So one of the biggest relationship challenges these days is finding a Netflix series that you both like, and both haven't seen yet. For the past week, this was 13 reasons why (which has only 13 episodes, so we'll have to look for something else now...). I didn't realise how popular the series is until the memes and articles started to appear on my Facebook timeline; clearly, this series struck a note with more people.
So what is it about? A high school teenager, Hannah Baker, has killed herself. But before she did, she recorded 13 tapes with 13 reasons why she committed suicide. And those 13 reasons are 13 people, the 13 people who get the tapes, listen to them, and then send them to the next person on the list. The story starts when Clay Jensen receives the tapes, because he is one of Hannah's reasons. Clay is amazed that all the other people on the tape haven't bothered to come forward with some compelling evidence of crimes (minor and major), but of course, he too listens to the tapes in order or there would have been no series.
This series was pretty mesmerising; the first tapes are about some minor things, and you start to wonder whether Hannah is just a big drama queen if she killed herself for some stupid teenage mishaps. But there are references to bigger, more serious things, and with each tape the reasons get heavier and heavier. The images are pretty graphic (the last 4 episodes come with a viewer warning), and at some point I found myself wondering whether what I was watching was still actually suitable for teenagers. Despite the graphic material it most definately is, for it serves as one big warning against the destructive behaviour teenagers can wreck amongst their peers; slut shaming, gay shaming, sending nude pictures around, but also more serious crimes as assault, theft, and rape. The school ('Liberty High') is one of the most stereotypical American high school since Grease; the jocks and cheerleaders are at the top of the pecking order, and everybody else is a loser, a nerd, a weirdo, or a combination of all three. But finding themselves in a perilous situation draws kids from several groups together, and the series gives great insight into the thought processes of these characters; will they be loyal to the group, or will they throw somebody under the bus just to save their own skin?
In a similar vein, but of much lower quality (both in plot and acting) was the film I saw last week; Before I fall. This could best be described as 'Groundhog Day set in yet another stereotypical American highschool'; one of the most popular girls does nothing as one of her classmates is bullied and ultimately commits suicide, and as penance she has to relive the day over and over again, until she realises how she can get out of it. Yet again, almost every character except for the main character was pretty unlikeable; the popular girls are mean backstabbers, the popular guys are entitled drunks, and the unpopular kids are so weird and desocialized that it is almost impossible to feel sorry for them. On the bright side; both stories do contain a likeable friend character who stands by the protagonist even when things get tough.
(On a sidenote; both 13 reasons why and Before I fall are based on books. It feels like it is almost impossible to find a film or series based on an actually original story anymore; to play it safe, to be assured of good returns, production companies seem fixed on only pouring money in projects in those projects that have already been successful on paper.)
So looking back on both, I am in doubt; is this good watching material for teens? The message is pretty clear, but does it work out that way? If I had watched these series when I was around 15, I would probably have identified with the nerdy smart kids, mainly because there are no 'normal' teenagers in these series. Everything is black-and-white; you are either a very popular sporty type, or a non-popular loser type. Most teenagers will identify with the second category. What these stories tell us, is that you can only act and influence the story line when you are with the popular crowd, or when you are prepared to make yourself very unpopular and break all social norms. Helping someone and just being a 'normal' person is practically impossible. So most characters stay on the sideline, knowing what is going on but not acting, afraid of being called out, of becoming a loser, of losing their reputation. The main characters in both the series and the film do act, of course, or they wouldn't be the protagonist, but it has pretty devastating consequences for both of them. Easier to be an onlooker, to not get involved, to stay safe. Not really the message angsty teens should be getting, in my opinion.
Let's hope that the overly stereotypical depiction of high school will help teenagers who watch this stories realise that the characters, their actions, and the results are overly black-and-white too, and that in real life it is possible to help someone without falling down the social ladder into loser-zone. Otherwise, series and films like these generate exactly the opposite effect of what they intend to do.
Sunday, 23 April 2017
Sunday, 16 April 2017
The Handmaid's Tale
I loved The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer, which I read for some of my medieval literature classes. They are funny, to the point, highly descriptive of the society he found himself in; like a window on life as it was 700 years ago.
My most recent read, The Haindmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, could well be a lost Canterbury tale, only not set in a distant past, but in a strangely familiar parallel present. The US as we know it no longer exists, but has been overthrown in a religious rebellion during which the government was shot, the Constitution suspended, and ordinarily life made impossible. Although this is not true for everybody; it is mostly the women who suffer. They are not allowed to have jobs or property (including money) anymore, and must function as breeding machines or servants for the Commanders, the leaders of this group of religious rebels. From the flashbacks the main character has, this must all have taken place some time during the nineties, which in a weird way always gives me some sort of relief; the time described has already passed, so this will not come to pass.
Which is of course nonsense; the whole rebellion as it is described is thought out very carefully, and with a few smartly planted attacks and actions, the whole system collapses. And nobody really riots, or resists. And those that do resist are hanged publicly. So people fall into place, and into step, and try to forget the memories and ideas they used to have, and try to become the automated robots they have to be in order to survive in this new world.
To avoid any confusion, let me be clear on one thing; this religious group is in no way islamist. They are a Christian group, calling themselves the Sons of Jacob, who follow the Bible to the letter (the letter that they find suits their purposes best, of course, as the book has some internal conflicting passages). So no more abortions, alcohol, etc. Breeding is a woman's main purpose, and the protagonist (Offred, who is owned by Fred, thus Of-Fred) is kept as a Handmaiden by one of the Commanders, as his own Wife cannot conceive anymore. Monthly, he tries to impregnate her, to bring the declining population numbers up to scratch. This reads as awful as it sounds. But strangely enough, this is not the bit about the book that is most disturbing. What haunted me the most, apart from how easily everything changed, was the way the main character tried to brainwash herself, how much she tried to fit in in a society that she despised. Because there was no other way, except suicide, which she of course contemplates on several occasions.
Just as The Canterbury Tales shed light on daily life in the Middle Ages, so does Margaret Atwood analyze our society, and how little is needed to change it. The protagonist's mother was an avid feminist, but Offred took many things for granted, things that the generation before her had to fight to gain. The central message to us may be; if you don't know what you stand to loose, you won't fight as hard to keep it. It is a fascinating read, I was surprised to see it written in 1985, for it could be written yesterday given how relevant its themes still are. It is a thorough analysis and warning to us all.
My most recent read, The Haindmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood, could well be a lost Canterbury tale, only not set in a distant past, but in a strangely familiar parallel present. The US as we know it no longer exists, but has been overthrown in a religious rebellion during which the government was shot, the Constitution suspended, and ordinarily life made impossible. Although this is not true for everybody; it is mostly the women who suffer. They are not allowed to have jobs or property (including money) anymore, and must function as breeding machines or servants for the Commanders, the leaders of this group of religious rebels. From the flashbacks the main character has, this must all have taken place some time during the nineties, which in a weird way always gives me some sort of relief; the time described has already passed, so this will not come to pass.
Which is of course nonsense; the whole rebellion as it is described is thought out very carefully, and with a few smartly planted attacks and actions, the whole system collapses. And nobody really riots, or resists. And those that do resist are hanged publicly. So people fall into place, and into step, and try to forget the memories and ideas they used to have, and try to become the automated robots they have to be in order to survive in this new world.
To avoid any confusion, let me be clear on one thing; this religious group is in no way islamist. They are a Christian group, calling themselves the Sons of Jacob, who follow the Bible to the letter (the letter that they find suits their purposes best, of course, as the book has some internal conflicting passages). So no more abortions, alcohol, etc. Breeding is a woman's main purpose, and the protagonist (Offred, who is owned by Fred, thus Of-Fred) is kept as a Handmaiden by one of the Commanders, as his own Wife cannot conceive anymore. Monthly, he tries to impregnate her, to bring the declining population numbers up to scratch. This reads as awful as it sounds. But strangely enough, this is not the bit about the book that is most disturbing. What haunted me the most, apart from how easily everything changed, was the way the main character tried to brainwash herself, how much she tried to fit in in a society that she despised. Because there was no other way, except suicide, which she of course contemplates on several occasions.
Just as The Canterbury Tales shed light on daily life in the Middle Ages, so does Margaret Atwood analyze our society, and how little is needed to change it. The protagonist's mother was an avid feminist, but Offred took many things for granted, things that the generation before her had to fight to gain. The central message to us may be; if you don't know what you stand to loose, you won't fight as hard to keep it. It is a fascinating read, I was surprised to see it written in 1985, for it could be written yesterday given how relevant its themes still are. It is a thorough analysis and warning to us all.
Friday, 31 March 2017
Last Orders
As I am a big fan of Man Booker Prize winners, and discovered I really liked the writing of Graham Swift (I was sure I'd written a blog post about Mothering Sunday, but it turns out I only mentioned that novel in my 'Books of 2016' list, where it came second), reading Last Orders, the novel that won Swift the Man Booker in 1996 seemed like the most logical next step. It took me a while to get it, because apparently the Groningen book shop is not that big on Swift (I've been waiting for Wish you were here to come in for about 3 weeks now). But there it was at last, pint glass featured prominently on the cover. I'd already read somewhere that the Booker win was a bit controversial, as Swift seemed to have borrowed the main plot line from William Faulkner, but since I've never read As I Lay Dying (although now I want to), this didn't really bother me too much.
So, Last Orders. It's about beer, a lot of it, but it's mostly about men. Their relationships (friendships, fathers and sons, wives), their professions, their lives, their pastimes. The main plot takes place in one day, as Ray, Lenny, Vince and Vic drive from London to Margate to scatter the ashes of their friend and father; Jack. During the drive, each of them has a series of flashbacks to earlier events, mostly concerning the other three, Jack, their children, or their wives. It is as if Jack's death has brought upon them the need to take score of their lives, to see what life (and Jack) has brought them.
Now the perspective screwed me up a bit in the beginning. Some chapters are titled after the point of view character (Ray, Vince, Mandy), and some are named after the location the group is in. But all of those 'location' chapters are also voiced by Ray. It took me a while to figure that out, also because I tend to remember characters by the first letter of their name, and I kept mixing up Vic and Vince (same thing that happened with Jude and JB in A Little Life). Because of this, it took me a while to get into the novel. However, it feels as if Swift was prepared for that, because the relationships are confusing in the beginning, but gradually become clearer and clearer as we get to know the characters, their stories, and their relationships better. And there is a lot to know.
This is a very heavy, multi-layered novel, although it doesn't feel that way when you read it. However, I felt not everything was developed to the fullest. There are some interesting parallels; Jack the butcher and Vic the undertaker, both 'used to handling bodies', who have their shops on opposing sides of the same street. But this is merely a statement, something said in passing, but not taken any further. The same is true for all the children Jack seems to 'adopt' in his life; Vince is his true adoptive son, but he adopted Ray during WWII, and Lenny's daughter Sally in her childhood. But the connections between these people, or what they meant to Jack, are never really worked out. We get glimpses, and other characters' thoughts on it, but that's that.
Nevertheless, it is a great novel to read. The plot is pretty predictable, but that is not what such a novel is about. It's about the language, the hidden meanings, the short chapters in between that throw a whole different light on a scene, a person, or a memory. The whole story can tilt or shift with just one sentence. However, compared to Mothering Sunday, Swift had not fully developed the style of writing that I loved so much in the latter novel. This felt familiar, as Ian McEwan won the Man Booker with Amsterdam in 1998, which is also great, but no where near his masterpieces Atonement and Saturday in style and plot and nuance (I know I keep blabbing on about McEwan, but he just happens to be my favourite author). So in a way, this felt like discovering the roots of Swifts writing style, and I will now try to follow his development through to his last novel. That is, if the book shop decides to cooperate.
So, Last Orders. It's about beer, a lot of it, but it's mostly about men. Their relationships (friendships, fathers and sons, wives), their professions, their lives, their pastimes. The main plot takes place in one day, as Ray, Lenny, Vince and Vic drive from London to Margate to scatter the ashes of their friend and father; Jack. During the drive, each of them has a series of flashbacks to earlier events, mostly concerning the other three, Jack, their children, or their wives. It is as if Jack's death has brought upon them the need to take score of their lives, to see what life (and Jack) has brought them.
Now the perspective screwed me up a bit in the beginning. Some chapters are titled after the point of view character (Ray, Vince, Mandy), and some are named after the location the group is in. But all of those 'location' chapters are also voiced by Ray. It took me a while to figure that out, also because I tend to remember characters by the first letter of their name, and I kept mixing up Vic and Vince (same thing that happened with Jude and JB in A Little Life). Because of this, it took me a while to get into the novel. However, it feels as if Swift was prepared for that, because the relationships are confusing in the beginning, but gradually become clearer and clearer as we get to know the characters, their stories, and their relationships better. And there is a lot to know.
This is a very heavy, multi-layered novel, although it doesn't feel that way when you read it. However, I felt not everything was developed to the fullest. There are some interesting parallels; Jack the butcher and Vic the undertaker, both 'used to handling bodies', who have their shops on opposing sides of the same street. But this is merely a statement, something said in passing, but not taken any further. The same is true for all the children Jack seems to 'adopt' in his life; Vince is his true adoptive son, but he adopted Ray during WWII, and Lenny's daughter Sally in her childhood. But the connections between these people, or what they meant to Jack, are never really worked out. We get glimpses, and other characters' thoughts on it, but that's that.
Nevertheless, it is a great novel to read. The plot is pretty predictable, but that is not what such a novel is about. It's about the language, the hidden meanings, the short chapters in between that throw a whole different light on a scene, a person, or a memory. The whole story can tilt or shift with just one sentence. However, compared to Mothering Sunday, Swift had not fully developed the style of writing that I loved so much in the latter novel. This felt familiar, as Ian McEwan won the Man Booker with Amsterdam in 1998, which is also great, but no where near his masterpieces Atonement and Saturday in style and plot and nuance (I know I keep blabbing on about McEwan, but he just happens to be my favourite author). So in a way, this felt like discovering the roots of Swifts writing style, and I will now try to follow his development through to his last novel. That is, if the book shop decides to cooperate.
Sunday, 12 February 2017
Juliet, Naked
Whenever I stand in front of my bookcases thinking 'I have nothing to read', I feel a bit like one of those stereotypical women who have tried out a dozen outfits and decide that they have 'nothing to wear'. I have over 200 books in my house, surely, I have more than enough to read? The point is, of course, that I don't have the book that I want to/need to read right at that moment. About once or twice a year I get into a weird mood, book-wise; a mood in which I just cannot find the book that fits. Usually, I then reread novels I have already read. Getting started in a new book would only spoil the new book because I will invariably not 'get into it', and throw it aside after a couple of chapters. Rereading familiar stories is a safer bet.
After finishing The Sellout, which put me in a bit of a gloomy mood, I was looking for something lighthearted. Interestingly, I do not own many lighthearted novels. Even the ones that I do have, such as the Jasper Fforde novels, or anything by David Nicholls, have a serious literary undertone. I usually take to rereading Bridget Jones's Diary, but the new film has put me somewhat off. So my safest bet was Nick Hornby.
I love almost everything Nick Hornby has written, be it novels, short stories, reviews, or screenplays. You have probably seen a movie adaptation of one of his novels (High Fidelity or About a Boy) or one of the films he actually wrote (An Education, Wild, Brooklyn). I own all of his novels with the exception of How to be Good, for reasons I cannot explain. This time, I settled on Juliet, Naked.
Now I mentioned that I was looking for something lighthearted, and Nick Hornby may not be the first person that comes to mind. Almost all of his novels are populated by characters that are lonely, suicidal, depressed, and generally unsure what direction their life is supposed to take (A Long Way Down, one of my other favourites, is a good example: four people meet at the top of a building because they all planned to commit suicide by jumping off it). So why call it lighthearted? Because he brings these subjects with a funny note, not ha-ha funny but with a lightness and an irony that cannot help but bring a smile to your face. His novels deal with very heavy subjects, but they do not feel heavy, they feel light and manageable.
Juliet, Naked centers around Duncan and Annie, a couple in their late thirties living in a small seaside town in the north of England. Duncan is a great fan of Tucker Crowe, a has-been singer from the eighties who has mysteriously disappeared after his last album, Juliet. Annie is not that big of a fan, but for the past fifteen years she has let herself being dragged along in Duncan's obsession. However, when Tucker suddenly releases a new album, Juliet, Naked, their opinions clash and they both have to reconsider what it is they want out of life. Needless to say, things don't end that well between them. Breaking up a fifteen year relationship because of a music album? This is all very real in a Nick Hornby novel.
However, the Duncan/Annie story is just half of the novel. The other half is about Tucker himself. And this is where the novel got a bit more personal than Nick Hornby's other novels. Tucker, by now, is in his late fifties, no longer an alcoholic, no longer an artist, and basically living off the latest wife that thinks she will be able to sort him out and put him back to rights. He has a six year old son, who is constantly worried that his father will suddenly drop dead on him. This existential angst somehow creeps into Tucker's mind too, especially when more and more of his forgotten children try to find their way back into his life. Tucker Crowe is by far the oldest main character a Nick Hornby novel has ever had, and the whole feeling of 'my youth is now truly over' permeates throughout the novel. When he wrote it, he was nowhere near sixty, but he is advancing upon that age pretty quickly now. The Tucker Crowe storyline felt, upon rereading, as one of his most realistic and heartfelt in all of his novels.
So did I get my lighthearted distraction novel? In a way, yes. But somehow, the 'I don't know what I want to read' mood hasn't been lifted, so I will continue to reread until I find myself looking for something new. I may end up diving into The Hunger Games or Harry Potter just to snap out of it, but for now I'll stick to one of my favourite David Mitchells. Desperate times...
After finishing The Sellout, which put me in a bit of a gloomy mood, I was looking for something lighthearted. Interestingly, I do not own many lighthearted novels. Even the ones that I do have, such as the Jasper Fforde novels, or anything by David Nicholls, have a serious literary undertone. I usually take to rereading Bridget Jones's Diary, but the new film has put me somewhat off. So my safest bet was Nick Hornby.
I love almost everything Nick Hornby has written, be it novels, short stories, reviews, or screenplays. You have probably seen a movie adaptation of one of his novels (High Fidelity or About a Boy) or one of the films he actually wrote (An Education, Wild, Brooklyn). I own all of his novels with the exception of How to be Good, for reasons I cannot explain. This time, I settled on Juliet, Naked.
Now I mentioned that I was looking for something lighthearted, and Nick Hornby may not be the first person that comes to mind. Almost all of his novels are populated by characters that are lonely, suicidal, depressed, and generally unsure what direction their life is supposed to take (A Long Way Down, one of my other favourites, is a good example: four people meet at the top of a building because they all planned to commit suicide by jumping off it). So why call it lighthearted? Because he brings these subjects with a funny note, not ha-ha funny but with a lightness and an irony that cannot help but bring a smile to your face. His novels deal with very heavy subjects, but they do not feel heavy, they feel light and manageable.
Juliet, Naked centers around Duncan and Annie, a couple in their late thirties living in a small seaside town in the north of England. Duncan is a great fan of Tucker Crowe, a has-been singer from the eighties who has mysteriously disappeared after his last album, Juliet. Annie is not that big of a fan, but for the past fifteen years she has let herself being dragged along in Duncan's obsession. However, when Tucker suddenly releases a new album, Juliet, Naked, their opinions clash and they both have to reconsider what it is they want out of life. Needless to say, things don't end that well between them. Breaking up a fifteen year relationship because of a music album? This is all very real in a Nick Hornby novel.
However, the Duncan/Annie story is just half of the novel. The other half is about Tucker himself. And this is where the novel got a bit more personal than Nick Hornby's other novels. Tucker, by now, is in his late fifties, no longer an alcoholic, no longer an artist, and basically living off the latest wife that thinks she will be able to sort him out and put him back to rights. He has a six year old son, who is constantly worried that his father will suddenly drop dead on him. This existential angst somehow creeps into Tucker's mind too, especially when more and more of his forgotten children try to find their way back into his life. Tucker Crowe is by far the oldest main character a Nick Hornby novel has ever had, and the whole feeling of 'my youth is now truly over' permeates throughout the novel. When he wrote it, he was nowhere near sixty, but he is advancing upon that age pretty quickly now. The Tucker Crowe storyline felt, upon rereading, as one of his most realistic and heartfelt in all of his novels.
So did I get my lighthearted distraction novel? In a way, yes. But somehow, the 'I don't know what I want to read' mood hasn't been lifted, so I will continue to reread until I find myself looking for something new. I may end up diving into The Hunger Games or Harry Potter just to snap out of it, but for now I'll stick to one of my favourite David Mitchells. Desperate times...
Monday, 6 February 2017
The Sellout
I don't read a lot of American novels. This is not a genuine hardline decision or anything, it just happens to be that almost all of my favourite authors are British writers. This is probably a style thing, or maybe a culture thing. When I took American literature classes in university, I was told the early American writers tried to radically break away from the British style of writing to create their own cultural legacy (same is true for theatre, painting, music, etc). And while reading something, I usually have a pretty good idea whether the author is a Brit or an American (in my opinion: too much show, not enough tell). And 'American' doesn't mean I'll automatically dislike it; I have read some American classics that I liked, and Richard Yates is one of my favourite authors. But to be honest, I never would have read The Sellout if it wouldn't have been the first American novel to win the Man Booker Prize. I always read the Man Booker Prize winner, so I simply had to read this novel too.
The Sellout was written by Paul Beatty, as he said in interviews, because "he was broke". This is probably meant satirically, as every scrap of text I've ever read about The Sellout mentioned the word 'satire' in one of the first three lines. However, I didn't really get all of the satire. Or in other words; I found this book to be more dark and sad than satirical, probably because I don't live in the US and missed a lot of the cultural references. But to me, it felt like a seriously dark novel, with a dark message.
So what is it about? In the prologue we meet the protagonist, who faces trial in the Supreme Court because he has been keeping a black man as a slave. The 'satirical' part of this is that the protagonist himself is also a black man. And that his father has been indoctrinating him on black history and black rights all his life, and that he has been 'resegragating' his hometown of Dickens (and keeping the slave) to enforce black rights. This is basically what the novel deals with; a black man, living on a farm in the middle of a city, resegragating busses and schools and painting a white line around where his hometown used to be to make everything better for everyone. Sounds like a tragic hero to me, but apparently, it was all meant to be satirical. I don't think I had one proper laugh while reading this novel, I just felt sorry for almost every single character in it, but most of all for the protagonist.
Some reviewers have compared Beatty to Mark Twain, but that must just be because of the racial thing, because Mark Twain's writing had a sharpness and a wit to it that I failed to see in The Sellout. But again; maybe I'm just missing a lot of cultural references and subtext an American reader would get.
It's funny, I've visited the US twice now, and the thing that struck me most both times is how different it is from Europe. When I visited China or Jordan or Mozambique, I noticed the similarities, the things that connect us, even though our cultures are so very different. In the US, where you somehow expect things to be very similar, it's the differences that stand out. I think I can group The Sellout with those differences; this is a novel I as a European don't understand in the way an American would. And that is probably why I didn't like it very much. This was only the second novel I've read this year, and it took me a really long time to get through. Not because the reading was hard or because the subject matter was so heavy, but because it didn't grip me. I couldn't really be bothered to find out what would happen next. And that must be a death sentence to any good story.
For the first American novel to win the Man Booker it is an apt choice, because this is by far the most 'American' American novel I've read in a long time. But in a way, that made it less like a Man Booker winner to me.
The Sellout was written by Paul Beatty, as he said in interviews, because "he was broke". This is probably meant satirically, as every scrap of text I've ever read about The Sellout mentioned the word 'satire' in one of the first three lines. However, I didn't really get all of the satire. Or in other words; I found this book to be more dark and sad than satirical, probably because I don't live in the US and missed a lot of the cultural references. But to me, it felt like a seriously dark novel, with a dark message.
So what is it about? In the prologue we meet the protagonist, who faces trial in the Supreme Court because he has been keeping a black man as a slave. The 'satirical' part of this is that the protagonist himself is also a black man. And that his father has been indoctrinating him on black history and black rights all his life, and that he has been 'resegragating' his hometown of Dickens (and keeping the slave) to enforce black rights. This is basically what the novel deals with; a black man, living on a farm in the middle of a city, resegragating busses and schools and painting a white line around where his hometown used to be to make everything better for everyone. Sounds like a tragic hero to me, but apparently, it was all meant to be satirical. I don't think I had one proper laugh while reading this novel, I just felt sorry for almost every single character in it, but most of all for the protagonist.
Some reviewers have compared Beatty to Mark Twain, but that must just be because of the racial thing, because Mark Twain's writing had a sharpness and a wit to it that I failed to see in The Sellout. But again; maybe I'm just missing a lot of cultural references and subtext an American reader would get.
It's funny, I've visited the US twice now, and the thing that struck me most both times is how different it is from Europe. When I visited China or Jordan or Mozambique, I noticed the similarities, the things that connect us, even though our cultures are so very different. In the US, where you somehow expect things to be very similar, it's the differences that stand out. I think I can group The Sellout with those differences; this is a novel I as a European don't understand in the way an American would. And that is probably why I didn't like it very much. This was only the second novel I've read this year, and it took me a really long time to get through. Not because the reading was hard or because the subject matter was so heavy, but because it didn't grip me. I couldn't really be bothered to find out what would happen next. And that must be a death sentence to any good story.
For the first American novel to win the Man Booker it is an apt choice, because this is by far the most 'American' American novel I've read in a long time. But in a way, that made it less like a Man Booker winner to me.
Sunday, 29 January 2017
Sherlock
As mentioned a while back, Sherlock is one of only a handful of programmes that I actually watch on TV. For those not in the know; Sherlock is a television series about Sherlock Holmes, a detective living at 221B Baker Street and solving crimes together with John Watson. If that all sounds familiar, that is kind of the point. The episodes are 1.5 hours and three a season, after which we have to wait two years for the next season. Why so long? The main characters are played by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman, and they have been quite busy over the past few years, traipsing around New Zealand pretending to be hobbits and dragons, for one thing.
So it is rather a long wait. But it is worth it. The makers (Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss) have really brought the nineteenth century Sherlock Holmes to life, with all his weird habits and personality, but in a very modern coat. Watson's diary has become a blog, where the old war veteran (still Afghanistan, ironically) gives his accounts of Sherlock's work (who likes to communicate more by mobile phone). The opium addiction is still there, in a modern sense, as is the ignorant police detective and the busy landlady, with a sharp feminist touch. The episode titles refer to Arthur Conan Doyle's short stories, but often with a twist. A Study in Scarlet becomes A Study in Pink, The Sign of Four becomes The Sign of Three, etcetera. Plot-wise the episodes are only very losely based on the originals, but that's fine. We have the proper characters in a modern-day setting, it wouldn't do to keep everything else the same.
There are many Sherlock Holmes adaptations around these days, so what makes this one special? The big obvious thing is the Cumberbatch-Freeman connection. They have an undeniable chemistry, not just in character, but they clearly get along very well (the Internet has found enough material for slash fiction to last us at least a decade). But the rest of the cast is well-picked too. Gatiss himself plays an elitist, arrogant Mycroft, while Martin Freeman's real-life girlfriend plays Mary, his kick-ass wife in the series. They just work together. Apart from the great cast, the storylines are just brilliant. It is one of those series that takes its viewers extremely seriously. The cases are difficult and mysterious (and we only get the difficult and mysterious ones, because all the mundane ones are waved aside with a 'boring!' by Sherlock), and there are several plot lines spanning multiple seasons, so characters keep resurfacing where you don't expect them. The images are grey and dark and a bit gritty, but not in an overdone way. This is still very much modern day London.
Now all of this sounds great. And all of it is true, for the first three seasons. The fourth season came out on the first of January, and I am sad to say that episode 4.01 was the worst I have ever seen. It didn't grip me in any way, even with the harrow plot twist at the end. I won't spoil too much, as this is a series easily spoiled, and you won't see what is coming until it is right in front of you.
But what went wrong? In my opinion, the BBC fell into the trap it set for itself when it marketed Sherlock, amongst many other series, as "Real drama". The BBC has been producing a lot of drama series over the past few years, and now they've thrown them all (costume drama, Dr Who, Eastenders and the rest) on one big piled and marketed themselves as the drama channel. But Sherlock has been wonderfully drama-free so far. Sherlock can be an absolute ass to Watson, but he doesn't go moping about that to someone else. He just lets it slide, or has a good comeback. But in the fourth series, everything became very soap seriesy. Including 'I never want to see you again!' shout-outs in the middle of dark streets. Luckily, in the second and third episodes, things got back to normal a bit, but still; somehow it doesn't feel the same anymore. It is as if the world of television has creeped into this nice little cocoon that Sherlock has always been, as if the laws of drama series have imposed themselves upon the script.
Moffat and Gatiss have announced that the fourth season will be the last for now, but that they keep the possibility of a fifth season open. I hope they take a nice long break, generate new ideas for the fantastic characters they have created, and bring back the old Sherlock in style; drama-free, intelligent detective work. Until then; the first seasons are on Netflix, ready for (re)watching!
So it is rather a long wait. But it is worth it. The makers (Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss) have really brought the nineteenth century Sherlock Holmes to life, with all his weird habits and personality, but in a very modern coat. Watson's diary has become a blog, where the old war veteran (still Afghanistan, ironically) gives his accounts of Sherlock's work (who likes to communicate more by mobile phone). The opium addiction is still there, in a modern sense, as is the ignorant police detective and the busy landlady, with a sharp feminist touch. The episode titles refer to Arthur Conan Doyle's short stories, but often with a twist. A Study in Scarlet becomes A Study in Pink, The Sign of Four becomes The Sign of Three, etcetera. Plot-wise the episodes are only very losely based on the originals, but that's fine. We have the proper characters in a modern-day setting, it wouldn't do to keep everything else the same.
There are many Sherlock Holmes adaptations around these days, so what makes this one special? The big obvious thing is the Cumberbatch-Freeman connection. They have an undeniable chemistry, not just in character, but they clearly get along very well (the Internet has found enough material for slash fiction to last us at least a decade). But the rest of the cast is well-picked too. Gatiss himself plays an elitist, arrogant Mycroft, while Martin Freeman's real-life girlfriend plays Mary, his kick-ass wife in the series. They just work together. Apart from the great cast, the storylines are just brilliant. It is one of those series that takes its viewers extremely seriously. The cases are difficult and mysterious (and we only get the difficult and mysterious ones, because all the mundane ones are waved aside with a 'boring!' by Sherlock), and there are several plot lines spanning multiple seasons, so characters keep resurfacing where you don't expect them. The images are grey and dark and a bit gritty, but not in an overdone way. This is still very much modern day London.
Now all of this sounds great. And all of it is true, for the first three seasons. The fourth season came out on the first of January, and I am sad to say that episode 4.01 was the worst I have ever seen. It didn't grip me in any way, even with the harrow plot twist at the end. I won't spoil too much, as this is a series easily spoiled, and you won't see what is coming until it is right in front of you.
But what went wrong? In my opinion, the BBC fell into the trap it set for itself when it marketed Sherlock, amongst many other series, as "Real drama". The BBC has been producing a lot of drama series over the past few years, and now they've thrown them all (costume drama, Dr Who, Eastenders and the rest) on one big piled and marketed themselves as the drama channel. But Sherlock has been wonderfully drama-free so far. Sherlock can be an absolute ass to Watson, but he doesn't go moping about that to someone else. He just lets it slide, or has a good comeback. But in the fourth series, everything became very soap seriesy. Including 'I never want to see you again!' shout-outs in the middle of dark streets. Luckily, in the second and third episodes, things got back to normal a bit, but still; somehow it doesn't feel the same anymore. It is as if the world of television has creeped into this nice little cocoon that Sherlock has always been, as if the laws of drama series have imposed themselves upon the script.
Moffat and Gatiss have announced that the fourth season will be the last for now, but that they keep the possibility of a fifth season open. I hope they take a nice long break, generate new ideas for the fantastic characters they have created, and bring back the old Sherlock in style; drama-free, intelligent detective work. Until then; the first seasons are on Netflix, ready for (re)watching!
Saturday, 21 January 2017
Survival mode
So these last two weeks I've been running on what I call 'survival mode'. This sounds very dramatic, but what it basically means is that I've been busy. Really busy. Not just with work stuff (although I do go quite a bit over the amount of hours agreed to when I was employed) but also with a lot of social things. Late nights, little sleep, lots to do, and not a lot of time to just sit back and relax.
So at some point during such busy times, my 'survival mode' kicks in. This means shutting down of all processes not strictly necessary, and focusing on the 'essentials'. During this time, I turn into the most efficient planning machine known to man ('efficient' seems to be a word people use a lot to describe me at any time, but it may be a bit disconcerting during survival mode): doing the things that need doing in the most logical and least time consuming order, delegating when possible, and letting everything else just fall by the wayside. This can take extreme forms: I find myself not taking off my shoes because I know I have to leave the house again in an hour's time, and taking them off and putting them back on again just takes too long. Or I will ask people to do the most mundane things for me (throw away used coffee cups) because it saves me a trip. Usually, when I catch myself doing those things, I can laugh at myself and tell myself I'm taking things a bit too far.
But the scarier part of this goes on inside my head, and I usually don't realise that until it's over. What happens is that I can only think in terms of actions. What do I need to do? How much time does it take? How important is it compared to the other things I still have to do? Is it dependent on the outcome of something else? Can I delegate it? What will people think if I don't do that thing? It's all about planning the next step, the next move. Things such as feelings or ideas, creative processes or general opinions just disappear from my head all together. I can look at angry people in amazement: who can waste time and put energy into something as mundane as being angry or annoyed? I waste no time in idle chit-chat, and talk about work stuff even during lunch breaks, because why would I spend time talking about someone's private life? When people ask me what I think of something, I can make up an opinion off the top of my head, but it's generally a then-and-there thing, not something I've been mulling over for a while. And even when I sleep, my head doesn't waste any time; I basically stop dreaming. Now I usually dream a lot, and quite vividly too, but I know I've entered survival mode when that stops.
Reading back the above, this sounds quite scary, but when I'm in survival mode, I don't realise that. I just keep on going. It's when I get out of it, and start having opinions, discussions, dreams, and conversations about movies or politics or holidays again that I realise; I have been removed from the real world. I was there, I took part, but I in my head I was somewhere else.
Basically, what it boils down to, is that I've been too busy. Not too stressed, because I don't suffer from the situation and can get out if it pretty quickly, but just doing too many things in a too short period of time. I haven't taken enough 'me time' (oh, how brattish that sounds). Generally I'm pretty good at focusing on the here and now, and taking time to read or write or just sit and think, but there are times when this 'mindfull' state of being is just not possible. Yes, I just wrote about 'mindfullness', and to get really new-agey, I have a quote for you:
When you are depressed you are living in the past
When you are anxious you are living in the future
When you are at peace you are living in the present
This is by Lao Tzu, and it doesn't really completely apply to my survival mode, but I still try to remind myself of it every now and then.
This morning I woke up with my head full of dreams, intentions to be creative (write, bake, blog) and the energy to take a long walk. To be sure, I have left my survival mode and am back in the real world. And I don't think my survival mode is a bad thing per se, because it gets me through the (sometimes unavoidable) busy times, being able to do everything I want without forgetting essential things or actions or people, but I prefer the creative, active, opinionated me. And after such a busy period, in the sharp contrast to the survival mode me, I like this me even better.
So at some point during such busy times, my 'survival mode' kicks in. This means shutting down of all processes not strictly necessary, and focusing on the 'essentials'. During this time, I turn into the most efficient planning machine known to man ('efficient' seems to be a word people use a lot to describe me at any time, but it may be a bit disconcerting during survival mode): doing the things that need doing in the most logical and least time consuming order, delegating when possible, and letting everything else just fall by the wayside. This can take extreme forms: I find myself not taking off my shoes because I know I have to leave the house again in an hour's time, and taking them off and putting them back on again just takes too long. Or I will ask people to do the most mundane things for me (throw away used coffee cups) because it saves me a trip. Usually, when I catch myself doing those things, I can laugh at myself and tell myself I'm taking things a bit too far.
But the scarier part of this goes on inside my head, and I usually don't realise that until it's over. What happens is that I can only think in terms of actions. What do I need to do? How much time does it take? How important is it compared to the other things I still have to do? Is it dependent on the outcome of something else? Can I delegate it? What will people think if I don't do that thing? It's all about planning the next step, the next move. Things such as feelings or ideas, creative processes or general opinions just disappear from my head all together. I can look at angry people in amazement: who can waste time and put energy into something as mundane as being angry or annoyed? I waste no time in idle chit-chat, and talk about work stuff even during lunch breaks, because why would I spend time talking about someone's private life? When people ask me what I think of something, I can make up an opinion off the top of my head, but it's generally a then-and-there thing, not something I've been mulling over for a while. And even when I sleep, my head doesn't waste any time; I basically stop dreaming. Now I usually dream a lot, and quite vividly too, but I know I've entered survival mode when that stops.
Reading back the above, this sounds quite scary, but when I'm in survival mode, I don't realise that. I just keep on going. It's when I get out of it, and start having opinions, discussions, dreams, and conversations about movies or politics or holidays again that I realise; I have been removed from the real world. I was there, I took part, but I in my head I was somewhere else.
Basically, what it boils down to, is that I've been too busy. Not too stressed, because I don't suffer from the situation and can get out if it pretty quickly, but just doing too many things in a too short period of time. I haven't taken enough 'me time' (oh, how brattish that sounds). Generally I'm pretty good at focusing on the here and now, and taking time to read or write or just sit and think, but there are times when this 'mindfull' state of being is just not possible. Yes, I just wrote about 'mindfullness', and to get really new-agey, I have a quote for you:
When you are depressed you are living in the past
When you are anxious you are living in the future
When you are at peace you are living in the present
This is by Lao Tzu, and it doesn't really completely apply to my survival mode, but I still try to remind myself of it every now and then.
This morning I woke up with my head full of dreams, intentions to be creative (write, bake, blog) and the energy to take a long walk. To be sure, I have left my survival mode and am back in the real world. And I don't think my survival mode is a bad thing per se, because it gets me through the (sometimes unavoidable) busy times, being able to do everything I want without forgetting essential things or actions or people, but I prefer the creative, active, opinionated me. And after such a busy period, in the sharp contrast to the survival mode me, I like this me even better.
Friday, 6 January 2017
The High Mountains of Portugal
So, my first novel of 2017 is a proper start of any literary year. The High Mountains of Portugal by Yann Martel, known to all because of his famous Life of Pi. Since that Man Booker prize, Martel has written several novels, of which I've only read Virgil and Beatrice. That left me so bewildered, with its religious commentary, its animal imagery, and its gruesome WWII references, that I haven't been tempted to pick up any of his new novels since.
Until The High Mountains of Portugal. This novel got lots of positive reviews, the main gist of which was that here we had a proper story again, not just religious ranting. The blurb was also promising:
A man thrown backwards by heartbreak goes in search of an artefact that could unsettle history. A woman carries her husband to a doctor in a suitcase. A Canadian senator begins a new life, in a new country, in the company of a chimp called Odo. From these stories of journeying, of loss and faith, Yann Martel weaves a novel unlike any other: moving, profound and magical.
And really, that says it all.
The first story takes place in 1904, in Lisbon. A widower sets off for the high mountains of Portugal to find a religious artefact. He will travel by his uncle new automobile. I really liked the story at first, because the protagonist is very likable, and the description of the journey and the world of that time is well done. But there was a point, when the car has almost burnt down, his supplies dwindle, he gets lost, and is at a tragic low point, that it felt like the tragic low point in a really desperate novel, something like Beyond Sleep, that I almost lost interest. There is only so much drama you can take before you become indifferent to it. But then he finally makes his way to Tuizelo in the high mountains of Portugal, and the story finishes strongly.
The second story takes place in 1938, in a larger city close to the high mountains. A pathologist working late on New Year's Eve is troubled first by his wife, who delivers a ranting monologue on Christ and Agatha Christie, and then a woman from Tuizelo, who carries her husband in a suitcase. This story was the most perplexing of all, especially in hindsight, when you realise how it all fits together; not just the allegories in the story itself, but also how the story fits within the two other stories in the novel. There are many links, but you don't see them at first.
The third story is set in Canada in 1981, and involves a senator whose wife has also just died. In a weird turn of events, he also ends up in Tuizelo, with a chimpanzee by his side. Chimpanzees also played an important part in the first two stories of this novel, but to explain how would be giving away most of the finer details that are best left to discover for yourself. This story is by far the best of the three; the plot is moving, the protagonist is the most likable and believable, and somehow the language seems to flow better. I was reminded of Life of Pi, where a human protagonist also finds himself living together with a strong, wild animal. Only this time, the human does so out of his own free will, of course.
The standard Martel elements are there; lots of animal imagery, lots of religious commentary, but also beautiful figurative language; "Loneliness comes up to him like a sniffing dog. It circles him insistently. He waves it away, but it refuses to leave him alone." And in the end, you're not really sure what to believe. Was this (again) all one big allegory? Was it another commentary on the way humans and animals live side by side on this planet? Or was it all about grief, and loss, and how that makes you see things that aren't there?
I've read some reviews, and people are split right down the middle on this one. Half of them love it, half of them hate it. Funnily enough, I don't really fit in either group but find myself somewhere in the middle, because I loved the last story, but the other two not so much. I do like how they are connected, how elements from the first story suddenly reappear in the most unexpected places in the other ones, but in some cases, it is a bit too obvious. You can see them coming for mile.s Also, it would be nice to have some sort of closure other than the relatively open ending we now have. It was beautiful, and moving, but it does leave you with the feeling of 'now what?'. What was the point of it all? And maybe that is exactly what Yann Martel intended, but even so, a novel of this magnitude deserves a better ending.
Until The High Mountains of Portugal. This novel got lots of positive reviews, the main gist of which was that here we had a proper story again, not just religious ranting. The blurb was also promising:
A man thrown backwards by heartbreak goes in search of an artefact that could unsettle history. A woman carries her husband to a doctor in a suitcase. A Canadian senator begins a new life, in a new country, in the company of a chimp called Odo. From these stories of journeying, of loss and faith, Yann Martel weaves a novel unlike any other: moving, profound and magical.
And really, that says it all.
The first story takes place in 1904, in Lisbon. A widower sets off for the high mountains of Portugal to find a religious artefact. He will travel by his uncle new automobile. I really liked the story at first, because the protagonist is very likable, and the description of the journey and the world of that time is well done. But there was a point, when the car has almost burnt down, his supplies dwindle, he gets lost, and is at a tragic low point, that it felt like the tragic low point in a really desperate novel, something like Beyond Sleep, that I almost lost interest. There is only so much drama you can take before you become indifferent to it. But then he finally makes his way to Tuizelo in the high mountains of Portugal, and the story finishes strongly.
The second story takes place in 1938, in a larger city close to the high mountains. A pathologist working late on New Year's Eve is troubled first by his wife, who delivers a ranting monologue on Christ and Agatha Christie, and then a woman from Tuizelo, who carries her husband in a suitcase. This story was the most perplexing of all, especially in hindsight, when you realise how it all fits together; not just the allegories in the story itself, but also how the story fits within the two other stories in the novel. There are many links, but you don't see them at first.
The third story is set in Canada in 1981, and involves a senator whose wife has also just died. In a weird turn of events, he also ends up in Tuizelo, with a chimpanzee by his side. Chimpanzees also played an important part in the first two stories of this novel, but to explain how would be giving away most of the finer details that are best left to discover for yourself. This story is by far the best of the three; the plot is moving, the protagonist is the most likable and believable, and somehow the language seems to flow better. I was reminded of Life of Pi, where a human protagonist also finds himself living together with a strong, wild animal. Only this time, the human does so out of his own free will, of course.
The standard Martel elements are there; lots of animal imagery, lots of religious commentary, but also beautiful figurative language; "Loneliness comes up to him like a sniffing dog. It circles him insistently. He waves it away, but it refuses to leave him alone." And in the end, you're not really sure what to believe. Was this (again) all one big allegory? Was it another commentary on the way humans and animals live side by side on this planet? Or was it all about grief, and loss, and how that makes you see things that aren't there?
I've read some reviews, and people are split right down the middle on this one. Half of them love it, half of them hate it. Funnily enough, I don't really fit in either group but find myself somewhere in the middle, because I loved the last story, but the other two not so much. I do like how they are connected, how elements from the first story suddenly reappear in the most unexpected places in the other ones, but in some cases, it is a bit too obvious. You can see them coming for mile.s Also, it would be nice to have some sort of closure other than the relatively open ending we now have. It was beautiful, and moving, but it does leave you with the feeling of 'now what?'. What was the point of it all? And maybe that is exactly what Yann Martel intended, but even so, a novel of this magnitude deserves a better ending.
Monday, 2 January 2017
A year in the life
I think my readership will be split down the middle upon reading the title: half of you will know exactly what I'm talking about, the other half will be wondering, or maybe even thinking that this will be a New Year's resolutions post. Sorry to disappoint, but this will be about something a bit more prosaic: the television series Gilmore Girls.
Now I've only written about a tv series once before, and with good reason. I hardly watch any television (by which I also mean; I hardly watch any Netflix, as that has become the standard substitute for watching anything for my generation). The most notable exceptions are Sherlock (I was poised for the start of the forth season last night) and Wie is de mol? (a brilliant Dutch programme in which contestants have to complete assignments while rooting out the mole in their middle). Otherwise, I don't really watch tv; I'd rather read a book. Or go to the movies. Or better still; hang out with actual other people.
This used to be very different. When I was a teenager, I would know exactly which series aired each evening, and either plan to see them or record them. Dawson's creek, Roswell, Friends, Sex and the City, Everwood; I've seen them all as they first aired in the Netherlands. But the most important of all, the series I watched and rewatched (on dvd) the most, and the one most of my friends watched with me, was Gilmore Girls.
For those of you who know what I'm talking about, you can skip the next three paragraphs. For the rest of you: I find it almost impossible that people have gotten to this point in their lives without knowing what Gilmore Girls is, but here goes; Gilmore Girls is a tv series about Lorelai Gilmore, who got pregnant at 16, moved out of her (rich) parent's house to the small village of Stars Hallow, and raised her daugther Rory on her own. The tv show starts when Rory has just turned 16 and has been accepted into a very prestigious high school, which will surely catapult her into Ivy League spheres. Lorelai has by that time managed to work herself up from a maid to the manager of the hotel she works. All this sounds very dramatically 'rags to riches', but it is brought with a big dose of fun, quirky characters, high speed talking, and more (cult) references you could ever manage to look up.
The series ran for seven seasons, after which it was discontinued. The original writer, Amy Sherman-Palladino, was somehow removed from the writing staff, and this caused an abrupt ending to the show, which is very noticeable in the last four or five episodes; everything is rushed along to a forced ending.
However, this was not the ending Amy had been planning for us all along, and as soon as the show had ended, people were muttering that it was sad to see such a brilliant show go in this way. Then, last year, there were rumours about a restart, with most of the original cast. Then, the show was bought by Netflix (hint: you can see all seven seaons there), and the rumours became reality: we would get four 1.5 hour episodes, written by Amy, with all the original cast, in a brand new series: Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life.
Right, now that we're all on the same page: as soon as they had annouced this for real, I had that weird combination of profound joy and bottomless anxiety. Joy upon getting another fix, another six whole hours of Gilmore Girls, and fear that they would mess it up. Because this is a series that is easily messed up. There is a certain tone, a certain way of communication and characterisation, that is very hard to get right. They missed it for a long chunk in the sixth season, and it was heartbreaking to watch.
Anyway, November 25th was a date underlined in my agenda, as I would binge-watch the entire season in one go, together with one of my best friends and fellow Gilmore Girls-rewatcher. And so we watched it. And we judged it. This was our baby, our Gilmore Girls experience, our many nights of sitting under a blanket, stuffing our faces with junk food, rewatching episodes we'd already seen five times. Had they messed it up?
The truth is; yes and no. There are many things I really liked about this new series, and many things I didn't like. I tried to put these into a pro/con list to come to some sort of final judgement (Rory does this a lot) but I don't think it really works that way; your overall opinion is more than just the longer list. So I'll describe some things instead. For those of you who haven't watched it, probably blantantly obviously, but better safe than sorry: there will be spoilers.
At first, it felt like slipping back into that familiar world again, like we'd never left. Lorelai gives Rory an update on everything that has happened in Stars Hallow, we meet some familiar faces (Lane! A super-thin Miss Patty! Kirk! Taylor! Michel! And he's married!), Lorelai has had a fight with her mother, Paris is still positively insane but good-hearted beneath it all, there is a weird Friday-night dinner, troubadours sing; all is well with the world.
Then, you realise what the main issue of the episode was; both Lorelai and Rory are searching. Still? At 48 and 32 respectively? Yes, they are still searching for what they want to do, who they want to be. Lorelai wondering whether she should have become a mother again, and Rory is an anchorless freelance writer, drifting between the US and London. Relationshipwise, Rory appears to have found a steady boyfriend, but she keeps forgetting him (seriously, they should have ended that joke after the first half an hour) and is also very much cheating on him. They are both still searching, still unhappy, but really, without any good reason. They should be happy. They're just full of their own first-world problems. They should get over themselves.
I realise that six hours of people who have cleaned up their lives and gotten their stuff together may have seemed tedious to the scriptwriters, but it wouldn't have been boring at all to the fans of the show. We just want to see all those characters happily settled in life, to peek in on how they're doing, and then silently move away again. Ironically, there is a very strong focus on Lorelai's and Rory's (forced) personal problems, and all those other characters we just get minute glimpses off, before they disappear again. I would have loved to know more about Lane, or Michel, or Jess, or Dean, or April, or any of them, really. Less drama, more story.
The only person whose life isn't going like they'd planned, but with good reason, is Emily. What I thought was really good about this series, is that they explicitly portray her as the third Gilmore Girl. Which she was all along, of course, but it somehow didn't really come across that well. But now, with Edward Herrmann gone, her character is also widowed. And searching. But Emily is the only one really willing to deal with the situation she finds herself in, to tackle her problems head-on, to invite new people into her life and share her grief with them. And in the end, I felt, she is the only one who truly finds happiness.
Speaking of the end, there is a bit of a bombshell there, of course. Those words were the exact words Amy had always wanted to end the series with, and they must have been really nice to hear at the end of season seven, but here they sounded hollow and unreal. Also, I was unaware of any mystery surrounding the father until a friend pointed it out to me: I was just assuming it would be Logan's. But she has that weird thing with the furry in the middle of the series, so it may well be a Wookiee baby. Which I just find annoying. What is with the open endings? Really, can't you let it go? To top it all off, Netflix posted a message referring to April's quest to find her father, hinting both at three possible fathers (but really, Paul?) and at new episodes. Let's hope they don't. Really, don't.
Like I said; an overall opinion isn't made up of only the number of good and bad things, and reading the above, you may well think I hated this new series. Which I didn't. There were many, many things I disliked about it, but the overall feeling it gave me was good. The atmosphere, the pacing, the characters, they all felt right. This truly was Gilmore Girls again, ten years later. The only sad part about it is; the main characters hadn't matured during those ten years.
And maybe that is the problem; we have. We have become ten years older. And where the drama of the original series is steeped in nostalgia, we see this series with our new, critical eye. And seen as such, it is lacking in some ways. Not all, obviously, and it is still a sibling of the original, but clearly the lesser sibling, the unsuccessful kid.
But in the end, I'm glad we now have this series, and have seen the ending Amy originally wanted, and had a chance to sneak a peek at all of their lives and the little town of Stars Hallow. After all, I've spend a lot of time there, and it's good to know it's still going strong.
Now I've only written about a tv series once before, and with good reason. I hardly watch any television (by which I also mean; I hardly watch any Netflix, as that has become the standard substitute for watching anything for my generation). The most notable exceptions are Sherlock (I was poised for the start of the forth season last night) and Wie is de mol? (a brilliant Dutch programme in which contestants have to complete assignments while rooting out the mole in their middle). Otherwise, I don't really watch tv; I'd rather read a book. Or go to the movies. Or better still; hang out with actual other people.
This used to be very different. When I was a teenager, I would know exactly which series aired each evening, and either plan to see them or record them. Dawson's creek, Roswell, Friends, Sex and the City, Everwood; I've seen them all as they first aired in the Netherlands. But the most important of all, the series I watched and rewatched (on dvd) the most, and the one most of my friends watched with me, was Gilmore Girls.
For those of you who know what I'm talking about, you can skip the next three paragraphs. For the rest of you: I find it almost impossible that people have gotten to this point in their lives without knowing what Gilmore Girls is, but here goes; Gilmore Girls is a tv series about Lorelai Gilmore, who got pregnant at 16, moved out of her (rich) parent's house to the small village of Stars Hallow, and raised her daugther Rory on her own. The tv show starts when Rory has just turned 16 and has been accepted into a very prestigious high school, which will surely catapult her into Ivy League spheres. Lorelai has by that time managed to work herself up from a maid to the manager of the hotel she works. All this sounds very dramatically 'rags to riches', but it is brought with a big dose of fun, quirky characters, high speed talking, and more (cult) references you could ever manage to look up.
The series ran for seven seasons, after which it was discontinued. The original writer, Amy Sherman-Palladino, was somehow removed from the writing staff, and this caused an abrupt ending to the show, which is very noticeable in the last four or five episodes; everything is rushed along to a forced ending.
However, this was not the ending Amy had been planning for us all along, and as soon as the show had ended, people were muttering that it was sad to see such a brilliant show go in this way. Then, last year, there were rumours about a restart, with most of the original cast. Then, the show was bought by Netflix (hint: you can see all seven seaons there), and the rumours became reality: we would get four 1.5 hour episodes, written by Amy, with all the original cast, in a brand new series: Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life.
Right, now that we're all on the same page: as soon as they had annouced this for real, I had that weird combination of profound joy and bottomless anxiety. Joy upon getting another fix, another six whole hours of Gilmore Girls, and fear that they would mess it up. Because this is a series that is easily messed up. There is a certain tone, a certain way of communication and characterisation, that is very hard to get right. They missed it for a long chunk in the sixth season, and it was heartbreaking to watch.
Anyway, November 25th was a date underlined in my agenda, as I would binge-watch the entire season in one go, together with one of my best friends and fellow Gilmore Girls-rewatcher. And so we watched it. And we judged it. This was our baby, our Gilmore Girls experience, our many nights of sitting under a blanket, stuffing our faces with junk food, rewatching episodes we'd already seen five times. Had they messed it up?
The truth is; yes and no. There are many things I really liked about this new series, and many things I didn't like. I tried to put these into a pro/con list to come to some sort of final judgement (Rory does this a lot) but I don't think it really works that way; your overall opinion is more than just the longer list. So I'll describe some things instead. For those of you who haven't watched it, probably blantantly obviously, but better safe than sorry: there will be spoilers.
At first, it felt like slipping back into that familiar world again, like we'd never left. Lorelai gives Rory an update on everything that has happened in Stars Hallow, we meet some familiar faces (Lane! A super-thin Miss Patty! Kirk! Taylor! Michel! And he's married!), Lorelai has had a fight with her mother, Paris is still positively insane but good-hearted beneath it all, there is a weird Friday-night dinner, troubadours sing; all is well with the world.
Then, you realise what the main issue of the episode was; both Lorelai and Rory are searching. Still? At 48 and 32 respectively? Yes, they are still searching for what they want to do, who they want to be. Lorelai wondering whether she should have become a mother again, and Rory is an anchorless freelance writer, drifting between the US and London. Relationshipwise, Rory appears to have found a steady boyfriend, but she keeps forgetting him (seriously, they should have ended that joke after the first half an hour) and is also very much cheating on him. They are both still searching, still unhappy, but really, without any good reason. They should be happy. They're just full of their own first-world problems. They should get over themselves.
I realise that six hours of people who have cleaned up their lives and gotten their stuff together may have seemed tedious to the scriptwriters, but it wouldn't have been boring at all to the fans of the show. We just want to see all those characters happily settled in life, to peek in on how they're doing, and then silently move away again. Ironically, there is a very strong focus on Lorelai's and Rory's (forced) personal problems, and all those other characters we just get minute glimpses off, before they disappear again. I would have loved to know more about Lane, or Michel, or Jess, or Dean, or April, or any of them, really. Less drama, more story.
The only person whose life isn't going like they'd planned, but with good reason, is Emily. What I thought was really good about this series, is that they explicitly portray her as the third Gilmore Girl. Which she was all along, of course, but it somehow didn't really come across that well. But now, with Edward Herrmann gone, her character is also widowed. And searching. But Emily is the only one really willing to deal with the situation she finds herself in, to tackle her problems head-on, to invite new people into her life and share her grief with them. And in the end, I felt, she is the only one who truly finds happiness.
Speaking of the end, there is a bit of a bombshell there, of course. Those words were the exact words Amy had always wanted to end the series with, and they must have been really nice to hear at the end of season seven, but here they sounded hollow and unreal. Also, I was unaware of any mystery surrounding the father until a friend pointed it out to me: I was just assuming it would be Logan's. But she has that weird thing with the furry in the middle of the series, so it may well be a Wookiee baby. Which I just find annoying. What is with the open endings? Really, can't you let it go? To top it all off, Netflix posted a message referring to April's quest to find her father, hinting both at three possible fathers (but really, Paul?) and at new episodes. Let's hope they don't. Really, don't.
Like I said; an overall opinion isn't made up of only the number of good and bad things, and reading the above, you may well think I hated this new series. Which I didn't. There were many, many things I disliked about it, but the overall feeling it gave me was good. The atmosphere, the pacing, the characters, they all felt right. This truly was Gilmore Girls again, ten years later. The only sad part about it is; the main characters hadn't matured during those ten years.
And maybe that is the problem; we have. We have become ten years older. And where the drama of the original series is steeped in nostalgia, we see this series with our new, critical eye. And seen as such, it is lacking in some ways. Not all, obviously, and it is still a sibling of the original, but clearly the lesser sibling, the unsuccessful kid.
But in the end, I'm glad we now have this series, and have seen the ending Amy originally wanted, and had a chance to sneak a peek at all of their lives and the little town of Stars Hallow. After all, I've spend a lot of time there, and it's good to know it's still going strong.
Friday, 30 December 2016
Books of 2016
In 2015, I set myself the goal of reading one book a week, or 52 books in a year. As you may remember, I failed at that, but still managed to read 41 books in total. The catch was that I could only read books I'd never read before, which put both a strain on my finance, and made me ache for some the books I wanted to reread, but wasn't allowed to. And also, I didn't really have the time to finish a book each week, with the size of the novels I was reading (The discovery of heaven just takes a couple of weeks, at best).
This year, I did not set myself any reading goals, but I did keep track of ever book I read. Just a short list at the back of my agenda, which worked well for me in 2015, and again so this year. I think this is a habit I will keep, as it is nice to see how much you've read, but also which novels. On one of the first days of this year, I made some lists about what I'd read in 2015, and as I'm pretty sure I won't finish any books in 2016 anymore, I will now do the same for this year.
In total, I read 21 books, which feels about right for a 'normal' year in which I wasn't trying to push any particular number. Looking back on the list I had some "wow, did I read that this year?" moments, for books which feel like they've been inhabitants of my bookcases for years. Other books I'd simply completely forgotten about. and some I will never forget about. Some I've written about extensively, others I've apparently never mentioned here.
This is the complete list for 2016:
1 Grief is the thing with feathers
2 The Art of Asking
3 Bonita Avenue
4 A God in Ruins
5 Pluche
6 As in tas
7 De verwarde cavia
8 Anna Karenina
9 Me before you
10 The Martian
11 Slade House
12 In the light of what we know
13 Magnus
14 A little life
15 After you
16 Northern lights
17 On Chesil Beach
18 Amsterdam
19 The buried giant
20 Mothering Sunday
21 Nutshell
Some differences from 2015: there are two rereads in this list (both by Ian McEwan), and there are more Dutch books, relatively speaking. Only three non-fiction books. Fewer classics.
So, to destill some lists (of just the newly read books):
Best English novel
1 A God in Ruins
2 Mothering Sunday
3 Nutshell
This was a difficult one. I read a lot of great books this year, and one would probably expect the much-praised A little life or In the light of what we know to be in this list too. However, this year has confirmed for me that I love two things in novels: small, intimate plots, and what we shall call 'literary' language. This explains for Mothering Sunday and Nutshell, which are both very small, very literarily written (yes, that is a word), and take place in the space of a single day or a single womb. And A God in Ruins (can you believe I'd actually forgotten I read that book this year?) is just beautiful. Kate Atkinson previously wrote Life after life, which was great too, but this (sort of) sequel is even beter. I cried when I finished it, probably the only book I cried about apart from Slade House (and Me before you, if I'm to believe what I've written before). I'd never expected two 'new' authors to jump ahead of my beloved Ian McEwan, but Nutshell just wasn't good enough for the competition.
Best Dutch novel
I'm supposed to put a list here, but really, I didn't like any of the Dutch novels I read this year. Bonita Avenue is hailed as some sort of magnus opus, while being a debut, but I didn't really see it. Magnus is by one of my favourite comedians, but it wasn't all that great. De verwarde cavia was just cheap. It was a sad year for Dutch literature in my list.
Best non-fiction (whichever language)
1 Pluche
2 The Art of Asking
3 As in tas
None of these were really great, but As in tas is really just cashing in on the author's father's dead, while I've written enough about what is wrong with The Art of Asking in another post. Pluche is the memoirs of one of my favourite politicians, and while not perfect, definitely the best of this lot.
Best fantasy/scifi novel
1 The Martian
2 The buried giant
3 Slade House
The Martian is definitely one of the best realistic scifi novels I've read in a long time. It is funny, dramatic, scientifically realistic, and as I'd already seen the movie, I kept picturing Matt Damon, which is pretty nice too. The buried giant is the most unlikely fantasy novel I've ever read, deeper and darker than I'd expected. I would not normally put a David Mitchell novel at the bottom of a list, but Slade House was just too short, and it felt a bit too rushed. Like he wanted to get a short novel out there before going on to one of his normally much lager ones. Let's hope we get one of those in 2017.
Most disappointing novel
1 After you
2 De verwarde cavia
3 A little life
Funny how much a book can disappoint you even when you aren't really expecting anything great from it. After you is the sequal to Me before you, and it doesn't get any more cliche. Really, don't read it. De verwarde cavia was self-published by one of my favourite comedians and non-fiction writers, so I had my hopes up, but it is really about nothing. fluff. Wasted time. I feel almost ashamed for putting A little life in this list, because it has been so acclaimed, and everybody loves it. And I loved it too, the first two-thirds of it. Then it just got too... not gruesome, although I've heard enough people say that too. It just got too lost in it's own plot. The author really wanted to complete the whole 'life', and as such threw in a lot of stuff that a good editor would have taken out again. Really, at 60% of the pages, a more condensed, focussed story would have made for a better novel. So this novel really became a disappointment as I was reading it, and if it hadn't been for the final 200 pages, this book would be at the top of my "Best English novels" list. Funnily enough, when I wrote about it earlier, I was far more positive about this novel, so apparently my opinion changed radically in hindsight.
And finally, because I put it in last year:
Authors I read more than once
- Ian McEwan (3x)
- Jojo Moyes (2x)
Like last year, one of my favourite authors is the most-read one (last year it was David Mitchell and Dave Nicholls). I could do a McEwan top 3 (On Chesil Beach, Nutshell, Amsterdam) but really, who does that sort of thing?
This year, I did not set myself any reading goals, but I did keep track of ever book I read. Just a short list at the back of my agenda, which worked well for me in 2015, and again so this year. I think this is a habit I will keep, as it is nice to see how much you've read, but also which novels. On one of the first days of this year, I made some lists about what I'd read in 2015, and as I'm pretty sure I won't finish any books in 2016 anymore, I will now do the same for this year.
In total, I read 21 books, which feels about right for a 'normal' year in which I wasn't trying to push any particular number. Looking back on the list I had some "wow, did I read that this year?" moments, for books which feel like they've been inhabitants of my bookcases for years. Other books I'd simply completely forgotten about. and some I will never forget about. Some I've written about extensively, others I've apparently never mentioned here.
This is the complete list for 2016:
1 Grief is the thing with feathers
2 The Art of Asking
3 Bonita Avenue
4 A God in Ruins
5 Pluche
6 As in tas
7 De verwarde cavia
8 Anna Karenina
9 Me before you
10 The Martian
11 Slade House
12 In the light of what we know
13 Magnus
14 A little life
15 After you
16 Northern lights
17 On Chesil Beach
18 Amsterdam
19 The buried giant
20 Mothering Sunday
21 Nutshell
Some differences from 2015: there are two rereads in this list (both by Ian McEwan), and there are more Dutch books, relatively speaking. Only three non-fiction books. Fewer classics.
So, to destill some lists (of just the newly read books):
Best English novel
1 A God in Ruins
2 Mothering Sunday
3 Nutshell
This was a difficult one. I read a lot of great books this year, and one would probably expect the much-praised A little life or In the light of what we know to be in this list too. However, this year has confirmed for me that I love two things in novels: small, intimate plots, and what we shall call 'literary' language. This explains for Mothering Sunday and Nutshell, which are both very small, very literarily written (yes, that is a word), and take place in the space of a single day or a single womb. And A God in Ruins (can you believe I'd actually forgotten I read that book this year?) is just beautiful. Kate Atkinson previously wrote Life after life, which was great too, but this (sort of) sequel is even beter. I cried when I finished it, probably the only book I cried about apart from Slade House (and Me before you, if I'm to believe what I've written before). I'd never expected two 'new' authors to jump ahead of my beloved Ian McEwan, but Nutshell just wasn't good enough for the competition.
Best Dutch novel
I'm supposed to put a list here, but really, I didn't like any of the Dutch novels I read this year. Bonita Avenue is hailed as some sort of magnus opus, while being a debut, but I didn't really see it. Magnus is by one of my favourite comedians, but it wasn't all that great. De verwarde cavia was just cheap. It was a sad year for Dutch literature in my list.
Best non-fiction (whichever language)
1 Pluche
2 The Art of Asking
3 As in tas
None of these were really great, but As in tas is really just cashing in on the author's father's dead, while I've written enough about what is wrong with The Art of Asking in another post. Pluche is the memoirs of one of my favourite politicians, and while not perfect, definitely the best of this lot.
Best fantasy/scifi novel
1 The Martian
2 The buried giant
3 Slade House
The Martian is definitely one of the best realistic scifi novels I've read in a long time. It is funny, dramatic, scientifically realistic, and as I'd already seen the movie, I kept picturing Matt Damon, which is pretty nice too. The buried giant is the most unlikely fantasy novel I've ever read, deeper and darker than I'd expected. I would not normally put a David Mitchell novel at the bottom of a list, but Slade House was just too short, and it felt a bit too rushed. Like he wanted to get a short novel out there before going on to one of his normally much lager ones. Let's hope we get one of those in 2017.
Most disappointing novel
1 After you
2 De verwarde cavia
3 A little life
Funny how much a book can disappoint you even when you aren't really expecting anything great from it. After you is the sequal to Me before you, and it doesn't get any more cliche. Really, don't read it. De verwarde cavia was self-published by one of my favourite comedians and non-fiction writers, so I had my hopes up, but it is really about nothing. fluff. Wasted time. I feel almost ashamed for putting A little life in this list, because it has been so acclaimed, and everybody loves it. And I loved it too, the first two-thirds of it. Then it just got too... not gruesome, although I've heard enough people say that too. It just got too lost in it's own plot. The author really wanted to complete the whole 'life', and as such threw in a lot of stuff that a good editor would have taken out again. Really, at 60% of the pages, a more condensed, focussed story would have made for a better novel. So this novel really became a disappointment as I was reading it, and if it hadn't been for the final 200 pages, this book would be at the top of my "Best English novels" list. Funnily enough, when I wrote about it earlier, I was far more positive about this novel, so apparently my opinion changed radically in hindsight.
And finally, because I put it in last year:
Authors I read more than once
- Ian McEwan (3x)
- Jojo Moyes (2x)
Like last year, one of my favourite authors is the most-read one (last year it was David Mitchell and Dave Nicholls). I could do a McEwan top 3 (On Chesil Beach, Nutshell, Amsterdam) but really, who does that sort of thing?
Monday, 28 November 2016
NaNo Days 26, 27 & 28: Winner!
Yes, no use throwing in a cliffhanger here: I won! 50,495 official words written! In 28 days! Wooh!
For those watching the stats: I had been racing ahead in the past couple of days, reaching 45k on Saturday, and stopping at 48,786 yesterday afternoon. So with three days still to go, I only had to write about 300 words every day for three days to finish. But why do that, when you can just throw in 1,700 words and finish it off?
The best part about this year (apart from it being over; this was really one of the hardest NaNo years I have ever had...) is that the story is also actually finished. It has reached a point where I could throw in a final punchline, and call it a day. It is still pretty open-ended, but it has come full circle, the story arch has ended in a nice big finale, and everything is resolved. This is actually a first, for me. Usually, there were bits in the middle I jumped over just to get to the end, or I wasn't even halfway through my story when I reached the 50,000 mark. But this year, apparently, I have written a semi-fantasy, not-that-funny, 50,500 word novella. Who would have expected that?
Of course, of course, I now have to say something about wanting to reread it, and edit it, and hone it to perfection, but honestly, I would rather be rid of the thing for the coming week. Or two. It's not all that good, there are parts in the middle where I almost literally had to push myself to get any words out, and the story took a complete detour from what I had originally planned. So no, this is in no way the novel I wanted or expected to write. But hey, that's NaNo for you. And perhaps, come January, I'll take a peek at it again. For now, I am done typing words on a screen, and will just celebrate my newly obtained victory with a good night's sleep!
For those watching the stats: I had been racing ahead in the past couple of days, reaching 45k on Saturday, and stopping at 48,786 yesterday afternoon. So with three days still to go, I only had to write about 300 words every day for three days to finish. But why do that, when you can just throw in 1,700 words and finish it off?
The best part about this year (apart from it being over; this was really one of the hardest NaNo years I have ever had...) is that the story is also actually finished. It has reached a point where I could throw in a final punchline, and call it a day. It is still pretty open-ended, but it has come full circle, the story arch has ended in a nice big finale, and everything is resolved. This is actually a first, for me. Usually, there were bits in the middle I jumped over just to get to the end, or I wasn't even halfway through my story when I reached the 50,000 mark. But this year, apparently, I have written a semi-fantasy, not-that-funny, 50,500 word novella. Who would have expected that?
Of course, of course, I now have to say something about wanting to reread it, and edit it, and hone it to perfection, but honestly, I would rather be rid of the thing for the coming week. Or two. It's not all that good, there are parts in the middle where I almost literally had to push myself to get any words out, and the story took a complete detour from what I had originally planned. So no, this is in no way the novel I wanted or expected to write. But hey, that's NaNo for you. And perhaps, come January, I'll take a peek at it again. For now, I am done typing words on a screen, and will just celebrate my newly obtained victory with a good night's sleep!
Friday, 25 November 2016
NaNo Days 23, 24 & 25: Round numbers
For those of you who like round numbers just as much as I do (and who doesn't); you'll be pleased to know that I am now at 43,750 words (par is 41,666). My average per day is now 1,750, and I've written 2,225 words today (you can't win them all).
We're really in the home stretch now, with just 6,250 words to go. If nothing really unexpected happens (you never know) I should be able to finish in time. The story is moving along nicely, I have no trouble coming up with what to write, it's more finding the time to actually sit down and pound out 2,000 words. But, with the weekend coming up, who knows where I'll be at on Monday?
We're really in the home stretch now, with just 6,250 words to go. If nothing really unexpected happens (you never know) I should be able to finish in time. The story is moving along nicely, I have no trouble coming up with what to write, it's more finding the time to actually sit down and pound out 2,000 words. But, with the weekend coming up, who knows where I'll be at on Monday?
Tuesday, 22 November 2016
NaNo Days 18, 19, 20, 21 & 22: On a roll
Somehow I always feel scared about jinxing my progress by putting in a title like that, but it has to be said; the last few days the writing has gone easier than ever. At this moment, I am at 39,810 words, while par for today would have been 36,666. That means that I am 190 words short of being 2 days ahead of schedule. The lovely thing about the NaNo stats page is that it tells you "At This Rate You Will Finish On", and for me today that date is November 28th.
Now before you start planning the celebrations for the 28th, I do have to add that the only reason I've been writing this far ahead is that I won't be able to write that much in the coming days, and I wanted to get a buffer in place for those days. So all may seem well for the moment, but let's wait and see what the future brings.
Storywise, things have taken an unexpected twist, when one of the side characters I made up on a very uninspired day in Belgium has suddenly fought herself to the forefront, and even decided to fall in love with one of the other main characters. Plot twists, you never see them coming. It did make for about 2,000 words of expositional writing today, which is always nice, but it doesn't really help the main story along. I still have 10,000 words to come to some sort of a conclusion, and with all the extra characters jumping on board, I don't think I will. But hey, all of my NaNo's so far have been without an ending, and those that had an ending have been partly without a middle, so who says I actually have to write a fully complete story? It's all about the 50,000 words, right?
Now before you start planning the celebrations for the 28th, I do have to add that the only reason I've been writing this far ahead is that I won't be able to write that much in the coming days, and I wanted to get a buffer in place for those days. So all may seem well for the moment, but let's wait and see what the future brings.
Storywise, things have taken an unexpected twist, when one of the side characters I made up on a very uninspired day in Belgium has suddenly fought herself to the forefront, and even decided to fall in love with one of the other main characters. Plot twists, you never see them coming. It did make for about 2,000 words of expositional writing today, which is always nice, but it doesn't really help the main story along. I still have 10,000 words to come to some sort of a conclusion, and with all the extra characters jumping on board, I don't think I will. But hey, all of my NaNo's so far have been without an ending, and those that had an ending have been partly without a middle, so who says I actually have to write a fully complete story? It's all about the 50,000 words, right?
Thursday, 17 November 2016
NaNo Days 14, 15, 16 & 17: Vive la France
So I am writing this from the little cottage that we rented in France, in Normandy to be precise, in the little village of Bazenville, which consists of about twenty houses and two hundred sheep. At the moment, there is a bit of a storm going on outside, but we're nice and snug inside, warm and cosy, with the wind howling outside. It feels somewhat Christmassy, even though the temperatures here are quite a bit higher than at home, and the trees still have a lot more leaves than what we're used to by now.
In this little cottage, I finally got ahead of par. Or rather: my story finally gripped me. I think the main help in this was actually finding time to read, and the book I'm reading (The Buried Giant by Ishiguru) inspired me to look at my fantasy world in a whole new light, and add some extra characters and plotlines that I never would have thought of on my own. It's not that I'm copying his story, not by a long shot, it's rather that I'm absorbing it's atmosphere, and trying to convey that to my own story.
Which is working pretty well; for the last four days, I've written 2,000 words each day. That means I've been writing about 350 words extra on top of the daily 'required' amount, and I am now almost at the word count I should be at tomorrow (30,000). Which is nice, as tomorrow we will be travelling home, so I don't have that much time to write. And otherwise it is nice too, because it shows that my story is finally picking up speed.
Let's hope I manage to keep on track when I'm back in our own cold, rainy, grey country!
In this little cottage, I finally got ahead of par. Or rather: my story finally gripped me. I think the main help in this was actually finding time to read, and the book I'm reading (The Buried Giant by Ishiguru) inspired me to look at my fantasy world in a whole new light, and add some extra characters and plotlines that I never would have thought of on my own. It's not that I'm copying his story, not by a long shot, it's rather that I'm absorbing it's atmosphere, and trying to convey that to my own story.
Which is working pretty well; for the last four days, I've written 2,000 words each day. That means I've been writing about 350 words extra on top of the daily 'required' amount, and I am now almost at the word count I should be at tomorrow (30,000). Which is nice, as tomorrow we will be travelling home, so I don't have that much time to write. And otherwise it is nice too, because it shows that my story is finally picking up speed.
Let's hope I manage to keep on track when I'm back in our own cold, rainy, grey country!
Sunday, 13 November 2016
NaNo Days 11, 12 & 13: Visiting the neighbours
So I'm writing this from a hotel room near Ieper (that Ypres for you English lot), where I have just reached 22,035 words. Par today is 21,667, so I'm still a little bit ahead of schedule.
Which is a miracle, if you knew how stumped for inspiration I am. Seriously, it's been a long time since writing was this difficult. Like I mentioned in my previous post, I have an idea of the sort of story I want to write, but somehow, it isn't happening. Maybe my characters don't quite fit, maybe I just can't find the right tone of voice, I don't really know what the problem is, I just know that there is one.
Now of course I'm still writing, but because it doesn't feel quite right, it's not going as fast as I would have thought. I was hoping to be around the 25,000 words by now, but it's a struggle just to stay on par each day. I could change the genre, but that means that I will have to write against a lot of exposition I did in the earlier parts, which I can remember from earlier years is pretty difficult, and not all that motivational. So I'm hoping for a flash of brilliance on an inspirational plot change, which will get my characters back on course. The good thing is; they are now all doing what they're supposed to be doing. It's just not going the way I was hoping when I started.
Still, I'm on par, and I'm finding time to write every day, so you won't hear me complaining. Just little inspirational grumbles.
Which is a miracle, if you knew how stumped for inspiration I am. Seriously, it's been a long time since writing was this difficult. Like I mentioned in my previous post, I have an idea of the sort of story I want to write, but somehow, it isn't happening. Maybe my characters don't quite fit, maybe I just can't find the right tone of voice, I don't really know what the problem is, I just know that there is one.
Now of course I'm still writing, but because it doesn't feel quite right, it's not going as fast as I would have thought. I was hoping to be around the 25,000 words by now, but it's a struggle just to stay on par each day. I could change the genre, but that means that I will have to write against a lot of exposition I did in the earlier parts, which I can remember from earlier years is pretty difficult, and not all that motivational. So I'm hoping for a flash of brilliance on an inspirational plot change, which will get my characters back on course. The good thing is; they are now all doing what they're supposed to be doing. It's just not going the way I was hoping when I started.
Still, I'm on par, and I'm finding time to write every day, so you won't hear me complaining. Just little inspirational grumbles.
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