Friday, 5 September 2014
There's lint in your belly button
And encourages self-hypnosis.
All writing is self-indulgent but novels are pernicious. They go on and on. Because novel-writing is so private the author becomes his own judge and jury, convinced he's doing something significant. Whereas, since few novels are commercially published, the author should accept there'll only be one real reader - that incestuous figure staring madly into the computer screen. Himself.
And it doesn't end there. From the outside there's no more boring figure. A plumber installs a bath (tub - US), a farmer ploughs a field - work that can be measured by anyone. A novel-writer writes a sentence, finds it irritates him, writes a replacement, remains uneasy. A sequence known only to him and, let's face it, hardly worth mentioning.
Why this introspection? Recently I sent one novel off to the publisher and started revising another. I became ecstatic, the later novel was better than I remembered and two problems I'd dreaded were easily fixed. But remember, that's just my deluded opinion.
If this post was triggered by ecstasy, imagine one born out of despair.
PASTA PERCEPTION I knew orecchiette pasta (little ears) and fusilli (twists) but only recently discovered gigli (lilies). Discounting whole-wheat pasta which digests like scrap iron, and the other variety said to involve eggs, I assume the basic material doesn’t vary. That these shapes are merely visual titillation. Yet spaghetti does taste different, perhaps because it’s so thin very little sauce (and no meat) adheres to the strands. Do you have a pasta rationale? Will it withstand intellectual scrutiny?