There are moments in your life where you really have to decide what you want to do with your years on the earth. It sounds scary, but at the age of 23, having a million ambitions really wasn't sensible. It's all very well saying 'I want to write, I want to be a literary agent, and I want to be a lecturer' but lets be realistic, who has the time for all that after you take eating, breathing and browsing Waterstones into account. I certainly don't.
Unfortunately, this stark, scary moment of realisation meant a cutting of one of my three dreams. Needless to say, writing always has and always will be here to stay. I can't bear giving up the simple thing of putting black marks on a piece of paper and imagining a million others reading it.
Lecturers inspire me, I think they always have and they always will too. I'm going to hit you with a bit of theory. Last week, in a lecture on my MA course, we discussed an idea known as the Credulous Reader. I have varying opinions on the subject. The idea behind the title is that authors (supposedly) sometimes write a type of fiction where they dictate and shape the reader they want, a reader who can only immerse himself in the world of the book. Critics take a very poncy view on this kind of reader, naturally thinking readers should only think critically, and always have an echo of neo-modernism or similar, reverberating through their skulls whenever they open a book. This side of criticism annoys me, I wholly disagree with Roland Barthes' 'the author is dead' baloney. I would say that there are more ways to read books than ever before, and more can be gleaned from the reading of anything than ever before, but never would I say the author as a concept is dead. The authorial meaning is always important, even if it's not concentrated on. Personally I think ignoring author intention can lead you to dangerous over-reading of texts but that's a whole other blog/essay. Basically Mr Barthes, respectfully shhh.
The point of my foray into scholarly bits is that I consider myself both credulous and critical in my readings of books/poems/songs/most of everything. I read Jane Eyre from every possible critical perspective in my second year, and though I can tell you what the text means, I could never really say what it's about. I think the high extent of critical reading I performed (though necessary for the exercise of the module) means I was left with something missing at the end. I now plan on re-reading Ms Bronte's novel in a credulous manner, and Mr Barthes can suck it.
In this way, I think I can easily combine writing novels with lecturing. These are the two things that I cannot possibly leave behind, and despite what some people may think, there is not a yawning gap between scholars and pleasure-readers, there are ways where the two can be brought together. Sometimes there is beauty in a line which means something to you and you alone, rather than meaing something to Marxism, Modernism or anything else.
As a one day author, I naturally hope that my work is picked to pieces for whatever meaning scholars can squeeze from it. On the whole I'll feel clever and this, ultimately leads to happiness. However, if I write and someone writes to me and tells me that they absorbed what I'd written in a day and I'd helped them in someway due to their credulous reading and immersion in my world, then in many ways that's better.
This, however means that I will have to say goodbye to my dreams of literary-agentdom. A recent failed interview told me that I just don't have the passion for the career, and it's true, I have a passion for writing, be it for pleasure, for publication, for blog, for article, for scholar or for all of the above, and that is a life I can lead happily and with all the passion I've carried around with me since my single digits.
Showing posts with label university. Show all posts
Showing posts with label university. Show all posts
Friday, 22 November 2013
Monday, 16 July 2012
A Fancy Way of Saying Not Much or 'David Tries Being a Third Year'
Well internet, I'm annoyed.
And I'll tell you for why. I'd call him JJ, but that unfortunately makes him sound cool, and in my opinion, so far, he is not. I am talking about the so-called master wordsmith James Joyce.
I'll be honest, I'm 40 pages into the 900 page leviathan confuse-athon and so far I am just that. Confused isn't the word, I may be confuzzled to say the least. My lecturer said to me in a meeting with him, that it was his personal opinion that Modernism (and James Joyce is the main flag-bearer for that particular critical theory) was a fancy way of saying not much at all. And I'm inclined to agree.
I understand modernism, I understand the movement to create new ways to tell stories. Without modernism we wouldn't have Catcher in the Rye, or Dracula, two stories told in ways which were previously unheard of. Catcher in the Rye, like Ulysses, the book I am struggling through, written in a stream of consciousness way, Dracula written as a series of letters and diary entries. A style which I found gripping and interesting, and it's why these are two of my favourite books.
Ulysses though. It makes me angry! Joyce makes so many claims as though they're gospel truth. And I understand why he writes, as in to get people to think about things, namely irish home rule and British imperialism at its time of writing, but this is hidden amongst so many other subplots and asides it's almost impossible to keep up with. In the first page alone I was confronted with three different ideals and preachy statements concerning religion, a quest for paternity and something else which my brain can't even start to remember. The only way these themes were brought to my attention was by consulting the notes.
'Stately, plumb Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and razor lay crossed. A yellow dressing gown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: - Introibo ad altare Dei'
Would anyone like to guess what you're supposed to get from those opening lines to this book? Just a man having a leisurely stroll down the stairs to have a shave. Why he's so lazy he hasn't even done up his dressing gown? That crazy mo-fo.
While this is happening in the story, I am suppose to ignore this point, i.e. what is actually happening. Instead I'm supposed to remark on the crossed mirror and razor which makes a mockery of the Catholic church and the catholic mass as he creates a mock worship in his shaving routine. Therefore there's a distinct anti-religion theme. I'm supposed to take his ungirdled dressing down as to meaning that he's walking down the stairs naked, as in, displaying his penis. His ease with which he displays his penis is mean to represent his affinity with Neitzsche's Superman, the übermensch. The ideal representation of how a man should be. This is meant to lead me to the two main character's quest for their paternity, though Stephen Dedalus has not even been introduced to us yet. Then there's something else of importance about the fact that he used Latin frivilously. I can't remember because I can't fit anything else in my head.
That was six lines!
And sure, you can say 'but David, you're an English student, you're supposed to do this to any book.' And I'd agree, and I love doing it, but not to every single line, to a series of completely unrelated preachy points. I disagree with preachiness on all levels. My dissertation is centred mainly around this point. I dislike being told what to believe and what is good literature. I don't think this is good literature. I don't think good literature should include a vital notes section without which you miss the point of the book. And the notes are extensive. As in about 300 pages worth. 300 pages explaining the incomprehensible words in this stupid book!
I like finding the meaning in things, and I think it's impressive that so much can be put into a book. But is any of it necessary? Did I need to have all of this shoved down my throat by James Joyce? I don't think so. I think you get much much more from books written by John Green. I mention John Green a lot in my blogs and in life in general and there's a reason for that. His skill is to create a fantastic story with gripping characters which you can read in a day because you literally can't put his books down. You feel like any moment you're not reading his book is a moment wasted. When I pick up Ulysses, with a veritable groan I feel my heart sinking as I know that in about half an hour's time I'm going to have a headache and then find that I've only progressed 3 pages.
Interesting characters are vitally important to literature. I personally find it interesting to see the author through his characters. And what I see through the high and mighty, douchebag that is Buck Mulligan, and the reserved 'perfect man' that is Stephen Dedalus is the two sides of James Joyce, neither of which I like. Both of them preaching in their own ways.
It's an interesting story that books used to be sealed, and you had to break each new page as you progressed through the book. The vast majority of copies of Ulysses which have been found from it's time of publication were not broken in beyond page 50. As in no one could get through it. Did they miss out? I don't think so. They probably went and read Dracula, had a thumping good read, and then if they wanted they learnt some really interesting and vital points about feminism and other things contained importantly within pages, which, insultingly at the time was seen as 'Tesco's Top Ten' literature. The 50 Shades of Grey of its day. And yes, times change, but really, 50 Shades of Grey is a steaming pile of horse manure. Dracula is a really good book. And yes that's my opinion. However I wouldn't be high and mighty enough to say without doubt that every person in the world must read Dracula. I highly recommend you give it a try but I don't think anything is vital literature. Least of all Ulysses.
So now I struggle on, because I must read about why James Joyce believes that boys playing sports and learning Classics in England led to World War One.
I shit you not. Page 41, here I come. *waves flag of sarcasm*
And I'll tell you for why. I'd call him JJ, but that unfortunately makes him sound cool, and in my opinion, so far, he is not. I am talking about the so-called master wordsmith James Joyce.
I'll be honest, I'm 40 pages into the 900 page leviathan confuse-athon and so far I am just that. Confused isn't the word, I may be confuzzled to say the least. My lecturer said to me in a meeting with him, that it was his personal opinion that Modernism (and James Joyce is the main flag-bearer for that particular critical theory) was a fancy way of saying not much at all. And I'm inclined to agree.
I understand modernism, I understand the movement to create new ways to tell stories. Without modernism we wouldn't have Catcher in the Rye, or Dracula, two stories told in ways which were previously unheard of. Catcher in the Rye, like Ulysses, the book I am struggling through, written in a stream of consciousness way, Dracula written as a series of letters and diary entries. A style which I found gripping and interesting, and it's why these are two of my favourite books.
Ulysses though. It makes me angry! Joyce makes so many claims as though they're gospel truth. And I understand why he writes, as in to get people to think about things, namely irish home rule and British imperialism at its time of writing, but this is hidden amongst so many other subplots and asides it's almost impossible to keep up with. In the first page alone I was confronted with three different ideals and preachy statements concerning religion, a quest for paternity and something else which my brain can't even start to remember. The only way these themes were brought to my attention was by consulting the notes.
'Stately, plumb Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and razor lay crossed. A yellow dressing gown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: - Introibo ad altare Dei'
Would anyone like to guess what you're supposed to get from those opening lines to this book? Just a man having a leisurely stroll down the stairs to have a shave. Why he's so lazy he hasn't even done up his dressing gown? That crazy mo-fo.
While this is happening in the story, I am suppose to ignore this point, i.e. what is actually happening. Instead I'm supposed to remark on the crossed mirror and razor which makes a mockery of the Catholic church and the catholic mass as he creates a mock worship in his shaving routine. Therefore there's a distinct anti-religion theme. I'm supposed to take his ungirdled dressing down as to meaning that he's walking down the stairs naked, as in, displaying his penis. His ease with which he displays his penis is mean to represent his affinity with Neitzsche's Superman, the übermensch. The ideal representation of how a man should be. This is meant to lead me to the two main character's quest for their paternity, though Stephen Dedalus has not even been introduced to us yet. Then there's something else of importance about the fact that he used Latin frivilously. I can't remember because I can't fit anything else in my head.
That was six lines!
And sure, you can say 'but David, you're an English student, you're supposed to do this to any book.' And I'd agree, and I love doing it, but not to every single line, to a series of completely unrelated preachy points. I disagree with preachiness on all levels. My dissertation is centred mainly around this point. I dislike being told what to believe and what is good literature. I don't think this is good literature. I don't think good literature should include a vital notes section without which you miss the point of the book. And the notes are extensive. As in about 300 pages worth. 300 pages explaining the incomprehensible words in this stupid book!
I like finding the meaning in things, and I think it's impressive that so much can be put into a book. But is any of it necessary? Did I need to have all of this shoved down my throat by James Joyce? I don't think so. I think you get much much more from books written by John Green. I mention John Green a lot in my blogs and in life in general and there's a reason for that. His skill is to create a fantastic story with gripping characters which you can read in a day because you literally can't put his books down. You feel like any moment you're not reading his book is a moment wasted. When I pick up Ulysses, with a veritable groan I feel my heart sinking as I know that in about half an hour's time I'm going to have a headache and then find that I've only progressed 3 pages.
Interesting characters are vitally important to literature. I personally find it interesting to see the author through his characters. And what I see through the high and mighty, douchebag that is Buck Mulligan, and the reserved 'perfect man' that is Stephen Dedalus is the two sides of James Joyce, neither of which I like. Both of them preaching in their own ways.
It's an interesting story that books used to be sealed, and you had to break each new page as you progressed through the book. The vast majority of copies of Ulysses which have been found from it's time of publication were not broken in beyond page 50. As in no one could get through it. Did they miss out? I don't think so. They probably went and read Dracula, had a thumping good read, and then if they wanted they learnt some really interesting and vital points about feminism and other things contained importantly within pages, which, insultingly at the time was seen as 'Tesco's Top Ten' literature. The 50 Shades of Grey of its day. And yes, times change, but really, 50 Shades of Grey is a steaming pile of horse manure. Dracula is a really good book. And yes that's my opinion. However I wouldn't be high and mighty enough to say without doubt that every person in the world must read Dracula. I highly recommend you give it a try but I don't think anything is vital literature. Least of all Ulysses.
So now I struggle on, because I must read about why James Joyce believes that boys playing sports and learning Classics in England led to World War One.
I shit you not. Page 41, here I come. *waves flag of sarcasm*
Sunday, 29 April 2012
Hello, I'm the Doctor or 'David Tries Being Productive'
This will turn into a mini-biography, I apologise for this!
Anyway, writing stories has always been far and away my favourite past-time, I'm sure if I'd been more into playing football or music I'd have had a few more girlfriends in my life, but I've always jumped at any opportunity to write a story. I used to love creative writing in primary school, and loved reading stories out at the front of the class. They were probably all the same now I look back; some kind of James Bond meets the Famous Five extravaganza with car chases and lost treasure.
I am very pleased to inform any reader therefore (with a certain amount of trepidation, knowing the harshness of the industry I so desperately want to be a part of) that my novel; 78,000 words which took me my entire childhood to get perfect, is currently being read by a literary agency and a publisher! A privilege not many people get.
It's taken me a long time and many lonely hours to realise however, that you don't get published sitting in your bedroom tapping away at your computer. For so many years I was fed up with education and I took a gap year because I just adamantly refused to go to uni. An extremely lonely year which left me pale, skinny and ill-looking later I realised I did want to. One lecture in I found my love of learning rekindled, something I think I lost halfway through my GCSEs when I really started hating school for reasons nothing to do with what I was learning.
I think I could read as soon as I could walk (small exaggeration perhaps). I always remember my mum telling me that I wanted to learn things even before school, to read and write etc, and I carried that through primary school achieving many gold stars in Mrs Weatherley's year 5 class. And earning a trip to Eurodisney for getting commendations in Year 7! Nerd I hear you cry, but I feel now at the age of 21 I can be proud of this. And proud of being a nerd, and a geek, and all things associated. It's quite sad this was sapped from me in my latter secondary school years, but I'm very much glad that it's 100% back at the most important time.
I think I could read as soon as I could walk (small exaggeration perhaps). I always remember my mum telling me that I wanted to learn things even before school, to read and write etc, and I carried that through primary school achieving many gold stars in Mrs Weatherley's year 5 class. And earning a trip to Eurodisney for getting commendations in Year 7! Nerd I hear you cry, but I feel now at the age of 21 I can be proud of this. And proud of being a nerd, and a geek, and all things associated. It's quite sad this was sapped from me in my latter secondary school years, but I'm very much glad that it's 100% back at the most important time.
I'm a firm believer that meeting people and a good group of friends can get you anywhere in life. I happened to take Irish Literature at uni, which I love so much I'm now looking into an MA which includes it as a module. Not only that but sitting in on my Irish lectures was a literary agent, the same literary agent who is now hopefully reading my book laughing and remaining attached to the edge of her seat.
The only way to get published in this world I firmly believe is through meeting the right people, and university has given me just this. The best friends in the world and the very best most inspiring group of lecturers and just general people I have ever come across. Where do I start? Do I tell you about the husband and wife linguistics expert lecturing team who should have their own sitcom? Do I tell you about the dry, intelligent dandy with the Hugh Grant haircut? The creative writing lecturer, the published author with the look of the mad scientist? The jack of all trades bouncy irishman/Beatles expert/general happiest man in the universe? Or my personal favourite, the jolly father christmas lookalike who proclaimed in a tragedy lecture that the Cenci by Percy Shelley was a 'fucking awful play!' I kid you not, he literally walked in and proclaimed it before greeting us with a cheerful 'morning gang!' And a fucking awful play it really is.
It's because of these people that I now want to learn everything I possibly can about the subject I love so much. It's only really occurred to me in the last hour or so that I want to be like them. I want to be the person at the front of the lecture hall inspiring people. I don't know why but that just sits right with me. I'm even excited about dissertations! I totted it up and between now and the end of the PHD I'll have to do, I'll have to write round about 150,000 words! Do I mind? Of course not! I'll be studying (hopefully) in London, the greatest most diverse city in the world, becoming an expert in things which appeal to me. All the while trying to get my own personal work published. Imagine the thought of having a dissertation or a PHD paper published! This is my dream and I will come out of this university with a first.
And when I finish my PHD I'll say (rightfully) 'Hello I'm the Doctor' in my very best David Tennant impression and I'll be a happy man.
Go on, leave a comment, you know you want to.
Go on, leave a comment, you know you want to.
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