Blogaversary Series: Day One

Hello readers! As you might have guessed for the title of this post, Tolstoy is my Cat is two years old this week!

I wanted to celebrate this as a way of saying a big THANK YOU to all my readers who've visited and perhaps stayed during that time, so I thought I'd delve back into the archive and post two links every day with a little explanation of why I have chosen to bring them from the dusty basement of my back-list back into the foreground once more. Also, look out for a give-away on one of the days this week...

1. My first link of the day is my post How Pathetic is your Fallacy? from January 2011, in which I talk about reading Emma Forrest's 'Your Voice in My Head' and Boris Pasternak's sublime 'Doctor Zhivago' whilst in Austria in the snow. 

Reason: When I first started this blog, I was quite focused on exploring the techniques of good writing, probably because I was doing a number of writing courses at that time. In a way, I used blog posts like this one as a test for myself, to check that I really understood what I was talking about when it came to things like literary devices and also to check that I could somehow incorporate them into something I was writing.

Pathetic fallacy was always a literary device I revered and was entertained by, even when I'd sit in the classroom becoming quietly obsessed with such things, probably like a lot of other bookish people out there. Also, this is a nice post for me to re-read as it features two of my favourite books from recent years and reminds me of a really beautiful, peaceful holiday.

2. My second link for the day is 'Snow', a flash fiction piece I posted on the blog early last year, which was nominated for the 3 Quarks Daily Art & Literature Prize 2011.

Reason: It was so exciting for me to be listed amongst pieces from The Millions, Millicent and Carla Fran and the oft mentioned Simon from Stuck in a Book: it was a real confidence booster for me, and brought many new readers into my fledgling blog. It was also my first experience of the connective power of blogging - I asked people to vote for me and they very kindly did, so much so that I finished first - and it was my first piece of fiction to be approved in some way by anyone other than a course-mate or a relative, which was obviously lovely and, again, gave me a great confidence boost.

So, check back tomorrow for two more of my favourite links from the archive... 

Also, feel free to share this post as a small blogaversary present to me, as what is a party without some new friends?







Does Writing Have to be Political to Matter?

 As you may recall, I recently had my flash fiction piece 'Snow' nominated in the 3 Quarks Daily Art & Literature prize 2011 and that I ranked as high as a semi-finalist before not making it through to the final six. The finalists who did get through (found here) became these eventual winners:

1. Top Quark: Namit Arora, Joothan: A Dalit's Life
2. Strange Quark: Edan Lepucki, Reading and Race: On Slavery in Fiction
3. Charm Quark: Elliot Colla, The Poetry of Revolt 







Vote for Me: The 3 Quarks Daily 2011 Arts & Literature Prize

     I have some news. My flash fiction piece 'Snow' has been nominated for the 3 Quarks Daily 2011 Arts & Literature prize (eek!) but I need your votes to go through to the final judging round. 

     Time is of the essence as voting closes at 11:59pm (NYC time) on March 8th, which is Tuesday!

    I'd be incredibly grateful if you'd vote for 'Tolstoy is my Cat' here (it's alphabetical so it's fifth from bottom): 

http://www.3quarksdaily.com/3quarksdaily/3-quarks-daily-2011-arts-literature-prize-vote-here-.html 
 
     Thank you so, so much x 





Flash Fiction: Snow

Dizzying snow fell in helixes from the black, catching on thick white branches and roofs, and then drifting, with grace, onto the glistening ground. Akiko's half-shadow, cast through the window, was haloed across the snow within a rectangle of yellowing light. The television was off behind her, allowing her to appreciate the quiet poetry of the falling snow, but without it the silence was large. She watched, through the glass, as her footprints slowly disappeared beneath the mounting white.

Snow rendered her ambivalent: how could she fail to revere the beauty of it, a timeless beauty that fell and lifted with the audacity of love? It was treacherous though, and fleeting, and inevitably became sullied with the movement and trampling of life. She'd be seduced by its purity and forget that it was actually cold, drifting and thick with secrets.

  

She'd told Kosuke this one evening in Tokyo whilst lounging on cushions and drinking in wine, so he'd brought her here deliberately, smiling at her cynicism, telling her that she'd love the light. Admittedly, she had, and had painted the blues and pinks of it on the clear days whilst he traversed the ski fields, and then had revelled with him beneath the lacquer black night. On days it snowed and the view was obliterated behind the clouds, she had lain beneath the kotatsu heater watching classic films and game show repeats, blowing happy cigarette shapes against the two-tone window backdrop of white. They'd found warmth there, and the dove sky fascinated her. Icicles became ice pops, snowflakes were kisses and their lodge became an island in a sea of ice. He'd bought her a lipstick in the supermarket and presented it in paper, so she might throw her art outward, he'd said, and cast bright red against the pale outdoors. She'd been dazzled by the brightness and forgot to fear how easily the snow might make her slip. Kisses were currency and everything was free. Too soon though, their paint pots and cigarette packs were empty, signalling that it was time to return to life. Happier than they'd been, they vowed to return again soon. The purchasing of a little Akita pup had stated the intent in life.

  

Now she was there again, alone, pale on the tatami, next to the dog that was now grown. The light during the daytime had been the same sakura pink and cornflower blue as in her paintings, but the night now felt different: empty, cavernous and without stars. He was not there.