Wednesday, March 28, 2012
There are brown ducks and there are white ducks, and in my neck of the woods, the brown ducks and the white ducks hung out in different parts of town, until recently. For reasons known only to their good feathered selves, these ducks have, with a single shag, overturned the prevailing ducky apartheid and now we have brown and white ducks. Their back feathers are actually a mouth watering shade of caramel, although the photos don't do it justice.
Who knows what their reasons were? Was it a political statement? Pure lust? Or do opposites attract in the duck world, as in any other? Did a society princess duck get into the schnapps, waddle to the wrong side of the tracks only to find herself knocked up? We'll probably never know the answer to these questions, but as I chased these beautiful belligerent shits around trying to get a good photo, their caramel backs reminded me of a Dave Allen joke:
Sister Mary is racing around the convent corridors. Having overslept, she is late for mass. Rounding a corner she encounters another nun on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. "Who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?" the nun giggles. Sister Mary flushes deeply and scurries on. Bang! She smacks headlong into another nun. The flustered nun pulls back and laughs, "Who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?" Sister Mary bows her red face and runs on, round another corner where a group of nuns take one look at her and chorus, "Who got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?" She rushes away. Glancing over her shoulder Sister Mary draws a deep breath, relieved to be away from the laughing nuns. When she turns forward again, Mother Superior is standing before her, inspecting her feet. "Sister Mary," Mother Superior demands, "What are you doing with the Bishop's shoes on?"
Postscript: The next time I saw these ducks, I was without a camera. They were perfectly content to waddle around not six feet away from me, the shits.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
~ The Antagonist ~
Big Publishing doesn’t like to think for itself. That’s why God invented literary agents. You could say literary agents are tools of the trade.
I don't know what I expected. It wasn't what I found. (You have to submit to literary agents? You mean, I don't just choose one?) It's them versus us, them being writers and us being the agent/publisher – that single beast of two heads, one mind and half a heart.
The Prosecution would have you believe it is writer's paranoia which casts publishing as a citadel. Don't you believe it. Death is preferable to allowing a breach in the perimeter. Thou shalt nots: submissions with typos will result in swift death – only if there aren’t too many, in which case, slow death – the misspelling of an agent’s name will unleash the righteous and wrathful god of rejection, addressing an agent by their first name will provoke gang warfare, and any number of lesser offences will bring a bevy of heavies to your door, intent on kicking a troublesome writer’s head in.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Trial of the Romance Novelist
'Thank Christ there wasn't more of it' ~ Frank Moorhouse
'We'll give you money to leave us alone – cash, and lots of it' ~ Southerly
'Awful, just awful' ~ Heat
'Not only roman a clef but also roman a these, all the more remarkably bizarre for being told from the vibrator's point of view' ~ Jane Gleeson-White
'Jean D'Arque is not to be missed. If you see her, shoot her ~
'Memorable for many reasons – none of them good' ~ Island
'Please, just fuck off' ~ Meanjin
Friday, March 2, 2012
The first time I uploaded an ebook for sale, it sold inside a minute. My second title sold a copy within seconds – not long enough for anyone to read the blurb, much less a sample – and the penny dropped. Somewhere out there, before my baby drew breath, its bastard twin was being conceived – quite possibly rewritten to the highest standard of Bangladeshi English. I am the mafia Don Ranjeet and I am going to shoot you with Vishnu's curses and cannolis, another one thing. You dirty ratfink, is that vindaloo in your pants or are you just happy to see me?