too much too soon

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

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 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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!

Wishing you a wonderful Christmas!

Thanks to Bookshelf for this lovely image.

To all Scrooges and Grinches out there

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!

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!