Fist-shaking at Facebook

I imagine, that, like me, you've spent much of your time crafting your very existence so that you avoid the things that you know frustrate you.

Facebook, however, seems so intimately woven into the fabric of social exchange and engagement now that I find it difficult to avoid. Hence my daily fist-shaking.

Today's gem?

If by using inverted commas around the mysteriously all-cap-sed fish, you mean fantastical, pretend fish—things masquerading as fish, or simply entirely made-up fish—then let's name four:

One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish.

Fuck you, Facebook, and all the banal, soul-crushing stupidity you stand for.*

*Yeah, I probably feel a little too strongly about this.

Mind-blowing lines #30

In No Country for Old Men, Moss gives a hitchhiking runaway this advice:

It's not about knowing where you are. It's about thinking you got there without taking anything with you. Your notions about starting over. Or anybody's. You don't start over. That's what it's about. Ever step you take is forever. You can't make it go away. None of it.

Every step you take is forever. So many people are paralysed by that thought. What if we make the wrong decision, take a wrong step? Or, we think things are so bad that if we can't get another start, we'd rather be dead.

But for some reason, it galvanises me to action: is this my forever? Lord no. Is what I have what I want as the sum total of what I can't make go away? No.

Time to make plans.

Letters—the writing of

Of these two stories, I should have clicked the one on the left. But of course I didn't.

Who needs to read what the future is for books? There will be more of them. End of story.

What's more intriguing is the matter of the love letter. Who writes love letters now? No one. No one I know of. People can barely bother to use entire words in a text message (myself all too frequently included), let alone concentrate long enough to write an entire letter.

And to put one's most intimate feelings into print—even the handwritten variety? It seems old-school, outdated, something from a distant, half-forgotten epoch when people had both the time to meditate on such things, and the balls to put those tender sentiments down on paper.

But I am all for love letters—the writing of, the reading of, mine, yours, a former PM's. And ordinary postcards and letters and emails as well.

What's not to write? What's not to love?

Fluking it

Most of the time, I forget what I've written as soon as it's on the page. So if someone gives me good feedback about something, I have to go back and open the file and actually look at it again. Even if—as in the case of a recent piece—mere days have passed since I did the work.

And usually I can't even remember constructing the sentences. Heavens, I think. Can't remember writing that. Sounds ok though. Oh well. Fluke, I guess.

Putting pen to paper professionally is one thing. After years writing for commercial entities, I've managed to extract every ounce of myself from the work—except a commitment to what I think is quality, and to having fun—so the pleasure extracted from clients' recognition of success is superficial, short-lived.

They're all happy accidents.

But a recent post on a friend's blog got me thinking beyond commoditized copy. When was the last time I put myself into something I wrote, without the fear (or: goal) of assessment? Aeons ago, and more aeons.

But as Mme Canada and I agreed in conversation today, if you don't have that thick skin—if you actually do put yourself into something—and then it is good, well, shit. How the hell are you gonna pull that off next time?

It seems like the ultimate fluke: to find that something within yourself has managed to conjure something good. How can that be? What did you do? Can you do it again?

No wonder novelists are all alcoholics with bitten-down fingernails who kick their cats.

Labours of love

I read this today, and remembered the thrill of seeing the first little book I ever had printed.

It was an illustrated story book for a particular friend. I wrote it, obviously, and edited and proofed it, and I paid to have a friend of a friend—who's an illustrator—do the pics.

Finally I had it printed and leather-bound with an embossed cover, all in time for my friend's birthday—a sort of extreme love letter, I suppose.

The thrill of having this thing in my hands was unbelievable, and unexpected. I'd had a chapbook printed in the States by a little publisher who was selling it through his site, but that was printed on a home printer and stapled together and, well, it looked like it.

But this, this was a proper book. And it was glorious. Delightful. Mind-blowing.

True, I didn't finance a print run like the Brontes. But I did take a story and make it into a book. Even if it was just the one. Forget online self-publishing services, I say. Get the thing bound by a human and you'll be much happier.

After that, I made a couple of other books the same way. Most of the thrill came from going right to the edge and standing on the self-made precipice, saying, "this thing is good enough to justify illustrations and binding."

Saying, "I hope you like this" as you give something you made to someone you love.

I've been coauthor on a couple of commercial print books since, but who cares? There's no thrill in that: dispensable publications, written to a brief for an unseen audience. They were the kind of thing you might read, then leave on the shelf to collect dust for years to come.

But a real story, written and produced just for you? That's something. To make that for someone? That is something too.

A little library-induced terror

Today when I tried to put a hold on a library book, like it was 1980, I got a message saying my membership had expired. Perhaps because I hadn't used the library since approximately 1980.

The problem with libraries is the pressure. You borrow a book, you need to take it back. Or renew it, or pay fines. There's no scope for the kind of ponderous reading in which I now specialise. There's no scope for getting tied up with something else—or several something elses—when you're halfway through the borrowed book.

Where's the pleasure in that? I currently have five books on the go—well, four, since I finished one this morning. Each is different and suits a different mood. Only one of them (which I won't name, since I'm sure you can guess it) was compelling enough to demand daily reading.

So why am I returning to the library after all this time? Because the book I wanted costs $50 second-hand. That's it.

Of course, it's not impossible that this renewal of my borrowing privileges might inspire some additional reading. A little something more from David Sedaris, whose back catalogue is too numerous to purchase? Perhaps the latest from Jared Diamond?

Time will tell, friends. While the thought of borrowing, and having books overdue, and paying fines, fills me with an inexplicable terror, goddamn it, I want to read about bunyips.

What can you do?

Possibly the best book I've ever read

I know: enormous call. But I'm making it: Bastard Tongues is the best.

It's a swashbuckling, world-touring, gung-ho tale of one linguist's adventures in researching and understanding Creole languages.

So far he's been to Ghana, Guyana, places in South America and the Caribbean too numerous to mention, (England) and now, Hawaii.

He's also intrigued this little reader as to the nature and grammar of Creolese—and as to the meaning of whatever the hell it is he's about to unearth in Hawaii.

I have some inkling already, having read his later books. But I don't know the details, and this particular  backstory is a fabulous one.

This book is literally unputdownable. I'm not kidding. Buy it, buy it now.

Incidentally, I'm also working up to write to him, as I'm wont to do.