Approaching the Big One

       At the end of last week I spent some time wandering through the lush jungle of blogging, writing and book blogs that exists on the internet, trying to decide which of the ones I like to add to my blog roll, and I stumbled across a short post on Block or Not about the link she’d made between time taken to edit a 640 word article, and how much time that would mean she’d need to spend editing her novel, which could feasibly end up around the 60,000 word mark. It’s scary stuff indeed: 94 hours straight, at the same rate, she worked out, although of course in reality editing throws up more writing which throws up editing which requires writing to fill in the gaps, so really, how long is a piece of string? To me, in my fragile, sapling state, it looks vaguely like enough of a challenge to stop you starting in the first place.







Tolstoy's Got A Brand New Look...

     Ta da! Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it airier and more eye-catching and easier to read? I hope so anyway. I’ve been very excited about re-designing this blog for a while now and it’s lovely to have it finally done. Thanks to the gorgeous new logo goes to Elaine Tang (@minirice_uk) who draws and designs beautiful things and was awesome through the whole process of me figuring out what I wanted and how exactly I wanted to represent myself and the whole Tolstoy is my Cat brand (of all the narcissistic things you thought you’d never do, Batman…). Incidentally, I think Tolstoy likes it, as he just added a whole line of ‘i’s to the text whilst I turned my back to fetch tea. Bad cat.







How Pathetic is your Fallacy?

     Pathetic fallacy is a somewhat clichéd device, most often seen when a distressed person walks around in the rain or a happy couple frolic in the sun, but something I like to do as a reader is create my own i.e. read books in locations that reflect their content, location or tone to enhance my enjoyment of them.

     I spent the last week in a tiny Austrian village near Salzburg and it was as you might picture it – epic mountains, rustic detailing, piles and piles of snow. You might think of this is the ideal place to splash out on winter sports kit and go play in the snow, but seeing as I definitely do not ski, and everyone else in the party does, for me it is the perfect place to read. So, rather than packing skis and helmets, I packed my snow boots, a notebook and oodles and oodles of books.







Book Quote Friday: Captain Corelli's Many Voices

One thing that never struck me until I thought of choosing a quote from 'Captain Corelli's Mandolin' for this Book Quote article was the sheer number of voices and viewpoints that Louis de Bernieres employs in its telling. 

It took me a little by surprise as I adore this book and have read it on many occasions and tend to employ a vaguely critical eye so I can learn and write articles such as this. I mean, it's clear that the story zooms in an out on various people and places, as if the reader were watching through a camera, but when you look at it properly it's mind-blowing, and, to be honest, doesn't tally with a lot of writing advice that suggests choosing one viewpoint and sticking to it throughout. I guess it goes to show that if you have enough skill, you can do anything you want... :)







The Ten Commandments of Reading, Writing and Publishing

       Back in the dark depths of last year (well, November) Vintage Books ran a competition on Twitter that asked their followers to define the 10 commandments of reading, writing and publishing, and there'd be a prize (books, obv.) for the suggestions that made the final cut. A surprisingly hard thing to do, as it turns out, especially when combined with the obligatory 140 character limit that is the Twitter standard. I came up with numbers 1, 3, 5 and 10 at the time, but have been musing on the others since then. So, here we go (still sticking to the 140 character limit):








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.







Who Needs Books, Anyway?

     Well, more specifically who needs access to them? Perhaps, for free, even, in this austere economic climate?

      Not the UK apparently, according to the government's plan to close somewhere in the region of 1,000 libraries to save money and help balance the state books. We all know times are hard and sacrifices are necessary, but hitting libraries is the wrong thing to do, I think. Here's why: