I've no Cowboy gene, it passed me by, it took a look, then walked on; but whilst I was away, I rode a horse. Just for a short time. There are, I realise, prettier sights to see in life than me clinging uncertainly to the neck of a strapping, muscular Mongolian horse. I know that, but you do what you do.
We plodded around in the main: up a hill, pattered along a dirt track, wandered over to meet some fellow horses, altogether nothing too awkward for the novice saddlesman. Yet, it's well known these beasts can accelerate though, and the thought was always there that if I do something I should n't then we're nothing more than a blur streaking across the Gobi Desert.
How the horse felt about all of this, God knows. Probably a good thing they can't talk as I said in an e-mail to someone.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
The streets they are a-changin...but it would be nice if they did n't in some cases. Occasionally, I spend a few days in Chiswick; I can't claim residency status, but I feel I have accumulated enough time under my belt, to at least give me the sense of an emotional stake in the place. Nice area, comfortable, I like it. One day, I'll break camp and leave the inner city and retire here. It's rural compared to where I live. I mean it: there’s grass, trees, dogs on leads, it’s that kind of place.
Even in this relative Eden, though, there's a worm in the bud. Looming across the High Street is the shadow of a figure in a starched white apron bearing an espresso. Brasseries have arrived. In force. Popping up like mushrooms after the rain. For the small restaurant and café owners, who in my view give Chiswick it's unique signature, this can only be like having a factory fishing ship permanently moored outside. Passing trade snapped up, swallowed right in front of them. And all they’ll end up aspiring to, before no doubt eventually expiring, is a few scraps thrown over the side of these brooding monsters. Morsels fought over after the feast.
I saw their futures begin to shape a few nights ago: odd tables occupied, more staff than customers, pretty bleak. Nearby, a honey pot brasserie buzzed and hummed. How long before parts of the High Street assume the appearance of an abandoned Western stage set: doors swinging loosely, tumbleweed cannoning against empty store fronts, leaves heaped up by the wind, ghosts of diners past wandering through boarded-up restaurants.
Surely Chiswick needs a breather from any more juggernaut brasseries parking up on the High Street?
Any different where I call home ? Please, I wish. I live near Portobello Road which is curdling in front of my eyes; the corporates are slowly tunneling into this quirky and goofy and charming Souk. Today exotica, tomorrow a shopping mall? Please no. I can’t cross my fingers any tighter – the circulation’s hurting.
London's shoppers need somewhere tart, somewhere piquant, somewhere for quirky odds and sods. Let Bluewater and Thurrock do what they do best, and Portobello what it does. Two different shopping experiences, let's ensure it stays that way.
Portobello Road needs whatever the equivalent of endangered species recognition is for wacky street markets right now. West London's Bazaar can't be covered in the equivalent of shopping kudzu vine : more mobile phone shops, chain boutiques, franchised coffee outlets ….
You think I’m being precious writing just about these two areas? These are the places I know. As sure as eggs are eggs, there’ll be somewhere close to your heart that’s going the same way.
My plea to the developers and landlords. C'mon guys, leave these places alone. We need to be able to buy light bulbs and potatoes just as much as we need to idly spend hours pushing wild sea bass around a plate. Don't think I don't enjoy dropping into these places, I do, but let's get sensible.
Even in this relative Eden, though, there's a worm in the bud. Looming across the High Street is the shadow of a figure in a starched white apron bearing an espresso. Brasseries have arrived. In force. Popping up like mushrooms after the rain. For the small restaurant and café owners, who in my view give Chiswick it's unique signature, this can only be like having a factory fishing ship permanently moored outside. Passing trade snapped up, swallowed right in front of them. And all they’ll end up aspiring to, before no doubt eventually expiring, is a few scraps thrown over the side of these brooding monsters. Morsels fought over after the feast.
I saw their futures begin to shape a few nights ago: odd tables occupied, more staff than customers, pretty bleak. Nearby, a honey pot brasserie buzzed and hummed. How long before parts of the High Street assume the appearance of an abandoned Western stage set: doors swinging loosely, tumbleweed cannoning against empty store fronts, leaves heaped up by the wind, ghosts of diners past wandering through boarded-up restaurants.
Surely Chiswick needs a breather from any more juggernaut brasseries parking up on the High Street?
Any different where I call home ? Please, I wish. I live near Portobello Road which is curdling in front of my eyes; the corporates are slowly tunneling into this quirky and goofy and charming Souk. Today exotica, tomorrow a shopping mall? Please no. I can’t cross my fingers any tighter – the circulation’s hurting.
London's shoppers need somewhere tart, somewhere piquant, somewhere for quirky odds and sods. Let Bluewater and Thurrock do what they do best, and Portobello what it does. Two different shopping experiences, let's ensure it stays that way.
Portobello Road needs whatever the equivalent of endangered species recognition is for wacky street markets right now. West London's Bazaar can't be covered in the equivalent of shopping kudzu vine : more mobile phone shops, chain boutiques, franchised coffee outlets ….
You think I’m being precious writing just about these two areas? These are the places I know. As sure as eggs are eggs, there’ll be somewhere close to your heart that’s going the same way.
My plea to the developers and landlords. C'mon guys, leave these places alone. We need to be able to buy light bulbs and potatoes just as much as we need to idly spend hours pushing wild sea bass around a plate. Don't think I don't enjoy dropping into these places, I do, but let's get sensible.
There's a number of phenomena that I would welcome a serious study into; I'd even do it myself if there was money and time available. Back in the office after three weeks away has put this one right to the top of the pile, it's virtually the unwritten First Law of Work: if it can go wrong, it will. Atom spilt, penicillin discovered, Man on the Moon, so what about this one, should n't this be the next big breakthough?
Today was a great day for this to show itself in all it's ragged glory. Got into the office, behind the laptop, and felt like a stalled car - head on impact, shunted from the back, hit on both sides. Dazed and confused for the rest of the day.
Today was a great day for this to show itself in all it's ragged glory. Got into the office, behind the laptop, and felt like a stalled car - head on impact, shunted from the back, hit on both sides. Dazed and confused for the rest of the day.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Assumptions, don't you just love 'em. Things taken as factual on the thinnest basis; could be a glance, or an overheard conversation, even a snatched look at the headline of someone's else paper on the tube, and before you know it that's become all you really need to know. Subject mastered without trying. Like dehydrated food, add some hot water, and it's close to what it looks like on the pack, but it sure does n't taste like proper food. Where's the taste? That's the drawback of assuming - you miss the subtleties of flavour, the zest and zing, the nuances, the textures.
Assumptio ergo sum? Might as well be for a lot of people. Take a look at this essay that a friend wrote and see what I mean. My final words on assumptions, simple - just say no. Loudly. They're not good for you. Think of them as free radicals. Do you want them buzzing around?
"Three years ago I published my first novel. Set in 1984 Manhattan, Christopher tells the story of a young man struggling to revive his hope and idealism after they have been trampled to death by his unfaithful actress-wife. What sets the novel apart from the hundreds of other adulterous-actress survival yarns published each year is that it is narrated by Christopher's next-door neighbour – a fat, balding, middle-aged, erudite, chemically imbalanced, alcoholic gay man named B.K. Troop.Fuelled by thwarted lust for his hopelessly straight neighbour, B.K. narrates both Christopher's outer and inner life – a point of view which B.K. immodestly dubs the "first-person virtually omniscient.
"Despite my female name and passion for antiques, I am a straight male, yet it had never occurred to me that letting a gay man narrate my novel was a big deal, but it was.When my straight male friends read the manuscript, most reacted with genuine alarm, some with horror. Was I insane? What if people confused me with B.K.? What if people thought I was gay? This struck me as absurd. For years, I had been writing screenplays about women without anyone ever accusing me of being a woman. (Five minutes in a bright room with me naked and it's fairly obvious that I'm not.)
A few weeks later the book sold to Broadway Books, but before the good news had even sunk in, my straight female agent confessed to me that the gay male editor who had bought it was so pleased to have discovered a gay author that she had done nothing to clear up the misunderstanding. She said that if I knew what was good for me I would not breathe a word to him of my heterosexuality. It wasn't that she wanted me to lie, exactly. It was more a matter of ‘Don't tell, don't tell'.
As I am candid to a fault, the thought of living a lie, even one of omission, was nightmarish to me, but then I reminded myself that I had a right to my privacy and that an author's sexual preference really ought to have nothing to do with the acceptance of his work. If readers were so narrow-minded as to hold my straightness against me, then they weren't entitled to the truth. It's not like I chose the damn lifestyle. I mean, given its lack of good taste and of easy sex, who would?
I agreed to the plan.
Luckily, it seemed pretty easy to pull off, as my editor and I lived on opposite coasts and I speak with a subtle lisp. Things got dicey, however, during our very first phone call, when he asked what I thought of Fag Hag. He was stunned when I told him that I had never heard of it. "What is it?" I asked. "A girl band?" Turns out, it's a novel.
Weeks later, he was equally gobsmacked when I confessed that I had never watched a single episode of The Golden Girls. In midsummer, I could actually hear his sneer through the phone when I let slip my passion for the Cleveland Indians. He considered baseball "trashy."
After each of these awkward moments, I considered flinging open the closet door, but now, more than embarrassed, I was afraid. You see, I had begun writing my second novel, and it, too, was narrated by B.K. Troop. The last thing I wanted to do was unqueer a possible sequel deal.
It is one thing for a straight author to write a novel with a gay narrator, and quite another for him to do it twice. This became clear to me when I told my straight male friends about my next novel - The House Beautiful.
In this book, set four years later, B.K. Troop inherits a Manhattan brownstone and, in order to afford the upkeep, rents out rooms to young artists, to whom he might serve as mentor, if not muse. The fact that all of the tenants are straight (except for one gorgeous promiscuous lesbian) was, I soon learned, beside the point.My friends - even the most liberal of them - were flabbergasted that I was actually reinvesting in B.K. “Why not go all the way”, they asked, “and make it a friggin' trilogy? In fact, why not move to Key West and open a B&B?” Right. Like I'd move my antiques to hurricane country.
One afternoon, before Christopher had even arrived in bookstores, I casually mentioned to my editor that I had met a certain movie star at a party, and he replied, "Oh, I love him. Is he one of us?" A howling silence followed. I sighed and came clean.Although he was shocked by the news, and a bit embarrassed, he was remarkably good-natured about it, and wanted to know all about what had possessed me to write two books with a gay narrator.My answer was simple: ‘B.K.’ And it was true. When a character stands up and starts walking around, you don't question it; you type. To do anything else is the height of creative folly, not to mention ingratitude.
When Christopher came out, the gay press was kind. The Advocate picked it as one of the best reads of the summer. The Chicago Free Press called it "one page after another of witty, outrageous, raunchy, insightful, tender, and romantic prose." Instinct warned: "You'll find yourself cracking up and thanking higher powers that you aren't this much of a flaming queen!"The mainstream press was just as enthusiastic when they deigned to review it, but they rarely did, because it had already been branded gay fiction. A pink triangle might as well have been seared into its spine. Borders and other chain stores relegated it to the gay section in back.
Although I was honoured to be receiving so much support from the gay community, to have my book defined in this way made no sense to me. If Christopher is gay fiction, does that make Oliver Twist orphan fiction? Is Moby Dick whale fiction? Is Orlando dyke fiction?Okay, forget that last one.
Now, three years later, The House Beautiful is about to arrive in a bookstore near you. Despite the fact that on my website and in interviews I am officially out of the straight closet, the generous support of the gay literary community has not wavered.A gay online literary journal is publishing an excerpt, gay publications are reviewing it and I am reading and signing at gay bookstores.
If only the mainstream literary community were as gracious, openhearted, and inclusive toward gay authors. Alas, that day seems far away. The sad fact is that literature with gay protagonists is, if not ignored, ghettoized - unless, of course, it inspires a Hollywood movie starring straight people.As for my own literary future, friends ask me what's next, and, without reservation, I break the exciting news: Another B.K. Troop novel, the last in the trilogy.
Find out more at www.allisonburnett.com."
Assumptio ergo sum? Might as well be for a lot of people. Take a look at this essay that a friend wrote and see what I mean. My final words on assumptions, simple - just say no. Loudly. They're not good for you. Think of them as free radicals. Do you want them buzzing around?
"Three years ago I published my first novel. Set in 1984 Manhattan, Christopher tells the story of a young man struggling to revive his hope and idealism after they have been trampled to death by his unfaithful actress-wife. What sets the novel apart from the hundreds of other adulterous-actress survival yarns published each year is that it is narrated by Christopher's next-door neighbour – a fat, balding, middle-aged, erudite, chemically imbalanced, alcoholic gay man named B.K. Troop.Fuelled by thwarted lust for his hopelessly straight neighbour, B.K. narrates both Christopher's outer and inner life – a point of view which B.K. immodestly dubs the "first-person virtually omniscient.
"Despite my female name and passion for antiques, I am a straight male, yet it had never occurred to me that letting a gay man narrate my novel was a big deal, but it was.When my straight male friends read the manuscript, most reacted with genuine alarm, some with horror. Was I insane? What if people confused me with B.K.? What if people thought I was gay? This struck me as absurd. For years, I had been writing screenplays about women without anyone ever accusing me of being a woman. (Five minutes in a bright room with me naked and it's fairly obvious that I'm not.)
A few weeks later the book sold to Broadway Books, but before the good news had even sunk in, my straight female agent confessed to me that the gay male editor who had bought it was so pleased to have discovered a gay author that she had done nothing to clear up the misunderstanding. She said that if I knew what was good for me I would not breathe a word to him of my heterosexuality. It wasn't that she wanted me to lie, exactly. It was more a matter of ‘Don't tell, don't tell'.
As I am candid to a fault, the thought of living a lie, even one of omission, was nightmarish to me, but then I reminded myself that I had a right to my privacy and that an author's sexual preference really ought to have nothing to do with the acceptance of his work. If readers were so narrow-minded as to hold my straightness against me, then they weren't entitled to the truth. It's not like I chose the damn lifestyle. I mean, given its lack of good taste and of easy sex, who would?
I agreed to the plan.
Luckily, it seemed pretty easy to pull off, as my editor and I lived on opposite coasts and I speak with a subtle lisp. Things got dicey, however, during our very first phone call, when he asked what I thought of Fag Hag. He was stunned when I told him that I had never heard of it. "What is it?" I asked. "A girl band?" Turns out, it's a novel.
Weeks later, he was equally gobsmacked when I confessed that I had never watched a single episode of The Golden Girls. In midsummer, I could actually hear his sneer through the phone when I let slip my passion for the Cleveland Indians. He considered baseball "trashy."
After each of these awkward moments, I considered flinging open the closet door, but now, more than embarrassed, I was afraid. You see, I had begun writing my second novel, and it, too, was narrated by B.K. Troop. The last thing I wanted to do was unqueer a possible sequel deal.
It is one thing for a straight author to write a novel with a gay narrator, and quite another for him to do it twice. This became clear to me when I told my straight male friends about my next novel - The House Beautiful.
In this book, set four years later, B.K. Troop inherits a Manhattan brownstone and, in order to afford the upkeep, rents out rooms to young artists, to whom he might serve as mentor, if not muse. The fact that all of the tenants are straight (except for one gorgeous promiscuous lesbian) was, I soon learned, beside the point.My friends - even the most liberal of them - were flabbergasted that I was actually reinvesting in B.K. “Why not go all the way”, they asked, “and make it a friggin' trilogy? In fact, why not move to Key West and open a B&B?” Right. Like I'd move my antiques to hurricane country.
One afternoon, before Christopher had even arrived in bookstores, I casually mentioned to my editor that I had met a certain movie star at a party, and he replied, "Oh, I love him. Is he one of us?" A howling silence followed. I sighed and came clean.Although he was shocked by the news, and a bit embarrassed, he was remarkably good-natured about it, and wanted to know all about what had possessed me to write two books with a gay narrator.My answer was simple: ‘B.K.’ And it was true. When a character stands up and starts walking around, you don't question it; you type. To do anything else is the height of creative folly, not to mention ingratitude.
When Christopher came out, the gay press was kind. The Advocate picked it as one of the best reads of the summer. The Chicago Free Press called it "one page after another of witty, outrageous, raunchy, insightful, tender, and romantic prose." Instinct warned: "You'll find yourself cracking up and thanking higher powers that you aren't this much of a flaming queen!"The mainstream press was just as enthusiastic when they deigned to review it, but they rarely did, because it had already been branded gay fiction. A pink triangle might as well have been seared into its spine. Borders and other chain stores relegated it to the gay section in back.
Although I was honoured to be receiving so much support from the gay community, to have my book defined in this way made no sense to me. If Christopher is gay fiction, does that make Oliver Twist orphan fiction? Is Moby Dick whale fiction? Is Orlando dyke fiction?Okay, forget that last one.
Now, three years later, The House Beautiful is about to arrive in a bookstore near you. Despite the fact that on my website and in interviews I am officially out of the straight closet, the generous support of the gay literary community has not wavered.A gay online literary journal is publishing an excerpt, gay publications are reviewing it and I am reading and signing at gay bookstores.
If only the mainstream literary community were as gracious, openhearted, and inclusive toward gay authors. Alas, that day seems far away. The sad fact is that literature with gay protagonists is, if not ignored, ghettoized - unless, of course, it inspires a Hollywood movie starring straight people.As for my own literary future, friends ask me what's next, and, without reservation, I break the exciting news: Another B.K. Troop novel, the last in the trilogy.
Find out more at www.allisonburnett.com."
"I am the smartest man in the room...". I don't know whether Jeffrey Skilling, the disgraced, soon to be incarcerated ex- Enron chief ever said these words, or if they were appended as evidence of hubris. But I like it, it's appropriate because I think I am that man, that person. Just not in the same way as he apparently thought of himself.
So why have I pinned this label on to myself? It's self awareness, this: I don't like stress, especially if it's work related. Forget who said this exactly, though I'm leaning towards Plato, but the sense of being smart that I'm steering towards necessitates this - "Know Thyself" -a fine, precise sentiment.
In many ways I do, in more I don't, remember we are infinitely complex personalities, fragile and imperfect. I do know that I never want the chest pains or near panic attacks or the need to take drastic steps to lower seriously elevated blood pressure which two of my colleagues very recently slipped into conversations earlier this week.
Knowing what I can do, the complete awareness of what my upper operating limit is, beyond which I can purposefully do no more, along with what to do when the stress dashboard starts to flash red does in such a strange way comfort me.
So why have I pinned this label on to myself? It's self awareness, this: I don't like stress, especially if it's work related. Forget who said this exactly, though I'm leaning towards Plato, but the sense of being smart that I'm steering towards necessitates this - "Know Thyself" -a fine, precise sentiment.
In many ways I do, in more I don't, remember we are infinitely complex personalities, fragile and imperfect. I do know that I never want the chest pains or near panic attacks or the need to take drastic steps to lower seriously elevated blood pressure which two of my colleagues very recently slipped into conversations earlier this week.
Knowing what I can do, the complete awareness of what my upper operating limit is, beyond which I can purposefully do no more, along with what to do when the stress dashboard starts to flash red does in such a strange way comfort me.
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