My upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon' is undergoing editorial changes at the publishing house. This is exciting. Maybe not as exciting as the concept of opening my front door to see Hugh Jackman in a white naval uniform holding a spanking paddle and saying, 'Simone, I hear you've been a naughty girl. Guess what's going to happen now?', but exciting nonetheless. Actually, it is just as exciting as my hypothetical scenario, but a different category of excitement, but I won't go on about that just now. The book, which is a meander away from my usual satirical smart-arse ways, is told from the point of view of a distressed seventeen year old girl in 1982, attempting to write her memoirs. The prose is first person narrative in present tense, except when she's recalling something, or doing her actually 'writing'. She is doing her writing at an old golf ball typewriter in her father's study. Remember those? I learned to type on one. So, to differentiate from my prose and her memoirs, and to make it easier on the reader both visually and mentally, I have elected to have the text which forms part of her memoirs in a different font, that font being similar to the golf ball courier font of yore. The first reviewed draft I received didn't have the change of font, so it was necessary for me to make a list of the passages where font must be altered. This list was lengthy. It had been my great plan to type the list in a Word document and attach it to an email. My great plan was foiled by the expiration of my Office subscription, and the fact I am unable to renew it until tomorrow or Monday. Blame my impecuniosity on that one. So I had the totally brilliant idea of typing the list in an email to the editor. This list took me a while to type because I had to keep cross-referencing with my original hard copy when faced with some of my handwritten notes. I try to write neatly, but really my handwriting occasionally resembles the tracks of a drunken spider that has crawled out of an inkwell. My terrible scrawl saw me punished many a time by sadistic nuns, but I might save that one for my therapist. But back to my original story. I started to type, and realised I had to run an errand. I saved the email as a draft, mentally patting myself on the back. The other day, I went to finalise the draft and send the list to the publisher. I typed. I cross-referenced. I fortified myself with a cup of strong tea. After an hour's mental toil, I was finished. I did the final paragraph thanking them for their assistance, and signing off 'Simone'. I clicked on 'send'. What appeared on my screen was the sign-in function for my email. What appeared from my ears was billowing clouds of smoke when I realised my email had timed out, and aside from the few lines I had typed in the first session, absolutely nothing was saved! Nothing! Fuck-all! I got up from the desk. I stomped around like a bad tempered grizzly bear with whose hind feet have gone to sleep. I swore like an offended sailor (or like some of the ferals I see at the local shopping centre, in tight singlet tops teamed with frayed pyjama bottoms, or ill-fitting active wear. Why they wear active wear when it's obvious most of them avoid the gym like it was a pit of taipans is beyond me). I debated crawling behind my lounge and lying there in a foetal position, my body wracking and heaving with sobs coming from deep within my gut. I took deep breaths. I made another cup of tea. I opened my email again, went back to 'drafts', and started to re-type the list, only clicking on 'save draft' every ten minutes or so. I finally signed off, and clicked 'send'. It was sent. I have had telephone contact with the editorial staff about my changes, and things are underway. Life is reasonably good again.
Aaah, me. It's not due for release until next Valentine's Day, which by my feeble calculations is not for about five months for so, but there trailer for the film 'Fifty Shades: Darker' has been released. I actually didn't read the sequel to FSOG because FSOG really hurt my eyeballs. I did watch the movie of FSOG because being a blogger, I felt I should watch in order that I would be qualified to comment and warn my readership. Those of you who know me well know that I did not consider that movie to be a seat-soaker. How do you like that? I made a new phrase to describe the arousing properties of art, film, or literature: seat-soaker. Shall I trademark that? Maybe. I did not enjoy that cinematic experience. I think I experienced a more enjoyable occasion the day I got on a bus in Elizabeth Street, Sydney when the only seat left was the one at front that faces the rest of the passengers, and so I sat in it and was assailed with the sight of a slob sitting on the back seat merrily picking his nose and eating it. No, I didn't make that up! Ick!
What I'm wondering: was Pauline Hanson stuck for material when writing her speech for parliament the other day? If so, did she go to the cupboard and dig out her 1996 speech, and crib from that, only substituting 'Muslim' for 'Asian'? What do you guys think?
No comments:
Post a Comment