It’s like getting stabbed repeatedly in the chest.

Picture him now, standing under a street-light. He takes a long drag from a cigarette and drops it on the pavement. Crushes it under his shoe. A rumble of thunder, and rain taps out a rhythm on the brim of his hat. He flicks up his collar against the rain, hunches his shoulders, shoves his hands deep into his pockets. He turns toward home, or what passes for home, where a half-empty bottle of bourbon is waiting for him.

~

Inspired by the theme to L.A. Noire. Listen to it along with rainymood.com for the full effect.

Book 5: The Masterharper of Pern

In my teenage years, I was a keen reader of fantasy. I still am, but I’m afraid not to the same degree.  The Pern series was one I dipped into from time to time, and of the five or six books I had read thereof, Masterharper Robinton was (and remains) one of my very favourite characters. So this has been in my “to read” stack for a while. I finally picked it up after watching Game of Thrones had put in the mood for dragons.

Masterharper of Pern

The book is a good one, but not astonishing. I’ll warn you now that this should not be your first foray into the Pern series. There are references to characters you meet in other books, books in which they are more fleshed out. They make minor appearances here as cameos. Unfortunately for me, it had been a long, long time since I’d ventured into the world of Pern and I had great trouble keeping them straight, even with the six-page “who’s who” McCaffrey helpfully included at the back of the book. I found myself dipping into my battered copies of Dragonflight and Dragonsinger whenever I vaguely recognised a name.

This book was a change after Confessions of an English Opium Eater. McCaffrey reads easily, and has her own way with words, but I have to say the switch from De Quincey’s poetic prose was rather jarring. The first sentence made me wince. But the characters are charming, and the world is rich, and it isn’t difficult to overlook

If you are a fan of Robinton, or are interested in the recent history of Pern in the half-century up to Dragonflight, you may enjoy this one. I enjoyed it, and indeed once I picked it up it was hard to put it down, but Robinton’s life was long and full, and there were some jumps forward in time that felt rushed. Not every event could be lingered upon, and more pages are spent on his earlier days than his latter ones. For me, this means there’s a bit of a disconnect between Robinton-the-Youth and Masterharper Robinton. I think I prefer viewing him from the outside, where we can see his dancing eyes all the better; he seems more standoffish from the reader when one is inside his head than looking at him from inside someone else’s. But it was all worth it to finally meet F’lon.

 

Purchase via Book Depository

Book 4: Confessions of an English Opium Eater

Above all else, this book is beautifully, spectacularly, gorgeously written. I died more than once while reading it; always a sign of a good book.

Confessions of an English Opium Eater

It fascinates and entrances. I did not wish to finish it. I devoured paragraphs many times over. Thomas De Quincey will hold you in such a way that you must put the book down and go away lest you finish it too soon.

Perhaps there will be less opium-eating in this book than the reader might anticipate. I had heard ahead of time that it was more of a biography than experiences with drugs, but I don’t think that’s particularly true. De Quincey only tells you as much about his own life as he feels you need to know to understand opium and his taking thereof. This is not, however, at all similar to imagined Byronic or Beat poets sitting in their garrets. For all the poetry in his prose, De Quincey is realistic. He is here to inform his audience of his personal experiences with opium, and that is what he does.

De Quincey is not verbose as such. It is a short book. But his prose style is of a sort that the mind may wander, and return, and realise it has no idea what was said on the last two pages.

But it behoves us to pay attention. De Quincey can be morose, but can as quickly insert a dry remark, and much of the book is genuinely funny. Each sentence is well constructed.

One thing makes it imperfect, and that is due in part to its nature as non-fiction: there is a character whose fate we do not know, and wish to.

Go. Find a copy. Read it. You must.

Purchase via Book Depository

Date Night

These are the delicacies of a ruined evening.

His cigar burning down in an ashtray. The drop of wine left in my glass. Ash on the rug, trodden into the pile. Heavy curtains hanging untouched, staining where they graze the floor.

One grape sits on the table. A half-eaten cracker with caviare. An untouched cheese board. Tiny red droplets on the fresh white tablecloth. The fire burning down in the hearth.

He had to go and fucking shoot himself. I was having such a lovely time.

 

~

First line a prompt from Writer’s Book of Days

Taking the Long Way Round

A sad story from the prompt “Taking the long way round”.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He’ll take the low road, he said. And he’d get to Scotland afore me. Stupid of me not to realise what that meant.

I stop, take off my cap, rake my fingers through my hair. I look back across the hills, towards where I’d buried him, beside the road, under a cross made from sticks. He’d had no sword to stick into a mound to remember him. He’d had a dagger, but I took that with me. No sense in leaving something like that on the side of the road for anyone to nick off with.

It’s a long way. I am tired already. My feet hurt, and my legs ache. I stop and sit on a stone wall to rest, just for a moment, and my feet begin to throb.

And then it is night, without me realising time has passed. Had I dozed? I am still perched on the wall, so if I had slept, I had done so without toppling from my seat. The stars glow above, and the moon skulks on the horizon, and I slip down and resume my long trudge home.

What would I say to his children, when I got there? Would they blame me for leaving him, instead of bringing his body home? Would they cry, and rage, and cast me out?

Of course they would cry – their father has died. Of course they would rage – at fate and the universe and probably me. And that’s… that’s fine. They should rage at me. I’ll not begrudge them that.

The long road is so long. I miss him at my side.

I lift a hand and rub my face. My fingers are cold. I want to stop and weep, but I keep moving forward: as soon as I reach home I can weep. Not now, though. Onwards.

I remember his hand in mine. His reassuring smile. The grey of his growing beard. The way his hair hung across his face. His skill with a knife. His laugh at the fireside. His jokes. His warmth.

I weep anyway, step after step, through the cold night. I push myself onwards though I could have stopped, made a fire, slept some. I push myself on as if it is a penance paid for my uselessness.

God, I miss him. I miss him.

I glare up at the sky as if he was there and curse under my breath. I kick at the ground, the low road, and bite back a sob. No, he’d be home before me. Did that mean home already? Or is he still journeying there, under the sod?

I take a shuddering breath, and force myself on.

 

Fortune Teller

I was churning out a little something as a part of “750 words” the other week, and ended up with this story. I try to write stories where I can and leave journalling to other places. I started with a prompt from A Writer’s Book of Days and pretty much vomited how I was feeling at the time onto the page.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

She had long grey hair and wore a shawl of purple paisley. She was a stereotype and I accused her of it as I sat in the chair.

She smiled over her crystal ball, and nodded.

“That’s right. Well spotted.” She waved her hands over the ball, and smoke whirled within. “Is that so terrible?”

“That you’re a stereotype?”

She shrugged. Perhaps she meant something else. She narrowed grey eyes at me, still smiling.

“Should I trust you, when you’re presenting yourself like this?” I asked and waved a hand at her. “The shawl, the hair…”

“Can’t help my hair,” she pointed out. “Or is it wrong to grow it long?”

“No.” I shifted in my chair, loosened up my shoulders. “I’m surprised you’re not wearing a headscarf and half a dozen brass necklaces, actually.”

“That would be going too far.” Her smile widened into a grin. “Now. Tell me why you’ve come.”

“I don’t know why I’ve come.” I didn’t. Still don’t, entirely. The fairground had twenty things more entertaining, but I was drawn here. Not by her… by my own insecurities, maybe. A tent to hide in in a bustling fair. Somewhere to get away from the crowd. “I needed a break from the noise out there, I suppose.”

She nodded, understanding plain on her wrinkled face. She had dropped her eyes to the crystal ball, but looked past it, through it, rather than at it.

“Life isn’t easy, you know,” she said, her voice coming as if from far away. “It’s not, and it won’t become easy. It will be hard every step of the way. Oh, sure, some steps will be harder than most, some a little easier than most, but each day you will carry a heavy burden.” She lifted her eyes to me and looked at me across centuries. “But you know this already.”

“Why can’t life be easy?” I sighed.

“I’ve lived it for eighty years and I still don’t know. It would be nice, if it was easy. But it is not. Each person carries the accumulation of every mistake made, every terrible thing witnessed and understood. And the many good things make life worth living, but don’t erase those bad things from our minds.”

“So what next?” I looked at my palms, laid flat in my lap.

“Keep going. Nothing is easy, but things that are hard are often worth achieving. Keep going, and life will roll out in front of you. Keep going and you will see more wonders and share more love and experience more joy. It will not be easy, but it will be life.”

 

Book 3: Bedlam – London and Its Mad

I took my time finishing this one. I admit that once or twice I became briefly bored with it; it drags a bit around the end of the first third – or perhaps I wasn’t in the mood for it at the time. It picks up halfway through and becomes rather fascinating.

It’s less the facts themselves and more the way the author, Catherine Arnold, writes that makes the book interesting, and perhaps it’s the author herself hitting her stride that piqued my interest the further into the book I read.

I am not a scholar of history, and could not speak on the accuracy of the book, but it was well and frequently cited, with the citations tucked in between text and index. Personally, I prefer my footnotes at the bottom of the page, as I cannot bear flicking back and forth from the text to the extensive notes at the back of the book. I gave up very quickly, so if there were interesting titbits included therein, I could not tell you.

Arnold follows Bethlehem asylum through time from its founding in the 13th century to its modern state in Kent. To begin with the facts are vague, the sources few, and Arnold picks what she can out of the air and lays it out before us. As sources become more numerous and reliable, we feel on more solid ground. The history builds up around us like the city of London itself.

I bought the book for insight into how the famous Bedlam functioned. I learned as well much about how the mentally ill were thought of and treated across time. I had not previously considered the import of World War I and shell shock in the legitimising of mental illness and the development of psychotherapy. All of a sudden “a fit of vapours” could happen to strong British men – to any normal person, not just drunks, delicate women, those of immoral inclinations.

On a personal level, as one who might be considered “mad” herself, or at least neurotic, I find it terribly reassuring to read about the treatment of madness through time. To be sure, past treatments could be awful, but there is an idea, I think, that mental illness is something of a modern problem. That there is some softness about people now – with our high-speed lives, our internet, the stresses we heap on ourselves – and our ancestors would not have had the time in their hard lives to be doing with nonsenses like mental breakdown or simple inability to function in life.

But that is silly, of course. These are not new illnesses; it is our understanding, categorisation and treatment of these illnesses that is new. These things are constantly evolving – hence the upcoming DSM-5.

But the idea remains, floating in the ether, that mental illness is a result of a lack of inner fortitude. With all the different interpretations of the symptoms, the ideas on treatment, the abuses dealt out to mad and sane alike, it is nonetheless reassuring to note that care and pity for the mentally ill have existed in one hospital, Bedlam, off and on for over 750 years.

 

Check it out on Book Depository

And I just lie here staring at the ceiling

I’ve been dealing with anxiety for a while now. I’m starting to move back towards health, but it’s a long process. But I haven’t really written anything of substance for months now. Not since NaNo have I really created, and NaNo didn’t turn out at all how I had originally intended. I don’t feel like I’ve achieved anything, art-wise, since finishing the last draft of Novel #1.

I need to kick-start my creative juices. As it happens, I was talking to a friend of mine last night about writers’ block, and today another friend linked to Veronica Varlow’s blog on twitter. It mentioned a website I’d heard about years ago but not used – I may have joined it briefly to have a look and then left it again. It’s based around the concept of “morning pages”, as espoused in that book “The Artist’s Way” (that I personally am not interested in because it seems a bit religiousy for me but ymmv). Well, thought I, what the hell… I am in a position where I need to get back to writing – I think it will help my mental health to do so – and it’s worth a try.

The website itself is called 750words. One day down (and two entries, because I changed my timezone settings after the first entry and it thought I’d done the first one yesterday…. bah) and I don’t feel much more like doing anything than I did beforehand, but this may be one of those things that takes a while to kick in.

However, the basic idea – that you dump stuff on a page to clear your mind for writing, and get into the flow – doesn’t really make sense to me. It’s true that once you start on your project, the first 200 words might be like pulling teeth but it will come easier once you make a start on your daily writing, so long as you limit your distractions. But this isn’t creative writing, or fiction, or poetry…. it can be, as I understand it, but it seems to hinge more on just writing words, whether they be a running commentary on life or repeating “I suck” over and over. I write words all the time, on blogs, twitter and various places; do those count as a part of the 750? I’m not trying to bag on it; it’s honestly not really something I understand.

On the other hand, just dumping words on the page, with the ability to be totally honest, just talking to myself, is rather therapeutic. It may not end up getting me writing again, but it might help me work through some of my issues. I like the way it tells you what you’ve focused on and how you are feeling based on the words you used. I’m happy enough to use the tool as therapy. And it may work. I’m sick of not creating.

Maybe I’ll make the effort to focus some days on creative prose. I could work some prompts into it.

500 words.

Six-Word Stories

I’ve managed to actually get some writing done, for the first time in a long time. I started with some three-sentence vignettes, and wound up writing some six word stories.

Here are some of my favourites:

The bells ring. The coffin descends.

*

She fixed his tie, smiled, beckoned.

*

Alone, aloft, singing to the stars.

*

The rose pricked her finger – fatally.

*

Straight back, blindfold, and a cigarette.

 

I’m no Hemingway, but I enjoyed the exercise.

Book 2: Dracula

This is a book that I admit I had never actually finished before. I’d read about halfway twice, and put it down, and not picked it up again; I’d always get to the part where small children started turning up with wounds in their throats. This time I read it all the way through, and it was quite an adventure.

The start is slow, despite it being set in Dracula’s castle. The whole book is written in letters and journal entries, and Jonathan’s journal, like the man himself, manages to be rather dull. Just over halfway through, the action picks up, and things become tense. I feel like it’s more a thriller than a horror, but that may be a modern view of it.

Dracula

 

I enjoyed it very much. Oh, there are problems – most of the characters have much the same writing style, for one, and when one knows the story, it does seem to take a long time to get going. But when one tries to forget that one knows the story, it is written rather well. It builds like a mystery, and one imagines contemporary readers might have been absolutely riveted to the page. It’s a shame that we know the story so well, now; to the modern reader it could so easily be frustrating, or even laughable; when you know the outcome, the great mystery of it all seems silly. But the action, such as it is, is still rather thrilling.

The characters are rather pleasing for the most part. They all love intensely, even their rivals, even strangers – yet I do not find it vexing. Jonathan is rather dull, but Seward is thoughtful and sensitive, Quincey fiery and brave (we really see far too little of him). Van Helsing is avuncular, warm, exhuberant; he has an odd way of talking, which started off charming enough, but late in the book, when is speeches became longer and more convoluted, I found myself growing annoyed with him.

The show-stealer is Mina Harker, née Murray. I must admit I had not expected to find a female character in this book who was so well-rounded; Lucy Westenra is the delicate flower, prone to swooning, and I had expected her to be rather typical of all the female characters, but Mina surprised me. She is charming, wise, sharp-witted, strong-willed, brave and loving. She makes herself useful. She is practical and productive, thoughtful and clever. She doesn’t ask others to do what she’s perfectly capable of doing herself. Of all the characters, she has the most bright ideas, the best plans. When the men are despondent, or thinking only of action, she with a smile will sit down and work out the best course of action, and then, like a kindly schoolteacher, explain it to her zealous protectors.
Mina thinks of women proposing to men as something that is only a matter of time, and indeed an element of fashionable behaviour that is surely just on the horizon. She thinks nothing of running about a graveyard alone at night in search of a friend, or of rushing to help her when she finds her at last with a dark figure bent over her. Mina is not particularly concerned with fighting for women’s rights because she seems of the opinion that women’s rights are in the immediate future and will fall into her lap because that is how things are meant to be. And I love that perspective from a woman in the 1890s.

It’s really quite a modern book, in its way. Some phrases pop out at one and you can’t help but be a little surprised to find them in literature so early. Mina uses the simile “like a cat’s tail when Puss is on the war-path” which is rather delightfully colloquial. Apparently Mark Twain used it in 1880, but I was still pleasantly surprised to stumble across it in Dracula.

 

Check it out on Book Depository

« Older entries

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 46 other followers