Once upon a time, when I signed up with the Queensland Writers Centre, they gave me a free badge which says I Heart Writing. It's on my bag right now and it's taunting me.
What do you heart about writing? it asks, all cocky and button-like. What do you heart about it so much you want to be one of those writers?
Oh, I don't know, Badge, maybe that it is the ultimate way to guilt-trip yourself? I offer.
(It is, it really is. There is nothing in the world that makes you feel more like an ass than not writing - or not writing what you feel needs to be written. And it really doesn't help to churn out thousands of words every day about the beauty of horse racing and the utter and entire greatness of loosing all your money at an internet casino - only to come home and not write anything. No matter how good the excuses are that you inevitably make up [I got my friend staying from Germany, my eyes will turn square if I spend another minute looking at a screen, I will spend my whole weekend doing it I swear but right now I deserve a break], you will still feel utterly awful. It is almost a physical reaction. Palpitations. Panic attack.
OH GOD! I WILL SPEND ALL MY LIFE WRITING TERRIBLE CRAP! I AM GETTING STUCK! I AM GETTING COMFORTABLE! MY LIFE IS OVER. OVER. OVER!!)
That must be it, says the badge. But I know! Why don't you use some of your work time to write that terrible blog nobody will ever read? That ought to make you feel like you're doing something worthwhile.
(I really hate that badge. It's an asshole. But it does make a good point.)
Tonight I am taking my friend back to the airport. Which is great news for the Reasonably Priced Car Project for two reasons:
1. I won't be able to use her as an excuse for my painfully slow editing.
2. I again got to borrow a car and drive it. And it was great.This morning, for the first time since I was nineteen years old (back then when I still owned a car of my own) I got to drive myself to work. Which seemed like an outstanding idea until I came to realise that there would be much more people on the road between 7am and 9am than early in the morning or in the early afternoon. Also, I wasn't quite sure about my way.
But it turned out to be the best possible conditions. I swore at five different motorists this morning - accused them of cutting me off, being hideously ugly and disobeying any traffic rule I could dream up. I wiped cold sweat off my forehead. I smoked a cigarette - an entire cigarette - at the worlds slowest traffic light. It was outstanding. It's amazing how just being inside a car instantly integrates you into the stream of outraged, freaked out people who don't have the freedom to read on their way to work.
Thats enough, says the badge. You're rambling. You're making an ass of yourself. And stop telling them you broke into sweat driving along the Inner City Bypass - that's not making a strong case for you.
Sure, I say. Sure.
(The badge is full of shit. My inability to drive in the company of other motorists has nothing to do with driving the reasonably priced car. Firstly, there'll be no one else on the airstrip or wherever the most beautiful day of my life will eventually play out. Secondly, there will be fire trucks and ambulances and bales of hay to cushion my crashes.)
Now. How about telling some vulnerable souls to give all their money to the internet and receive nothing in return?
Splendid.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Death To Softdrink!
So one sits in front of the television and one sees an advert. The gist: drink enough Pepsie and the moguls will fly you to England and let you ride with the Stig.
Typical.
As soon as I come up with a fabulous idea, it gets ripped off by a beverage giant. Just great.
That's the whole problem with trying to come up with something original though, isn't it? The fact that there is precious little that has not been done before, or that isn't already patented for future use by someone else.
They used to frighten us with this at uni, the sad truth that there are only eight storylines or something to that effect. One forgets the exact number, but it is depressingly low.
The good news is that with enough twisting you can use these fun facts in your favour. If nothing you do can be original, then you are free to produce the best rip-off of all your favourite things ever. Without feeling like you could have done better.
See, it's all about complacency in the end.
Right now, for example, I am plagiarising myself. Outstanding.
Beautiful for example, my soon to be Lulued little baby of a story, is all about getting something you want for nothing. Making people believe that you deserve something, even though you have not done anything too special. And although my glorious heroine wants something a little more sinister than a ride in a cheapish car in the company of hilarious Englishmen, it still is a very similar deal. Fascinating.
Actually, I am taking the wrong road here, aren't I. This is supposed to make the world think I am worthy, not expose myself as someone exceptionally unworthy. So let me rephrase:
Uhm.
I am so worthy, I don't even have to drink a single Pepsie (which takes hideous anyway) and I will still get to drive the reasonably priced car.
Yea. Nah. That doesn't work as well as I hoped.
But who cares? Should this come into fruition - a Mazda's chance in the tropical rainforest - it would be so ridiculous... it could probably get by on that merit alone.
The great things in life. So many of them are ridiculous.
To all your strange animals out there,
have a ridiculous evening.
Typical.
As soon as I come up with a fabulous idea, it gets ripped off by a beverage giant. Just great.
That's the whole problem with trying to come up with something original though, isn't it? The fact that there is precious little that has not been done before, or that isn't already patented for future use by someone else.
They used to frighten us with this at uni, the sad truth that there are only eight storylines or something to that effect. One forgets the exact number, but it is depressingly low.
The good news is that with enough twisting you can use these fun facts in your favour. If nothing you do can be original, then you are free to produce the best rip-off of all your favourite things ever. Without feeling like you could have done better.
See, it's all about complacency in the end.
Right now, for example, I am plagiarising myself. Outstanding.
Beautiful for example, my soon to be Lulued little baby of a story, is all about getting something you want for nothing. Making people believe that you deserve something, even though you have not done anything too special. And although my glorious heroine wants something a little more sinister than a ride in a cheapish car in the company of hilarious Englishmen, it still is a very similar deal. Fascinating.
Actually, I am taking the wrong road here, aren't I. This is supposed to make the world think I am worthy, not expose myself as someone exceptionally unworthy. So let me rephrase:
Uhm.
I am so worthy, I don't even have to drink a single Pepsie (which takes hideous anyway) and I will still get to drive the reasonably priced car.
Yea. Nah. That doesn't work as well as I hoped.
But who cares? Should this come into fruition - a Mazda's chance in the tropical rainforest - it would be so ridiculous... it could probably get by on that merit alone.
The great things in life. So many of them are ridiculous.
To all your strange animals out there,
have a ridiculous evening.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Recruiting The Machine
I had a very educational weekend, motorsport loving people of the world, as I have managed to obtain the services of a race driving trainer: My beloved’s younger brother, who is a proper gear head. He can pop a hood without trouble and fix things beneath it with little to no difficulty. He also owns a very loud red car with funky – oh blast, it’s not spokes when it’s a car, is it? – wheel-applicationy-type things, which he can drive so well that his driver’s license is in a perpetual state of peril.
His car is so manly the motor continues running after the engine has been switched off and the key taken from the ignition, just for a little while. One hour in the driver’s seat of this machine is enough to make anyone grow balls so large you could remove them, coat them in silver and hang them off the rear of the car with pride. And, best of all, the owner of the man-machine thinks the Reasonably Priced Car Project is the very best idea in this world. Making me no longer the sole believer in this grand plan.
(Actually, this is a lie. My sister’s boyfriend also said that this was the second most awesome way to utilise the internet. The first – because of course I asked – is porn, according to him. How could I compete?)
So yes. The proper gear head has offered to teach me the appropriate clutch control and stirring skills I will need in order to defeat the mighty Stephen Fry. I am so set it’s not even funny.
Now, if I can work out how to bring this project to the attention of more people, as the powers of online streaming to the evil world of Facebook are deserting me again, again and again; we should be all good to go and rumble on the track.
If anyone has any suggestions, by all means let me know. You hear that, Top Gear Talent Scout? I’m ready to be recruited now, if it’s not too much to ask.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Learning By Doing (Not Learning By Doing Nothing)
I was told by one of my well-meaning friends to blog more frequently. There has been a lull – not for lack of interest and motivation but because I generally have a problem to stick with things, which is a really bad condition if you are hoping to work in a profession that is self-motivated pretty much all the way to the end. So here, at the office no less, is me attempting to right my wrongs.
I think it might be good to start with a set of justifications explaining why I have spent my non-blogging and non-editing time in a way that is still conducive to the reasonably priced car project
1) For the first time in a very long time I drove a car.
I have a friend staying from Germany and borrowed a car to pick her up from the airport. This was the first time I had been behind the wheel in over a year – and the occasion required me to drive through peak hour traffic in the misty dark of the early shift and manoeuvre through a car park only comparable to at least the third circle of hell. But it went surprisingly well.
I mean, sure, I may have dislodged the muffler when speeding over the ridiculous curb that precedes our driveway but I have since returned the car and there were no complaints.
The actual embarrassing car moment occurred when I took my friend to pick up a mattress for her from the Donkey’s house. The Donkey has a driveway of the spaciousness and navigative ease of a bottleneck. I did get in alright.
Getting out involved sweat, screams, the smell of burned tires, destruction of all kinds of plant matter and finally the admission that I could not reverse out of the driveway of destiny. Instead the donkey reversed. Which I will never live down.
2) I used ‘power steering’ in a sentence.
Yesterday our friend William came for dinner in his new ute, which was great because I have to learn to talk about cars sooner or later – lest they rip me to shreds on television when the time comes to talk shop.
So I practised on William.
“Does it handle well?” I asked. “Does it have power steering?”
“Yea.”
“Did you hear that, baby?” I asked my boyfriend. “I used power steering in a sentence.”
I did get a weakly supportive grin.
“You’re almost a mechanic,” William said.
“Fan belt,” I said. “Wrench. Uhm...”
I did manage to utter another car related term but as I don’t know how to spell it I shan’t share it with you (yes, I still have some measure of shame).
Most depressingly these are the only two moments in the last weeks spent to indirectly further my future fame and fortune. Wow. That is lame.
Which leads to one conclusion only:
It might be high time I got my shit together and started producing something or other. And it had better be outstandingly brilliant.
How hard can it be?
(Theme Song for this weeks endeavours: 'Nothing From Nothing' by the ever so cool Billy Preston. It'll help if I believe it will. Won't it?)
Friday, April 30, 2010
Highlights of my Motoring History #2
Locking my keys into the car as well as leaving the lights on - and subsequently breaking into the car using only an umbrella and a stick. Followed by a wide web of lies to mask the fact that the villain who bent the hell out of the car door, chipped and distorted it, was me.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
The Man From Milwaukee
(Five days later on the sofa, watching Grey’s Anatomy, which I never ever watch – but, no joke, it is incidentally on after Top Gear, which incidentally motivated me immensely. Especially because the star in the reasonably priced car – some delightful young man who won X-Factor or something – noting a lot of television references here, yea? Well, it’s just a testament of our time and my television-myth reared generation – and this young man seemed to have the best time ever. So here it goes:)
Anyway – so we are at this conference with those clever internet people and there are of course organised social outing. The term they use is ‘Networking Party’ which is really just code for: there is a tab on the bar, have yourselves a grand ole time. Which is why Work-Buddy (whom I have to ask whether she would mind me using her real name because this is getting ludicrous) and I are swinging our hoofs across the bridge into the wild Sydney nightlife – where there are five people sitting in a closed group because we are too early.
The venue is nice though. One of those fashionable little cocktail bars where the cool people mingle and shmingle; with gorgeous girls walking around serving us “winebeerandhouspirits” because we wear the little yellow armbands you have to show to get free drinks. As it slowly fills up an astonishing fact comes to the fore: One is allowed to smoke in this place. Yes, you heard that right. One may light and enjoy a cigarette indoors.
And thank God for that – because if there was no smoking in this delightfully pretentious harbour viewing cocktail bar, I would not be about to have the life-changing conversation I am about to have.
Cue Life-Changing Conversation:
“May I have a cigarette?”
It’s the man from Milwaukee. Remember, the one who told me all about Google changing it’s algorithm in the conference lecture earlier. And, as I am a generous spirit, he may have a cigarette. While I'm rolling my own he smoothly steers the conversation onto the next topic.
“Are you married?”
“No,” I say (completely oblivious that there is a life-changing conversation going on), “but I might as well be.”
The man from Milwaukee has a displeased kind of face now.
“Why? Are you looking to make out?”
See, I am great at communicating. Subtle, sensitive and with plenty of style.
“I’m between wives at the moment,” the man from Milwaukee says without blinking an eye. “I thought you might like a house.”
Now, how likely is it to truly find an instant spiritual kin at what is technically classed as a work event? Not overly. However, it was what happened.
For the next half hour, over many guava-vodkas and red wines, the man from Milwaukee and I exchanged drunken witticisms.
(Before I get to the point here, let me pay my utmost respects to the man from Milwaukee and also his hairy friend who joined us later. You - Gentlemen - are the most hilarious and interesting random strangers to cross my path in a long, long time. Let me tell you, the excellence of this evening was such that an imprompty duett performance of The Aristocrats is the last thing I can recall before stumbling into the cosy room I shared with Work-Buddy. I salut you, troups, a class act indeed.)
Back to the life-changing conversation now:
“So what do you really want to do?” asks the man from Milwaukee.
(Isn’t it great how people always assume – and most often rightly so – that whatever you do to pay the rent is not something we enjoy doing? Doesn’t say something about the respect we allegedly have for all the people employed in sensible office jobs? I’m not saying that he didn’t have a point. I’m not employed in my ideal occupation; I would be very sad if say a year from now I would still be writing about horses running in large circles in the English country side. )
So I say to the man from Milwaukee, I say:
“I really would like to write books.”
“You’re not doing something silly like trying to get a publisher to buy your book, are ya?”
He could not be more patronising if he actually was my father.
“Actually, I’m being silly trying to get an agent to be silly and try to get a publisher to buy my book.”
See, I’ve got a plan, man from Milwaukee, and it’s a darn good and well-thought out one.
“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Publish it on Lulu. Haven’t they taught you anything at university?”
End Life-Changing Conversation.
And just like that, potentially, my luck is changed.
See, when I check this thing out later, this Lulu business, it turns out the man from Milwaukee may have been drunk but not full of it. Lulu does in fact exist and one can publish ones book on demand over the internet. And yes, they put them on Amazon. Now, the man from Milwaukee reckons that of you get about forty people to buy your book within the first week of it coming out, it will be placed on the best seller list on Amazon.
Which is why I, thanks to the pearls of wisdom presented to me without any warning, believe that if I surrender my technophobia to the higher purpose of my stellar career, could launch a twitter and facebook campaign to end all campaigns and actually get my first novel out there.
This, by the way, is not the novel – that would taken too long and I would probably get distracted. This is more the making of. The making of getting me into the reasonably priced car. There’s a grammatically correct sentence for you.
The novel that will go on Lulu is a little something I prepared earlier. Beautiful one of my hilarious, clever and deeply satiric masterpieces; which was rejected in last years Vogel Awards. Hopefully they now see the error of their ways. Hehe. Big and arrogant words for someone who has to do her own marketing. (But hey, it’s DIY Or Die for the independent maker of things.)
The plan is to give the novel the once, twice or thrice over and make it into one suave, kick-ass piece of writing, then input the bastard into the world wide webster and start blowing my own horn as if my life depended on it. Which it does, at least the life that I would like to lead.
(You gotta wonder what the problem is? That we have too little opportunity to get a really dreamy life situation, namely a great job we love; or that our world has degenerated in a way that makes your life synonymous with your work? Or, haha, if we do have just ridiculously high expectations and are not satisfied with just having a job and live outside of it. It’s because we want meaning, don’t we. And if what we spend most of our time doing has no meaning, which is sadly going to the jobs which pay the bills, then our life in general does not have meaning. Therefore we must strive to live of some kind of noble activity, or one we really enjoy (but it can’t be menial like accountancy and copywriting), in order to have what we can proudly – this being the operative word, proudly – call a happy and meaningful life. What bollocks.)
Anyway – so we are at this conference with those clever internet people and there are of course organised social outing. The term they use is ‘Networking Party’ which is really just code for: there is a tab on the bar, have yourselves a grand ole time. Which is why Work-Buddy (whom I have to ask whether she would mind me using her real name because this is getting ludicrous) and I are swinging our hoofs across the bridge into the wild Sydney nightlife – where there are five people sitting in a closed group because we are too early.
The venue is nice though. One of those fashionable little cocktail bars where the cool people mingle and shmingle; with gorgeous girls walking around serving us “winebeerandhouspirits” because we wear the little yellow armbands you have to show to get free drinks. As it slowly fills up an astonishing fact comes to the fore: One is allowed to smoke in this place. Yes, you heard that right. One may light and enjoy a cigarette indoors.
And thank God for that – because if there was no smoking in this delightfully pretentious harbour viewing cocktail bar, I would not be about to have the life-changing conversation I am about to have.
Cue Life-Changing Conversation:
“May I have a cigarette?”
It’s the man from Milwaukee. Remember, the one who told me all about Google changing it’s algorithm in the conference lecture earlier. And, as I am a generous spirit, he may have a cigarette. While I'm rolling my own he smoothly steers the conversation onto the next topic.
“Are you married?”
“No,” I say (completely oblivious that there is a life-changing conversation going on), “but I might as well be.”
The man from Milwaukee has a displeased kind of face now.
“Why? Are you looking to make out?”
See, I am great at communicating. Subtle, sensitive and with plenty of style.
“I’m between wives at the moment,” the man from Milwaukee says without blinking an eye. “I thought you might like a house.”
Now, how likely is it to truly find an instant spiritual kin at what is technically classed as a work event? Not overly. However, it was what happened.
For the next half hour, over many guava-vodkas and red wines, the man from Milwaukee and I exchanged drunken witticisms.
(Before I get to the point here, let me pay my utmost respects to the man from Milwaukee and also his hairy friend who joined us later. You - Gentlemen - are the most hilarious and interesting random strangers to cross my path in a long, long time. Let me tell you, the excellence of this evening was such that an imprompty duett performance of The Aristocrats is the last thing I can recall before stumbling into the cosy room I shared with Work-Buddy. I salut you, troups, a class act indeed.)
Back to the life-changing conversation now:
“So what do you really want to do?” asks the man from Milwaukee.
(Isn’t it great how people always assume – and most often rightly so – that whatever you do to pay the rent is not something we enjoy doing? Doesn’t say something about the respect we allegedly have for all the people employed in sensible office jobs? I’m not saying that he didn’t have a point. I’m not employed in my ideal occupation; I would be very sad if say a year from now I would still be writing about horses running in large circles in the English country side. )
So I say to the man from Milwaukee, I say:
“I really would like to write books.”
“You’re not doing something silly like trying to get a publisher to buy your book, are ya?”
He could not be more patronising if he actually was my father.
“Actually, I’m being silly trying to get an agent to be silly and try to get a publisher to buy my book.”
See, I’ve got a plan, man from Milwaukee, and it’s a darn good and well-thought out one.
“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Publish it on Lulu. Haven’t they taught you anything at university?”
End Life-Changing Conversation.
And just like that, potentially, my luck is changed.
See, when I check this thing out later, this Lulu business, it turns out the man from Milwaukee may have been drunk but not full of it. Lulu does in fact exist and one can publish ones book on demand over the internet. And yes, they put them on Amazon. Now, the man from Milwaukee reckons that of you get about forty people to buy your book within the first week of it coming out, it will be placed on the best seller list on Amazon.
Which is why I, thanks to the pearls of wisdom presented to me without any warning, believe that if I surrender my technophobia to the higher purpose of my stellar career, could launch a twitter and facebook campaign to end all campaigns and actually get my first novel out there.
This, by the way, is not the novel – that would taken too long and I would probably get distracted. This is more the making of. The making of getting me into the reasonably priced car. There’s a grammatically correct sentence for you.
The novel that will go on Lulu is a little something I prepared earlier. Beautiful one of my hilarious, clever and deeply satiric masterpieces; which was rejected in last years Vogel Awards. Hopefully they now see the error of their ways. Hehe. Big and arrogant words for someone who has to do her own marketing. (But hey, it’s DIY Or Die for the independent maker of things.)
The plan is to give the novel the once, twice or thrice over and make it into one suave, kick-ass piece of writing, then input the bastard into the world wide webster and start blowing my own horn as if my life depended on it. Which it does, at least the life that I would like to lead.
(You gotta wonder what the problem is? That we have too little opportunity to get a really dreamy life situation, namely a great job we love; or that our world has degenerated in a way that makes your life synonymous with your work? Or, haha, if we do have just ridiculously high expectations and are not satisfied with just having a job and live outside of it. It’s because we want meaning, don’t we. And if what we spend most of our time doing has no meaning, which is sadly going to the jobs which pay the bills, then our life in general does not have meaning. Therefore we must strive to live of some kind of noble activity, or one we really enjoy (but it can’t be menial like accountancy and copywriting), in order to have what we can proudly – this being the operative word, proudly – call a happy and meaningful life. What bollocks.)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Highlights of my Motoring History #1
Backing a 1976 VW Kombi – purchased approximately three hours earlier – into a collectors’ edition, bright red, hideously expensive sports car; ripping a hole in the back of it with my rear tow bar.
Notebooks and other Accessories
Remember foolish me saying my job was a step in the right direction? There is also a downside to writing eight hours a day: You are severely unlikely to feel like doing more writing when you get home. It’s the ultimate excuse. It’s on the long list of things I need to stop doing (or start doing). But you know, here I am, typing away (not on the book that badly needs one more edit, but anyway…), starting my great new life as someone about to become a published author. Someone destined to be in the reasonably priced car. See? It’s important to have a goal, even if it is a little ridiculous. No one ever specified that goals have to be serious and deep, did they? And as you can see, I have even managed to type out my first set of notes, which is an almost unprecedented event.
(Let’s take a moment a appreciate the fact hat I am the type of Neanderthal who scribbles things in a notebook an realises only weeks later that the words should be displayed on the internet, or at least typed up. Thank you. This is the kind of Cromagnon you are dealing with. And at an IT convention, for god’s sake.)
So me and the book are on our way.
If only to meet the first immediate obstacle: My obsession with accessories. Instead of editing, typing and updating like a sonofabitch, I am making my work buddy design shiny banners, fantasise about getting stickers printed…in short nothing other than me playing out the backdrop for actions that never come into fruition occurs. It may not sound like a big problem to you, but it actually makes my life hell, this accessory obsession.
When I got my new job for example, my fancy sit-down job, the first thing I did was to go out and buy a lunch box. Pink, with rainbows and skulls, a wonderful thing. But the bottom line is that the careful process of choice and purchase of this lunchbox took 100% priority over preparing for the job I had been hired to do. I should have been reading up on horses and races and the rules for both. Instead I spent a what felt like an entire day in front of shelves displaying shiny kids lunchboxes.
Same with the book that will be published (and if it kills me…). Instead of doing a line edit, I am way too busy thinking of a cool cover design and dreaming up the blurbs and critiques displayed on the back of my masterpiece. I may not know what I will be reading at my first book signing event – but I sure as hell know what I will be wearing. At least I can safely say that half of my affairs for the writing life are in order. I have great notebooks and pens, strategically places stickers on my laptop and nice folders to keep my reference material organised. They may be empty but they’re really colourful.
In terms of visuals I’m so on top of the situation it’s not funny – now all there is to do it match up the inside, work ethics and diligence and reasonably priced car here-I-come.
(Let’s take a moment a appreciate the fact hat I am the type of Neanderthal who scribbles things in a notebook an realises only weeks later that the words should be displayed on the internet, or at least typed up. Thank you. This is the kind of Cromagnon you are dealing with. And at an IT convention, for god’s sake.)
So me and the book are on our way.
If only to meet the first immediate obstacle: My obsession with accessories. Instead of editing, typing and updating like a sonofabitch, I am making my work buddy design shiny banners, fantasise about getting stickers printed…in short nothing other than me playing out the backdrop for actions that never come into fruition occurs. It may not sound like a big problem to you, but it actually makes my life hell, this accessory obsession.
When I got my new job for example, my fancy sit-down job, the first thing I did was to go out and buy a lunch box. Pink, with rainbows and skulls, a wonderful thing. But the bottom line is that the careful process of choice and purchase of this lunchbox took 100% priority over preparing for the job I had been hired to do. I should have been reading up on horses and races and the rules for both. Instead I spent a what felt like an entire day in front of shelves displaying shiny kids lunchboxes.
Same with the book that will be published (and if it kills me…). Instead of doing a line edit, I am way too busy thinking of a cool cover design and dreaming up the blurbs and critiques displayed on the back of my masterpiece. I may not know what I will be reading at my first book signing event – but I sure as hell know what I will be wearing. At least I can safely say that half of my affairs for the writing life are in order. I have great notebooks and pens, strategically places stickers on my laptop and nice folders to keep my reference material organised. They may be empty but they’re really colourful.
In terms of visuals I’m so on top of the situation it’s not funny – now all there is to do it match up the inside, work ethics and diligence and reasonably priced car here-I-come.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Evolution of the Master Plan & Tiny Steps in the Right Direction
I came up with my genius plan with the held of my beloved. While watching Top Gear with my dearly beloved I mentioned how much I wanted to be in the reasonably priced car. He told me to hurry up and get famous. It’s something he recommends quite often; the man has a master plan of his own: to see out his days as a kept husband raising hypothetical children. Although I am aware of the cunning strategy and his ulterior motives behind his special brand of encouragement, one has to admit the man has a point. And as I cannot sing, dance or impersonate, there is little else to do than be a writer. Hours later the first words were down and my plan in action.
With one minor catch.
Writing books is not the problem. I have written books before. There are two perfectly alright manuscripts stashed in the modern-day-desk-drawer of a laptop, which I have failed to sell. Mainly because I am lazy about it. Both manuscripts have been sent away, once and twice respectively. It’s a lame effort, but I guess I’m just really good at justifying my laziness in the publishing department with the fairly legitimate problem of getting a publishing house to look at an unsolicited manuscript. It’s almost impossible. So, to safe my book – my wonderful, reasonably-priced-car-worthy work of blood, sweat and tears – from the same fate, I decided I would get myself an agent. Once I work out how to get one. Which is in itself a minor catch.
When I was at uni, the gloating published authors who came in as guest speakers and tried not to gloat about being everything we wanted to be; they always made out that getting a book published is all a matter of networking. I am no good at networking. It shall be the first thing I will learn – and here I am, networking with all the good people of the internet.
Luckily, the day after I make my decision fate chances I am dispatched to the perfect place to improve my networking skills. I am attending a three day conference on internet gambling. In fact I’m taking the first notes of my project while attending the conference lectures. What better place to learn the art of networking? I get to meet all manner of freaks and forge contacts in the online gambling industry.
That’s where I work at the moment – the cyber dungeon that is the world of Australian online gambling portals. It’s none too bad, as long as you don’t think about what it is you are actually doing. Apparently, so one of my colleagues says, my wages are getting paid out of the losses sustained by the poor sods who fall victim to our affiliate bookmakers (my boss is probably reading this and soon it will be time for me to pack my bags…). I profit from the gambled away uni funds of Blackjack addicts’ children. My dinner is paid for by someone else’s lunch money. I’m sure Satan and his minions have some special treats in store for me. But as amoral and useless as my job is, it beats waiting tables. If you really put your mind to it you can even view it was a step in the right direction. I write and it pays the rent.
It may be all about the wonders of horse racing in the United Kingdom – as opposed to living off the royalties of the quintessential 21st century novel – but it is writing nonetheless. Which is why right now, at this conference, while a man from Milwaukee informs me that Google changes its algorithm (whatever this may be) 350 times a year; I am not having a panic attack and an early onset of depression, but rather feel determined to be hopeful.
With one minor catch.
Writing books is not the problem. I have written books before. There are two perfectly alright manuscripts stashed in the modern-day-desk-drawer of a laptop, which I have failed to sell. Mainly because I am lazy about it. Both manuscripts have been sent away, once and twice respectively. It’s a lame effort, but I guess I’m just really good at justifying my laziness in the publishing department with the fairly legitimate problem of getting a publishing house to look at an unsolicited manuscript. It’s almost impossible. So, to safe my book – my wonderful, reasonably-priced-car-worthy work of blood, sweat and tears – from the same fate, I decided I would get myself an agent. Once I work out how to get one. Which is in itself a minor catch.
When I was at uni, the gloating published authors who came in as guest speakers and tried not to gloat about being everything we wanted to be; they always made out that getting a book published is all a matter of networking. I am no good at networking. It shall be the first thing I will learn – and here I am, networking with all the good people of the internet.
Luckily, the day after I make my decision fate chances I am dispatched to the perfect place to improve my networking skills. I am attending a three day conference on internet gambling. In fact I’m taking the first notes of my project while attending the conference lectures. What better place to learn the art of networking? I get to meet all manner of freaks and forge contacts in the online gambling industry.
That’s where I work at the moment – the cyber dungeon that is the world of Australian online gambling portals. It’s none too bad, as long as you don’t think about what it is you are actually doing. Apparently, so one of my colleagues says, my wages are getting paid out of the losses sustained by the poor sods who fall victim to our affiliate bookmakers (my boss is probably reading this and soon it will be time for me to pack my bags…). I profit from the gambled away uni funds of Blackjack addicts’ children. My dinner is paid for by someone else’s lunch money. I’m sure Satan and his minions have some special treats in store for me. But as amoral and useless as my job is, it beats waiting tables. If you really put your mind to it you can even view it was a step in the right direction. I write and it pays the rent.
It may be all about the wonders of horse racing in the United Kingdom – as opposed to living off the royalties of the quintessential 21st century novel – but it is writing nonetheless. Which is why right now, at this conference, while a man from Milwaukee informs me that Google changes its algorithm (whatever this may be) 350 times a year; I am not having a panic attack and an early onset of depression, but rather feel determined to be hopeful.
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Very Simple Plan
I have decided to finally get my act together and join the ranks of the ‘proper’ writers (meaning people who not only write but are read by people other than family and friends), because I want to be in the reasonably priced car. I want to be in the reasonably priced car so much it’s not funny. But, as it is with a lot of cool activities, the only way to get into the reasonably priced car is to be at least a little famous.
In case you are reading this great work on worldwidewebbed literature – born only from my desire to drive a car on a motoring program – and wonder what on earth this ‘reasonably priced car’ might be, let me fill you in.
There is currently on the air a television program called Top Gear. It’s a car show, technically, dealing with all sorts of motoring related matters. Horsepower. Fanbelts. That sort of thing. It would be a desperately dull affair if not for the three brilliant individuals doing the presenting.
Let me put it into perspective for you:
I do not own a car. I do not know anything about the workings of cars. I cannot identify a single brand of car (apart from a VW Kombi perhaps). Nonetheless – regardless of my complete disinterest in cars and anything to do with them – I watch this car show religiously. Because, thanks to the genius of the gentlemen May, Clarkson and Hammond, what should be a mind-numbing one hour lecture directed at he world’s gear heads is in fact one of the most hilarious comedy programs of our day.
Getting to the point.
One fixed segment of the show involves ‘putting a star in a reasonably priced car’. The star gets a little training session with the show’s very own race car driver, the mysterious Stig (some say he ran over his own grandmother while delivering meals on wheels…), then does a lap and then – most importantly – takes his place on the show’s board of fame (or shame). And while I am fully aware that this sounds pathetic and is a testament to my own shallow ways, I don’t think there’s another TV gig in existence that could possibly be more fun.
I stand by my dorkiness. I want to drive the reasonably priced car - and I want to do it faster than Stephen Fry.
Therefore I will publish my book, it will become a hit; and before too long someone within the Top Gear universe will come across this here manifesto of my reason for publishing a book (wanting to be in the reasonably priced car, in case you forgot). They will find it charming, endearing and inventive – presto! I’m in the reasonably priced car. Mission accomplished.
There’s only one minor glitch in my fool proof plan. I don’t have a publisher lined up to pave my way to fame. But – in the undying words of one Mister Jeremy Clarkson – how hard can it be?
In case you are reading this great work on worldwidewebbed literature – born only from my desire to drive a car on a motoring program – and wonder what on earth this ‘reasonably priced car’ might be, let me fill you in.
There is currently on the air a television program called Top Gear. It’s a car show, technically, dealing with all sorts of motoring related matters. Horsepower. Fanbelts. That sort of thing. It would be a desperately dull affair if not for the three brilliant individuals doing the presenting.
Let me put it into perspective for you:
I do not own a car. I do not know anything about the workings of cars. I cannot identify a single brand of car (apart from a VW Kombi perhaps). Nonetheless – regardless of my complete disinterest in cars and anything to do with them – I watch this car show religiously. Because, thanks to the genius of the gentlemen May, Clarkson and Hammond, what should be a mind-numbing one hour lecture directed at he world’s gear heads is in fact one of the most hilarious comedy programs of our day.
Getting to the point.
One fixed segment of the show involves ‘putting a star in a reasonably priced car’. The star gets a little training session with the show’s very own race car driver, the mysterious Stig (some say he ran over his own grandmother while delivering meals on wheels…), then does a lap and then – most importantly – takes his place on the show’s board of fame (or shame). And while I am fully aware that this sounds pathetic and is a testament to my own shallow ways, I don’t think there’s another TV gig in existence that could possibly be more fun.
I stand by my dorkiness. I want to drive the reasonably priced car - and I want to do it faster than Stephen Fry.
Therefore I will publish my book, it will become a hit; and before too long someone within the Top Gear universe will come across this here manifesto of my reason for publishing a book (wanting to be in the reasonably priced car, in case you forgot). They will find it charming, endearing and inventive – presto! I’m in the reasonably priced car. Mission accomplished.
There’s only one minor glitch in my fool proof plan. I don’t have a publisher lined up to pave my way to fame. But – in the undying words of one Mister Jeremy Clarkson – how hard can it be?
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Network Testdrive
No explanations yet, my gear-headed minions. This is merely a test to see if the outrageous system my work buddy has set up is functional.
Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three.
Why I Vowed Never To Blog - And Why Said Vow Was Abandoned
Good People of the Internet,
thank you for welcoming me into the ranks of self-important emotional and intellectual exhibitionists. I - who was the last to learn about blogging and the first to declare it a completely ridiculous and pointless activity - am now one of you.
This does not mean I have changed my mind. Blogging, especially when practised by me, is still a ridiculous activity. However, it may not be entirely pointless.
It appears that people have taken to blogging when they want things - attention, advise, a captive audience, sponsorships and all sorts of great things which are hard to come by in the physical world - and they are not entirely unsuccessful. They get, if not exactly what they asked for, at least something vaguely resembling their original target. Sometimes they even get something better, something so fantastic they could not even conceive of it.
Opportunistic abomination that I am, I have decided - after a fair bit of back and forth and 'oh no, I could not possibly...' - to jump on the shiny, super-charged bandwagon that is the world of blogging.
Because I too want something. I want it so much I am willing to make a complete ass of myself in the process of getting it. (This seems to be a recurring theme: having to look extremely foolish in order to arrive at the heights of cool... that can't be right, can it?)
My ambition, my burning desire, my idea of a seriously fun afternoon activity - and thus the ultimate aim of this betrayal of my principles - is this:
I want to drive the reasonably priced car. [According to my work buddy, the image above is an accurate depiction of said car, I am unconvinced but too much of a technophobe to find my own]
And as soon as I have worked out how to make my blog look cool - it has to reflect me after all.... (yes, because this set up allows for visual options which really represent the individual character of any one user [Gee - Green! That is soooo me!]) - as soon as that is done, I shall explain.
Ashamedly yours,
Me
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