What do you know, I'm a guest blogger! LOL http://cheapoair.typepad.com/guest-travel-blog/2011/02/pernes-les-fontaines-the-pearl-of-comtat.html
Meanwhile, I'm suffering post-Oscar blues. It was... a bit boring. Quite expected, though. Colin Firth won which made my day. Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law almost convinced me to give "Sherlock Holmes II" a chance. And that's basically all of it. :(
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, February 28, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Why did she do that?
Today one of my heroines decided to move to Maida Vale. In London, that is. No, not the Canadian one, the British one. And guess what? I've never, in my entire life, spend even one minute in Maida Vale, despite the time I've spent in London... Ouch...
Maida Vale residents anywhere around to shed some light on the neighbourhood? :))))))) I have headache. LOL
P.S. At least, she seems to have good taste, according to Google!
Maida Vale residents anywhere around to shed some light on the neighbourhood? :))))))) I have headache. LOL
P.S. At least, she seems to have good taste, according to Google!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
A woman at 35
Technically I'm not there yet. Still, I was asked to answer a few questions and I found them and my own thoughts intriguing, so I'm posting them here. It's not exactly official interview, no copyright involved (yet). It all started as a game of truth (tricky!). Turned out to be a revealing experience. Hope you find something for yourself. :)
Q. How do you feel different from when you were 25? 30?
A. Smashed.
Q. Why?
A. Well, between 25 and 30 I felt no difference. Whatever was coming my way, I was eager and capable to manage. Now my energy seems at a very low level.
Q. Would you like to share if there is a particular reason or do you think it's aging?
A. I don't believe in aging as such. Ages are numbers. However, I won't deny the nature of our bodies and yes, they do get tired easier at 35 than they did at 25. But at the end of the day, it is all coming from inside. There must be a fire burning to keep the power alive.
Q. And your fire is...
A. Wanted. Dead or alive.
Q. How is writing going?
A. It's not going. I can't write when I'm lacking fire.
Q. It all sounds rather depressing.
A. Agree. I'm actively looking for the "exit" sign.
Q. Have you found it before?
A. Hundreds of times. I know it's there. Somewhere. What is most annoying is my inability to see it right now.
Q. What helps usually?
A. Love.
Q. Speaking of love, when did you fall in love for the last time?
A. About a month ago.
Q. Happily?
A. No way. I'm a Scorpio. We invented love drama before Shakespeare even thought of Romeo and Juliet. :)))
Q. Up till now we have lack of fire, lack of inspiration, lack of love... 35 seems something we should try to avoid.
A. It depends on what you want. If you want roses and pigeons, then by all means skip the grey and black. But if you want to see your next strike of luck as a true gift of the Universe and appreciate it as never before, take the bitter sip, cry if you feel like crying, listen to soul ripping music, spend sleepless nights asking questions without answers, and grow up. It hurts, I know so well. But when the new day rises and you see a rainbow out of the window... Then the faeries may come to kiss you.
Q. Or someone else may come?
A. All frogs are faeries in disguise. Never be afraid to kiss a frog. ;)
Q. What is next in your life?
A. Vacation, vacation, vacation.
Q. Not all is black then.
A. It never is. Life is colors and colors are inside us.
Q. Have you chosen your destination?
A. I've bought plane tickets, yet I haven't booked a place to stay at.
Q. How much time do you have to book?
A. Less than two weeks.
Q. Isn't that a bit risky?
A. Definitely. Especially considering a two year old sleeping somewhere in the fields because his mother is insane.
Q. I can't help but envy you a bit for the adventurous spirit.
A. Thank you. The truth is I'm still torn between different choices and I can't point the one I want most.
Q. But you bought the tickets.
A. Yes, but they are to Central Europe and from there it's equally close to all the countries I'm trying to choose from. Last week I was told the cheap tickets to one of my dream destinations were sold out. I told them I could fly to Madrid instead and drive from there. They pronounced me a lunatic.
Q. Frankly, sounds fun to me. Despite your little child...
A. I know. I'm sure we can do it. We'll be Gypsies for a month... Or two...
Q. I wish you a glorious summer... I hope you answer a couple more questions when you're back. We'd love to know how it all went.
A. Gladly. I'd love to know how it was too. :)))
I apologize in advance for not checking the spelling and not editing at all. Just copied and pasted. Somewhere between the search of a decent place to stay at and the child support fight, I lost my desire to be perfect. ;))
BTW, how are your summer plans developing? :)))
Q. How do you feel different from when you were 25? 30?
A. Smashed.
Q. Why?
A. Well, between 25 and 30 I felt no difference. Whatever was coming my way, I was eager and capable to manage. Now my energy seems at a very low level.
Q. Would you like to share if there is a particular reason or do you think it's aging?
A. I don't believe in aging as such. Ages are numbers. However, I won't deny the nature of our bodies and yes, they do get tired easier at 35 than they did at 25. But at the end of the day, it is all coming from inside. There must be a fire burning to keep the power alive.
Q. And your fire is...
A. Wanted. Dead or alive.
Q. How is writing going?
A. It's not going. I can't write when I'm lacking fire.
Q. It all sounds rather depressing.
A. Agree. I'm actively looking for the "exit" sign.
Q. Have you found it before?
A. Hundreds of times. I know it's there. Somewhere. What is most annoying is my inability to see it right now.
Q. What helps usually?
A. Love.
Q. Speaking of love, when did you fall in love for the last time?
A. About a month ago.
Q. Happily?
A. No way. I'm a Scorpio. We invented love drama before Shakespeare even thought of Romeo and Juliet. :)))
Q. Up till now we have lack of fire, lack of inspiration, lack of love... 35 seems something we should try to avoid.
A. It depends on what you want. If you want roses and pigeons, then by all means skip the grey and black. But if you want to see your next strike of luck as a true gift of the Universe and appreciate it as never before, take the bitter sip, cry if you feel like crying, listen to soul ripping music, spend sleepless nights asking questions without answers, and grow up. It hurts, I know so well. But when the new day rises and you see a rainbow out of the window... Then the faeries may come to kiss you.
Q. Or someone else may come?
A. All frogs are faeries in disguise. Never be afraid to kiss a frog. ;)
Q. What is next in your life?
A. Vacation, vacation, vacation.
Q. Not all is black then.
A. It never is. Life is colors and colors are inside us.
Q. Have you chosen your destination?
A. I've bought plane tickets, yet I haven't booked a place to stay at.
Q. How much time do you have to book?
A. Less than two weeks.
Q. Isn't that a bit risky?
A. Definitely. Especially considering a two year old sleeping somewhere in the fields because his mother is insane.
Q. I can't help but envy you a bit for the adventurous spirit.
A. Thank you. The truth is I'm still torn between different choices and I can't point the one I want most.
Q. But you bought the tickets.
A. Yes, but they are to Central Europe and from there it's equally close to all the countries I'm trying to choose from. Last week I was told the cheap tickets to one of my dream destinations were sold out. I told them I could fly to Madrid instead and drive from there. They pronounced me a lunatic.
Q. Frankly, sounds fun to me. Despite your little child...
A. I know. I'm sure we can do it. We'll be Gypsies for a month... Or two...
Q. I wish you a glorious summer... I hope you answer a couple more questions when you're back. We'd love to know how it all went.
A. Gladly. I'd love to know how it was too. :)))
I apologize in advance for not checking the spelling and not editing at all. Just copied and pasted. Somewhere between the search of a decent place to stay at and the child support fight, I lost my desire to be perfect. ;))
BTW, how are your summer plans developing? :)))
Thursday, June 24, 2010
This music...
This music I was asked to write lyrics for makes me feel dizzy. Very sensual and a bit painful. So, I already have the lyrics after I spent the day listening to the song. :) I can't post it all but I can post the beginning and a chorus:
I wanna live through you
And tell you of all my journeys and pain
Yet, I don’t want to hurt you
And captured in silence remain
I wanna lock you in my bitter kisses
And paint your hair with clouds
Until I know for sure
You will love me aloud
I wanna cover your eyes with the rainbow
And silence your cry with the moon
Until I know for sure
You will forget me soon
Of course, without the music it doesn't sound the same but I'm happy it came to me at once. :) And I truly love the song.
I wanna live through you
And tell you of all my journeys and pain
Yet, I don’t want to hurt you
And captured in silence remain
I wanna lock you in my bitter kisses
And paint your hair with clouds
Until I know for sure
You will love me aloud
I wanna cover your eyes with the rainbow
And silence your cry with the moon
Until I know for sure
You will forget me soon
Of course, without the music it doesn't sound the same but I'm happy it came to me at once. :) And I truly love the song.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Once again about vacations...
More and more often I think of packing our stuff... The question being where and how. Seems like emptying the credit card will be the number one choice. :)))) Irresponsible? I know. I admit. I readily accept the title. Yet, I can't live in silence. In emptiness. Hitting the road brings fresh air. Having been on a Spanish wave lately, may be Spain is a good idea after all. Any recommendations will be welcome. I already wrote about Vejer here, the Costa del Sol looks promising too. I want to see flamenco. Malaga may be... Sevilla... Ah, already feel better. So, what's the fashion in bathing suits this summer? :))))
P.S. Was asked to write song lyrics. Excited and thrilled but lacking any inspiration. One more reason to look for the lost muse on a night beach under a deep blue sky. ;)
P.S. Was asked to write song lyrics. Excited and thrilled but lacking any inspiration. One more reason to look for the lost muse on a night beach under a deep blue sky. ;)
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Today I'm still alive and still in love with life :)
Today I write about the passion burning inside me; about the longing to dance abandoned four years ago and replaced with a TV screen while my feet were secretly moving under the couch; about the golden skin of a man; about the beaches I’ve never seen and the waters I’ve never touched; about the cologne that caused me fever on the street and the eyes behind those sunglasses; about the burning smile I received while passing by; about the hands I’ve been seeing in my dreams while my nights were gradually turning into birds screaming in the velvet sky; about all the shooting stars I’ve caught to whisper my wishes; about the moons I’ve captured in my spells for happiness; about the flavour of my sangria telling stories from afar; about my only treasure which I can kiss each day and it's keeping me alive but I’m a heretic for still hoping to be kissed too; about all the songs I never sang and dances I sacrificed; about all the dates I’ll never have and those which are still to come… Because I know, I do know there is much more ahead and life will go on, and the sun will rise bright and warm tomorrow and will put a smile on my face. I’ll dance again and soon. I’ll be at a beach I never knew with someone’s burning smile and cuddle in golden hands. I’ll love and love is not gone forever. She is always around me - a silky touch in my mornings when my eyes are still carrying the lust of the dark. A painful memory, yet sweet in its bitterness. A dream of impossible, yet forthcoming meetings. A bliss, writing affirmations on my toilet mirror. My bronze lipstick and my gypsy scarf in the summer wind. My hidden self, my inspiration, my belief that all is within a reach of my hands. Because the world is mine, I can feel it between my fingers like the sand I’ll lie on in just ... so soon. Not a vacation I need but a waterfall of rainbows to wash away the past.
I’m writing today about all those who thought they were devoting themselves while building their own prisons. About the traps we create with cunning hands and readily enter full of ideals. About the lies we accept gladly and excuse generously. About others’ lives we support while swallowing our passions and clenching fists when the pain threatens to tear our skin, secretly praying to be touched by something extraordinary. And it comes. One day it surely comes and we just need to wish big, to dream and allow ourselves to get lost in dreaming. Not feel guilty for the five minutes we spend in another world with a different reality. There is always a choice and more than one way to live our lives. The question is if we dare to see it. The door is always open but do we enter? I do. Today I’m stopping the time and standing against the way it played with me for a while. I turn the cycle and the flow of the river that has been drawing me back and my sails are bright and pregnant with wind. There is a whole new horizon ahead. A bright new world. A promise so big that makes me dizzy. A hug so warm that my skin burns. Eyes so dark that my worries are lost in a coffee shared on a hot summer morning. I sail ahead and my fears die with each wave I leave behind. I may never see land again but I won't know if I don’t take the chance.
I’m writing today about all those who thought they were devoting themselves while building their own prisons. About the traps we create with cunning hands and readily enter full of ideals. About the lies we accept gladly and excuse generously. About others’ lives we support while swallowing our passions and clenching fists when the pain threatens to tear our skin, secretly praying to be touched by something extraordinary. And it comes. One day it surely comes and we just need to wish big, to dream and allow ourselves to get lost in dreaming. Not feel guilty for the five minutes we spend in another world with a different reality. There is always a choice and more than one way to live our lives. The question is if we dare to see it. The door is always open but do we enter? I do. Today I’m stopping the time and standing against the way it played with me for a while. I turn the cycle and the flow of the river that has been drawing me back and my sails are bright and pregnant with wind. There is a whole new horizon ahead. A bright new world. A promise so big that makes me dizzy. A hug so warm that my skin burns. Eyes so dark that my worries are lost in a coffee shared on a hot summer morning. I sail ahead and my fears die with each wave I leave behind. I may never see land again but I won't know if I don’t take the chance.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
The joyful and the sorrowful
I was watching "Four Weddings And A Funeral" for, probably, eleventh time over the past five years and it amazed me (again) how I reacted to Gareth's funeral... Actually, to Mathew's emotions. Because it's a romantic comedy, you know? I absolutely hate these tags but it describes the main idea of the movie - the love at first sight, the impossible relationship, the growing attraction, and finally the happy end we've all been longing for. I'm supposed to sob at touchy kisses and not so touching despair... Yet, for some reason, in this movie I can easily skip the love scenes if I can only watch Mathew's speech in front of his lover's coffin. And I think...
I think about the insane connection between our joy and sorrow. I think about the hidden side of any happiness. The shadow card. The bottom line. Flip the coin and it's all gone, it's all history... I've often been told I'm pessimistic and my life doesn't happen the way I want it because of that. I disagree. I'm ridiculously optimistic. Hey, I still believe in love for life! Recognizing the shadow is not equal to ignoring the light. One can not exist without the other. Mathew didn't forget the bright but he lived the dark to the fullest. Gareth didn't ignore the love he got but he saw the lack of love in others' lives too. "Joyful" was used so often regarding him. But I wanted to yell at the screen that death is never joyful and no one is joyful in death... I've been there, that's all. It's tearing apart. It's cutting to the bone. It's not merciful. It's not quick and sharp. It's slow. Almost like the hand holding the knife enjoys each millimeter of flesh removed... It may be the case. Someone is operating our souls from sensitivity. It would mean Death is actually merciful. I'll have to think about it. In Tarot she is raw power. Unbiased, untouched, uninterested. In reality I find her cruel to those who least deserve it. I hope one day we'll face each other as equals. I know it is possible.
But I don't intend to analyze the movie here or sink deeper in depressive thoughts. I started the post with one intention only - to save the poem Mathew recites - Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden - here, so I can always come back and get my dose of unprecedented love when I need it. Or sorrow.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with the juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and, with muffled drum,
Bring out the coffin. Let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message: “He is dead!”
Put crepe bows around the white necks of the public doves.
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my north, my south, my east and west,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can come to any good.
What scares me most? That I know what he means. I know that hole where no light exists... And still, I believe life is stronger. Light will prevail. It is darkest before dawn, there is always a ray of light on the horizon. If only one never gives up but accepts the painful fact that sometimes "forever" means precisely that.
I think about the insane connection between our joy and sorrow. I think about the hidden side of any happiness. The shadow card. The bottom line. Flip the coin and it's all gone, it's all history... I've often been told I'm pessimistic and my life doesn't happen the way I want it because of that. I disagree. I'm ridiculously optimistic. Hey, I still believe in love for life! Recognizing the shadow is not equal to ignoring the light. One can not exist without the other. Mathew didn't forget the bright but he lived the dark to the fullest. Gareth didn't ignore the love he got but he saw the lack of love in others' lives too. "Joyful" was used so often regarding him. But I wanted to yell at the screen that death is never joyful and no one is joyful in death... I've been there, that's all. It's tearing apart. It's cutting to the bone. It's not merciful. It's not quick and sharp. It's slow. Almost like the hand holding the knife enjoys each millimeter of flesh removed... It may be the case. Someone is operating our souls from sensitivity. It would mean Death is actually merciful. I'll have to think about it. In Tarot she is raw power. Unbiased, untouched, uninterested. In reality I find her cruel to those who least deserve it. I hope one day we'll face each other as equals. I know it is possible.
But I don't intend to analyze the movie here or sink deeper in depressive thoughts. I started the post with one intention only - to save the poem Mathew recites - Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden - here, so I can always come back and get my dose of unprecedented love when I need it. Or sorrow.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with the juicy bone.
Silence the pianos and, with muffled drum,
Bring out the coffin. Let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message: “He is dead!”
Put crepe bows around the white necks of the public doves.
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my north, my south, my east and west,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can come to any good.
What scares me most? That I know what he means. I know that hole where no light exists... And still, I believe life is stronger. Light will prevail. It is darkest before dawn, there is always a ray of light on the horizon. If only one never gives up but accepts the painful fact that sometimes "forever" means precisely that.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Thinking...
*Photo courtesy of http://www.wikimedia.org/
Lately I've been thinking. Surprise, surprise! :))) But it is serious. As I wrote a while ago in my profile, it is time to re-evaluate a couple of things. I'm not that young anymore, I can't afford to just stroll around carelessly. I am a mom, I have to think of the future... Right now things are blocked. Nothing happens, nothing seems to work. I've noticed before that in times like these fate pushes me in quite unexpected directions. That's how I ended up interested in Crawley, West Sussex, England. I know, I'm in Canada... and so what? I even found a couple of companies I'd love to work for and they all have offices in or around Crawley. Why Crawley? It's close to Gatwick airport and flying to France is like going to the mall in Toronto. :)))) Crazy, no? What would life be without adventure? What will my son think of me if I can't break a wall or two? Look at this cute little town, I think we can be happy there...
*Photo courtesy of http://www.geograph.org.uk/
24-hour store! Not to be overlooked, I say.
*Photo courtesy of http://www.beerintheevening.com
Very good looking pub. Yes, I won't have time for pubs being with the little one but he will eventually grow up and it would be nice to have a spot to celebrate my 50th birthday or my retirement.
*Photo courtesy of www.yourlocalweb.co.uk
Very cool! Reminds me of Midsommer Murders! Very British, so to speak.
*Photo courtesy of http://www.yourlocalweb.co.uk/
Mysterious old shabby buildings - the dream come true of every little boy. And it's even sunny! Yuppy!
*Photo courtesy of http://assets.byteplay.com/
I am officially impressed. It costs only about a million pounds. Naturally, this would be close to the advance I'll get for my first novel, no?
OK, so now I've found the prospective employers, the spot to celebrate my retirement, my future house, and even a daycare spot from September. Kid you not. I'm always serious when I'm dreaming of a new life. All must be done properly, research is vital. There is only one problem - it seems I am not allowed to move my life, my talent, and my glorious self to Crawley, West Sussex because I have no visa. Shame on the British government, I say! Instead, I am required to
a/ torture an employer until they breathlessly agree to apply for a work permit or
b/ make another million and become "an investor". Those are always welcome everywhere.
Considering the average value of my publishing contracts, this wouldn't be a problem at all, would it? LOL
Any three-book deals around, folks? Crawley needs me and I need Crawley! :)))))
24-hour store! Not to be overlooked, I say.
Very good looking pub. Yes, I won't have time for pubs being with the little one but he will eventually grow up and it would be nice to have a spot to celebrate my 50th birthday or my retirement.
Very cool! Reminds me of Midsommer Murders! Very British, so to speak.
Mysterious old shabby buildings - the dream come true of every little boy. And it's even sunny! Yuppy!
I am officially impressed. It costs only about a million pounds. Naturally, this would be close to the advance I'll get for my first novel, no?
OK, so now I've found the prospective employers, the spot to celebrate my retirement, my future house, and even a daycare spot from September. Kid you not. I'm always serious when I'm dreaming of a new life. All must be done properly, research is vital. There is only one problem - it seems I am not allowed to move my life, my talent, and my glorious self to Crawley, West Sussex because I have no visa. Shame on the British government, I say! Instead, I am required to
a/ torture an employer until they breathlessly agree to apply for a work permit or
b/ make another million and become "an investor". Those are always welcome everywhere.
Considering the average value of my publishing contracts, this wouldn't be a problem at all, would it? LOL
Any three-book deals around, folks? Crawley needs me and I need Crawley! :)))))
Do you know Rebecca?
Rebecca Woodhead? A fellow writer with a similar life story, another one who had to fight each step of the road to publishing? If not, then check out her blog: http://rebeccawoodhead.blogspot.com/ and help as you can. Buying our books is the best support, so please take a second look at your list with presents for the upcoming birthdays, weddings, and holidays. I'm almost 100% sure you can find a place for a couple of writing jewels. :))
Monday, May 3, 2010
Be rejected and have fun!
To all fellow writers, if you haven't got the book, do it! Here are just some sample rejections and below I'm pasting my favorites. This is truly hilarious. I've been laughing aloud for half an hour. http://www.writersservices.com/mag/m_rejection.htm
Rotten Rejections
The Letters that Publishers Wish they'd never Sent
Jorge Luis Borges
'utterly untranslatable'
Isaac Bashevis Singer
'It's Poland and the rich Jews again.'
Lady Chatterley's Lover by D H Lawrence
'for your own sake do not publish this book.'
The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame
'an irresponsible holiday story'
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
'an absurd and uninteresting fantasy which was rubbish and dull.'
Crash by J G Ballard
‘The author of this book is beyond psychiatric help.'
The Deer Park by Norman Mailer
'This will set publishing back 25 years.'
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes by Anita Loos
'Do you realize, young woman, that you're the first American writer ever to poke fun at sex.'
Lust for Life by Irving Stone
(which was rejected 16 times, but found a publisher and went on to sell about 25 million copies)
‘ A long, dull novel about an artist.’
Catch – 22 by Joseph Heller
‘I haven’t really the foggiest idea about what the man is trying to say… Apparently the author intends it to be funny – possibly even satire – but it is really not funny on any intellectual level … From your long publishing experience you will know that it is less disastrous to turn down a work of genius than to turn down talented mediocrities.’
The Spy who Came in from the Cold by John le Carré
‘You’re welcome to le Carré – he hasn’t got any future.’
Lady Windermere’s Fan by Oscar Wilde
‘My dear sir,
I have read your manuscript. Oh, my dear sir.’
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
‘... overwhelmingly nauseating, even to an enlightened Freudian … the whole thing is an unsure cross between hideous reality and improbable fantasy. It often becomes a wild neurotic daydream … I recommend that it be buried under a stone for a thousand years.’
Rotten Rejections
The Letters that Publishers Wish they'd never Sent
Jorge Luis Borges
'utterly untranslatable'
Isaac Bashevis Singer
'It's Poland and the rich Jews again.'
Lady Chatterley's Lover by D H Lawrence
'for your own sake do not publish this book.'
The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame
'an irresponsible holiday story'
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
'an absurd and uninteresting fantasy which was rubbish and dull.'
Crash by J G Ballard
‘The author of this book is beyond psychiatric help.'
The Deer Park by Norman Mailer
'This will set publishing back 25 years.'
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes by Anita Loos
'Do you realize, young woman, that you're the first American writer ever to poke fun at sex.'
Lust for Life by Irving Stone
(which was rejected 16 times, but found a publisher and went on to sell about 25 million copies)
‘ A long, dull novel about an artist.’
Catch – 22 by Joseph Heller
‘I haven’t really the foggiest idea about what the man is trying to say… Apparently the author intends it to be funny – possibly even satire – but it is really not funny on any intellectual level … From your long publishing experience you will know that it is less disastrous to turn down a work of genius than to turn down talented mediocrities.’
The Spy who Came in from the Cold by John le Carré
‘You’re welcome to le Carré – he hasn’t got any future.’
Lady Windermere’s Fan by Oscar Wilde
‘My dear sir,
I have read your manuscript. Oh, my dear sir.’
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
‘... overwhelmingly nauseating, even to an enlightened Freudian … the whole thing is an unsure cross between hideous reality and improbable fantasy. It often becomes a wild neurotic daydream … I recommend that it be buried under a stone for a thousand years.’
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Is blogging writing or what?
This seems an important question these days. It may have been widely discussed and most probably by people far more experienced than me but here is my take. The second worst thing after being rejected is to be told you are not writing "high enough". I was recently exposed to a situation when I overheard an editor speaking of someone's writing as "blogging". It set me on a mental journey back to the times when I was studying philology and reading all classics from the ancient Greeks to Garcia Marquez. While I absolutely love Marquez, I wonder if we all have to become the next one or we could live a happy writing life just "blogging".
What did the editor mean? Is blogging cheap? I can think of at least five blogs which I consider worth reading as much as I consider worthy "Love In Times Of Cholera". The standartization freaks me out. Any kind of inforced frame wakes up the rebel inside me. The structure requirements that bothered Ursula Le Guin are also annoyng me a great deal. Not only that but some of the world reknowned authors like Jane Austen, for example, are sometimes accused in failing to develop their plot according to structure requirements. Surely, Austen is seriously concerned and regretting the unfogivable mistake. Yet, she remains in the hearts and minds of hundreds of thousands while tons of books written according to all rules are either forgotten on the next day or never published at all. So, what's the truth?
I dare to say the truth must be the inner one. If I like blogging and this template and tone suits my creativity well, I see no reason why I should write books in a totally different way. Yes, there must be movement, connection, and, as Le Guin says, focus - a book can not be series of fragments (although I've read such books and they can be remarkably good) or at least not all the time but who says each book has to be developed by certain standards? Agents do. Publishers do. They say the public wants this too. Does it? How come some blogs generate more readers than published books attract buyers? I had hoped, may be naively, that in the 21st century - an era of communicational outburst, offering hundreds of ways to express oneself, the accent would be on innovative, daring thinking and writing. I, for one, want to read more such works. Instead, the next "high" versus "low" debate seems to be taking place.
"Blogging" versus "writing". Those who scratch the surface versus the explorers of depths unknown. Ah, but I know this story. I've spent too many years studying, writing and critiquing geniuses' works for the sake of getting an A. The result - some of them I loved, some hated and still do, none of them I felt qualified to critique. Because they had achieved something I haven't yet - following their inner voice and playing against great odds for the right to do what they wanted to do the way they felt it should be done. Not the way they were necessarily told to do it. A fellow writer told me recently: "The only way to write well is to write what you want to read." I am 100% with her on that.
So, I was exploring the writer's face while this editor was pouring rubbish over the author's head. The writer was shrinking there, right in front of my eyes. He probably deleted his blog when he got back home. He may have rushed to the library and borrowed literary theory to read for the next couple of months. The manuscript may have been ritually burned on the front lawn. To hell with the blogging cheapness, embrace the classy paragraph-long sentences and thoughts requiring decoding while digging deep into the next desire-action-conflict-resolution piece. Or he may have bought "Plotting For Dummies" or similar and rewrote his work to the point when it was perfectly fitting the dummies part but had nothing to do with his own mind. I keep asking myself when the writer must set the limit. Where should be raised the border wall and put the "Stop" sign?
I must state here that I have nothing against the structure that has proven as working tool over the centuries from Aristotle to Stephen King. But I do stand up for the right to explore new territories and not be filed under categories. It is also true that by doing so a writer should be prepared to see his all works in the dusty boxes on top of the wardrobe and accept the thought that book signings and recognition may have to be postponed for after his death. For some reason unknown death seems to add much desired patina to the dusty works and turn them more often than not into marketable pieces. Still, I believe the personal satisfaction of writing (or any other creative endeavor) should be pursued and is worthy a war or two.
For the sake of myself and all bloggers, I suggest we start creating "blogature". That's for blogging and literature. Chances are it will never hit the bookstores' shelves but may earn the public's award which, as all Hollywood stars love to say, is the most important, no? Hey, it's the Age Of Aquarius, freedom of expression and mind should be the key words. Or, if you know or like Tarot, The Fool should be ruling.
Here is another poet on "blogature": http://mutiso.blogspot.com/2006/03/blogature-vs-publishers.html Check out some of the writers' blogs listed, there are really good pieces there.
What did the editor mean? Is blogging cheap? I can think of at least five blogs which I consider worth reading as much as I consider worthy "Love In Times Of Cholera". The standartization freaks me out. Any kind of inforced frame wakes up the rebel inside me. The structure requirements that bothered Ursula Le Guin are also annoyng me a great deal. Not only that but some of the world reknowned authors like Jane Austen, for example, are sometimes accused in failing to develop their plot according to structure requirements. Surely, Austen is seriously concerned and regretting the unfogivable mistake. Yet, she remains in the hearts and minds of hundreds of thousands while tons of books written according to all rules are either forgotten on the next day or never published at all. So, what's the truth?
I dare to say the truth must be the inner one. If I like blogging and this template and tone suits my creativity well, I see no reason why I should write books in a totally different way. Yes, there must be movement, connection, and, as Le Guin says, focus - a book can not be series of fragments (although I've read such books and they can be remarkably good) or at least not all the time but who says each book has to be developed by certain standards? Agents do. Publishers do. They say the public wants this too. Does it? How come some blogs generate more readers than published books attract buyers? I had hoped, may be naively, that in the 21st century - an era of communicational outburst, offering hundreds of ways to express oneself, the accent would be on innovative, daring thinking and writing. I, for one, want to read more such works. Instead, the next "high" versus "low" debate seems to be taking place.
"Blogging" versus "writing". Those who scratch the surface versus the explorers of depths unknown. Ah, but I know this story. I've spent too many years studying, writing and critiquing geniuses' works for the sake of getting an A. The result - some of them I loved, some hated and still do, none of them I felt qualified to critique. Because they had achieved something I haven't yet - following their inner voice and playing against great odds for the right to do what they wanted to do the way they felt it should be done. Not the way they were necessarily told to do it. A fellow writer told me recently: "The only way to write well is to write what you want to read." I am 100% with her on that.
So, I was exploring the writer's face while this editor was pouring rubbish over the author's head. The writer was shrinking there, right in front of my eyes. He probably deleted his blog when he got back home. He may have rushed to the library and borrowed literary theory to read for the next couple of months. The manuscript may have been ritually burned on the front lawn. To hell with the blogging cheapness, embrace the classy paragraph-long sentences and thoughts requiring decoding while digging deep into the next desire-action-conflict-resolution piece. Or he may have bought "Plotting For Dummies" or similar and rewrote his work to the point when it was perfectly fitting the dummies part but had nothing to do with his own mind. I keep asking myself when the writer must set the limit. Where should be raised the border wall and put the "Stop" sign?
I must state here that I have nothing against the structure that has proven as working tool over the centuries from Aristotle to Stephen King. But I do stand up for the right to explore new territories and not be filed under categories. It is also true that by doing so a writer should be prepared to see his all works in the dusty boxes on top of the wardrobe and accept the thought that book signings and recognition may have to be postponed for after his death. For some reason unknown death seems to add much desired patina to the dusty works and turn them more often than not into marketable pieces. Still, I believe the personal satisfaction of writing (or any other creative endeavor) should be pursued and is worthy a war or two.
For the sake of myself and all bloggers, I suggest we start creating "blogature". That's for blogging and literature. Chances are it will never hit the bookstores' shelves but may earn the public's award which, as all Hollywood stars love to say, is the most important, no? Hey, it's the Age Of Aquarius, freedom of expression and mind should be the key words. Or, if you know or like Tarot, The Fool should be ruling.
Here is another poet on "blogature": http://mutiso.blogspot.com/2006/03/blogature-vs-publishers.html Check out some of the writers' blogs listed, there are really good pieces there.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Vacationing and Mr. Darcy
Because the surrounding arrogance irritates me a great deal these days and makes me feel quite a bit tired, I decided I will go on vacation after all. Just like that, against all financial wisdom and family advice. I'll take my son and hit the Atlantic beaches, we may even go to Biaritz. I'll share what I've found about this area in the next couple of posts. I'll, of course, ask Tarot which place would be best to choose as well. :) I will also take my netbook and... write!
You may expect cheesy romantic flavour which always accompanies my trips to France and I love it! If I could choose now, I'd opt for a dark, handsome stranger with broad shoulders (mandatory), tall and slender (preferred), aloof (recommended) and highly intelligent (a must) to become my next book's hero. I already wrote one of those and one of the editors told me he made her feel "uneasy". I bit my lips to not point that a true Mr. Darcy was supposed to make her feel this way, no? But she may had never read Jane Austen which would have made the whole thing pointless. The important thing is I can never get enough of dark handsome strangers which behave like the king of the world. It concerns me. I may have insecurity issues. Or height issues. Or shrinks know what. Yet, I indulge myself writing again and again about Mr. Darcy. It's true I try to make him a bit more contemporary, so to speak but I still can not imagine him doing the dishes or speaking slang... I think this will be the topic of my next novel which, hopefully, won't be buried. LOL
You may expect cheesy romantic flavour which always accompanies my trips to France and I love it! If I could choose now, I'd opt for a dark, handsome stranger with broad shoulders (mandatory), tall and slender (preferred), aloof (recommended) and highly intelligent (a must) to become my next book's hero. I already wrote one of those and one of the editors told me he made her feel "uneasy". I bit my lips to not point that a true Mr. Darcy was supposed to make her feel this way, no? But she may had never read Jane Austen which would have made the whole thing pointless. The important thing is I can never get enough of dark handsome strangers which behave like the king of the world. It concerns me. I may have insecurity issues. Or height issues. Or shrinks know what. Yet, I indulge myself writing again and again about Mr. Darcy. It's true I try to make him a bit more contemporary, so to speak but I still can not imagine him doing the dishes or speaking slang... I think this will be the topic of my next novel which, hopefully, won't be buried. LOL
Funerals and all that jazz
Had to attend the funeral of my own novel yesterday. Time came to kill one of my darlings - this dreaded by writers point when it becomes clear that what looked like a promising lovely book will never make it to the shelves of the bookstores. Did I cry? A lot. Did I give up. Surely not. I am translating it for another market. I am a resurrection believer. Everything is energy. What goes around, comes around. Did I learn something? Definitely. I am stronger than I thought.
In additon, received a great children's book to translate as well. The writer is the one I quoted a couple of posts earlier. Love her writing, it makes me smile. Reminds me of my own childhood when, instead of playing outside, I wrote absurd stories which, by the way, were even published and awarded. Where and when did I lose this talent remains unknown.
Saxophone helps as well - a midnight cry singing of oceans and starry nights, men and women engaged in the dance of life. glasses with sparkling champagne and crickets in love... This kind of stuff. Anticipating the summer which, I know, will bring something extraordinary.
In additon, received a great children's book to translate as well. The writer is the one I quoted a couple of posts earlier. Love her writing, it makes me smile. Reminds me of my own childhood when, instead of playing outside, I wrote absurd stories which, by the way, were even published and awarded. Where and when did I lose this talent remains unknown.
Saxophone helps as well - a midnight cry singing of oceans and starry nights, men and women engaged in the dance of life. glasses with sparkling champagne and crickets in love... This kind of stuff. Anticipating the summer which, I know, will bring something extraordinary.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Ladybug, ladybug...
She comes in my days to share her nights.
"I dream of him," she says clenching her slender fingers. I love the nail polish - "Bull's Blood". So dark, so intense. "I write him notes which I never sent. I sit on the lawn in front of my shabby house and think of him. He is killing me."
"Who is he?"
"The boy from the carnival ship. My parents took me to the Tropic of the Capricorn... He was a Capricorn, you know? So fair, so light... I was dark. Too dark for his liking, yet he told me he loved my Gypsy scarf."
"What happened?"
"The ship reached a harbour."
"He left?"
"We all did. Each on a different path."
"It happens to all of us. All the time. We meet people, we separate from people."
"I never separated from him. Don't you see it? I switched countries, cities, houses, men, jobs, but he wouldn't go away. My life was spent in running away from him."
"You can't run away from your own mind if you don't want to close the drawers and let the memories rest."
"Rest... I forgot the meaning of "rest". The summer is coming. The ships will sail again."
She makes me feel dizzy. The cards are ringing. Ding-dang-dong.
"What do the cards say?"
Eight of Wands, Two of Wands, Page of Cups, Three of Wands... How can I? Should I?
"What is it?" She pours the wine down her throat. Her vision is blurred, her eyes show the bottles drank. Yet, she still radiates this grace of the past which must have drawn him to her. Passion that translates to the cards. Thoughts that rule the spread. She is reaching him, I can see it.
"The cards show you thinking of him... A lot. Time and space are relative, you know?"
"Does he remember me?"
"I don't know... I can see him feeling you... May be."
"How?"
"You make him dreamy. He may recall the boy he was then... Yes, he may."
"What is the end?"
"The end? I don't see an end here. Not yet."
"The three, what does it mean?"
"A ship... coming to your harbour."
"You think..."
"I don't. You are confusing me." Ding-dang-dong, the cards sing.
"Why are you shaking?"
"You're ruling my cards. I can't trust this reading. It's you, not me, here."
Liar. It's not her. It's the boy in the vineyards that summer when the plump grapes were catching the late afternoon sun and I was laying on the scorched ground. The juice was dropping in my hair and the bees were drinking of my curls. He had been looking at me for hours, he said. The boy turning into man; his sky blue eyes bathing me in the waves of the ocean nearby.
"Where are you?" She asks twisting her cigarette nervously.
"In a valley. Someone drew the Commanderie card for me once and I thought "La Rochelle"..."
"What happened there?"
"I lost something. Gladly."
"Why didn't you stay?"
"I ran away."
"Why?"
"I was wise, I thought."
"I see... I envy you."
"Don't. This man of yours... This boy, did you meet him again?"
"How could I? Three worlds are separating us. The physical where he is thousands of kilometres away; the emotional where he attached himself while my heart was falling apart, and the world of the rich where I can't enter."
"Yet, the Wheel of Fortune is always turning."
"Not mine. Thank you for the reading. I may write him another letter tonight."
"The Moon is waxing. Your power is growing."
"Yeah, yeah... Take care."
"You too."
She leaves in her dancing manner, her curves tempting the eye, her black hair twisting like a snake on her back. How could he leave her? She was a Boticelli painting walking the Earth. One of the goddesses. Ding-dang-dong. Yes, I can feel her too. She's shaking my existence with her insane passion. I hate her for awakening memories I had so carefully buried. I draw a card. The Lovers. Another. Ace of Wands. Last. The Devil. I pray.
"Please, save me from the temptation of the past and grant me the grace of the future."
Ding-dang-dong. The touch is gentle. She lands on my hand in her regal red mantle. Dots, dots, dots, like grapes falling on the fertile ground. She caresses me, she promises me rainbows. A messenger of the faeries, an emissary of the skies.
"Ladybug, ladybug, fly his way,
And tell him I still wait..."
"I dream of him," she says clenching her slender fingers. I love the nail polish - "Bull's Blood". So dark, so intense. "I write him notes which I never sent. I sit on the lawn in front of my shabby house and think of him. He is killing me."
"Who is he?"
"The boy from the carnival ship. My parents took me to the Tropic of the Capricorn... He was a Capricorn, you know? So fair, so light... I was dark. Too dark for his liking, yet he told me he loved my Gypsy scarf."
"What happened?"
"The ship reached a harbour."
"He left?"
"We all did. Each on a different path."
"It happens to all of us. All the time. We meet people, we separate from people."
"I never separated from him. Don't you see it? I switched countries, cities, houses, men, jobs, but he wouldn't go away. My life was spent in running away from him."
"You can't run away from your own mind if you don't want to close the drawers and let the memories rest."
"Rest... I forgot the meaning of "rest". The summer is coming. The ships will sail again."
She makes me feel dizzy. The cards are ringing. Ding-dang-dong.
"What do the cards say?"
Eight of Wands, Two of Wands, Page of Cups, Three of Wands... How can I? Should I?
"What is it?" She pours the wine down her throat. Her vision is blurred, her eyes show the bottles drank. Yet, she still radiates this grace of the past which must have drawn him to her. Passion that translates to the cards. Thoughts that rule the spread. She is reaching him, I can see it.
"The cards show you thinking of him... A lot. Time and space are relative, you know?"
"Does he remember me?"
"I don't know... I can see him feeling you... May be."
"How?"
"You make him dreamy. He may recall the boy he was then... Yes, he may."
"What is the end?"
"The end? I don't see an end here. Not yet."
"The three, what does it mean?"
"A ship... coming to your harbour."
"You think..."
"I don't. You are confusing me." Ding-dang-dong, the cards sing.
"Why are you shaking?"
"You're ruling my cards. I can't trust this reading. It's you, not me, here."
Liar. It's not her. It's the boy in the vineyards that summer when the plump grapes were catching the late afternoon sun and I was laying on the scorched ground. The juice was dropping in my hair and the bees were drinking of my curls. He had been looking at me for hours, he said. The boy turning into man; his sky blue eyes bathing me in the waves of the ocean nearby.
"Where are you?" She asks twisting her cigarette nervously.
"In a valley. Someone drew the Commanderie card for me once and I thought "La Rochelle"..."
"What happened there?"
"I lost something. Gladly."
"Why didn't you stay?"
"I ran away."
"Why?"
"I was wise, I thought."
"I see... I envy you."
"Don't. This man of yours... This boy, did you meet him again?"
"How could I? Three worlds are separating us. The physical where he is thousands of kilometres away; the emotional where he attached himself while my heart was falling apart, and the world of the rich where I can't enter."
"Yet, the Wheel of Fortune is always turning."
"Not mine. Thank you for the reading. I may write him another letter tonight."
"The Moon is waxing. Your power is growing."
"Yeah, yeah... Take care."
"You too."
She leaves in her dancing manner, her curves tempting the eye, her black hair twisting like a snake on her back. How could he leave her? She was a Boticelli painting walking the Earth. One of the goddesses. Ding-dang-dong. Yes, I can feel her too. She's shaking my existence with her insane passion. I hate her for awakening memories I had so carefully buried. I draw a card. The Lovers. Another. Ace of Wands. Last. The Devil. I pray.
"Please, save me from the temptation of the past and grant me the grace of the future."
Ding-dang-dong. The touch is gentle. She lands on my hand in her regal red mantle. Dots, dots, dots, like grapes falling on the fertile ground. She caresses me, she promises me rainbows. A messenger of the faeries, an emissary of the skies.
"Ladybug, ladybug, fly his way,
And tell him I still wait..."
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Portrait of a woman
In a distant corner of the South, on a dusty square, under the scorching afternoon sun, slightly to the right of the cafeteria, is located the bakery. Every morning we join the army bicycling to get their fresh croissants and baguette. The angelic scent is felt from behind the turn and attracts strayed cars from the main road. They make a mini traffic jam in front of Bernadette's window.
Bernadette loves aliens. They are an endless source of stories during the long winter evenings and an opportunity to once again demonstrate she had lived her youth in Paris and was a worldly woman of broad understanding. According to the rumor, she not just lived there but conquered this Paris with a swing. Having not finished school and never touched the door of an university, Bernadette found a job in a patisserie using her "charm". Thanks to the time spent in her grandmother and mother's kitchens, she quickly improved her position both on the ground floor and in the upper apartment of the owner. It happened many years ago. Bernadette states she is sixty-five but the gossipy elders are refusing to take her any younger than seventy. Bernadette ignores them with all the dignity of her mighty stance and frequently pretends she hasn't heard their order.
Bernadette's youth has long been a beloved subject in the village, skillfully fueled by herself after returning from Paris. It happened too soon - only two years after she had left. Although young, the wise Bernadette had quickly realized good men were hard to find in Paris and her invaluable looks and skills would fade while looking for one. The skills she refuses to discuss but puts on a secretive smile.
It seems her husband highly appreciates them for he is gazing at her with adoration and pride. Claude, as his name is, is a tiny old man, a wine maker, earth lover, in a straw Panama hat. He is about three times smaller than his wife but leads a daily war against the gossips in the village to defend her reputation. No evening passes in the cafe when Claude won't stand up for Bernadette's chastity, albeit slightly scratched here and there. He says women like her should be chosen to represent Mariana - this icon of the French femininity. It usually causes mass choking. I can not blame them. No one knew Laetitia Casta at the time but Mariana has never been a piece of heavy machinery.
After coming back to her native village, Bernadette flourished in the warm sun on the heavy, fertile soil. She returned to her roots and opened the bakery on the square in the family house where she was born. Less than a month later Bernadette noticed the prospective bachelor Claude. He had been to war which, in her value system, was the highest form of endurance test - a quality she identified as essential to a future husband. And the moment she had made her choice, she had already conquered him. They married three months later. She bore his children but they flew to the big cities and now come to visit only on weekends and for the summer. Bernadette has not yet forgiven them for making her a grandma too soon.
This femme formidable loves not only newcomers but everything big - houses, cars, hairstyles (all her hair is placed on top of her head), skirts, blouses (they look borrowed from a Velasquez painting), gardens, chairs, beds (on hers three Bernadettes may sleep comfortably) and most of all - bushes.
Bernadette considers growing flowers an absolute waste of time and space. Flowers require permanent care while the only result is tiny colorful spots here and there in the backyard. Bushes are quite a different story. They can not be missed even from afar, bloom longer, want almost no care and protect the yard from the watchful eyes of nosy neighbors. The outcome of this brilliant theory is a backyard resembling the keep of La Rochelle, surrounded by tall fence and high lilacs, cypresses and ten more species of unknown shrubs she gets delivered from Marseille. She is a proud owner of this jungle while Claude is still trying to swallow the ruined crops that couldn't survive the vigorous growth of the bushes.
Bernadette almost squeaks of joy when she sees the bikes. We provide her with sweet time for rest and chat. Although my French is terrible, she keeps asking questions and moves slowly behind the window carefully packing my croissants. It looks like a sacred act of revelation among the baguettes. Feels like a confession - sometimes relieving, often uncomfortable, especially when we touch the topic on the last underwear trends. Bernadette is a woman of fashion but complaints she receives few magazines these days and the postman behaves unforgivably taking her stuff to his wife. She says she has to go to Marseille to buy a proper dress. Very troublesome.
The rumor has it that Bernadette loves big bottles as well. She's been reportedly spotted pouring aromatic wine down her throat and dropping a bit here and there in her dough. It would explain the always cheerful mood of her customers. Providing the villagers with these special goods has turned Bernadette into an icon and main contributor to the village's prosperity. For how would they survive the endless hours in the vineyards without the proper enthusiasm?
That is why everyone felt terribly concerned when in the end of the summer Bernadette went to Marseille for her regular shopping tour and didn't come back on the Sunday evening as she had always done before. The priest prayed; the cafe owner gave away wine; Claude opened and closed the bakery and even made some bread himself; all was done to welcome Bernadette when she would finally come home but she didn't. I waited on the square like everyone else, sipping from my free wine and wondering in the darkness of the fragrant night.
Bernadette loves aliens. They are an endless source of stories during the long winter evenings and an opportunity to once again demonstrate she had lived her youth in Paris and was a worldly woman of broad understanding. According to the rumor, she not just lived there but conquered this Paris with a swing. Having not finished school and never touched the door of an university, Bernadette found a job in a patisserie using her "charm". Thanks to the time spent in her grandmother and mother's kitchens, she quickly improved her position both on the ground floor and in the upper apartment of the owner. It happened many years ago. Bernadette states she is sixty-five but the gossipy elders are refusing to take her any younger than seventy. Bernadette ignores them with all the dignity of her mighty stance and frequently pretends she hasn't heard their order.
Bernadette's youth has long been a beloved subject in the village, skillfully fueled by herself after returning from Paris. It happened too soon - only two years after she had left. Although young, the wise Bernadette had quickly realized good men were hard to find in Paris and her invaluable looks and skills would fade while looking for one. The skills she refuses to discuss but puts on a secretive smile.
It seems her husband highly appreciates them for he is gazing at her with adoration and pride. Claude, as his name is, is a tiny old man, a wine maker, earth lover, in a straw Panama hat. He is about three times smaller than his wife but leads a daily war against the gossips in the village to defend her reputation. No evening passes in the cafe when Claude won't stand up for Bernadette's chastity, albeit slightly scratched here and there. He says women like her should be chosen to represent Mariana - this icon of the French femininity. It usually causes mass choking. I can not blame them. No one knew Laetitia Casta at the time but Mariana has never been a piece of heavy machinery.
After coming back to her native village, Bernadette flourished in the warm sun on the heavy, fertile soil. She returned to her roots and opened the bakery on the square in the family house where she was born. Less than a month later Bernadette noticed the prospective bachelor Claude. He had been to war which, in her value system, was the highest form of endurance test - a quality she identified as essential to a future husband. And the moment she had made her choice, she had already conquered him. They married three months later. She bore his children but they flew to the big cities and now come to visit only on weekends and for the summer. Bernadette has not yet forgiven them for making her a grandma too soon.
This femme formidable loves not only newcomers but everything big - houses, cars, hairstyles (all her hair is placed on top of her head), skirts, blouses (they look borrowed from a Velasquez painting), gardens, chairs, beds (on hers three Bernadettes may sleep comfortably) and most of all - bushes.
Bernadette considers growing flowers an absolute waste of time and space. Flowers require permanent care while the only result is tiny colorful spots here and there in the backyard. Bushes are quite a different story. They can not be missed even from afar, bloom longer, want almost no care and protect the yard from the watchful eyes of nosy neighbors. The outcome of this brilliant theory is a backyard resembling the keep of La Rochelle, surrounded by tall fence and high lilacs, cypresses and ten more species of unknown shrubs she gets delivered from Marseille. She is a proud owner of this jungle while Claude is still trying to swallow the ruined crops that couldn't survive the vigorous growth of the bushes.
Bernadette almost squeaks of joy when she sees the bikes. We provide her with sweet time for rest and chat. Although my French is terrible, she keeps asking questions and moves slowly behind the window carefully packing my croissants. It looks like a sacred act of revelation among the baguettes. Feels like a confession - sometimes relieving, often uncomfortable, especially when we touch the topic on the last underwear trends. Bernadette is a woman of fashion but complaints she receives few magazines these days and the postman behaves unforgivably taking her stuff to his wife. She says she has to go to Marseille to buy a proper dress. Very troublesome.
The rumor has it that Bernadette loves big bottles as well. She's been reportedly spotted pouring aromatic wine down her throat and dropping a bit here and there in her dough. It would explain the always cheerful mood of her customers. Providing the villagers with these special goods has turned Bernadette into an icon and main contributor to the village's prosperity. For how would they survive the endless hours in the vineyards without the proper enthusiasm?
That is why everyone felt terribly concerned when in the end of the summer Bernadette went to Marseille for her regular shopping tour and didn't come back on the Sunday evening as she had always done before. The priest prayed; the cafe owner gave away wine; Claude opened and closed the bakery and even made some bread himself; all was done to welcome Bernadette when she would finally come home but she didn't. I waited on the square like everyone else, sipping from my free wine and wondering in the darkness of the fragrant night.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
When I'm down...
When I'm down, when my writing sounds dull, when my features look bland, when my life struggles with the path I walk so irresponsibly, I read this:
She's turning her life into something sacred:
Each breath - a new birth;
Each moment - a new chance.
She bows her head,
gathers her dreams
from a pure deep stream
and stretches her arms towards the sky.
It is here where she must begin to tell her story.
(http://www.live-inspired.com/)
And I do. I begin another story. Sometimes my own, sometimes someone else's but always a loved one. I received an amazing letter from a fellow writer today - a woman with numerous bestselling books, often envied and considered having it all. She dreams just as much as I do and we met online through my ramblings about France and my future existence there. She was staying awake in the nights picturing the same vineyards I did dream of. And today she wrote to me:
"A person must be happy in every area of their life. It is not impossible, nor is it questionable. Who says you can't have everything? I want it. Do you? Then it is as true as anything else. The most difficult part is not to define your wishes but to define yourself as deserving them granted. I dare you - are you worth your goals achieved and dreams fulfilled? Are you afraid to challenge fate and pull her skirts if she is too slow or distracted? I dare you to climb the highest peak you have imagined this year and meet me here next spring. Let's see what you can do in one year."
I've been reading it again and again. Truly, who says "everything" is an impossible wish? Not me... But I admit I am not as brave as she is or as hopeful. My faith is often shaken to the point of destruction. This is the difference between those, like her, who raise again and again, and finally achieve triumph and those, like me, who start many things and dream many dreams but rely on the Wheel of Fortune to take them where they want to be. A bit sad. Even more pathetic. I love her words though. They make me believe.
She's turning her life into something sacred:
Each breath - a new birth;
Each moment - a new chance.
She bows her head,
gathers her dreams
from a pure deep stream
and stretches her arms towards the sky.
It is here where she must begin to tell her story.
(http://www.live-inspired.com/)
And I do. I begin another story. Sometimes my own, sometimes someone else's but always a loved one. I received an amazing letter from a fellow writer today - a woman with numerous bestselling books, often envied and considered having it all. She dreams just as much as I do and we met online through my ramblings about France and my future existence there. She was staying awake in the nights picturing the same vineyards I did dream of. And today she wrote to me:
"A person must be happy in every area of their life. It is not impossible, nor is it questionable. Who says you can't have everything? I want it. Do you? Then it is as true as anything else. The most difficult part is not to define your wishes but to define yourself as deserving them granted. I dare you - are you worth your goals achieved and dreams fulfilled? Are you afraid to challenge fate and pull her skirts if she is too slow or distracted? I dare you to climb the highest peak you have imagined this year and meet me here next spring. Let's see what you can do in one year."
I've been reading it again and again. Truly, who says "everything" is an impossible wish? Not me... But I admit I am not as brave as she is or as hopeful. My faith is often shaken to the point of destruction. This is the difference between those, like her, who raise again and again, and finally achieve triumph and those, like me, who start many things and dream many dreams but rely on the Wheel of Fortune to take them where they want to be. A bit sad. Even more pathetic. I love her words though. They make me believe.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I'm reading
I just got this today after I had to wait for it more than two weeks. I am very happy refreshing my mind. I haven't read Hemingway since I was first year in the university and this was disturbingly long ago. Now, all that remains to be done is to write my book as well as they wrote theirs. Love Jane Austin and very sorry I'll have to change my book's Mr. Darcy... Only I see his wonderful nature...
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