December 18th, 2009
Angry Eve, Keith Howard
This is a short story from my friend Anthony Barker from Portland, Oregon
In a small village in Tuscany, in the time of the condottiere, an old farmer lived with his young daughter, Gina. She was uncommonly beautiful, dreamy, tenderhearted, and absurdly innocent. She loved small animals, and turned her father’s lambs into pets. She hoped to enter a convent, for she thought it would be like living in a Fra Angelico painting.
One day a handsome squire met her tending the sheep. He soon discovered her trusting nature and persuaded her that he was an angel, come to give her a vision of paradise. She was a little doubtful, but he was so handsome, so kind, so gentle and reassuring that she finally agreed. He showed her, as he had promised, but in the morning he left her, forgetting the other promises he had made.
She longed for him as spring became summer, and wondered as her waist began to swell. The old man recognized the symptoms and in a furious rage forced her to tell her story. He was an old fashioned sort. “Whore!” he screamed, in response to her explanation. He called her other unpleasant names as well, and taking a stick, drove her out of the house.
She had no other place to go, and being suddenly made aware of her degenerate character, she hardly dared show herself, or seek any comfort from her neighbors. In this sad condition she made her way along the road into a forest.
People from her village rarely went into this forest because, in the middle of it, there was a small house occupied by three old crones. The villagers were not afraid of old women; but these particular old women didn’t seem to have any relatives, and as far as anybody could remember, there never was a time when they hadn’t lived in the middle of the forest. You can’t be too careful. Everybody stayed away.
Nevertheless, the girl found herself in front of their cottage just as night was falling. She was so tired and hungry, and the late summer evening was so chilly, that she could not imagine that she could be worse off. She knocked on the door. One of the ancient hags opened it and asked what she wanted. The girl was badly frightened although the woman was so frail and insubstantial as to be hardly more than a vision.
The girl blurted out her story, “My name is Gina and I live in the village. Last spring a handsome boy (he said he was an angel but he was just a squire in one of the armies) seduced me, and now I’m a whore and I forgot what else, and I don’t know where to go, and I’m going to have a baby.”
The old woman sighed (perhaps she had heard this story before.) She told the girl to come inside and get warm. The other two old women were kind enough, in a practical sort of way, bringing some soup and bread. They didn’t seem to find her story very remarkable, or even interesting. They said that since she didn’t have any place else to go she might as well stay and help take care of the animals until her child was born. They gave her a couple of blankets and made her comfortable in the straw of the stable.
She stayed with them all through the fall and early winter, helping with their cleaning and baking, doing farm chores, cutting wood for the fire and generally keeping busy and useful. In the evenings she was so tired she could barely shed a tear before she fell sound asleep.
Her time came in midwinter. The snow lay deep in the little clearing, and the animals crowded into the shed with her to keep warm. The old ladies helped, and with the usual turmoil and pain she gave birth to a beautiful little daughter. The three crones cleaned the baby, wrapped her in toweling and put her to nurse. Gina named her baby ‘Bianca’.
Who knows how word of such things gets around? You’d think that nothing could be more obscure than a birth in the middle of the forest, especially a forest where nobody cared to go (although they weren’t afraid of three old women.) However, it was only a day or two before everyone had heard of it. One brave and curious granny came out to see, bringing some baby clothes that had belonged to her grandchildren but which still had plenty of wear left in them. One of the grandchildren came with her. He brought a little toy. They were both amazed at how exceptionally beautiful the child was. They also marveled at the mother, who was so sad. They left their gifts and went back to the village carrying the news of the lovely child and her mother.
Needless to say there were lots of arguments. The villagers split into factions. The kindlier, more sympathetic (and curious) thought it was a great shame that such a pretty girl should have been seduced and abandoned by that cruel young soldier. Something ought to be done, they said, to get her out of the stable into decent surroundings where (who knows) she might yet attract a husband. The others, including her father, thought she had gotten off easy considering how she had carried on with that out-of-town scalawag. Nothing could be more suitable, they argued, than that she and her brat should be living on the scraps and leavings of three old hags who were probably witches. They said that no decent man, or sensible village, would have anything to do with any of them.
By coincidence there was a supernova just after the baby was born. The entire sky was lit by a star as bright as the full moon. It was so bright that it was visible during the day as well. This upset the villagers even more. According to their position in the dispute some of them blamed the girl and her baby, while others thought the blame should fall on her father, and others suggested the soldier. A few blamed the village itself. There was no priest to resolve these quarrels, but a wise old woman, who was related to nearly everybody, said it would be prudent to take something to the mother and child. After all, it was nearly Christmas. Perhaps it would help; and it certainly couldn’t do any harm. Also they would all get a chance to see the girl, the baby, and the three hags.
So, in the eerie light of the supernova they straggled into the forest. They continued to bicker, but they had dressed in their Sunday clothes, and many of them were carrying little gifts of cakes, fresh milk, candles, eggs or such stuff as they had to welcome a newborn, or possibly to appease a witch.
When they reached the clearing the old hut had disappeared. Only the stable remained, bathed in the stellar glow. Inside, the girl sat on the straw, subdued and melancholy—but Bianca was as alert and inquisitive as the animals.
The villagers stared quietly at the girl. They too found her beautiful and touching; but they were not entirely at ease. For one thing, where were the old hags? The villagers looked around nervously, some of them crossing themselves, or crossing their fingers against the evil eye.
Well they might, for at this moment the three old crones stepped out of the stall next to Bianca’s manger. They still wore their hooded gowns, but it seemed that they had been transformed. Seeing the crowd outside the stable, each of them pushed back her hood. They were not old women at all, but beautiful queens wearing golden crowns. Their hag dresses were just an outer covering which they removed as they knelt by Bianca’s nest in the hay.
The first queen was dressed in a brocaded gown with gold threads and a pattern of fig leaves. She spoke. “I am Eve, Queen of the Garden and Mother of all.” Reaching into her bodice she brought forth a jewel, shaped like an apple and formed of a single ruby. “Bianca, I bring you the gift of self awareness, the beginning of knowledge. It was the gift that made us all human. Of course, men curse me for it.” Bianca reached for the apple and smiled.
The second queen, dressed in a graceful linen toga, spoke, “Bianca, I am Helen, Queen of Troy. I bring you this mirror of electrum and silver, symbol of feminine beauty, which you will have in full measure. Men will desire you for your beauty, but blame you for it. That’s life.” Bianca saw her face in the mirror and laughed.
When the third queen removed her hag’s cloak the villagers were amazed by her dress of celestial blue, lit by stars. She ignored them and spoke to the baby, “Bianca, I am Mary, Queen of Heaven.” The villagers fell to their knees. “It was I who made the glory of God manifest in the baby Jesus, and I make every birth divine. Though you are an outcast, Bianca, and an orphan, you shall share in the Holy Spirit as fully as any.” She picked up Bianca and kissed her. She also touched Bianca’s mother and blessed her.
Now the villagers were filled with an entirely different sort of fear. Some of the men, including Gina’s father, trembled before the three great queens. Others, who were idlers and scoffers, were afraid because they had come to the forest to mock. Even those who had been kind were nervous for fear they might not have been kind enough, or soon enough—they wondered if eggs and winter apples, hand-me-down dresses and ribbons were fine enough for a child who had been blessed with self knowledge, beauty and grace.
Most frightened of all was a young man in the back of the crowd. It was the young soldier, Angelo, held by two of Gina’s uncles, each with a large cudgel. One uncle shouted, “We’ve caught the rascal, Holy Mother, and brought him to you.” He shoved Angelo to the front of the crowd and into the dirt next to Bianca’s bed. “Judge him, Majesties, Queens of Wisdom, Beauty and Mercy. What shall his penalty be? Just say the word and I’ll pummel him.”
The Queen of Heaven interceded for the poor squire, “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said. “Angelo, you have offended me greatly”. I require that you ask forgiveness of my daughter, Gina. Your penance will be whatever she demands of you.’
So, Angelo rose from the dirt and knelt before Gina and begged pardon. He was wise enough not to give any excuses. By a miracle, Bianca said her first word, “Da!”
And Gina, still basically ingenuous, but slightly more prudent, said, “Oh Angelo, I love you. If you’ll marry me I’ll forgive you.” Angelo sat down in the straw with his arm around Gina, and with Bianca in his lap. All of them glowed in the light of the supernova.
The villagers gathered around the family and offered their presents. The village fiddler played music suitable for festivals and weddings. Everyone had a good time. The queens had resumed their dark dress and withdrawn to the side. For a moment they watched the celebration.
Eve was thoughtful, “Awareness is one thing,” she said, “Wisdom is another. You need to have a little experience.”
Helen replied, “She’ll probably be sorry later, but maybe she would have been sorrier if he hadn’t come back. I often ask myself if men are worth the trouble.”
Mary sighed, “It’s no wonder there are so few miracles these days. It’s hard enough to arrange a happy ending.”
Helen of Troy
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December 14th, 2009
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December 13th, 2009
Christmas.
What more can I say? That one word conjures up one’s personal images of heaven and hell. Memories of family fights, a friend being genuinely thrilled by a gift you chose for them, hangovers, kids waking at three am, kids in the street with their new bikes, eating all the food you don’t really like because you have to, cringing at the treacly slop that passes for Christmas slogans, you know the ones – ‘goodwill to all mankind,’ and so on, visiting aged rels who declare grumpily that they must be about to die because we’ve all made the effort to visit, spending far too much money and not remembering six months later what gifts you gave or received.
And in Australia, heat, cicada’s thrumming, swimming, sunburn, sand, leftover ham, and the feeling that if you ever see another glass of cold champagne it will be too soon. Here, in the sybaritic Land of Oz, Christmas is – as my old Dad is very fond of saying - a midsummer retail fest. An orgy of consumption fuelled by the sensual pleasures of summer and the knowledge that January is the month for lazing and playing.
And for some of us – reading.
I love a bookshop in the Christmas season. Bulging with new stock, tarted up with promotional material, selling pretty cards and opening itself up like a glorious spring bloom. Presents from my parents, for most of my life, have been books. I suspect - no, I know, - the pleasure my father took in choosing books for my sister and myself. I know this because I love choosing books for people - and getting it right. Sad to say a lot of the time I miss the mark, but I’ve had enough bullseyes for me to persist.
I won’t be buying an e-reader anytime soon however, for myself or for anyone else. Like most of us these days, including children and teenagers, I spend too long in front of a screen. I work all day in front of it, and sometimes at night as well – browsing and so on. But if I really want to switch off and relax I pick up a book. I can’t do this with a screen. Besides I like the physicality of the book, it’s ease of use and portability - and I’m a sucker for book covers. But mostly I want to detach from the digital world and submerge into the soothing, familiar analogue world. The generations coming after me may not know this pleasure, but that’s not my problem. I’m in the here and now, and all my life books with pages and type have played a huge part, and will continue to do so.
I was reading about the popular Nintendo package of the Worlds Great Literature – Dickens, Shakespeare and Austen read on a Nintendo with background music. Fair enough, I suppose. It’s a bit like buying a set of encyclopaedias in the pre digital era and having them displayed on one’s bookshelf – and hoping you’ll be endowed with erudition simply through owning the books. I’d love to know how many people read King Lear on their Nintendo.
I am a bit of a museum addict. I adore walking through hushed halls full of interesting objects. I feel a huge sense of calm descend. I like to look at the stuff of the object – the texture, the marks of human activity, the space it takes up (always surprising), and wonder about the person who owned it or made it. I dislike visiting museums that abandon object display for video touch screens (nearly always broken due to the enthusiasm of small people). Video or films give flatness to a museum, a containment that doesn’t allow for dreaming or speculating. I don’t know if it’s fair to place e-readers in this same category, but I’ll be very curious to find out. I suspect I’ll find a use for one, maybe for certain reference books or cookbooks, but I doubt they will ever replace my addiction to the book.
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December 10th, 2009
I’ve been reading the book proof of The Book of Love over the last day or so. The book proof is a review copy sent out to various reviewers and bookshops and labelled ‘uncorrected proof’.
Strictly speaking, it isn’t uncorrected. The book has had editors, proofreaders, typesetters and myself combing through it like zealous mothers looking for lice in a four year old’s hair.
So it has been corrected, many, many times, but inevitably I found an error in the book proof. I must own this error too, because it was a sentence and some word repetition that I should have picked up at the first edit. But like lice, word repetition and other minor blips of written expression, possess an eerie cunning. You can look and look and you can’t see them. Change the print format, the little blighters lose their cover and you can pick them out at will. Change the format again and you will find more that eluded the searchlights and barbed wire.
This time I am fortunate to be working with professional editors and proofreaders, but prior to now, I had to catch these devious pests on my own. I’ve laboured through submissions, and satisfied I’d dispatched all errors, I’d sign, fold, seal, kiss and post the submission. At home later, I’d pick up my copy of the submission and there in the second line would be a smirking great typo or spelling mistake or some other evil malfeasance. At that point a glass of wine is needed, as well as a chair to slump in – because the goodbye kiss of luck has suddenly become the farewell kiss of doom.
It’s common knowledge in the world of aspiring authors that a typo or spelling mistake or some other evidence of sloppiness gives the agent or publisher a reason to toss the manuscript into the gaping maw of the recycling bin. Some say this is unfair. But if these professionals want to get on with the jobs they are paid for, then they cannot afford to be suffocated by a mountain of unsolicited manuscripts. There must be a triage system put in place, and signs of sloppiness are a good enough place to draw the line. If the manuscript is good, or great, then it will rise above these small errors, but a manuscript littered with them simply shows an unprofessional approach.
As a writer you must do everything you can to rid your beautiful creation of these pests. You can’t rely on a spellchecker and you have to devise systems that will help you on your search and destroy mission. I have lists of words that must be used sparingly and I use the ‘find’ function to seek them out and rethink the whole paragraph word by word.
I print off the manuscript, list the chapter numbers on a separate piece of paper, close my eyes and with a pin choose a chapter number. Then I work through that chapter from the end back to its beginning – this is to distance me from the narrative and help me focus on the formal aspects of the text. I make the changes on screen then change the font, change the spacing – anything that lets me see the words with a fresh eye.
This is the hard part of writing, and it can be exhausting, requiring the same level of concentration as a long distance drive. I think of myself as checking a computer code on a jet auto pilot system, if I don’t get it right, jets will fall out of the sky and people will die.
Regrettably, the list of imaginary airline disasters this method has caused is a little disconcerting – but I continue to search for those infuriatingly deadly errors in the hope that one day a miracle will occur and a blemish free manuscript will emerge.
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December 10th, 2009
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December 8th, 2009
Writing about a place you have never been to is a challenge. If you write fantasy or science fiction it all comes from your own head – and it’s impossible for anyone to check your account for accuracy- consistency and atmosphere, maybe, but not accuracy.
Historical fiction writers rely on first hand accounts of the era they are interested in. But if your stories are set in contemporary times then you may have some problems. I don’t like reading books set in the cities I’ve lived in unless the writer obviously knows the places well. Everybody experiences a place differently, of course, but if you know a city very well, it’s easy to be distracted and disappointed if the writer doesn’t seem to and yet has set a story there.
A couple of years ago I set myself the challenge of writing about a city I had never been to – Berlin. I’d been to other German cities, but not Berlin. I was writing a sequel to a manuscript I’d finished in which one of the main characters is from Berlin. I loved those characters and couldn’t let go of them, so I decided to write the next chapter in their lives. I didn’t have a publisher and I hadn’t ever submitted the first manuscript to an agent or publisher, so writing a sequel was either an act of supreme confidence or simply because I needed to.
I bought maps of Berlin and used Google Earth, read guidebooks and fiction, looked at photos, both current and old. I picked the area the characters would live in, I could describe the view from their flat, I found their nearest cafés and shops, their bus routes into the city and wrote at least fifty thousand words. But I had to stop eventually. I knew I couldn’t evoke the place to my satisfaction without ever having been there. I worried that if the manuscript were ever published it would be obvious I had never been there. To evoke atmosphere or a place you need more than a guidebook and photos, you need the smells, the temperature, the faces of the people, the food in the shops, the dirt on the road, the feel of the air, the light and the sky and the everyday sounds. I couldn’t do it.
A few days ago I bought an airline ticket to Germany and I’m experiencing waves of excitement whenever I think about it - even though there’s well over two hundred sleeps to go. There are other reasons for going, of course, but going to Berlin after trying for months to capture the place will be and very interesting experience. I’ll go to the areas I wrote about, not fact checking, because I can do that anywhere, but to get the feel of the place, and to check on my characters and see if they are still happy living there. If I don’t find the house I imagined for them I suspect I’ll be very disoriented, but then again, I may just see them walking through the Tiergarten hand in hand.
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December 7th, 2009
Title - Sylvia Plath
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December 6th, 2009
Photo, Peter Torsal
An acquaintance of mine called me the other day and asked if I could recommend an editor for her autobiographical manuscript. I suggested she get in touch with the local writer’s centre as they could provide her with contacts and advice. I asked again what was it she actually wanted – an editor or a manuscript assessment. She replied, ‘I just want someone who’ll tell me it’s good.’
Honey …don’t we all?
But if you are serious as a writer what you really want are people who will tell you what’s weak, what needs more work, what doesn’t ring true, and tell you in a constructive and supportive manner.
As an artist I used to live in dread of being asked for my opinion on Aunty Joy’s oil painting. What could I say? Yes, Aunty Joy caught the elephant’s likeness so well - and then say no more. Because it’s not about Aunty Joy’s skill or conceptual base; it’s about praising an object that stands for Aunty Joy, and therefore personal, and very different to giving a critical appraisal of somebody’s creative work. Because that shouldn’t be personal. It’s wonderful when someone loves your work, I can’t deny that, but it’s even better if they can help you develop and improve.
When you choose the first readers for your newborn manuscript it is imperative you choose wisely. Beta readers, test readers or the first lambs to the slaughter, call them what you will, these eyes and souls are one of a writer’s most valuable resource. Choose people you trust, because trust is the key to accepting critical feedback. You must trust their judgement, their experience and their gut feel. Between the two of you, a safe environment must be created where risks can be taken and accepted as part of the creative process. Ridicule, harshness and criticism as a blood sport have no place in that environment.
I have my current project with two beta readers at the moment and I’m impatient to find out what they think, because I know their comments will be insightful, critical and well considered. But I’ve had confusing and disheartening experiences in the past. As a new writer, only beginning to trust my instincts, reading the comments and criticisms made by a variety of people made me feel I was in a particularly labyrinthine David Mamet film where the real and the not real shifted every time I blinked.
At one stage I paid a far more experienced writer than me to read a manuscript of mine. When it came back covered in comments and questions I wondered whether we had read the same story. Did they not read it, or was it really rubbish? I wobbled all over the place unable to work out what was happening. Eventually I had to stick with my own judgement and instincts, because the advice offered simply felt like a bad fit. I’d wanted to bow to their authority, I wanted the answers, but I had enough belief in what I’d written to decide against making the changes they suggested.
If asked to test read for another writer I think it’s important to ask yourself whether you have an interest in the genre they write in, have the time to do it properly, feel confident you can work with them, and be what the Italians call, ‘sympatico’ - be compatible or have a mental connection or bond with them.
I love working with other creative people who are open to ideas, but those who reply ‘yes, but…’ to every comment are exhausting, because ultimately all they want is you to tell them it’s good.
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December 5th, 2009
A short story today from my friend Michelle Witte. Michelle works as an associate editor with nonfiction publisher Gibbs Smith. In her free time, Michelle writes young adult fiction. She lives in Utah. You can visit Michelle’s site at Belletrinsic
Patience knelt beside the shattered pots, barely noticing the blood trickling down her neck. Broken—all of them—her beautiful pots lying on the scuffed linoleum, right there with her decision to let him live. He’d done it. He’d gone and broken his word.
She thought of her mother. Beautiful. Only word to describe her. Perfect to anyone but her own child. Slap here. Curse there. Anger everywhere. But what a show she put on for the neighbors. Nobody could compete with Mama for acting abilities. Star performer she’d been all her life, even to the man she’d married and later murdered. Oh, she didn’t hold the gun to his head, but she was certainly present in his thoughts as he pulled the trigger. Like mother like daughter.
They’d named her Patience because it was the virtue neither possessed but both wanted for the other. So why not burden a child with unreal expectations before she even took a breath? They were like that, mama and papa. Wanting what they’d never have, what they were never willing to give.
Patience learned early the importance of plotting. A good ploy was not to be outdone. Take time to get it right because there was no second chance with vengeance. The scar shaped like the old clothes iron on Patience’s thigh was testament enough to that.
So Patience would wait and plan.
All was clean when he returned next morning. Who knew what hovel he’d slept in and with who? Didn’t matter.
Skin was puffy round the X he’d carved in Patience’s left temple. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to brand her for life. His. His mark. Like them old cowboys used to sign, he’d said. X for a name. X for land. X for property. Patience was property, and she wasn’t to forget it.
Breakfast was cold by the time he’d washed up. Threw it to the dog and demanded another. Of course Patience complied, because she was the epitome of her name. That’s why he wanted her, after all. Patient, submissive. Perfect woman.
He never would realize how perfect she was for him.
He was dashing the day they met. Leaning against his truck, smoking one of them ever-present cigarettes. She hated the things, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t stand it for a pretty face. Him blond, tan, good-looking. Her short, dark, awkward. Mama said she’d never amount to much, but boy, when he looked at her that day, she felt like somethin’.
Why she believed all them lies, she’d never know. Women did stupid things in lust.
She’d always wanted a baby, a chance to do right by some small creature. That baby would be raised up proper, loving mother and all.
It wasn’t like Patience would get a chance with another man. At thirty-two, she’d been lucky to get a whistle from the local drunk. So when a luscious stranger walked into town—no past, no future—she took what she could. Patience weren’t no fool. She knew she was ugly, but that didn’t matter to him. He just wanted a warm body to keep him fed and clothed, someone to dominate. She could deal with the rest, so long as he gave her a baby.
Baby came eventually. Three months early after he punched her in the gut during a drunken fight. Couldn’t do nothin’, those doctors said. Dead before they reached the hospital. They let her hold that baby. Soft but cold all over. Tiny fingers and toes, each with its own nail. Beautiful. Turns out ugly mamas can have pretty babies.
Little thing didn’t even mind her crying all over him. Just laid there, still as could be. Perfect child. Poor thing couldn’t even take revenge. His mama would have to do it for him.
Patience made money only way she knew how—throwing pots. Not at people, as the fool man did, but with a wheel. Same way her mama taught her. Only good thing she got from mama. Couldn’t get her looks, but she certainly got the talent with clay.Sold them pots down off the highway in a little stand for them rich tourists. They always wanted a piece of the land. Let ’em have it, for all she cared. She had more important things to deal with.
Clean up this sty, he’d say. You’re a filthy pig. Who knows why I bother with you. Each punctuated with a slap.He bothered because no one else would have him. Not for long, and certainly not for free. Soon no one would have to bother with him at all.
Days passed. The X became infected, but there was no money for the doctor since he’d destroyed all the pots she’d made to sell that week. No money for food, neither, but that wasn’t new. She’d lived through hunger. Besides, it kept her figure. There was always enough for beer, though. Beer and cigarettes. Patience didn’t partake, but that only meant her money went to one man’s portion instead of two. A man could live on those things. At least he could.
Patience, now. She lived on hope. What hope did she have? None, really, but the hope of having hope. That had to be enough.
Potter’s clay stuck to her hands, coating the undersides of fingernails. She liked to scratch designs out with those nails, think of raking them through his eyes—and other unmentionables. Those rich people liked her style of pottery. Violent. Dark. Carnal. They liked anything that made them feel superior. Buy a scratched-up pot from a poor woman. Tell the story to friends. Changed a woman’s life with a measly twenty bucks.Patience was worth more than that. But who would buy madness in the form of a pot for more than fifty dollars? Madness comes cheap, it does.
Madness. Genius. Same thing. The starving artist in his loft was genius, but the impoverished potter in her trailer was mad.Now she was mad, but not how they thought. Patience, though, she could wait like no man. She would bide her time. Then they would all feel the force of her madness.
Mixing clay in the trough soothed her nerves.
He was gone. Called his mama and told her he was leaving the crazy witch. Packed up his truck.Never got far. Police came, said they’d found the rusted hunk of metal off the highway, broken down. No phone? No message? Dehydration, maybe, or rattlesnake. Coulda been anything. No body, though, so they’d searched.
Days. Weeks. Months. None heard from the man. That was all he’d ever be to her. Him. Didn’t deserve a name. Not for all he’d done.
Patience was a free woman now, but she didn’t want freedom if it meant sympathy from the neighbors. He was cruel. They knew it as well as her, but they were all cruel here. Drunk men. Submissive women. That’s the way things were done.
Not for Patience.
Sympathy cards came. They went in the trash. Flowers showed up on the porch. They wilted. Patience had no need for pity when she felt none herself. She could survive on her own without a man. She’d done it before, would do it again.
Exquisite. Never had such a fancy word described anything about her, but them folks with money said it ’bout them new pots she’d made. Since he’d disappeared, her work had far outshined everything else along that stretch of old dusty road.
Red, they were. How could she get such a beautiful color on a pot? The marks, so violent. Gruesome, almost. But they bought them. Gave them as gifts. Told their friends about the genius potter off the highway. She made her money. Blood money, it was too.
Dead men’s lips tell no tales, but her pots did. Red stories and brown ones. And, mixed with the right clay, very dark and black ones. But that’s what people wanted, so it’s what Patience gave ’em.
Nothing, however, was sweeter than seeing those bits of him leaving the stand each day as they traveled to the homes of the wealthy, tainting their perfect worlds with violence.
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December 1st, 2009
Clint Eastwood
All the girls love a bad boy, so it is said. But how bad is bad? I’ve been following the talk surrounding the release of the film New Moon and, as a writer focussed on relationships; a few aspects of the film intrigued me.
The male lead, Edward is a vampire. Vampires are pretty scary creatures if you think about it, but Edward isn’t really, he’s a bad boy ‘lite’ – he only drinks animal blood. So you can have your dangerous young man, except he’ll ask you the prissy question, ‘Have you got any animal blood? I’m on this detox thing.’
He loves the girl, he’s protective, considerate and yet we are meant to believe he has this dangerous aspect to him, which appears to me about as dangerous as a glass of milk. But that’s the demographic Meyer was writing for, young females experiencing boys, romance, sexuality and the sometimes dangerous complications this can bring.
If you’d put a young Jack Nicholson or Marlon Brando in the role it just wouldn’t work - it would be too hard to believe they’d be fussing over the source of the blood. Bad boys just don’t have food fancies. Edward has the appeal of Leonardo di Caprio in Titanic. I struggled to find anything about di Caprio in the Titanic role that could be read as dangerous or sexy, but as a friend pointed out, with his short stature, baby face and slender body, he was not threatening and therefore a big success with younger women. Maybe the casting agent got it right?
Marlon Brando
I have an article by Australian journalist, Sandy George, titled ‘Beauty of the Beast’ where she reports on casting directors and film producers lamenting the dwindling supply of ‘genuine romantic leads and action heroes.’ She quotes TV producer Amanda Higgs as saying when she visits acting schools she finds, ‘really interesting young women but not many men with that alpha-male romantic man feel.’
Has metrosexuality siphoned away some of the testosterone necessary for male actors to fill these roles? Or is it the influence of other cultures? American mainstream films present male leads as impossibly well groomed, well behaved, and really quite safe under all their make up. Clean. Straight teeth. Gelled hair. But did Clint Eastwood gel his hair for any of his roles? I suspect not.
In this article another television producer says there has been a shortage of rugged, manly actors for years. … “masculinity often comes from confidence …it’s not just about possessing it, you also have to exude it and be willing to project it … a tattoo is no substitute.”
When I started writing romantic comedy I thought very hard about the sort of men modern Australian women consider the most desirable. It’s a very fine line a leading man in a mainstream book or film has to walk. Go too alpha and you end up like the thug Daniel Craig portrays in James Bond, don’t go far enough and the character can’t carry the load of action and romance required of him. It’s a tough one. I’ve had to tone down sex scenes that my beta readers said resembled a rape, and take the knitting away from one of my tough guys. So I always have my radar up for ideas on what the desirable modern man should be.
A recent article in a broadsheet weekend magazine suggested that the new (?) marker for male attractiveness was not a well built chest or arms – but earning capacity. Money can buy you sexual attractiveness and desirability it seems. This doesn’t surprise me, because this is as it always has been. If you are going to reproduce you need a bloke who can drag home the carcasses. Now, he drags home a BMW and enough money for a four level house with home theatre.
Jack Nicholson by Snowdon
But I’m writing genre fiction; popular, escapist fantasy and my guys are not going to have their attractiveness based on their ability to service the horrendous modern mortgage. My heroes have a little frisson of danger, I can’t do metrosexual – or if I do, he doesn’t get the girl. He might get a moisturising hamper, but that’s about it.
And unlike the film and television casting agents at a casting call, I can just pull the beautiful beast out of my imagination, tidy him up a bit and set him on the page.
Robert Mitchum
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