I love the find and replace button on my computer, and since I decided to change all the names in my book, to match the changes I'd made in my cult, it has been a godsend, as, rather than trawling through all 85,000 words and changing them one by one, I can simply type in the original name and ask it to be replaced by the new name.
But, I knew there would be a catch! One of my characters was called 'Vera', she has now been rechristened 'Saffron' (very hippy, I think) - so words like 'several' and 'overalls' now come up as seSaffronl and oSaffronlls! Bizarre, especially as I put the capital 'V' in, but it doesn't seem to recognise that.
Hopefully, there won't be many more such anomalies. I actually think that Vera was resisting being changed, she doesn't really feel like a Saffron. This is her silent protest.
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
Wednesday, 14 March 2012
Making Bradford British
It seems to me that this is the kind of social experiment we need to have on a much bigger scale. I know it's manufactured, and makes good telly, and they probably chose the kind of people who could at least articulate enough to get their point across, and who weren't afraid to confront, but this was an interesting, questioning programme, which really made me think about myself and my attitudes to being British, race, religion, and all those big questions. So if it made me think, hopefully it made others think too.
I guess what worried me is that Maura, the middle class liberal one, was closest to me in age and life style, and her attitude to Mohammed seemed more a desire to confirm her liberalism and to bolster up her own idea that she was not racist. Yes, he was a 'chauvanist' in the Western sense of the word, but he wasn't doing his family any harm by not doing the domestic jobs, his daughter told Maura that her mother didn't mind, that was her role in the Pakistani world in which she grew up and she accepted it. Maura's inability to get her head round that, and then to think that Muhammed would enjoy being a dancing monkey at her dinner party, made me want to scream, and blush. Might I be like that too, a sort of 'look at me, I'm so open minded, I even have a Pakistani 'friend'. When he eventually flipped and left the house and she chased after him shouting, 'But my guests were looking forward to seeing you' I wondered if she'd actually thought about how might feel, being on display, this token Pakistani in this all white environment. Surely that would be ultimately threatening. He was already totally out of his comfort zone.
The big success of this seemed to me to be the devout Muslim man who prayed five times a day with the young heavy drinking self confessed 'Paki basher'. What a transformation, in them both. Their humility was palpable and I really could see them being friends. The white guy's (Damon's?) observations of the traditions of Islam, watching them pray, seeing how close the families were, realising that these people were actually a lot more sorted than him (and not all raging terrorists either), then equating that to a British heritage that is now almost gone, was really quite profound.
And what did they do? They talked, they argued, they opened their minds, they made themselves vulnerable, the questioned who they were, they cried and they laughed.
So please, let's have this replicated all over Britain, and show us ignorant white folk (and other British who may be reluctant to integrate with us because they fear their own cultural identity will be lost) the reality of the depth and richness which other cultures can bring to our culture, and hold a mirror up to the worst excesses of ourselves.
I guess what worried me is that Maura, the middle class liberal one, was closest to me in age and life style, and her attitude to Mohammed seemed more a desire to confirm her liberalism and to bolster up her own idea that she was not racist. Yes, he was a 'chauvanist' in the Western sense of the word, but he wasn't doing his family any harm by not doing the domestic jobs, his daughter told Maura that her mother didn't mind, that was her role in the Pakistani world in which she grew up and she accepted it. Maura's inability to get her head round that, and then to think that Muhammed would enjoy being a dancing monkey at her dinner party, made me want to scream, and blush. Might I be like that too, a sort of 'look at me, I'm so open minded, I even have a Pakistani 'friend'. When he eventually flipped and left the house and she chased after him shouting, 'But my guests were looking forward to seeing you' I wondered if she'd actually thought about how might feel, being on display, this token Pakistani in this all white environment. Surely that would be ultimately threatening. He was already totally out of his comfort zone.
The big success of this seemed to me to be the devout Muslim man who prayed five times a day with the young heavy drinking self confessed 'Paki basher'. What a transformation, in them both. Their humility was palpable and I really could see them being friends. The white guy's (Damon's?) observations of the traditions of Islam, watching them pray, seeing how close the families were, realising that these people were actually a lot more sorted than him (and not all raging terrorists either), then equating that to a British heritage that is now almost gone, was really quite profound.
And what did they do? They talked, they argued, they opened their minds, they made themselves vulnerable, the questioned who they were, they cried and they laughed.
So please, let's have this replicated all over Britain, and show us ignorant white folk (and other British who may be reluctant to integrate with us because they fear their own cultural identity will be lost) the reality of the depth and richness which other cultures can bring to our culture, and hold a mirror up to the worst excesses of ourselves.
Monday, 12 March 2012
Research for an agent
As part of my 'research module' for my MA, I'm busy looking at agents, trawling through their websites, trying to identify the kind of writer's they favour - so far I've recognised only one, which is a bit disheartening.
What's scary (aside from the competition, and the whole change in the publishing industry which is throwing it into chaos) is the amount of self promotion they expect. The confidence this requires is terrifying, since it seems it's not really good enough just to have produced a cracking good read, you also need to be able to talk about it without hesitation, deviation or repetition, to know the market, to look good (presumably that helps, anyway) and to, as my mother would put it, 'show off'. Heaven forbid I find myself doing that!
Having been here before, albeit prematurely with both my first and second book, I am rather dreading the pile of rejections, though I've learnt so much about the business doing the MA that hopefully I won't fall into the same trap. I suppose I could get my name in The Guinness Book of World Records for the most amount of rejection letters.
Still, one has to try and keep smiling. Don't send your manuscript out prematurely, otherwise you need to keep changing your name/address/ or title of your book to resubmit it!
What's scary (aside from the competition, and the whole change in the publishing industry which is throwing it into chaos) is the amount of self promotion they expect. The confidence this requires is terrifying, since it seems it's not really good enough just to have produced a cracking good read, you also need to be able to talk about it without hesitation, deviation or repetition, to know the market, to look good (presumably that helps, anyway) and to, as my mother would put it, 'show off'. Heaven forbid I find myself doing that!
Having been here before, albeit prematurely with both my first and second book, I am rather dreading the pile of rejections, though I've learnt so much about the business doing the MA that hopefully I won't fall into the same trap. I suppose I could get my name in The Guinness Book of World Records for the most amount of rejection letters.
Still, one has to try and keep smiling. Don't send your manuscript out prematurely, otherwise you need to keep changing your name/address/ or title of your book to resubmit it!
Monday, 5 March 2012
Too many things to write, not enough time
ONe of my problems with being a disciplined writer (which obviously, I'm not) is that I have too many ideas all jostling for attention in my brain, which renders me incapable of concentrating on any one at a time.
I tend to do my thinking whilst out walking our dog, Dermot, a gorgeous white/brindle boxer crossed with American bulldog, crossed with pointer (we think). I take a bit of paper and a pen, and periodically stop to jot down little snippets which I know I'll forget if I just say them to myself all the way round the walk over and over and over. Even if I repeat them about 1000 times, they're still lost by the time I get home. Hence, the necessity of pen and paper.
This is what I wrote down last time:
The Cleaning Lady: 'Thought I recognised you...' Her very plucked eyebrows shot up.
Sophie: Instead of saying, I know that now', have her saying 'I understand that now'.
Dermot: A man picked up an iron bar and waved it at Dermot. He was scared. The man was growling.
These are three of the projects I'm currently juggling. THe most important is the Sophie one, because that is to be my dissertation piece, but as a break from the relentlessness of that, I am writing a scary story about a cleaning lady who takes over the entire life of an elderly man, and a book about our beloved dog.
Argghhhhh. My brain is going to explode, in fact, I think it just has.
I tend to do my thinking whilst out walking our dog, Dermot, a gorgeous white/brindle boxer crossed with American bulldog, crossed with pointer (we think). I take a bit of paper and a pen, and periodically stop to jot down little snippets which I know I'll forget if I just say them to myself all the way round the walk over and over and over. Even if I repeat them about 1000 times, they're still lost by the time I get home. Hence, the necessity of pen and paper.
This is what I wrote down last time:
The Cleaning Lady: 'Thought I recognised you...' Her very plucked eyebrows shot up.
Sophie: Instead of saying, I know that now', have her saying 'I understand that now'.
Dermot: A man picked up an iron bar and waved it at Dermot. He was scared. The man was growling.
These are three of the projects I'm currently juggling. THe most important is the Sophie one, because that is to be my dissertation piece, but as a break from the relentlessness of that, I am writing a scary story about a cleaning lady who takes over the entire life of an elderly man, and a book about our beloved dog.
Argghhhhh. My brain is going to explode, in fact, I think it just has.
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