Mariannes Makeup

All to often people see only the finished product. A pair of Prada shoes; exquisite. For those with a more modest budget, like myself, undoubtedly there have been weeks if not months of agonising self debate before the purchase is finally made. Do I need new shoes or do I just want them? Should I have the washing machine fixed before I get buy them? Then, as if by magic, its January and that pair of Prada shoes are sitting sadly on the sail rack at the back of the shop. Fate. I can't afford the washing machine now anyway, not after the christmas spend. Days, weeks, months and sometimes even years of perfect harmony pass. It isn't until they begin to fade that their ownwer takes a closer look at what is holding them together. She picks away at the peeling sole that has been her friend for so long...

I have been reading a lot of finished products recently and it has started to occur to me more and more that what I really want to know about them is where they came from. What started them? Who? Why and where? I'm going to make a wild assumption and guess that it is almost never only from the authors imagination. Every idea needs a spark. A good writer sees this spark and steals it, moulding it into a new entity. Giving birth to a new story.

However, admitting where one stole this spark from offers a transparency into the piece. An honesty, maybe? I am going to give you an honest view into a piece of micro-fiction that I wrote a few years ago Mariannes Makeup. I was looking around an exhibition at the V&A a few years ago and found a spark in this painting...I moulded it and created Marianne. Given her story I thought she would be an appropriate place to start given we are discussing transparency and honesty. She still inspires me.



Marianne has just applied her makeup. I've just watched. I don't understand how she does it. Every morning she puts on her crow black wig. Lines her eyebrows. Shaves her face. Foundation. Rolls on her lipstick. Spreads her eye shadow. Powder blush. Eyeliner. Every morning, she just stares into that mirror, mouth ajar. And every morning I gaze in fascination past the back of her head at her square beaten face, through the gold framed mirror. She used to be like me. It’s why we fell in love. So much in love. She wanted me, wanted what I wanted. A house, a home, a garage for the car, a cat named Biggles, a dog named Rex, and perhaps, someday a marriage. Like every couple. It would be fine, normal. It’s a modern world, no one would bat an eyelid. That's why I can't understand. She used to have long straggly hair, knotted. Ginger. Baggy jeans, over her ass, revealing a touch of her grey Calvin Klein boxers, alluring all of the eligible bachelors. Her trainers were too big, their laces untied, and a bands name was splashed across her t-shirt. I still love her. I still want her. She's just not the man I fell in love with. After she's done staring into her wonderland of plastic beauty. She spins on her plush pink swivel stool and says
“Ready for breakfast Richard? Tea or coffee?” She gets up, slips on her brown kitten heeled boots and walks into the kitchen. “ Richard? You never said. Tea or Coffee?”

New Look and the Cows

As of today my blog has a new look, a new feel and a very definate more regular input!

Recently the novel has been playing on my mind, and Mrs Yettman is using that to her advantage. She is pushing me into entering a few writing competitions and I'm not sure that my work is good enough as yet. As flippant as it sounds, it just doesn't feel ready! So I am attempting to soldier on with my novel. It is coming along quite nicely now that I know the cows are the key. Yes. You read correctly. The cows are the main focal point of my novel! It came as a suprise to me too, especially seeing as I had been busy writing about estranged fathers and abortions. Anyway, I think that the cows are working to bring the whole thing together.


This brings me on to my next topic of conversation - theory! I have studied in fair depth the relativley new ecocriticism theory that is causing debate in the literary world, and I have found that without really being aware of it myself, that reading my novel is like waving a massive green flag for ecocriticism from the top of Big Ben! Since realising this, I have been able to to do two things.

One - allow this overwhelming urge to indulge in ecocriticism to continue as it has been, as well as helping it to grow and show itself in even clearer terms. Perhaps I could even let it change the climax of my novel so that it represents a theoretical response as appose to just a good story! I could follow in the footsteps of great ecocritical writers and force the theory upon not only myself but my readers too! (If I am ever lucky enough to have any!)

OR

Two - I could ignore it and carry on as I am.

Not being able to fully decide, or even strike an immediate balance between the two I have found myself writing two versions of everything in the vain hope that I will be able to marry them together later on in the process... foolish? Probably.

Oh well. I hope you enjoy my new look blog, and I am sure that the cows will be back to see you all soon...

Death of the Author

Sylvia Plath commited suicide, Agatha Christie once dissapeared for a week and no one is really sure what happened to Edgar Allan Poe.

I am sitting in a coffee shop drinking my third cup of tea when I overhear a snippet of conversation which intruiges me. A balding man carrying a red clipboard which clashes with the colour of his tie announces:

"BRITISH AUTHOR DIES IN CRASH!"

Suprisingly this is met by a roar of laughter by the other three people who are happily sharing his wine. "Probably the best thing a writer can do for his publisher" Says the man who is lucky enough to have hair, even if it is receeding. "Sometimes I think I should write all the poems that God has given me, leave them on my publishers desk and then go and drive a car into a lampost!" Again more laughter follows, and I am now listening much more intently than your avarege evesdroper. I find myself sidling along my seat so that I can be closer to the group.


"So. You're poems Sam? Is there a collection yet?"


"I'd say so."


"And are they ready?"


"Are they ever?" More laughter. I want to talk to them, show them some of my own poetry even though I know it has it's limitations. Maybe I should ask them if they are looking to publish any short fiction. Unknown by anyone else in the room, Mrs Yettman sits down next to me. She feels very strongly about what I should ask the group. She assures me that talking to this random group of people may indeed jeopordise my integrity as a writer, because all I am going to do is throw myself at them, in much the same way that a married middle aged woman might throw herself at an also married, but nonetheless slightly happier Garry Barlow in fresh veg aisle in Morrisons.



I know from her constant badgering that she wants these stories to be a success more than anyone. They are, after all, her road to the acknowledgement which she so desperatley wants. her presence only causes me momentary distraction and pretty soon I am already deep in thought, wondering if perhaps if it might benefit my bank balance (in which I am knee deep in overdraft) if I was to die?

"AUTHOR KILLED BY WEAK BOOK SHELF!"

"AUTHOR FOUND DEAD SURROUNDED BY MANUSCRIPT"

"AUTHOR SUFFERS SAME FATE AS NOW INFAMOUS CHARACTER!"

No. Somehow none of these seem quite right. Mrs Yettman nods in agreement. I should probably keep on living at least as long as it takes to finish the collection.

Mrs Yettman

Mrs Yettman is around fiffty years old, but it is difficult to be precise because like many old ladies she is reluctant to share her age. She has grey hair that is just too short to wear up like she'd like. Her eyes are a dark shade of tired brown, but recently she has started to wear contacts which add a certain sparkle to them, especially at night.

She is American. To be precise she is from Ohio, which is a place that I know nothing about. Mrs Yettman's christian name is Kathleen, although she was never christened. Christopher, who for thirty years has been Mr Yettman, dotes over her even more now than when they met. Sometimes however she feels that perhaps he has begun to feel that marraige is just a chore that he has to complete each day.

Her brother, Dafydd, emigrated to Wales a long time ago and she has never really recovered. He chose Wales because after following his family history he found that his great great grandmother was infact Welsh. Neither Dafydd or Mrs Yettman knew her, but still he felt the need to go and explore his heritage, which Mrs Yettman convinced herself she understood.

Now she is in Wales delivering news of a death in the family to her brother. However she is about to die in a terrible accident which will keep the local gossip mongourers for weeks to come. The only problem is that I can't quite bring myself to let go of Mrs Yettman...

For the past year Mrs Yettman has been a huge part of my life. She has sat next to me on the bus, drank white wine with me in my garden, watched Neighbours with me in my living room, cuddled up with me in my bed and even turned away as I used the bathroom. Her presence is constant.

I am a writer and Mrs Yettman is one of my characters. I have just finished a degree in creative writing, in which I decided to write a collection of short stories for my final year project. Mrs Yettman is the central character in one of those stories. Although I have handed this small collection in for marking, and have actually received my mark back (I congratualte myself on a First...) I still feel that these pieces are not yet finished. I have decided to put together a full collection of short stories, focusing around similar and related themes and ideas, and then, once I have a completed collection, I am going to try and have them published. My copy of the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook 2009 is already close at hand. I am going to use this blog, with the help of my now good friend Mrs Yettman, to help me acheive this goal. I hope that it will not only help me get my thoughts in order, thus allowing me to go to the bathroom alone, but also that I will be able to conect with other like minded bloggers /writers who may or may not have anything to say. Anyway, I hope that this blog/journal is of interest to some of you, but right now the Eastenders Omnibus has just started and I promised to make Mrs Yettman a cup of coffee to enjoy while it is on. She likes it white without sugar.