Fruit Salad

I'm back on the book wagon. I haven't really been off the book wagon, but have had a lot of competing interests.

I'm not very good at pacing myself. Whenever I have books to read, or music to listen to, or DVDs to watch, I can't help but focus on getting them finished as soon as possible.

I suppose it's like having a to-do list. I don't want tasks hanging over my head like a bat-hat. But I shouldn't see the things I enjoy as obligations. It should be brilliant to have lots of great things to do.

But I'm strange. I worry about wasting my time.

Actually, that's not it. I just worry that I'm not wasting my time efficiently. 

At the moment, I have a couple of books I should be reading, there are lots of films on my HDD recorder (including both French Connection films, which I've seen before but feel like I should watch again). I have the complete Larry Sanders boxset to get through, I'm re-watching The Simpsons with the commentary, there are always comics to read. I'm always worried about writing blogs and tweeting tweets.

But I enjoy all these things! They should be fun little rewards; compensation for having to go to work. I should be skipping through the meadows (possibly wearing a dress - you can decide for yourself), gleefully giggling, stroking a lamb, eating ripe fruit from the trees.

"Ooh," I might say (If I ever said 'ooh', but I don't ever say 'ooh'). "The orchards are full of delicious apples. Book Braeburns, Golden DVDlicious, Comicbook Cox, Pink Ladies (I need to watch Grease too)."

But instead, I'm sitting in a dreary factory office on a dystopian industrial estate (possibly wearing a dress - you can decide for yourself), wading through invoices and lists - the burden of impending fun.

It probably means I should get rid of all my possessions and travel light.

I could become a monk or a wanderer.

I think I'd enjoy being unburdened. Whenever I'm travelling, I like to carry as little as possible. I could happily go from town to town, sleeping in barns, meeting strangers, spreading wisdom, foiling diamond heists, befriending a dog, standing up to a local criminal boss and teaching him to love Puccini.

The only material objects I'd miss would be books and music. But they're not really material. I could just carry an iPod in my pocket and a Kindle in my bindle.

I'd be like The Littlest Hobo. Except, you know, bigger.

In truth, I'd probably get bored after forty-five minutes and come home to bury myself under gold jewellery and hot-tubs.

So before I get back onto my Idiot Flaps Odyssey, I had to read some library books.

I read Brideshead Revisited, which was beautiful and moving; unsatisfying in a good way. I liked reading about Oxford. It reminded me of my salad days.

Mine were more 'kebab days', but featured a similar amount of witty badinage and self-importance. Of course, the book was written about the golden age of Oxford. Which is always the period just before you left.

I've never seen the Jeremy Irons Brideshead TV series, and would like to. Though, despite his years of respected actoring, I can't help but think of him as the villain in Die Hard With A Vengeance, which might alter my perception of his character.

I've just seen the trailer for the new film version (with Pingu out of off of Nathan Barley) and it's the most hilariously 'movie trailery' movie trailer I've ever seen.



Maybe all trailers of novel adaptations are ridiculous, but this one tickled me quite a bit.

The other book I read was a collection of Kurt Vonnegut short stories, Look At The Birdie.

This volume was released after his death. I'm hoping his posthumous prolificacy will match that of Tupac Shakur.

[It just took me about three minutes to think of the word 'prolificacy'. I don't even think that was the word I was thinking of. I swore out loud and Googled "productivity synonym". It still doesn't look right. I'm sure the word I wanted began with a 'p', but it now seems to be lost.]

Some of the stories were really good, and made me feel like writing short fiction. I think that would be a more realistic short-term goal than my novel aspirations.

I had a look on Wikipedia (that's as far as my research stretches), and found Vonnegut's eight rules for writing a short story. Here they are:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

I particularly like numbers 5, 7 and 8.

I think I could use these as guidelines. The problem is that I'm violating rule 1 right now, and have been doing so for nearly five years.

Though at least you're all rooting for me, right? Right?

I'd explore this further, but I could really do with a glass of water.

The trouble is, I have all this apple juice to get through...