anactoria: (fairy)
I don't know anything about the site I found this on, but it seems like a pretty awesome article. I don't think male privilege over women is the only place in which it applies, although that's what the author concentrates on.

(Just a warning: if you do read it, you might want to avoid the comments, some of them are pretty headdesk-inducing.)
anactoria: (fairy)
I don't know anything about the site I found this on, but it seems like a pretty awesome article. I don't think male privilege over women is the only place in which it applies, although that's what the author concentrates on.

(Just a warning: if you do read it, you might want to avoid the comments, some of them are pretty headdesk-inducing.)
anactoria: (Default)
Thanks for the mystery gift, mystery person! But do I ever get to find out what it is? :(
anactoria: (Default)
Thanks for the mystery gift, mystery person! But do I ever get to find out what it is? :(
anactoria: (nom nom)
Thank you, anonymous cookie-buyer! ♥
anactoria: (nom nom)
Thank you, anonymous cookie-buyer! ♥
anactoria: (Default)
I got a Twitter account, because apparently turning my eyes to mush by staring at LJ for 25 hours a day isn't enough.

Anybody else on there?
anactoria: (Default)
I got a Twitter account, because apparently turning my eyes to mush by staring at LJ for 25 hours a day isn't enough.

Anybody else on there?
anactoria: (Default)
So I've handed in the draft of my second chapter and finished (regular) work for the summer, and I'm rediscovering the reading of actual books, for pleasure rather than work purposes! I'm currently about halfway through Sixteen Shades of Crazy by Rachel Trezise, with whose writing I have a kind of love-hate relationship. On the one hand, it's often pretty bad. Her prose is often stilted and riddled with clichés, she nicks lines from song lyrics and plonks them in where she thinks no-one will notice, and seriously, nearly every chapter in this novel begins in the same, "It was Wednesday night, and Ellie was walking home from work..."/"It was Saturday, and Ellie was on her way to the pub..." format.

However. Her first novel, In and Out of the Goldfish Bowl, suffered from the same faults (uneven plotting, heavy-handedness, greeting-card shorthand) to a much greater degree, and -- aside from the ending, which I like to just ignore -- I loved it. It was a thinly fictionalised version of Trezise's own teenage diaries, and very much read that way, but it also had the kind of undisguised emotional rawness that's more familiar to me from confessional poetry and Courtney Love records than novels. Trezise writes about life in the South Wales valleys, and there's something in the way she captures it that really resonates very strongly with me. I'm from the Eastern Valleys, not the Rhondda (though I do spend a hell of a lot of time there) but at the heart of it I think the issue is the same. It's not just the unemployment and rampant drug use (which is worse there than here, I believe) but the sense of being caught between aspiration and a desire to get the hell out, and a wish to remain loyal to a national identity and a culture which can often be insular, somewhat sexist, and vehemently, proudly anti-intellectual. The way she handles that in the psychology of her protagonist, Ellie, has been beautiful so far. I'm actually almost afraid to carry on reading, in case the ugly revelations which will no doubt come out later in the novel hit too close to home. ;)

She also has an occasionally brilliant ear for dialogue. ("And rub ewer foundation in. Ewe look like a fuckin' baked bean." Something I've often felt the urge to say to say to girls on the valley line train, though not in so many words, they'd probably punch me.)

In other news, I'm heading up to sunny Cambridge tomorrow to visit my sister and hopefully imbibe quite a lot of wine. I'll post up the next section of The Deadly Light sometime on Wednesday, I expect.
anactoria: (Default)
So I've handed in the draft of my second chapter and finished (regular) work for the summer, and I'm rediscovering the reading of actual books, for pleasure rather than work purposes! I'm currently about halfway through Sixteen Shades of Crazy by Rachel Trezise, with whose writing I have a kind of love-hate relationship. On the one hand, it's often pretty bad. Her prose is often stilted and riddled with clichés, she nicks lines from song lyrics and plonks them in where she thinks no-one will notice, and seriously, nearly every chapter in this novel begins in the same, "It was Wednesday night, and Ellie was walking home from work..."/"It was Saturday, and Ellie was on her way to the pub..." format.

However. Her first novel, In and Out of the Goldfish Bowl, suffered from the same faults (uneven plotting, heavy-handedness, greeting-card shorthand) to a much greater degree, and -- aside from the ending, which I like to just ignore -- I loved it. It was a thinly fictionalised version of Trezise's own teenage diaries, and very much read that way, but it also had the kind of undisguised emotional rawness that's more familiar to me from confessional poetry and Courtney Love records than novels. Trezise writes about life in the South Wales valleys, and there's something in the way she captures it that really resonates very strongly with me. I'm from the Eastern Valleys, not the Rhondda (though I do spend a hell of a lot of time there) but at the heart of it I think the issue is the same. It's not just the unemployment and rampant drug use (which is worse there than here, I believe) but the sense of being caught between aspiration and a desire to get the hell out, and a wish to remain loyal to a national identity and a culture which can often be insular, somewhat sexist, and vehemently, proudly anti-intellectual. The way she handles that in the psychology of her protagonist, Ellie, has been beautiful so far. I'm actually almost afraid to carry on reading, in case the ugly revelations which will no doubt come out later in the novel hit too close to home. ;)

She also has an occasionally brilliant ear for dialogue. ("And rub ewer foundation in. Ewe look like a fuckin' baked bean." Something I've often felt the urge to say to say to girls on the valley line train, though not in so many words, they'd probably punch me.)

In other news, I'm heading up to sunny Cambridge tomorrow to visit my sister and hopefully imbibe quite a lot of wine. I'll post up the next section of The Deadly Light sometime on Wednesday, I expect.
anactoria: (hello cthulhu)
I swear I'm more nervous marking essays than I ever was writing them and handing them in. WHAT IF I GET IT WRONG? THAT'S SOMEONE'S DEGREE!

Matters are not helped by the fact that all I really want to do is write about Dan trying to stop Rorschach and Adrian from killing each other while they investigate nefarious cults. Shouldn't there be some way of switching fannishness off while you're trying to do the stuff you actually get paid for?
anactoria: (hello cthulhu)
I swear I'm more nervous marking essays than I ever was writing them and handing them in. WHAT IF I GET IT WRONG? THAT'S SOMEONE'S DEGREE!

Matters are not helped by the fact that all I really want to do is write about Dan trying to stop Rorschach and Adrian from killing each other while they investigate nefarious cults. Shouldn't there be some way of switching fannishness off while you're trying to do the stuff you actually get paid for?
anactoria: (Default)
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Aww man, The Dark Crystal. It was on telly every school holiday, without fail, when I was a kid, and it terrified and fascinated me in equal measure. I really wish I'd never re-watched it. I couldn't get over the fact they were so obviously puppets, and it lost its magic for me. (Ogra was still awesome though.)
anactoria: (Default)
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Aww man, The Dark Crystal. It was on telly every school holiday, without fail, when I was a kid, and it terrified and fascinated me in equal measure. I really wish I'd never re-watched it. I couldn't get over the fact they were so obviously puppets, and it lost its magic for me. (Ogra was still awesome though.)

So, uh...

Apr. 19th, 2010 11:57 pm
anactoria: (kitty)
Would anyone out there be willing to give my ridiculous Watchmen/Petshop of Horrors ficlet a quick beta, whenever I get it finished (which will be whenever I get over this "Oh my god my writing sucks, I'll never be as good as [insert Writer X here] and everyone hates it anyway" mood. WOE IS ME.)?

I don't think you really have to know much about PSoH canon to understand it, since at the moment most of it seems to revolve around Adrian going "Hmm. This man is making me uncomfortable. There is no earthly reason why he should be making me uncomfortable. I AM VERY DISAPPOINTED IN MYSELF," and being confused.

So, uh...

Apr. 19th, 2010 11:57 pm
anactoria: (kitty)
Would anyone out there be willing to give my ridiculous Watchmen/Petshop of Horrors ficlet a quick beta, whenever I get it finished (which will be whenever I get over this "Oh my god my writing sucks, I'll never be as good as [insert Writer X here] and everyone hates it anyway" mood. WOE IS ME.)?

I don't think you really have to know much about PSoH canon to understand it, since at the moment most of it seems to revolve around Adrian going "Hmm. This man is making me uncomfortable. There is no earthly reason why he should be making me uncomfortable. I AM VERY DISAPPOINTED IN MYSELF," and being confused.
anactoria: (gwen)
[When you see this, post a poem in your journal.]

Storm Warnings

The glass has been falling all the afternoon,
And knowing better than the instrument
What winds are walking overhead, what zone
Of grey unrest is moving across the land,
I leave the book upon a pillowed chair
And walk from window to closed window, watching
Boughs strain against the sky

And think again, as often when the air
Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting,
How with a single purpose time has traveled
By secret currents of the undiscerned
Into this polar realm. Weather abroad
And weather in the heart alike come on
Regardless of prediction.

Between foreseeing and averting change
Lies all the mastery of elements
Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter.
Time in the hand is not control of time,
Nor shattered fragments of an instrument
A proof against the wind; the wind will rise,
We can only close the shutters.

I draw the curtains as the sky goes black
And set a match to candles sheathed in glass
Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine
Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defense against the season;
These are the things we have learned to do
Who live in troubled regions.

-Adrienne Rich
anactoria: (gwen)
[When you see this, post a poem in your journal.]

Storm Warnings

The glass has been falling all the afternoon,
And knowing better than the instrument
What winds are walking overhead, what zone
Of grey unrest is moving across the land,
I leave the book upon a pillowed chair
And walk from window to closed window, watching
Boughs strain against the sky

And think again, as often when the air
Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting,
How with a single purpose time has traveled
By secret currents of the undiscerned
Into this polar realm. Weather abroad
And weather in the heart alike come on
Regardless of prediction.

Between foreseeing and averting change
Lies all the mastery of elements
Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter.
Time in the hand is not control of time,
Nor shattered fragments of an instrument
A proof against the wind; the wind will rise,
We can only close the shutters.

I draw the curtains as the sky goes black
And set a match to candles sheathed in glass
Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine
Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defense against the season;
These are the things we have learned to do
Who live in troubled regions.

-Adrienne Rich

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