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8/26/2011

One Day reviewed: Read it and weep

Cover of the movie tie-in edition paperback

Rarely do I get angry at authors for doing something unexpected to storylines, but as disappointed as I feel right now, I can't think straight. Over the last days I read David Nicholls' One Day and it seriously led me to the question of what happened to romance. The genre. Maybe it has something to do with its stale stereotypes, but over time it seems to have gotten used and abused by everyone clever enough to hold up a pen. Loss seems to be the strange denominator of many of the books in the realm of romance novels at the moment.

Once upon a time, it all started with knights, saving maidens from the hands of the dragon somewhere around the dark medieval times. Now it's chain smoking drug addicts, who, for a reason nobody can relate, just can't bring themselves to commit to another human being until they finally do - but then something else happens. The end. It's called contemporary romance. I normally don't lose my way into this genre, except in the form of romantic comedy, but I don't usually read modern romance novels. This one came highly recommended by Nick Hornby. Never again.

What writers of romantic fiction traditionally do is, they create some sort of attraction <chemistry> between two protagonists, then stall the reader, maintain the attraction in spite of adversity and thereby indicating some sort of feeling of providence between person A and person B.

Now, the thing David Nicholls adds to this formula is that about 3/4 into the story, he finally gives the reader what he was longing for, the two get together and become a couple. Unexpectedly, the author doesn't allow the reader to enjoy it for a second, quite the opposite, he immediately dismisses the whole thing as a trivial relationship with all it's mundane problems. Sure, Dexter, the protagonist is now happier with Emma, but unlike his first wife, she is not a cheating, snobby dumball. So, we, the readers, are not that surprised and remain underwhelmed.

But Mr. Nicholls (who is in desperate need of some really angry emails), made me read more than 400 pages, leading up to that great moment, and then, manages to immediately disqualify their relationship by showing us a fighting, discontent couple, scarred by their everyday lives. This is what it boils down to after everything. Ordinary. Why the hassle?

I am seriously not mad about the tragic things happening to those characters, I realize that the genre has certain demands, but, what I seriously want to understand is Mr. goddamn Nicholls' point of view regarding relationships. Explain that to me.

Take a pick, as a writer, you either chose this genre, because you have some kind of affection for it and I then may happily assume, that the coming-together of those two protagonists is meaningful, and romance per se has some meaning for you as well, fine, but why write something with the pretense of meaning - to dismissively throw in our faces?

After the long will-they/won't -they barren run, they end up a not-so-happy couple. Meh.
Maybe they would have broken up if circumstance didn't have a say in it. Who knows.

What's even more disgusting is the ridiculous attempt to mobilize the PS, I Love You fan crowd again. Yes, we noticed that. They will happily open up their wallets and enjoy all nihilism thrown into their faces. Damn, I opened up my wallet, too... But I didn't enjoy it!

I really can't bear the horrible desolate hopelessness those kinds of stories spread.
Life itself is not that cruel.

8/23/2011

Midday and Me

Remembering certain events in my life is something that rather naturally happens to me during the warm months of summer. It may have something to do with the fact that many of the incisive things I experienced took place during summer, not necessarily the days, but long summery nights. There's just much more going on in our lives when the weather is warm and pleasant. So I thought back to something that happened about ten years ago. TEN years! Ten years is an eternity for someone who is about 20 years old. It's heartbreaking that this is even possible. Oh well.

For someone who is currently 20 it means that ten years earlier, this person actually was a child. In my thirties, ten years back means I was a grown woman as well. Or at least pretending to be one.

10 years ago I shared an apartment with 3 other girls in Munich. These were crazy and great times. We celebrated excessively, went to clubs all week until the sun came out, but still more or less managed to study at university during the day. Most of us girls didn't have steady boyfriends to slow us down, but there were always some interesting prospects and every social gathering turned into a felt once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet potential Mister X. Most of us were crazy obsessive when it came to boys, and even all those not-so-glorious times with all the heartache and misfortune have in retrospect become bittersweet memories of turbulence and awakening.

It's a completely different mindset when you think that your life is just starting, and inherently assuming that every experience is a positive one in disguise. There is some giant lesson about life around every corner you turn.

Now, there are still many corners, but it's not the same when you actually start calling yourself an adult. The sun is a silent reminder for me, that change is not an astronomic phenomenon, rather than I, the one it revolves around, have changed my constellation. Which, of course, means everything to me, the one little ant, waving towards the heavens. And I think it is all due to the fact, that somewhere around 30, you suddenly wake up and don't find yourself in a habitual state of waiting anymore. It's not a prequel to something bigger. Waiting stops when you suddenly realize, that your life has already begun, big things have already happened and you're in the midst of things.

It's high noon. And it supposedly is also the time when the sun's rays are most intense. I like to think that's true for life as well.



Still, there's nothing more satisfying than looking at a sunrise. It's good to know there's something ahead. Some new variances with every orbit. Undenieably, A magic dwells in each beginning.


8/10/2011

Sharp Pencil - Dull Mind

Over the last years, I have acquired some impeccable pencils. They are sharp, handy and really good for writing down all kinds of things. Unfortunately I have no use for them at the moment. In my reluctance to make a note of just any randomness that comes to my mind I opened the wonderful paint programme to have some fun.

Take a look at what happened. I drew my problem!

There is a pencil, nice, sharp and red. Below, there is a head, and some blonde, useless hair in a curl. You can't really see where hair begins and brain matter ends, which is kind of a problem for the person attached to both of it: me.

Noooo, seriously, I just drew some random stuff and yes, I thought about an interpretation afterwards... tee-hee. Painting is great fun!

8/05/2011

Naming Creatures

In my family, we have this habit of calling each other by names different from the ones initially assigned by our parents. My mother has several names for me. She calls me certain nicknames, pet names, but most of the times, they are really abstract descriptions. Like Punsch. Mind you, this is a drink (punch). But there's no further affiliation between me and this beverage. There's no funny backstory of a family celebration where I had too much of it and then danced around in my underwear or something. Nothing like that. I couldn't even tell you what it derives from, only, that these names seem to evolve over the years.

Some years ago she used to call me Pinscher, which is a certain type of dog. We never had any encounter with a pinscher. I distinctivly remember that Pinscher sort of melted into Punsch, but I don't know when and exactly why it happened. There's a phonetic similarity, yes, but that's about it.

Yesterday, as I re-wrote one of my short short stories, I thought about how difficult it is for me to give proper names to my characters. Most of the times, the ones I come up with for some reason don't sound authentic to me. Take Francis Miller as an example, I just don't believe anything that comes out of her mouth! And her husband Mark. And her sister Cindy. These are just awful names. They sound truly average and horribly stereotypical. But I don't want to re-name Mark Bronko just to give him an edge...

Of course, I wouldn't dare to pick fantasy names in a non-fantasy setting either. Artiall'gor is cleaning the dishes. No way.

And then I thought, how about doing it like my mom, taking a certain object and fabricate a name. Like windowsill. Mark calls his wife Windowsill. I could at some point give an explanation, why he calls her that, thereby revealing additional information on the character. I don't plan on doing this in general, but as a basic idea, what do you think? Writers, any objections?