my newfound professional aspirations and my educational path being much more clarified, I simply don’t have the urge to drown myself destructively right now. I’m able to have a good number of hard ciders and hard alka seltzers that just sit there and collect refrigerator dust unless I have one or two before losing interest in drinking alone in my bedroom. I consider it a social thing, especially when my social anxiety becomes an obstacle that I attempt to climb with excessive drinking. I haven’t done that in a while but in the last couple outings, I did really good in my opinion. It’s always good when it doesn’t result in some unwanted, negative encounter that I wake up regretting the next day.

So I would conclude things are simple. Things are stable. I just want a little more excitement, a little more exploring. And I fully intend on doing so, because my anxiety loves me too much when I’m laying around with nothing to do but suffer a panic attack or crying spell. The latter occurring in this present moment.

But everything is okay. I am okay. And I choose to stay.

When the soul thirsts for more, let yourself soar. Recommended auditory pleasure:  As I lay on my back watching a random Youtube video on the refugee situation and a proposed solution, it suddenly hit me how much grounding I'm in need of.

[greaseonmymouth]

A, D, I if you fancy it :)

I definitely fancy :D

A. of the fic you’ve written, which are you most proud of?

Ohhh, this is a hard one. I’m very proud of most of my fics, and often for different reasons, so I’m not sure how to choose one to be the most proud of.

I think, possibly, when it comes down to it it’s probably no longer easy on the eyes, my 2015 rs_games fic. I achieved everything I wanted with this fic, no loose ends I didn’t have time to tie up (I did cut it close, though), characterisation just the way I wanted it, the story progressed the way I wanted it, and I didn’t struggle too much to put narration back into my writing after having written a bunch of fairly dialogue heavy fics prior to it. And also, I just really wanted to write a fic about Remus and Teddy being father and son and what kind of relationship they would have if Remus had lived, and then I went and made it a Muggle AU and turned the AIDS metaphor into a non-metaphor. At the same time I wanted a type of “get back together” story for Remus and Sirius. So yeah, I loved writing this fic, and I still love it almost two years later, and I do sort of consider it to be my final R/S story, I don’t really have any more stories about them left to tell.* Thematically, this one is a sort of sequel to the time travel fic, which though it’s a Teddy/James story, is the first time I tried to poke at the Remus & Teddy father/son relationship.

Also, because I did just talk about POV in reply to another ask, no longer easy on the eyes has two POVs! Both Remus and Teddy have a POV in this one.

*I have an ancient Sirius & Regulus wip languishing in my gdocs because I haven’t figured out an ending for it yet and also it’s in script form because I was trying my hand at comic scripts at the time. So I’m not like done done with R/S and their family relationships, but I also can’t promise that this fic will have R/S in it, or that I’ll ever actually finish it. I live in eternal hope. :’D

D. what are some themes you love writing about?

Well :D whenever I got this question in the past I would always say “family relationships” and if you look at my fics it’s definitely true. I think I’m starting to lean away from it, though. All my current wips have one thing in common: they’re not about family. :p not in the way I used to write about family, i.e. parent/children relationships or sibling relationships (I don’t mean incest).

My current wips are more focused about how to coexist or connect with somebody else. Most of them are romance, so that stands to reason, but even my fantasy heist novel which is also about patriotism and loyalty and thieves having honour, is, at its core, about people making bonds or struggling with the bonds they have made. The space au I’m currently writing is also one of those, the premise is pretty much that Caius and Al have been in a queerplatonic relationship for the past five years (since the end of shadow magic, if shadow magic had also taken place in space) and now have to marry for ~Reasons. (And it takes place in space because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. ) This triggers them to really look at what they have and what they want and the ways in which what they have is currently not working. NO WORRIES THOUGH, it’ll have a) a happy end and b) the solution to their problems will NOT be to “upgrade” their queerplatonic relationship to a sexual one. Because that is a trope that needs to die and I will not be perpetuating it. Just putting that out there! Caius and Al are safe with me.

I. a passage from a WIP

Space AU excerpt:

Caius jabbed a thumb directly into a hard knot in Alcibiades’ shoulder. Pain bloomed up his neck and down his right arm.

“Sometimes I don’t even know why I bother,” Caius said, then dropped his hands. The mattress dipped slightly and then the sheets rustled. “I’m going back to sleep.”

His shoulder hurting more than it had before, Alcibiades turned awkwardly to speak to Caius, but found he’d pulled the blanket over his head. He’d settled on his side, facing away and radiating contempt like a fucking circadian lamp at ass o'clock in the morning.

“Caius.”

No reply. If possible, the lump under the covers looked even more hostile.

[gigslist]

11 Cool & Weird Film Funding Grants & Job Boards

Weird and Interesting 

Cool and Weird Funding & Job Orgs

11 Cool and weird arts and film funding grants, film job boards and a little weird bit of editorial.

I’m compiling a new gigs list of film and media job sites and job boards and film funding grants, film sponsors, scholarships, and residencies etc. Over 1000 resources. Billions of dollars every year in cash and in-kind resources. While surfing I found a few weird and interesting and cool resources GigsList.info readers might have fun reading or joining or applying for. These are not paid ads. I just happen to think they are cool and weird and interesting.

Anonymous Production Assistant

Anonymousproductionassistant.com 

“The TAPA blog is a place to freely discuss the life of a production assistant. And a  repository for the knowledge I’ve accumulated to future generations of PAs. Who the hell are you? I’m anonymous. It says so right there in the title. No, really, who are you? I’m not saying, bub. Deal with it. The New York Times recommended my blog. As did The Los Angeles Times. Also, LA Magazine. KCRW’s The Business interviewed me, as did as LA Women. That’s something, I guess.”

Burning Man

Burningman.org 

Funding art that is accessible to the public, civic in scope and prompts the viewer to act. Burning Man has a long and rich history of granting seed money to new and emerging artists around the world. To date, we’ve granted 202 projects in 34 U.S. states and 34 countries. “Burning Man isn’t a ‘place you put art’,  but a ‘context in which art is created.’ You don’t have to have been to Black Rock City to be a Burner. 

Cannabis Media

Fromtheheartproductions.com  

The grant seeks heartfelt documentaries, short films, features, and web series. Revealing how cannabis has benefited and changed people’s lives. With the legalization of marijuana in the U.S. Much of media focus has been on the business aspects of the cannabis industry. Cannabis Media Grant is for filmmakers to create films that show where the cannabis market is going.  How cannabis has become an important part of people’s lives, and how it’s improved those lives for the better.

Celebrity Scholarship

Celebrityscholarship.com 

Through costume, role-playing, props and self-expression. The person with the funniest, quirkiest and most authentic celebrity impersonation. Tell us about your celebrity and why you chose them. Send us your picture or video for scholarship funds. Feel free to use makeup, funky clothing and a smart caption. 

CJ Pony Auto Videos

Cjponyparts.com/cj-pony-parts-scholarship-video-contest

CJ Pony Parts is proud to offer two scholarships each year to students who are enrolling in post-secondary education in their next semester. Create a short video, under 3 minutes long, on provided topics. You can be inspirational, funny, serious, educational, or even musical! Winners will be selected based on creativity and content rather than video editing skill or how many views the video gets. Submitted videos must be your own work.

Comic Book Legal Defense Fund

Cbldf.org 

Non-profit organization dedicated to protecting the First Amendment rights of the comics medium. We provide Legal aid, education and advocacy. Protecting the rights of readers, creators, retailers, publishers, and librarians. All involved with comics, manga, and graphic novels. - GigsList Note: Ok so they don’t give money, but they are interesting.

Fine Awards Scholarship

Fineawards.com/scholarship

Competitive award for college students. To share their story about someone in their life deserving recognition. A person who helped, inspired and/or motivated you. A parent, sibling, friend or other role model. A stranger you saw paying it forward without expectation of recognition. Tell us your story.

RxLaughter

Rxlaughter.org  

Improving quality of life through positive entertainment research, therapeutic care and education. Founded in 1998 by ABC and CBS veteran primetime programming executive Sherry Hilber. Founded as a laughter research charity for children with physical illnesses at the UCLA Jonsson Cancer Center. How comedy can ease pain and anxiety for children during painful medical procedures. Using the power of comedy to improve quality of life for people with emotional and physical challenges. Our programs are volunteer-based.  

Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence

Thesisters.org 

Grants supporting small organizations and projects that provide services to underserved communities. Projects that are progressive grassroots projects. Promoting wellness and joy, tolerance and diversity supporting LGBTQ+ communities. San Francisco Bay Area projects preferred.

Stockade Works Film Producer Apprenticeships

Stockadeworks.org 

Apprenticeship program for Hudson Valley residents. Feature film and documentary production, admin and marketing. By learning as you work on local productions. Part internship part paid gig. The ins and outs of budget, pitch materials, social media and audience development. As well as hands on training in production and post production.

Tattoo Trends in Australia 

wsartsalliance.com/tattoo-trends-in-australia-a-big-yes-and-a-small-no

In depth article by the Washington State Arts Alliance. Tattoos are officially a serious fine art form. Excerpt: “Tattoos are rapidly finding their market in Australia compared to a few years ago when they were regarded as a tabloid. This massive growth was mostly led by the tattoos designs that included a word or a phrase category. However, a recently conducted surveys reveal that around 70% of Australian’s now prefer to have a symbol or picture...”  (GigsList note: Includes professional tips and howtoos about tattoos.)

Thiel Fellowship $100,000 to Drop Out of College

Thielfellowship.org 

Thiel Fellowship grants $100,000 to young people who want to build new things instead of sitting in a classroom. Some Thiel Fellows are programmers. Others have started nonprofits, created consumer products, launched media companies, and built hardware. We look to support young people who want to bring their ideas to the world. Not only film, anything.

GigsList Explains Apprenticeships 

And why apprenticeships can save your ass and your country’s economy. The short version. 

The other day I had to explain what an apprenticeship is to a person with a college degree. I was kind of very shocked. So... I've included a real apprenticeship and explanation of apprenticeships by a former apprentice. Me:)

Apprenticeships are the old school way of learning film business and production ropes. Where  you learn and make industry contacts and get paid. Apprenticeships are how I and my friends learned the biz and production. 

No college loans to pay back and more budget to create art and support our arts friends. Plus we’ve never had to surf job boards for gigs, it’s all who we know from learning on the job. You join a family not an industry. 

If everybody in film in the USA learned on the job. How much money could go back to the USA economy and funding film arts and underserved? And save the whales. Talk to your local entertainment unions and gov film offices. They should be more than happy to help with local apprenticeship programs :)