‘Scuse the dodgy pun, but the news headlines are so full of them today I feel entitled to let my own authorial standards slip a notch. And why not? It’s symptomatic of the relaxed relief that buoys the air today following the election of Barack Obama as American President. The interweb and bloggersphere is awash with euphoria and congratulations, so I might as well pitch in my oar.
And sure, I hear he’s Irish anyway
The big excitment stateside seems to stem from the fact that he is the first black President. To someone like me, from the other side of the pond, his colour or race was never an issue. But the outpouring from the African-American community last night reminds me how much of a big issue race is over in the States. When I heard the black vox-pop on the news saying things like “we’ve taken over the White House”, and “we’re running this show now,” it only proves how frighteningly close to the surface racial tensions simmer. I can understand why Obama distanced himself from using the black ticket in his campaign, choosing instead to colour his campaign in a more ameloriating and unifying mixed-race hue (oops, there goes the pun again).
But I am glad for the African-American community today. They have had a brutal history and deserve their day in the sun and the glory of a President who reflects their heritage. I wish them all the best that it brings.
For me, the joy and relief I feel is nothing to do with the colour of the man’s skin. Part of me didn’t really care whether Obama or McCain won. Either victor could have heralded a new era free from the reign of the awful George W. Bush/Dick Cheney. What pleases me about the result is that the Republicans have been ousted. Even if McCain had won it, I would have had this niggling fear that — despite his experience — the old Republication Bush machinery might still have been running somewhere, influencing the new inhabitant of 1600 Pennsyvania Avenue.
That the Republicans could have forwarded George W. Bush as a candidate in 2000 forever diminished them in my view. I was amazed, and disappointed, at the American people for voting him in, and there has always been a question mark over his legitimacy as President since that fateful day in Florida in 2000. What amazed and disappointed me even more and what I will never understand is why dubya was voted in for a second term. I’m sure fear played a big part in it, but I lost some esteem for American citizens that day in 2004 when they didn’t display the courage to kick that disasterous administration out of the White House. The financial catastrophe of the last few months mightn’t have been so bad for them, and for all of us, if they could have shown yesterday’s courage earlier, back in 2004.
The redemptive vote they took yesterday might just wipe out that mistake — although Obama will have his work cut out for him. (Thanks W.)
Let’s hope the Democrats, under Barack Obama, can re-build America and even re-invigorate the world. Hope is a wonderful thing.
On the heels of my previous buoyant blog post came the sad news that Michael Crichton has died, at a mere 66 years of age. He was one of my influences; he pioneered the acceptability of science-fiction concepts in mainstream publishing and launched many other visionary projects. Very sad.
I’ve been coming down after completing the final edit of the novel. It’s that strange period writers talk about, when space is needed between ending one project and beginning another. My mind is freewheeling in the same high gear as the end of the last novel, but it can’t yet be shifted into low gear to drive any new project, not until its idle speed falls back to neutral. You know what hopping from fourth to first gear does to your car – imagine what it could do to your mind!
It is time for an essential literary detox, a purging of the muse, a writing palate clensing sorbet, a crash from the creative high.
Eventually, my mind will turn again to the new project, but it normally has to do it in its own time. On this, it can’t be forced. But I’ll know when it is ready. Last week, after watching Spooks (one of my favourite shows), plot ideas for Zero Day started popping into my mind in the shower. It won’t be long now before I won’t be able to get the new story out of my mind.
In the mean time, I’m catching up on submissions and a pile of reading.
I’ve heard most writers say they write either late at night or early morning, which tallys with the findings that afternoon is generally the least creative time of the day.
I shall make an appointment for 10.04 pm every night, to be out looking at the stars waiting for the next ingenius plot twist to strike!
I’ve always been fascinated by Japanese culture, perhaps because to a young Irish boy it seemed so alien and exotic and eccentric compared to our Western norms. I did a lot of research on Japan for the novel, and my head is still swimming in the invigorating pool of Japanese culture. I don’t think you can ever really fully understand a culture unless you’ve grown up in it. Outsiders just get privileged glimpses of understanding.
However, it was great fun. I think I’m turning Japanese.
To the casual observer I must appear as un-Japanese as possible — a tall Irish Caucasian lug! And yet I feel an affinity with Japan: maybe it’s my love of baths; maybe it’s my love of electronic gadgets; maybe it’s because the road where I grew up was lined with cherry blossoms (or sakura as we Japanese call it!) ; maybe it’s because of my fondness for meditative ways and unobstrusive, demure, polite people.
Or maybe it’s because Ireland is mooted to be following Japan into a prolonged 80’s-style property-induced economic crash!
I think we’re turning Japanese … I really think so.
So the rejection came back this morning. They certainly move fast in that agency; it seems my tardiness on this occasion didn’t sit well with that admirable ethic after all.
To be frank, I didn’t expect a request for a full. You just get so used to rejection slips (not that I’ve had that many) that, for the sake of your mental well-being, you discount the possibility of an agent actually liking the submission. That thinking caught me out this time.
Ah well, lesson learned!
So while I consider what do with Broken Evolution now, whether and which agents to try, it’s time to start planning the next novel.
Did you know that worldwide the money made by cyber-criminals outstrips the money made by the illegal drugs trade? I smell a novel in that little fact. Time for my new character, Ania, to get busy and meet an old character.
The re-write and edit of my novel Broken Evolution is over, and has been sent to an agent who requested it. I hope the improvements will work in my favour, and the five week delay in getting to the agent won’t be held against me!
An interesting little irony – on the week that I finished Broken Evolution, the geneticist Steve Jones gave a lecture, saying that human evolution is over. Am I tapping a vein in the zeitgeist here? I suppose the premise of my book is that, while natural selection might be over, we might be embarking on a lateral step in human evolution instead. The theme came through nicely in the re-write, this time via the plot – where all themes should.
There was also the minor matter of a global economic meltdown during the week.
Evolution is over. Capitalism is dead.
Maybe Douglas Adams was right; it was a bad idea coming down from the trees in the first place. Time to go back up.
I’ve been a bit quiet on my blog lately, but with reason. I’ve received a full manuscript request from an agent, so I’m busily tying up the last draft of Broken Evolution.
It’s the weekend and I feel the need the relax, to take time out from forums and writing and programming and phone calls. So I take up Karoo and start reading. I read this:
It is relaxing, playing the image Cromwell has given me to play.
I had forgotten the mindless comfort of being an image instead of a human being.
It’s not a lack of willpower that makes me go along with the charade of playing the image I’ve been given to play.
There are benefits.
I need a break from being.
Everyone, I think, needs an occasional break from being.
In those few sentances, the author captures how I feel at that very moment. Writing, I often think, is a form of displaced communication. The author is displaced from the reader in time and space, but the aim is to communicate emotion, fellowship, and solidarity with another human being. It is the great honour of being an author that you can never know who is reading your work, where, or when.
The author of Karoo is Steve Tesich. He died shortly after completing it. I am having displaced communication with a man who knows exactly how I feel at this moment in time, a man I have never met, a man I never will meet, a man who is dead. I understand and feel now what he knew and felt then. Our conversation goes beyond time and space, perhaps to another dimension beyond any scientific understanding. It is magical.
So, today is submissions Monday. I have a handful of them lined up to send out. I made one submission on-line. Normally I only like posting them, even though I am a techophile. I received an e-mail confirmation response from a robot:
“Thank you for submitting your work to us!”
with the subject title:
“Submissions Robot – Do Not Reply”
It’s the personal touch that really makes this writing business, and what a far cry from the faceless, cold IT industry I yearn to forsake someday! Oh, the humanity!
So the rejection came back this morning. They certainly move fast in that agency; it seems my tardiness on this occasion didn’t sit well with that admirable ethic after all.