I’m going to be reading my short story Meat at Short Fuse on Thursday. Full details are:
"Get armed up for November’s explosive night of short
fiction. The theme for this month will be Gender Wars,
so get those light sabres ready for the battle of the
sexes!
All featured stories explore the idea of strife
between the sexes, in one form or another, and we have
some real beauts lined up for your delectation.
See you next Thursday at Komedia.
Doors open 8.30."
As Arnold Rimmer once put it, "When you’re young you can eat what you like, drink what you like and still fit into your 26 inch waist trousers…Then you reach that age… your muscles give up, they wave a little white flag – and without any warning at all you are suddenly a fat bastard."
I’ve never been particularly toned and healthy (and my waist is certainly more than twenty six inches), but recently I realised I stood at a cross roads. My waistline has grown eager to expand. I had a choice: I could either start exercising and eating better; or I could prepare to spend the rest of my life as a fat person, cultivating a jolly personality in the hope people don’t notice my appearance.
As a consequence, I’ve been running for the last couple of weeks. To my surprise I enjoy it. After a run I feel more awake, more alert. I loathed exercise at school, so much so I was put off for years. Now I wonder how come I hated it so much. I may start liking it less when the weather grows wet and cold, but for now I’m in love with my new hobby.
I’ve even signed up for a 5K run in a month’s time, Brighton’s Santa Dash. How could I resist the opporuntity to run with a hoarde of people dressed as Santa?
Tom (who’s joining me on the Santa Dash) recently pointed out an advantage of an unhealthy youth. Most men hit their physical peak in their early twenties. With a little work, I have my physical peak ahead of me.
I have few fond memories of the last fortnight of my MA. Despite months of hard work the writing hadn’t come together, leading me to rewrite the whole thing. I was disappointed with the final piece, feeling it didn’t reflect the work or thought I’d put in.
The MA results were published yesterday. I was ambivalent about collecting my mark since I had such low expectations of the final piece. Fortunately Rosy had already checked, and broke the news I’d earned a merit. I’m both surprised and delighted.
It’s strange to have scored so highly for work that, towards the end, was making me react physically. In fact the dissertation scored an A, which is a shock to me. The feedback, which I read today, described it as "very elegant, patient, illuminating and quirky". I’m planning to re-read the whole thing over the weekend as it probably deserves a reappraisal. I still feel weird to be awarded a merit but I’m getting used to the idea.
…and I am glad.
Given Clive James' famous poem, it was ironic to find a copy of his collected poetry in a remainder store. I almost bought a copy just for that irony.
I didn’t get around to making a number of posts in the last week, so here’s a summary of them:
There are good things about the end of British Summer Time too. The office where I work looks out across the Sussex University campus towards Stanmer Park. It offers some incredible views when the sun sets. Someone will look up from the computer, see it, and let everyone else know. The people sitting near the windows open the blinds and others get up from the desk to stand in front of the window, watching the sunset. Good, old-fashioned entertainment.
I think of words as being alive like animals. They don’t like to be kept in pages." – William Burroughs, in interview.
The new issue of Penumbra Magazine is now out. It features a short short story of mine, Ocean Bottles. My copy of the next issue should be with me soon and I can’t wait to see it
END
There’s an interesting cache of sound files at ubuweb. Today I was listening to Raiding the 20th Century. It’s an interesting mix of documentary and example of cut-ups, including Burroughs, hip-hop and the avant-garde.
Through the guardian I learned that Raymond Carver‘s widow is planning to release the original versions of some of his short stories. Carver is famous for his minimalism, but it appears some of that was forced on him by his editor, Gordon Lish. There’s an argument to be made that Carver’s strengths come from the editing of his work, rather than his writing. Compare some original text from One more thing to the edited version (the comparison is available from the New York Times). Carver’s text reads:
L.D. put the shaving bag under his arm
again and once more picked up the suitcase. “I
just want to say one more thing, Maxine. Listen
to me. Remember this,” he said. “I love you. I
love you no matter what happens. I love you
too, Bea. I love you both.” He stood there at the
door and felt his lips begin to tingle as he looked
at them for what, he believed, might be the last
time. “Good-bye,” he said.
“You call this love, L.D.?” Maxine said.
She let go of Bea’s hand. She made a fist. Then
she shook her head and jammed her hands into
her coat pockets. She stared at him and then
dropped her eyes to something on the floor near
his shoes.
It came to him with a shock that he
would remember this night and her like this. He
was terrified to think that in the years ahead she
might come to resemble a woman he couldn’t
place, a mute figure in a long coat, standing in
the middle of a lighted room with lowered eyes.
“Maxine!” he cried. “Maxine!”
“Is this what love is, L.D.?” she said,
fixing her eyes on him. Her eyes were terrible
and deep, and he held them as long as he could.
The edited text is both simpler and more powerful:
L.D. put the shaving bag under his arm
and picked up the suitcase.
He said, “I just want to say one more
thing.”
But then he could not think what it
could possibly be.