One Day In History

The One Day in History site is being a bit wanky with me over the length of my entry--4000 characters is all I get, and once I've taken out bothersome things like spaces after full stops and commas, it's what I've got. Actually, 3995 is what I've got. Arsing thing won't let me enter it. I'll try again later. But for now, here's my snapshot of life in 2006. Enjoy.

Why do shampoo manufacturers make bottles with screw caps? Hard enough to unscrew it with wet hands, but then after you pour the shampoo into one hand, you’ve only got one free to screw the lid back on. I don’t care how volumising and shinifying the stuff is: if it’s got a stupid lid, I ain’t buying it.

The Lottery. By now I should probably have realised for once and for all that I’m not going to win, and yet every time I see that magical word, ROLLOVER, I veer off into wild fantasies of a big house with characterful features, heating that makes no noise, mains electricity which doesn’t need rewiring, holidays wherever I want, with proper first class travel and flat beds on long-haul, a car that doesn’t make weird clunking noises when it moves—actually, a car of my own, full stop. See?It’s not like I’m asking for billions. A few million would be nice. Actually, a few thousand wouldn’t be turned away.

Also in my dream millionaire house (see, I want the millions really), I’d have someone paid just to sort out my recycling. I know the council isn’t doing it for the good of the planet, they’re doing it because the government fines them if they don’t. And because they’re only doing it for money, it’s all token gestures, and no one’s really thought about it in enough detail. I have absolutely no idea what kinds of plastics are recyclable, and the manufacturers sure aren’t telling me. At one end, I’m buying food wrapped in three different materials so as to avoid any kind of bacteria whatsoever—including the good kind—and at the other, I’m being told that All Packaging is Evil and if I don’t recycle it, no one will collect my rubbish any more and it’ll all pile up in festering heaps outside the house. Bunch of bullies.

It’s like the fat/thin pronouncements. I’m confused. Am I in danger of succumbing to the Obesity Epidemic—epidemic!—sweeping the nation, creeping in my door, probably borne by some poorly packaged foodstuff, or should I be worrying that my body image is distorted by too many skinny women on TV and in magazines? I have no idea if I’m too fat or too thin, and no one else seems to be able to tell me.

Speaking of heating—well, I mentioned it earlier—this is the time of year when I’m perpetually cold. Mostly because my dad, who has the constitution of an ox, stamps around wearing all his clothes at once, hacking at things in the garden and leaving all the doors open. While I, for some strange reason preferring to spend my leisure time sitting somewhere watching TV, reading the paper, or surfing the internet for porn—I mean, information and communication—sit there shivering, because I’m only wearing one or two layers of clothing, not seventeen, and it’s October, which is officially chilly. I don’t care if the sun is shining. I don’t care if there’s global warming heating us up like an oven. 17 degrees is not a comfortable temperature when you’re as lazy as I am.

Am I lazy, though? See above re: obesity. I think a lot, and I exercise my brain, so does that make me lazy? I’ve tried exercise. It either involves paying money to clubs, which I don’t have, or coordination, which I really don’t have, or team spirit, which I’m also lacking in, or sweat, which I don’t enjoy. Sitting quietly reading a book, however, requires none of these things. And it’s got to be better for the brain than whacking a ball with a stick.

While I’m at it, one more thing. In the future, it’s entirely possible no one will be able to read this because I have, to the best of my knowledge, spelled and punctuated it correctly, and also proofed it for errors. Unlike some people, including: Uttlesford council, who ‘don’t do’ apostrophes on street signs any more; The Times newspaper, which doesn’t seem to even spell-check its articles any more; professional signwriters, such as the one who corrected ‘Luxery En Suite Accommodation’ to ‘Luxury Ensuit Accommodation’; people who write menus, flyers, advertisements, websites, book reviews, and on occasion, books.

There’s my snapshot of Daily Life in the Early Twenty-First Century. My, don’t I moan a lot.

Tag, I'm it!

Emma Sinclair tagged me, and I'm all about the procrastination, baby, so I'm giving in.

1) One book that changed your life: Seven Up by Janet Evanovich (yes, I read them out of sequence. Shoot me). Before this I'd never really read a mystery before, only seen them on Sunday night TV. And I'd never dreamed that they could be funny--at least, not without being distasteful. A chick-lit heroine and an action-packed plot? This was what I'd been waiting for!

2) One book that you’d read more than once: Everything by Terry Pratchett. Every time I re-read I find something new (like the Elvish joke in Soul Music? And Asphalt the roadie? How freaking long did that one take me??).

3) One book you’d want on a deserted island: Er. How To Build And Pilot A Plane Using Ordinary Desert Island Materials. Either that, or Where Jack Hid The Rum.

4) One book that made you laugh: Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding. I was in convulsions. Honest to God, tears rolling down my cheeks.

5) One book that made you cry: The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger (I may have spelled that wrong). Won't spoil the ending, but I was so overwhelmed by it.

6) One book you wish you’d written: Well, I've already mentioned The Pratchett, so I'll go for Welcome to Temptation by Jennifer Crusie. I just love everything about it. Plot, characters, dialogue--Christ, the dialogue. If I write one scene as brilliant as any part of that book, I'll be happy.

7) One book you wish had never been written: Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. Made GCSE English a misery, and was the last set text I ever read the whole of. Incidentally, this does not prevent a passing grade.

8) One book you’re currently reading: Men At Arms by Terry Pratchett. First City Watch book I ever read (I've just finished Guards! Guards! for the first time). No one writes characters with as much...well, character, as TP. I'd read about Sam Vimes or Angua buying their groceries (one large packet cigars {Pantweed Slim something? I can't remember}, one tub armour polish, one convex shaving mirror; one bottle dog shampoo, one hairbrush, one box dog biscuits).

People I'm tagging: Oh hell. Emma's already tagged most of the people I'd do. Can I double-tag Kendra? And the other Great Escape Artists, heh. I really need to read more blogs, don't I? Feel free to tag yourself...

5,615 / 12,000 (46.8%)

I may regret this

But here is a wordmeter, so you can all see how much work I'm not doing.

4,845 / 12,000 (40.4%)

Well, I have another project on the go, too. Perhaps a little unwisely, I'm also painting a mural downstairs to be perused while one is enjoying the facilities of the downstairs cloakroom. It's my mother's idea. Last night (first day of painting) she said it was too big. This morning, when I explained that she never told me how big she wanted it, and indeed saw the size when I had sketched it on the wall, she amended it to 'too blue'. Looks like I'll be creating a more authentically British sky of pale blue-grey.

This is, approximately, what I'm painting (click for a larger picture). God knows what it'll turn out like.


Oh, and I've amended the sidebar with blogs I actually do read. Or at least intend to. I'm terrible at catching up. Should I be reading your blog? Tell me, without using the letter E, why I should.

Only kidding. Use as many Es as you like. I'll even give you bonus points for them.

Biggest Blog in History

Kinda amusing to hear BBC newscasters trying to say 'blog' like it's a normal word. Anyway, this is some living history experiment to create a snapshot of daily life for future generations to boggle over. I dunno if it's just a UK thing--the results are being stored in the British Library--but toddle over here and have a look if you're interested. The set day is Tuesday, 17th October.

Come Tuesday, be prepared for a blog detailing the absolute minutiae of my life. You know you want to read it.

Losing IQ points.

I could feel myself getting happily ditzier as the bleach soaked in. Ahhh, being blonde again!

It was actually curled when I left the salon. But, my hair being as stubborn as it is, by the time I got home (about a seven minute walk) it was as you see it now. Well, c'est la vie. Think of the maintenance if it was curly! I might have to even, you know, brush it.

And, I got brownie points because there was no purple in it this time. I don't think Faye believes I'm actually scared of her--but hey, this woman has more power than the president of the US. After all, he has no say in how bad my hair looks.

My gorgeous boy

Since I've just put up a couple of pictures of his sister, I feel it only fair to dazzle you all with how beautiful my baby boy is turning out. Look at those eyes! Look at that fur! Listen to the never-ending mewing for food! Oh, you can't. But even that's kind of cute. His miaows are all squeaky, and he chirrups when you talk to him.

Yes, I'm besotted with my Spikealike.

Cat gets a facelift

...has got a new look! Scoot on over and tell me what you think. Pretty, n'est pas?

Moreover, I'm about to launch my big fat and beautiful new newsletter. To celebrate, I'm offering a free download of any one of my books to one lucky subscriber, picked at random. So, what are you waiting for? Go and subscribe!

Working hard, or hardly working?

She's a rotten typist.

Back from Cornwall, which was lovely as always. Have eaten nothing but pasties and chips and gigantic portions of fish all week, washed down with the local ale and cheese, hilariously called Cornish Yarg. Yarg, matey!

I'd post a picture to prove where I was, but I left my camera here, so you'll have to wait until I get the disposable film processed.

Meanwhile, I've finished the first draft of Duty and the Beast, which will be heading off to my lovely editor as soon as I've corrected the typos Sugar helpfully added for me (so she can't type, but she's great at plot twists). I'll soon be starting work on my Christmas story for Samhain, and then the next Sundown story, Unholy Trinity. On the review front, the word on Naked Eyes is good, good, good, while Almost Human has had a four-star review from Romantic Times.

Look out for my spanking new newsletter coming in the next couple of days, available in glorious Technicolour HTML on my website/s, or delivered straight to your inbox if you so desire. Just sign up for the newsletter here, and I'll do the rest! This month's issue features an interview with the fabulous Amelia Elias, more snippets of the news I know you've been desperate for, book reviews and a whole bunch of other fun crap with which to amuse yourself.

Done!

Finished Duty and the Beast, yay yay yay!

I mean, it hasn't even been spellchecked, let alone edited (I have the feeling there's waaay too much plot), but it's done, last word written, and I actually really like the ending. So, yay me!

I feel justified in going off to Newmarket tomorrow and spending all my ill-gotten (read: given to me by my nannan) gains.

Talk to you when I've made a killing at the races. Or when I've come back from Cornwall. Depends on how much I have to drink tomorrow.

Holdin' out for a hero

Some time ago, I blogged about writing patterns, and how we tend to write stories with common elements. Having watched a bit of Daisy Thingummy's Reader, I Married Him on TV, I've been wondering if patterns don't just apply to one writer, but to the whole genre of romance. You know, those archetypes that are supposed to be typified by the Star Wars characters? Since a) I never took the Media Studies class where this was explained and b) I never watched Star Wars (so sue me. Watch Firefly, it's way better), I'm a little shaky on them, but it's along the lines of Hero, Mentor, Ally, etc. You know the score. If you've ever read a romance, you can probably identify the character types in it.

Anyway. Apparently the next episode of Reader... is about heroes (it's already played, but I haven't seen it yet, stupid programming clashes, wait until the repeat on Sunday) and what elements can be found in them. But my spies tell me that dear Daisy focuses mostly on Misters Darcy and Rochester, Heathcliff and Rhett Butler (and only the film version of Rhett, anyway). What do these have in common? Well, the youungest of them is Rhett, who was published seventy years ago. Pride and Prejudice, I think was written in the 1790s. They're not what you might call the most modern of heroes.

And yet they're enduring. Why? Why do romantic novelists still continue to write haughty millionaires, or brooding liars, or snarling beasts, or charming snakes? What's attractive about any of those? I'll confess to not having read Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights (I watched about twenty minutes of a film of WH and loathed every gloomy second of it), but I'm familiar with P&P and GWTW. Read it about four times a year when I was a teenager.

If a man said you were 'not handsome enough to tempt [him]' and listed the reasons why you weren't good enough for him, would you give him the time of day? Well, no, and you'd be right not to. As was Lizzie in P&P--she continued to dislike Darcy until he both explained and redeemed himself. I can't imagine that Christmas Dinner would be all that much fun in the Bennet household--Mrs B chattering on incessantly, Lydia flaunting her idiocy at every second, Darcy suffering it all in silence and trying to be civil to, or ignore, Wickham. In fact, I'd imagine he'd stick to Bingham and Jane and Lizzie and try to block out the rest. Ahhh, domestic harmony. But anyway, Darcy did prove to be a more worthy man, warm and caring towards his sister, an entertaining host to Lizzie's aunt and uncle, and doggedly rescuing Lizzie's most silly sister, when really she didn't deserve it. So Lizzie realises, as we do, that Darcy's worthy of her admiration, friendship, and love.

Rhett's an entirely different animal. Charming, outgoing, adventurous and not above a little lawlessness, he's the complete opposite of Darcy. He doesn't win Scarlett's affection by sticking to protocol, and neither does he try to redeem himself for her. In fact, the harder Rhett tries to redeem himself, the less interested Scarlett is in him. It's only when he sticks two fingers up at her that she remembers why she liked him in the first place. Rhett's a bad boy--and if you stuck him down in the middle of P&P, he'd have entertained Mr and Mrs B, charmed the sisters to within an inch of their lives, and beaten Wickham to within an inch of his. He'd also have laughed until he cried at Darcy's stiff upper lip.

That's why I like Rhett so much more than Darcy...but why has Darcy remained the more enduring hero template? Why are romances full of misunderstandings, misrepresentations, haughty men and proud women? Why doesn't anyone just say what they feel, like Rhett? Is it because of the unhappy ending in GWTW? Well, I don't think so. What's the last thing Scarlett says? "Tomorrow is another day." Now she's finally realised she doesn't want silly Ashley, she wants Rhett--and she sees that all this time, Rhett's been there for her. Who cheered her up when she discovered Ashley was marrying Melly? Who danced with her at the fund-raising ball? Who took care of Melly and rescued them from Atlanta? Who married her when she was poor and miserable--and gave her everything she wanted? Rhett loves her. He never gives up on her. He sees her silliness, her immaturity, her selfishness--but he also sees her strength, her determination, her passion, and he loves all those qualities the same.

It's not over between Rhett and Scarlett when GWTW ends. He's mad with her, and she's upset with him; but she's not the sort of girl to sit down and cry when she loses what she wants, and he's not the sort of man to give up when someone says 'no'.

Just like Darcy wasn't the sort of man to give up on Lizzie when she shot him down in flames. He was an ass, and she called him on it. Just like Scarlett tells Rhett about all his faults. Repeatedly. So Darcy, chagrined, displays his dependability and loyalty to Lizzie by going after silly Lydia. Rhett, for all his catting about, also comes through for Scarlett when she needs him, finding the means to rescue not only her from the wreck of Atlanta, but her very fragile friend who's just given birth. Believing Lizzie can't stand him, Darcy still never gives up his feelings for her--and neither does Rhett.

I'd call that a pattern, wouldn't you? Maybe a gunrunner and a haughty aristocrat don't have much relevancy in modern romance--but the way they behave towards their heroines does. So we continue to read and write about loveable rogues and arrogant millionaires. Just flicking through my mental Rolodex, I can tell you that I've written a couple of Darcys (Tadgh in Baby Sham Faery Love for one, Dark in Almost Human for another), and plenty of Rhetts (most notably Ceyx in Playing with Matches, and Striker in Almost Human). From that, you can probably infer that I prefer the Rhetts of this world--or maybe, out of this world...

Who can tell me other Rhetts and Darcys in modern fiction? Which do you prefer?

Inspirations

There's a character in Terry Pratchett's Wyrd sisters who is so struck by inspiration that he tries to invent a helmet to stop the ideas flooding into his head. Sometimes I'd like one of those. Sometimes not.

I was having a very lucid dream last night, but damned if I can remember much of it. There were marks, the marks of some cult, and a thing that read them and told me about secrets in my past, and someone evil who was out to exploit me for these marks. Weird. But, you know what? It sounds like a story to me.

What Do You Mean, I'm Too Tall For This Skirt?

I LOVE this video. I LOVE this song. I LOVE Neil Finn. I'd love YouTube if they'd let me post the frickin' thing to my blog, but as usual, somthing somewhere isn't working, so you'll just have to follow the link. ("We are fetching your blog information." No, you're not, you've been saying that for twenty minutes. It doesn't take that long, even with my modem).

Look out for the wedding cake at the end. Isn't that just adorable? Also, listen for the chord in the chorus--not the first time around, he makes you wait--where he sings "Somehow I will still believe her." It's THE most gorgeous thing I've ever heard. Play on... that strain again, it had a dying fall.

Reader, I married him.

Article in today's News Review by Daisy Goodwin on her 'heroine addiction', tying in with her new series, Reader, I married him (BBC4, 9pm tomorrow if you're interested), about romantic fiction. A lot of romance writers I know are on tenterhooks waiting to see how cruel or kind she is in the series. If the article is anything to go by, I don't think they have anything to worry about.

There are, of course, always a few people who pick on a small point and wail about it until someone takes notice, mostly I think because they like the sound of their own voice. In this case, I expect it will be the line "romantic fiction is quite rightly written to a formula."** But I don't care about them, and I don't expect they give a damn about me either.

Like most women who read romantic fiction, I am only too painfully aware that fiction is precisely what it is, but I can carry my disbelief alongside my innermost conviction that living happily ever after is not just for fairytales...Women need the grown-up fairy stories of romantic fiction in order to make the random cruelty of everyday life bearable. And before men sneer at women who read romances, they should ask exactly why they need to read a book about the siege of Stalingrad or the SAS. Do they perhaps find facts less threatening than stories that deal with emotion?

Hah! Well said.

Some bits of the article are a little confusing--at the end she says if she had a son she'd make him read romance novels so he'd better understand women, and then in the same paragraph says she's glad men don't read those books, because now our secrets are safe. What? That doesn't really make sense.

On another note, today is my half-birthday. That is, exactly six months today it will be my actual birthday. Time was, I'd get presents and a card--yes yes, I know, spoilt much? I'd say I was canny. My brother got a half-birthday, so of course I made sure I did. Of course, he got his because his birthday is Christmas Day, and he often lost out on celebrations and presents (FYI, if you know anyone with a birthday on that day, don't give then a joint present. I don't care whether you're spending the same amount as you would on two. They want something to unwrap. However old they are).

Of course, now I's a grown-up, I don't get a half-birthday any more. But there is an apple-pie in the oven waiting for me. I had to make it, but whaddya gonna do?


**Well, come on. Man plus woman (or man plus man, whatever floats your boat) times conflict plus black moment divided by resolution equals happy ending. Whine all you like, it is a formula. You try writing a category romance without one, and see how many rejection letters you get.