November 2007 Archives

At last I can report some authorial work.  It's not that I'm not doing any (certainly not, I wrote 4,000 words yesterday), but that the day-to-day grind of churning out a first draft isn't that exciting.

Neither are galleys, but I'm going to write about them anyway.  For those who haven't heard the term, galleys are the final, final, final (and we do mean final) page proofs of the book.  It's the very, very last chance an author has to change their mind about anything.  Once they're done, they're done and that's that (until you get to the paperback, but boy, do publishers get sore if you want to change something there).

All of which is to say I've just sent off the final galleys for The Knife of Never Letting Go, my next novel which comes out on the fifth of May here in the UK (and in September in the US, and Jan 2009 in Italy and Germany and...).  In 479 pages, I only managed to find one typo (someone, probably me, had left the i out of "like").  I also deleted one sentence.  And that was as far as I got in changing my mind.  Too busy grinding out 4,000 words on the sequel I should think...

So Carmina Burana turns out to be almost completely baffling, god bless it, even when you have the programme open on your lap.  "Everyone goes to the pub", mine says, "and then a swan about to be eaten sings its swan song".  Then "everyone pretends to be monks".  Yes, of course. 

Patrick Stewart as MacBeth was a big hit.  Very few doldrums, a bloody ending to rival Titus Andronicus, and a terrific Lady MacBeth.  It comes to New York early next year.  See it.  It feels like a real, modern play, rather than a bunch of actors en costume standing around declaiming.

And the week ended with The Giant at the Hampstead, which I'm afraid to say I hated.  Roger Allam, a terrific actor, seemed to refuse to commit to the role of da Vinci at all, speaking his lines as if he had a cab waiting.  The rest was very poorly directed, with a shocking amount of dead air (the poor actor playing Contucci was left high and dry in his one big scene), and the erotic quotient embarrassingly handled, especially the erection of the marble tablet.  They might as well have just painted veins on it. 

Kudos to Richard Moore, though, as Old Vito.  Must be in his seventies and playing full frontal.  There's chutzpah for you.

I'm celebrating Thanksgiving in the way I've done for nearly all of the eight years I've lived in England.  I'm ignoring it completely, save for the phonecall to family still Stateside. 

There's a temptation to have turkey on the day to commemorate, but the simple fact is: turkey is nasty.  We can't bring ourselves to admit this because it's so deeply woven into our holiday feasts, but turkey is usually tasteless and when it isn't tasteless it tastes like warm dishwater.  Why do you think it's served with so much gravy?  On Christmas in my house, we make venison. 

But I digress.  The week of Thanksgiving-ignoring is packed with cultural festivities, enough to give the impression I'm cultured.  Tomorrow I'm seeing the Carmina Burana at the Royal Festival Hall.  Like everyone else, I only know that 15-second slice (300 people singing "Ah Ah, Oh Oh").  God knows what the rest must be like.  Wednesday is Patrick Stewart in MacBeth, and Thursday, I'm seeing a play about Michelangelo and Da Vinci at the Hampstead Theatre. 

I suppose I should read something trashy to even it all out.  Does inadvertently knowing the ghostwriter of the Pamela Anderson "novels" count?

I saw War Horse at the National last night, and it's a keeper; see it, if you can.  And take the advice given to me:  Don't look at press photos and don't read the programme until the interval.  I let the appearance of the horses themselves be a complete surprise, and it was a genuine jaw-dropper. 

It's not a perfect show.  Michael Morpurgo's writing always feels a bit Presbyterian to me, like sitting in a chilly room even when the story's interesting.  But on the plus side, he doesn't flinch away from ugliness, and when War Horse ends, you might be surprised to find your eyes all wet.

Even better, the fine, fine young folk singer Tim van Eyken has a singing chorus role all to himself, and there's a puppet goose that steals the show.  Anyone who bashes the National (like those who bewilderingly bash the BBC and who treat winning the Olympics as if it was a diagnosis of nose cancer) are clearly people who never go.

Still enjoying Mortals by Norman Rush, though he takes an unfortunate philosophical turn in the chapter The Apostles of Reason.  I'm a pretty savvy guy, but it's the most boring 35 pages I've skimmed in years.  

Been a while, I know.  I can't get the hang of this blogging nonsense, where you speak even if you have nothing to say.  I promise never to do that.  So here's an entry about ephemera and inconsequentiality. 

I passed my f*&!ing UK driver's test!  Hurrah!  I've been driving for twenty years, so naturally I failed twice.  My last one was particularly infuriating, where my examiner (what kind of girl under 30 decides to be a driving test examiner, by the by?) watched me drive perfectly for 40 minutes and then failed me for going slightly up a low curb after going around an illegally parked car on a hairpin turn.  (This story gets more detailed every time I tell it; "and there was a dwarf there, threatening us with a can of hairspray and a cigarette lighter".)

I really couldn't drive better than I did there, so I just sort of gave up, relaxed, and what do you know?  Passed on my third try with only three minor faults.  SAILED through.  Beware drivers of Kent.

Regular readers (thank you, both of you) have asked specifically to know, as an author, what books I'm reading.  Happy to oblige.  I most recently finished M J Hyland's Carry Me Down, which is excellent and builds very well (though see if you buy Mr Roche when you read it).  Currently a third of the way through Norman Rush's very, very dense Mortals.  715 pages of teeny, tiny print.  Rewarding so far, though.  I'll keep you posted.