34,280 out of 50,000 ain't bad

Well, I've done my best. Last year I got the word count but not the quality. This year, I sincerely hope it's the reverse!
As an exercise, it's very useful because you have to be so organised and disciplined in order to do the work without allowing everything else to slide. I joined the NaNoWriMo Spain page on Facebook, and that has been fun too - mutual support without wasting time we haven't got on actually getting together in a bar somewhere!
I can't write without editing, but there's been more writing and less editing this year, or less micro-editing, anyway. Characters have come into focus and developed voices of their own: in some cases, my first impressions of them have turned out to be false - which has been interesting because it's then been a matter of rethinking a back story to get to the character and behaviour I originally had in mind, or working with the new version, which naturally affects where the story is going. Being too rigid leads to two dimensional characters that you couldn't possibly care about. Being too flexible leads to plot anarchy, and a ship that runs aground because everyone's arguing over which direction they're supposed to be sailing in. Or becomes a ghost ship, its crew and passengers doomed to a melancholy twilight existence because the captain's secretly given up and snuck overboard for a cup of tea and an extended sojourn on Facebook...
Anyhoo, not swamped in research this year, although I could probably get a respectable A Level in Physics by the time I've finished, and my long-ago Geography teacher Sister Columba would be bemused at my new-found enthusiasm for the geology of the British Isles.
Not mired in main character's mawkish navel-gazing like last year - when neither I nor she knew who she was or what she was supposed to be doing.
I don't think I've idealised - or idolised - my central characters, and I hope the occasional unsympathetic character gets a proper hearing, rather than being rolled onto the stage in pantomime stocks, under big placards saying 'Boo!' and 'Hiss!'
Still got a coherent plot, on the whole... and I think the structure works. Hope so.
And I think I'll have the first draft finished by the end of the Christmas holiday fortnight. That looks realistic from here, given that there are other also other things to be done in the next five weeks!

NaNoWriMo 2

Last year I did something astonishing, and not a little barmy: 50,000 words in 30 days. This was my first experience of  NaNoWriMo - or National Novel Writing Month - in which some 300,000 otherwise sane people from around the world commit to a 30 day timeframe in which we are supposed to write - not read, rewrite or - in  fact - edit in any way - a bit like this sentence  in fact - until we hit that magic number, after which we can switch off the laptop, reach for the rehydration salts and gold foil wrap, and return pie-eyed and gibbering softly to normal life.  I did it to see if I could do it, and lo - I could and did. Mind you, what was supposed to be a 50,000 word novel turned out to be a 50,000-word half-novel that didn't stand up to scrutiny after the event. But it met the criteria for white water writing: I finished the course and survived - and whoa! What a rush!

So, talking to my brother yesterday I discovered that he's also up for it this year. My husband - whose birthday it is today - has got more sense. That's the wisdom and maturity thing in action, but I'll be 75% of the way through NaNoWriMo by the time I catch up, so ha!

Still, I don't guarantee that I'll manage 50,000 words this year, because there is the small matter of the responsible-and-satisfying day job, also preparations for that festival which it is still FAR too early to mention in polite company, also basic requirements like sleep and the odd spot of ironing, and also wanting to be still married come midnight November 30th...

But I took a similar approach last year, and made it, so we'll just see, shall we?

Last year's Lemonade was rather fab in places but got terribly maudlin as I got more tired. Plus, what should have been - I suppose - a coming-of-age novel for a teen/young adult readership, lost focus as I got too interested in the other characters and generations who figured in the life of the central character. I like novels about families, communities and connections, and I would really like to be able to write one. Something as complete, satisfying and deceptively simple as an egg, rather than the literary equivalent of the kitchen drawer that won't stay shut. 

Anyway. Last year's identical twins and ESP (Oh no, not another twin bond story.....) gives way to this year's non-identical twins and genetic predisposition. Indeed. Evolving, you see. The North-West of England instead of the South-West and south coast. Physics rather than baking. And this one's definitely about and for young teens. I can more or less see and hear Tattie and Philip and their immediate family. I've got the back story and the central puzzle, plus a notion of how it's resolved. I've got ten days to plot the missing elements without actually writing a single word. Then I'll have 30 days to put it all together in a reasonably coherent first draft - which would definitely be an improvement on last year.

In the meantime, it's still October. What a shame you can't stockpile sleep as if it were canned food or toilet rolls.

New needlework blog

Sorry about the mess, but I'm doing so much  knitting and sewing these days that I thought I'd put it all in place where those of us who enjoy such things can wallow together. Meanwhile, those for whom the word crochet recalls the abomination of  70s macrame owls, Fair Isle tank tops, fitted bathrooms in puce and avocado, and living rooms dominated by noxious purple, brown, green or orange wallpaper in interlocking geometric patterns...... well, it's changed a bit since then, but I understand that - like me - you may never fully recover from the trauma. So you just go away and lie down till you feel better, and maybe pop back here from time to time. I tend to pop in during school holidays and then disappear for another three months, so you've got time.

That's right, put your feet up. Breathe. Soon be all better.

Happy New Bed

We've got a new bed: 135cm x 190cm, with a storage base. WoooooooooHOOOOOOooooooooo! I have dreamed of this day. (Actually, it was the day before yesterday. Yesterday was a public holiday, and I spent it rearranging STUFF, and filling the bed base with - oh - a spare duvet.... some extra cushions... and felt, cloth, embroidery materials, beads, rug canvas, yarn, the accumulated and - until now - crammed and less-than-accessible accumulation of years of making things. And half-making things...) I have a confession to make: In the last five years, I have gone from messy (always) to almost pathologically untidy. But I now have reason to believe that I can put a lid on it - or more precisely, a hinged 135cm x 190cm mattress base. (See previous WoooooooooHOOOOOOooooooooo! and double it, adding ridiculous skippy dance in middle of miraculously clear floor.)

I would just say that that I'm also very good at tidying up. I crave order and a sense of spaciousness, and in fact, if these were all I required of my living space, I might well live happily ever after in magnolia-walled, glass-fronted, built-in contentment. However, I love beautiful design and hand-made things around me, and I won't, can't, settle for neutral at home. It may take some time, and I might sometimes wish I could just settle, but that ain't the way it works. And I do have fun. And it nourishes my rather frazzled soul, reassuring me that there's more to us than the sorry shamefulness of what makes the headlines. Art (even art I don't like) speaks to me of human creativity and individual restless questing. In craft traditions I recognise the soul and sense of belonging and sharing. And then there's the broad, shifting Everyman's Land in between, which the academic border guards cannot keep people out of!

In Tony Hillerman's novels about Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn of the Navajo Tribal Police, he writes about the Navajo concept of Beauty, and a way of life informed by the sense of harmony between all things. Clearly, this can be a tad tricky for a police officer (and central character in a crime novel!) but there is a Beauty Way ceremony for when someone needs to restore this harmony.

Walking in Beauty:  Closing Prayer from the Navajo Way Blessing Ceremony

In beauty I walk

With beauty before me I walk

With beauty behind me I walk

With beauty above me I walk

With beauty around me I walk

It has become beauty again

Today I will walk out, today everything negative will leave me

I will be as I was before, I will have a cool breeze over my body.

I will have a light body, I will be happy forever, nothing will hinder me.

I walk with beauty before me. I walk with beauty behind me.

I walk with beauty below me. I walk with beauty above me.

I walk with beauty around me. My words will be beautiful.

In beauty all day long may I walk.

Through the returning seasons, may I walk.

On the trail marked with pollen may I walk.

With dew about my feet, may I walk.

With beauty before me may I walk.

With beauty behind me may I walk.

With beauty below me may I walk.

With beauty above me may I walk.

With beauty all around me may I walk.

In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, lively, may I walk.

In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, living again, may I walk.

My words will be beautiful…

(Brought up Roman Catholic, I was reminded of

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
         Christ behind me, Christ before me,
      Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
         Christ to comfort and restore me,
      Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
         Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
      Christ in hearts of all that love me, 

         Christ in mouth of friend and stranger. 
.. which I have just found out is from a long poem called Lorica, or St Patrick's Breastplate)

Anyway, while I am a bilagáana, the Navajo equivalent of a guíri, I see beauty above me, when I'm out and about in the city with the sky overhead. You can't beat the sky for beauty; even in the past week, when it has seemed best to view it from behind glass, wrapped in a shawl, and sustained by numerous cups of tea. Then there are trees. (Pause for quiet, reverent wow...)

And beauty beside me in the man-made details of thoughtful architecture: planes and angles, windows and doors, patterned brickwork, wrought iron, roof tiles, plasterwork. And the quirky, human happenstance of people's ordinary lives expressed in balconies of strange cacti, laundry, cagebirds singing their hearts out all day long, and solitary chairs and stools angled to catch the sun or shade. And pensioners walking their dogs, and parents pushing toddlers on swings, and the greengrocer who polishes every piece of fruit as he builds his pavement display each morning. More than enough to distract eye, ear and heart from the regular patches of spiritless and bland, and occasional outbreaks of full-on ugly. (O... M... G...!!!!!) Oops. Bad case of urban - beauty within me is always the tricky one, but the others help.

So, can I have beautiful please?  Personally, I lack the spark that makes the artist, the skill and confidence that marks the artesan, and the discipline of either. Forever the amateur, driven by enthusiasm, but hampered by two and a half thumbs and limited time and patience, my progress through painting (acrylics, water colours), drawing (pencils, pastels), needlework (dressmaking, quilting, embroidery, knitting, crochet, weaving), handicrafts (metal sculpture, origami, paper engineering, clay modelling) and gardening (pots, allotment, garden, balcony, terrace) resembles a long series of handbrake turns, or a world record number of driving lessons. Sigh. So, yes, my greatest natural talent appears to be that of creating chaos out of order, like a puppy in a wool basket - Woofdidoo! But now... 135x190... =D

Still, I know what I like, and I like a lot of things. I have a very good eye for colour, line and form. My eyes, ears and skin appreciate texture. So do my nose and taste buds: when my husband emerges from the kitchen in the evening, the fragrant steam rising from plates of home-made pie and gravy - or  salmon, tiny green peas and  dill-speckled sauce - or beer-battered chish & fips - or yesterday's bolognese sauce reworked as chilli con carne on a bed of white basmati - ooh... I succumb...

However, when I aspire to beauty at home, that's when the trouble starts, because as is apparent, I don't just look, I like to make. Now, if I did have real talent or skill (and a sense of direction...), we'd be fine, because I would have a studio for my mess, or would have developed tidy habits over time. But no. Almost inevitably, I start at one end of the sofa, with ideas, assorted materials, and a book or two; subsequently colonising the rest of the sofa, the footstool, sometimes the dining table, and occasionally the sewing machine and ironing board too; bashing away enthusiastically, and gradually narrowing it down to a central idea. I usually get a beautiful result, in the end, but getting there is an object lesson in how much mess one person can generate in a living room in a short time, and then sustain for - oh - however long it takes to work out where she's going, and how to get there. I think I've probably got worse since I  discovered Ravelry and crochet, and the amazing possibilities of a deceptively easy  handicraft that has been hammering at the doors of Art for decades now. Who knew? Oh, only thousands and thousands of people all over the world. Ooh! Freeform! Ooh! Irish crochet! Ooh! Russian crochet! Ooh! sock yarns! hand-dyed yarns! plastic! wire! Working on my skills, reading up, consulting...... If a butterfly took speed... Maybe I should change my user name to What-a-mess.

But storage permits organisation, and organisation permits order, and out of order may just come beauty.

Next time, though I want one of these!

April to May

Well, we're doing all right for April showers. I put the houseplants outside to get the benefit of Thursday's mist, which developed into drizzle later the same day, and a then a whole string of downpours that are going to continue for several days to come..

This was mist, not rain.


These rather battered beauties in yellow, orange and red are ranunculus. I love the way their petals fluff up like tulle underskirts or the leg feathers on fancy chickens, and it was cheering to have full-on sun colours after the beautiful purple and apricot of the winter pansies. As you might expect, they're about as enthusiastic about wind and rain as a socialite at Ascot, so when I saw the weather forecast a few weeks ago, I brought them straight inside. It wasn't so much the forecast of wind, but that the weatherman said that the Tramontana would start at 1 o'clock the next day. A wind so distinctive that it has a name, and you can time its arrival? Duck for cover. Sure enough, the next day, it started: powerful, gusting and sooooo cold; blowing clouds across the sky so fast that rain came and went and came again throughout the days and nights that followed. The temperature dropped abruptly.

In fact, if we're getting the Tramontana, it's with a small t, because the original is cousin to the provençale Mistral, originates in the Pyrenees, and causes mayhem among the good people of Catalonia. But there's still something blowing in from our Sierra Guadarrama - tra our montanas! As for the ranunculus, even indoors, they don't like it, but after sulking for a while, they perked up and were great fun for weeks. Recently, though, they've been moulting like nobody's business. Usually, the first thing I do when I get new plants home is repot them, but these girls' petals are so fragile that I didn't dare, so I suspect they're potbound by now. Definitely not happy, anyway. So I put them out again in Thursday's misty morning air as a treat. Oops.

The Season is definitely over for them.

The herbs are doing well, even the basil (total diva). I love the taste and smell of basil, but the plant's a  bore. We've bought three plants for a full trough to be sure of a plentiful supply. I'm investing in some irrigation gear this year, to save water and my back, but I'm bringing most of the herbs indoors to the glazed terrace, because they didn't cope well with last summer's heat. I do love the sight and smell of them indoors, and of course, the kitchen opens straight onto the glazed terrace, so they'll be really handy for Keef. On the left are last year's lavender and flat Italian parsley, which I thought would thrive outside but it did neither better nor worse than the curly English parsley (not great). So the parsley's coming indoors, as is the basil and oregano. The coriander and mint flourish anywhere, so we'll have some in pots inside, and more in troughs on the terrace.

Also to come -

salad greens

cucumbers, green peppers & red peppers-in-waiting

peas! (and holly in flower)

proto-lemons, which start out as the purple heart of the blossom, and then turn green, and then, if we're lucky, stay on the tree long enough to get big and yellow and delicious

aubergines - there's one right there - so exciting!

and also, most important, shade - work in progress 

      don't know what it is, but it's looking fair to cover the frame of the  parasol that got trashed by the wind last year

and we've got two of them

Jasmine, also heading up and - I hope - over. Scented shade! 

Spring in Madrid

Ravelry makes me happy

In December 2009, I joined Ravelry 'a knit and crochet community'. Online. Now, I have a rather awkward relationship with the virtual world. As a source of information, especially English language information, it's very, very useful for me. But in my experience the word 'community' is frequently hijacked by commercial and political bodies to leverage new markets, or as a useful buzzword for disguising cuts to social funding. And what is communal about staying in, facing a screen?

Ah, but.

Ah, but, when genuinely community-minded people have the vision, skills and taste for hard work to boldly go into the virtual world and create the conditions for a welcoming, inclusive, mutually supportive and downright inspiring community - a community where people from all over the planet can come and grow - even I am won over, no, delighted and excited. And that's what Ravelry is about. Much as Jess envisaged in a blog seven years ago this month.

Running parallel to and enriching my 'real' life I now have this 'place' where I can encounter other people with the same or related interests, who share their knowledge, triumphs, messes and learning curves, people I wouldn't otherwise meet because they live in the UK, or Norway, or Mexico, or the US. It's just like a 'real' club, except it doesn't matter if you have to work late, or you've only got ten minutes, or you can't get a babysitter, or you've no money for the bus, or that you live in a different time zone.

It reminds me a bit of when we were in Dubai, where there's much more of a social mix of cultures, professions and levels of seniority than is common elsewhere in more permanent, and therefore homogeneous, societies. A twelve year old American schoolgirl got in touch. Great-grandmothers who are knitting for new babies. Men Who Knit. OK - that's more common than it used to be. But, Men who Crochet? Yes! People in their fifties and sixties dyeing yarn and selling it through Etsy. Full-time designers and makers. Many blog, some do podcasts, several have books out.   And there are professional and amateur spinners, and weavers, and-and-and-.

And in between, we're at work, or school, or looking after our families, in Russia or China or Estonia or Ireland. It's great. And if you don't speak the language that that wonderful pattern is written in, often someone has translated those instructions from French, or Japanese, or German. It's awe-inspiring, really, how it works.

I must admit, I've only recently moved from lurking, 'favoriting' and leaving the occasional comment, to chats and participating in forums, but I've learnt such a lot - I'm learning all the time - and I've been touched by so many people's enthusiasm for their particular skill, or tradition or discovery. I'm having a ball! I even manage conversations in Spanish, without the pressures of real time dialogue in a second language. And there are groups for teachers and theatre luvvies and gardeners - even a dedicated group of composters who knit and crochet!!! Of course I've joined!

So, here are some of the things I've made and am pleased with. The big discovery for me has been the extraordinary scope and versatility of crochet. I've always been a knitter, and never could get my fingers and thumbs round crochet until a couple of winters ago. Since then, though, I've progressed from fat 5mm diameter hooks and fat, cheap, reasonably stretchy acrylic yarn in stripes and rounds to granny squares and flowers and to snowflakes on 2.5mm hooks and fine cotton - not fine fine, on 1.25mm and 0.6mm (?!?!) hooks, you understand (Never gonna happen.) - and simple tops, to basic Irish crochet, and looking at alternative materials like string, plastic and wire.

Perhaps best of all, my virtual life feeds back into my real life. I'm not talking about my unevenly increasing skill and knowledge, but about discovering how many colleagues do their own thing outside work. It turns out that some of my colleagues are also into crochet or knitting, or working with paper, or making jewellery, or baking or sewing or basketry or clay-modelling. It's nice to know. There's a sense of understanding and being understood that adds another dimension to our relationships. And it makes a change from Facebook.

 

 

Happy Birthday, Ravelry!

¿Conejita feliz? Bunny of Happiness. Choju Giga

I am a happy bunny.... a choju giga (OK, so this is a hare.)

I've just come back from a lecture at the Japan Foundation on the evolving role of the Japanese woman in the modern world, starting with the Confucius-inspired prescription during the Tokagawa shogunate, right up to the present day. It was all in Spanish, and the speaker talked incredibly fast in order to get through her material in an hour and a half....... and I understood it! I am so chuffed with myself! Major milestone!

And next week, the focus is on the Japanese woman in theatre - Noh, Bunraku and Kabuki. I am so looking forward to that, particularly now that I know that however fast the next lecturer speaks, I'll be able to keep up. ¡Qué día frabojoso! (je je je...)

Acabo de asistir en una conferencia en la Fundación Japón, con una profesora muy lista y llena de entusiasmo, pero quiéne habló a la velocidad de un AVE ¡y le entendí casi todo lo que dijó!

Increíble. ¡Una revelación! Es como cuando, hace dos veranos, acompañé a un grupo de alumnos en una visita guiada en un museo..... en español..... y entendí la mayoría de la información. En conversación, me cuesta mucho a entender la mitád de lo que dicen mis amigos españoles, y estaba un poco aprensiva que no entendería la conferencia, pero fui con dos amigas muy simpaticas, y todo pasé bien. ... conejita felíz...

Es parte del Ciclo de conferencias de Primavera, con la tema de 'la mujer japonesa: mito y realidad.

A lo largo del tiempo, diferentes estereotipos de la mujer japonesa han seducido a Occidente, desde la elegancia de las geishas, hasta la sumisión de Madame Butterfly. Imágenes que han atraído la mirada hacia la mujer japonesa y que han suscitado interés en esta figura. Así, la compleja realidad de la mujer japonesa se ha visto ocultada tras los filtros del orientalismo, por un lado, y del machismo, por otro. Es por ello que se dedica el ciclo de conferencias de primavera a la mujer japonesa mito y realidad.

A través del mismo se ofrece la posibilidad de conocer en profundidad las diferencias y las similitudes entre el estereotipo y la mujer japonesa real, sumergiéndonos en los diferentes enfoques propuestos como son el arte, las artes escénicas, la literatura y el mundo actual.

Me he perdido las conferencias sobre la mujer japonesa en la literatura, y a través del arte (que me interesa mucho - soy muy decepcionada), pero asistí ésta tarde (...en el mundo actual), y estoy esperando a la proxima conferencia, la que trate de la mujer japonesa en las artes escenicas - Noh, Bunraku y Kabuuuuuuuuuuuuukiiiiiiiiiii!

Pequeñita aventura en la calle (Que nada arriesga, no gana.)

Pués..... estoy volviendo en casa al fin de la jornada. Hay un hombre paseando el perro (un perrito encantador, como dos fregonas atadas). Me sonrie (el hombre, no el perrito), y dice algo. No oigo bien. Paro.

- ¿Perdón?

- Quiere amor? Busco una mujer, si quiere amor, ¿sí?

- Primero, ¿quizás si hablamos con mi marido...?

-...

Nos reimos, y vuelvo en casa... a mi marido... :)

Y el mes pasado, cuando sustituyé a un compañero que estaba de baja - varón que tiene algunos 28-30 años, con barba - dijeron los alumnos, -¿Eres la madre de Neil?

-Qué no... Neil es irlandes, y yo soy inglésa...

Pangur Ban

I and Pangur Ban, my cat,
'Tis a like task we are at;
Hunting mice is his delight,
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill will;
He, too, plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry thing to see
At our task how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
Into the hero Pangur's way;
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den.
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Ban, my cat and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine, and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade ;
I get wisdom day and night,
Turning Darkness into light.'

Translation by Robin Flowers

NaNoWriMo - Done!

See what I can do once I scrap the deadline pressure - meet the deadline! Yay! I went to bed at 5, went off to work at 49,132, with 868 words left to write. Tonight: 50,475. I rest my laptop.

I am so chuffed with myself!

20711 - NoMoNaNoWriMo

OK, I give up!

I've hardly moved from this laptop in two weekends and on two public holidays; I've twice been up until 4.30 in the morning;I've written before work and after work; and this week, when after work it's been sleep or die, I've written twelve 12 A4 pages on trains and in underground stations between schools.

I don't know what 12 A4 pages will add to my registered word count of 20,711 - but I do know that in order to reach the 50,000 word target by the end of the month, I have to register another 29,289 words, at an average of 2,441 words a day.

At my current rate, I can expect to finish on December 15th...

Meanwhile, I haven't ironed a garment, washed a dish or dusted a figurine since Day One, and my husband is looking a bit sad and lonely, possibly because he's tired of china shepherdesses and washing up...

So I give up. I'm going to do a little slum clearance this weekend, then we'll see what I've got time for, but I very much doubt that it will be 2,441 words.

But it's so absorbing. If it weren't for the day job and the need to sleep, I might just throw out all my clothes and live at this laptop in my pyjamas until I've got this novel finished, and then get back to the other one. At least there'd be no ironing pile to fret about.

NaNoWriMo

My husband is about to embark on a piece of lunacy, and I think I'm going to join him.

It's NaNoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month - brought to us by the Office of Letters and Light ( at http://www.nanowrimo.org/ )

I have a full-time job which I am unsuccessfully trying to keep within bounds so that I can have a part-time life with my very nice husband. And I've got a full-time novel which I am determined will be The One I Finish. Why would I want to commit myself to writing 50,000 words in 30 days, when I'm already putting in 50+ hours a week on my 35 hour day job, and living part of every day and night in a twilight zone of imaginary people and events spanning eight decades and three countries?

Yet that, I think, is the appeal. Consider:

What is NaNoWriMo?

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing on November 1. The goal is to write a 50,000 word, (approximately 175 page) novel by 11:59:59, November 30.
Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.
Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It’s all about quantity, not quality. This approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.
Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that’s a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

Note those last two sentences. Crikey. I can't even send a three line email without tweaking and editing. My Draft folder sees as much action as my Spam folder. When I blog, I revise rants. My default setting is 'if-that's-all-right-by-you.' And I'm an English teacher, for God's sake! NaNoWriMo. It may be just what I need.

And I love the idea of the two of us bashing away at our repective follies. And occasionally popping out to compare notes with other volunteers for this November madness. Yes, there are others here in Madrid - and all over the world:

As you spend November writing, you can draw comfort from the fact that, all around the world, other National Novel Writing Month participants are going through the same joys and sorrows of producing the Great Frantic Novel. Wrimos meet throughout the month to offer encouragement, commiseration, and—when the thing is done—the kind of raucous celebrations that tend to frighten animals and small children.

Uhuh.

In 2010, we had over 200,000 participants. More than 30,000 of them crossed the 50K finish line by the midnight deadline, entering into the annals of NaNoWriMo superstardom forever. They started the month as auto mechanics, out-of-work actors, and middle school English teachers. They walked away novelists.

Tempted?

So, to recap:
What: Writing one 50,000-word novel from scratch in a month’s time.
Who: You! We can’t do this unless we have some other people trying it as well. Let’s write laughably awful yet lengthy prose together.
Why: The reasons are endless! To actively participate in one of our era’s most enchanting art forms! To give yourself permission to write without obsessing over quality. To be able to make obscure references to passages from our novels at parties. To stop being one of those people who say, “I’ve always wanted to write a novel,” and become one of those people who can say, “Oh, a novel? It’s such a funny story–I’ve written three.”
When: You can sign up anytime to add your name to the roster and browse the forums. Writing begins 12:00:01 November 1. To be added to the official list of winners, you must reach the 50,000-word mark by November 30 at 11:59:59. Once your novel has been verified by our web-based team of robotic word counters, the partying begins.

So I think I'm going to give it a go. I don't know if I'll make it to 50,000 words by the deadline, but since the day job really is getting in the way of The One I'm Going To Finish, maybe I should kick back and have some fun. (And I'll be in London over Christmas, so I can do some research at the V&A and the British Museum!)

Nearly there.

155 squares!

Report this image

I was doing a Google Image Search this morning. (I love Google Images!), when, among the images I expected for my key word, I saw one that perturbed me. It was a picture of a very young girl, her long hair brushed to cover yet reveal her naked upper body, looking at the camera with all the wrong sort of knowledge in her expression and demeanour. I really didn't like it, partly because another unpleasant site (dodgy in a different way) had got me wondering about the kind of people who found this word significant. I was fairly sure I wouldn't like what I found.

The upshot was a report to Google about a paedophilia site that had slipped through the net. Actually, two reports to Google, and one to Interpol, because I couldn't work out how to do the required digital signature without the help of the extremely kind and technosavvy NZM, who agreed with me about the content and implications of the site, and worked out where I was going wrong.

She also sent me this link to a story in an Australian newspaper, Photo withdrawn after child prostitution claim. It makes interesting reading.

I'm not uploading the photo under discussion because, while I don't entirely agree with the accusation that it shows a mother prostituting her child, I do think that the mother has put the legitimate explorations of a creative artist above the rights and wellbeing of the child she is morally and legally charged with protecting and guiding. How pompous do I sound? I thought so.

But we're in difficult semantic waters here, and maybe, in this case, it's God that's in the details

I believe in freedom of speech. I believe in a free press as an extension of freedom of speech, and a source of informed reflection, debate and action. I believe in the role of the artist as a mirror, and sometimes projector, of society and human values and experience. I therefore have some sympathy with the position of Jeff Moorfoot, director of the Ballarat International Photo Biennale, and recognise the truth of Alistair Foster's assertion that this photograph is "an example of Saudek's interest in depicting "love in its many forms", in this case how a parent passes on what it is to be an adult to her child."

However, I still don't think that the mother should have allowed the artist to work with her and her child to create this image. Artists and parents have different functions, and should have different priorities, and in my view, as a parent, the welfare of your child trumps the needs of any artist.

Basically, I have a serious problem with getting a child to do this kind of work. Who's to know what the child will make of the experience, or what the fallout may be - not least, in this case, from the notoriety she'll attain, given that this high-profile work will soon be all over her school and neighbourhood and, decades hence, will be still be available worldwide.

Let painters and sculptors and photographers "depict love in its many forms", but if we're talking erotic love, then they should consider the reasons underpinning the age of consent in their country, and pursue lines of enquiry that don't involve the actual participation of children.

However, my reservations are not just about children and sexually loaded material, but the whole complex and, at times, oppressive range of adult experience - which they will embrace and learn to deal with in due course, like the rest of us. As I've explained before, I also have the same strong reservations about children in adult movies, either where they have to be able to understand the context on some level, in order to play the role, or they're too young to understand, but are required to be distressed for a scene. Normally, you comfort a distressed child, but it's very difficult to get a shot in one take, so presumably, comfort is withheld until the creative adult's requirements have been met. By whose right? With whose consent? And how did the child come to be crying in the first place, conveniently in shot? Was someone on standby with a camera and mic instead of a bottle or a clean nappy?

And what's our place in this, who pay up for an evening's entertainment? As your teacher said, when you were little and had been bad, Would you do this at home?

Paedophiliacs are bad guys. Artists are good guys, if necessarily a tad selfish in their priorities. But even good guys can overstep boundaries, in which case, in the absence of a guardian angel in this secular age, you'd better hope your mum's got her priorities straight.

Siss! Boom! Rah!

It rained last night! The first drops fell as the Pope was walking down the red carpet to catch his plane back to Rome after JMJ, or WYD, if you'd like that in English! (Also available in 12 other languages.).

However, it (the rain! the rain! Do keep up!) then held off for hours. The clouds gathered. The wind rose. And rose. Enough to blow the potted lemon tree over, so that I had to move it to a more sheltered position, and also secure everything that might take off and do some damage. The canopy on the terrace opposite was getting shredded, but our parasol got trashed a week ago, so at least I didn't have to worry about that!

Lightning crackled and flashed in the west and south west, and then moved steadily closer til it was right over head, and you couldn't see where it was, only that everything was flickering and snapping from grey twilight to charcoal to twilight and back again. Like being in an alley with a faulty streetlight.

And the thunder. Coo. Usually it grumbles and mutters, but last night was something else. Think of any thunder myth you like, and double it. Two raging titans slugging it out with everything they had. There can't be a stick of furniture left on Mt. Olympus.

The at 12.10 a.m. we got raiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnn!!!!!!

I did sleep well.

Still hot

I've been sitting in this exact same place for days. It's too hot to move. It's also too hot to stay still, but I'm trying not to run the air conditioning all the time. Not all the time...

Anyway, the crochet is coming on a treat. There's a lot to be said for embarking on a big, repetitive project when you're a relative beginner. Turning a ball of yellow yarn into forty flower centres, and then turning a couple of balls of white into circles of petals around those centres, gets tedious after a while, but I'm already a lot faster than I was, and don't have to focus on every stitch as a I did at first. I made 32 nuggets during last Wednesday's Barcelona-Madrid match!

(Incidentally, does anyone else think Mourinho should be fined and put on notice for bringing the game into disrepute? He's a sour piece of work. Imagine having to work with him.)

And my technique is improving, as is my understanding of the mechanics of making stitches. After struggling to copy either of the two ergonomically correct grips, I decided to stop fretting, on the basis that if I could handle a pen, a knife, a knitting needle and a screwdriver, the grip for a crochet hook should quietly evolve, if I concentrated on making the stitches. And it did. It turns out that you (OK, I!) hold it like a salt pot. There! That didn't hurt at all.

I can see the difference between my first batches and the current one, too: more even tension, better shaped centres - and all the right way up!

Obviously, this isn't ideal, but I am not about to unpick every mistake. My policy is - damage limitation. If I spot an error in the round I'm doing, I unravel it and rework, but if I only spot it when I realise there's something awry in the next round - it stays, and I skip the extra chain space, or squidge in another, so that I don't end up with either nine or seven petals. Martha Stewart, I ain't. I've also decided that my flowerbed will have ladybirds, and perhaps the odd butterfly. Who's to know that the adorable ickle ladybirds hide a small, but perfectly formed mishmash of yarn, or that the butterfly masks a bigger mishmash? Clearly, if I have to resort to Amazonian beauties, or the finished coverlet looks like a testament to biodiversity, I shall review this policy before embarking on my next project, but I am hopeful that I will get away with my disgraceful approach to quality control.

But I'd better order Lesley Stansfield's 75 Birds, Butterflies and little beasts to knit and crochet, just to be on the safe side.

I've currently got 38 fried eggs and 5 golden nuggets, which will soon sit on 43 patches of purple, red, green and yellow, to even up with the blues and salmon. With the other 74, that puts me almost halfway to the requisite 288. Yay.

Howsoever, brain has now recovered from academic year plus summer camp. Or it had until today. I'm working on a story that originated in an EFL project I created around a fictional robbery from an art gallery. As usual, having hit knowledge barriers, I'm following white rabbits down all sorts of fascinating interconnected tunnels. Cornish history and legend. The British peerage. Japonisme. Restorers and forgers. Woman Bathing, by Mary Cassatt

a forged Goya

Van Gogh, after Hiroshige

Every so often, I pop up and do something that affects the word count.

But this patently isn't it.

50 ways

Just to show I haven't gone off and slashed my wrists, here's one of those lists of what we can do to limit our personal (negative) impact on the planet,

and an evaluation of a 2007 list commissioned by the UK's Environment Agency . There's a PDF at the top of Leo Hickman's article to the original (very pretty and upbeat) report, which I can't upload directly.

Still,

Time out, or - I read the news today. Oh boy.

I pass my days in a small happy activity, developing a humble practical skill that can be used to make things of great beauty and charm; working towards pleasure in a handmade comfort.

I pass my days watching stems rise and leaves uncurl; blossoms unfurl, glimmer, fade and fall; pods emerge, lengthen and fatten.

I think of summer herbs, winter salad, water conservation, mulch and compost; working towards our own green roof, home-grown beauty and produce, and long, peaceful evenings afloat on the mingled scents of mint... dill... jasmine... tarragon... rosemary... honeysuckle... lavender... lemon...

I sit out under the sky in the early morning and late evening, watching the light change, and the comings and goings of birds, insects and clouds.

Sometimes I lie out under the sky at night, watching bats, stars and the moon.

I pass my days listening to the radio, to music I haven't heard before, and the thoughts of people who know and love it.
Re-reading favourite books.
Hopping in and out of Facebook.
Wandering through blogs.

Listening to the news.

Holding the news at a distance.

Staying very still and quiet behind my walls of yarn and plants and music and books and blogs.

Not looking at all the crises, emergencies and disasters produced through the application of human talent, good intentions, ingenuity, effort, diligence, ignorance, thoughtlessness, wilfulness, selfishness and greed. And which we seem powerless to fix.

Unfortunately for my peace of mind, I know

that cheap synthetic yarn comes from non-renewable resources, often extracted through partnerships based on self-interest and mutual exploitation between First World multi-nationals (and their shareholders) and the leaders of resource-rich (usually desert) but rarely democratic Third World countries, or countries with territorial claims to the polar regions, where penguins remain shamefully disenfranchised;

that cheap synthetic dyes derive from toxic manufacturing processes, often in countries with the minimum commitment to environmentally responsible industry that they they can get away with (er... the federally structured USA, communist (?) China;

that in addition to the extraction, refining and manufacturing processes, there's also sea and land transport between, let's say Nigeria, The Netherlands, China and Spain.

All things considered, crocheting a pretty but unnecessary coverlet for a guest room should probably be considered as complicity in a warcrime against the planet.

Even my plants busily converting CO2 into O2, require regular applications of essential, but increasingly undependable, H2O.

The trouble with reading the news is that you find out what's going on, most of it grim, everywhere, and in my case it makes me feel helpless and despondent.

This is what did it for me, first thing this morning.

We did maps and colour charts at school, but not colour-coded like this one on the right. Somalia's been a non-state for twenty years. There is some small hope that Al-Shabab have made such an infernal mess that they may, perhaps, lose their grip and make it possible for help to reach the rest of the population. Otherwise it's just rape and murder as usual, or a long walk to the nearest border, or a boat, with smugglers who'll take everything you have, then throw you or your children overboard as soon as look at you. That's what I learnt this morning.

I don't actually think that I am personally responsible for the famine in Somalia, or the famine which has begun to encroach on Ethiopia (These words, at this distance, from my cute little laptop in my lovely little flat with running water and well-stocked fridge...). I don't know much about Somalia's recent history, or anything at all about its ancient history, when Africa was green and pleasant, or whether one or more colonial powers have been in there. I don't know what resources the country has, or what kinds of international relationships may be part of the picture.

But I do know that climate change is upon us, and everywhere is connected to everywhere else, so the inability of one country to feed its people, and at least explore ways of famine-proofing its territory is something that will affect the rest of the planet.

Climate change is a given, but with each swing, as new species evolve, and old ones adapt, others are lost. It's quite possible that Neanderthal Man was a victim of climate change, leaving the planet to his contemporary, but more adaptable Cro-Magnon Man.

I don't suppose that climate change will wipe out Homo Sapiens directly, but I am depressingly sure that, unless we really begin to think in terms of a combination of equitably sharing or trading what we have; treating the essentials of life, such as food and shelter, as resources, not financial commodities to fatten a few wallets and (oops, collateral damage) condemn millions of the already poor to starvation; and getting serious about food miles, carbon footprints, and living within the planet's means; neighbours will cease to be neighbours except in terms of proximity and competition for available resources, allies will tear up treaties, those with armies will use them in regional/national/market interests, and we'll wipe ourselves out.

When Pandora opened the box (actually, a jar - Were you really that interested?) that Zeus had given her, and all the ills of the world had escaped, there remained in the bottom, like Tinkerbell in Wendy's bedroom, hope.

I take hope from the fact that sustainable development was taken sufficiently seriously for the UN Brundtland Commission to define it........ even if that was in 1987, and there's still a very long way to go in practice:

Sustainable development is development that meets the needs of the present, without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.

Economically, environmentally, socially. Sounds right to me.