Reading Between the Times

Dear Mum,

In September 2011 I blogged about the new-fangled and trendy way to read, books apparently having failed the reading public and requiring a new model replacement.

The Kindle. The arch nemesis of the book. The Moriarty of machines versus the comfy traditions and security of Sherlock.

Some eight months have passed since writing this blog, I have reviewed my reactions and attitudes toward the Kindle.

I throw my hands up. I’m waving my white flag of surrender, my white flag actually being a paperback book...

I did download the Kindle application onto my computer.

I’ll give you a minute while you peel yourself off the floor.

I have downloaded a couple of books – one written by my hairdresser’s Dad, a book of Horace’s Satires for an exhibition at Bateman’s, and ‘Three Men in A Boat’ after visiting the Writing Britain exhibition at the British Library.

This is because they were all FREE. I might have strong opinions and resent the digital reader but I’m strapped for cash and recognise the need to curtail the spending of cash.

Reading them on a computer was not the most comfortable. I would much rather have read all of these texts on paper, thumbing the pages, folding down corners that particularly take my fancy, inspecting the cover in contemplation as I pause the story to enjoy a cup of cha.

I am about to go on a four day holiday (AT LAST!) and am anxious about my chosen novels (Hideous Kinky and The Midnight Palace) weighing down my cabin luggage. And will those two novels be enough?

I admit a Kindle would solve my packing problems.

BUT the Kindle editions of books that parade in Waterstones windows are just as expensive as the paper edition. I bought a second hand edition of Hideous Kinky from Amazon and the Kindle edition is more expensive than the price I paid.

Plus you don’t have the joy of plucking tomes off of the shelf, smelling that crisp new book smell, nor glimpsing the front cover that peeks up at you tantalisingly between the kaftans and dresses that are folded (not so neatly – I’m not the best packer) in your suitcase.

Furthermore, a friend’s Kindle broke - something books don’t tend to do, never snapping down the spine and falling in two or disintegrating between one’s fingers.

I am, therefore, unmoved in relation to the Kindle. We are not amused. However...

Queen Victoria’s private diaries have recently been digitalised, meaning the great British public now have access to the innermost thoughts of one of the country’s greatest monarchs.

I find this exceptionally exciting.

In fact, I find a great many historical documents and manuscripts published online fascinating. Caxton’s edition of ‘The Canterbury Tales,’ for example, or Shakespeare’s Quartos.

What a privilege! To read these significant and compelling texts from the comfort of your own home with a coffee in hand.

I can accept that reading an illuminated manuscript, or academic book, or historical document on a digital advice is pretty wonderful.

Of course, it cannot quantify the joy of reading the original but most of us don’t have access or funds for such opportunities.

And reading such fiction on these devices is like attending a garden party at Buckingham Palace in your pyjamas with last night’s dinner spilt down the front. Unspeakable. I would shudder if the ghosts of Shakespeare and Chaucer materialised in my bedroom to witness this.

I encourage you all to read ‘The LibraryBook,’ which includes stories, accounts and anecdotes from a varied host of writers and personalities, describing their own experiences with books and their adopted parent; the library.

Bali Rai writes “No e-reader will ever replace the beauty of a fully formed 3-D book. Technology has its place, but it would not even exist without books and libraries.”

Well said, Bali! Bravo bravo! But alas! Our libraries are being shut!

With more and more digitals texts threatening the printing of literature along with funding cuts closing these book sanctuaries, readers are to be disappointed.

Are we facing a future where books are forgotten entities available only to those in the know, like the Cemetery of Forgotten Books?

The Woman’s Library is a case in point. Facing a skeleton service, pilgrims have to carefully plan their voyage to the shrine, knowing its future is pretty bleak. After last week’s blog you’ll realise I think this devalues all that women have achieved.

But I would say the same of any fading library. It is sad for both the authors who can share their love for print with the public and, more importantly, readers who can revel in rich realms of fictional fantasy free of charge, whatever their age or race or sex – a universe of worlds at their fingertips all with a tiny plastic library card.

Along with sketches from Sesame Street and the Chuckle Brothers theme tune, my nostalgic memory of childhood is headed by Arthur’s wise words: “Having fun isn’t hardwhen you’ve got a library card.”

Pure poetry for the soul...

***

Please sign the petition to save The Woman’s Library. You can read more here. It doesn’t take long and is a worthy cause!

A Blog of One’s Own

Dear Mum,

After the security of my script diary I drew a bit of a blank with what to blog about next.

It was a bit of a shame to disrupt my script diary with that rant of a blog about Samantha Brick but, like I said, I couldn’t sleep with all of this feminist babble whizzing about my head. The room span.

I think perhaps I ought to clear up a bit more about this subject, though I’m not quite brave enough to approach it. I will endeavour to keep this short and succinct.

I hope I don’t frighten anyone off with my feminist rants. I do not intend to, and I certainly don’t aim to encourage intolerance or make any assumptions about the strengths/weaknesses of the sexes, as several of my feminist uni lecturers certainly did.

(Although I must confess when helping out in your class, Mum, a group of six year old boys persisted in exclaiming “boys are better than girls.” You’ll be pleased to hear I upheld my end of the debate).

I have thus far lived a comfortable, largely prejudice-free (I have faced some opposition to my state education) existence.

I don’t have any cause for complaint, which I think is the root of my feminist attitude.  

I thought we’d moved from simplistic, belittling attitudes toward women. The past one hundred years has seen daughter/wife/spinster instead become Woman, no longer defined by her marital status.

My eyes were first opened to the trials of women by my degree. I shan’t bore you with the details but if anyone wants to hear more about whether or not Austen’s heroines were lucky in marriage please pop the kettle on and I’ll be right over.

More recently ‘Mad Men’ has exploded onto the scene and I am the only person in the world who cannot watch the programme.

I realise it’s different, it’s a refreshing concept, the costumes are fabulous, Jon Hamm is a dish and it offers wonderfully dramatic moments. (I do remember January Jones shooting pigeons in her garden, a cigarette dangling out of her mouth).

But I personally find the sexist attitudes, double standards and derogatory treatment of women unbearable. Ridiculous, I know. I’m not a 1950’s housewife. And thank heavens for that, because I clearly wouldn’t make a good one.

I find it best not to watch it. That way I’m not rolling my eyes and tutting at the fictional entertainment (I know it’s not real life – BUT, importantly, it once was!) and ruining if for those watching it with me.

Then there are magazines. I’m not a massive magazine reader. I find them quite patronising – “10 ways to achieve the impossible”, “6 utterly obvious suggestions to improve your situation” and “5 ways to wear a blouse”.

I can think of just one, which has worked well for me so far, thank you.

Then there are the adverts. Forgetting that the women are all slim, high-cheekboned Amazonians, more often than not they look evocative and desirous. And I don’t think it’s desire for a slap up cooked breakfast.  

Their heads thrown back – but not in “I just heard a brilliant fart joke and can’t stop laughing” way, as this is often accompanied by them touching their lips – perhaps with their arms behind their head, or looking moodily into the camera.

How does this appeal to women???

I can’t be faffing around, leaning alluringly against graffiti walls in a brand’s new maxi dress, my lips in a permanent pout. It doesn’t look comfortable. And, frankly, she looks like a bit of a cretin, a bit puzzled by the camera.

This is not to say I think women should be straight and stony faced, constantly wearing a dark coloured over coat, keeping their mouths firmly fastened. Far from it.

I was required to wear a uniform in my summer job, 2011. This consisted of an ankle length black skirt and a black blazer, my feet, hands and face offering tiny flashes of skin.

It was very hot, very uncomfortable and VERY unattractive.

One woman in her 60’s told me I looked ridiculous and a bit unhappy and proceeded to repeat this to my supervisor.

Where is the middle ground? We’re not in a Dickens novel!

So, to conclude, I am a modern feminist who has lived a wonderfully unprejudiced life. As a result, hearing of the past gets be hot and bothered and glimpses of lingering sexism makes me want whack the TV/magazine/sexist individual with a high heel shoe.

But, fortunately, I have a blog of my own to express these concerns in a more civilised and articulate fashion. 

Walking into the sunset...

Dear Mum,

Well... ‘A Fear of Buttons’ (inspiration taken from a blog a few months back) has been signed, sealed and (hopefully) delivered - my debut as a scriptwriter.

In typical form, the printer ran out of ink on the day that I sought to print the script. Having advised Pippa to get her dissertation bound at least 24 hours before her hand-in day for fear of fire, flood or an exhaustive queue at Rymans, fate decided to play an ironic trick on me.

Panic ensued. I called Dad to assist. After a couple of attempts he managed to get it sorted.

It then failed once more, the black type gradually fading down the pages like a Deluxe colour chart, ranging from ‘Vivid Slate’ to ‘Pale Pewter.’

I copied and pasted the section I needed into a new document and emailed it to Dad.

This was an error. He very kindly printed off the last 12 pages which were saved in the new document; page 27 now being page 1, page 28 being page 2, page 29 being page 3, and so on. Bugger.

Like a child lovingly adding final touches to a project, I then had to cut white label stickers into tiny 0.50 cm x 0.50 cm square pieces and scrawl miniscule page numbers inside these perimeters before clumsily pushing them down onto the wrong printed page numbers.

I don’t mind telling you it is not a work of art. I mean the script, not the improvised numbering system – though this is also no work of art, the black smudges being notable proof of this.

It is not a life-changing script. It is no Richard Curtis.

But then I am not Richard Curtis. I am Lucy and I’m hoping a little piece of me can be found in that script. It is meant to be both amusing and touching. Both simple and subtly complex. Both serious and mocking.

I don’t anticipate anything to ever come of it. No doubt I’ll read it in a few months time and cringe at it. But it was a wonderfully fun exercise; coming up with characters, taking inspiration from the language of those around me, tying ideas together.

It has also made me think that, perhaps, I should just start writing a novel. As said in ‘One Small Step’ I do have a strong idea but I don’t feel ready to seriously broach this yet. So, a bit like Ian McEwan biding his time with ‘Atonement’ by first penning lesser novels, perhaps I should think about writing something else in the mean time... 

One giant leap for me

Dear Mum,

The photographs of family and friends that line my walls and shelves have been privy to a one woman show this weekend.

Their silence as I took my bow implied they were very severely underwhelmed by my script and its performance – I’m realistic, doubting their silence was reflective of their wonder at the spectacle.

I performed in my pyjamas, hair unwashed, no make-up on. It’s not a surprise they didn’t seem impressed. I didn’t bother changing my voice for different characters. I didn’t even try with the special effects – a dog barking being substituted by a weedy ‘woof’ whispered by yours truly.

Their reactions were not, however, my chief concern. The mission of this exercise was to time my script as if it were being presented.

As I paced my bedroom floor, stopwatch in hand, I was elated to learn that the script’s performance took 29 minutes and eleven seconds.

Scripts for the BBC Writers Room are meant to be at least thirty minutes in length. As previously mentioned, I did not have the facilities for sounds effects and I did not hugely worry about dramatic pauses etc. At times I also slightly rushed the dialogue, anxious to be sure about the length and flow of the piece (as discussed last week).

And yet I have produced 29 minutes of dialogue. The relief! It was celebrated with a vodka lime and lemonade and an embarrassing dance to ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ around my bedroom. Friends and relatives continued to look unimpressed.

This week requires a huge trip to the post office – sending endless forms to banks and a tetchy letter to the student loans company. Plus, of course, the script – with the required cover sheet, properly formatted, secured by a bulldog clip, all just as the BBC Writers Room specifies.

Trying to not think about the costing of this trip (cheers, Royal Mail, for the new costs of postage – let’s just say you won’t be getting a Christmas card from me this year) I am feeling both excited and anxious about posting the script off.

It will be read again and again and again before then. Sorry friends and family who look at me from the surrounding photoframes. You’ve not heard the end of this yet...

A step back, but now I’m back on track!

Dear Mum,

Apologies for the unscheduled rant of last week’s blog. Last Thursday I watched the final episode of ‘Meet the Romans’ and then slightly obsessively Googled Mary Beard’s name (as she is my new hero - her response to AA Gill was one of the most intelligent and well written articles written ). Samantha Brick’s comments then appeared...

I was not Samantha Brick’s greatest fan prior to these remarks. I couldn’t sleep – her comments and attitudes, clearly gained because of the rose tinted glasses she has permanently affixed to her face, kept me mulling over her foolish ways.

I had to jot down all my thoughts before I slept and forgot them all, as this happens too much for my liking. [My most genius moments definitely happen on the brink of sleep]. And then I wrote her the letter.

Anyway, despite this relapse, I have had a bit of a look at the script. It is all properly formatted, double checked for spellings and I think the language is itself 99% there.

The next step is to read it aloud, checking timings and flow.

‘Flow’ is a funny use of phrase. I don’t just mean this in a Miranda way; saying it again and again and again means it starts to sound a bit bizarre.

Flow flow flow flow flow flow flow flow flow flow flow flow flow flow flow .

It is a damn useful term of phrase. I remember very distinctly we weren’t allowed to use it in GCSE English, teachers informing us that it was not a proper description, not successfully explaining why a poem was succinct, pithy and...well...flowed.

When it came to university, we could drop the word willy-nilly into essays. Lecturers harped on and on about how this stanza of Wordsworth flows.

I agree it doesn’t sounds as impressive as ‘level narrative trajectory’ but ‘flow’ does simply do what it says.

Anyway, I digress. I am absolutely putting off reading the script aloud. I’m a bit embarrassed to do it. I will have to ensure the house is empty before I start my one woman show in the privacy of my bedroom.

I think it’s also fear. I’m praying it’s 30 minutes in length else I am going to have to edit and/or contribute more dialogue. As I have less than a fortnight now, this would be another step back.

So I won’t be entering any other names into Google this week, for fear of it inspiring me to pull out my soap box and make a public declaration of disgust.

But I am making a little list of issues to thrash out once my script has been sent. Lovely jubly! In the meantime, all I can do is go with the flow...

**We interrupt this programme with a letter for Samantha Brick**

Dear Samantha,

I am pausing my script diary as I cannot remain silent any longer.

You really do seem to have had a tough time of it, Samantha. Clearly, as you stated in your Daily Mail article a month ago, looking that good simply isn’t easy. Thank you for opening my eyes to this.

And heavens above! You must be a real stunner if women refuse to talk to you, threatened by your beautiful exterior. I would’ve though it was because of your arrogance, your egotism, your blinkered vision. That goes to show how ill-informed I am. I must be very plain indeed if I’ve never experienced and failed to recognise this social failing in women.

Indeed, I don’t think I’ve ever isolated a beautiful woman because I felt threatened by their beauty.

If they are beautiful but a bit wet or, far worse, an unkind person, I recoil and the woman loses their wonderful looks, a bit like Hal finds in Shallow Hal. If they are beautiful and charismatic, or beautiful and pleasant, I instead desperately want to be friends with them, which explains why all of my girlfriends are beautiful. (I also once developed a crush on a female lecturer – she was a total babe, but this sadly grew into an unhealthy obsession. Grossly unhealthy, in fact, which my uni friends can testify to).  

Poor Samantha! You have faced some pretty personal and cruel remarks, and all based on your off the charts sexy-scale rating.

But this is where little plain me would like to give you some advice, woman to woman. So I hope you’re paying attention, Sam. Do you mind if I call you Sam???

I don’t think writing about it in a national newspaper was a sensible idea. Controversial of me, I know!

Obviously distracted by all of those horrible women ignoring you, you forgot the most prominent trait of the nation. We like modesty. This was your first error. Your haughty and self-pitying article was not the right move to make you the next Kate Middleton, or Beyonce, or Lily Cole. All beautiful, warm, modest women who, importantly, have somehow managed to keep their female friends. How do they do it, Sam?

Your second error was turning on your fellow women, painting a pretty dismal image of womankind, not only in the form of women’s nasty reactions to your looks but your, dare I repeat it, unprofessional declaration about your awful situation.

Which brings me to your recent comments about Mary Beard and the reason for my finally settling down to write to you.

I’m finding it a little difficult to understand how you point the finger at women, saying they exclude you purely based upon your looks, and then you (guilty as charged) do exactly the same thing, saying Mary Beard should not present on TV because of her – in your opinion – unpresentable looks.

Tut tut tut. This is rather hypocritical and very naïve, Sam.

Besides which, both you and AA Gill fail to recognise that Mary is not on TV to present Miss World but researches and fronts an educational programme in a field she excels in.

I’d be willing to bet money that the people watching ‘Meet the Romans’ were not anticipating 300 with the drop-dead-gorgeous Lena Headey (who, of course, looks like Gollum next to you, Sam). Most people simply wanted to be informed by a leading and charismatic academic, just as people have been watching Lucy Worsley or Bettany Hughes.

Indeed, all three women are firstly academics or historians and do a bit of TV on the side. Furthermore, the fact that Mary’s programme is called ‘Meet the Romans with Mary Beard’ emphasises her prominent standing as a well-informed Classicist with a strong following of academics, students, and your average Joes (which is you and me, Sam).

So, while being unkind to Mary yourself, Sam, you also failed to recognise what her programme is about.

The third episode, by the way, as I’m assuming you did not watch it (I expect you were in a photoshoot or being bought drinks by a stud at the time) was about the Romans being all-inclusive, welcoming everyone into their fold. Doesn’t that sound lovely, Sam?

In reality, you have not practiced that which you preached. You have been isolated, and isolated others. You have been bullied, and you have bullied others. And worse still, Sam, you have done this to your fellow women.

And that’s why I’m writing. I can forgive you your superiority, I can forget your cruel words, I will do my utmost not to reject you because I envy your looks (though I can’t make any promises) but, Sam…. Where is your sense of sisterhood?

It’s time you took a leaf out of Caitlin Moran’s book. Lead by example, Sam, and honour your fellow women by keeping in mind all that our sisters have been through to enable you to be a journalist, say what you think, vote and wear trousers.

But I think I’ve said quite enough. As my Grandad used to say ‘I may not be smart, but I’m smart enough to know when to keep quiet.’

Your fellow sister,

Lucy