PG = Pickled Gherkins

Oh, what a redundant bloody idea.

Came across a rather odd review site called The Books Debut today. Your first warning should be its awkward use of grammar. If you're going to set up a literary site, you just don't struggle with the singular/plural possessive like that. Even if it's not a possessive, why on earth pick such a troublesome title?

That forgiven, it looks like a fairly nice site. A good idea. Somewhere for authors to get those much-needed first reviews. Fairly easy submission process to follow, too. Until you read the form.

The conversation went something like this:

FADE IN

ME: What on earth is a 'book rating'?

THEM: rating means is it r, pg erotica, g etc like a movie rating

[Your second warning should be that no website administrator in the literary world should manage to miss the shift key that many times in a row...]

ME: Do books have a rating? Is this common in the US, perhaps? I don't know what to rate a work of historical fiction.

THEM: No, it is not exactly common for books to be rated that way except for erotica and sometimes for foul language. Make sure you always download the sample if possible and check it out thoroughly before you purchase (even my books).

FADE OUT

At this point I just gave up. If it's not common, why use it on your submission form?

PG, 15, 18... on a book?

Really? 

You're serious about that? 

What exactly is a PG book rating anyway? Does it mean your parents have to stand behind you, reading over your shoulder? 

"Yes dear, it's pronounced dee-cap-ee-tate..." 

I've noticed this on Smashwords, too. When you publish a book online with them, they ask whether it has any 'adult content'. 

I think it's fairly safe to assume that any book without Spot the Dog on the cover is likely to have some adult content. But then, what is 'adult content'? Kissing? Getting angry? Hitting someone? Shooting a gun? Smoking a cigarette? Drinking a pint? Getting drunk? Having consensual sex after the debutant ball? With people watching? Somebody dying? Committing suicide? Somebody choking to death on a fish bone? Somebody being stabbed, but not dying?

And at what age can you read about each of those things?

Books are not films!

That's the point.

Somebody recently asked me what age range my books were suitable for. I found myself explaining that:

Unlike films, books have an age rating of 'ability to read' and 'ability to imagine'. It varies wildly.

Books are about exploring emotions, thoughts and feelings. They're the safest medium through which to do so, because they are governed by our own ability to imagine. A film can make you see things you can't imagine, crashing through your psyche's protective shields like a visual sledgehammer. Books don't do that. We construct their images in accordance with our own understanding. 

To curtail that, and to tell a young person that they cannot read something like Oedipus because it includes incest, is a type of extreme ignorance usually only suggested by people who themselves do not read, and who have little love - or understanding - of literature.

The chances of a child who is not old enough to handle The Shining either attempting to read it, or showing any interest in doing so, is negligible. A young person is old enough to read a book when they have the technical capability (the skill) and the interest (the will). You cannot force a work of horror, or even the greatest piece of classical literature, on a mind that cannot read it and doesn't want to.

Should a person be both able and willing, then that is an incredible thing in modern times. The fact that they would rather do that than play X-box or football is to be rejoiced over!

It's like somebody went: look, there's something that isn't regulated! Quick, we'd better regulate it - the one thing the world doesn't have enough of is pointless red tape! 

Is anybody really about to turn around and say, "Sorry, The Pillars of the Earth - rape - you have to be eighteen to read that."

If they are, at least it's more likely to make their kids want to go and read it.

Absolute unenforceable, illogical, and ridiculous gump.

Plainsong

Well, it's one-thirty in the morning.

Back in January, I was walking by Islington canal when I encountered a book barge. A narrow boat full of books, replete with cats and wood-burning stove. My idea of floating heaven.

I hopped aboard and, late for a bus, had to make a hurried decision.

I came away with a copy of Plainsong by Kent Haruf. Hadn't heard of it but, according to the reviews, it was pretty big in 1999/2000. Inside, it also lists his first novel as The Tie that Binds, which I haven't read but have heard of by reputation. No relation to the '95 film of the same name.

I put the book in my bag and liberated it from the waterways, then rediscovered it the other day and sat down to read it.

Within the first few pages, I was sure that I wasn't going to like it. I felt quite disappointed at this, having found it in such an auspicious place. I had been so sure that any book I happened to choose from the shelves on that day, in that place, couldn't possibly be bad.

First off, it was set in the American Midwest. Both this and The Tie that Binds are set in Holt County, Colorado. The language reflects that. It's so straightforward you can see the horizon. Worse, though - there's not a quotation mark to be seen! Nothing distinguishes dialogue from action except for the occasional line break.

It's formatting Jim, but not as we know it.

I was absolutely ready to hate it.

Until I realised how short the chapters were.

In realising this, I read a couple of them.

Suddenly, it was over.

Kent Haruf, I doff my cap to you sir. That there's a mighty fine read.

It is thoroughly deceptive in its simplicity. I went to google it halfway through and actually found myself typing in Simplesong. It takes me a while to catch on. 

It's told from several people's perspectives, all of whom speak simple. Yet there are vivid moments of happening that just suck you in like a vacuum. I was interested by voyeurism at the window, I was engaged by the dusty description of cattle ranching; by the dead horse, I knew that I was sitting it through to the end. It was read quickly, because it was easy, yet left a lasting impression.

There's a character called Roubideaux. What a wonderful name! And two young brothers, nine and ten, mirrored in two older brothers well into their twilight years. Unusual, and clever. When little Roubideaux goes into labour, the older brothers panic and inform her that: "in effect altogether she should hurry up and do it in a slow way."  

I smiled at that, and admit to shedding a tear at the homecoming. 

Nothing in the book takes you wholly by surprise. There's no soaring climax or plunging hidden depths. 

It's just a story. As the title suggests, a plain song. 

I'm challenged by that. In this day and age of 'the first three chapters' - books so slick you could oil your car with them - it's nice to know that there is still a place for simple storytelling. For a little look into people's lives somewhere far away. I really enjoyed it. Feels a bit like I've been on holiday for a couple of days.

Guess the book barge was a magical place after all.

PayPal Censorship

Image courtesy of IsaacMao

Some seriously disturbing news emerging at the moment:

Paypal has decided to abuse its considerable position by imposing their moral beliefs on the self-publishing industry, forcing Smashwords, Bookstrand and other sites to remove certain categories of erotica from their websites.

From the  Stop PayPal Censorship petition.

In an update, Smashwords recently explained:

I had another call with PayPal this morning, and as a result of that conversation I extended the deadline...by which authors, publishers and agents should voluntarily remove content that no longer fits the PayPal guidelines.

The mortifying part is the amount of hostility authors seem to be levelling at Smashwords for what they claim to be 'giving in to' PayPal's unreasonable demands (which I'll get to in just a minute...) 

As Smashwords explain:

It's not so simple to just unplug PayPal. Their policy originates with the banks and credit card companies that power them, and if we want to continue accepting credit cards either with PayPal or any other payment provider, we need to understand from where this originates.

To illustrate, this isn't the first time PayPal has displayed a paternalistically patronising attitude towards what its users can and can't spend their money on. In December 2010: PayPal cuts Wikileaks access for donations

You might understand this had they been threatened by governments over something like 'supporting terrorist organisations' or other extremely loose and ambiguous legislation ending in unthinkable consequences, disappearances, and jail terms. Whether you agree with such legislation or not, you could at least sympathise with PayPal for being a victim of someone else's gagging order.

But, no. They very clearly state the reason as being: "a violation of the PayPal Acceptable Use Policy."

A policy which they, themselves, have sat down, discussed, and come up with.

That's the bit people need to shout about. Global economy, free market, competition - there isn't any in this case. It's PayPal or nawt. If we want to change the system, we need to campaign for a new one - a more ethical alternative in relation to freedom of expression.

If there is an alternative to PayPal, I'm now interested in finding it. My business relies on PayPal. So, like Smashwords, I currently need them. What I will do alongside that is continue to blog and shout, tweet, and Facebook my disagreement. After all, whilst you're still a customer you might get heard. Once you walk away, where's the incentive for them to listen? 

Unless everybody walks away. If we're prepared to do it en masse, I'm in. 

So, what are PayPal censoring and how?

Well, from what I've managed to garner (open to corrections here) - they're preventing users from purchasing certain types of literature from indie publishers, and they're threatening to cut services to businesses who fail to comply.

We're talking hardcore censorship here. Tantamount to financial blackmail.

The worst part is that PayPal don't even seem to be able to define exactly what it is that they wish to ban. Again, Smashword explain:

My dialogue is continuing with them as I seek to achieve a less onerous, more sensible result. Today, they hinted at a willingness to consider a more relaxed definition of prohibited content as..."books for which rape, bestiality and incest are the major theme.  If rape, bestiality and incest are incidental plot points, then that content might be allowable."  This is a significant clarification in my ongoing attempt to delineate the gray areas and push back the onerous, unfair and restrictive definitions as they now stand.  It's an opening, but not the final word from PayPal.

Might be allowable? I'm sorry, but really - f--k off PayPal. Oh look, I just censored myself.

Under that definition, my latest novel might be banned on two counts, as an 'incidental plot point.' My collection of short stories is a definite no-no.

What'll this mean?

Well, if I self-published a book on Smashwords that got pulled because it contravened PayPal's moral judgement, what would I do?

What any sensible author would do. I'd go and self-publish it on Amazon. No skin off my nose, but a huge punch in the gut for indie publishers like Smashwords, who end up being caught between a rock and a hard place: the ire of their authors for not making a stand, and the financial intimidation of a morally corrupt transaction company.

PayPal's name becomes muck, Smashwords go bankrupt, and the books are happily published elsewhere.

What on earth does this achieve, exactly?

[P.S.: PayPal Alternatives for Accepting Online Payments]

Hanging the Star

 

Went to see my cousin, Alx, launch her debut album as Hanging the Star at Bush Hall, London, the other day. 

My dad's side of the family, who are ridiculously musical. Alx was at The Royal School of Music with my old Cardiff drinking buddy Gareth, who is a gifted composer. Her brother, my cousin Jimmy, now tours with Bad Ass Brass. When he isn't jetting around the world as a sesh musician, he's hanging out at places like Ronnie Scott's.

Meanwhile, I can just about manage Three Blind Mice on the tin whistle.

Alx has done some incredible work, including a cover of Tori Amos's Northern Lad, and Cigarette Song, which she recorded on Coldplay's piano!

Also, check out Kristy Clark, an Aussie singer who turned up to play a session. I especially love Dots and Dashes.

Swinging It With Quito Washington

Image courtesy of Auki Henry

Quito Washington has been shooting movies since 1999. In 2003 he won Best Short Film at the Down Under International Film Festival, going on to become a finalist in both the 2005 and 2006 series of Australia's Project Greeenlight. Last year he was awarded Best Comedy at the American International Film Festival for his first feature-length film: Swing It!

Originally from the US, Quito is a permanent resident of Darwin. Here, he talks about what inspires him and why dancing is so important.

Your first feature film, Swing It! won Best Comedy at the American International Film Festival. That's quite an achievement. How did it make you feel?

Amazing, really, that someone watched it and thought enough of it to say so publicly.

Where did the funding for this film come from? 

I raised the money myself through working a lot and calling in favours where and when I could.

Do you think, in the current financial climate, that it's becoming harder for aspiring filmmakers to get backing?

In today's market, it's stupid hard to get funding. If you are waiting on funding, forget it. Make films with whatever you can find.

It's clear that you have a thing for swing. Where did this come from?

I love the music, the lifestyle, the clothing. Most of that came from my grandmother. She was a woman who faced adversity from the get go. She was born in 1914, so slavery was less than a generation above her. There was a lot of resentment in the US towards Negroes, so any and all accomplishments were to be celebrated. Mostly because they were far and few between. She could have been really depressed and knocked back, but instead she did celebrate, a lot, with music. I liked that. No matter what happened, she could take a moment to enjoy music. She was also good with people, all the time, everyone - she never let anyone get her down. If she encountered a bad attitude, she put it down to: "They must be having a bad day." I can't think of one person she didn't like.

Rumour has it you're an impressive dancer?

I host a swing social every Sunday called The Big Swing Show. Every Wednesday, I run a swing lesson at The Darwin Railway Social Club Inc. Lots of fun, and we have the hardest working big band in Australia. Every Wednesday night they are there making it happen for the dancers. Having a great band, a fantastic venue, it makes it a brilliant experience.

Take the Lead, Dirty Dancing, Strictly Ballroom - why do you think people like movies about dancing so much?

Because everyone either can dance, or wishes they could dance. In the frustratingly restrained movies of the forties and today, dance on screen is a substitute for sex. It's easy to watch and appreciate in film.

You started out as an actor in Dress Gray. Why did you want to make the switch to writing and directing?

I just wanted to make films. As an actor, you have to wait for someone else. I admire the "producer, writer, director, starring" tags in films, that's a lot of work.

With Swing It! were you writing the parts for actors you already had in mind? How did you find the right people for the roles?

That's kinda funny to me, as the names of the characters are all the names of the actors for the roles. It was simpler to use their real names in the initial drafts. I intended to change them before they reached the actor stage, but that never happened. For example, one of the lead actresses was to be Ruby. When I watch the film, I get a chuckle out of that.

Who are your inspirations?

My grandmother, of course, and generally a whole host of creative people, known and unknown.

What's the movie scene like in Australia at the moment?

There's more focus on niche films, and a lot more competition from outside of Australia.

Any more projects in the pipeline?

At the moment, I am really into doing radio dramas and animations. More flexibility, faster turn around, and generally better received.

Any tips for aspiring writers or filmmakers?

Keep writing as your passion. Get help, ask questions, and remember that 'done' is better than 'perfect'.

Elf Yourself

Along the festive lines of Make-A-Flake, you can also Elf Yourself. This is perhaps the silliest of all the festive programmes.

Head to the Elf Yourself website and follow the instructions. You'll be asked to upload a picture of yourself (or a friend), either from your computer or Facebook. You'll need a fairly clear face shot. Then you use a little tool to point out where your mouth is and, before you know it, you're an elf:

You can then perform a range of increasingly ridiculous dances including hip-hop, disco and, my personal favourite, the Charleston. This has evolved quite a bit over the years and you can now add up to four other faces to dance alongside you - creating your very own Euro Elf entry.

Get down. Get funky. Get elved.

Carte Blanche

This one won first place in the Swanezine Short Story Competition in December 2011. Although a small competition, the standard of entry was very high - please do check them out. It's a piece of writing that I'm particularly proud of, so this one means a lot. The critique was extremely touching, thank you:

Marion Grace Woolley's story, Carte Blanche, holds deep, haunting pain in its every sentence. On a more profound level, it examines whether the choice of a lover need be based on gender or emotion. The narrator seems to intuit her friend's understanding of her desire to draw their friendship into a deeper dimension. The physical slap in the narrator's face, hints at some level of guilt at her own hidden wish for their friendship to slide into a more intimate form.

 

CARTE BLANCHE

We're like the sea, you and I. Rolling to a thick, deep rhythm that only we can hear. That invincible river of truth running between two distant shores. The type of truth you can drown in.

Some nights, that's exactly what happens. Dragged beneath the surface of my own consciousness. Pulled under by the crocodile teeth of my own lies, ready for that final death roll. I wake, sweat drenched and sour in my own scent. Afraid that I will never be able to rise again, back to the cool oxygen that my body craves.

That's the thing about cravings. Some things you crave because, without them, your flesh would die. You need to breathe, to eat, to drink. But other things - you need them just as much, but, in needing them, you're killing yourself.

You never understood that, did you? You never quite got it.

And now it's too late. Every day of our lives I tried to explain it to you. Tried to show you; make you aware. At first I thought you hadn't noticed - I really was that subtle. Pouring your champagne before mine. Helping you into your coat as we left the restaurant. Would I have noticed? Probably not.

But as time went by, I started to suspect. I knew you better than that, see. To me, you're like crackle glass. There's nothing transparent about you. If you were ordinary, I could look straight through you and know all there is to know. I could see our future on the other side of you. I could look you over, and look away.

But you're not. Your clarity changes with the light. Those thick fractures within you, they fascinate the eye. I could gaze at you for a lifetime and never see the complete picture. It takes a complicated person to be that beautiful. It takes intelligence to break itself upon the jarred rocks of self-realisation and denial.

That's how I knew that you were choosing not to acknowledge me. You were fully aware of my craving, yet you chose to overlook it. You chose to withdraw into the facetious playroom of childhood innocence. You chose to be stupid, blind and dumb.

And every part of me wanted you more for that.

I couldn't help what happened that night. The fairy lights twinkled as bright as stars about the garden trellis. Your husband and his fat, porky guests quaffing port like pigs in a mud hole. Drunk on their own fine taste and sense of self-worth. I watched you smile, like a string of pearls strung around a pauper. That fake, false way that I watched you cultivate over twenty years of marriage.

I missed the girl in you. I missed the part that was real; that was genuine. Where did she go? Sometimes when we'd take tea, or walk in the country, I'd imagine that I caught a glimpse of her. For a moment she would return as if from some far-flung adventure to the outer shores of existence. "I was always coming home," she'd say, then just as soon be off on her next escapade, far beyond my grasp.

I loved you from the first moment I saw you, standing in your skinny gym slip at St. Mary of the Immaculate Heart's. I cherished those all-girl dances we used to attend. Those were our salad days. Where no man could touch you, because none were invited.

Every sentence begins with 'I', because I never knew what you thought or felt. Did you ever look at me sideways in the showers? Did you ever wonder? Did you ever, for one brief moment, in the dark-enraptured night, consider what it might have been like?

Each of your boyfriends came and went, so literally. Yet I was always constant. After every heartbreak, after every betrayal - wasn't I always there, just as I ever was? Perhaps you believed my inventions, those imaginary boyfriends who never called and never sent me flowers. Surely you knew that there was only ever one. One person, out of the entire world, who held my full attention.

It had to be said. As we sat beneath the eaves of your grand affluence, staring out across the night-cooled lawns towards the lake. It had to be said.

The sting of your hand across my face burns still. That hot horror as you realised what I had been trying to tell you all our lives. And in that moment, as your eyes flashed and your pearls broke and scattered, I knew that you had known. I knew that, in your own way, you had expected this moment to come.

I suppose, if we're now to be honest, I had always known your reaction. What caused me to provoke you, I cannot say. The empty look of your Gould-guzzling guests, your husband's hollow laugh; the sheer plasticity of it all? The faintest recognition in the depths of my soul that there could be another life behind all of this. Something real. Something meaningful.

And now, there is nothing. Should I regret opening my mouth? Because I do, with every ounce of my being. If, by staying silent, I could look upon you every day for the rest of our lives - look, but never touch - I would sign my name to that contract. But it's too late. That river of truth touches both our continents, but forever keeps us worlds apart.

Should you ever return to the country of our birth, you will find me waiting. Here, beneath the eaves.