Look at those lips…

The fictional character, the Count of Monte Cristo totally fits the hot-storical criteria.

He is smart, vengeful, adventurous, calculating, and above all hot.

For those of you looking for a great read over the festive season (once you have read  Red Rocks, Zen Under Fire, Great Kiwi Firsts, The Girl Below and Sea Fever) I thoroughly recommend The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas.

This thriller is set in the early 19^th Century, and tells the story of the young sailor Edmond Dantes who  is arrested on his wedding day and imprisoned in the island fortress of the Chateau d’If. His daring escape, recovery of Monte Cristo’s fabulous treasure, and revenge on his enemies make this story un-put-downable.

But, wait there is more; Alexander Dumas’ inspiration for the novel comes from the life of his own father, General Dumas. A book  by Tom Reiss ‘The Black Count,’ has recently been published and tells the fascinating story of this “majestically tall (“his proportions were those of a Greek hero”), a crack swordsman and horseman (“looking like a centaur”), utterly fearless, generous to subordinates and a loving husband and father.

He was also exceptionally good-looking, though the portraits that survive are less spectacular than the majestic Adonis depicted in the book’s cover illustration.” HAWT!

If you care to learn more, this is a great interview with Tom Riess

In a lonely place

the pressure of sunlight falling

made active

the world over

Bookshelf poetry. I can’t claim it as my own idea, it’s Oh Jaewoo’s a Korean artist currently exhibiting at City Gallery Wellington. He investigates how art is valued and consumed within contemporary culture and how, by the restrictions and or freedoms inherent within us, we curate the world around us.

A couple of days ago we were chatting about poetry and fiction and art when something I said got lost in translation.  Suddenly Jaewoo got a gleam in his eye, tapped on his computer and two seconds later presented me with a series of images.   I smiled, nodded and despite them making absolutely no sense whatsoever (they were in Korean and sadly I am monolingual) said “Oh wow, great”.

Slowly it dawned on me what was going on.

Jaewoo was using the titles of books, and by carefully arranging them, creating ‘found’ poems.

I had to try. Immediately. Rushing back to work I grabbed a pile of books and came up with the poem above. Since then I haven’t been able to stop.  A typical day now looks like this

• walk past a bookshelf
• scan titles
• rearrange
• create poem
• photograph
• drag run outta there.

On Sunday I was down at Quilters Bookshop creating little poems.

Sartorially I’m often at the mercy of second hand synchronicity, and now with this latest addiction it looks like I may be suffering from a bout of literary synchronicity.

Before you scoff,  give it a go.

I look tired because of the unflattering lights. Honest.

“Let’s take it from the golden butt chain,” Prue instructs over the intercom.

I give her the thumbs up, clear my throat and begin reading. “A golden butt chain is parading mere meters away from me.” I carefully modulate my vowels and ensure the plosive sounds don’t pop.

I am living my dream, reimagining the wonders of an Aruban carnival while recording Sea Fever for National Radio.

Suspended in front of me is a microphone with MEYER written on it.  Surrounding me grey felt screens muffle extraneous noise and hugged around my neck are a pair of headphones the likes of which I have only ever seen in the video of “We Are the World.”

It’s destiny.

Full of hubris I begin reading. [I have a degree in Theatre and Film; 12 years of Speech and Drama under my belt… this will be a breeze!] Twenty minutes later I still haven’t made it to the bottom of paragraph two. I stutter, slur and mispronounce polka dot…. often.

We have 20 episodes to get through and only two days of studio time booked – nursing my bruised ego will have to wait.

So professional

“I got a great piece of advice from Dick Weir,” Prue tells me. “Imagine that you are telling the story to someone who is sitting just here.” She points to a space about a meter away from the microphone. “You don’t need to project so much.” I loved Dick Weir and his show “Ears” so I listen carefully to Prue and tone it back a little. It works.  I get into the groove and finally make it to the end of paragraph three.

Having the opportunity to read Sea Fever for National Radio is a huge honor. I remember excitedly thinking when Dash was just a tiny baby, “I’m going to be able to listen to Nine to Noon each day.”  When I returned to paid work, I hated having to say good bye to Kathryn Ryan in the kitchen.

Two days later and it’s a wrap. I have cried twice, relived the most terrifying day of my life, reaffirmed by marriage vows, laughed so hard  I almost wet my pants, drank too many cups of instant coffee and  nailed the golden butt chain line!

Listen out for “Sea Fever, from First Date to First Mate,” early 2013 on Radio New Zealand National.

I suspect he can’t.  And frankly nor can I. I’m talking about the decision by the Anglican Synod to ban women from becoming bishops. Religious hypocrisy and blinked pick ‘n’ mix reading of the scriptures aside, this decision does something even more insidious than simply say ‘no‘ to ‘lady bishops’, it signals that the Anglican Church and its institutional sexism is outside, above, and over  the Law.

Last time I checked we’re in 2012,  living in a secular society where we have laws about the right to equality. We are so jolly passionate about our democratic approach to ‘problem solving’ and ‘ good governance ‘s wage wars on those ‘unenlightened  countries’  in the name of our supreme righteousness.

Admittedly the evangelical core who voted ‘nay’ will have little truck with ‘equality’ (pah!) and ‘anti discrimination’ (homos are agents of the devil don’t ya know ?and women don’t get me started on  those apple eating temptresses), these creationists get all the guidance they need from the ‘good book’. But where in this book exactly does it state that being a dick is okay?  Or should I be reading it as, “ having a dick is a- okay and in fact the only way to get elected as a bishop?”

It seems it all comes down to a dangly bit of tissue. If you have one of these then, halleluiah you’re a bona fide conduit to God! Ah I get it… perhaps it is with this divination stick that God is able to guide you?

I read that we should be thinking less about the feminist argument (the Women’s Bishop movement would have won if they had shown some love and understanding towards those who in good conscience couldn’t agree with them) and thinking more about  Jesus and what he would  do (ummm, do unto other what you would have done unto you?) that The Church was entitled to get an exemption from the Anti Sexism Act of Parliament  solely because  it was The Church of England. On many levels this is worrying, not the least as it means the entire Anglican Church is exempt – meaning all women working in The Church are not covered by the Act.

Mostly this decision makes me sad. Sad that women are still having to prove the radical notion that they/we are people.

I mean, for God’s sake!

‘

Come one, come all…

Help! I have been drowning in metadata! I’ve been lost in a digital land! I’ve been bamboozled  by intergens and API’s!  I’ve been at the National Digital Forum!  For two days I’ve thought about content, the death of strategies, the importance of communities,  the secrets of meaningful engagement and been awed by ancient Chinese caves.   At first I was hash tagging this and retweeting that, but as I sat in the lectures squished between people with iPads and iPhones and  Mac Air’s as they tweeted and live blogged pithy quotes and commented virtually I thought about how for me, the real world is so much better.

Online I can easily get distracted, often I have multiple browsers open, (e.g. right now I have Facebook, the guardian, NZ Book Council, the Met Service  and shamefully, astrology zone)  I flick and multi task and naively assume I am actually researching things for my novel when the fact is I am pissing about on the internet.

So last Friday  when Susanna from the NZ Book Council asked if I would like to be involved in True Stories Told Live  I immediately said yes.  (I have a habit of saying yes and then thinking about it and realizing that perhaps I may have been foolhardy  - think sailing around the ocean) Now my name is on the poster with such luminaries as Elizabeth Knox and Kate De Goldie!  Now I really have to bring my A game – to the real world.

I love to be motivated, delighted, educated, illuminated, frustrated  and entertained  by stories. I love how sharing stories in the digital world creates change, empowers communities, democratizes information and markets ideas, products and services but being given this opportunity to tell a story live, unscripted and without notes is, for me, the ultimate in exhilaration.

So if you fancy watching me blush scarlet while I regale you with a true story please come along to True Stories Told Live - ’tis the season: Doors open 6pm, event starts 6.30pm. Tuesday December 4 at Meow Café, 9 Edward Street, Te Aro, Wellington 6011. Tickets are $10 ($5 members). There will be door sales but as there are limited tickets I recommend you buy your tickets now on www.bookcouncil.org.nz to secure your seat.

I have been angsting for months about chick lit.

My novel is all about sex, death and dynasties. In my good moments I channel Jackie Collins, square my shoulder pads and write my 666 words night, but in my darker moments when the gloss rubs off my pastel pink high-shine lipstick and I am left cracked lipped and illuminated only by a computer screen, I feel embarrassed.

A very difficult shade to wear.

Who owns up to writing chick lit?  Who owns up to reading chick lit? Why am I  being such a dick about it?

A couple of weeks ago I got drunk. I had planned to take my friend out for her birthday but instead I blabbed my mouth off about my chick-lit angst, tragic past romances and what  really went through my head when I thought we were going to die off the Panamanian coast. I mean − death and chick lit in the same conversation?

A few days later I had a coffee with another friend, she asked me how the book was going and instead of saying ‘I have nailed the plot and discovered a new character’  I chewed her ear off with long winded, rambling justifications on the validity of  commercial fiction while  being less than complimentary about chick lit sub genre.

Here’s the other thing; the  outline of my novel made it into the Random House catalogue for the Frankfurt Book Fair. In it it is described at chick lit.   I feel I kinship for Germany despite only ever being there once for six days,  I posed outside a  photo processing shop called Meyer Photo and wandered round Berlin imagining my ancestors dodging  bullets and hiding Jews. In Germany they pronounce my name correctly  and according to my publisher they was  ’quite a lot of interest in the manuscript’ yet  I find myself cringing about  the book’s classification. Cue a prolonged angsting session. It is a nice photo of me though.

The truth slipped out yesterday. I was trying to keep my usual Sunday confidence crisis concealed but while huffing and puffing up the steepest street in Wellington I said “I feel embarrassed I haven’t done the Bill Manhire writing course and I am not writing highbrow literary fiction.”

My ever patient husband, a man who has brought and sold literally tens of thousands of books over the last 30 years asked ‘What’s so wrong with being popular?’

I stopped mid rant/ pant. “Umm” and thinking of NO valid reasons “nothing” I finally said.

“Come on Ange you’re in marketing you understand publishers push it because of it validity as a sales tactic” he said  “and from what you’ve told me about the book, while it sounds somewhat outlandish and ridiculous it is seems to be a neo-feminist fictional discourse centered within a clandestine, subversive society . “ (It is for sentences like this that I married the man.) “Stop worrying and just write the thing” he called over his shoulder.  I am sure in his head he was  thinking  “ALRIGHT, ALREADY I need every millimeter of lung capacity to get up this hill”.

” Your right!”  I smiled “There will come a time when everyone will go on holiday or be stuck in hospital and the thought of a hardboiled novel is will be  too much……….eh?” I called after him as I held Dashkin’s hand and hauled my well padded writer’s butt up the hill.

Trying to focus on the bigger picture while sporting an author-like white turtle neck pullover. Dashkin; keeps it real in his godmother’s present.

As we tramped across the Wellington ridge-line I mused on the chick lit thing more.  What if chick lit wasn’t a derogatory term for popular women’s writing? What if there was another term?   I thought about all the conversations I’d had and came back to my coffee date friend, Rosie. Over our trim flat whites we had jokingly coined a new phrase, one that put the Lit back into chick lit, one that more accurately conveyed what I am trying to write, one that makes me smile rather than cringe.

We called it ‘Literachick’.

So what do you think?  Has Literachick got wings?

We also come up with Dickrature, Literadick  (for male popular fiction ) and chickrature (purely cos it was funny (at the time)).

I have since done a google search and it seems that other people are riding the Literachick wave too. Maybe I’m on to something.

I’d also just like to say that in no way does this quibbling with semantics change how incredibly grateful, honored and aware of how very lucky I am that Random House has agreed to publish my novel, it simply highlights how much of a dick I can be.

I am also not suggesting that there is such a thing as writer’s butt. Just my writer’s butt.

Gold chains optional

Wanna join me on Dec 9 at 10am to run/ walk/ jalk/ wun the Rimutaka Incline?

36 is a good age- to STAY. I’ve tired it once, it worked for me.

The first time I celebrated being 36 I ran across the Rimutaka Incline. It was in preparation for the Big Adventure.  This time, I just wanna have fun.

If you’d like to join me for a birthday jog then start training now – this is your two month call people.

I’ll sort out the details later but the guts of are 10 km up a gentle incline and then 8km down a slightly less gentle incline.

Dust off ya lycra!

If you need a hand to make it up the hill, you could always sniff snuff.

‘What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks?’ Tilda Swinton whispered in my ear.  What indeed? I thought as I walked up our (goat) path to the road, leaving behind my sea- captain and cabin boy.

For the next 13 minutes I listened to her beautifully modulated voice read the first chapter of the magnificent, sprawling, prophetic novel Moby Dick by Herman Melville (the first in the Moby Dick Big Read Podcast: an online version of Melville’s magisterial tome: each of its 135 chapters is read out aloud, by a mixture of the celebrated and the unknown, for people to download for free).

As I trotted down the hill she continued reading,  ’Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.’

I smiled; this could have been written to describe my husband. When his hypos get the upper hand I often find him searching trademe for sailing dinghies  and when he grows grim about the mouth,  looking up long-range marine forecasts.

By the time I reach the gallery I have my suspicions confirmed ‘meditation and water are wedded for ever’ and I am once again, in awe of this brilliant writer.

Melville, a contender for Hot-storical?

Like many people I had heard of Moby Dick; as I child I giggled about the name, as an adolescent I found the small print and wafer-thin pages too reminiscent of the Bible to ever consider actually reading  and as an adult, I just never found the time.

Last year when we ‘put to sea’ I optimistically packed my copy and gleefully imagined long hours on deck with Mr Melville.  This, alas, did not come to pass.

As I soon discovered, being  both a sailor/mother doesn’t lean itself to uninterrupted stretches of reading, (what a surprise!) I was instead forced to dip in and out of  the wonders The Whale.

Even read sporadically this book has been a revelation.  It has guided me, articulated ideas and aspirations I didn’t even know I had, warned me, challenge me, encouraged revelries and enabled me to more fully understand the sea-captain with whom I live.

And then  when I read this sentence at the end of chapter 78,  ‘only one sweeter end can readily be recalled—the delicious death of an Ohio honey-hunter, who seeking honey in the crotch of a hollow tree, found such exceeding store of it, that leaning too far over, it sucked him in, so that he died embalmed.’ I found the the jump point/ inspiration for my own humble novel.*

Roll on chapter two because I can’t wait to walk home with Ishmael.

*Disclaimer: I am also very inspired by Lace by Shirley Conran.

Costume head wear – always hot.

George Gordon Noel aka Lord Byron.

Okay, so if you discount the sister shagging and pushy Mum, Lord Bryon was one of the hottest of the hot-storical crew.

He wrote Don Juan (among many other things) swam The Bosphorus, knew how to sail, was adventurous and like any good hero, sported a mustache and died tragically young.

Hot.

Here, you are able to purchase a very nice Chinese jade green pre-loved dressing gown for $6, some sweet mandarins and also select from a smorgasbord of fried goods.

Below are some snaps.

I really feel they capture the young heart, easy living nature of this city.