Sorry, I’ve been very busy this weekend, there’s a perfectly logical explanation for it which will all be revealed in time, just be patient avid readers.
I went to see Anna Karenina last night which left me in an odd mood, it’s a very bleak film and having never read any Tolstoy I wasn’t sure what to expect. I was squirming in my seat by the end, it was like the Ludovico treatment.
For the time being though I’m back on the train, back on my commute, but with a spring in my step.
I’ve spent this weekend sat at my computer with a guitar and microphone plugged into it, right now my Mac feels like it could just explode, it’s never been this hot, I’ve never had such a surge of work on. It’s taken just over twenty-four hours but I’ve recorded a five track EP that will be available as a download soon. I’ve just burnt it to a CD so I can go for a drive later and listen to see if there’s any adjustments I want to make and then you can all hear it.
It’s part of a bigger thing I’ve got coming up, but like a good Jewish boy I need to tell my Mum before I can tell anyone else.
I’ll speak to you later, when all will be explained.
I’ve turned my little bedroom into a studio. I’m working on some new songs (and some very old songs). I’m hoping that you will all get to hear them soon because I’m going to offer them up as an EP that you can download.
As I stood in the bathroom this morning brushing my teeth I realised that it was Friday and I felt burdened to write my usual Friday blog.
I couldn’t think of anyone to write about, having covered pretty much everyone in the last couple of months, I think I’m just going to put the idea to rest and that’s all I’ve got to write today.
I apologise that it isn’t more exciting but I’ll have news after the weekend
X
You’ve probably had enough of Christian Grey whether you’ve read about him or not. The fact of the matter is that he’s not a very interesting guy, he’s obscenely rich (private jet rich) but he doesn’t do a lot for me as a character, but then again neither does Anastasia Steele, or Katherine Kavanagh, or token Mexican friend José, the characters in 50 Shades Of Grey fall flat in every single way and I find myself wincing at the things they say and the way they act and their supposed thought processes and hoping that it’s just because I’m a man and I’m reading ‘erotic literature’ intended for women.
The fact is that Anastasia Steele is not a good character or role model for women. Considering her penchant for classic British literature and feminism she is quick to fall foul of the man who buys her expensive first editions, a laptop, a Blackberry and a car. The virgin at the start of the book who wants to find her prince ends up falling for this monster who is painted as being so troubled that it’s hard to believe he isn’t institutionalised. The fact of the matter is that both leading characters are bullet point copies of fictional characters, they have no real warmth or depth, they are just fuck puppets, and that end of the bargain they serve up in abundance, in a number of clichéd and mundane ways. I thought I was going to be slightly put out by the content of 50 Shades but the fact is that none of the actual sex scenes are that graphic, or maybe that’s just me. They’re also not long enough or descriptive enough and end as quickly as I did my first time. The closest I came to embarrassment was when a greying man in a suit happened to look over my shoulder as I was reading the list of soft limits (which includes the delightful terms vaginal fisting and butt plugs). That was about it. He quickly moved seats.
E L James really needs to get hold of a thesaurus; her obsession with the same words caused me more tension than the supposed sexual tension between the characters. Every escaped hair was a ‘tendril’, every kiss left Ana ‘breathless’ and every other page she’s biting her lip and Christian is getting a lob on over it. There’s really nothing new going on in 50 Shades
The fact of the matter is that I was more embarrassed about what other people think the books is about than the actual content, it’s not anywhere near as violent and despicable as everyone makes out, it’s been painted as a monster, but really it’s just a ridiculous bit of escapism. I’ve read better sex scenes in Murakami and Palahniuk. I’ve read better dialogue, characters, plot and setting in near enough every book I’ve picked up since Postman Pat’s Rainy Day and I’m just left feeling a little underwhelmed by it all.
I ran three miles this morning. It’s the first time I’ve done that in a month and I feel really good for it, although I’m aching slightly already which will have to get worse before it gets better.
I’ve really come to enjoy running and I’m glad I don’t have to pack it in completely. I was worried that I’d developed shin splints due to my Dad’s horror stories and a brief spell of having shooting pains up my shins whenever I ran three miles. I realise now it was probably down to a combination of the wrong footwear and trying to run too hard when I should be going for distance. I backed off a bit and was just doing the odd mile here and there but it was really nice to do my usual trek this morning, makes me feel setup for the day, regardless of what I have to spend my weekdays doing at the moment.
Sorry, that wasn’t particularly exciting was it.
If you’re going to offer up someone advice, make sure it’s beneficial.
It’s something that has been bothering me since I brief exchange I had with someone at work.
She asked how my novel was going and I said that I had sent it off to ten agents, that I’d had rejection letters from three but I’d see how it went with the rest.
The next thing she said was this;
“Well, the odds of getting it published are like winning the lottery”
I don’t need to know that. I don’t want to know that.
I’m just trying to get something done. I’m trying to achieve something, I’m not interested in odds, or statistics or numbers, I deal in words, and my words are important to me, so watch yours.
All you have to say is ‘good luck with that’ and walk away, that’s all the justification I need.
I’m aware it’s a hard vocation I’ve dived into, I’m trying my best, just have a little courtesy and a little patience around the area, it’s a sensitive issue, in case you couldn’t tell.
‘I hope that’s okay’ she said leaning back on the backless stool but somehow keeping her balance.
‘it’s a lot to process’ he replied, and for once he was telling the full and frank truth. It hadn’t been the longest six months that they had been together and here she was with this news. He worried that he was about to bolt out of the bar and be gone forever but something kept him magnetised, as though him and the stool were magnetised poles.
He had to ask the question:
‘Have you thought about..?’
She cut him off before he had to force himself to explain.
‘Oh I could never…’
‘Good’.
Last night I wrote over two thousand words, watched three episodes of Wilfred and prepared dinner for tonight.
The writing was the third short story for my collection (of ten) and I’m finding it a lot easier this time around, maybe because it’s a lot easier to intensely focus on five to ten thousand words than it is on a hundred thousand. The stories are all pretty steeped in fact, and I’m hoping they’re true to everyone involved. That’s what I want, for people to be interested.
I watched the whole of the first series of Wilfred and didn’t even know a second series had started (because I don’t have a teevee/am such a woowoofreespirit) so it was only when Jocasta mentioned it that I knew I had to re-engage. For anyone who hasn’t seen it Wilfred is a dark comedy series staring Elijah Wood and Jason Gann, I don’t want to say too much about it because discovering it on suggestion is much better than having the whole thing unraveled for you.
Tonight I’m cooking dinner for my little tinkle’ead girlfriend so I tried to prep as much as possible so she doesn’t spend hours waiting for food, because she is liable to go Incredible Hulk on my soft furnishings if she’s kept from food.
Anyway, back to my smut.
Once a week since the age of ten I’ve promised myself I’m turning over a new leaf, as though suddenly that will make everything better and I’ll stop being a certain way for whatever reason.
This week I have decided to try and stop being untrue to myself. It’s quite a big one but I spend far too long inking my height against that of other people and it’s not done me any favours. I think what I really need is to get away for a couple of days and think, but that isn’t really something that’s possible to me or anyone else is it? Whenever I read Lonesome Traveller I think about how I would deal with Kerouac’s existence in the Californian mountainside, three months of pure solitude but there I go again comparing.
I don’t really know what I’m getting at, all I know is that something isn’t sitting right and I need to sort it out.
Paul Schiernecker 