Monday, 12 December 2016
Walking through epics
This here is a personal account of how unexpectedly difficult a long hike actually is.
To put it into context: I'm 5 foot 4, female, 32 (the walking discussed below has, except for those explicitly stated otherwise, occurred since I turned 30) and heavier than I'd like to be but not unhealthily so.
Gym routine (when I go!) is typically HIIT. Get the heart-rate up with a 1km run, warm up arms with a bit of light rowing (2.5 km) and then start the punishing part.
Burpees. Many burpees. I don't like burpees.
Then onto kettlebells.
I use bells of different weights for different things:
Squats at 16k
Two handed swings and lifts at 12k
One armed lifts at 8k
I do set numbers of up to 10 lifts, with a 30 second interval between each type of lift (eg, I do 20 swings, 30sec rest, 20 squats, 30sec rest, 10 right arm lifts, 10 left arm lifts, 30 sec rest, 20 lunges, 30 sec rest). Then I repeat the routine 3 times.
Then I do a 1km cool down
Then I go swimming
Then I go home and die.
My point is, I'm coming from a fairly solid underlying fitness level and I like hiking.
I did a little walking when I was a kid - my parents were fairly poor and there were 4 kids. As a result our treats tended to be on the frugal side. At some point they started driving us to north Wales and taking us over a few hills, around a few ruined castles and occasionally to a beach. For the cost of petrol and a few home made sandwiches and scones we could have a whole day out that served the double duty of entertaining and exhausting us.
As an adult I didn't walk. I moved to the Pennine Way when I finished uni and I walked out to the reservoir often and once cross country from Mytholmroyd to Hebden Bridge but no proper walking.
Then I moved to Gloucestershire and had even less walking.
Then I met Gavin and when we first dated we walked a little. Eventually we walked a *lot*.
At the start we walked because it was a good date. Then we stayed at home a lot and ate more than we should. Finally we realised we had become unfit and turned back to walking.
We broke up and I hit the gym. Hard. As described above. A month or so later we got in touch and resumed hiking. We walked every weekend, at first 3-4 miles, then 6-8, then up to ten, It was frustrating because there were very few walks of that length in the walking books we had, so we had to combine walks with long breaks driving from route to route or stopping for a pub lunch.
Finally we decided to walk the Cotswold Way. People do it as a holiday over 6 days, stopping in B&Bs overnight, so we decided to follow that plan each weekend until we completed the walk.
Our first walk was 18.6 miles, 2,289 feet ascent. We knew we didn't have time to stop for lunch so carried food; sandwiches, cake, beer, etc. and started very early. Here's the route - not exactly what we walked, but close enough.
We stopped at the 5 mile mark for a mid morning breakfast. It felt good and took some of the weight out of my pack. We kept going to 10 miles, no problem. We were chatting about how amazing it was that we had already met the usual limits and felt so good, while we ate many calories. We also had a look at what we'd covered already and felt kind of smug.
It was mile 15 that we hit real difficulty. If you check the mapometer route linked about you'll see that the profile from that point is basically downhill and level. However, I remember it as possibly the most torturous hour and a half of my life.
On our walks we average 2.4mph over rough terrain. That last stretch back to the car was sheer agony and took far, far longer than easy terrain should have. Our feet hurt, excruciating amounts. We were wearing robust walking shoes that we'd long since broken in, and I wore hiking socks. It was the day I realised all those people passionately evangelising about the right footwear actually knew what they were talking about and weren't trying to peddle snake oil.
So here is the TL:DR summary of things you need to know when writing your characters who have to walk a long distance without already being expert walkers:
1) your tolerance builds *fast* - start at 4 miles a day and you can rapidly and easily build to much higher than that. Humans are very effective walkers :)
2) your footwear *matters* - characters may not have strong soles at the start, but they can't walk without severe pain without them when you need to cover long distances. Speedy trick: if you can bend the sole back on itself without effort, that's too flimsy to walk. If it folds but takes some pressure, that's a good flat land or short distance walking shoe. If it doesn't give under the pressure, it's likely to be a good option. Obviously, in real life you need to do extensive testing, but for your characters, this should do :)
3) the first thing that will hurt are the joints: knees, hips and lower back for me. When the foot pain starts. it won't stop. If you take off your shoes or rest your feet for any length of time, you lose the numbing effect of constant walking. The pain that comes after mile 16 is intense and horrific but can be walked on. You aren't bleeding, you aren't even bruised. You just hurt like hell.
4) when you stop walking the first thing you want to do is take off your shoes. This is usually trickier than normal - bending is hard, your feet are tender so you have to open the laces wider than normal and then, of course, your legs start to stiffen because you're no longer walking. Good news, this isn't like post exercise stiffening where you can't use them the following day. It's more of a continuous tingling that unfortunately also hurts.
5) The next day you will still hurt. You can, if you have the right mindset, keep ploughing on regardless. I never have so I don't know what happens.
The most walking I've done was 24 miles in 48 hours. I didn't feel bad at all by the end of it because we never passed that tipping point. We did also do 22 miles along a river in one go with a stop for lunch halfway and by the end of that we were broken. However, it was very flat and I don't consider it to be a good measure of normal performance.
The fastest walking we've done was 4 mph. This was over pretty flat land, good daylight and firm under foot. It didn't last long.
The hardest walking I've ever done was Nympsfield - Wootton Under Edge stretch of the Cotswold Way. I don't know why it was so hard, but it was utterly brutal. There was a hill early on that destroyed me and I couldn't claw it back from there.
I'm very happy to answer walking questions from my own experience - just get in touch!
@demiurgent_g
Wednesday, 30 November 2016
Grief
Monday, 28 November 2016
I am
That I'll apologise
Don't think I feel badly about this
Don't feel, in any way,
As though you are entitled
To shut me up
Don't feel like I'm too loud
Too brash
Too bold faced
Or arrogant
I'm not full of myself
I'm not egotistical
I'm not self centered
Or self aggrandising
No, none of this.
I am
I am beautiful
I am smart
I am fun
I am sexy
I am pedantic
I am creative
I am
I am all of this and more
And I will not apologise for knowing
I will not be sorry for sharing
Or for letting you know
I love myself
You haven't met me
We don't share acquaintances
And you might feel
I am not
But you, my sweet, you do not know me.
I assure you
I am.
I am the greatest bucket of iced water that will never be poured on your head
I am the most delicious stinky cheese you will never be able to nibble
I am the smokiest whiskey that will never burn your throat with alcohol fumes
I am the flirtiest succubus that will never tear out your soul
I am
And I am not sorry
I am not sorry that you will never believe me
I am not sorry that you cannot approve of me
I am not
I am.
I always will be.
I give you leave to spend your life buried in a safe still-water haven.
I will be here
In the spray of raging oceans
In the force of the winds
In the resilient earth
In the sting of the flame
I will be here,
In the midst of it all
Under the onslaught
And I shall still
And always will
Be
Only
Me
Alicia
Tuesday, 18 October 2016
Moments
At first a light drizzle; each moment seems small, incessant and eternal.
They grow into rain - becoming more distinct, more weighty, falling heavily on detritus and forming rivulets as one leads to another and drives life inevitably before it.
The moments fall, pounding my skin, wearing me down, carving grooves in my face.
I watch them accumulate, clinging to the branches above as I nestle in my tree waiting for the assault.
Time slows and I see that one moment, hanging precariously, swelling, turning, twisting, ready to fall... but like water it congeals as the temperature plummets.
More moments attempt to fall, each becoming crystalline as they fail to reach me - trapped on the tips of the branches above, forming daggers from what might have been.
All around a flurry of flakes whirls; blinding, devastating and cold; each moment jagged edged and ruthless, stacking together, building into drifts of life lived.
I watch the branches above, adoring those perfect moments as they accumulate.
They reach towards me and I pray for the blizzard to stop that I might touch them.
Tuesday, 20 September 2016
Mixers
She met him, the most beautiful man in the world, about two hours ago. She made a snide comment about an award winning presenter slash hard sell man for a lousy product under her breath and he heard. He laughed quietly and from that point had her full attention. The speaker had never been worth listening to, but now he stood no chance.
As soon as the barely polite smattering of applause had greeted the end of the dreary session, he had introduced himself - Simon. Since then they had retreated further and further from the conference, moving by stages into a bar where he drank a JD and coke and she had G and T.
They talked initially about the conference and their various experiences before moving by degrees into more personal subjects correlating to the intimacy of the space they were in. Now, with their second drinks they had retreated away from the bar to a sheltered table in the corner and she found herself after each sip of the G&T licking her lips slowly and then biting the lower one.
Hypnotised by the colour of his eyes, she couldn't look away and the inevitable moment came where she spilled her drink on herself. He moved nearer when he handed her the napkin and she dabbed herself on the cheek and shoulder where she had felt the droplets. Unsure if she had caught it all she turned to him and asked: "Did I miss any?"
He nodded slowly, and gestured on himself to indicate where some droplets had caught in her hair. She quickly dabbed at them and looked back to him. "All done?"
He reached out his hand. "May I?" his words were gentle and low, almost a caress and she leaned involuntarily towards him, handing over the napkin as she did so. He shuffled forwards and, moving slowly, took the napkin before raising it to her face. He hesitated for a moment only before touching the napkin to the side of her neck. His movements were so slow it felt more like a caress and her eyes, watchful on him, dilated as her lips parted slightly.
For a moment she felt frozen in time. In the shadowy corner, with the drinks, smart clothing and bar ambiance, she felt the shades of Casablanca in every moment. Her eyes dropped to his lips and she watched them move, shaping the words of flattery she imagined Ilsa must have heard in Paris. "You're breathtaking." He reached out his hand, slowly and gently catching the line of her jaw in his long finger. "May I kiss you?"
Wordless, she smiled and met his eyes with her own before nodding fractionally. Attuned to the tiny motion he leaned forward and their lips met.
The softness of his thin lips was in sharp contrast to the five o'clock shadow surrounding them. Her own lips were plump and full and it was natural for him to open his own mouth to meet them. As his lips moved over hers, she felt the abrasive stubble intensifying the sensations of the moment and her lips began to tingle. Very soon she had parted her own lips and shortly after felt the contrasting coolness of his tongue from the ice in his drink.
She reveled in the sensation but they were not horny teenagers and both knew the value of suspense. After a few intense seconds they separated and returned to their drinks, several inches closer and several degrees more intimate.
Friday, 16 September 2016
Tumour
my own tumour
like yours in every detail
except medically
Mine will never show on a scan
Or be cut into by a blade
It won't spread through my body
or be attacked by white blood cells
But it sits there
hard
tight
hot
a lumpy coal
seizing my heart
choking my lungs
blocking my digestion
It makes me weep
It takes away all of my life
As yours steals you
Too greedily
Too cruelly
Too soon
Mine grows
Monday, 12 September 2016
Undiminished
Raw, uncut.
Over time, we are hacked, carved, cut.
We are shaped by the universe
The first cut will teach us pain
The second, fear
The third is hunger
And so it goes.
Yet we remain
Undiminished
We are given a memory
A gift
The moment the blade fell
You do not like it
When one facet catches the light
And for a moment
Above all else
You are the product of that memory
But the flash is only that
A momentary encore of a memory
When it fades
You are always
And consistently
Undiminished
You are a gem
A
Isolation
I want nothing more than to be left alone
I can't yell or scream
I can't tell you to get the hell away
But I want to
I want to tell you that I need time
I need time where I'm not gearing myself up
I need space where I don't have to worry about my impact on others
I need a life, briefly, where I can be all about me for a time
And I hate myself for it
On my way to reclusive safety
I feel the presence of every stranger I pass
their selves bulging past the limits of their clothing
Clustering around
choking me like the stench of unwashed gym kits
I'm stopped by a friend
I want nothing more
Than to punch them and run
Just to be left alone
I smile, laugh and chat
We part and I fall back
Into myself
Behind my defenses
The meagre shields crumbling before the incessant onslaught as the surging mass of individuals gets bigger and louder and I am smaller and more fragile and I cannot bear this any more.
I am home.
I am safe.
I need not talk for a time.
I need not be.
And in my blessed isolation I am free.
I am not lonely, you fool.
I am an introvert.
A
Saturday, 10 September 2016
Not Quite Asleep
The air is cold,
The duvet warm and soft
When I turn it flows with me
An embryonic fluid
Loving me
Keeping me safe
I float
Not quite asleep
-A-
Wednesday, 7 September 2016
Unable to sleep
Blue glitter
Dancing behind closed eyelids
In a mind not yet ready for sleep
Enveloping darkness
Soft and snug
Too warm for comfort
Where skin on skin is sticking
Each movement requiring arm to unpeel
Or thigh to cool from
Over-extended pressure
The humidity promises rain
And so the stickiness
Is endured
As the body anxiously assures the brain
It's time
Sleep is required
And the fretting circles
Of a wild animal
Laying flat every blade of grass
Before it can rest
Continue unabated
And while this continues
The head yawns
The eyes close
And the sparkling pin pricks of light
Create all the disturbance required
To ensure the grass
Continues to spring upright.
Tuesday, 6 September 2016
I wish that you were here
Tuesday, 30 August 2016
I believe
Sunday, 28 August 2016
Responding to criticism
There was a #storycrafter question from @writerology about negative feedback and how you/we/I handle it when it gets you/us/me down.
The simple answer from me was: it doesn't.
Herein lies the long answer.
*Of course* negative feedback about my writing doesn't get me down, how could it?
Let's look at some areas of criticism and see how they work.
1) spelling and grammar - the only possible response is "thanks for these corrections!" People get paid just to do this very thing. Someone notices I frequently make a mistake and take the time to point it out to me? That's brilliant! Over the years I've had the difference between practice and practise explained, syntax for sentences ending .) or )., and various other bits.
2) plot holes, confusing segues - the whole universe is in my head. I know every detail of every player, every place, every tool. If I don't know it, it doesn't exist. This can be very hard to get down on paper and, when you're writing a novel, you may leave entire scenes undescribed because your brain is filling in the blanks. Think of that experiment where you find your blind spot by drawing a blob on paper and moving it in and out of focus until the blob disappears, or those sentences with every word jumbled that you can still read because your brain corrects what it sees to what it thinks it should see. The only way I'll know this has happened is if someone else tells me. So thank you.
3) flow - particular fault of mine. Pacing correctly is *hard*. Again, I know everything: I know what's coming, what's happened off page, how people are developing. I don't always correctly choose what shouldn't be there, but other people can tell me what's disrupting the story for them. I can't tell myself. It has to be external.
4) character development - I know how people should feel about the characters and what they're going through. If they don't, that's entirely my fault and I've written it wrong. Not necessarily badly, just incorrectly for the message I want to convey. People are all going to react differently anyway, so this is a very fuzzy target to aim for and if someone cares enough about a character to get emotionally involved in the feedback they're giving, that's my job more than 50% done! All I need to do is *change* an emotional response, not create one.
5) poor language choices. Admit it, we all take shortcuts at times, to speed through a scene and get onto the one we *really* want to write. We all have speech patterns that make their way into our writing. If that's what's been caught then I'm nothing but grateful. If I think it's OK writing and someone criticises it, then I have to assume it's lazy writing and consider how else it could be done. If I think it's good and someone else thinks it's terrible then I need specific guidance and this is where I'll ask for detail. But none of those are reasons to be hurt or down. I haven't failed, I've either knowingly or unknowingly taken a short cut and criticism is the price you pay for that.
6) resolution - a satisfying ending is so important to me. It's a huge challenge to put together a story where nothing is wasted or extraneous, and nothing is left incomplete. Even in a series I feel like each book should have an end, with the promise of stories untold, not stories unfinished. This is very, very difficult and as with points 2&3 it's very hard to achieve this when you're also trying to filter through an entire universe. You might slip up, someone tells you, you're golden.
All of these things should be caught in editing and pre-publication. If it makes it to print, it's not all on me. If I ever get readers and they come to me to say any of the above then, well, I have to be a bit irritated, but at the end of the day I still *can't be down* about it because every single reading experience is about the reader. Every single one. And if the reader has a legitimate criticism/ complaint that is not peculiar to them, then my writing is at fault. If that reader didn't get the right stuff from the story but 90% or more of the readers did, then my job has been done well.
Final caveat, if someone says some variant of "I don't like this." then that is also OK. You cannot write something that creates emotion, challenges perception or build conflict and have everyone like it. If people don't like it, but do not criticise the writing or content then I have done my job perfectly.
Of course people will criticise the writing though, so I recommend allocating yourself a margin of allowable error that you feel is OK to slip up on. :-)
Alicia
Words failing
I'm not good at talking. Words, my best friends, my stock in trade, don't spill from my lips as easily as through my fingers. I can't look you in the eye and say anything clearly, because I'm so afraid of being misunderstood.
But there's something I want to tell you, something I want you to know. It's the shadow of a dream I had, an unbidden wish that decorates my night like the stars. It is similarly unattainable, remote and ultimately powerful.
I want to say the words because there ought to be no lie, no deceit, no fear. There ought to be honesty and how can we be honest if every word is curated? How can it be real if I write, rewrite and edit each sentence to be elegant before all else?
The words must be spoken to allow me to fuck it up; to look you in the eye and see that you understand this is truth, however badly expressed.
If it were written, you would be moved to know of the dreams I have in which we meet, spend time together, love one another with no agenda. You would be entertained to hear how I wistfully hope for another such dream with you. You would doubt me if I described just how I find you attractive, and yet want it to be true.
But if I spoke to you... if I spoke you would hear only that I want more dreams of you, as though it were your job to provide them, and I would clumsily say you aren't an objet d'art, leaving you to think I don't like to look.
And while I feel, I must think of your feelings too and acknowledge these are words you may not want, in any form. I used to be sure that you would reject my clumsy confessions utterly. Wishful thinking has changed my expectations into a maybe, but...
Maybe is not enough to build a dream catcher.
Maybe is not the way to learn to speak.
Maybe is not how we harness the stars.
Maybe is how I can wait until tomorrow.
Maybe then.
Maybe not.
Wednesday, 24 August 2016
Silence in the presence of promise
Words join, mingle and merge. They have offspring and mates. They are attached to music, cadence and rhythm for meaning and pleasure. They have the double entendre, puns and jokes. They are synonyms, antonyms and rhymes.
They sit on the tip of my tongue, in the back of my mind and feature prominently in whirlwinds around my conscious when I want to sleep.
And yet, and yet.
I can sit here and stare at a blank whiteness for hours on end because to use any one of these vibrant individuals for my own ends seems impossible.
Tuesday, 19 July 2016
A little moment
Before you lies a flower, petals slowly unfurling... Slowly, so slowly, reluctantly even, the petals release their grip on the safety of the bud as they turn outwards towards the sun. Imagine them bending, gradually, gently until suddenly
Snap
They pop fully open and there before you lies a full blown bloom in all its glory.
Each day, I feel pressured. I feel the outside world bearing down upon me and until I snap, until I reach that moment, it isn't possible to tell if I'm on my way to breaking or blooming.
Friday, 8 July 2016
Extended Friday Phrase
Every love has two incubators.
We can each choose which chance to nurture and I limit myself to one.
This is my choice.
I will keep our chance warm while I await your light to shine upon it and bring forth our fledgling romance.
It may never come to pass, but I will wait because our hatchling is important.
Alicia
Wednesday, 29 June 2016
Tremblessent
This time round I've been contemplating queries in the back of my mind for a while and I have a much better idea of how to do it. Really, that wouldn't take much. It was very bad.
I still don't think I'm great at it, but there was a Twitter pitch thing for The Knight Agency and since #FridayPhrases really got its claws into me I've felt so much more comfortable putting myself out there on Twitter than through any other medium. So I tweeted my pitch for two novel, just to see if there was interest.
There was interest in one pitch :)
Please note: this is the first time that I am aware of that any professional writing related person has given the slightest indication they think they might be interested in reading my works. I really hope it was for the alliteration because I was *so* pleased with how that felt!
Anyway. As soon as I'd done squeaking and rushing around in a panic, I suddenly realised I needed a query.
Whole new kind of panic. My old one would not suffice for reasons already discussed (principally its badness) and I didn't want to risk this opportunity. Speed reading of queryshark.blogspot.com gave me a top level frame. I went away and wrote my query. I went back to queryshark and read their responses to 60 more queries (there are a lot on the site). I looked for evidence of crimes in my own query and couldn't find any obvious ones.
With very little time on my hands I extracted some key points and scrubbed the rawness out of my query. I was quite savage by the way. My natural over-wordiness was not permitted its moment in the sun, which may go some way towards explaining why I felt the urge to write this!
Key points (all the good ones are stolen from the shark):
- Good spelling and grammar. Already a bug bear of mine, I dread to think how ashamed I will feel if it turns out I missed one.
- Who is the main character?
- What are they doing?
- Why are they doing it?
- Why do I (the reader) care?
- Is the writing style the sort that would keep my interest for a full book?
I am more than willing to keep working on this (although I obviously hope they'll just throw bucketloads of cash my way, no further questions) - but it's still impressive what you can do with a couple of hours of really intense focus and the right motivation!
Monday, 20 June 2016
When bad things happen (4)
I hope he's sleeping well
I'm so grateful
I think
When I first said
I had to go to Yorkshire
When I first texted him
I think I knew
He would offer his support
His presence
I reached out
Because I knew
And because
I think
I needed it
I hope
I am not taking advantage of him
And
I hope
He knows
How grateful I am
When bad things happen (3)
Page after page turns
Words
Meaningless
Useless
Rhythmically patterned
Illustrating nothing
The emptiness
The pain
When does
My
When do
I
Where is
Reality?
Words pour forth
I can't stop them
I will destroy them
When this is over
They are useless
Nothing
Like me
A shell
Waiting for the time
When I can have an impact
Love
Love
I love you
I love you
Love
It's all
But does no good
When bad things happen (2)
I could see more of the day
If I opened the curtains wider
Black and grey
Frames a patch
Of gray, grey and brick
The meagre light
Reflecting off matte aluminium blinds
Perfectly illustrates
Semi flat design
How modern
How comforting
How repulsive
I want to destroy it
I imagine the punch
How unsatisfying
An image that should shatter
Instead
The blinds would flex, rattle and wobble
The window would not respond
The world would not notice
And I would still be alone
In a world of grey
While bad things happen
Far away
When bad things happen (1)
She writes her pain from the outside
Clinically assessing
How she is perceived
She writes their pain from the inside
Emotionally experimenting
With the impact it has
In the morning
She sits alone
Waiting for the world
To notice the passage of time
She writes
She feels
She taunts herself
Reveling in the memory of
Pain
Tears fall
Unbidden
And she cannot tell
What is the boundary
Between her true pain
The suffering of others
And the memory of pain
When bad things happen
There is no way
To make it stop
Keep pushing on
Until exhaustion
Gives you no choice
And
Since the world hasn't seen
That there is all this time
Fill it
Wash
Clean
Write
Exercise
Draw
Paint
Cry
Friday, 27 May 2016
The fiddler
Let the dance turn
Let the song unfold
Let the fiddler burn
He dances in the ashes
Of a city turned to dust
He mocks you and your wishes
To feel unbridled lust
It takes less than a moment
To make your wishes heard
Yet he will not cease playing
Nor do honour to your word
You want to stand unbroken
Before his vile onslaught
Shattered are your dreams
Your wishes ground to naught
The fiddler dances onwards
Trampling your soul
The cushion for his dainty feet
On the pathway to his goal
Do not fear the fiddler
Nor the song he plays
He augurs not your sunset
Nor the ending of your days
Let the music play
Let the dance turn
Let the song unfold
And the fiddler?
He will burn
Man flu
It's true, you know. I can think coherently. I can walk, I can run, I can communicate, I can do my job.
But I just sat down alone in a quiet room.
My head is heavy, my forehead is inexplicably mis-sized. When I close my eyes there are high pressured cavities the size of golf balls in my sinuses and my forehead protrudes several inches further forwards than normal. My ears are hot and empty and yet I hear everything through my nose.
When I close my eyes I want to keep them closed - the lines of the sealed lids is hot and dry and when I open them my eyes will feel soggy for no reason. My hair roots itch and the floor is too close. I want to stretch upwards, away from it, but it makes me dizzy - as though vertigo has a grip on me.
I'm tired. So tired I could cry.
My throat vacillates between sore, tender, dry and claggy. Each time I swallow my ears try to pop. There is moisture wrapped around my uvula and my tonsils are extending their grip into the roots of my brain. I can't taste anything or smell anything, but I am convinced I am unclean and stench-ridden.
But I'm fine. I can write this. I can walk. I can run (briefly). I can work. I can do it all.
I don't want to. I want to stay in bed and sleep for days. I want to recline on my sofa and feel secure. I want to not have to think. But if I stay at home watching TV then other people will have to do my work and frankly, they can't. Or, in the case of some of the less pleasant aspects, shouldn't have to.
Wednesday, 25 May 2016
Desired relationship status
Wednesday, 18 May 2016
Meta post
Wednesday, 4 May 2016
Hypocrisy
I boast of it.
I recommend it as a lifestyle.
I call it "playing life on hard".
I do this in the full knowledge that there are some truths I avoid saying.
I avoid them because they will make my life harder.
Hypocrite.
Thursday, 28 April 2016
Song for you
You'd never know it was yours
But I would
And every time I heard it
I would wrap myself
With thoughts of you
I'd see your eyes crinkle
As you started to smile
I'd see your lips tighten
As you fought back a laugh
And I'd see your hands reaching
To keep me with you
If I ever wrote a song for you
It would be about the way you smell
Or how you sound when you're tired
It would be about how you make me feel
Or the way you groan when you forget things
And you wouldn't know
I see your eyes crinkle
Each time you smile
I see your lips tighten
As you fight back a laugh
I see your hands reaching
To hold on to me
But you
You don't see
Past the nose on your face
The hair in your ears
Or the scar on your chin
You can't believe
That song was for you
Because it talks about
Someone beautiful
Friday, 15 April 2016
Woman seeking man.
You must be intelligent and want intelligence in return.
You must thrive off challenge, because I don't understand any other way of life.
You must be open to embarrassing yourself in the pursuit of happiness.
You must live life as though what you do has an impact on others.
If you aren't open to joy or freedom, I will be saddened and leave.
If you object to independent thought, I will rebel and leave.
If you think cruelty is OK, I will be afraid. And I will leave.
If you think you can follow the laws that interest you and disregard the rest, I won't understand you and I will leave.
I don't want a hero or a villain.
I don't want a beauty or a beast.
I don't want a dictator or a freedom fighter.
I don't want an extremist of any sort.
I want an intelligent man who cares about people he loves and gives everyone else the freedom and respect to let them be.
I want a strong man: truly strong. Not an "alpha male" who thinks strength is only found in hurting others. Not one who thinks it is strong to never cry. I want a man who doesn't cater to the whims of cliques for fear of losing their support. A man who can be vulnerable without fearing it will cost him. A man who would let his daughter paint his nails pink and not feel he has to apologise for making her happy.
I want a creative man - any sort of creativity is fine. Word play, music, whatever, as long he puts new things into the world.
I want a reliable man who will be with me in dark times and light, who doesn't think I owe him anything for the privilege of being held by him, who is not counting the days passing as though waiting for the acceptable duration to have passed.
But hell yeah, I also want to enjoy looking at him.
Why shouldn't I?
A
Tuesday, 12 April 2016
Little things
Sunday, 27 March 2016
The first move.
Kate already felt stalkerish for sneaking extra glances when he was straining through his weight training, neither could break the unwritten social law that dictates silence on a commute and although she hoped he'd introduce himself at a bar, Mark couldn't bring himself to approach a stranger.
And so they continued - each convinced the other had no interest and neither willing enough to put themselves out there and risk rejection.
Thankfully, as their friends were oblivious, the universe became irritated with their mutual stupidity and threw them together. At a bar one evening, Kate had retreated to the ladies for a little secretive social media surfing. In this particular establishment, the toilets were upstairs and as she descended, an impatient man pushed past her going downstairs. Taken by surprise and slightly precarious in her heels, she stumbled and as she regained her balance she reached out and grabbed the nearest solid object. It was Mark.
He hadn't seen anything to explain her sudden assault so, startled, he stopped and stared enquiringly at her. "Er, can I help you?"
She realised she was clutching at the fabric covering the rather firm expanse of his chest. Thanks to his penchant for wearing t-shirts at the gym that became see-through and clung to him when he drenched them with sweat, she already had a perfect visual of what was going on under there and her hand flexed involuntarily. Blushing vividly she snatched her hand back as though it burned and muttered incoherent apologies through a tight throat.
She tried to rush away and instead fell, compounding her mortification as she landed in an ungainly heap several steps below. He immediately retrieved the scattered belongings that fell from her bag and she anxiously checked her phone to ensure it had suffered no hurt whilst thanking him profusely and trying not to look him in the eye. As she was also trying to avoid ogling his chest, arms and, now she was seated, his thighs, she ended up staring at his ear lobe, wishing she had some witty observation, intelligent remark or in fact any three syllables to string together that might let him know she was in any sense admirable.
Kate stood hastily, apologising again and he offered his hand to help her. "Are you sure you're OK to stand? Did you hurt your ankle at all?"
"Sorry, thanks, no I'm fine. I'm fine, thanks. Sorry. I didn't mean to... I'm really sorry. Are you OK?" She was highly conscious of her hand in his, but didn't want to seem rude by snatching it away, so instead let it remain, deliberately relaxing it so he didn't feel obliged to maintain the contact.
"I'm great, and," as he spoke he looked down at his chest and smiled. "My shirt seems equally fine. We're very resilient."
The reminder of how he'd felt under her hand upgraded the temperature in her cheeks from minorly incendiary to full-on napalm and after a brief, horrified glance into his eyes she fixed her gaze avidly on that earlobe, noting that his thick stubble ended naturally just below his jawline, leaving the skin on his neck soft and smooth. The sounds of someone new ascending the stairs alerted them seconds before they appeared and prevented her from having to form a coherent response. The new arrival glanced incuriously at them and she was able to form a polite smile as he passed.
It didn't last long. Mark, in an effort to make space on the stairs, stepped closer to her and, like a startled rabbit, she gasped and stared at him. He was close enough now that his scent overwhelmed the stale air of the stairwell and her sudden inhalation meant it hit her in full force. It was woody, spicy, masculine and carried a hint of plain old soap. He went to step back and as he released her hand, it flew out and caught his waist, gently urging him to stay.
"Resilient or not, I owe you for rescuing my purse. Can I buy you a drink? As a thank you." Her hasty justification amused him and his lips twitched slightly.
"That sounds nice, but I'm the designated driver tonight."
"Oh." She hesitated, wondering if he was trying to hint her off before deciding to go all guns blazing. "Well, honestly, I prefer to get to know someone over a quiet dinner instead of at a noisy bar and I've been thinking for a while that I really want to get to know you. Do you eat?"
His surprise was obvious, but he quickly took up her offer, suggesting a curry house nearby. They exchanged numbers and agreed a date before saying goodbye. As he turned to leave, she hastily leaned forward and brushed a kiss against his neck. He looked down at her oddly and she smiled, wiping away the smudge of lipstick she'd marked him with.
"I'd have kissed your cheek, but I'm not sure I'd be able to wipe any excess lipstick out of your stubble."
He rubbed his jaw, grimacing slightly. "Yeah, I've been told it's a bit much."
"Oh, no!" her objection was instantaneous and heartfelt. "I really like it! Bring it with you on Wednesday and I'll prove it." As she spoke she stepped away from him and smiled before sashaying away. He carried on up the stairs and, when she was sure he couldn't see or hear her she punched the air triumphantly and did an excited little victory dance before hurrying back to her friends.
Monday, 7 March 2016
Help, my strong female character is an idiot!
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What makes a strong female character? I'll be honest, I don't have a magic answer for you. But I can tell you one behaviour which is far too often gifted to the "strong female character" that undermines everything this character is supposed to stand for. I refer, of course, to the female character who does something spectacularly stupid under the guise of "strength" and "independence" that too frequently results in her becoming a "Damsel in distress".
Examples? Stephanie Laurens is rife with these. Her books are historical romances littered with female characters who rebel against the expected status of women of the period and partner off with men who respect their strengths. However, these women have a tendency to completely disrespect their men, assuming they don't know what they are talking about when they say things like "that place is littered with criminals who will do unspeakable things to you" and merrily prance to said location at the earliest opportunity, requiring the man to step in and rescue them. *sigh*
While I'm willing to accept that on the grounds that - well, let's face facts - those books are light fluff and don't need to be consistent or in any way plausible, there are other instances of this that have disappointed me greatly.
Consider the ending to Andy Weir's The Martian. He wrote a good ending and Hollywood... they butchered it because they wanted the commander to get more screen time. In the book, the commander is a very strong leader, excellent communicator and delegator. She takes charge of all situations without needing to be the center of attention and her team respect her greatly. In the film, as they are rescuing Mark, she suddenly (at the very last possible second) changes the game plan, without communicating it. Despite knowing both the length of the tether available and the distance they need to travel she launches herself out of the spaceship in an effort she knows to be futile. She behaves completely irrationally and unjustifiably and it totally undermines everything that she represents - strength, capability, professionalism - in the book.
In her debut sci-fi novel, Fluency, Jen Foehner Wells is very invested in her strong female lead - according to several tweets describing her as such. However, within the first few pages, said "strong" character has complained about a nickname one man bestowed on her at the very start of her time with NASA (as I recall, the phrase was "he called her doc although it didn't make sense, they were all masters or PhDs"). She didn't say this to the guy who gave her the nickname. Oh no. She just sits there being a victim for years.
Being charitable, I can find circumstances under which this behaviour would be justifiable, or that sort of fit with the strong female character archetype. Possibly she wasn't really complaining or bothered by it, maybe she was just confused. Perhaps, despite both reflecting on the nickname and not being able to understand why he's singled her out for years, perhaps she had still never found a need to clarify it with him. There are instances of this inconsistency throughout the book, but it's a debut novel, so I pull my punches.
However, the point the character falls apart is the moment you discover one tiny fact about her that actually serves *no* purpose in terms of plot, except to trigger a conversation that no strong woman would ever feel the need to have.
Before I tell you, here's some context:
- she's in a capsule travelling to Mars for 18 months
- the capsule has a single private toilet area covered by a curtain
- bathing is not a thing
- she's trained with NASA for over a year before going on the expedition
- her preparation would have included cat scans and X-Rays to check bone density and internal organ health
- her doctor is female
The woman has an IUD the doctor on her expedition didn't know about.
An IUD.
She didn't take hormone pills that would stop her period entirely, thus eliminating a messy bodily excretion for the period of the expedition, despite having a female doctor on board who would have *no* reason to forget to take the tablets, even if they weren't in the habit of taking them with their breakfast vitamins.
She didn't have an operation at NASA to implant it (or her Dr would know), she didn't have it when she was scanned by NASA (or her Dr would know) and she obviously didn't ask anyone for advice on how an IUD would operate in a gravity free environment because if lack of gravity means it slips, what then? There's clearly no way it can be reinserted in the capsule given the lack of space.
She deliberately went out of her way to get a form of birth control she couldn't self administer and keep it secret from a trained health professional while operating in a completely foreign (and gravity free) environment. Not only is that not strong, it's the behaviour of someone who is deeply ashamed of a simple bodily function. They are too ashamed to speak even to a female doctor and, crucially, so ashamed that they take a huge risk with a dodgy choice rather than speak sensibly to someone about their options.
And the conversation it triggered? "Oh, I don't want you to think I'm ready to have sex with you because I'm using contraception." It could even be interpreted as "I don't want you to think I have loose morals because I'm using contraception."
What. the. Hell.
I'm sorry, but really. How, as a strong woman, can you take a mental stance other than "I have the right to choose whether or not I want to have sex with you, and my wants have nothing to do with my contraceptive choices" therefore making that entire conversation utterly redundant? If it came up in conversation at all it should only be because he raised it (Hey. pretty lady, I see you're safe from unwanted babies, therefore let's get it on!) and her response is easy. Two words: Fuck off.
I'm conscious I've become slightly passionate, so I'll dial it back a little. Let's say that conversation was crucial and the only possible trigger for it was evidence that she was sexually aware. Let's claim all of the above is completely rational. This wasn't the only example of a time where an irresponsible, immature choice was made by this character.
A big deal is made of the fact that the main character doesn't like guns. OK, fine. I'm not fond of them myself. But think about any particularly dangerous or stressful situation when a small group works together. That group depends on each other for survival. Trust between them is critical, especially when entering completely unknown, possibly hostile territory. Any threat could come forward. Every member of that team is dependent on everyone else. One person fucks up, they all could die.
In Fluency, during their pre-flight training and in preparation for dangerous situations, it is more important to this strong female character that everyone knows her stance on guns than it is to ensure her teammates know they can trust her to take care of herself and them in a dangerous situation. She isn't willing to do that. She deliberately, as an intelligent, mature, capable individual who has been in survival situations before, chooses to undermine the strength of the team by making herself a weak point.
The guy who leads the expedition when her skillset isn't needed is portrayed as a bad guy for the way he reacts to her behaviour, but I'm totally on his side. Completely. I can understand exactly where he is coming from and I pity him. She had several options; the one she chose was the dramatic, reckless one, with no long term rationale behind it.
And that's the problem. In some fluff you can accept that the "Strong Female Character" is just a nod to modern sensibilities, or an excuse to bring sexual freedom into a repressed world. But when dramatic, reckless behaviour becomes the norm, and you can see it spreading across into genres which take women more seriously?
That pisses me off.
What is worse is that while the women are busy flouncing and declaring their strength an independence, the men are working away in the background getting the damn job done; except when they have to stop to rescue the idiot female.
Thursday, 25 February 2016
What you want (Chapter 2)
Spike remained in his crypt for weeks. At first when he wanted to leave, he wondered; “What if she comes by right now and I’m not here?” When he became annoyed at himself for mooning over her that way and tried to overcome it he never passed the door to the crypt. Whenever he tried his mind would throw up ways they might accidentally meet and while he was thoroughly excited by the prospect, he couldn’t risk her thinking he would give up his side of the bargain so easily.
He called upon Clem for support; begging him to do grocery shopping in exchange for TV time and practicing at kitten poker. It was Clem who kept him in touch with the demon world and gave him his first distraction in weeks when he mentioned the presence of a Suvolte demon locally. Bored, frustrated and in need of some cash to feed his various habits, Spike formulated a plan to entice the Suvolte to nest in his crypt.
It went perfectly – using the alias of “The Doctor” Clem purchased and delivered the required ingredients for a vile concoction which lured the demon with the scent of a potential mate. Upon arrival, it was trapped by a dangerously constructed electrocuted web, held there long enough to lay its eggs and then driven out by strategic use of the same web. During this phase, Spike was electrocuted almost incessantly. After some bartering and nudging there were a couple of potential buyers lining up and Spike was triumphant for several days until a very angry Riley burst open his front door while he and Clem watched TV. Clem stood and retreated rapidly, while Spike maintained his arrogant swagger.
“Soldier boy! I’d no idea you’d be…” his words trailed into silence as Buffy walked into the crypt behind Riley. He abruptly stood and walked towards her, raking his fingers through his hair.
“Buffy, you came!” His surge of relief and joy was tempered by Riley’s presence – there was no reason he could think why she would want to bring her ex along to get him back.
She put her hand out, rejecting him, and his movement slowed. In the background, Clem waved an excited greeting at her before realising he might as well be invisible in this drama.
“Not for….” Her words were tense. “We’re here for the Doctor.”
He was silenced. Although he’d been right, it wasn’t, unfortunately, in the way he had hoped. In the end he managed to mumble out a not-very-convincing “Don’t know what you mean.” Under Riley’s threatening gaze, Spike turned and frantically tried to distract them. “If you brought soldier boy here to experiment, you’re off the mark. I’m strictly a ladies man.”
Enjoying the light of confusion in Riley’s eyes, and finding a measure of relief in Buffy’s nervous tension, Spike pushed a little harder. “Ohhh…” He feigned surprise. “Didn’t you tell him? Was I supposed to be your dirty little secret?”
Riley’s expression changed from confusion to disgust and Buffy flinched. Spike turned a blind eye to her reaction, wanting to rub his triumph into the face of Buffy’s former boyfriend, all too conscious that he’d never had that kind of status himself. Ignoring her was a mistake; her fist came fast and hard, smashing up against his jawline. For a moment his eyes caught hers and in that moment he saw unshed tears. He suddenly felt a failure. He was supposed to make her happy; not do this. Whatever this was. Needling Riley suddenly brought no satisfaction. He wanted them out and was on the verge of telling them to clear off when rustling noises sounded from the entrance to his lower floor, where he stored the eggs and he whipped round to stare. An unknown, athletic female stepped out, dressed as Riley was and with the same nonchalant control over the gun she wielded. She nodded, “The eggs are there.”
“Hey!” Spike’s outrage, although genuine, was a bit flustered. “You can’t just wander around down there, that’s private property! Who the hell are you?”
“Sam Finn, meet Spike. AKA, the Doctor.” Buffy spoke bitterly, and Spike knew her resentment was aimed at him, not the mysterious Ms Finn.
“What is this?” he snarled. “Finn, huh? I don’t remember a sister ever being mentioned, so you must be the Mrs?” When there was no surprise or negative reaction from any of the three, he suddenly felt like a sideshow freak and wondered what kind of kick Buffy was getting out of this. Bitterly he turned to her: “And you! You just happen to lead them here to include me in your big adventure? Why?” Spike, never particularly emotionally stable, was giving full reign to his tendency to lash out irrationally when he was hurt. “Now you know you lost him, you decided to prove to him that he wasn’t missed? What am I in this?”
“You’re the Doctor.” Her words were flat and spoken with absolute conviction. “We wanted to find out who it was that threated Sunnydale with a brace of Suvolte demons. It left a nice clear trail when it escaped your trap and we just had to follow it back to the start. Imagine my surprise when we found it came out of your favourite sewer pipe.” She spoke coldly, staring him in the eyes as she did, barely blinking. “How could you, Spike?”
“What is this? You’re disappointed in me now?” He shrugged and gestured at her as dismissively as he could. “You know what I am. You’ve always known.”
She was silent for a few moments as she struggled for the words. “I should have known.” Her words were quiet. “But for some reason, you made me believe that you wanted to be better than that. I guess that was a lie.” Spike tried to counter her flat statement but she cut him off completely; turning to Riley as she did so. “Let’s grab the eggs.”
Sam opened the hatch to the crypt then hesitated before climbing down. Moving fast, she crouched and gazed into the space below before leaping back up, throwing her belt of explosives and an unclipped grenade down there and slamming down the hatch, holding it firmly down against the explosion.
Nonchalantly she smiled at her husband. “I guess they got too warm – they were already hatching.”
“Not much point staying here then. Buffy?”
She had returned her gaze to Spike and she practically radiated disappointment. “Yeah, I’m with you, Riley.”
As she followed Riley and Sam out, Spike took an impulsive step after her, but then deflated as he realised he’d completely lost. Clem crept forwards and looked enquiringly at Spike. “Now what?” he asked.
“Well there’s no more bloody eggs, that’s for sure.” Spike wrenched the top off the whiskey and swigged from the bottle neck. Abruptly, he turned to Clem, “And what the hell did she mean, being all disappointed at me like that?”
“Well, you know.” Clem’s soul gave him insights Spike lacked. He forgot that sometimes, as now, when Spike had to gesture him to continue because he definitely did not know. “She’s the Slayer. The embodiment of the powers of good. You’re in love with her and want her to love you back. For that to ever happen, she needs you to be good too.”
“I am good,” railed Spike. “With this bloody chip in my head I don’t have any other choice!”
“No.” Clem shook his head and his ears flapped sadly. “No, no. You were trading on the black market, putting a town full of people at the mercy of a family of Suvolte demons, just to make money. That’s not good.”
Spike took another hefty swig of the whiskey and sat morosely on his sofa. The explosion had cut the electricity and the TV now stared blankly back at him.
“Was your bloody idea.” He muttered, offering Clem the whiskey bottle. He declined and sat down too.
Back home, Buffy had seen off Sam and Riley, leaving the Scoobies to revel in how awesome they were while she retreated to her room. She curled up on her bed in silence and hugged a pillow. A part of her was weeping inside, even as her face remained emotionless. Eventually she stood and opened the window. She stared outside for long minutes, wistfully. She’d done this every night for the past week, always looking towards the tree Spike had hidden behind while watching the house. She smiled as she thought how he always believed his actions were completely secret, not realising that every morning she cleared away his cigarette butts. She told herself it was so no-one else realised he was doing it, but couldn’t think of a good reason why that could possibly matter.
The first morning she’d gone out and there were none there, she was shocked. It didn’t seem possible. On a daily basis she expected him to crack and each morning she checked. As time passed, she became confused, almost concerned, and on occasion she even brought him up in Scooby conversations to see if anyone else had seen or heard from him. They hadn’t, but assumed he’d got the message and left town, so his name always sank and disappeared from conversation almost immediately after she raised it.
Before discovering he was the Doctor, she had been on the verge of going to him and inviting him back into her life as a trusted friend. Now she knew that wasn’t possible; no one who could do that could be trusted.
On the other hand, she couldn’t kill him. Yet. If he came for her, she could. If he broke their pact and sought her out, she felt she could consider him fair game. In her mind she listed the reasons that would make it OK to kill him, counting them out, over and over, wondering which would most likely come to pass. Wondering if she could do it.
She’d killed Angel and she’d loved him. Killing Spike would be a piece of nothing. He could fight back, he could hurt her, and it would be justified. And yet a part of her did not want to cross that line.
She lay down in her bed and rolled onto her side, staring out the window. The moon hung heavily in the black sky and she felt isolated. She reached her hands above her head, gripping the bed head, and cast her mind back to the feeling of being in his arms that night. Being cherished. Being loved, even by a demon. She and Spike had crossed a line that night and since then she hadn’t been able to forget.
Back in the crypt, Spike lay on the sofa before the defunct TV, trying to sleep and failing utterly as his mind replayed every particular of the day’s events. He kept fixating in particular on the look in her eyes, the disappointment, as she had given up on him. The loss of his stuff in the basement had barely registered, even when Clem had commented on it and even his discomfort now wasn’t enough to help him forget that moment where he felt her sever the fragile bond they had been building.
Outside, the sounds of demon revelry beckoned but he had no heart for the party and merely wished the upper levels of the crypt were as well soundproofed as the basement. He moved to turn on the TV and growled in frustration as he recalled the damage. Suddenly realising he’d have nothing to keep himself occupied with if he spent a whole day awake, he leaped up and threw his energies into re-establishing comfort in his home.
It took a couple of hours to clean out the basement, but he was left with a nice pile of kindling from the furniture he’d been accumulating, and the ironwork was still mostly intact. The most heavy duty rubbish cleared away, Spike headed to the dump to start collecting replacements, detouring only to pick up some new fuses from a hardware store. From the dump he was able to liberate a few items – a new TV was first on the list, a few old power leads and a blanket were enough to get him through the next day, but as he was walking out he passed a book bin. Unable to resist, he punched a hole in the side of the bin and began sorting through the books left there. They were mostly cheap tatty romance and thrillers that were wildly popular for long enough to have a film made and then everyone started throwing them out. There were a few hard-backed coverless ones as well which he held onto without knowing what they were and a few volumes of poetry. He marched back home and began to set up his meagre new belongings.
In the gloom of the crypt they looked small and insignificant, but he cherished them believing his need for these things brought him closer to humanity and to Buffy.
He settled into one of his books half an hour before Dawn arrived. He greeted her carelessly and she wandered idly round the room, commenting that it had really been hit hard.
“Yeah, soldier boy’s new hook-up redecorated it with a grenade for me.”
“Sam is so cool!” Dawn spoke with fervour and Spike, while understanding such appreciation for wanton destruction felt compelled to remind her that it was his stuff she’d destroyed.
“I’m not, at this moment,” he concluded, “her biggest fan. Speaking of,” he put his book down and unfurled from the sofa to pace towards Dawn, “your sister is particularly unfond of me right now and would definitely not want you here. Why are you?”
Dawn, perfectly relaxed as only a teenager could be, had become restless as he challenged her and now refused to meet his eyes, instead turning and playing with one of the books he’d left in a pile to be read later. When she finally spoke, the words tumbled out as though she couldn’t control them:
“I need your help.”
Tuesday, 23 February 2016
#200wordtuesday "Never Again"
At this dinner there were five couples and I mentioned it's nice to not feel isolated since John paired with me instead of bringing a date. The couple opposite - Nate and Mary - laughed and said they're emergency mutual dates of long standing. Dinner was lively, hilarious and the time flew until my single status was raised. I was finally able to say truthfully I'm thoroughly enjoying the freedom. The usual complimentary "it's surprising" comments were made and I told them, laughing, there may be a million men wanting to date me but I'm embarrassingly oblivious.
"We're aware." Mary was smiling but took me by surprise. It obviously showed and she elaborated, gesturing at the man beside her: "Nate's been slack jawed and drooling since he saw you."
I considered him for a moment, reflecting that dating would mean never again having the freedom to do this, then asked Mary if she'd swap seats for dessert.
Monday, 22 February 2016
What you want (Chapter 1)
She kicked at him and stormed off to retrieve her clothes. As she dressed, he spoke quietly: "One day, love, you are going to have to admit that you are here because you want to be and, shockingly, that you might even like me."