kramblings

Kramblings has a new home!

2011-12-01T05:56:00.000+01:00

Thanks to the wizardry of my good friend Tony, Kramblings has found a new home! Come visit at www.kristinpedroja.com.

Poetry Tuesday

2011-05-17T13:48:00.002+02:00

I loved this poem so much as a child that I wrote a story about living inside a lion. My only recurring nightmare as a child was being chased by a lion into our family bathroom, me cowering in the tub as the lion roared at the window. Coincidence?

One of the great Shel Silverstein's finest.

It's Dark In Here

I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.

Gaga oooh lala

2011-05-17T13:10:00.002+02:00

On Sunday night, BBC3 showed a live Lady Gaga performance from their Radio 1-sponsored One Big Weekend festival. As I don't see Gaga gracing Inverness with her jams anytime soon, I watched. And was entranced.

See, I quite like Gaga. There. It's public now.

When she dropped her first single that soon became required music at every store in greater Scotland I didn't rate her beyond a poptart Madonna wannabe. But then I read some interviews where she gave props to many musicians I admire - including jazz and blues greats - and started getting press for her weird and wonderful costumes (love the bubble dress/bubble perspex piano). What she lacks in vocal prowess she makes up for in piano skills - she can rock the ivories in 2" fingernails. She inspires positivity in nontraditional communities, and she donates her time and cash to gay rights organizations and people who make sure kids get to experience music despite their lack of school music classes. Indeed, she gave a great shout-out to the band and choir geeks in her performance on Sunday - take that, cheerleaders!

I've been a pop music junkie all my life. I like the simplicity of a well-written pop song. I like that sudden realization that I've been unconsciously moving to a beat. Gaga writes good pop. The soaring chorus of "Poker Face" is delicious. Some of her songs irritatingly stick in the brain for hours. But that's not why I like her.

She's interesting. She's outspoken. She's creative. She has become an icon in a very short space of time - even my dad knows who she is. The misfits of the world have embraced her as their own, and she has revelled in their love. She's a huge force for the LGBT community in America and around the world and is on the list of Forbes' World's Most Powerful Women. Her achievements should be celebrated.

Oh, and she's 25. It must be so tiring to be Gaga.

Yes, the Haus of Gaga's ethos is to attract attention, and Gaga admits she wants to singlehandedly change the face of pop music. I think she already has. I delight in her bizarreness. So yeah, I quite like Gaga. My intellectual mates might grill me for it, but I think she serves a purpose - to entertain.

verse versus

2011-05-10T18:48:00.000+02:00

I've been kidnapped by work! But did find the time last weekend to go to the Ullapool Book Festival in my favourite Highland village with some friends who came up from Glasgow. After a lovely day by the sea and a dinner at the excellent Ceilidh Place, we retired to the cozy Parlour Bar for a poetry reading. My husband and friends were good sports, reading their provided poems with gusto. And on Sunday morning I went to hear my friend and colleague Chris Powici read from his chapbook as the sun streamed through the windows of the Ullapool Village Hall.

Sometimes I forget about poetry. I'm so buried in my editing work and my own prose that I don't remember how moving and powerful words can be when stripped down to the core meaning, or to their many, often conflicting meanings. Poetry forces us to pause, reflect, and think. Poetry pushes forward an image and challenges the reader to a dual that you are surely to lose.

I feel poetry is very much alive, if only as lyrics. I count Jay-Z and Eminem as postmodern poets who are just as sociologically important as the bards of the past few centuries. Liz Lochhead and Carol Ann Duffy can wrench readers so deeply into their words that reality slips away. I don't read enough poetry, and as a voracious reader, I would guess that nobody reads enough poetry.

I found this link to Poetry Tuesday and thought it fitting. Poetry Tuesday is a good goal: a poem, every Tuesday, to fall into with vigour.

The woman who first captured my lyrical world was Emily Dickinson. I did a report on her at age 9 and soon was swooned by her entire catalogue and, of course, by her story. Her world was words, and for many moments in my young life, her words were my world, too.

This is one of the most sorrowful, heartbreaking poems. I think it still retains that youthful naivete that Emily had when writing it. Enjoy. Thanks, Emily.

HEART, we will forget him!

You and I, to-night!

You may forget the warmth he gave,

I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me,

That I my thoughts may dim;

Haste! lest while you're lagging,

I may remember him!

Girls are giggles with freckles all over them. - anon.

2011-04-26T17:04:00.003+02:00

Today is Harper Corley Barnes's second birthday. This is her Curious George cake, from her party last weekend.

A few days before my wedding in 2009, I was a stress case. I was getting over a bout with swine flu and was entertaining dozens of people who came from around the world to celebrate, and I was running on pure adrenaline. I grabbed the mail on my way out to do a million errands and there was a wee note, in my dear friend Ashby's handwriting. Inside were the sweetest, loveliest, most wonderful words. I stopped in the middle of the street and cried for a good ten minutes - two people even stopped to see if I was okay. From that moment I got to add a definition to my name: Fairy Godmother.

Why fairy? As Harper lives in Nashville, I'll always be flying in and out of her life. But knowing Ashby as I do, I know he also meant giving Harper magic. Inspiring her to be the best she can be. Encouraging her to strive and question and forgive. Turning up with glass slippers when they are needed most.

I get to meet Harper in August, and I can't wait. It's a good time - she'll be exactly the same age as I was when my little brother was born, incidentally my first memory. I would love for Harper's first clear memory to be meeting me - though it may well be hearing the noise of Matt on the bagpipes.

Happy birthday, my darling Harper.

Ghosts of Easters Past

2011-04-24T19:24:00.000+02:00

Easter always reminds me of Prague; my first visit back after leaving was in 2003, when I escaped Lisbon for a long weekend of frolicking at the Easter markets and seeing friends. And the Easters of my childhood; Mom created a beautiful set of cloth-covered plastic eggs, which the elusive Bunny hid throughout the house with treats inside. And I'd get a new dress and maybe even new shoes. Happy Easter, wherever you are, and happy spring.

As I fell victim to a horrible flu bug on Wednesday I found myself having a little cry about the end of the Gatsby house. Gatsby is one of those books that I read every year with more and more delight, and this house is exactly what I had in my mind when reading it for the first time, when I was 14. I'm a little heartbroken that I will never be able to see it.

Of course, then the yang burst onto the scene, and I saw that Beverly Cleary turned 95 last week. Cleary was my first author obsession, even before Judy Blume. I tore through every Ramona book and could probably still recite Ramona Quimby, Age 8, which I read dozens of times. I am so grateful to her stories for encouraging my reading, and even more grateful to my mom. Spending the day at a library or at the bookstore was a common weekend activity. Or even weeknight activity - the B. Dalton in the mall didn't shut til 9pm and I remember closing that store down frequently. I'd have to choose two from my pile of books, and it was just so difficult. Ramona Quimby, Age 8 was one of those books, the last purchase of the day, and I stayed up all night reading it.

So my final sick day was spent reminiscing about my favorite choldhood books - Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume, Laura Ingalls Wilder, the Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and of course the Choose Your Own Adventure books. I still sometimes look at big life choices as a 'CYOA' book: what will be the consequence?

Happy belated birthday, Beverly Cleary. What childhood books still lurk in your minds?

feeling groovy

2011-04-20T20:18:00.001+02:00

Yesterday was a good day.

I've worked hard to get the Highland Literary Salon on the map, and it took 18 months to get a mention in the local paper. But yesterday we went viral. The Culture Cafe, a weekly Radio Scotland show, featured readings and our event, which was quite exciting. I spoke to the producer in the morning, saw the inner workings of how the BBC magic happens, and sat in a real live soundproof room. UK listeners can hear this until next Tuesday here.

It was a cramped room for three of us - with two sets of headphones and one microphone - and much juggling happened as I realized I had to speak again at the end of the readings. And talking of viral, the niggling cold I've had since Sunday - my first all year - decided to kick into cough mode and I found myself choking to death during the first reading. So pardon the huge frog in throat at the end. The whole thing was rather surreal, but great fun.

The occasion was a celebration of the Hi-Arts New Writing Sampler, which was put together last November and was recently sent to publishers and agents. I'm honored to be a part of it, especially among other writers with exceptional talent. Orla Broderick and Richard Neath each read some of their work, and I got to chat a bit about the Salon and how there are now events in Stornoway and Skye happening, too. This network of Highland-based writers is really starting to happen, and I'm so glad it's happening now so I can see the potential before I go away for awhile.

After our radio show, we were all buzzing, so we went for lunch and a drink and had a buzzy chat about linking our Salons and utilizing authors' time better when we brought them up. The dream is a four-day stint, with workshops and Salon events in three or four locations - great for our writers and great for authors to connect with a new audience.

The evening event went by without a hitch. I helped give a workshop on social media for writers (notes can be found here) and didn't confuse people too much. Then Orla, Richard and I got to read a bit. I read from Saudade, which I'm revising (I know, again, but I had an epiphany), which is about a woman who finds herself back in a place where she experienced a heartbreaking tragedy a decade ago; Orla read from her novel in progress, The January Flower, a fresh, sassy book verging on the erotica; and Richard read from his work-in-progress, Breakfast Will Do, a harrowing tale of a man, a dead body, and a journey. Three very different stories and very different writers, but it worked really well. And gosh, it's good to read to an audience who has never heard your work and to see and hear the reactions.

So thanks to those who came along and humored us.

Image from design*sponge, quote by H. Jackson Brown Jr.

Matthew Shepard

2011-04-16T19:06:00.000+02:00

In 1998, Matt Shepard was kidnapped, beaten, and left for dead on a fencepost in the middle of the Wyoming countryside. It's a desolate, unfriendly place on the sunniest of days; it's harrowing to think of how menacing that flat, dry land would be in the last gasping moments of life.

Matt was gay. His murderers tried to claim 'temporary insanity' as a defense, then tried to say they were driven to do it because Matt came on to them. Their girlfriends told police that they wanted to rob a gay man, so yeah, it was probably premeditated. The murderers are locked up for life, as they should be, but it took until 2009 for the US to sign The Matthew Shepard Act into law (and not without many years of scornful Republican backlash - one even called the hate crime labelling of Shepard's death 'a hoax'). If there is one silvery-sheened lining, it is that hate crimes are now illegal in America.

In 1995, Matt Shepard graduated from TASIS, the Swiss school that I've worked with off and on since 2002. Some of the people I've met at TASIS knew Matt, and remember a creative, joyful, kind soul. One of these friends is working on a documentary about Matt's life and legacy.

Michele Josue is a gifted filmmaker - she also does freelance work for TASIS, and you can see her charming short films on the website - and I was intrigued when I first learned of this project. She posted a blog the other night that, after watching the film teaser, had me in fits of tears. Michele has set up a Kickstarter fundraising website and a Facebook page for those keen to support the final stages of this project.

This is an important film and I so admire Michele, Liam, and Chad's commitment to making it happen.

Image above by Alfred Hawkins.

too much too soon

2011-04-15T13:58:00.002+02:00

I had to go to London on Tuesday to drop paperwork at the Swiss embassy. This seems slightly out of character for the Swiss, as they have a consulate in Edinburgh and a staunch respect for the post office, both of which would be far a far more logical way to hand in paperwork, yet I paid the £215 to the orange plane for a 40-hour trip down south.

What do you do with one day in London? Try and get everything done that needs done before returning to the Highlands. My £10 underground and overground ticket got a workout - West Norwood to Whitehall to Oxford Circus to Covent Garden to London Bridge and back to Covent Garden - and for the first time ever, I was exhausted, even without the normal overindulgence activities with friends. For the first time I understood why the BBC produces the show Escape to the Country and why the press always hankers on about 'green space' and 'south-facing gardens'. I get it now, people. A day full of bouncing between armpits and boobs on the trains (I'm 5'2") and darting around babbling teenagers on spring break and gawking tourists was enough.

My friend Jayne concurs; we were speaking yesterday about how spoiled we've been to live in a place where there just aren't many people. We can go for walks and not see a soul. We pass a few people on the way to the corner shop, rather than dozens. Inverness has ruined me for crowds.

of Hadley Hemingway

2011-04-06T16:37:00.007+02:00

I know he treated women atrociously; I know he was a drunk; I know he was depressed enough to shoot himself in the head. I also know that growing up in Wichita, I knew Hemingway as a guy who worked for the Kansas City Star - practically makes him family - and he was a guy who escaped to Paris and wrote beautiful stories. After countless book reports on the guy, and knowing that his first wife was crucial to developing his writing style, I decided that if I ever had a little girl, I'd name her Hadley (after Hemingway's enigmatic first wife) and if I had a second, she'd be called Brett (after Miss Ashley, of course).

Hadley is big news now, as a book called The Paris Wife has just been released. Reviews have been mixed; the Times wasn't so great, NPR was suitably noncommittal, but my favorite review was written by one of my favorite Guardian writers, Hadley Freeman. I'd always wondered if she was named for Mrs. Hemingway - Freeman confirms this: I was not named after someone, I was named after someone's wife. A Wag, in other words, with a name that makes me sound like an investment bank, and not even an investment bank wants to sound like one these days. But she loved it; since I read Hadley often, and trust we have similar temperaments, I'll read it.

I'd already chosen this as a blog topic today when I heard Mary Chapin Carpenter on Radio Scotland this afternoon. She was talking about her new record, which includes a song called Mrs. Hemingway (hear it here). It's a heartbreaking song, gentle and rich in story. They played it and the lyrics are exactly how I imagined their lives were:

Living in Paris, in attics and garrets
Where the coal merchants climb every stair
The dance hall next door is filled with sailors and whores
And the music floats up through the air
There's Sancerre and oysters, and Notre Dame's cloisters
And time with it's unerring aim
For now we can say we were lucky most days
And throw a rose into the Seine

There's something quite beautiful about this woman, who died in 1979, having a little renaissance in 2011.

Babies babies babies

2011-04-05T15:26:00.000+02:00

2011 is the Year of the Babes. Again. As I'm thirty-(ahem) it's happened before, but this is the first time I've really paid attention, probably because the new mums number be in the twenties by July. In half-a-dozen countries and a dozen states.

Baby-dom and motherhood has always scared the daylights out of me, but thanks to my good friend Jayne (and the brilliant nearly-3-year-old Esme) I'm not quite as flummoxed by the whole thing as I once was. And Erik, whose postings about wee Nora make me giggle, and John, who used to blog more regularly before he had his second. And because I'm watching so many friends blossom into their new roles. I admire parents so much, especially those who can continue to keep their identity when their worlds often revolve around Peppa Pig, Disney films and Justin Bieber.

Creative types often use the term 'baby' to describe their oeuvre - understandably, with the time commitment, passion, learning curve, etc. More importantly, when either baby is let loose on the world, the creator loses all control, and the baby becomes open to criticism, praise, loathing, accolades. All affect the creator to the core.

I let a baby go last week. After a few good chats with authors I admire, and a few better chats with myself, I cast aside the novel I was (failing at) revising. It's not me. It was me years ago, but it's not me now. I've gone back to something else, that I've let sit for a year or so, and it's soaring. I'm back in control and no longer balancing more than one baby. Whilst lassoing the ideas for other babies and shutting them into a box with a tight lid.

What's been nice about resurrecting the book is I'm going back to the original story, before I had the input of others. The WIP critique pointed out problems that are all solved by cutting the crap and focusing on the story I wanted to tell when I first started this book, years ago. Thanks, Kamal, for reminding me of the story I loved. Onward, baby. Adolescence awaits.

Before I die I want to

2011-04-02T20:29:00.000+02:00

I've always found those 'things to do before you die' books, tv programs, etc. bemusing - as if we're being bullied into doing something we might never do because we are going to die. Of course we're going to die. But a better marketing ploy might be 'things to do while you're still alive'.

But this one is fascinating. The brilliant DesignMilk blog put me onto Candy Chang's installation Before I die, which took an abandoned New Orleans house and turned it into a public profession of hope, wishes, and potential.

Before I die I want to...
see an African sunset - dance the samba in Brazil - snowboard in Aspen - get a book deal - have a home on Lake Como - get to know Paris - see a kangaroo in its habitat - read all of Hemingway's books again - take an art history class - host a massive party for everyone I know - this could go on, reminding me of what I yet want to do. So how do you filter all your dreams into one sentence? Is there one thing you must do before you die?

Empty

2011-03-31T16:47:00.000+02:00

Driech is one of the most useful Scots words, especially when you live in the Highlands where vitamin D is not prevalent for months at a time. The fire and tea helps, as do red tulips.

We've been looking at our house from a holiday home point of view lately, taking photos of now-bare rooms and ironing bedsheets, and I've been musing on what makes a home. Not just the memories of happenings inside the walls, but the trinkets, the whisky bottles, the books - clutter? Yes. Definitely. But the hollow sound of a voice in a room empty of personality is lonely indeed. Driech, even.

Empty shelves. Only the necessities. Plates. Bowls. A kettle. A block of knives. A broom.

Red tulips.

I like a Highland friend who will stand by me, not only when I am in the right, but when I am a little in the wrong. - Sir Walter Scott

2011-03-29T19:32:00.001+02:00

I've blethered about Moniack Mhor many times before, so I won't go into details about the eerie quiet of the croft house, the whispering pages of the northernmost branch of the Scottish Poetry Library (see above), the expanse of Highlands every which way. It's magic.

As my last hurrah as salonierre, I wanted to organize a weekend for some of the Highland Literary Salon members at Moniack. It worked. Seventeen of us were graced by the presence of Alan Bissett and Joan Lennon for two days of food, typing, chat, edits, and readings. One person wrote 10K words. One got extensive feedback on a story he'd been working on for months. And we all left a little bit inspired.

I can tell that I'm letting go of the Highlands with each event, each jog around the Islands, each seal I watch in the river.

There are two seasons in Scotland: June and Winter. - Billy Connoly

2011-03-15T15:32:00.000+01:00

The other night, I agreed with an American friend that the weather had been nice lately - then we both burst out laughing, realizing that our standards had changed significantly since moving to the north of Scotland.

Once upon a time, my life consisted of hundred-degree Kansas summers. Years later, sunny Lisbon winters. I'm not a winter person unless it's sunny and I'm snowboarding. Yet I've lived in Seattle and Prague and Scotland. Voluntarily.

I can't remember the last time I felt the sun for longer than a ten-minute stint in the afternoon.

"Nice" now means "not raining". Temperature doesn't even come into it. Life is colder up here because of the moisture in the air, which is brilliant for the skin but frigid for the bones. Like the Eskimos and their words for 'snow', Britain has numerous words for 'rain', which the weather reporters use with vigor: drizzle, showers, precipitation, stormy, dampness, sprinkles. And my favorite: unsettled.

And up north, here where the air is so fresh I get light-headed sometimes, the skies give us millions of shades of grey. Right now is almost white, with a greenish hue. This morning had a yellow tinge, and the green grass looked fluorescent. I never knew that one cloudy day could be so different to the next.

Image above taken in the hall of the Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. I love the map dress.

You are the music while the music lasts. - TS Eliot

2011-03-12T20:08:00.002+01:00

Saw the glorious Mumford and Sons on Tuesday night. This was rather amazing for numerous reasons, not least that Inverness ain't exactly the hot spot for Grammy-calibre artists. First, I got up at 5:30am to stand in line - people had camped! - and I was still ticket number 361. How cool to limit tickets to 2 per person, £20 each, and no internet or phone sales? Old school, these guys - were they even born before the internet existed? Staging was simple: hanging lights and instruments. That's the light board in the photo - I actually *saw* them thanks to a step behind the lighting board box - this is amazing as my 5'1" self usually gets to see armpits and breasts at shows. Highlights were the keyboardist playing so hard that his keyboard shuffled and slid along the stage, the banjo and dobro player on his back with legs in the air like any good bluegrass player, and the guys switching instruments throughout. It's so refreshing to hear a band actually play, actually sing harmonies, and actually have a blast doing it - these guys are the real deal. For one night, Inverness felt like the center of the world.

M and I are rediscovering music after buying our new car - the poor Polo's stereo system was akin to a late-80s ghettoblaster - and one of our faves is Elbow. Their show with the BBC Concert Orchestra is stunning, and their new record Build a Rocket, Boys!, which came out this week, is fantastic. Great sweeping melodies and pretty instrumentals and lovely, soothing vocals. Delicious. Am also rocking Ellie Goulding and Tinie Tempah, who is the most articulate rapper I've ever heard interviewed.

So, apparently Spotify is heading to America. This is brilliant, as it's a dream music streaming service that is also available via 3G on the iPhone for £10 or £5 per month - or free if you can handle the short ads between every 3 songs. You can share playlists with friends so there's a social networking element, and they've got 10 million tracks available. I can remember twice that I didn't find what I wanted to hear - one was the new Eminem record when it came out, (now available) and Adele's new record isn't on there yet - though her singles are. Good stuff.

just read The Essence of the Thing

2011-03-08T19:11:00.000+01:00

My friend Hannah has yet to recommend a bad read. This is no different. After the assault of the Chinese Dictionary, I tumbled into this book and swam around for two delicious nights. Published in 1997, on the cusp of technology taking over our lives, this book focuses on the complex nuances between people, and the absence of iPhones and the internet is palpable, in a good way. The book is refreshingly modern, heartbreaking and uplifting, everything a good read should be. This was shortlisted for the Booker in 1997 and deservedly so.

100 Years of International Women's Day

2011-03-08T16:13:00.000+01:00

My introduction to International Women's Day was nine years ago, when a few blushing students in Prague brought me flowers and thanked me for being their teacher. Since then I've learned that many countries, especially eastern European ones, revere Women's Day as a celebration and a challenge.

I'm lucky - I grew up in a family where my parents respected one another and treated each other as equals in a partnership. That's how my marriage is, too - we're a team. I am so grateful for this. And for my freedom to speak about the atrocities that happen to women each day. This article by the brilliant Mariella Frostrup is a necessary read on a day like today, but if you're pressed for time, here are some terrifying stats (see the article for citations): 75% of civilians killed in war are women and children. 64% of the world's illiterate adults are women. Conviction in rape cases hovers around 6.5%. Women hold 19% of the world's parliamentary seats. And no, it's not just stats from developing countries. We westerners are included here, too.

One hundred years of International Women's Day. We've made huge strides since then - the right to vote, to work, to drink, to own property, to control our pregnancies. But is it enough?

The video above is a simple, moving reminder of how far we have to go.

Just skimmed

2011-03-01T12:31:00.002+01:00

I've just skimmed my fourth book since 2011 began. This one had a great premise: Chinese student comes to London to learn English and falls in love with an Englishman. I wanted this book to be a multi-layered insight into two cultures. I wanted the protagonist to rediscover herself as she became better in English (a reason I delighted in teaching ESL). I wanted the love to be real and true. I wanted the dictionary format to be a clever device rather than a gimmick. But it just didn't work.

The protagonist's voice didn't change in her year of language immersion; it remained simplistic and banal, other than a few pithy observations far beyond her presumed language ability. The 'love' between an obsessive twentysomething fresh outta China and a fortysomething bisexual man - come on, really? It was insulting and seemed forced. The protagonist's interpretation of London was cliche, not a uniquely Chinese perspective. And the random (token?) 'solo' European inter-railing 'adventure' was ridiculous - she just happened to immediately meet men in every port and just happened to have unnecessary non-sexual and sexual experiences with them. I knew how this was going to end by page 25. Of course they split up. Of course she goes back home. Of course she continues to obsess and the man moves on. And I'm left wondering what in the world this book was about, other than two selfish and unlikeable people who spend some time together and discover they're better apart.

Of course, as a writer, I can learn from this, but as a reader, how in the world did a novel like this get nominated for the Orange Prize in 2007 (alongside The Inheritance of Loss and Digging to America)? What is it about this book that received such accolades? Is it me?

It might be me. I have yet to make it past the first 10 pages of A Confederacy of Dunces - which some of my favorite people have firmly in their top 10 - and can't figure out what people like about Ian McEwan's writing style. What books have disappointed you?

Just read Super Sad True Love Story

2011-02-26T22:30:00.002+01:00

Aye Write is next weekend in Glasgow, and I was delighted when I saw Gary Shteyngart on the schedule. This book has had huge press in America, and I've read some snarky, hilarious interviews with him. He doesn't take himself seriously, but takes his writing seriously. I always try to know the work of the people I go to see, and I'm so very glad I picked this book up.

It's a love story set in a dystopian America in the not-too-distant future, where technology is part of life thanks to everyone's äppäräti, which reveal everything from credit ratings to romantic history to the last film someone has watched. The fashion of the day is translucent jeans called 'onionskins', privacy is taboo, and youth is lionized. The story is a postmodern Romeo and Juliet but the setting is glorious, frightening, and completely believable. I can't stop thinking about this story, and wish I could discuss it with someone - it's that kind of book. Shteyngart's event next Saturday is sure to be a corker.

Man must shape his tools lest they shape him. - Arthur Miller

2011-02-20T15:16:00.002+01:00

I love this image by Matt Leyen. My friend Alex has spent the past few weeks in Scotland and our conversations often turn to the parallels between composing music and writing. We both approach composition in a similar way; we get an idea, twist it on its head, then see what happens. With longer pieces, we both like to consider the whole, but not too much, at the risk of losing spontaneity. And we spoke of the solitude required, the self-reliance and gentle ego that is essential to create.

We also both need tools. On a chilly evening a few weeks ago, our iMac briefly became a studio, with Matt on the Uilleann bagpipes, Alex on bodhrán, and our friend Melody on melody, and GarageBand - and in about an hour, we had a single. Wow.

The tools is the difficult part for me. As we pack up the house, bit by bit, I've had to let go of the tools that get me through the day - books on technique, Style Guides, Indesign help books, other people's novels that I read to get my head back in the flow of words. Come June and all I'll have is a laptop. It's cathartic to do without.

Books are 'the architecture of a civilized society' - Gervase Phinn

2011-02-05T20:47:00.003+01:00

Today is National Library Day in the UK, and people all over the country are protesting the closure of 450 libraries across Britain.

I know. I also thought that was a misprint.

Four hundred and fifty - just think of how many people that affects. Even if only 50 people go to one of those libraries in a year, that's 22,000 people.

I've lived in quite a few cities, and the ones that are the most culturally and intellectually aware are the cities with the best libraries. These buildings house words, yes, but they also house thoughts, ideas, and stories. Their bulletin boards advertise community events, yoga classes, meetings. Their computers give people free access to the internet. Their book groups bring people together who wouldn't have otherwise met. They showcase authors, they inspire writers, they help spread literacy. Because even the internet means nothing to someone who can't read.

Not to mention the library's impact on children. One of the most consistent memories from my youth was going to storytime at one of the libraries in Wichita. Hearing the voices read stories I probably knew but hadn't heard in that particular manner. Squealing when something unexpected happened. Begging to check out one more book, please. And staying up late the night before they were due back to read them again.

I'm not against everything the UK coalition government is doing; frankly, I agree with many of their ideas, and, in theory, the Big Society concept could really inspire communities to come together. But how in the world does closing 450 libraries fit in with supporting and enabling communities? Libraries should be sacred spaces; instead of eliminating, they should be upgraded to places people want to be.

I loved the library in Lerwick. Housed in an old church, it is bright, uncluttered, and has the appeal of an indie bookshop. It's got cushy chairs, plugs for laptop users, and daily newspapers. The librarians have a quirky way of displaying books; I discovered dozens of authors there. It was a delightful place. My only complaints were the opening hours - they closed too early and weren't open on Sundays.

I suppose that takes money, to keep a place open late. And on Sundays.

The National Library of Scotland is a groovy spot, too. I've been to an exhibition on the history of golf, a one-man play about a woman from Falkirk, watched World Cup matches, done much work with free wifi, ate excellent carrot cake, drank Earl Gray tea and merlot, and researched a story for a magazine. At a library.

Listen up, politicos. Make libraries better, not redundant.

UPDATE: Hopefully, they listened.

Size matters?

2011-02-03T11:25:00.001+01:00

The publishing industry has been all a-twitter about this technology thing for many months now, and today's email from Publishing Perspectives brings up an interesting, albeit unsurprising, point: devices don't care about page numbers. They care about layout, format, type size, but page numbers are obsolete.

Instead, publishers will start thinking in units of time.

Bizarre, isn't it? Read Catcher in the Rye in under four hours! An Eliot poem in seven minutes! A Poe short story in half an hour!

Why this won't work: People read at very different speeds. And we read different books at different speeds; I will fly through a chick-lit novel, but savour the words of Daphne Du Maurier. Finding a 'time' that is universal will be a challenge.

Why this can work: As said in the article, "What if instead of choosing another 47-minute episode of Mad Men from iTunes, that reluctant reader buys a book, knowing she can finish five more chapters before going to bed?"

As mentioned before on this blog, many readers I know choose a book on its length. They won't touch anything over 1.5" thick. Perhaps this could be a more egalitarian way of book-shopping, where the blurb and word-of-mouth mean more than the size.

Had the jacket copy of Freedom stated "This book will take you the better part of a month to digest" I probably would have run a mile. And so much for the 80,000-word novel minimum word count. Perhaps this means the rediscovery of the novella and the rebirth of the short story collection.

So what's better? Small chunks of stories? Diving head-first into a chunky novel without anyone telling you how quickly to finish? Or do readers just want a good story that is well-told?

This blog has been hijacked by a time warp

2011-02-01T13:44:00.005+01:00

I thought I’d just wait for February to start so I could pretend January didn’t happen. Och, well.

2011 began in a tiny village on the northwest Scottish coast. Our Scourie adventure was made all the better with a crew up for Hogmanay. Every new year should be rung in with good food, old friends and new friends, and bagpipes in a cozy pub.

And then, re-packing the car with the bedding and leftover food and wine from our three weeks in the wilds, before we took off on the 7th for ten days in Switzerland.

Verbier nonsense (see above) included: indulgences (food - raclette, fondue, etc. - & wine), frights (M’s concussion ordeal; he’s fine), aches (belly pain from laughing so much), delights (watching 13-year-old Bieber-haired Italian boys compete on the Wii’s Just Dance). Yes, I know that rhymes, yo.

We had 48 hours at home before heading to Edinburgh and Glasgow to catch up with friends, and to Aboyne to see M's mum. And next?

The world. We’re now officially short-termers in Inverness. House is getting valued, and we’re amid a massive clear-out. Anything we haven’t used in a year goes.

Last night I was thumbing through my two-year collection of the Observer Food Monthly, ripping out recipes I want to scan, considering my relationship with ‘stuff’ now compared to a decade ago. Shopping used to be a hobby for me; I’d drop by Pottery Barn or Anthropologie or Banana Republic once a week, just in case I’d miss out on something delicious. Some of this stuff has been lurking in a storage unit in Wichita for ten years. Other stuff has been culled and given to my brother, friends, or charity shops. A few choice items are still with me.

I moved to Prague with a backpack and a suitcase full of two 128-capacity CD wallets and clothes to withstand the winter. After the Great Cull, we’ll see how much this has multiplied.

Because this view never gets old, Lugano during our few days there. Fog from the heavens or smog from Milan? You decide.

The Merry Apple Tree

2010-12-29T20:32:00.001+01:00

This image delights me. I want one. Yes, of everything.

Santa brought my mom an iPad. Hmph. Obviously I wasn't good enough this year. Or maybe Santa doesn't know where Scourie is.

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-26T02:12:00.000+01:00

Wishing you a wonderful Christmas!

Thanks to Bookshelf for this lovely image.

To all Scrooges and Grinches out there

2010-12-24T17:49:00.000+01:00

I was put onto this story courtesy of Francesca, a blogger I met in Edinburgh in August. It's not made news over here, but it embodies the spirit of Christmas more than anything I've read in years.

Read this. Then do something nice for someone. Give them the last parking space. Buy them a cup of coffee or a meal. Smile.

I love being human sometimes. Thank you, Jenny, for reminding us of the generosity we should embody every day.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

2010-12-24T16:10:00.001+01:00

A little taste of what's on our tree this year.

This lovely little guy is from an art market in Inverness.

The stocking, on the left, was made by a wee boy M stitched up on Christmas Eve in Shetland. He came back the next day and gave M this ornament. I love that story.

My mom sent this to me while I was living in Prague in 2001. It's been up every Christmas since.

One of M's middle names is Noel. My mom has since bought him over 30 NOEL decorations. This is one of our faves - bling Noel. Word.

We try and buy a Christmas decoration every year. This handpainted bauble is from the Edinburgh market. The Bavarian village says Christmas.

Wishing all of you a wonderful Christmas!

Just read West Coast

2010-12-23T22:13:00.000+01:00

At first glance, this is a girlie beach read. This is mostly because of the girly cursive writing and the pastel purple and turquoise. I'd read one of Muir's other books (Left Bank) a few years back and while I don't remember the plot, I remember liking it. I didn't buy this - someone gave it to me - but I read it. Mostly because it's about a seaside village in the west of Scotland, and I'm in a seaside village in the west of Scotland.

To my delight, West Coast is far jucier than a beach read. It follows the story of Fergus MacFarlane, a photographer from a wee village who becomes a celebrated London photographer. Told in chunks that span years, the narration is far more Nick Hornby than Jane Green. The slices of Fergus's life are vivid and mesmirizing, from his lazy teenage days of birdwatching and snogging girls to his high society wedding to a Home Counties debutante to his coke-filled exhibit openings at trendy London galleries.

It's obvious that Muir knows Scotland and she knows photography. The curious and compelling photography exhibitions Fergus creates are clever and perfect for his character. He's a bastard, but a loveable one. His past defines him in both the positive and the negative. I might go as far as to say Fergus loosely represents Scotland as it reaches out into the world.

I showed the cover to M and he dismissed it. I read him some passages and he laughed, commented, found it interesting. That is what annoys me about this book. Here is the hardcover art, as shown in The Guardian:

Still not masculine, but far more likely to be picked up by a male than the top cover. I've ranted about this before; covers do maketh the book. People see a cover and immediately make a judgement. It's frustrating that Muir's book is being marketed as fluff rather than a solid, compelling read. Granted, there are a few moments of fluff (pointed details as to clothing brands and other upper-class demonstratives), but this would be a worthy book group read, though my book group would likely be put off by the fluffy cover.

Scourie, 15:50

2010-12-22T17:17:00.001+01:00

Yes, there is a pattern here. The air is bursting with pinks and blues, and even the sky takes on a blue-grey hue. Birds are everywhere - cranes, robins, ducks, of course the geese and turkeys on the farm down the lane - and when one starts squawking, the others answer. I wonder what they're discussing.

Living in a place like this would be a lifestyle. Yes, the SPAR has a good range of foods, but milk is only delivered on Thursdays and there wasn't any left today. The nearest supermarket is in Ullapool, which is over an hour away in good weather. So there's step one: plan. I did create a menu list for three weeks but for some reason I didn't think about things like milk.

The house where we're staying is on the estate of Scourie House, which was built for the Sutherland estate in 1846. This was part of the 1.1 million acres of the Sutherland Estate, which was one of the biggest landowning estates in Europe for much of the 18th and 19th centuries. This house was part of the administration of these vast acres of land, and was one of three places in Scotland that did the day-to-day running of the estate. I'm curious about Scourie House, a rambling white house on the hill, with palm trees in the garden and the goose and turkey farm at the end of the long, gated drive. A light is on in one of the rooms tonight - a first since I arrived. Maybe I'll go snoop tomorrow.

We were talking earlier about growing up in a place like this. M sees the romantic side: romping up and down the hills, swimming in the sea in summer, self-sustaining gardens, wild camping. I see the frustrating side; tedious planning, three-hour jaunts to the cinema, total dependency on the Royal Mail for any books or magazines, desolation if the internet or electricity goes out.

It's only Day Three. Sixteen to go.

Scourie, 15:15

2010-12-20T17:09:00.001+01:00

The good news: mother-in-law is out of hospital. I will shout this from the rooftops for ages to come: if you wake up in the morning and everything in your body is working properly, you're damn lucky.

Other good news: I've arrived in Scourie, where we'll be until January 6th. Scourie is a mere half hour's drive from Cape Wrath, the northwestern point of Scotland. There's a tiny Spar with the necessities and a few random items such as kiwi fruit, gorgonzola cheese, and organic potato chips. There's a hotel with a pub that's open a few hours every night. And apparently tomorrow evening the local kids do The Lion King at the village hall.

The light at this time of year is breathtaking. The pink skies shift a bluish light on the snow. I'm always taken aback by how different things look blanketed in white. Roads I've driven many times suddenly become more stark, the landscape more vivid after the snow. Mama Nature is ensuring we see everything with new eyes.

The photo above, of Mama Nature's Christmas tree, is just behind the cottage. The sea is just outside the window. A heavenly place, this.

the anti-high street

2010-11-30T00:06:00.000+01:00

This year, I will attempt to purchase only exceptional gifts.

I braved the Sunday snow to wander around the shops and was disgusted with the monotone of what was on offer. Where's the creativity? Where's the fun?

Online, of course. First the brilliant Literary Gift Company. This map of writerly Britain (above) is fantastic. Also love this t-shirt, this bag, and the first two rows of these. Oh, capitalism gods, you do know how to suck a girl in and make her waste half an hour swimming in your delicious literary goodness.

And talking of deliciousness, Papa Stour is a recent find. Everything they sell is handmade by Scottish (or Scotland-dwelling) artists and designers. This poster will hang in our home one day. And this is a great place to store your Bunnahabhain. And they ship internationally - hurrah!

My friend Erin designs exceptional jewellery at Freebird Designs. Erin designed my bespoke wedding earrings and has created necklaces for me that I wear every day. I love her elegant, classy designs. She also ships internationally.

And finally, M's favorite store in all the world, Firebox. Geek pages are great. I love this bird feeder and these iPhone-friendly gloves. M did a video about these spa lights and won a £50 voucher.

Where are you shopping for anti-high street goodies?

Flash fiction

2010-11-26T17:06:00.000+01:00

I subbed a creative writing class last night and focused on gratitude. We did a warm-up of a thank you note that they'd never written; one talked of her children; one chose a friend who gave her a ratty copy of Sylvia Plath's poetry; one wrote a lovely and touching letter to Santa, beginning with annoyance and ending with watching his child sleep on Christmas Eve.

We then moved on to flash fiction. I'd chosen some of Dave Eggers' short fiction from The Guardian (all with a reference to gratitude) and we had a really good discussion - I love hearing how various people interpret fiction. Especially when it's flash fiction (all stories were under 500 words) - every word counts, so why did Dave use these words? Why did he repeat those words? Did he actually tell a complete story in 500 words?

I admire any adults who jump into a creative writing course. It doesn't matter that only a few have the ambition to be published; others write for themselves, for their families, and for their posterity. A class from various countries and of various ages are equals for two short hours every week, and their responses to the same prompt are enlightening.

Their homework is to write a piece of flash fiction where they either tell the person thank you, or meditate on the word 'gratitude'. But more important than their homework was to embrace the idea that short fiction is worthy and is an excellent way to keep the writing skills sharp when time is a problem.

Silent gratitude isn't much use to anyone. - G.B. Stern

2010-11-25T18:27:00.000+01:00

What a great holiday: a whole day to consider life now. To stop whining about little annoyances and frustrations; to shift the negative to a space of gratitude and thankfulness for the present.

This is my favorite holiday. As a child, we'd watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in the morning, then head over to my grandparents' house where we;d eat until we couldn't move. We'd play games and run around the yard and do jumping jacks in front of the TV to annoy those who were watching Barry Sanders and the Lions play football.

My Facebook ex-pat posse has been exchanging emails and messages all day about our slight Thanksgiving depression. This day always hits far harder than any other days. It's the start of the holiday season, when we'll likely be away from family again. It's also the day that everyone celebrates back home. While Christmas usually means family, Thanksgiving also means friends.

So in the spirit of this lovely tradition, I'll say that I'm grateful for a healthy family, for good friends from around the globe, and for a curiosity about the world that has only deepened with time.

Just read Freedom

2010-11-23T15:06:00.000+01:00

This book threw me off my game. I usually devour books in a week, ten days at most. But Freedom has taken weeks. Weeks. I tend to give up on any book that takes this long to read.

It's an interesting read, overall. The plots are woven together cleverly, and his decision to start with the ending and work his way back echoes throughout the book via the shameless use of backstory. In parts, it's sanctimonious and preachy, peppered with pithy philosophies and liberal idealism, and manages to be both stirring and melancholy. He beats us over the head with metaphors and symbols - birds, the word 'lift', depression, environmentalism, overpopulation, the New York Times - yet somehow I didn't throw the book across the room.

Franzen breaks every rule of writing. He tells, rather than shows. He boasts such eclectic bits of knowledge that the reader is keenly aware of the huge amount of research that went into this book. He depends heavily on flashbacks. His minor characters have similar-sounding names and characteristics and I often got them mixed up. He even includes a character called Jonathan, which I found rather odd - though I've never really noticed if other authors include characters with their own names. He uses various literary devices to help tell his story - a journal (yawn), song lyrics, speeches, newspaper articles - all glaringly obvious.

Yet I had to finish it.

Writing often ruins reading. Writers are keyed in to the way a story is told, and I tried to figure out what it was about Franzen's writing that had me hooked from the first page. His omniscient narrator knew too much, but somehow it worked. The main characters were perfectly flawed, and their two-faced, selfish nature evoked irritation and sympathy. He's played on the dualities of us as humans and us as readers to suck us into his world of upper-middle-class America. Yes, read it, if you've got time to dive into a 562-page tome.

I'm including both covers here. The chapter titles of my UK edition (below) are printed in the same tilted font as on the cover of the US edition (above). The bird on the US edition echoes the metaphor of birds throughout the novel; interesting that the bird is represented by a feather on the UK edition. This book would have sold with nothing on the cover, but I still find it interesting how differently books are marketed in the US and UK.

Try to pay attention, maybe tell her when she's rambling and dull. But nicely, please. - The Goddess of Woo

2010-11-22T23:16:00.000+01:00

Little in this world is more humbling than reading through the very first attempt at a novel. The above quote, from page 140 / chapter 16 of the draft, is my current mantra. Much of this manuscript is rambling and dull. But every so often, a spark of light crashes through the cage of freshman mistakes and I remember why I loved this story so much that I had to write it.

The photo above is from a fountain near Gare du Oriente in Lisbon. This is where the idea for Woo germinated and where I began keeping notes for this book I'd eventually write. The scribbles have very little to do with the book in its current state, but I had to work out the plot, the characters, the ideas, and had to throw away dozens of bad ideas.

I'll quote from @Beathhigh (Ian Rankin)'s Twitter post from 19 November: "Queasy excitement at plot-lines for new book. Always a good feeling." And then from @jennycolgan, from 21 October: "Sigh, in that 5 seconds before starting a new book where in my head it's all perfect and just as I'd envisioned it. But now I start typing..."

Do all writers remember where they were at the germination of an idea?

Do or do not. There is no try. - Yoda

2010-11-17T19:47:00.001+01:00

That's the view from the tables behind Moniack Mhor, on Saturday at around 2pm.

It's rare when 10 women from completely different backgrounds, ranging in age from 30 to 76, can create a supportive, honest environment within moments of meeting one another. Apparently that happens frequently at writing retreats, but I haven't been on one like this before. Within an hour, we were brainstorming, creating, reading, critiquing, eating, drinking wine, and cozying up by the fire, pens and notebooks in hand, dreaming away.

It's that amorphous time between autumn and winter, so the weather is crisp, fridge-cold, with biting, fresh winds that feel like silk on the skin. The light up in the Highlands is beautiful right now. Sunset seems to last hours and flirts with oranges, pinks, peaches, yellows, golds until everything goes pitch black. And the blackness is impenetrable. The setting of a beautiful house in the country heightened everything - perhaps it was our focus on senses other than sight, but autumn seemed to engulf everything last weekend.

On Saturday night, after dinner, we all did readings of our own stuff - always a bit intimidating. I read from my very first novel, which I started while living in Slovenia in 2004 and trifled with until Shetland, when I finished the draft in a few short months. My agent wasn't as excited about it as she was about another project, so I figured that would be the first novel that nobody ever read. But the response was great. And partnered with a great pitch session last night at the Literary Salon, I might just dust off The Goddess of Woo and see whether it's salvageable.

Moniack Mhor

2010-11-12T13:39:00.000+01:00

I'm spending this weekend at Moniack Mhor (photo from their website), a beautiful steading about 25 minutes from Inverness, with a group of writers and two tutors. I've never done an intimate multiple-day course before, and am a bit nervous. I know the tutors (Cynthia Rogerson and Kevin MacNeil, whom I've blogged about before) and I always learn from them, but tutors don't intimidate me; other writers do.

Scotland is lucky to have a fairly open literary community. If you take the initiative to introduce yourself to writers, publishers, and agents, they're more than happy to have a conversation. But for wannabes, it can get uncomfortable, and sometimes nasty - as it does anywhere. Some writers are all about the love; they're positive, give constructive feedback, and are willing to discuss ideas and ways to improve. Some are the opposite - negative, unhelpful, loathe to discuss how things can be fixed. But perhaps the worst are those who are selfish about their work, who are keen to receive feedback and defend their decisions, but somehow find themselves busy, tired, or noncommittal when others' work is in the spotlight.

It will be interesting to see how these stereotypes translate when we're all staying under the same roof, for two nights, in what's likely to be a weekend of sleet and cold.

11:00, 11/11

2010-11-11T12:11:00.001+01:00

At 11:00, I paused to look outside while hearing the dings of the clock of the World Service and the silence afterward. A man stopped beside the river, just outside our window, took off his hat and bowed his head. On the other side of the river, two figures also stopped and walked toward the shore. A moving sight, indeed.

Today's not about politics, or pacifism, or the Hague. It's about the kids who died too soon, the young dad who lost a leg, the two guys in the back of the car in Bend, Oregon who were sent to WWII while the two in the front (one of whom was my grandfather) were spared.

I like this tradition of two minutes of silence for gratitude.

Menu d' Autunno

2010-11-10T18:24:00.001+01:00

Since moving to the Highlands, I've had to redefine what summer means. All my life I've lived in places with 'proper' summer; in America, this meant nonstop air conditioning, in Europe this meant nonstop sweating and fans and shade-seeking. It was mid-August when I moved to Shetland, and my first weekend there, while walking along the beautiful Eshaness coastline, it sleeted. And didn't stop til we moved to Inverness the following February. My three Scotland summers have boasted just over 60 'skirts-and-sandals' days - thankfully many of those during our wedding week. The winter coats are never truly put away, nor are the gloves and hats.

But I haven't had to redefine winter, and that's part of what keeps me balanced here. Scotland is made for winter. I love the sound of the wind whipping the stone facade of our cottage. I love sitting by the fire. I love long walks along the coast, all bundled up, then the glorious taste of a whisky afterward. I love cooking things that are warming and comforting. And eating them.

Before Halloween, I bought two pumpkins for jack-o-lanterns that never got carved. So I thought I'd try making pumpkin ravioli. Including the pasta. Without a proper pasta maker . This was not the cleverest thing I've ever done - there's a reason why pasta makers were invented. My crude attempt ended up 1/4" thick and doughy - hardly the lilting parcels of goodness I'd envisioned. But the filling was delicious - a mixture of ginger cookies, eggs, parmesan, nutmeg, pepper, and pumpkin. I made far too much of it for my chunks of pasta, so cheated and made cannelloni using fresh lasagne sheets from M&S. Which were just as good and a damn sight easier than making my own pasta.

I'm looking forward to an autumn of chunky soups like cullen skink (I pop salmon in, too) and Scotch broth. I'll be using our Italian holiday as inspiration for risottos and roasted veg, and using this to remind me what's seasonal, British, and delicious. And preferably not pasta.

Three-score barrels of powder below / To prove old England's overthrow - trad.

2010-11-05T18:25:00.001+01:00

The 5th of November meant little to me until 2001, when my flatmates in Prague insisted upon lighting fireworks throughout the night. Somehow, Bonfire Night skipped the curriculum of my European History courses. Though I'm not sure why, as it's a big deal here. I'm still a bit confused as to what exactly they're celebrating; all I had to learn for my visa exam was: What do we celebrate on November 5? Guy Fawkes Night. That explains it.

Bonfire Night, or Guy Fawkes Night, commemorates the failed Gunpowder Plot, an attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament in 1605. (Yes, I realize this celebration is older than my country. Let's move on.) King James I wasn't tolerant of Catholics, so 13 Catholic men, including Fawkes, began plotting to blow up Parliament (and, thus, the King, prince, and politicians). They hid 36 barrels of gunpowder in a dingy cellar below the Parliament building, which were guarded by Fawkes. A traitor alerted the government, Fawkes was busted, and Parliament still stands. Though apparently every year, before the Queen enters Parliament to officially open it, the Yeoman of the Guard still search the cellars around the Palace of Westminster. And that's the only time the Queen visits.

So since then, bonfires have burned bright on November 5. Fireworks are set off as well, and often effigies of Guy Fawkes, the Pope, or unpopular politicians are placed on top of the fire. I've heard pops of fireworks since 8 this morning, and on my run today, wood was piled up two stories tall for tonight's Inverness blaze.

But it's still unclear exactly what Brits are celebrating on November 5. Is it the safety of the King? A foiled plot to blow up the center of politics in Britain? The gumption of a group of persecuted people? The attempt to do away with the King and government? Was Guy a hero, a martyr, or a terrorist?

Fred Morrison

2010-11-04T09:53:00.001+01:00

Monday night we made the 2-hour trek south to Blair Castle to see Fred Morrison. Fred's a piper. That holds a lot of weight in our household.

Fred's not just a piper. He's a genius at the pipes. He plays various types of bagpipes and has invented his own. He can get a tiny hall rocking in 10 seconds. His fingers fly, his body rocks back and forth, and he plays with the most serene, joyful smile on his face. He is beautiful to watch.

It is inspiring to see someone who is completely happy in the moment.

In light of the NaNoWriMo project that's happening, I wonder if those participating are happy in their moment. Do writers consider the act of writing, of being 'in the zone' and churning words out, their performance? Or is it only piles of words until someone else reads them? Is it the joy of the process that keeps writers going, or the accolades after the work is finished?

Nanowriwhat?

2010-10-31T21:28:00.000+01:00

I love the concept of NaNoWriMo. Give people a month to push through a rough draft of the book they always wanted to write. Inhibitions are tossed to the winds; you're writing alongside 130,475 others all over the planet who are just as clueless as you are. It's a safe way to be completely reckless.

Buzz around this event isn't always positive. Even tonight, writerly tweeters are slagging off this most proletariat of writing events.

This is unfair. Sure, the quality may not be great, but whose first draft is ever perfect? This sort of event can get first-timers into the groove of writing every day. Yes, it means more books, many of which are likely drivel, but a draft doth not equal a NYT Bestseller. But it could, and if NaNo is what sparks that genius to get going, then why not support it?

I agree that the website isn't great - it's cluttered, confusing, and a trove of forums, tips, hints, pep talks, and other motivational tools (i.e. procrastination tools) to coddle the new writer to victory. What's victory? 50,000 words by November 30. A solid start to a first draft.

But I think NaNo can also be a catalyst for those of us who aren't first-timers. My second year, 2007, I revised a book I'd written the year before. Last year I did another edit of Snakes. This is cheating, according to NaNo, as you're theoretically supposed to start something new. But it worked; I had new drafts by the end of November. Deadlines are good things.

This year I'm turning off my inner editor. I have a very difficult time with typos, grammatical errors, usage problems, all the tricky little polishing bits. Those don't need to be fixed right now. So I'm going to do my usual daily writing, but this time I'm not going to fuss over one line for fifteen minutes. I'm pushing forward and moving the story along. Editing comes later.

I'm starting with something new - it's plotted to a point, the characters are fleshed out, and I'm ready to roll. Good luck to everyone out there who is taking part.

Storyist 2.3

2010-10-29T12:03:00.000+02:00

The good folks at Storyist are hooking up NaNoWriMo-ers with a free trial of their software for the month of November and 25% off if you choose to buy it. I wanted to try it out before recommending it and am delighted with it so far.

What's good: Drag-and-drop storyboarding, character sheets, and plot lines. A place for random notes. It's flexible so it mimics the way my brain would love to work if it were organized.

What's better: My project is on Dropbox and the license allows for use on multiple machines, so can access it on the MacDaddy and on my laptop.

What's best: After organizing my notes and ideas for my NaNo project, I've discovered plot holes, character inconsistencies, and other minor irritations that could make or break a first draft.

Just read The Hand That First Held Mine

2010-10-23T21:03:00.000+02:00

Someone recently asked me who my favorite contemporary novelist was, and I blurted out, "Maggie O'Farrell" without thinking. There are so many others I could have named, writers who have written life-changing books. But Maggie O'Farrell is special. Each of her books is beautifully crafted, with subtle twists and delicious climaxes, with characters that linger long after placing the book back on the shelf.

I'd been waiting to read The Hand That First Held Mine - it's been on the shelf for a couple of months because I have to be ready to swim inside an O'Farrell novel. She does something to my subconscious that mutes the line between fiction and reality. I've been feeling a bit crap this week (I blame the 10K) and have done little creative writing, thus perfect timing.

The two main plot lines, set in 1950s and present-day London, are expertly intertwined to create a story of love, loss, strength, memory, and heartbreak. O'Farrell gently weaves the past into the most minute of objects, leaving the reader desperate to know the history of the everyday objects gracing our own lives. The characters are perfectly flawed, multi-dimensional enough to resonate. It's as good as any other O'Farrell novel, which places it on the highest of shelves; this writer is top-notch. Recommended, and if possible, dive into all of her other books, too.

teenage kicks

2010-10-22T21:52:00.001+02:00

The rumour mills have been buzzing for months, and I admit I'm curious. Okay, more than curious. Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield are, apparently, back. And 27. And doing things like having sex and eating caviar and getting divorced. I'm not sure how to feel about the twins growing up.

I devoured the Sweet Valley High books for a good chunk of my preteen (and, she types, blushing, teenage) years. If I started reading after school, I could finish a book in a night (leaving a half hour for dinner and two hours for homework). They were engrossing - partly because I thought my junior high school was kind of like Sweet Valley but in Kansas, and partly because I hadn't read a book where I saw myself in both the good and not-so-good protagonists. After reading the first dozen or so, I began a project called "The Backs", where I wrote jacket copy for future SVH books. I had the twins traveling to Paris, learning to skydive, going to their first party where people were drinking - I was sure that one day I'd be the X on the title page (written by X, created by Francine Pascal).

Perhaps one of my most embarrassing moments was finishing Crime and Punishment for my IB exam and immediately opening Starring Jessica (number 71), and being busted by two of the guys in my class. Ahem.

Pascal's series spans over 150 books (I stopped at number 74), has spin-offs for all ages of kids and tweens, and is now targeting the Sex and the City generation. It's a clever time to do it - SATC is no more, and those of us who miss the show can now watch our beloved twins become Samantha and Charlotte. If we can stomach it.

See, the Wakefield girls, and Lila Fowler, and Cara Walker, and Todd Wilkins - they're in this time capsule of coziness in my head. They're beside springtime days in the backyard and getting picked up from the mall in my parents' minivan. They're glued into the memories of my posse, when we'd talk about the characters like they were our friends. Before cell phones, and digital cameras, and YouTube, and all the things that would have gotten us in much more trouble if they'd been around when we were young.

I'm afraid my little bubble of sweetness in middle America might just pop if I let them grow up.

Running is not only about how many miles you ran last week. It is about community, about appreciating all the miles run by other runners, too. - Richard O'Brien

2010-10-18T21:51:00.000+02:00

That's me crossing the finish line of the Aviemore 10K yesterday. Yep, that's my hand wiping sweat and a possible tear from my cheek. I'd never jogged 10 of anything in my life until yesterday at around 1pm.

I don't enjoy running. But M says I need 'weight-bearing exercise' (Pilates and yoga don't count, boo) and running is cheaper than a gym membership. I flirted with the idea a few months ago by reading Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running - 'weight-bearing exercise' means little to me, but the connection between writing and running just might. Murakami's book was engrossing - it's always fascinating reading about how an author's mind works - and taught me much about the meditative state that thumping one's feet against the earth can bring.

This writing/running connection borders on the cliche; in the title quotation, "miles you ran/miles run by others" could easily be exchanged for "words you wrote/words written by others". Flash fiction is a sprint, short stories or articles a track and field event, book-length works a marathon. Somewhere in the middle of any of these, you've got to find something inside to make you persevere. To finish.

When I trudged through the finish line, after feeling nauseous for the final half-mile, I felt a strange sense of calm; the same sense of calm that I feel when I've completed the first draft of a book. Hours of working and reworking text, hours of pushing the body - both work the muscle responsible for Getting It Done. Routine is important, as is repetition, focus, and, finally, achievement. Even if it's never published, or if I end up in last place for my age group - who cares? It's done. I know what I can achieve. And from here, I can move forward and make it better.

I'll probably keep running. As per usual, I'll spend the first five minutes wishing I were doing something else, then lose myself in a podcast - NY Times Book Review, or the World Book Club. And when I'm exhausted after, say, two miles, I will think of Murakami competing in a 62-mile ultramarathon. If he can do it, I can make it one more silly little mile. And if the image of Murakami doesn't work, I think of Simon Pegg at the end of Run Fatboy Run.

A story must be the ax for the frozen sea within us. - Franz Kafka

2010-10-15T16:16:00.000+02:00

Perhaps it's the same for every expat, that tiny twinge in the heart that zaps each time their first home abroad is mentioned. I lived in Prague for just under a year, far less time than I've spent living in any other city, yet my memories from Prague are among my most vivid from the past decade.

I've spent two short weekends in Prague since moving away in midsummer 2002, both times with friends keen to explore the city. But this time was different; M's first time, my chance to show off the city that began the choices that led to us.

I tried to see it through his eyes, and the eyes of our friends A & G who joined us. After finding our accommodation, then chatting to the extremely excited owner whilst staring at our watches, knowing the Scotland v Czech Republic match was about to begin, we ambled to Staroměstské náměsti, the old town square, home of my favorite church spires in the world (the Tyn, below). Here we found a big-screen TV outside a pub, with chairs beneath heat lamps and blankets for cold customers. We watched as clean-up crews vacuumed up the litter left behind by the 8000-strong Tartan Army. We were given stellar American service by a girl from Florida. It only took an hour in Prague to remind me why it was so easy living there.

Ghosts plagued our two days of meandering. I could hear the laughter of my friends hurling around darkened corners, could remember stumbling into the light and fresh air after an evening in a dingy, arched cellar pub. My head hurled with stories I'd forgotten, with voices I'd not thought of in years, with promises made and friendships born. I'm still close to many of the people I met during my time there; two came to my wedding, and one sent a toast that made me cry.

There's a heightened sense of reality when trying to fit into a new country. It makes every tiny incident seem as big as the world.

Of course things have changed. But Prague's soul is rich, and her centuries of stories are more everlasting than any expat's first year abroad. But she respects how my story weaves into her fabric, and the stories of my friends, and of those who are just beginning their Prague story. She is enticing and coy, and she knows I'll be back.

bella Venezia

2010-10-14T11:24:00.001+02:00

Since my first visit in 1999, I've been to Venice dozens of times, and the subtle transformations of this peerless vision take my breath away. Something insignificant always changes - an awning, a freshly-stenciled wall boasting the path to St. Mark's, a revamped cafe. These are always more obvious with a backdrop woven with hundreds of years of stories, and an eerie familiarity that only Hollywood can provide. (And Vegas; there's always the loud American voice outside the Doge's Palace wailing, "It looks just like Vegas!")

We stayed in one of my favorite tiny hotels, in a tiny canalside albergo just behind St. Mark's on Calle de Vin. As I'm kind of in training for a 10K on Sunday, I went for jogs in the morning in the Sestiere Castello, a quiet district of apartments where the Venetians sleep. Laundry is strung in waves beneath windowsills, and discarded children's toys litter the paths between buildings. This is the Venice I savour, the lives of the people whose souls have led them or kept them on this sinking mass of unpredictable land.

The other unmissable sestieres are Santa Croce and Dorsoduro. These are narrower, more confusing, and more pungent than Castello, but they share a soul. This is Venice - not the Versace store, or Harry's Bar, or couples arguing over a grotty map. Venice is in the eyes of the old women shuffling to the pharmacy and the nondescript doorway hiding a modern mansion behind its plain facade. Venice is what remains when the last tourist is tucked into his comfy bed and before the first breakfast is served the next morning.

The last time I was in Venice was in 2007. I went for a weekend, alone - a gloriously self-indulgent way to play in the city. When in Venice alone, I notice things. And I noticed a lot of things had changed.

Many shops now boast Made in Italy signs in their windows, and after a few conversations it's obvious that cheap Chinese-made imports are driving many local Venetian shops out of business. It breaks my heart that globalization has hit this sacred place, but a stroll along the main thoroughfare from Santa Lucia to Rialto and St. Marks exhibits an astonishing number of shops filled with cheap swag. The silent movement of Made in Italy signs mean little to the tourists wanting cheap souvenirs for friends.

I also noticed an uncomfortable number of immigrants running the shops, waiting on tables, working at cafes, and selling souvenirs out of carts on street corners. I'm aware of the slight controversy of this comment, and I'm also aware that the current Italian experience no longer means meeting Venetians in Venice, Florentines in Florence, and Romans in Rome. But when I frequently spent weekends in Venice, from 2004-2006, I always relished my chats with waiters who told me stories of their Venetian neighborhood and fourth-generation shop owners whose brother made the masks and cousins handcrafted the glass sold in the shop. Italians have a special breed of pride and loyalty - to neighborhood, then city, then region, then country. Some of this has been lost.

The most delightful discovery this time was the book Venice is a Fish, recommended by a kind Polish girl working in the tourist info center. "Reading this made me stay here and live here," she told me, and I can see why. It's quirky, charming, and filled with the stories that I missed from my previous visits. I bought it and read it on our last day in Venice, and fell in love with the place all over again.

Finding Jenua

2010-09-27T22:42:00.002+02:00

My friend Alison wrote a film. It's called Finding Jenua.

Wait, we'll start at the beginning. I moved to Prague from San Francisco in 2001. I met a wonderful Armenian goddess called Sarine who has been a good friend since. Sarine left Prague early to be on-set photographer for one of many false starts for Finding Jenua.

I visited Sarine in Los Angeles a year ago today and met Alison. We clicked immediately, and have since exchanged timely and inspirational emails as we both slog our way to our dreams.

When Hollywood became fickle, Alison took charge. She got together a micro-budget, called in favours, found a crew, got a cast, and made it happen. It's premiering at film festivals beginning this autumn.

The pitch: A young girl runs away from her past. An elderly woman can't remember hers. A small town that never forgets.

Go, girl. This is inspiring in many ways.

First, Alison's perseverance. So what if you get knocked back? So what if A-listers say yes and then no, or the big-budget film studio leaves you hanging? It's the dream, and the dream must happen. If you want something badly enough, eventually the universe will cooperate.

Second, Alison's fearlessness. Writing a script about something both emotional and topical, then having the audacity to be a first-time director. Nothing like jumping into shark-infested waters headfirst and naked.

Third, Alison's passion. She loves this film, and she believes in its message. Passion translates to viewers (or readers). She wants the world to know about this film, and she's not afraid to put herself out there.

I feel a personal attachment to this film because of Sarine's involvement, too - it's been a topic of our conversations throughout the years, as I'm so keen to hear what other creative types are doing - and after meeting Alison, I'm just so thrilled for her.

So do me a favor. Check out the Finding Jenua Facebook page. *Like* it. Look at Sarine's photos and film stills. Keep an eye out for it at film festivals for the next year or so. Support the indie creatives who are living their dream and who refuse to give up.

Just read Room

2010-09-25T18:45:00.000+02:00

The hype around this novel is the stuff of authors' dreams: a bidding war for publication, stellar blurbs from highly respected authors, excellent reviews, a Booker shortlist nomination. It's refreshing when a book actually lives up to the hype.

Emma Donoghue has admitted in interviews that the Fritzl case in Austria was the trigger to write this book, and its resemblance to any case of abduction and isolation is harrowing. But this book is told from the perspective of a five-year-old, Jack, who has never known a world outside of Room. He makes friends with the furniture. His outside world is television. He's never worn shoes, or a coat.

When Ma and Jack shift into the outside world, the books takes on a new dimension. Donoghue weaves reality into Jack's life in a compelling and provacative way; the reader is also introduced to the Outside. And, as children do, Jack adapts. But the reader is left questioning the idea of parameters and how we all exist in our Rooms, how this story is universal and true. But Jack's voice is what makes this novel so rich.

It's a quick read - the language is simple, the sentences short and deliberate, as a child's. It's also a cunning commentary on the media and our interpretation of news events. I finished this book hours ago and can't stop thinking about it. Recommended.

What I'm doing this weekend

2010-09-24T18:29:00.000+02:00

Remeasure. Reweigh. Try harder.

2010-09-23T15:38:00.002+02:00

That's a quote from a pro-ana website. The fact that these websites exist is creepy.

I didn't recognize a woman at my pilates class this morning. We've spoken numerous times in the past two years, but I hadn't seen her since early August and she's so thin, she's unrecognizable at first glance.

Before class, I overheard a woman say to her, "You're wilting away." She frowned, and said, "No, I've still got a long way to go."

This woman is around 40 and I've seen her around town with her children and alone. Today, her face was sallow, the color was gone from her face, her hair was dull, and she was hiding in the back of the class. She looked nothing like the fresh-faced, pretty, energetic woman I was used to seeing out and about.

Do we ever grow out of our body issues? What kind of a message is this sending to young girls and boys?

Books books books

2010-09-21T15:23:00.002+02:00

I can't stop buying books.

I gave in at 12:45 GMT. I bought 2 books: Room and Freedom. I have 24 books in the queue (my earlier Twittering had forgotten about the other bookshelf). Drowning.

A perk of living in a non-English speaking country is the lack of book selection. Most bookshops stocked some books in English, but they were always pricey and often older editions. If I wanted a book, I had to really want it, and had to be ready to let it go. When you shift countries every few years, books can't be precious.

It might be a silver lining that the 'city' where I live has only a Waterstones to peruse; Amazon tends to win out. Although I feel guilty buying from Amazon. Franzen's £20 list price book I got for £9, the same price as a two-course lunch at the restaurant across the river, or a brow wax, or a decent bottle of red. I'm adding to the ridiculous devaluing of literature to the price of a McDonald's value meal. Ugh.

Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go. -Truman Capote

2010-09-19T15:51:00.007+02:00

I first fell in love with Venice when I was a child. I had a book about gondoliers, and I used to write stories about a gondolier's daughter who spend her mornings helping her father clean the boat.

When I finally visited Venice at age 27, that rush came back as soon as I walked out of Santa Lucia and saw that gorgeous, grotty canal. It was love, and lust, at first sight.

Part of why I moved to Ljubljana was its proximity to Venice; less than 3 hours on the Casanova Express train and I was among the rich, glorious beauty of bella Venezia. I had a routine: I'd get there in the evening, check in at Albergo Doni for 40 EUR/night, eat at a trattoria, have a drink at Centrale. I'd spend my days wandering, Moleskine in my bag and stories floating in my head, my nights finding a place for dinner. I'd spend hours watching. Time stops in Venice.

It's more than the romance of water gliding through ancient buildings. It's the sense of purpose that Venetians feel, the overwhelming need to conserve this precious place. It's the shared love between those who become better people when in her boundaries. It's laughing at the Americans who see the Doge's Palace and squeal, 'it looks just like Vegas'. It's sitting in Harry's Bar and hearing history ooze from its walls. It's bellinis and wine, free happy hour food and wooden bridges during the floods.

M asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year. I said Venice. We're going in 11 days, and already I'm nostalgic for how different it will seem this time around. I change. Venice doesn't.

Separated by a common language, etc.

2010-09-19T01:13:00.004+02:00

My friend Jayne has a gorgeous wee girl called Esme. I've known her since she was still in Jayne's belly, and this has created a sense of ownership for me. I adore this kid. She's also the approximate age of my goddaughter, Harper, who lives in Nashville. I like to think of them as soul sisters who will meet one day at my house and become great friends.

Esme is 2 now. She's got a good grasp on what the world should be like (full of walks in the park and fun) and how everyone should treat her (like a princess). She's also the first in my mission to see if kids really do pick up different things from different people.

Apparently, Esme called Jayne by her name (rather than 'Mummy') last week. This could or could not be my fault. I did tell Esme that her mother's name wasn't Mummy, it was Jayne. I've also tried to Americanize her speech with bay-zil and or-egg-ahh-no. That hasn't caught on yet, but I'm hopeful. Taking over the world, one Scottish child at a time.

Don't try these on a Munro

2010-09-15T15:01:00.006+02:00

Nope, not a joke. Part of Azzedine Alaia's winter collection on Net-a-porter. Oh, and they are £1000.

My first thought: ridiculous. A visual representation of the oxymoron. My second thought: that's creativity. I've never seen hiking boots with 6" heels. What an interesting way to twist a classic design style.

These boots were the catalyst. While Snakes is out in the masses, I'm revamping a book I started while living in Switzerland. It's called The Red Bench and is my first foray into a historical novel. I did a ton of research at the time, and at first was going to set it in contemporary times. But it got twisted on its head yesterday. Thanks, Azzedine.

Just read A Method Actor's Guide to Jeckyll and Hyde

2010-09-12T20:55:00.002+02:00

I'm a big Kevin MacNeil fan. I've mentioned him before; I did a workshop with him in 2007 at Shetland's Wordplay festival and he's been so kind to me ever since. He's met me for coffee and helped me to navigate the publishing scene in Scotland. He always answers emails. He came up for our January 2010 Literary Salon and everyone loved him. He's great with readers, even better with writers.

In January, we were lucky enough to hear a scene from A Method Actor's Guide to Jekyll and Hyde and it was a small thrill reading it in the completed novel. I also watched its progress through Kevin's facebook page; I enjoyed reading his status updates as the book shifted from idea to tangible novel. I've been looking forward to reading this book; somehow, I feel a part of it.

[Note to authors: involving your readers in the process can equal book sales!]

It's a quick read, yet engrossing. It explores dualities, ego, influence, affluence. The protagonist is achingly frustrating, yet likeable; his choices are integral to the twists of the story. But my favorite part of the book was secondary to the plot; it's the way Kevin weaves Edinburgh into the story. The book is a love letter to his adopted city. He exposes Edinburgh's beauty and filth and grit and charm and history without sounding forced or pompous.

Recommended. And well done to Kevin.

The Mountain, Gairloch

2010-09-11T22:06:00.006+02:00

We're on the west coast again, this time in Poolewe, where M is the weekend doc and I've tagged along because I can. This part of the west coast is magnificent; hilly and lush, surrounded by jagged hills and a calm sea. Gairloch, the village above, is a charming place with one of the best cafe/bookshops in the Highlands, called The Mountain. It wouldn't be out of place in Seattle or Portland, with its cluttered walls covered in license plates, posters from the 1980s, and framed newspaper articles of climbers. Dream-catchers and beads and chimes hang from the ceiling. The tables and chairs are made of thick, chunky wood. The food is organic and homemade; even the milk is from Highland farmers. The cafe looks onto the sea, and serves the most delicious scones. Their cheese and herb scone is a meal in itself. I crave these; I'd probably make special trips to Gairloch for these scones if I had a car.

The cafe is fantastic, but even better is Hillbillies Bookstore in the front section of the cafe. Its eclectic hodgepodge of books cover everything from rock climbing to gourmet cooking to Zen mastery to self-help guides. They also stock Booker winners, teenage and kid-lit, gift books, and obscure titles from tiny publishers all over the English-speaking world. It's easy to spend an hour browsing, taking in the hundreds of stories and the colorful cover art.

I love bookshops like this, where I can drown in books I've never thought of reading, in topics I never knew existed. Places like this make the magic of books even more fascinating.

Gairloch and Poolewe are the kinds of places where people speak Gaelic as a first language and drive two hours to the nearest supermarket. The land and the sea are in control. The wind is fierce. And the backdrop is breathtaking.

Nigella. Again.

2010-09-09T21:05:00.004+02:00

I feel a bit naughty for buying Nigella Lawson's new cookbook, Kitchen, for £13 at Tesco. The list price is £26, which I probably would have paid anyway. But I couldn't resist. It's a chunk of a book. For the price of a decent bottle of red, one gets 490 pages of food porn.

Have tried two recipes so far: scallops with Thai-scented pea puree (p72) was a bit of a slog, as had no Thai paste or peas, so used edamame and broad beans and pesto instead. It was still delicious.

M was at his old practice today, so tried the lemon polenta cake (p272), a gluten-free hunk of deliciousness that M swears he shared with the others at the practice. Oh Nigella, you are indeed the domestic goddess.

I love that there's room to experiment with her dishes. I love that there's a story for each one, usually something that reminds us mortals that she's a person, too (albeit rich and beautiful). I love that her books are marketed exactly to moi: pretty pictures, great writing, lovely paper, clean graphics. And half off at Tesco.

Guilt didn't last long; it's also £13 at WH Smith and Waterstones. Buy it.

Just read Her Fearful Symmetry

2010-09-08T15:15:00.002+02:00

After a huge hit like The Time-Traveler's Wife one can expect the pressure must have been unimaginable for Ms. Niffenegger. I deliberately waited to read this until the press and hype had died down so I'd have fresh eyes. A few friends weren't fans, and oddly enough the males who recommended TTW weren't keen on the cover so didn't read it.

It's good though, a solid sophomore effort. Niffenegger's characters sucked me in from the first page - she's got a curious way of flirting with her readers, revealing enticing bits of her characters throughout the book. I was more concerned about 'who happened' rather than 'what happened'.

The setting is lush, and is a love letter to Highgate Cemetery in London and the surrounding neighborhood. When the book expands to other parts of London, it feels slightly forced - guess what, the author knows London! - but when in the bubble of Highgate, the setting is a gentle, enchanting backdrop to the novel.

My other qualm is italicized words to indicate the character is thinking. She pauses, considering her next sentence. That sort of thing. It's distracting. I should be able to figure out what characters are thinking by their actions, by what they say or what they don't say. Including these cheapened the writing for me.

The twists were good, if not slightly predictable; the ending was satisfying; overall a good read. TTW was a more life-shifting read; the way Niffenegger played with structure and character was extraordinary. But HFS is worth reading if only to fall into the dark world of historical cemeteries, ghosts, and her complex, absorbing characters.

"And where is this festival?" - German woman to Edinburgh tourist info guy

2010-08-31T16:30:00.005+02:00

Dallas Ryan was a guy who used to do shows with me when I was a preteen. He was probably in his mid-20s (I just thought of him as 'old') and he did summer stock theater in my hometown. He was fantastic - a fabulous, flamboyant tenor from upstate New York who was charming and fun and didn't treat me like a kid. He used to wax lyrical about the Edinburgh Festival and how it was the pinnacle of all international arts gigs. I've wanted to go ever since.

I spent half of August in Edinburgh, and I'd go back in a heartbeat. It's a glorious city even in the doldrums of winter, and the energy explodes during the Festival. Anything goes. Attire, face paint, concepts, ideas - it's all there, swimming around together, clashing, creating.

Highlights: The Magnets, a five-part harmony and beatboxing group.

Five Guys Named Moe with Clarke Peters who is the grooviest man on the planet.

Baby Wants Candy, a hilarious improv group that created a musical just for us called "The Polar Bear Who Came For Dinner".

Fame-o-meter: Clarke Peters, of course, who hung out at a bar near the venue numerous times. That man exudes coolness. And McNulty was there one night, too. Some very fat man from the PG Tips tea advertisements and a few other British slebs I didn't know. And the many, many wonderful writers who graced the Book Festival.

Leading us neatly to...the best Edinburgh Bookfest I've attended. Excellent workshops, approachable authors, intelligent attendees. My new friend Francesca wrote a brilliant love letter to the Book Festival on her blog. We met thanks to Twitter. Oh, did I mention I went to my first Tweetup?

Nicola Morgan is a writer who gives (far too) much of her time to newbies and unpublished writers. Thanks to her I now have a dozen new Twitter writer friends. We had a great afternoon in the Charlotte Square sunshine. She's @nicolamorgan.

Back in Inverness now, and still buzzing...what a lucky person I am to have a freelance job that means I can be in places like Edinburgh in August.

la dolce vita

2010-08-23T11:45:00.003+02:00

I love finding a tiny oasis of authenticity gleaming through a sea of same-ness. I wandered the shore of Leith last night looking for a place to feed myself that wouldn't take £20 from me. I've walked past Giuliano's so many times, and frankly have always been put off by the pack of smokers puffing away outside their door. But only two were outside last night, so I went in and was immediately transported to bella Italia.

Italian pop on the radio. Waiters yelling Andiamo! Andiamo! at the chefs, the owner yelling Basta! at the bartender. Proper Italian trattoria recipes. The best bicchiere of house wine I've had since a year ago in Tuscany.

Edinburgh during festival time is chaotic, in the best way. Walking yesterday I saw a woman dressed as a bee, three people on stilts (not together), and a small man doing cartwheels down the street. The latter is not the wisest way to travel through a crowd, but whatever. A cynic would call this pandering. The festival is still new to me, so I love it.

But I also love retreating back to a neighborhood and finding a gem of a place like Guiliano's. It took £20 from me, but it was a delightful place to spend that £20.

Word nerds

2010-08-16T17:53:00.003+02:00

For the past three years, August has meant the Edinburgh Book Festival; I even planned our honeymoon last year around certain events. I'm that much of a book geek.

Book festivals are marvelous, and Scotland is lucky to have dozens to visit each year. And Edinburgh is Mecca. The place is bustling from 10am until the wee hours. Staff are friendly. Visitors are chatting, smiling, queuing. And authors are approachable.

The magic lies in this: accessibility. Actors are on a stage or a screen; rarely do they muddle with fans. Artists aren't often present at galleries or museums. Authors, however - they're active. They take our questions and answer them, looking into our eyes. They are vulnerable, behind a microphone with only a moderator between them and an audience. It can't be comfortable.

I saw Christos Tsiolkas on Saturday (author of The Slap). He was brilliant: compelling, controversial, frank. Even a bit nervous. He had a lot to say that caused a bit of furor in the broadsheets by claiming that recent European fiction was 'dry and academic, and not in the best way, but in a cheap, shitey way'. Didn't go over too well with this crowd, but I can see where he's coming from. Fiction should challenge us, should force us into the uncomfortable and the awkward and make us sit up and listen to our prejudices, our ideas of justice, our assumptions. His book was the first in a long time that I've recommended to every reader who can handle it. It's a tough book; it's not pretty, it's not filled with beautiful prose or lilting description or Hollywood endings. But it's real, aggressive, fiction. Tsiolkas did not disappoint, either.

Book festivals have the readers devouring books, discussions that continue long after the author has finished, advice that is golden. But book festivals also challenge us. They allow us to be intellectuals without seeming pretentious. They allow authors to put themselves among the reading public as ideas simmer and dive and soar. They give us proof that in a world of reality TV and video games, reading is still alive.

Hidden cost of inebriation

2010-08-08T18:06:00.004+02:00

We live just beyond the pedestrian bridge, on the right side of the photo. It's a quiet, one-way street that is for residents only (especially hilarious when people get £40-60 tickets for driving on it - schadenfreude, baby). But 'quiet' is relative.

I'm not sure what it is that compels drunken Scots (and Poles, and English, and Spaniards - those are the only accents that have woken me up) to leave the bars and clubs and shout, scream, and sing as soon as they see the river. Wow! Look, a river! I must scream! At three in the morning!

Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays - okay, I kind of get that, they're big 'must get drunk' nights here in the UK. But Sundays through Wednesdays? What do you people do for a living that allows you to holler and scream and shout at 2am on a weeknight?!

It is good people-watching, and sometimes vaguely amusing. But other times, it's not - like when a woman tried to climb over the 4'-tall fence and toss herself into the river while yelling reasons why she should kill herself as a guy tried to pull her off the fence. Or when a man started smacking his girl around, screaming nasty words at her. Or last night, when a guy stood at the river shouting obscenities into his phone for nearly 20 minutes. Then, I'm reminded how much alcohol can turn people into monsters.

I'm glad I've got headphones and sleep apps on my iPhone.

Shut up, people. Respect residential neighborhoods.

Same subject, different slant

2010-08-04T10:33:00.003+02:00

I'm a member of a great website for women writers, She Writes. Today, one of the agents wrote an excellent blog post on the art of the memoir. It includes an actual query letter (check the presumption at the end of the second paragraph) and an intelligent response.

The story is heartbreaking: incest, abuse, breakdowns, drugs, poverty, addiction. Hoiser handles this well: "Life isn't fair, and thanks to Oprah we all know it." Her response is spot-on - writing for catharsis is one thing, and writing for readers another.

I've had many people approach me throughout the years and tell me they've started their memoirs. A few have even given me their manuscripts to read. It's awful to say this to them, but people don't care. Unless you're famous or notorious, no one cares.

The un-famous people who've been published all have a slant that works, that makes their story palatable and interesting for readers. That's why James Frey's fictionalized 'memoir' A Million Little Pieces was such a scandal, but that's also why it was a bestseller. He found an angle and exploited it. Some might call that lying, others might call it genius (he's got a three-book deal with HarperCollins worth seven figures). That's also how books mentioned in the post - The Glass Castle, Angela's Ashes, Precious, Running with Scissors - became bestsellers. The stories resonated with readers, but so did the lessons.

An interesting life doesn't necessarily translate into a fascinating book. And writers must always, always think of their readers.

She's indecisive/She can't decide/She keeps on looking/From left to right. - Justin Bieber, "Eenie Meenie"

2010-08-03T12:19:00.004+02:00

So Justin Bieber's memoir is coming out in October. He's 16.

For the uninitiated, Bieber is a Canadian pop singer with shaggy hair and a very high voice. He's rather adorable, with catchy pop songs (I'm a sucker for a good pop song) and street cred thanks to his mentor, Usher. And, as one can tell from the lyrics above, his depth is well beyond his years. But a memoir at 16?

The fabulous literary agent Nathan Bransford tweeted yesterday: Justin Bieber is publishing a memoir. HE'S 16. How would your memoir have read at age 16?

The responses were quirky, lovely, and charming:

@KitchPantrySci Kansas winters.California summers.My life was a John Denver song.

@thmafi ate a few crayons and realized granny smith apple is not a flavor.

@clairehennessy Writing. Angst. Reading. Angst. School. Angst. Nerd camp. Angst. Fannish nerdiness. Angst.

A way to numb the shock, perhaps, of a memoir from a child whose voice still hasn't changed. But, as my mother commented on my Facebook page yesterday*, "At least they're reading something." That's why I won't slag off little Justin and his 16-year-old take on life, literary-style.

First of all, the kid is huge. He commands legions of police to keep the peace in airports and hotels around the world. He's got 4m Twitter followers. He's probably lived more in his 16 years than many of us in our 30s.

Second, it's these huge books that keep publishers flush. That means that peons like me can maybe get a shot at publication. Publishers would go bust if they only sold literary fiction, or poetry, or books of short stories. It's great when one of these is a runaway hit, but a book like Bieber's is a sure thing.

My life at 16, in 140 characters: Writing, acting, studying, singing, driving, nerding, wishing I were elsewhere, dreaming, making mix tapes, wondering where life will go.

Yours?

*Yes, Mom's on Facebook, more often than I am.

Blame it on a simple twist of fate. - Bob Dylan

2010-07-31T22:07:00.003+02:00

This is how my stomach feels right now.

I'm looking for an agent for Snakes. This is no mean feat; there are hundreds out there, and that's hundreds of potential rejections waiting to smack me back into reality. It's taken months to whittle down a list of agencies that I feel would fit what I want, and what I write. I'm lucky because I've got two other novels (and one at 60K words) to help assess how I want to continue my career - I know I feel most comfortable and confident writing women's fiction. Book club fiction. Books that take the reader someplace new, foreign, strange, and make them pause, and think.

Today, I queried one of my top agents, an agency I've been watching for a few years now. My stomach is still churning and I pressed 'send' over four hours ago. I've been like this all week, sending these letters to agencies I'd love to work with. The feeling is much like an early point in a courtship, when you send an unsolicited email and hope the recipient responds favorably. And there's nothing I can do about it but wait. And hope. And send good vibes into the universe that Snakes finds its perfect home, and that I find my perfect agency.

Twist, twist, twist. The photo above is from the Convento de Carmo in Portugal. I took it in 2002. I love the contrast between the smooth lines and rough stone. Between light and dark. Between nervous and content.

I left the ending ambiguous, because that's the way life is. - Bernardo Bertolucci

2010-07-30T09:55:00.004+02:00

"At a suburban barbecue one afternoon, a man slaps an unruly three-year-old boy. The boy is not his son."

(What a pitch, by the way.)

I finished The Slap last night. It's been a long time since I've read something this engrossing. The characters were juicy and beautifully flawed. The plot was simple, the subplots complex and thrilling. And the ending worked.

We always have a choice at the end of our book groups, and last night two of the six (!) books on offer* were lamented because of the dissatisfying endings. It's frustrating when you fall into a book, swim around for a dozen chapters, and find yourself wondering whether you missed something. We didn't choose either book. (Jamaica Inn by Daphne du Maurier won.)

Endings are tricky. They can't be too Hollywood, but can't leave you hanging. The ending of The Slap was perfect: just enough foreshadowing to have an idea of what happens next; a brief, shocking twist that made me yelp; a great ending line.

A Moveable Feast was not a hit with the girls. I chose it as an option because part of the ethos of our book group is to read books that we might not normally pick up, to explore genres and authors that are new to us. The safe choice would have been The Sun Also Rises, but I adore A Moveable Feast, so thought perhaps...

Two didn't finish because they loathed the man and the writing style and the name-dropping. Two thought it was a wonderful travelogue about a certain place in time. But most just didn't like the guy.

I wanted to protest, to read out the lines that I'd memorized years ago, like "You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil" or "When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest" or "To have come on all this new world of writing, with time to read in a city like Paris where there was a way of living well and working, no matter how poor you were, was like having a great treasure given to you." But the chat soon disintegrated, and I was left with a deeply dissatisfying ending.

It was good for me, to hear frank opinions about a book I put on a pedestal long ago.

My book group has improved my writing as much as, or perhaps more than, any book or course. They are my target market: women who read and make the effort to put life, families, partners on hold to talk about a book once a month. As a writer, you learn what works, what doesn't, what characters resonate, what subplots seem forced. My latest revision of Snakes was made with their voices in my head. I thank them for this.

*Our group immediately excludes books that are more than an inch thick. Last month I put The Lacuna and The Privileges up (both immediately eliminated), this month The Crimson Petal and the White was shunned. One woman said her husband will pick up a thick book, then look at the size of the print and decide, before reading a line. These are busy women, most with young kids. Thick books are too much of a commitment. Interesting. Take note, publishers.

Never eat more than you can lift. - Miss Piggy

2010-07-29T15:42:00.005+02:00

Last October or so, I decided to learn to bake. This cooking thing is still new to me, as I didn't really know what I was doing until around September 2007, and baking was beyond the realm of my cooking repertoire. When M started a new job in August, he quickly realized that it was all business - i.e. no coffee breaks, chitchat, etc. Fair enough. So I invented Cake Fridays. Every Thursday I'd scour cookbooks to find something sweet to cook, then M took it to work the next day. That way I could learn how do bake without overdoing the sweet stuff. Granted I didn't get to try most of them, but the feedback was generally good. And people began to chat a little bit more, at least on Fridays. (Though I've still only met 2 of the people at his office and his job ends next Wednesday...go figure.)

So tomorrow is the last Cake Friday. The horrors! I found a recipe in this month's Observer Food Monthly for Blueberry Batter Pudding, and since blueberries are everywhere now, I thought I'd try it. Now for the frustrating part. This is what the cake is supposed to look like.

This is what it actually looks like:

Mine's a bit - well, not great. That was my biggest issue with baking, that my end product always looked nothing like the picture in Nigella's How To Be A Domestic Goddess. Yeah, well, I got over it. Food stylists have jobs for a reason.

Things that rock, 1

2010-07-27T10:42:00.004+02:00

We've not been home much lately. Between weddings and mini-breaks, we've been frolicking around Scotland like nomads, taking in as many sunsets as this awful summer allows. Above, from Mull, where M's sister is working at a castle. That's the view from their kitchen window.

Years ago, in Udine, I bought a gorgeous leather book. I've been waiting to fill it with something, and with the general funk I've been in for the past month or so, I decided to make it a "things that rock" book. It's filling up, but more importantly, it's reminding me of the things that, well, rock. Sunsets like the one above, for one.

• The Glee soundtrack. Fills a dance floor, fills the heart with joy. And reminds me of the best part of high school. • Surprise parties - happy birthday, Nick! - and dancing til 4am with good friends • The Slap. An engrossing read. • Lady Antebellum • Highland Coos (the Mull castle's herd, above) • Food. Three Chimneys, Ee Usk, Cafe Fish • Spotify • The space between books, when the brain is shifting and opening and wondering •

Literary disappointment

2010-07-14T13:08:00.003+02:00

I finished a book last night that I used to love. I first read it in a Modern Lit course when I was in college, and read it again a few years later (just before the sequel came out, which went on to win the Pulitzer). It was filled with the things I love in literature: brilliantly flawed but wonderful characters, unexpected twists, language that I can collapse into as it falls around me. Sigh.

I skimmed the last 40 pages this time around. Then tossed it onto the floor and grumbled.

I'm disappointed in myself. Maybe I'd built up my memories of this book. Perhaps it's 15 years of the books between that college student and my adult self. Or possibly my tastes have changed, my view of the world has changed, and my tolerance for books has changed.

Some books I read every year and this never happens: Catcher in the Rye, Gatsby, A Moveable Feast, The Sun Also Rises. I find more insight into these with every read. Yet this book, which I've considered a top-25 for years, wasn't.

O let us be married! Too long we have tarried. - Edward Lear

2010-07-13T15:01:00.000+02:00

How to succeed in wedding weekends:

• Hire a venue in the middle of nowhere with tiny cottages and large mansions for your guests and drivers to take them everywhere

• Force people to relax by having the ceremony at lunchtime on Friday, the reception that night, an all-day-into-night party on Saturday and breakfast on Sunday

• Add kilts, ceilidhs, jazz, Irish dancers, bagpipes and fiddles, flowers, and fairy lights

• Invite a variety of people whom you love, mix with magnums of champagne, and see what happens

Jen & John treated us to a wonderful party, and again I marvelled at how fabulous it is when you watch two people you adore tie the knot. The energy of last weekend was infectious. My face still hurts from smiling so much.

To love!

Twitter pitch

2010-07-07T18:55:00.003+02:00

So...it's taken me three weeks to write a query letter and it's still not ready, a week to write a synopsis that still stinks, so I decided to enter this contest and condense 90,000+ words into 140 characters. Here's what I sent:

Living with domestic abuse is a lifestyle, sustainable until you watch a friend die, which triggers the question: linger, or leave?

I've been devouring agent blogs lately and was thrilled to learn that most writers have at least two (and usually more) unpublished but finished novels hidden somewhere. Hurrah! Safety in numbers and all that.

Someone asked me a few years back when I'll know it's time to quit writing. My answer is the same as it was then: when it stops feeling right. Some people see the world through a lens, or a paintbrush, or a gaming screen, or a megaphone. I see it through words, and through imaginary people and places and situations that I invent. So, there.

Orcadian bliss

2010-07-05T22:14:00.005+02:00

Last week, M was in Orkney working. In these four days, I accomplished the following:

- A full 4-page synopsis of SNAKES

- A query letter that I don't loathe

- A read-through of each character's dialogue and scenes for consistency

- A full read-through, including edits from the printout last week

This is more than I've done in months. And I know why. I am more productive from around 3-9pm. I'm not a creative morning person, fiction-wise. Or I'm not now; perhaps I can train myself.

Anyway. I joined M on Friday, and my time on the bus and ferry reminded me of how the journey colors the event. The bus ride to John O'Groats was lovely; tea, interesting historical tidbits, a magazine, sunshine and the beautiful Scottish coast. I sat outside on the ferry and talked to a charming couple from Donegal - they live just across the water from where I stayed two weeks ago - and learned far too much about having children in rural Ireland ('You're not a family until at least six') and how their eight children are nothing compared to their neighbors, who have 22. (!!) Then another bus up to Kirkwall, where a tour guide incessantly told stories about everything we passed along the way. A brilliant way to spend a Friday morning.

Orkney is stunning. The colors are intense, and crayon-bright. Soft hills sweep into the sea, and the light bathes the land in a glowing sheen. We stayed in this house (below), called Roeberry, and I felt like a princess, with majestic views of her kingdom of islands and sea. And cows. This photo was taken at midnight.

We spent the next day frolicking among neolithic ruins. It's difficult for me to fathom the age of standing stones. The Ring of Brodgar and Standing Stones of Stenness are other-worldly, especially when glittering in the sunlight. They are placed in perfect circles. The jut into the ground further than they stretch to the sky. So many stories weave through these massive stones, aching for someone to tell the truth of their origins, the steps in their rituals.

I wrote a story when I was 8 or 9 about heaven. It was a place where all mystery would be revealed, all truth told, all lies exposed, all potential fulfilled. I'm sure it was a veiled desire for some gut-wretching second grade wrong to be righted, but I still yearn for that sort of afterlife.

(I'm being mnmlist by not titling this post)

2010-07-01T10:31:00.002+02:00

I've been getting into the :mnmlist blog lately. We're flirting with the idea of moving in the next year, and then taking a long break to travel, and I had a wee freak out recently that I moved to Europe nine years ago with two large suitcases and now I've got stuff. And part of my idea of moving abroad was to get rid of the stuff.

That fine line between 'stuff' and 'necessity' fluctuates. I could go a year without opening a certain cookbook, or wearing a certain dress (Scottish weather doth not allow for sundresses), but tossing them in the charity shop pile is not an option. Because I love them. Or something.

I calculated that I've saved nearly 25 metric tons by not having a car for 8 of the past 9 years (as I did have a car in Switzerland). I've not had the option of air conditioning or central heating. I'm easing into vegetarianism. So why is it so difficult to get rid of the stuff?

Is there no Latin word for tea? Upon my soul, if I had known that I would have let the vulgar stuff alone. - Hilaire Belloc

2010-06-29T12:28:00.005+02:00

There was a time when I'd get through a 6-pack of Diet Coke and three lattes in a day. Then I moved to Prague and found a vast difference in flavor of Coke Light to Diet Coke. Blech. With a joyous heart I was introduced to the beauty of the espresso, especially after dinner. So I stuck to the hard stuff for years - the bica in Portugal, the cafe in Italy.

With my move from Lisbon to Ljubljana came a wealth of new stimulant language to master. The typical Italian-influcenced coffees combined with Turkish and Balkan coffees, and it was a glorious few months of discovery. At work, the options were either coffee from a machine which sounded like a machine gun when it chugged molten grinds into hot water (with no, one, or two sugars, dumped into the stewed mess at the end) or a cup of muddy, thick goo which the girls at work called "Turkish". I drank this stuff for a few months, considering it a cultural experience and ignoring my palpitating heart.

Coffee breaks are a big deal in Slovenia; three per day, including much chat with colleagues. Plus sneaking in for shots of the muddy stuff throughout the day.

It took a few months to realize that my agitation and irritability might not be solely the responsibility of my inept boss. On the advice of an English friend, I tried tea. I didn't like tea. Then I discovered a vice: Twinings Vanilla.

The palpitations stopped. I became less agitated and irritable. Though my boss remained inept.

Fast forward to my move to Britain - Hurrah! All the Twinings Vanilla Tea I can drink! Except they don't sell it here. One must order it from the company and have it shipped to the house for 4 quid. Or I've got to go abroad to get it (the preferable option).

I'm an evangelist for a few things: Apple products, books, naps, and Twinings Vanilla tea.

God Save the Queen

2010-06-28T21:46:00.002+02:00

The Scotland-England rivalry is certainly not new, but it still leads to minor amusement. Of course I've got a more Scottish perspective than English, and I do understand the whole "EBC, not BBC" thing (i.e. Andy Murray is British when he's winning, Scottish when he's losing; all Six Nations commentary), but part of me wanted to see an England v Argentina match later this week. No such luck.

I watched it with English friends (and a Scot and an Irishman - sounds like a joke)...it's always - ahem - interesting to see how people react to England losing. During Euro 2004, when France beat England, a bar stool flew past my head and out a window. During the World Cup 2002, after England lost, my friend Tracey and I were calmly walking the streets of Prague, talking about the US v Germany match later that day, only to be called every name under the sun by England fans. You've never been insulted 'til you've been insulted by a drunken Englishman.

Yesterday, it was merely head-in-the-hands embarrassment.

The team makes something like £6M a week collectively. One would think they could play nice.

But all is not lost; Spain v Portugal tomorrow night, a cracking semifinal with Germany and Argentina, and what will probably be a Brazil-Netherlands match. The final? Brazil v Argentina, with Argentina winning 3-2.

We will always be together, you and me. - MSP Final Night song, always belted out by crying middle-schoolers

2010-06-25T12:34:00.004+02:00

Summer school at TASIS started yesterday. Which always makes me feel a little bit sad. I spent many summers frolicking with 11-13-year-olds in the Alps, Milan, and Lugano, and it was the best job I've ever had. And I've had a lot of jobs.

I miss the kids, the scenery, the heat, the chaos, the Bertani wine, but most of all I miss the people. TASIS people outnumbered non-TASIS people at my wedding. My facebook page is juiced up by over 100 'friends' from my summers there whom I genuinely like and care about. It's a blissfully international, multi-aged group of randoms brought together by a mutual love for the outdoors, kids, Europe, and people.

It's almost a cliche, the idea that true friends are ones you pick up with exactly where you left, no matter how much time and distance triumphs. When you've lived all over the place, and given some of yourself to others in each place, knowing that things can comfortably slide back into place is vital. I'm a damn lucky girl.

And Lugano is still 'home'.

"They're not a threat." - a BBC commentator on the USA team, June 12, 2010

2010-06-23T20:09:00.005+02:00

CONGRATULATIONS TEAM AMERICA! Landon Donovan proved again why he's a legend in US soccer/football. Well done. And it's a damn shame that Slovenia didn't want it as badly as England. Slovenia deserve to go through; they've played a great tournament. They did get lucky on that disallowed goal v. USA, but what heart. Well done to them.

I love that the US is above Ingerland in Group C.

And now, Mahut v Isner at Wimbledon. It's 2 sets all, 45-45. Yikes. After playing tennis for nearly eight hours, are you running on mere adrenaline?

The perfect book won't ever be written.

2010-06-21T16:03:00.003+02:00

My friend Kate turned 40 last weekend. She and her husband Stewart hosted a cracking party, complete with ceilidh band, party tent, and food and booze galore. I am such a fan of nights like this, when people have the audacity and gumption to toss together people from all walks of life and see what happens. Sometimes it's fine; I made a few new friends. I also met a few who weren't so fine; what's nice about these events is I don't have to see them ever again. It was a grand day when I realized that everybody doesn't have to like me all the time, and I certainly don't have to like everyone either.

[The duck was on the hedge in the front garden. (Credit to husband.) Their view of the Moray Firth is the stuff of dreams.]

It's taken far longer to realize that writing is the same; not everybody is going to like it. And I don't have to like everybody's. I spent many years in awe of words. I remember reading Crime and Punishment in high school and wondering why Camus wrote The Stranger, as I thought the stories were strikingly similar; I dared not voice this opinion. Who am I to judge Camus? And as a Lit major, slogging through the Norton Anthologies of poetry, British poetry, literature, British literature; Chaucer, Shakespeare, Modern Lit, postwar Lit - each course taught by a professor who sang the praises of these writers and their labors. It was difficult to formulate an opinion without the professor's lectures serving as a guide.

It's taken me years to create a discerning reading eye, and now reading is ruined for me; I rarely fall into a book, like I used to do. Instead, if it's working for me, I figure out how the writer is doing it - the devices used, characterization, language - and then I can formulate an opinion. The scary part is that others will be doing the same with my work.

Not everyone is going to like my books. Some might hate them. But the perfect book hasn't been written and won't ever be written; somebody, somewhere, will be disappointed. Or hurt. Or angry. Or feel it was a waste of time. I'm in good company, both as a writer and as a discerning reader.

Why libraries rule

2010-06-16T17:08:00.002+02:00

Because I can sit in the airy, light cafe in the National Library for Scotland and drink tea (with a free wee shortbread) and free wifi and Spain v Switzerland on the big screen. This is the library of the future. And for some reason Svizzera is leading 1-0.

Copa di Mundo

2010-06-13T20:41:00.003+02:00

It's the greatest sporting event on the planet - sorry, Olympics, but rhythmic gymnastics and luge don't evoke the same passion as the Beautiful Game. I remember watching part of USA '94 in a hotel room in DC with my family (the same place the Mexico team was staying, which I found very cool). I watched France '98 in Seattle at odd hours; Korea/Japan in smoky, seedy basement pubs around Prague. Four years ago it was big-screen TVs hung on the sides of leafy riverside pubs in Ljubljana. And this year it can be watched anywhere, thanks to the most gorgeous invention ever.

And last night's delicious draw with England was watched on my mate Barry's big screen in Belfast, with friends who screamed as loud for the USA as I did.

The group matches are magic: the tentative tackles while players find their feet, the look on a player's face when he realizes his shot went in, the ebb and flow of every half. Choosing a team you want to see win, then screaming your head off when they do and feeling your heart break a little if they don't.

Once the teams advance, the claws come out. National character oozes out of the players; identity cliches are created and buttressed. Millions of thumping hearts stop for the millisecond it takes for a ball to swoosh into a net.

Sigh.

Much as I adore college basketball, it's a niche. I'm in awe of the number of people who adore football/soccer. If you can find a round-ish shaped something, you can play. I like the egalitarian nature of the game. The dreams it evokes. Many men around the world still harbor hope that they'll be called on to represent their country (even well after their prime) - and they're only kind of kidding. Especially the ones ingrained in five-a-side squads.

So. Group C predictions: Slovenia as winners. USA in second. This is funny stuff.

The sun is elusive here, but it's mighty.

2010-06-01T16:34:00.004+02:00

It's Prosecco season. Living in the north of an island known for being soggy, foggy, and groggy means getting used to limited sunshine. But when the sun does come out (to scorch the land to a stifling 24 degrees) the UKers are out in all their glory.

Cultural Divide no. 144: sunshine = limited clothing. I recall my first Scottish spring, in 2008, when the sun gave us a balmy 19 degrees on a random February Wednesday. And out came the flesh. It's a British Tradition: If the sun is out, your skin is, too.

I rather admire those who bulge beyond their short-shorts and minidresses and tank tops (or bare chests, usually limited to men). Throwing all caution to the editors of Vogue, these brave souls bare their every roll and end up with fuchsia skin. I've always been one to fear bikini season (I want to spare others from the shock of my pasty-white, jiggly skin); Britain has taught me that this is a silly, unnecessary stress. Let it hang out, sister! Enjoy the sun! Bare it all, Prosecco in hand!

So, happy spring. May the goddesses of weather grant us enough sunshine to pink the skin of everyone, and enough Prosecco to make the pain of sunburn go away.

Knjigarna - grooviest translation of 'bookshop'

2010-05-19T15:35:00.005+02:00

Above, a view from Loch en Eillan, in Aviemore. Inspiration with mud. Like when you try and say 'knjigarna' - it's a muddy word.

Last night's Literary Salon featured Moira Forsyth, a Scottish writer who works as a commissioning editor for a small Highland press called Sandstone. It was interesting hearing the perspective of a publisher (with a vested interest in making money) who is also an author. She was kind enough to talk with us about the writing side of things, but what was perhaps more interesting was the publishing business model, and why this business is so layered and complex, especially for smaller presses.

The big realization for me was that Amazon takes 60% for every book it sells. If you think about how heavily discounted Amazon books are, and subtract 60%, it's no wonder publishers are searching frantically for other ways to make money. Big chains such as Waterstones here in the UK take 45-50%, and independent bookshops take far less. Yet another solid reason to continue supporting your local, independent bookshop, especially for books from small presses.

(Side note: check the imprints of the books in the front of the store at a chain bookshop. Not a small press in sight. 3-for-2, 'bestsellers' - paid for by the publisher. As are many of the blurbs you read on the back or front cover.)

Moira then segued into the financial side of things: You pay Amazon their 60%; you also pay the cover designer, the typesetter, the printer, the copyeditor, the editor, and if there's any left over, the author. It's no wonder small presses sell out to the big boys. And it reiterated the respect I have for smaller presses around the world, those which manage to survive because they are incredibly picky with the books they choose and because the books they choose are adored by readers. (Look at what a certain bespectacled boy wizard did for Bloomsbury.)

Go forth, readers, and keep that local shop in business. My all-time faves: Anagram in Prague; Vale Novak in Ljubljana; Tattered Cover in Denver; Get Lost and City Lights in San Francisco; Watermark in Wichita; Powell's and Queen Anne Books in Seattle. Any to add?

Politic politicians? Indeed

2010-05-11T14:47:00.002+02:00

Limbo fascinates me. Ash clouds, waiting for the smoke at the Vatican, the Copenhagen climate change conference, that sort of thing. TV news people blurting out every possible scenario, interviewing pompous know-it-alls who spend hours catastrophizing, the sophisticated mathematics that goes into figuring out what COULD or MIGHT happen IF all these certain specifics are true. The total loss of control evokes interesting responses.

And so, in Britain, we wait, to see if some sort of 'coalition' can happen between groups which mildly dislike each other on the best days. Here is where we see the true heart of a politician; what is he (always a he; that's another post) willing to compromise? What is he staunchly refusing to change? And how can a party keep the respect of the people if it is so quick to give up that which it holds dear?

It's like the Gore/Bush/Dangling Chads (in the state where my brother is governor) debacle in 2000, only this time it's up to the parties to decide. Someone is going to have to lose, and any compromise will potentially alienate people. All the leaders are waxing lyrical with 'whatever is best for the country' blether and I hope they do, indeed, remember that it isn't about ego. Gordon Brown epitomized this in his speech yesterday where he promised to step down as Labour leader.

And so we wait.

True friendship is like sound health; the value of it is seldom known until it is lost. - Charles Caleb Colton

2010-05-06T15:04:00.003+02:00

Cinco de Mayo always reminds me of my friend K, whom I miss terribly. K and I met while working at a bar in college, and we were close friends for 15 years. We saw each other through so many things - college graduation, messy breakups, job changes, his mom's death, countless cross-country and international moves. He was a constant visitor wherever I lived, and is the only person alive who could name all the places I've lived since college graduation - even I forget one or two. (There are nine.)

When he told me he wouldn't come to Scotland for my wedding last year, I was heartbroken and wrote him an email to tell him so. I've re-read it so many times, and it's not rude or cruel, just sad. I've not heard from him since.

It took a long time to actually realize that K wasn't going to answer my emails, that he really did un-facebook friend me (the horrors!), that he really erased me from his life. I kept thinking he was busy, or sulking. The realization of my expendability was perhaps the most shattering part - that he can go on without me. That I had a different vision of our friendship.

I suppose it is possible to mourn the living. That's all I can do - pretend that K was a friend in a former life. Remember his face every Cinco de Mayo and St. Patrick's Day, giggle at memories, remember the laughs - so many laughs! - and stop wishing.

Dear Ash Cloud,

2010-05-05T13:39:00.003+02:00

Alright, we get it. We're too dependent on getting places on planes.

Nothing is unfathomably far away anymore. I can check up on friends in Melbourne and Tokyo and San Francisco right now if I want to. And I could get anywhere in the planet in about a day and a half. Maybe.

But sorry, once innocence is lost, one cannot get it back - we ain't going back to horse and buggy and smelly wooden sailboats.

I admit, I was mildly amused at the chaos last month. And you're getting me back today, Ash Cloud. This morning, Edinburgh Airport was fine. Now, with an hour to spare, you decide to trap my parents in Amsterdam? Couldn't you have waited another two hours? Grumble, grumble.

Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul. - Oscar Wilde

2010-05-03T15:22:00.004+02:00

This is one of my very favorite photos from the past six months. It was taken on a gorgeous beach on the west coast of Scotland, and is of people whom I adore. The footprints are ours; we were alone that afternoon. Just us, some sheep, and that amazing landscape.

It's difficult to put visuals to memories. Photos work well because we're lazy - seeing is an easy way to visualize, an entire industry has been built on this desire - but can you really share a moment in time without sharing how it smelled? How the wind felt on your bare skin? How the layered sounds of waves, sea birds, the wind, and the sheep on the hillside combined in your skull? How your stomach churned with hunger and happiness?

Every writing book or workshop worth its salt will mention the mantra of the Five Senses. Plodding visual description is yawn-worthy. Spicing it up means extending description beyond the eyes, and even beyond the senses - how something feels subconsciously, consciously, internally. This ain't easy. Especially when you're making it all up.

That's what we're doing, after all. Lying. Inventing worlds for people who don't exist, then trying to sell them as real people to, well, real people. Drawing on memory can sometimes work, but other times it collapses, a sad little souffle in the Oven of Bad Ideas. I've read a couple of books lately that didn't work for me because the 'real'-ness was too forced, too polished. It felt like a lie. Fiction writers never want anything to feel like a lie.

That moment, in that photo: that was real. You can see that it's real. But the juice of the moment, the other senses - for that, we need words. The delicious challenge of explaining the visual without the aid of the eyes: that's my favorite part of this process.

All Hail the V5

2010-04-30T17:29:00.003+02:00

Perhaps the joy of writing lies not in accolades, but in the process. And that process is not limited to the creative; indeed, the implements are as important (or more so). For example, I will only write with Pentel Precise V5 pens. Once called the Precise Rolling Ball, this exceptional scribbler has been a part of my life since the 1990s. My mother brings them over to me by the box (thanks, Sam's Wholesale Club) and they last forever. My chicken scrawl appears classy and sexy with this pen. All hail the Precise V5. (And Moleskines, but that's for another post.

But for the longer pieces, a computer is the way to go. Every time I get a new computer/iPod/iPhone, it takes me about 30 seconds to forget what life was like Without Said Apple Product. And our delicious new iMac is no exception; it is a wondrous thing. Seeing my novel on a 27" monitor is invigorating. Oh yes, there is such a thing as happiness through gadgets. And yes, I do believe one can fall a little bit in love with a gadget, too.

The smaller the text, the more confused the meaning. - Angus Dunn

2010-04-21T11:36:00.002+02:00

I'm sunk into a sofa in the morning room of a 19th-century hotel, listening to a man read his poetry in a Highland lilt, watching the sun set behind the Highland Cathedral into a bright pink (ash-induced?) sky. There are only six of us this week; the lowest turnout yet, but it's a lively bunch. Instead of polite quiet between poems or stories, questions pepper the air. Instead of polite applause, hands are shaken, pints are bought. The harsh cawing of trumpets and trombones wafts from the bar in the back of the hotel; our Tuesday night competition begins, and I love the jazz juxtaposed with literature. It fits.

Angus writes to capture a moment. He writes because the moment doesn't seem real until it's put into words. He writes because 'now' will soon disappear into the cluttered closet of memories; 'now' won't be found again without a lot of digging. He mentioned something I hadn't thought of before - how difficult it is to tell strangers why he writes. Generalizations, like the ones in this paragraph, verge on the cliche. But it's nobody's business why he writes. The reasons change every day, with every circumstance.

Angus writes powerful haiku. It's a beautiful form; the control of language and syllables makes for especially poignant pieces (or especially horrible). He mentioned the innuendo and subtext in smaller poems and stories, how they can easily be misconstrued - like text messages: you think you're saying something and it's easily misinterpreted. People seek meaning in smaller texts, seek the subtext. Interesting idea.

I needed last night. I've let work and life get in the way of creativity. I suppose that's the idea behind this Literary Salon - to inspire. Seven people - mere acquaintances - discussing literature: bliss.

Spring is nature's way of saying, "Let's party!" - Robin Williams Robin Williams

2010-04-16T19:12:00.004+02:00

I'm still getting over the second round loss in the college hoops tournament. But the sulking is over. And it's probably a good thing, as the games would have conflicted with a week in Lugano for work. It was a busy, busy week, but I did often stop and inhale this view of my favorite home.

And I got back in time for the last Great Snowstorm - unless we get another one this weekend - and for glorious springtime, and for the run-up to the UK's General Election.

I've witnessed elections in Portugal and Slovenia, too, and it's interesting to see what's the same (signs in gardens and nailed to trees) and completely different (protest marches, people with clipboards physically grabbing you on the street, ignoring the fact that you can't vote in their country). The parties here had a debate last night, the first of its kind, and for the week prior the TV stations were running videos from the Nixon/JFK debate, along with Reagan, Clinton, and of course Obama. Watching last night, it was obvious that the candidates had also spent time watching these; they brought things to the 'local' level via Joe the Plumber tactics that were, frankly, cringeworthy at times. It seems this election is wide open, though; it'll be interesting to see what happens.

Dear America, Britain only campaigns for a MONTH. Take note.

All of the above are, of course, distractions from writingland, where my mojo has been lagging as of late. Some people spend their sleepless nights worrying about important things; I worry about whether I've used the right word in this particular sentence. It's annoying.

Be strong in body, clean in mind, lofty in ideals. - James Naismith

2010-03-14T19:27:00.005+01:00

March is the most difficult month for me to live abroad. For the past eight years, I've spent each March tired from 11pm tip-offs and bleary-eyed from far too much googling of players. Last night was the Big 12 Championship; I could have paid £9 to watch it via espn, but figured listening would be the next best thing. Of course, KJHK was having 'technical difficulties' throughout, culminating in a poor tech guy attempting to tell listeners what was happening from a tiny TV screen in the booth. Of course KU ran us down to the wire. I'm never comfortable until we've got at least a 15-point lead. But while I flipped from cbs.com to espn.com, listening to random commentary, I recalled the change in technology since March Madness 2002. [Photo from www.kansan.com]

2002: KU makes it to the Final Four vs. Maryland. I sweet-talked keys to my Prague school and watched a blinking screen through the dial-up, heart racing, desperate to fill the air with noise. Oh, the dial-up.

2003: One better: KU to the final game, versus Syracuse. Again, sweet-talked keys, this time to my school in Lisbon, and I watched little blue and orange dots shimmy around a rectangle on the CBS website. (PS Good riddance, Roy.)

2004: Bill Self's first year, and he respectably gets us to the Elite Eight. Actually, this was the year that I was at a wedding rehearsal dinner (hi Trista) in Denver, and me and the groomsmen ran out to the limo when we could to check the score. I suppose this is gratitude for televisions in the back of limos. Bling.

2005: Kansas crashes out to Bucknell in the first round. I watch highlights (and some games) from the connection my Slovenian MOD school job - the delay is obvious, but at least it's bodies, though in a tiny square. Oh, and I won the US Marine House bracket challenge (and 5000 Slovenian Tolars). I had to provide much proof that it was me because 'girls don't know basketball'. Ahem.

2006: Crashed out AGAIN in the first round - this time to Bradley - but these cinderella stories are what March is all about, so I watch anyway. At work, in Slovenia. This time the screen is bigger and I can even hear the commentary.

2007: KU to Elite 8 versus UCLA. Wireless broadband (!!) in my flat in Lugano. With real commentary! And real bullhorn sounds! Real Rock Chalk chants!

2008: I won't tire you with that again...but we WON.

So now there's a CBS iPhone app; if I were in America, I could watch the games from my beautiful machine. That's a dare, CBS. I dare you to make an app so I can watch March Madness from Europe in 2011.

Watching online will never be like watching in a sports bar, or better, in the arena. But it brings me that much closer to the Dance. Thank you, CBS, for making March so much more bearable.

Rock chalk, baby. Oooooh I do love March.

Factoid: James Naismith invented basketball. He was from Canada, born to Scottish parents. He was the first KU coach. Life is serendipitous.

But I got my health, so what do I care (in Bette Midler singing voice)

2010-03-11T23:19:00.002+01:00

M's studying for The Big Exam, which is next Thursday. This is the culmination of years of medical training, dealing with patients, reading, attending courses, and doing whatever it is that doctor-types do to get fully qualified. I'm glad it's not me.

The exam is with actors (some minor BBC actors, actually) and is watched by a panel who scrutinize every move. It's knowledge, bedside manner, communication skills, follow-up steps, all the things you never think about when you make an appointment. I've been reading through some cases with him, and aside from my awe of the bigness of M's brain, I've developed a refreshingly content attitude toward my body.

Getting up in the morning with everything working is a pretty amazing feat. There's so much that can go wrong, if you think about it. I hadn't thought about it until meeting M and diving into doctorworld (i.e. M's friends from uni and work). I remember one of his mates scolding me for not knowing what renal failure was. (See, there, again, I forgot. Had to ask M. He asked the context. I'm, uh, blogging.) Anyway, this friend went off on a tangent about how ridiculous it was that people didn't know their own bodies, that they could recite any number of unnecessary things but not know what the pancreas does.

He's right.

I find it interesting that some people think they can buy their health. Sure, the 'best' care might prolong things, but if your body fails, you can't just slap down a million and get a new body. And it is 'practicing' medicine - everyone deals with treatment, drugs, etc. differently. Medicine is a science, but only to a point. 'Proof' is relative. And sometimes docs just don't know, and sometimes they're wrong. That's another thing I've learned. It's easy to play the blame game with doctors, but they do what they can and hope they get it right.

Dear body, thank you for working properly. Please forgive me for not knowing what all the parts of you do. I promise to do yoga and meditate and make carrot cupcakes with cream cheese frosting to keep you happy.

We have entered the knowledge society and everyone must have access to participate. -Hamadoun Toure

2010-03-09T15:12:00.006+01:00

So it all started with the week-long internet outage; then again, this morning, the Red Bleepy Light of Death, screwing up another day. I freelance; my work is dependent upon secure internet access.

The BBC recently reported that 4 of 5 people around the world consider the internet a fundamental human right. Estonia and Finland have made this a law. Japanese, Mexican, and Russian respondents say they couldn't cope without the internet.

(Insert snarky comment to Orange Broadband and email to Amnesty International detailing their lack of respect of my human right.)

I certainly wouldn't be able to survive abroad without the internet. It's the way I keep in touch with my family, with my friends; it's the way I know what's on the NYT Bestseller List and who wore what to the Oscars. One might say my lovely husband and I were an internet romance; for the first two years, we were all skype and emails, floating from Slovenia and Switzerland to Scotland. Hours on the phone trying to figure out Ryanair and Easyjet flight options. It's the story of many who live apart from their partners.

But a fundamental right? Yes. There's no excuse for ignorance when a million viewpoints are accessible. The only limitation is language and common sense. This beautiful internet thing is a stellar indulgence. And a fundamental right.

Hamadoun Toure, via the BBC: "The internet is the most powerful potential source of enlightenment ever created."

"(Governments must) regard the internet as basic infrastructure - just like roads, waste, and water."

Dear Orange Broadband...

All my life I’ve looked at words as though I were seeing them for the first time. - Hemingway

2010-03-03T13:50:00.002+01:00

I've been gifted with a spelling aptitude that usually serves me well. But in the past few days I've been working on documents that have been driving my editorial prowess crazy.

privilege - I want to put a D in there somewhere. Please, let me use a D!

medieval - I want it to be 'midevil' or 'midieval' or 'mid-evil'.

wary - I want this to be 'wery'. Which looks ridiculous, but right.

receipt - that 'i before e except after c' rule never gelled with me.

Any ones that are annoying for y'all? Perhaps 'y'all'?

In other news...our internet has been down for a WEEK. To all potential Orange users: don't go there. Their customer service reps will tell you what you want to hear and you'll spend £10 for the privilege. (See me spell it right?!)

The harder you work, the harder it is to surrender. - Vince Lombardi

2010-02-26T17:26:00.007+01:00

Today's my dad's last day of work. I'm loathe to say 'ever' because I know he'll be bored out of his mind by next Tuesday afternoon. The man's worked since he was 14; that's some fifty years of working, most of it with the same company. Not too many people can say that.

He's got a party tonight, then another party tomorrow night. Already he's got a better social life than I do. My mom's busier post-retirement than she was when she worked. I'm sure he'll be the same way. They'll save the plants of the world one Pond Society meeting at a time. They'll throw themselves headfirst into whatever comes their way.

The best part about this retirement is that he and Mom will be able to spend proper chunks of time over here. They'll get to know and love Scotland as much as I do. They'll get to spend a week photographing every plant at Inverewe Gardens without as much as a peep from me.

Congratulations, Dad. It's the first day of the rest of your life.

Glasgow is a rockin' place.

2010-02-23T14:24:00.003+01:00

Dear Glasgow,

Thank you for being the coolest people on the planet.

Last Thursday, my UK visa was denied. I'm married to a Scottish guy, I've lived in our flat for the requisite two years, I pay taxes, I passed that silly exam where I had to learn the percentages of races, religions, occupations, and political parties. I left the visa office a crumpled mass of tears and frustration, desperate to go back to America.

I trudged around Govan (not the finest of Glaswegian neighborhoods) looking for the underground and wailing. The map function on my iPhone was even confused. When I finally stomped down the steps and slid into the narrow carriages, I completely lost it.

During the six stops to Buchanan Street, three people offered me tissues. Once above ground, I had a choice: drink a bottle of wine, or get a facial from Origins. I chose the latter; they had no space, but booked me in at a rival store. There, the lovely Christine pampered and tutted and hugged and reminded me that 'it's just a blip, hen. Just a wee blip.'

Christine is in her 60s and looks 45. She's got a 'miracle baby' son who is 18. Her first husband - well, who cares, because her next husband asked her to marry him on Valentine's Day after six years. Every customer and colleague waved to Christine as they walked by. Some stopped to chat, making me smile with strange stories and silly anecdotes. And Christine didn't charge me for the facial. 'Dinnae be a stranger,' she said. And I won't.

The two loneliest times of my life since moving abroad: 1) The Saturday after I failed my driving test for the second time. 2) Last Thursday, coincidentally my dad's 65th birthday. Alone in a city where I know people but don't know them well enough to call them crying over a denied visa. But everywhere I went, people were kind. 'Chin up', the underground ticket lady said. 'Aye, y'allright', one of Christine's friends said. Few places in the world are as friendly as Glasgow. They don't get in your business; they just want you to know that it'll get better. Life sucks sometimes, and we move on. Happens to everyone.

So thanks, Glasgow, for making me smile, putting up with me freaking out about this, and reminding me why I love living in Scotland so much.

I go back for a re-assessment on Thursday. Hopefully I'll get to stay here.

You just have to go on when it is worst and most hopeless - Hemingway

2010-02-03T15:53:00.004+01:00

The rest of that quote reads:

...there is only one thing to do with a novel and

that is go straight on through to the end of the damn thing.

It's from a 1929 letter from Hemingway to F. Scott Fitzgerald. Oh, to have lived in Paris in the times of moveable feasts.

I just realized that I had the idea for the book I'm revising (again) in 2004. That's nearly six years of rewrites. There's a Portuguese word, saudade, that I fell in love with while living there. I mused and meditated and wrapped myself in the word, and found a million stories to tell. Then I went to Scotland, where I was so moved by the scenery and life that I had to write about it. But I also couldn't get Portugal, and saudade, out of my head, so I decided to find a story that would connect the two, a love story of loss and haunting, starring the two places that held the current 'myfavoriteplaceintheworld' status. That's where I first went wrong: instead of letting the story come to me, I forced the story. The first draft was pretentious, dripping with hyperbole and metaphor, filled with the arsenal of mistakes all novelists make before they know what they're doing.

The second draft happened in Shetland, amid the winds and darkness and barking of seals, and at its longest was over 120,000 words (note to Mac users: some versions of Word start deleting chunks of text once you've hit 110K. Displeased.). I cut some of it, and it was better. Though my agent kindly passed on Novel 1, she liked Saudade; it had moments of beauty and truth, and was a good start. So I pressed on with the love story, trying to make it better; instead, it flopped.

So I changed it to first person, then back again. I changed the protagonist, then changed the result. And then I shut up and listened.

Saudade isn't a love story. It's not about Scotland, and it's not about either protagonist I first created. It's a story of a mother and daughter, both in mourning and celebrating their freedom, living parallel lives but at cross purposes. It's about how the ego can isolate and mislead, and how reaching out can seem false, and how a place can shift hearts in unimaginable ways. It's about remembering responsibly, not in vain. I'm listening now, and it's a better premise, a better story, and a better interpretation of the word.

I'll be re-reading this post every time I'm frustrated with my rewrite, every time I cut a subplot or delete a darling phrase left over from version 1. I'll remember to keep listening, to be the scribe, not the inventor.

The fact is that Apple users like me are the uncoolest people on earth: we salivate, dribble, coo, sigh, grin and bubble with delight. - Stephen Fry

2010-01-28T10:06:00.005+01:00

Start with an Apple IIe, add a Performa 405, a PowerMac, and the lovely G4, Sven, still alive & kicking. Add smatterings of the G1, G2, G4 iPods and the still-amazing-me iPhone. Stir in occasional Apple Store visits that last for hours wandering from gadget to gadget. As the glorious Stephen Fry says in yesterday's blog post, I worship at the Church of Apple. I am a shameless evangelist for their beautiful, life-altering products.

I'm so predictable. Nope, won't get a Kindle, won't even consider it, but Apple's device? Two, please. Watching the iPad video last night, I got chills when I saw the iBooks app. This could be the savior for publishers, a colorful, easily navigable, secure place for people to buy e-books. I love the look of the bookshelf and the potential functionality. The idea of having all my books, magazines, and newspapers on one device - plus my own books, photos, research, etc - without the cumbersome nature of a laptop is thrilling.

(As an aside, I wonder when e-book will become ebook, like email. Or if we'll start using iBook because Apple uses it. These are the things that keep editors awake at night.)