2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 2,300 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 4 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

Writing in hiccups

I was thinking about history. In Italian (my mother tongue), there’s one noun for history and story: storia.

There’s no differentiation. It’s all narrative. Which I think makes its own sense, depriving history of its status as something separate, detached by a narrative that, as we know, is and can be constructed, performed, manipulated.

I was thinking about science fiction. How science fiction is the history of the future. A future. Imagined, perceived, feared, doesn’t matter. I like this idea, history and future in one. Antithetical and all-encompassing.

This image from Watchmen pivots on an imagined/fictional past of an imagined/fictional history diverging from a ‘factual’ one (please not the inverted commas, and the what ifs, and how history is contextual and in flux) in a film based on the graphic novel of the same title.*

*written by Alan Moore, art by Dave Gibbons. Go read it, it’s complex and a great part of it just wasn’t translatable on film, and whether it’s to your liking or not, it’s worth reading anyway

~~~

 In other news, my schedule is still erratic. Finishing the Master was a starting point, not a point of arrival, but while you’re sweating on essays and studying theory and experimenting with your own writing, the focus is on the dissertation, the going through, the ‘finishing’.

In my case, the Master collided with moving to a new city (with no previous support network in place); buying my first house and all the related responsibilities and choices; witnessing my mother’s passing (expected due to cancer, but the when and how…death is a stranger, uninvited, unknown, heartbreaking); my partner moving in with me.  In the space of two years,  quite some baggage to deal with and carry through. Not to mention what doing the Master meant in terms of accepting in myself the wish and need and pleasure of writing, and making it public (so to speak).

I’ve been lucky, in my life in general and in Edinburgh: I had great tutors at Napier, made true friends. But I see now how it all has come and crashed on me somewhat: I should not feel guilty about losing my focus, and instead work to regain it, because the passion and the pleasure of writing are all still here.

The strongest feelings are not necessarily loud, or dramatic. Sometimes they get whispered, and people don’t hear them. Doesn’t make them less strong.

So, onward, onward, always onward. With a smile.

Resurfacing, once again

I’m re-organising myself, once again.

Flexibility is most precious, but I’m a creature of habit, and every new turn in the road requires some adjustments and getting used to on my part.

I’m writing my first novel. I’m excited. I’m looking forward to share bits of it on this blog, the research, the problems, the solutions, the long steep haul to see it finished. I’m also approaching a field which is somewhat new to me: historical fiction. I never thought I would write an historical novel, and yet, I realize many of my favourite books are in the genre of historical fiction. Of course, there are subgenres, nuances, niches. I will explore them and post here my thoughts on the subject.

Gothic themes and deformity and diversity are all themes I will write about. I’ll post here any interesting consideration or event, and will be happy to discuss it. In particular, one fantastic event I’m already looking forward  (to which I intend to submit an abstract as well):

http://sensualisingdeformity.blogspot.com/

There is just too much in our (Western) society that is normalized: body shape first and foremost, and how we are supposed to react/interact with it (our own and others), shape it, ignore it, glamourize it.
If you’re interested in this conference, I’d like to talk about it! Do get in touch, now that I’ve taken a pause, I’m ready to dive in the blogosphere and be chattier than in the past. (my apologies).

Reading

Reading (eta: as in the act of reading) is amazing.

More later.

What is it about writing and night-time?

I ask myself (and by proxy, all of you floating out there in the ether)…why? I try to live a balanced life, and it destroys my creative juices. Night comes, and although sleepy, there I go, hell bent on juggling words on the page.

Tis mostly annoying.

Today would have been my Mum’s birthday…

And she would have been 79. With a mind of steel, I tell you.
When I was falling asleep last night, I heard her voice saying ‘goodnight’.

Made me smile.

/emo

 

In other news, so much to write!  Which is a Good Thing.  Word counts starting soon *fingers crossed*

AWOL

The months of October, November and December passed me by and left me breathless. Speechless.

I got bronchitis, too, which doesn’t help at all. Gearing up for doing more and better now. Been reading lots, will post a few titles asap.

New projects plans incoming, wordcounts and deadlines.

My main problem with keeping a writing blog is I don’t want to censor myself, and yet not everything (rants, many many MANY rants) seem appropriate here. Writing is something I do, but also something I am, in ways. But I’m only witty, clever or entertaining when I’m not looking.

I therefore keep going in circles.

 

To more writing, soon!

How the brain hurts…

..but in such a good way.

Lots of ideas thundering for attention. Considering a submission.

Time flies. Wheter you’re having fun or not.  At some point I will get round to make more meaningful posts than wordcounts, I promise.

Wordcount on short story: 1.982. Almost there.

Wordcount on Master story: 1.619 (edited ferociously, saved bits for later).

Narrative Sense

Hard and painful and shattering as it is, my brain keeps trying to make a narrative of my mother’s last days. Is this what writing is, in part at least? That part of your brain wanting to make sense of life, keep you sheltered, keep you safe, giving sense to what in the end is just a shamble of raw feelings tied in a Gordian knot?

Maybe.

(What sense is there in death, though. I wonder.)

Off to work. The Ways of Procrastination are Many.

I’m proud of the my fellow writers’ achievements. In as much as I am a prisoner in my own grief, I enjoy their forays into the writing world and its requirements (public readings, networking, and the like).