Fickle, fickle, fickle. That's what I am. We start a piece; I get bored.
Tell you what I'm not bored of though. Semi-colons.
Sorry, got distracted. Where was I? Yes. Fickle. Can't even buy a bloody loaf of bread cos I know I'll chuck it out after three slices. Moved to a new city; bored already. But I cna't leave until I've conquered it. I mean properly - so far I've done a real plum job of hanging out with Wilken, working and watching Prison Break re-runs on alloftv.com. There's still work to be done here though - I can't leave it till I'm sure to miss it.
Don't mistake this for what it's not. On a scale of 1 to 10 when 10 is the desire to come back to Australia, I'm at minus a couple of thou. To the power of another couple. People have been asking me lately what I've got against it. I tell them, there's nothing wrong with the place. It's just - no, you're right. It's what's wrong with the place. It's people who say things like "This is the most beautiful place in the world. How could you want to leave?" That's what's wrong with it.
Shall we start working on a little Australia versus Abroad number? Shotgun abroad.
Monday, April 30, 2007
The first attempt
Where it all begins (a horrible title)
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Sun 18/03/2007 8:35 PMTo: Darryn King [mailto:darrynking@optusnet.com.au]
Subject: The blank slate
For too bloody long now we’ve said we’d write something together. Get rich and famous, we said. Hell. Let’s just get fucking published first.
How can you know where to start? Plot? Character? Genre, even? Start at the start, they always say. Well – thanks a lot. That’s most helpful. I start by getting out of bed every day with big plans for it all. Then I have to go to work. I’ve not got the time to sit about planning novels. You lazy fuck. I bet that’s all you do.
I know all the tricks. Swear words. Short sentences. It’s just that nothing really comes out. Oh, I make big plans, sure. I’ve got dozens of books in the works. It’s just that I’ve never written any of them down.
Honestly? I’ve not really got anything to write about. Not anything that really means something anyway. Nothing that can sustain me for a whole book. At least your dad carked it, so you’ve got that to write about.
From: Darryn KingSent: Tues 20/03/2007 11:06 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The tarnished slate
Alison, you tactless, twisted bitch. What part of your weed-singed brain decided that last line was a good idea? Bringing up my dad like that? Like a passing afterthought? What kind of friend does that? I don’t give you any shit about you being the closest living relative of Tom Thumb, do I?
Look, I know it was just another one of your really, really bad jokes, but… Jesus, you piss me off, Alison.
You want something to write about? Something that “really means something”? Okay. How about a coming-of-age story? How about the story of a neurotic little nerd girl who leaves Australia, gets drunk a lot, meets some rich German, and thinks about the fucking Holocaust while he fucks her from behind and she looks at an oil painting of Martin Luther on the wall? Hmm?
Or has that been done?
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Tues 20/03/2007 7:32 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: The meticulous rebuttal
I’ll have you know that my ability to make use of tact, believe it or not, is on the increase. I need it these days. When my Saudi students asked me in class today about religion and starting bollocksing on about souls and prophets and whatnot I even suppressed a scoff.
Twisted I most certainly am not. I pride myself on my physical condition with all the confidence of someone who exercises AT LEAST once every three months. You won’t find a hint of scoliosis here (boom boom).
Weed-singed? I object. I’m not you. Obviously.
As you will no doubt conclude if you look back at my last passage, I most certainly did not bring up your dad as a passing afterthought. It was much more of a climacteric, moment-of-truth-like apogee.
If you’re going to draw analogies between me and diminutive but much-loved cartoon characters I’d much prefer Tiny Tim, thanks very much.
Neurotic little nerd girl? Excuse me? No – wait. You got me on that one.
As for the fucking Holocaust, fucking Luther and all that fucking jazz … that was a piece of fiction and you bloody well know it.
Finally, I’d like to point out a major flaw in what you’ve done to ‘our story’ so far. Are you trying to destroy this thing already? You’ve not allowed any room for character development, or any measure of plot. You’ve just gone and jumped right in there, haven’t you - bringing up all that Holocaust shit. How can you expect a reader to keep up with your dribbling!
P.S. You’ll note my use of exclamation point over question mark there; I’ve used it to express incredulity at your premature idiocy, and because I know that you’re very personally and particularly opposed to them. After all, the pen is mightier than the sword, no?
P.P.S. Those of you with half a brain, unlike my lax correspondent, Darryn, will note the apparent discrepancy in the time at which the last two e-mails were sent. Sadly, I’ve not deciphered the mysteries of time travel, though had I done so I’d surely be getting more pay right now than a bloody cheeseparing teacher’s salary (so on that note it might be something to consider). Rather, it is the age-old northern-southern hemisphere divide that … well, that divides us.
From: Darryn KingSent: Wed 21/03/2007 9:29 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The rules of engagement
My dear Wormwood,
All right. Obviously I was a little bit on edge in that last email. If I trod on your character development, I apologise. Likewise, I think you should apologise for that terrible scoliosis joke. Hell, I think you should get down on your knees and beg forgiveness for it.
Anyway, where were we? Oh, right: ‘our story’.
I think this might be a good time to lay down some ground rules.
No addressing ‘the reader’. What is this, Robinson fucking Crusoe? Alison, this whole concept is postmodern and pretentious enough already without you resorting to that. Please.
A few stylistic preferences: minimal italics, minimal exclamation marks, and no emoticons. For goodness sake. Not to mention this atrocious font… but I expect we can change that later.
This should go without saying, but just in case: let’s not turn this into one of those stories about ‘soul mates at far-flung corners of the earth, destined to be together’. A bit predictable, don’t you think? Instead, over the course of this correspondence, one of us should invent an artificially intelligent robot that develops emotions. Everyone can enjoy that.
Dibs being the unreliable narrator. Maybe I’m not really who I say I am? Or possibly you’re a figment of my imagination, which frankly would be desirable sometimes.
Let’s not say anything about our dirty weekend in Reykjavík. Let’s just keep that between ourselves.
Keep on writing. I mean, this thing could be pretty good – provided we don’t slack off, or just abruptly abandon it. There’s no pride in an unfinished book. The Diary of Anne Frank, for example. Laziness.
Both of us have to cut down on our lists.
That’s all for now. I’m typing this in my last hour of my last day at Career FAQs. I should probably delete all the porn from my computer.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Tues 20/03/2007 7:32 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: The ground rules revisited
Be the unreliable narrator then. But do not, under any circumstances, try to introduce any of that Magic Shit to this little number. You know how I feel about zombies, vampires and Harry Potter. I’m afraid that robots fall into that category too.
Second – and note that I’ve worked my list into prose here – must you persist with this fake innuendo about the two of us? I feel that it cheapens things and may lead they-of-whom-we-do-not-speak to suspect that some form of plot along these lines is going to develop. There’s nothing worse than watching some cheesy piece of Romance Shit unfold into a wow-I’d-never-have-guessed-they’d-get-together [insert sarcasm] type ditty. Please respect said pretentious post-modernism and refrain from any form of banter that may be construed as a potentially definable relationship. Think of yourself as a vehicle. I’m thinking of a boxter – wannabe flashy but with a bit more under the bonnet than one would think. So don’t fake that oozing pheromones stuff with me. Just write.
From: Darryn KingSent: Wed 04/04/2007 9:35 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The rules of engagement
Fine. No zombies. No love story. No zombie love story, even.
I should point out that your dates are totally wack, though. Bit rich, you calling me your “lax correspondent”. It took you a week and a half to produce a couple of paragraphs, but apparently you’re trying to make it look like you responded to me before you had anything to respond to. A valiant effort.
Sure, sure… “work” and all that. We all “work”, Alison. It’s called “time management”.
And this font is awful.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Thurs 05/04/2007 3:45 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: At least I remembered to change my subject line
Quite frankly I’d have thought the need for you to come up with your own font was on the rather self-evident, goes-without-saying side. Clearly we need to differentiate ourselves for the benefit of those-of-whom-we-do-not-speak (okay, I promise – that was the last time). You’re the unreliable narrator, as previously stated; I’ll admit to being a little lax now and then. (Note: only because I’ve got a life.)
Speaking of said life, it’s really wearing me down right now. Last week I was interviewed for the university newspaper for one of their regular English-language columns called “My Fabulous Neighbourhood.” I know, with a title like that I was clearly setting myself up for embarrassment. But it turned out worse than I expected. In turns out, in fact, that I’m an arrogant bitch. I was quoted saying all sorts of lines like “Riding a bike is social suicide” (not clever in a country where bikes are more in vogue than cars – not to mention the fact that my boss and indeed all workplace superiors ride bikes to work); “Why does everyone in this country wear their pants so high?” (said employer and workmates again); and “I live in town because the suburbs here are just so crappy” (ditto).
Luckily, I’ve had a raging fever all week and had to call in sick to work. Talk about timely.
From: Darryn KingSent: Fri 06/04/2007 7:57 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: Subject lines
I was just about to suggest we stop writing about our writing and just write… so good.
Sounds like an exposé rather than an article. What was that about tact we were talking about a few emails ago…?
You’d better watch yourself. Your bicycling, high-pantsed, suburbia-dwelling boss is paying your way through a Master’s degree, remember.
And—this sounds rather feeble coming in a little email from the other side of the world—but I hope you recover from your fever. (Also, I figure I’d might as well start taking my character development into my own hands. I’m the nice one.)
As for my life, it took me five hours to get home last night/this morning. I missed the midnight train out of the city (possibly because I was in the middle of a necking match in Circular Quay), and went to catch a nightrider bus. Three successive buses – an hour’s wait each – were too full to let me on, even with my well developed negotiating skills (“Give a guy a fucking break!”).
Admittedly, I did enjoy some free entertainment during my wait. A couple of fat, slobbering, beer-soaked council workers were waiting for a nightrider to Mt Druitt. The repartee would have made Oscar Wilde proud:
Bogan 1: [wincing at the completely incorrect bus timetable:] How do you read this?
Bogan 2: I don’t fucking know!
Bogan 1 hits the timetable with the underside of his palm as if to knock it into submission.
Then there were two uni fellows, dressed only in purple togas and laurels and shivering away, telling anyone who dared to listen about their unsuccessful romantic exploits that evening. (“They told us they’d show us their tits if we showed them our penises! They didn’t… And it was cold.”) At one stage they sat on the ground opposite me, and it nearly got very Basic Instinct.
Then there were two guys who greeted each other “Hi Bert!”, “Hi Ernie!” ad infinitum and tried to high-five every single person that walked past… Not that interesting, come to think of it. I only mentioned them so that there were three lots.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Sun 18/03/2007 8:35 PMTo: Darryn King [mailto:darrynking@optusnet.com.au]
Subject: The blank slate
For too bloody long now we’ve said we’d write something together. Get rich and famous, we said. Hell. Let’s just get fucking published first.
How can you know where to start? Plot? Character? Genre, even? Start at the start, they always say. Well – thanks a lot. That’s most helpful. I start by getting out of bed every day with big plans for it all. Then I have to go to work. I’ve not got the time to sit about planning novels. You lazy fuck. I bet that’s all you do.
I know all the tricks. Swear words. Short sentences. It’s just that nothing really comes out. Oh, I make big plans, sure. I’ve got dozens of books in the works. It’s just that I’ve never written any of them down.
Honestly? I’ve not really got anything to write about. Not anything that really means something anyway. Nothing that can sustain me for a whole book. At least your dad carked it, so you’ve got that to write about.
From: Darryn KingSent: Tues 20/03/2007 11:06 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The tarnished slate
Alison, you tactless, twisted bitch. What part of your weed-singed brain decided that last line was a good idea? Bringing up my dad like that? Like a passing afterthought? What kind of friend does that? I don’t give you any shit about you being the closest living relative of Tom Thumb, do I?
Look, I know it was just another one of your really, really bad jokes, but… Jesus, you piss me off, Alison.
You want something to write about? Something that “really means something”? Okay. How about a coming-of-age story? How about the story of a neurotic little nerd girl who leaves Australia, gets drunk a lot, meets some rich German, and thinks about the fucking Holocaust while he fucks her from behind and she looks at an oil painting of Martin Luther on the wall? Hmm?
Or has that been done?
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Tues 20/03/2007 7:32 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: The meticulous rebuttal
I’ll have you know that my ability to make use of tact, believe it or not, is on the increase. I need it these days. When my Saudi students asked me in class today about religion and starting bollocksing on about souls and prophets and whatnot I even suppressed a scoff.
Twisted I most certainly am not. I pride myself on my physical condition with all the confidence of someone who exercises AT LEAST once every three months. You won’t find a hint of scoliosis here (boom boom).
Weed-singed? I object. I’m not you. Obviously.
As you will no doubt conclude if you look back at my last passage, I most certainly did not bring up your dad as a passing afterthought. It was much more of a climacteric, moment-of-truth-like apogee.
If you’re going to draw analogies between me and diminutive but much-loved cartoon characters I’d much prefer Tiny Tim, thanks very much.
Neurotic little nerd girl? Excuse me? No – wait. You got me on that one.
As for the fucking Holocaust, fucking Luther and all that fucking jazz … that was a piece of fiction and you bloody well know it.
Finally, I’d like to point out a major flaw in what you’ve done to ‘our story’ so far. Are you trying to destroy this thing already? You’ve not allowed any room for character development, or any measure of plot. You’ve just gone and jumped right in there, haven’t you - bringing up all that Holocaust shit. How can you expect a reader to keep up with your dribbling!
P.S. You’ll note my use of exclamation point over question mark there; I’ve used it to express incredulity at your premature idiocy, and because I know that you’re very personally and particularly opposed to them. After all, the pen is mightier than the sword, no?
P.P.S. Those of you with half a brain, unlike my lax correspondent, Darryn, will note the apparent discrepancy in the time at which the last two e-mails were sent. Sadly, I’ve not deciphered the mysteries of time travel, though had I done so I’d surely be getting more pay right now than a bloody cheeseparing teacher’s salary (so on that note it might be something to consider). Rather, it is the age-old northern-southern hemisphere divide that … well, that divides us.
From: Darryn KingSent: Wed 21/03/2007 9:29 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The rules of engagement
My dear Wormwood,
All right. Obviously I was a little bit on edge in that last email. If I trod on your character development, I apologise. Likewise, I think you should apologise for that terrible scoliosis joke. Hell, I think you should get down on your knees and beg forgiveness for it.
Anyway, where were we? Oh, right: ‘our story’.
I think this might be a good time to lay down some ground rules.
No addressing ‘the reader’. What is this, Robinson fucking Crusoe? Alison, this whole concept is postmodern and pretentious enough already without you resorting to that. Please.
A few stylistic preferences: minimal italics, minimal exclamation marks, and no emoticons. For goodness sake. Not to mention this atrocious font… but I expect we can change that later.
This should go without saying, but just in case: let’s not turn this into one of those stories about ‘soul mates at far-flung corners of the earth, destined to be together’. A bit predictable, don’t you think? Instead, over the course of this correspondence, one of us should invent an artificially intelligent robot that develops emotions. Everyone can enjoy that.
Dibs being the unreliable narrator. Maybe I’m not really who I say I am? Or possibly you’re a figment of my imagination, which frankly would be desirable sometimes.
Let’s not say anything about our dirty weekend in Reykjavík. Let’s just keep that between ourselves.
Keep on writing. I mean, this thing could be pretty good – provided we don’t slack off, or just abruptly abandon it. There’s no pride in an unfinished book. The Diary of Anne Frank, for example. Laziness.
Both of us have to cut down on our lists.
That’s all for now. I’m typing this in my last hour of my last day at Career FAQs. I should probably delete all the porn from my computer.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Tues 20/03/2007 7:32 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: The ground rules revisited
Be the unreliable narrator then. But do not, under any circumstances, try to introduce any of that Magic Shit to this little number. You know how I feel about zombies, vampires and Harry Potter. I’m afraid that robots fall into that category too.
Second – and note that I’ve worked my list into prose here – must you persist with this fake innuendo about the two of us? I feel that it cheapens things and may lead they-of-whom-we-do-not-speak to suspect that some form of plot along these lines is going to develop. There’s nothing worse than watching some cheesy piece of Romance Shit unfold into a wow-I’d-never-have-guessed-they’d-get-together [insert sarcasm] type ditty. Please respect said pretentious post-modernism and refrain from any form of banter that may be construed as a potentially definable relationship. Think of yourself as a vehicle. I’m thinking of a boxter – wannabe flashy but with a bit more under the bonnet than one would think. So don’t fake that oozing pheromones stuff with me. Just write.
From: Darryn KingSent: Wed 04/04/2007 9:35 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: The rules of engagement
Fine. No zombies. No love story. No zombie love story, even.
I should point out that your dates are totally wack, though. Bit rich, you calling me your “lax correspondent”. It took you a week and a half to produce a couple of paragraphs, but apparently you’re trying to make it look like you responded to me before you had anything to respond to. A valiant effort.
Sure, sure… “work” and all that. We all “work”, Alison. It’s called “time management”.
And this font is awful.
From: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Sent: Thurs 05/04/2007 3:45 PMTo: Darryn King
Subject: At least I remembered to change my subject line
Quite frankly I’d have thought the need for you to come up with your own font was on the rather self-evident, goes-without-saying side. Clearly we need to differentiate ourselves for the benefit of those-of-whom-we-do-not-speak (okay, I promise – that was the last time). You’re the unreliable narrator, as previously stated; I’ll admit to being a little lax now and then. (Note: only because I’ve got a life.)
Speaking of said life, it’s really wearing me down right now. Last week I was interviewed for the university newspaper for one of their regular English-language columns called “My Fabulous Neighbourhood.” I know, with a title like that I was clearly setting myself up for embarrassment. But it turned out worse than I expected. In turns out, in fact, that I’m an arrogant bitch. I was quoted saying all sorts of lines like “Riding a bike is social suicide” (not clever in a country where bikes are more in vogue than cars – not to mention the fact that my boss and indeed all workplace superiors ride bikes to work); “Why does everyone in this country wear their pants so high?” (said employer and workmates again); and “I live in town because the suburbs here are just so crappy” (ditto).
Luckily, I’ve had a raging fever all week and had to call in sick to work. Talk about timely.
From: Darryn KingSent: Fri 06/04/2007 7:57 PMTo: Edwards Alison (LANGUAGES)Subject: Subject lines
I was just about to suggest we stop writing about our writing and just write… so good.
Sounds like an exposé rather than an article. What was that about tact we were talking about a few emails ago…?
You’d better watch yourself. Your bicycling, high-pantsed, suburbia-dwelling boss is paying your way through a Master’s degree, remember.
And—this sounds rather feeble coming in a little email from the other side of the world—but I hope you recover from your fever. (Also, I figure I’d might as well start taking my character development into my own hands. I’m the nice one.)
As for my life, it took me five hours to get home last night/this morning. I missed the midnight train out of the city (possibly because I was in the middle of a necking match in Circular Quay), and went to catch a nightrider bus. Three successive buses – an hour’s wait each – were too full to let me on, even with my well developed negotiating skills (“Give a guy a fucking break!”).
Admittedly, I did enjoy some free entertainment during my wait. A couple of fat, slobbering, beer-soaked council workers were waiting for a nightrider to Mt Druitt. The repartee would have made Oscar Wilde proud:
Bogan 1: [wincing at the completely incorrect bus timetable:] How do you read this?
Bogan 2: I don’t fucking know!
Bogan 1 hits the timetable with the underside of his palm as if to knock it into submission.
Then there were two uni fellows, dressed only in purple togas and laurels and shivering away, telling anyone who dared to listen about their unsuccessful romantic exploits that evening. (“They told us they’d show us their tits if we showed them our penises! They didn’t… And it was cold.”) At one stage they sat on the ground opposite me, and it nearly got very Basic Instinct.
Then there were two guys who greeted each other “Hi Bert!”, “Hi Ernie!” ad infinitum and tried to high-five every single person that walked past… Not that interesting, come to think of it. I only mentioned them so that there were three lots.
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