I.O.U.

I am trying to get into the habit of posting something every second day so I have one full day in-between in which to immerse myself in The Book but sometimes my good intentions die a little death between the thought and the execution.[Yes that very poor pun was intended!]

So, yesterday I woke to 75 emails and comment notifications in my inbox. They weren’t the kind of emails you can just tag and delete. They were good emails, interesting emails, the kind of things you want to savour and, more importantly, reply to with a bit of genuine thought.  So my nice neat schedule went out the window.

Today I’ve finally caught up on the posts, emails and comments so it’s time to do some serious editing on The Book. Hence this I.O.U.

I do feel guilty about not posting something interesting today but I’m hoping no-one is going to take their ball and go elsewhere

A demain, mes amis!

Death of a Kingdom – a review

Good morning all! It’s Tuesday morning here in lovely wet Warrandyte. I’m sitting here listening to my new Two Steps from Hell CD called Invincible and all is well with my world so it’s time to do some serious stuff!

Some time ago I wrote a review of M. Edward McNally’s first book of the Norothian series entitled ‘The Sable City’. In that review I made a point of saying how much I liked his world building, amongst other things. Since then I have also nominated McNally as one of the five indie authors who have inspired me with the quality of their work.

When I began reading ‘Death of a Kingdom’, the second book of the Noroth series, I fully expected to enjoy it but I did wonder if McNally would be able to live up to the standards he had set in the first book. I’m very pleased to be able to say that he did. And then some!

Second books are a little like the second-born children in a family – by the time they come along the newness has worn off and their parents are expecting those smiles of wind and gurgles of delight so these second-comers are faced with a much harder life path to follow. Not only do they have to live up to the expectations raised by their older siblings they also have to find some way of distinguishing themselves as individuals in their own right.

In ‘Death of a Kingdom’, McNally has pulled off quite a feat. Not only is the second book as good as the first, it is actually better.

As I began reading ‘Death of a Kingdom’  I started to feel a growing sense of excitement. This book was different. The more I read the more I realised that this time I was going to be taken much, much deeper, not just into the world of Noroth and the lives of the characters but into the lives of nations as well.

The storyline is much more complex, going off in two separate directions. One follows Tilda and most of the original adventurers as they struggle with the aftermath of their trip to the Sable City while at the same time trying to help Claudja in her ongoing battle to save her people. The second follows the life of Nesha-tari, the half human, half Lamia servant of the great blue dragon Akroya. Both streams become deeply embroiled in the politics of Noroth.  Things are no longer simple. The lives of nations are  now at stake. And more. When the devil Balan appears outside of Vod’Adia and begins stirring the pot you just know that the story is headed towards truly epic levels.

Everything in ‘Death of a Kingdom’ is bigger, deeper, richer, stronger. It is meatier. If I were to compare the two books I would say that the first book, while delicious is just an entrée. Book 2 is a main course. This is where the story truly takes off. McNally introduces us to some new and very interesting characters who reveal layers of politics and intrigue never before seen.

Politics and intrigue almost always lead to battles between armies, huge, confusing, bloody battles and ‘Death of a Kingdom’ is no exception. Some of the battles in the book are fought for the best of reasons, others are fought for reasons the combatants do not understand. But in the heat of battle there is no time for questions of why. Those questions come later, for those who survive.

Everything I have said about the storyline of ‘Death of a Kingdom’ applies to the writing as well. It is richer, stronger and even more vibrant than before, painting scenes large and small with a confidence that was only hinted at in book 1.

This is true epic fantasy and I can hardly wait to jump into book 3, ‘The Wind from Miilark’. Whatever McNally has in store for me I now know that it is going to be big. Yet at the same time I have every expectation that the story will still retain the delicate balance between epic and human that has made ‘Death of a Kingdom’ so very, very pleasurable.

Roll on book 3!

Illuminating blogger award

I’m not sure what it is about these awards that turns me into a fumble-fingered ignoramus but I inevitably mess up in some way and today has been no exception. I tried to follow the instructions to the letter and thought I’d succeeded until, shock horror, I realised I’d put my acceptance comment in the wrong award.

So before I do anything else I must apologies to Food Stories Blog for being an idiot. As Bluebottle* would say – “I feel a proper fool.”

Now that I’ve confessed I can move on to step 2 of the instructions. I’d like to thank Lord Daud for nominating me for this award.

David is one of those incredibly generous people who spend a great deal of their time helping others achieve their dreams. His most recent gift of friendship was to email me with a long list of short story competitions. He did this because he knew that I would skin a cat* forever before finding the courage to look for them myself. That gentle, not so subtle nudge pushed me into entering 2080 into not one but two competitions. I don’t expect my first short story to win anything but just entering it was a huge achievement for me and will give me the courage to enter other competitions in the future.

Now, according to step 3 of the instructions I have to reveal one thing about myself. I doubt that anyone will be surprised when I say that I’m a little challenged in the courage department. I’m a miniature tiger when it comes to defending others but I’m a chihuahua when it comes to promoting myself. This is not a good trait in someone thinking about becoming an indie author. All I can say is that I’m working on it. Baby steps so far but I am trying. So thank you David.

This is my third award and I would really like to say thank you to everyone I’ve met online but I’m limited to nominating just five bloggers. This makes things bloody hard I can tell you. In the end I decided to go with the theme of indies, so now I would like to celebrate bloggers who have shown me that being an indie author can be synonymous with innovation, beautiful prose and a level of quality that puts many traditionally published authors to shame. They’ve inspired me and I’ve loved reading their books. Thank you one and all.

Illuminating Blogger Nominees :

Candy Korman for her innovative fusion of literary monsters and crisp, modern prose.

Lord David Prosser for his gentle humour and wonderful way with words.

Rachel Abbott for her compelling thriller that took the genre to a whole new level.

Stephen Faulds for his beautiful portrayal of love and falling from grace.

M. Edward McNally for creating the kind of fantasy world I would love to live in.

 

*Bluebottle : a favourite character from the 1950′s radio show The Goons.

*Skinning a cat : procrastinating.

I want you all to come for dinner!

There are posts I should be writing, other posts, different posts but today has begun in such an amazing way that I want to reach out and hug all my online friends – and that includes the new ones I’ve met for the first time today.

As usual I leapt from bed this morning with a groan, cracked my neck a few times, said hello to Golly and Mogi [cat and dog respectively] and then made a beeline for the kettle.  I looked through my kitchen window at the miserable grey day outside and resigned myself to having a miserable grey day inside as well.

Wrong, so very wrong.

Coffee in hand I fired up the trusty pc and logged in to wordpress to be met with not an orange number but a new orange notification icon. Ok, I thought, wordpress is tweaking again. I clicked on the new icon and my jaw just dropped. I had so many comments! Where had they all come from? As I began reading the comments my smile just got bigger and bigger [yes Bluey I'm looking at you]. Suddenly being inside, warm and loved was the very best place on earth to be.

So what does a small, middle-aged, Hungarian-Australian woman do when she’s happy? Does she start writing The Book with a vengeance? No.  Does she dance around like an idiot? Well yes… but mostly she cooks because food means love to a Hungarian.  So I’m inviting you all over for dinner. I’m making a shitload [excuse the Hungarian] of veal schnitzel, parsley potatoes and cucumber salad. It’s a big meal so please don’t ruin your appetites with snacks – sideways glance at Daud. The wine is byo though, sorry.

Ok, now before I begin cooking I must point out that everything on the menu comes from my Mum. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I reveal some of her little tricks, especially when it comes to the schnitzel. Here we go.

VEAL SCHNITZEL a la Mum.

Moist, tender veal schnitzel begins with pale, young veal,  not yearling. If you can get it cross cut then fantastic. If not just ask the butcher NOT to tenderise it. You want it thick so it doesn’t dry out into a nasty piece of crumbed leather.

Ok, so I have about 10 slices of lovely veal. I cut them into smaller pieces [about the size of my palm]. I lay them on a plate in layers and very lightly salt each layer. Now I’m setting them aside for about 1/2 an hour. That little bit of salt will give the veal as much tenderising as it needs.

Next I prepare three bowls, 2 small, one large. Plain flour goes into the first small bowl. I crack four free-range eggs into the second small bowl and pour a lot of breadcrumbs into the large bowl. They can wait as well.

[I'm always in a hurry so I never prepare everything in advance. Instead I've turned into a time and motion expert, fitting different preparation steps into vacant time slots. Trust me, it works].

While the veal is tenderising in the salt I throw four large potatoes [skin and all] into a big pot of cold water, add salt and put the pot on to boil.

Now I have time to prepare the cucumbers. I peel three medium sized cucumbers [or two of the long continental burpless variety] and slice them very, very fine. The cucumbers go into a bowl and I sprinkle them with salt to draw out as much of the  moisture as possible. The cucumbers get set aside as well.

What’s left? Oh the parsley. I have parsley growing wild in my garden and I quickly gather a bunch about the size of a standard bunch from the supermarket. After a quick wash the parsley is ready to be chopped. Out comes the wooden chopping board and my trust Big Knife. It’s sharp and rather heavy but that’s just what I need. The tip of the Big Knife  goes onto the chopping board and then crunch, crunch, crunch. There’s something so satisfying about chopping parsley. I keep venting all my hidden aggression until the parsley is nice and fine. That gets set aside too.

[Those of you with a mathematical bent may have noticed that I've used a rather frightening number of bowls and bench space. Don't be afraid, it's all in a good cause.]

Okay! Almost all of the preparation is now done. The potatoes are boiling, the cucumbers are swimming in their own juices and the veal is ready to be crumbed. I have a production line system where I dip a piece of veal into the flour, pat off the excess, drown it in beaten egg and then bury it in the breadcrumbs. I know some people prefer to do all the flouring first but really, that part is not important. The only important part is how well you press the breadcrumbs into the veal. I don’t want it to just stick, I want it to drill down into the meat so I get physical with the crumbing, pressing down hard until I have a nice, thick crust.

By the time half of the veal is crumbed the potatoes are done. I drain them into a big colander and let them cool off a bit. I have pulled the skins off while they’re piping hot but it’s not pleasant.

Once the veal is all crumbed and the potatoes are cooling I turn my attention to the cucumbers. This next bit gets a little messy. I drain most of the liquid off and then grab handfuls of limp cucumber and squeeze. [Not a single, solitary word gentlemen or you'll be eating McDonalds!]. Squeezing gets rid of all the excess salt and moisture leaving a pale green mess that doesn’t look all that appetizing in the bottom of the bowl. Soldier on!

Now I’m going to scrape two plump, peeled cloves of garlic until they’re both mashed to death and add them to the limp cucumber, mixing the lot together with my fingers. I pour about 2 tablespoons of white vinegar on top, give it a quick stir then pat it down with the back of the spoon. Now the cucumbers can sulk on their own for a while.

A quick check of the clock sends me into over-drive! Grabbing another trusty knife from the knife block I cut the cooked potatoes into halves and peel off the skins. Then each half gets cut into bite-sized chunks. Done.

Time to start cooking the schnitzels. I turn on the gas, plonk a big, heavy cast iron frypan on the hobb and pour just enough peanut oil into the bottom to cover it to about 1/8th of an inch. You do not have to deep fry schnitzel! While the oil heats I start to tidy up the huge mess I’ve made in the kitchen.

The oil is hot, time to test it. Taking a crumb from the schnitzels I drop it into the pan and rub my hands in glee as it starts to sizzle. It’s ready. I place pieces of crumbed veal in the pan, taking care to leave enough room around each piece so they all cook evenly. Then I turn the heat down as low as it will go and put a big lid over the top. This is perhaps the most important part of the whole cooking process. The lid keeps the meat cooking at just the right temperature so it becomes tender but not dry and chewy.

When I hear activity from beneath the lid I lift it to have a look. Yes! The first side is golden brown. I flip each piece over and fry them for a few minutes more, without the lid, to make the bottoms crisp and crunchy. Perfect! Time to take them out, drain them a little and place them on the serving plate. I could drain them on paper or even slices of bread but I don’t mind a little bit of oily goodness so I just lick my chops and put more schnitzel on to cook. Again the lid goes on until the first side is cooked through.

While the next batch is cooking I whip out another frying pan and put a heart-stopping amount of beautiful butter in the bottom. As the butter melts I add the chopped parsley and let it sweat for a few minutes on low heat until the butter is a golden, greeny colour. Then I add the chopped, cooked potato to the parsley mix and swirl it around until everything is coated in green, buttery goodness. On goes the lid and down goes the heat. I only need the potatoes to simmer gently and reheat now.

More crisp, golden schnitzel comes out of the heavy frying pan and another lot goes in. Masterchef eat your heart out! By the time the doorbell rings I have a huge platter of schnitzel, a big bowl of parsley potatoes and a smaller bowl of pale green cucumber salad on the table next to a loaf of crusty white bread.

“Come in, come in!” Hugs and kisses all round. “Go sit down and eat while its hot!”

“What’s that you say Daud? I’m covered in flour, breadcrumbs and parsley? Oops, I knew there was something I’d forgotten to do.”

As all my wonderful friends settle around the table and begin helping themselves I race off to get changed knowing they’ll still be eating when I get back all sparkly and clean.

I love big family meals where no-one stands on ceremony and good food and good conversation are the order of the day. And I love all of you. Thank you for making today so wonderful.

 

Tell me about yourself award

Mary Ann from Mypenandme just left a lovely comment on my blog saying that she had nominated me for the ‘Tell me about yourself’ award. I’m rather stunned because I’m still very new to blogging in general and awards in particular. To me just logging into wordpress and seeing those bright orange numbers up there is an award in itself and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank every single person who has ever read anything I’ve ever written, or may write in the future! My special thanks though go to Mary Ann who has talents in the poetry department that I wish I had.

Now, according to the rules of these awards I have to write 7 things about myself that I haven’t revealed before and then I have to nominate 7 other bloggers for the same award. Oh and copy/paste the proudly displayed award into your own blogs! I hope you guys are paying attention because I know I messed up on the instructions when Daud [aka Lord David Prosser] nominated me for my very first award so try to get it right

Ok, here we go. 7 things I haven’t yet revealed.

1. This is a biggie – I’m 59. That is just one year away from the big six-o when I officially leave the ranks of the late middle aged and become a baby oldie.

2. I’ve learned many things over the last 59 years but none of them has made me grow up, not properly. I can pretend to be dignified for about five minutes but after that I tend to revert to my true age which fluctuates between 10 and 35.

3. I used to ride motorbikes in my twenties and I still love them but I lost my nerve years ago. I blame my Kawasaki 400 which was so big I couldn’t put both feet on the ground at the same time, even on tippy toes.

4. I’m short – see 3 above.

5. When I was younger I used to wear 4″ heels to make me look 5’8″. Being short is hell!

6. I’m an absolute softie when it comes to kids and animals. I do however draw the line at spiders. Nothing with 8 legs need apply.

7. I don’t believe in god or in any religion but I do believe in goodness and I venerate life in all its forms. I justify my stance on roast chicken and spiders as hypocrisy with extenuating circumstances.

Phew, that was actually quite hard. Be warned my lovelies!

Now for the easy part – Seven bloggers I nominate for the ‘Tell me about yourself’ award :

-  Jennifer Scoullar.  Jennifer is another aussie but I’m nominating her because she can write like crazy.

- The Pink Agendist.  Because this is a man with a big heart. And he can cook!

- Courtney Bluebird.  Bluey is not an aussie but she could be  She is also teaching me about poetry and deserves a medal of valour for that.

- Maggie O.  Maggie is funny and kind, she is also funny and loves animals. Oh and did I say she was funny? Well she is

- Alex Laybourne.  Alex writes horror but it’s his understanding of human nature that is his greatest talent.

- Caressingthemuse.  Stephanie is a whiz at marketing and shares her knowledge with great generosity. She also has a way with words that makes learning fun.

- Sable City.  M. Edward McNally creates worlds I want to visit and has a sense of humour that hits all the right buttons with me.

I have dear friends I haven’t nominated this time around but Daud,  Candy, Metan, SweetMother, I love you all!

2080 – a short story

Emmi lay rigid with misery. Her eyes were closed but tears still leaked into the biofluid in which she lay. She couldn’t feel them anymore because the electrodes attached to her temples had switched off the moment she keyed the quit switch but she knew they were there because her throat ached in that awful way it does when you want to cry.

Long moments passed as the biofluid slowly drained away and was replaced by warmed air, except that it was never quite warm enough. When Emmi had complained about feeling cold the support tech had explained that that was a built in safety factor so users would know when it was safe to remove the breather tube but she remained unconvinced. How many alerts did they need? The tank always chimed when enough fluid had drained away and then that smarmy computerised voice would state the obvious just in case you were asleep or deaf. Having that first touch of air cold was just overkill and she hated it.

Of course Emmi hated having to leave the tank at the best of times and bitterly resented the two hour limit that framed her life. She understood why the manufacturers would impose that limit. They must have lost millions after those early models had allowed addicts to starve to death but it was ridiculous to impose such arbitrary limits on people like herself. At one hundred and twenty-two just exactly how many years did they think she had left? If she wanted to die online then she should be allowed to do so. But not today. Today she had fled back to the real world with half an hour still to go.

As Emmi’s face and chest began to tingle with goosebumps she lifted one shaking hand and pulled the airtube from her mouth. Like a genie escaping from a bottle her angry sobs filled the coffin-like tank with flat, animal noises. They sounded horrible even to her own ears but at least they were real and today she needed the slap of reality to validate what she had done, or not done. Yet even with her stroke-garbled sobs to remind her of who she really was the need aching in her groin was still intense.

The advertising blurb tip-toed around that aspect of the biofluid with the propriety of a 1950′s matron. “Trillions of nano particles giving that life-like sensation” was one of their favourite phrases. Cybering was closer to the mark, not that anyone under ninety called it that anymore. The young laughingly called digital sex ‘stimming’.

Brehak had not said anything about stimming. He had been all seductive touches and soft murmurs and she had found herself paralyzed with indecision. And shocked by how much she had wanted to abandon herself to the moment. She hadn’t felt that way in decades. Yet even as his fingers had begun peeling away the layers of soft black leather covering her body a part of her had known that letting him continue was madness. And wrong. Wrong in a way that only someone from her lost generation could understand.

The young called it OR, online reality and they frolicked in their digital bodies as happily as newborn lambs once frolicked in their meadows of lush spring grass. But of course there were few places on earth where lambs frolicked anywhere any more. Most lived and died in multi-story manufactories that recycled everything from poop to farts in an effort to keep the weather from getting even worse. Top restaurants had to pay a small fortune for free-range meat because it cost thousands of credits to let lambs out onto domed meadows free of pollution.

Maybe that was why the young embraced OR so fervently, because it was the only place where they could live in a way her own generation had once taken for granted.

“I’m a dinosaur. That’s what I am, a rich, bloody dinosaur.”

The garbled sounds coming from Emmi’s throat were almost drowned out by the sound of servos as the lid of her tank slowly retracted to reveal the anxious faces of her personal attendants Gem and Mira.

“Is Madame unwell?” Gem asked in that strange, archaic diction he favoured.

“Nngh,” Emmi said with a slight shake of her head. “Gowgh!”

“Madame wants to get out of there you great fool,” Mira said as she reached down into the tank and gently wiped the last of the biofluid from Emmi’s face.

There was another soft whir as the mirror foam base rose up level with the top of the tank.

Mira wrapped warmed towels around Emmi’s naked body before stepping back to allow Gem to lift her out.

Since her stroke five years before Emmi had had to get used to being handled like a lump of meat – there was nothing sexual about her wrinkled, useless carcass after all – but she was still grateful for Mira’s understanding, especially today when her sense of self was already in tatters. How could she have come so close to forgetting who she really was? Ktah might be young and beautiful but Ktah was not real. Neither was Brehak for that matter but whoever animated that avatar was young. Had to be. Probably one hundred years younger than her.

A shudder of revulsion made Emmi’s body twitch and squirm as Gem lowered her into the gentle bubbles of her bed. She settled into the mirrorfoam and warm water with a sigh. She might be a dinosaur who had outstayed its welcome but she was a dinosaur with principles. That was who she was and that was who she would stay. Ktah would have to be deleted. Maybe she should try a male avatar. That should be safe enough…

Patience conquers all

I can’t remember where or when I first came across the saying ‘love conquers all’ but I know the expectation has stalked me for most of my life. I expected that tiny kitten to make a miraculous recovery. It didn’t. I expected my parents would let me keep that sad eyed puppy. They didn’t. I expected to meet the man of my dreams by age 22 and to have the beginnings of a family by at least 24. I didn’t and I didn’t.  I did fall fall in love a number of times and I even experienced the ‘Grand Passion’ a couple of times but it seemed that the more I loved the less likely it was that the object of my affections would love me back.

In my 30′s I did finally meet a gorgeous, clever man who said yes when I jokingly asked him to marry me and we did have one amazing daughter but the ‘death us do part’ clause must have been lost in translation because it became  ‘divorce us do part’ some years later. So I’m no longer convinced that love does conquer all, especially when I see so much unnecessary hatred in the world. To be honest I’m not quite sure what would constitute necessary hatred but I know that hatred of race or religion or sexual orientation is a hate we can do without.

Yet if love is not transforming the world then what’s left? Do we just shrug and throw up our hands in despair?

Not on your nelly! With the wisdom of advanced middle age I’m here to tell you that the one, true, indomitable force in the world is… ta dah… patience! And maybe a soupçon of persistence. [soupçon : just a touch, an itty bitty bit, a hint, a whisper...]

Do you remember the story of the tortoise and the hare? Yes, that’s the one – slow, steady tortoise wins the race while loud, flashy hare snoozes just before the finish line. In many ways we are all wabbits; we all want to get there fast, we want to make it happen now, right this instant or at least within the next five minutes and when we take longer than expected we sulk and have a snooze.

The modern media doesn’t help. Our expectations are always being fueled by the latest wonderkind, the newest overnight sensation, all of whom apparently just skipped their way towards superstardom or mega riches without putting a curl out of place. That is the ideal of success. If you have to work for it or if it takes 20 years to make it big then somehow the achievement is devalued and it definitely isn’t sexy. And we all want sexy, right?

Well, we may all want sexy but the biggest achievements of all owe more to plodding than to sprinting. Did someone wave a magic wand to make the Berlin Wall tumble down? Nope, it took time and patience and persistence. Did Nelson Mandela rid South Africa of Apartheid by machine gunning all the white politicians? Nope, apartheid died a little bit at a time thanks to the patience and persistence of a lot of people whose names will never be known. In 50 years time I hope the same will be said of climate change – that a lot of nameless people working together finally achieved the goal that governments could not.

Plodding people – that is what gets the job done. Plodding and patience and persistence. And those three P’s are just as powerful in the lives of individuals as they are in the life of the global community. Yes there are instances of mad, amazing good luck that seem to come out of nowhere but if you look closely enough you’ll see the good luck is just the tip of ye olde iceberg. Luck can’t work in a vacuum; it has to have something to work on and 99 times out of 100 that something was created by years of patience effort.

Don’t believe me? Well how about the case of my friend Alex Laybourne? Alex is an indie writer who has been juggling a day job, a family he adores and the passion to write.  For years. Alex did all the ‘right things’ in terms of marketing but the success he dreamt about stayed illusive. Until just about a week ago when he was offered a two book contract by a publisher! The offer seemed to come out of the blue but I know that it would never have happened if Alex had not put so much effort into his writing and his marketing. Nonetheless I suspect that in the not too distant future Alex is going to become one of those overnight successes we spoke about earlier. But you and I will know that he worked his butt off before lady luck finally smiled on him. He was patient and he was persistent and he made it over the finish line.

I’m sure that if you scratch below the surface [yes Daud I know, I'm using up my quota of cliches very quickly but it's in a good cause!] you will find a million hard-working overnight successes like Alex. They all earned their good fortune through patience and persistence and so will you. By ‘you’ I mean all the other wonderful indie authors out there. I already know some of you and I’m finding more and more every day. You are funny, brilliant, quirky people who write funny, brilliant and innovative stories. Then you polish those stories until they shine. That takes time and effort and dedication [not to mention a pretty strong grasp of the English language].  And after that you work even harder just to be seen.

To all of you hard-working, dedicated writers I say – be patient! Lady luck may be a bit fickle at the moment but you have all the time in the world. There is no use-by date for creativity. So what if you have to gum your food? So what if you get arthritis in your fingers? Voice recognition software is coming along in leaps and bounds so by the time you can’t type any more you’ll be able to throw away your keyboards and just dictate your stories!  [Note : false teeth might make dictation a bit easier, just a thought].

By now I hope that I have convinced everyone of the power of patience. If any of you still have doubts please contact me after the lecture…um I mean the pep talk… and I’ll box your ears for being slow on the uptake

p.s. I’m open to donations of wine [shiraz or merlot], chocolates [dark only] and meals-on-wheels at any time. Sadly I can’t accept nuts any more, they’re just a bit too hard to chew.

Young Frankenstein – Putting on the Ritz

A few days ago Courtney Bluebird and I were swapping nostalgic video clips when she completely floored me with this one – Young Frankenstein – Putting on the Ritz!

For those of you who are not old time musical fans, or were born far too late to know what you are missing, this video clip is a parody of the very famous Fred Astaire version, also called ‘Putting on the Ritz’.

What? You haven’t heard of Fred Astaire either? Oh my god…. Ok, consider this post to be Old Time Musicals 101 then.

First up I give you Fred Astaire, so you have a point of comparison. Please note the smooooooth elegance and sheer style of the man. He makes everything look so effortless and easy.

And now for the Gene Wilder version. You many remember Gene Wilder from the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory movie. [And yes, Johnny Depp was great in the role but nothing beats Wilder's... ambiguity. Is he a good guy or a master villain?].

In Young Frankenstein Wilder plays the role of Dr Frankenstein, a singing and dancing Dr Frankenstein, so what could be more natural than for him to partner with the monster of his creation? [I'm going to buy the whole movie so I can tell you exactly what the story is about but for now you will have to make do with just this teaser].

And now, without further ado I give you Dr Frankenstein and his monster in – Putting on the Ritz!

I know I shouldn’t gush like a giggly school girl but – isn’t the monster simply wonderful?

Mitt Romney – once a bully always a bully?

I’m an Australian and we tend to see our politicians as being little better than used-car salesmen so I do not pay much attention to politicians at all, especially when they are not even from my own country, however a friend sent me an email recently [thank you Candy] that I could not ignore. It concerns the furore that has erupted over Republican presidential candidate Mitt Romney. Apparently Romney, aged 18, and his posse terrorized a fellow student at school by overpowering him and cutting off his long, bleached blond hair. It is unclear whether any of the boys in the posse thought the victim was gay, however it is clear that they remember the incident. Republican candidate Romney however asserts that he has no memory of the incident. When Romney, or his minders, finally decided that an apology was required it turned out to be a generic ‘sorry if I caused offence’ type statement.

Those are the facts that I could glean from the net where the media is polarized between the Romney apologists who seem to be determined to paint the incident as no more than youthful ‘hijinks’ and those who are determined to paint Romney as a dangerous bully. Which version is right?

I decided to dig a little deeper. We all know ‘what’ a bully is but what lies behind the label? The italics are mine.

According to Psychology Today :

“Bullying is a distinctive pattern of deliberately harming and humiliating others. It’s a very durable behavioral style, largely because bullies get what they want—at least at first. Bullies are made, not born, and it happens at an early age, if the normal aggression of two-year-olds isn’t handled well.”

Another source, Dr. Susan Lipkins, a psychologist for twenty five years, says :

“Many people think that bullies are either insecure or have low self-esteem. Recent research shows that some bullies may fit this description, but many bullies have high self-esteem.

The bully leads via intimidation. People follow to avoid being victimized.”

This picture of bullies with high self-esteem dove-tails nicely with an article in the American Psychology Association by psychologist Pat Ferris, MSW, PhD who says that her research into workplace bullying found that :

“…bullying tends to start at the top, trickling down through the ranks, and that bullying breeds more bullying, making it an entrenched cycle that’s tough to stop.”

So, can any of us afford to dismiss Mitt Romney’s bullying as just youthful hijinks? Something he grew out of when he became more committed to his religion?

I imagine that the right wing religious movement in the US would like to believe that getting religion is proof that Romney is now a good, kind, mature person who is well qualified to be a father figure to the nation. I am not so sure of that however my reasons rely on speculation rather than fact. I know that Romney is a Mormon. I am even prepared to believe that he is a true believer however that does not automatically make me trust him.

Why? Because of the possibility that Romney’s ‘slightly effeminate, long-haired’ victim may have been seen as gay. And, as far as I know, no religion on earth is prepared to accept homosexuality as a viable life option. I may be wrong in that assertion but I know that a core tenet of the Mormon faith is the Law of Chastity.

“The law of chastity … states that any sexual relations outside of opposite-sex marriage is prohibited.[1] Included within the prohibitions of the law of chastity is homosexual behavior. Violating the law of chastity may result in church discipline. Members of the church who self-identify as gay, lesbian, or bisexual may remain in good standing in the church if they abstain from all homosexual relations and from heterosexual relations outside of opposite-sex marriage.”[wikipedia]

The ‘abstain from all homosexual relations’ part is key. Gays who abstain must be tolerated but what of those who do not abstain? What of those who not only do not abstain but do not even belong to the church? More importantly, how would an 18 year old young adult interpret that law?

Few of us can remember every little thing that we did as teenagers or young adults but most of us can remember the things we did that we are ashamed of. Those are the things that make us feel guilty. Those are the things we do not mention in our CV’s or bring up around the dinner table for fear that even those who love us the most will look away in disgust.  Those are the things that at least some members of Romney’s posse remember.

Methinks that Mitt Romney either does remember quite well and chooses to pretend that he does not. Or. He genuinely does not remember because that incident was just one of many that he believes show what a strong, powerful leader he was, even back then. ‘Of course in this climate of political correctness the boo-hooers have the upper hand but in time those bleaters will be the first to appreciate what a true leader can do…’

Does Mitt Romney as President scare me? Oh yes. Romney has achieved pretty much all that he has ever set out to achieve, which means that what worked at 18 is still working now. That is scary because if bullying worked at 18 then why would he want to change a winning formula as President?

Once a bully always a bully.

Endings and epiphanies

I write The Book every day so I guess a bit of tunnel-vision is to be expected but even so, suddenly realising that the first draft of book 2 was almost done took me by surprise. That was yesterday and by day’s end it was done. I am now officially miserable, which may explain why I had my earth shattering epiphany today.

Before I explain about the epiphany I should say a few words about The End. For me, the process of  writing a novel is made up of many layers : there’s all the research [fun], then there are all the false starts [not so fun but necessary] and then there is the utter joy of beginning to see the story unfold.

I don’t outline per se. The false starts I mentioned are the closest I get to outlining. They are like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle set out on the dining room table without a reference picture to tell you what it is that you’re trying to achieve. And then, one day I start to see patterns emerging from those pieces. When enough of those patterns fall into place the journey of discovery begins. This is when I start to tell myself the story. No, this is when I start to live the story. The people and places in the story become so real to me that, while it lasts, I really don’t want to be anywhere else… especially not in the kitchen cooking dinner, or driving down to the bank. As an aside I had to physically go to the bank a few days ago. It’s only 5 minutes from home and I could drive there with my eyes closed yet I was so caught up in my own head space that I went right past the bank… twice. Talk about being on autopilot.

So you see for me the storytelling phase is a great deal like being in love – it consumes me. And then it ends. The characters are still there, the world is still there but I’m no longer a part of either. They now have a life of their own and I go back to being just me. They will still need me for the heavy lifting and cleaning, I may even have to sterilize my scalpel and do some judicious surgery but all of that is just ‘work’. Playtime is over. Hence the misery.

Adding to my woes is the knowledge that once the grunt work is finished I will have to start doing something that truly terrifies me – I will have to publish.

Now I know that for many writers publishing is the end game, it is the holy grail, it is the whole point of writing.  And I do share the desire to be read, really I do. But. The closest I’ve ever come to personally getting something published was a few years ago when I finished a step-by-step ‘How to use internet banking’ guide for customers of bank XX. The bank did not commission this guide. It was something I decided to do after helping many of my clients learn how to use their net banking facility. These clients were baby boomers who were just starting to realise that they were missing out on the whole personal computing revolution. And I have to say that back then most banks had atrocious user interfaces. Anyway…. I sent copies of my guide out to every publisher I could find in Australia. Three showed some interest. One actually looked into the viability of such a guide and all turned me down [partly because the banks showed no interest]. So I know how hard it is to get publishers to bite. And going through all that heartache again scares me. In some ways I think I would rather have a root canal done without anaesthetic.

And then at the start of this year [2012] I discovered that self-publishing was no longer just vanity publishing. Could this be my way out? I began to research and learned that self-publishing is no easier than traditional publishing because it requires the author to become a publicist, marketing guru and saleswoman all in one. Nonetheless, as I stumbled on more and more truly great indie authors who could not get published the traditional way, the idea began to take root.

Today my friends that idea blossomed. I was in the bathroom, a place where I do some of my best thinking, when I started thinking about what I would put on the back of my book – the blurb if you will.  These are the key words that popped into my head : aliens, psychopaths, hermaphrodites, murder, castration and rape as mating.

Gott in himmel! What publisher in his or her right mind would publish something like that? Just last week I was reading about an author who was knocked back for having a dwarf and the mere mention of porn in his novel. I’ve gone gender bender with a vengeance and I expect to be greeted with open arms? In a science fiction market that is already as dead as the dodo…

I tried to tell myself that I had only been true to the biology and that these were aliens after all – weren’t aliens meant to be different? I knew though. I had fallen off my donkey and seen the burning bush and there was no going back. If Vokhtah was ever to see the light of day then there was only one path I could take – Indie or bust.

Oddly enough this epiphany, as painful as it was, has made me feel better. At least now I know where I’m going. How long it takes me to get there is another story entirely but I’m in no rush. I still have a lot of work to do and who knows, maybe by the time I’m ready to step off that cliff the world of publishing will have changed for the better.

And maybe, just maybe the world of readers will be ready to look through the eyes of an alien. I live in hope.

cheers

Meeks [aka acflory]