The new book

According to Kindle Direct Publishing I can embed a preview into a web site, so let’s see if it works now:

 

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Sendak on the artistic process

Interesting take on the artistic process by Maurice Sendak, the author/illustrator of Where the wild things are, among other texts:

Sourced from 'FAN THEORIES'
Maurice Sendak image. Sourced from ‘FAN THEORIES’ at https://www.reddit.com/r/FanTheories/comments/4z6pak/where_the_wild_things_are_max_runs_away_from_home/

“This dual apperception [of self as adult and child] does break down occasionally. That usually happens when my work is going badly. I get a sour feeling about books in general and my own in particular. The next stage is annoyance at my dependence on this dual apperception, and I reject it. Then I become depressed. When excitement about what I’m working on returns, so does the child. We’re on happy terms again…”

Cited in The New Yorker: AMONG THE WILD THINGS By Nat Hentoff, Jan 22, 1966

The zoo speaks

An excerpt from the novel called Kidnapping Douglas Adams – a kind of homage:

Tralfamadore is not so much planet as spectacle. Its whole landscape has become, indeed, the universe’s zoo; where planet begins and zoo entertainment ends cannot be unravelled. The place where Felix had put them down (un-intercepted, much to Douglas’s surprise) was in one part of the planet’s leading metropolis (itself part of the zoo, for Tralfamadorians had become exhibits in their own show); they were on a slight rise. As if in some grave fantasy (the ship being a jokester it would seem) they were nestled on the other side of said rise near some quaint English village of the 1920s, with signs in myriad languages proclaiming that this was indeed England and the village of Badshot Mills, county Sussex, complete with manor house, manor occupants, shops and disgruntled neighbours, some of them mere tenants.
Douglas determined that they hadn’t got it quite right but its verisimilitude was nonetheless remarkable, if not a little stereotyped. One could watch the squire and his wife squabble over kippers and the Sunday Times, see kitchen maids slyly sneak a durry, a young gardener filch a herring and lasciviously drop it into his mouth while smirking at a pretty young kitchen maid, a rather luscious young specimen, so Hendryck announced. The young gardener was indeed one Reggie Parkes, a hologramatic message announced when it noted Adams’s stopping to watch, and then the hologram added, as if it wanted to replicate the early 20th century’s disregard for the female, that the girl was one Eunice Dodt.

Being 16 and 15, once immediate danger had not appeared, both Hendryck and Douglas had come into this part of the zoo. Douglas was lured by its familiarity; Hendryck appeared to merely follow him. Anyone carefully studying his insouciance, however, would have detected ulterior motive – more on this later. Both stopped near a window in a rose garden. And looked into a kitchen. Thence to see most of the activities outlined in the preceding paragraph (they’d already observed the squire and his wife, but had stopped not very long, and with a yawn in Douglas’s case) . After a while Adams looked elsewhere (Foule was still staring at Eunice, who was – having slapped young Reggie’s hand away – now buttering toast). Adams was amazed to see that what appeared to be farmland; a lovely spread of agrarian activity but more in keeping with the west counties than Sussex, so Douglas told Hendryck. ‘Very real, nevertheless.’
‘I told you,’ said Foule. ‘It’s the universe’s most remarkable zoo. Everyone agrees on that.’
‘Just who is everyone, I’ve often wondered,’ Douglas said.
‘Me too. I’m just giving you what they call the Cook’s tour.’
‘Ah ha,’ said Douglas. ‘We haven’t come this way by accident, have we, despite your Shrewingers drive propensity for crazy destinations.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You wanted us to come this way, that’s why the ship brought us here.’
‘Well yes, since you put it that way. But wouldn’t you have missed this lovely recollection of home, if I hadn’t wanted Felix to deposit us here.’
‘I suppose so,’ Douglas conceded. After all, what did he care what Foule was up to. It was supposed to be an adventure. ‘So why did we come this way.’
Hendryck took a hold of Douglas’s shoulder (vertically inclined, given that Adams was nearly a foot taller than him) and stared him full, if angularly, in the face. He said nothing. The moment was marked, so his face was announcing, with great import.
‘What do you know of fornication?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘You know. Making the beast with two backs. Doing it, rooting, humpty do…’
‘I know what fornication means. What I mean is… What! You’ve brought us here so you can do that.’
‘Yes. And I thought you might join me.’ (He recorded Douglas’s look of disdain, and thought, I’ll change your mind, or hormones will, and ploughed on.) ‘My records tell me that this Badshot Mills is indeed an exact replica of your England Badshot Mills, down to the somewhat larger house at one end of the village. Said house is a tavern and place of gambling (something else I’d like to try,’ Hendryck said with a grin, ‘but it’s most definitely number two on my list’) and also a bordello.’ Foule said the last word with such relish that Adams couldn’t help but grin. ‘There, with just the right password – and a source other than official records reveals what that password is – one can pass through the tavern and gaming room into a quiet little den; just three girls work this, all of them human, even here on Tralfamadore, and I mean with this’ (he dug in his pocket and revealed a gold credit card, which was perhaps the most amazing thing Douglas had seen so far) ‘to dally there and discover the delights of said fornication. Care to join me,’ he asked as they came to a house at the end of the village.
The house at the end of the village was in fact considerably larger than most in the village, almost as large as the manor house (shows you how much profit there is in sin, Douglas thought). It had a sign which read (only in English, this one; nice authentic touch, Adams thought) Nightshade House.
‘If they were going to get me,’ Hendryck said with real drama,’this would be the saddest place for them to do it.’

Freedom vs. Rootlessness

We are, most of us, unrooted in place and time. (See pp. xxi – xxii of introduction to Nabokov’s Speak Memory.) Our obsession with stuff over substance, with the now over duration, with one-liners & tweets over discourse has seen us come unstuck (just like Billy Pilgrim).

“That this darkness is caused merely by the walls of time separating me from the free world of timelessness…” Nabokov’s remark on page 10 talks of the freedom of timelessness but I wonder if what we have (unanchored as we are) is that awful detachment of being unrooted. Post-modern angst.

Scrivener

scrivenerpopup

I was recently told about Scrivener* as a writing program which is particularly suited to longer works because it can organise all your notes and research and drafts in one place and allow you to work with split screens. I’ve only had it less than 48 hours and must admit to being most pleased. I’ve fiddled (successfully) with a longer non fiction work entitled The beguiling sins of industrial capitalism (about 35,000 words) and managed to get it organised & compiled within a couple of hours as an ePub file. (The compiling into an ePub file took less than a minute, once I’d organised the Scrivener file sections.) I also generated the opening draft of a short story (heavily reliant on character notes based on real figures and on research notes)… so it does work quite well for shorter works. 

I bought it pretty much straight away but you can download a trial version and use it for a month, I think. It’s very much worth a look…

*Rider; no prose or sense of ethics has been knowingly harmed in the naming of this programme; this is an unpaid endorsement.