Wednesday, October 5, 2011

On storytelling and why the community funds the arts

I was debriefing my computer when I came across this. I was asked to give a talk to a community group a few years back on the value of art in society. This is what I said. I still believe it.


“ I must say I was a little surprised when I was asked to speak to you. I’m a writer. This means that primarily, I’m a storyteller and while I certainly have fixed and strong ideas about how story telling fits into society and helps to build community, I know that most people today don’t. Today, storytelling has been reduced, for the main part, to entertainment and news.


It wasn’t always so. Tribal cultures throughout history have had a tradition of passing vital information down from generation to generation by storytelling around the cooking fires at night. Australia’s indigenous culture, the Aborigines have an incredibly rich tradition of story telling, some of which has crossed cultural boundaries and entered into general understanding. We all know for example that Aboriginal culture talks about a beautiful concept of eternity called the Dreaming, another world which exists invisibly but eternally alongside this one. We have all heard of the Rainbow Snake and many of us are spooked by the curlews call at night because of stories we've heard from Indigenous neighbours.


These stories traditionally have three main purposes:
1) to educate.
2) to ventilate
3) to entertain.



The educational aspect is clear. The kids of the tribe learn not to go outside the fire’s circle of safety because they are frightened by the stories that are told there. Apart from being scary, these stories are often also deeply moral – the characters are almost always given some sort of natural justice. Heroes are rewarded and villains are punished. The Bible and other holy books are the best example of this, although most of the fairy tales that have been handed down to us serve the same purpose – to teach us how to live safely and productively in society. Don’t trust the wolf, Red Riding Hood. Work hard, Cinderella, and you’ll get the prize.


These stories were a way of shaping the next generation into good citizens…


...which makes me very afraid for today’s society sometimes! Where are our stories?
At the movies, of course. And on the television. And in the video game boxes. The stories told today serve the same purpose as stories have ever served – to educate the next generation about how to behave as a citizen of our society.



Have you seen some of the films they are watching before they're old enough to make informed decisions on right and wrong?


Mind you, with further thought, I have to admit that most of the kid’s stories on our screens today do have a strong moral base. The vast majority of films show that he who follows his conscience prospers while the villain gets his comeuppance. I may not always agree with the language they use but the stories they tell are most often sound. Personally, the thing I find most offensive, language wise, about what screen culture teaches our kids is the accent! Australian kids have been so drenched by American TV, film and popular music that they don’t even notice they speak with a U.S. accent!*


The second purpose of story was to ventilate. Story has always provided a safe way for individuals and the greater community to express strong emotions. Our greatest fears result in our best most popular stories. From Little Red Riding Hood to Psycho through to Silence of the Lambs, we have an enduring fear of the psychotic potential of strangers. Same with our greatest hopes. Look at the never ending popularity of a great love story - from Cinderella to Gone with the Wind through to Forrest Gump. The reality of life is that the majority of us will never have to endure the things that terrify us most and most of us will never have a love story quite as dramatic as Scarlett and Rhett. But these stories tell us what it’s like for those who do go through such extreme experiences and give us clues as to what to expect if these things should ever happen to us.


As I said earlier, the third purpose of storytelling is sheer entertainment and escape. It doesn’t matter how worthy the first two purposes are; if you don’t have the third, if your story is not entertainingly told, nobody is going to read, listen or watch it in order to get the message it contains.


Even in the best of times, life can be pretty dull, colourless and boring. Now try for a moment to really imagine what it would be like without stories. That is – no magazines. No novels. No TV. No DVDs. No jokes even.


Now try to really imagine what life would be like without any form of art at all. No paintings on any walls anywhere. No music. No songs. No dancing. No fountains or statues in the parks. It’s pretty grey, isn’t it?


Yes, we can live without art – but would we really want to?


The idea of the starving artist is as real today as it ever was. Most artists cannot make a living from their art. And yet we can’t imagine a life without their product. It’s something to think about next time you hear someone worrying about the arts being subsidised by government.


Everybody wants to be constantly surrounded by art. But nobody wants to pay the artist a living wage for the work that makes everyday life worth living!


So, how does the art of storytelling fit into everyday community life?


We are all storytellers. Take the three things I’ve already mentioned – education, ventilation and entertainment. It’s all in a day’s work for all of us!


For instance, when you get sick of nagging your child to put the garbage out, chances are you get creative and tell her a story about how some little kid whose house gets overrun with rubbish contracts some terrible disease which causes her limbs to fall off.


When your husband (pardon my sexism) continues to drop socks wherever he takes them off after 20 years of reasoned argument, you would probably feel justified in telling him that story about the woman who Just Gets Fed Up With It one day and her man comes home one day to find an empty house. Some might call it black mail… But it’s actually education: “If you do such and such, then so and so will happen as a consequence.”


Then there’s ventilation. The boss gives you a hard time. You get to the pub and you tell anyone who’ll listen the story of what he’s done to you and what a mongrel he is.
Teenagers spend most of their time phone, text or IMing each other stories of what’s happening to them at the moment and what they hope or fear will happen next.
And as for entertainment… You just have to think of the last time you said to someone, “You’ll never guess what happened to me today?” and had them breathless as you gave them the next exciting episode in your life.


Or the next exciting episode in someone else’s life…


That's called gossip.


Everything has both a positive and a negative side. The negative side of story telling is alive and well – as I’m sure it has been down through the ages. Today, they have entire magazines devoted to telling us things about other people that we have no right to know. It’s common knowledge that many of these stories are made up – and yet still these magazines flourish.


Personally, I believe it’s a perversion of the age old art of storytelling and I hope to see a swing back to people minding their own business and taking an interest in the stories that are all around them in their personal world. Our world here at the moment is made up of you, the people in this room.


There are as many important stories in this room as there are people. Some of those stories we can learn from, some can inspire us to do better in our own lives, some might just give us a good laugh or a good cry. Whatever! Every single one of them is more important to our lives than who Posh Spice’s husband is diddling in the broom closet. Besides which – that’s none of our business!


I encourage all of you to go home and write down your favourite story from your own life. You don’t have to write a whole book – just your favourite. Put it somewhere safe, preferably in plastic to preserve it as best you can. I guarantee someday it will mean something to someone.”



* To any of my American friends who read this - Hey! I LOVE your accent - just not coming out of the mouths of our babes.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Sweet Home Chicago...

Watching The Blues Brothers with my daughter, Gillian. 


When the Peter Gunn theme comes on, she says, 'Oh what's the name of that again? Ooh, I know it. I know it! Oh, right! It's Mack the Knife.' 


I said, 'No, it's Peter Gunn.' 


She says, 'Oh. Well, I knew it was some kind of weapon.'

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Friday, September 30, 2011

New Novel Cover

I just finished my first draft of the design for the cover of my next novel, Min Min. 


What do you think? Too bleak? Too abstract? Should there be more colour? Does it suck entirely? 


Anyone? Anyone?  


I know I should probably finish the novel first but I wasn't actually actually aiming to do this when I first opened Photoshop. I was just killing time, playing around with a photo that I thought had potential, you know, just generally doing art-farty shit. After I'd pushed it, pulled it and recoloured it about 30 times over the course of several hours, it suddenly struck me that it illustrated Min Min perfectly.


And here is the photo that I made the cover from. I took it at the Burdekin River Bridge, built in the '80s, I think, and supposedly unfloodable. This one was taken during the flooding following Cyclone Yasi in February this year. The blue rectangle you can see, just to left and above the girl's head, is actually a sign in the camping area reminding people to be careful when they light fires. Haha.


Oh, and can I just say that I love Photoshop? 

Friday, September 23, 2011

A New Novel

Well.

I'm going to begin another novel.

But what? What? WHAT?!? shall I write about?

Should I start my Booker Award winning project called Min about the Min Min light? Actually, I already started that one -  3 years ago - but we were derailed by my foray into Retail Land.

Most of a writer's projects are just that - projects to be completed - but now and again, there's one that is like a child to be loved and nurtured  into existence. Min  is one of those; she lives in my mind and heart and I really want to complete her. However, I think I need to do another trip into the outback first so that I can feel what the brown interior is again. I've been there many times; it's in my blood and I remember it vividly. But I haven't been in a long while and there's a difference between remembering something vividly and still feeling the dust in your throat.


My father was a drover and I've spoken to him about taking a drive out to Boulia -  one of the main sites for Min Min sightings over the centuries - early next year. He was very excited about it; at the moment he cares for my mother, who is disabled, and the thought of getting back out to the scene of his wild youth while my daughter stays with Mum is pretty enticing.


So if I can't write Min till next year, what then? I have been meaning to write an intelligent chick lit novel for some time and I've tried to interest a couple of my writing friends in co-authoring it with me. I just figure that the going would be so much more fun if you were collaborating over Skype about it. Everyone thinks it sounds great at first, but so far no-one really wants to actually do it. Including me.

Soon it will be time for me to start selling calendars again and I really should be making novels while the sun shines instead of watching the entire series NCIS on DVD. But Jethro Leroy Gibbs and Tony DiNozzo continually prove too distracting for me; seriously, that is some heart palpitatingly man-flesh right there!

Maybe I should write a chick lit novel about a political lefty who is in lust with a right wing vigilante with a crooked smile and no communication skills.

Or maybe I'll just watch Season 5 of NCIS.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Why, Townsville? Why?

I have a very guilty secret.

No. No. You'll never get it out of me.

Oh, okay, then. The sad truth of my existence is that the breakfast staff of the local MacDonalds knows my order off by heart. (Tall cappuchino with an extra shot and a rosti wrap).

I can't help it. I don't like to cook in the mornings and yet I like a hot ... well, warmish ... breakfast. I love reading the local paper and not having to pay for it. I enjoy being out of the house early in the day for something that doesn't involve exercise.

A typical Text the Editor page.
Now, in the local paper, known as the Townsville Bulletin, there is a section that  I find particularly fascinating for some reason. It's called Text the Editor and it's taken over almost entirely from the old Letters to the Editor section.

I think I like it because so many people use it who would never have taken the time write an actual letter. You get some really crazy shit in there!

Anyhow, today whilst devouring my guilty breakfast and reading my free newspaper, I came across this little gem...

A certain specific crazy text to the editor

Well. I have another guilty secret; I am an habitual Text the Editor texter.

Here is what I texted in reply:

OMG, BC! I couldn't work out if you are for real or a clever satire trying to demonstrate how insane homophobes are by exaggerating their actions beyond all reason. 
If it is a clever satire, then yay, you! 
If however you are for real, someone should take your child away and store him somewhere safe where he isn't being brought up as a gay basher in waiting.


The most amusing thing about all of this was how my iphone kept auto-correcting me: first it tried to tell me that what I really meant was that homophones are insane and then that BC's son was in danger of becoming a gay badger.

I'm really glad I did a quick proofread before I sent it.

The Phoenix ...

... aka The Bridge aka It Gets Better...

All prospective names for my the feature length script I wrote a couple of years ago and which I still want to see made. You can find out a little about it here:

The Phoenix

I've just uploaded a couple of little mood reel-y type things to youtube that were put together at different times to demonstrate how we think the film would look, feel and sound.

This first one I put together to Paul Kelly's Dumb Things to demonstrate how I think my main character Clint looks. As soon as I saw Jean-Claude Van Damme in JCVD I thought, 'Now, this is Clint - tough but tired of fighting.'

Mind you, I've just finished reading Robbie Williams biography Feel and I'm thinking he would be a great Clint as well. Ah, the pleasures of daydreaming a cast ...



This next one is something Owen Johnson put together, using John Hiatt's Aint Ever Going Back when The Bridge was chosen for the script development hothouse, Indivision. It was quite spiffy really - we had a week long workshop with Gillian Armstrong (director Little Women, Charlotte Grey) and Andrew Fierberg (producer Secretary, Fur) as our mentors and they both loved the script. On the last night of the workshop, we had a dinner party and everyone got a little drunk. I guess there were about twenty five of us and as I was leaving, I stopped to thank Andrew and Gillian for all their lovely time, energy and input. They both kissed and hugged me and wished us well. Andrew said, 'Look, I'm not pissing in your pocket, as you Aussies say, most people I see have just got a script... You guys have really got a movie here.'



Andrew Rankin took the photos for this one.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

why do writers love great names?

I'm sure I'm not the only writer on Earth who is prone to falling in love with a beautiful, or even just plain quirky, name. I know that when I name one of the people in my stories, I try to make it reflect some aspect of his or her character or life and I notice most writers do the same thing.

But even more than great made up names, I love great true life names. Hannah Blyth is a Welsh teenager who discovered an asteroid while on work experience at a telescope laboratory - so they've named the asteroid after her. How fantastic! Along with Halley's and Hale Bopp, we will now have Hannah Blyth out there floating about.

It makes me think of some of my other favourite names.

I fell in love with Harvey Milk some years ago when I read The Mayor of Castro street by Randy Shilts. My friend told me it was the just the latest in a long line of unavailable men I'd fallen for but Harvey was hit for six right out of the park unavailable, even for me; he was rampantly gay and had been dead for about 40 years. Apart from everything else appealing about him, I thought his name was so beautifully nutty - but then I read that his mother had been christened Minerva and she was known as Minnie Milk. His uncle was Morrie Milk.

I remember a year or so ago a woman came into The Incidental Bookshop and bought some books on credit. When I checked the receipt for her signature, I couldn't believe what I saw. I probably actually gawked at that completely average looking old credit card slip because, well, on it was written one of the most amazing names I'd ever seen.

Joy Bliss.

I must say I was sceptical as I looked at that name, thinking it must have been a scam, a fake card or at the least, the result of a deed poll change. But when I looked up and into the face the owner of that phantasmagorical label, I was reassured that the human who stood before me was indeed both joy and bliss personified. She was a fit old lady, I guess you would say spry, with a magnificently cheeky smile and eyes that emitted feel-good rays like an old time movie robot's emitted bad ones.

'You're kidding;' I said to her. 'That's really your name?'

'Oh, yes,' she said cheerfully. 'I married it, of course. My husband's name was Bob - but everyone called him Happy. So we were always Happy and Joy Bliss.'

Mrs Bliss (Miss-is Bliss - oh, glorious natural rhyme!) assured me they were well named and that their life together had been divine; I have no reason not to believe her. Though I didn't specifically ask, it was obvious from the things she said that Happy Bliss was no longer with us but it didn't seem to have daunted her optimism.

I smiled every time I thought of her for the rest of the day and just before I went to sleep that night, I noted how apt the name was; she had certainly brought a little bit of joy into the day of this retail imprisoned writer.

I once met another gorgeous old woman named Shirley Turley. She had also married into her moniker and I laughed when she said, 'That's how you know you're in love; when marriage is going to stick you with a poem for a name and you still say I do.'

I was once trying to name a character who was a fiery, optimistic, young Irish woman. I was thinking something like Truman Capote's Holly Golightly would be perfect but it takes a lot of storymaking skill to make a name like that seem real. I picked up my local paper one morning that week and on the front page, was the picture of a young mother named Bridie Lightbound who had started a support group for the wives of servicemen stationed in war zones. I christened my story girl Bridie Lightfoot; it was the perfect name for her.

I'd love to know about any great names you've seen - leave me a comment about it. I promise not to steal them if you tell me that you're a writer and may use it yourself sometime.


Monday, August 29, 2011

does it ever get easier to call yourself a writer?


I got my first payment for something I'd written almost thirty years ago. It didn't involve a lot of dollars but I remember thinking at the time, 'Oh-KAY! Now I'm a REAL writer.' If I'd thought about it, I guess I would have assumed that I would never again have that horrible experience of not knowing what to say when someone asked me what I did. Like so:
People at parties:   Pleased to meet you! And what do you DO?
Me:                        I'm a ... well ... I work in a deli actually. 
People at Parties:  Oh, how utterly fascination, darling!
Me:                        (desperately) But I'm also ... well... I'm PRIMARILY ...  a writer. 
People at Parties:  A writer! Well! Now I'm really utterly fascination! Before I was pretending. 
Me:                        That's fine. 
People at Parties:  (intimately, leaning in) Have you written anything I'd recognise? 
Me:                        Um. (long pause) No. Probably not. 
People at parties:  (leaning out again) So, do you have good kabanas at your deli? 
Me:                         (double desperate) My short film did play on SBS three times. Very late at night. 
People at Parties:  What about your fish? Which market do they come from?

Since then, I have at times, made a living from writing. Yes, they were short periods of time and it certainly was not a grand living - nevertheless, there were no sneaky bar-maid gigs, no black-ops in retail. I have two books published by well-known publishing houses and one self-published. I edit and I ghost-write. I do web copy. Nevertheless, I still find it just as hard as Simon Keck does to reply unselfconsciously to that awful question, 'So, what do you do?' 
From Simon's blog:
The volunteer at the box office flashed me the usual puzzled expression I receive when I tell people my surname.
“Keck? That can’t be right.”
“So it’s not on the list?”
“No, I mean it doesn’t sound right. Is it a real word?”
“No, it’s a real name."
“Oh… Is it like your nom de plume?”
"Just the nom really”

Honestly, this is just gorgeous. Simon Keck is definitely a Real Writer.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Conan the Barbarian, Sean Hood, writer tells us what it's like to watch your film tank

You know, I never thought I'd find such inspiration from anyone with anything to do with any version of Conan the Barbarian...

When I first read this piece, I nearly cried. It reminded me so much of a dear friend who was recently chewed up and spat out by the cold and unforgiving film industry. He worked day and night for years to produce his film which has a well-known cast and an experienced director in a tried and true genre. Devastating marketing errors torpedoed the project from the day of its premiere and he still struggles to regroup as the DVD sits prettily on JB HiFi shelves all over the country. He's still working in the film industry ('practising his trumpet' as Sean Hood shares so poignantly here about his father)  but he's not yet ready to try out for the orchestra again.

I have failed big creatively - not Conan the Barbarian big - but many many tens of thousands of dollars of a publishing company's money on a book that turned out to be a critical success but not the commercial one we were all expecting. Failure's never fun.

Look, when I reposted this, I meant to only include a couple of paragraphs and then link to its original location as is customary. But all of it is so good, I couldn't choose! Besides, I hate the thought of chopping up a great article like this; it should be read all in one flowing go.

Follow the link anyway - there's a couple of great responses from other filmmakers there who also talk about their experience with falling down and getting up again.

LINK: What's it like to have your film flop at the box office?


When you work "above the line" on a movie (writer, director, actor, producer, etc.) watching it flop at the box office is devastating. I had such an experience during the opening weekend of Conan the Barbarian 3D.
A movie's opening day is analogous to a political election night. Although I've never worked in politics, I remember having similar feelings of disappointment and disillusionment when my candidate lost a presidential bid, so I imagine that working as a speechwriter or a fundraiser for the losing campaign would feel about the same as working on an unsuccessful film.
 
One joins a movie production, the same way one might join a campaign, years before the actual release/election, and in the beginning one is filled with hope, enthusiasm and belief. I joined the Conan team, having loved the character in comic books and the stories of Robert E. Howard, filled with the same kind of raw energy and drive that one needs in politics.
Any film production, like a long grueling campaign over months and years, is filled with crisis, compromise, exhaustion, conflict, elation, and blind faith that if one just works harder, the results will turn out all right in the end. During that process whatever anger, frustration, or disagreement you have with the candidate/film you keep to yourself. Privately you may oppose various decisions, strategies, or compromises; you may learn things about the candidate that cloud your resolve and shake your confidence, but you soldier on, committed to the end. You rationalize it along the way by imagining that the struggle will be worth it when the candidate wins.
A few months before release, "tracking numbers" play the role in movies that polls play in politics. It's easy to get caught up in this excitement, like a college volunteer handing out fliers for Howard Dean. (Months before Conan was released many close to the production believed it would open like last year's The Expendables.) As the release date approaches and the the tracking numbers start to fall, you start adjusting expectations, but always with a kind of desperate optimism. "I don't believe the polls," say the smiling candidates.
You hope that advertising and word of mouth will improve the numbers, and even as the numbers get tighter and the omens get darker, you keep telling yourself that things will turn around, that your guy will surprise the experts and pollsters. You stay optimistic. You begin selectively ignoring bad news and highlighting the good. You make the best of it. You believe.
In the days before the release, you get all sorts of enthusiastic congratulations from friends and family. Everyone seems to believe it will go well, and everyone has something positive to say, so you allow yourself to get swept up in it. 
You tell yourself to just enjoy the process. That whether you succeed or fail, win or lose, it will be fine. You pretend to be Zen. You adopt detachment, and ironic humor, while secretly praying for a miracle.
The Friday night of the release is like the Tuesday night of an election. "Exit polls" are taken of people leaving the theater, and estimated box office numbers start leaking out in the afternoon, like early ballot returns. You are glued to your computer, clicking wildly over websites, chatting nonstop with peers, and calling anyone and everyone to find out what they've heard. Have any numbers come back yet? That's when your stomach starts to drop.
By about 9 PM it's clear when your "candidate" has lost by a startlingly wide margin, more than you or even the most pessimistic political observers could have predicted. With a movie its much the same: trade magazines like Variety and Hollywood Reporter call the weekend winners and losers based on projections. That's when the reality of the loss sinks in, and you don't sleep the rest of the night.
For the next couple of days, you walk in a daze, and your friends and family offer kind words, but mostly avoid the subject. Since you had planned (ardently believed, despite it all) that success would propel you to new appointments and opportunities, you find yourself at a loss about what to do next. It can all seem very grim.
You make light of it, of course. You joke and shrug. But the blow to your ego and reputation can't be brushed off. Reviewers, even when they were positive, mocked Conan The Barbarian for its lack of story, lack of characterization, and lack of wit. This doesn't speak well of the screenwriting - and any filmmaker who tells you s/he "doesn't read reviews" just doesn't want to admit how much they sting.
Unfortunately, the work I do as a script doctor is hard to defend if the movie flops. I know that those who have read my Conan shooting script agree that much of the work I did on story and character never made it to screen. I myself know that given the difficulties of rewriting a script in the middle of production, I did work that I can be proud of. But it's still much like doing great work on a losing campaign. All anyone in the general public knows, all anyone in the industry remembers, is the flop. A loss is a loss.
But one thought this morning has lightened my mood:
My father is a retired trumpet player. I remember, when I was a boy, watching him spend months preparing for an audition with a famous philharmonic. Trumpet positions in major orchestras only become available once every few years. Hundreds of world class players will fly in to try out for these positions from all over the world. I remember my dad coming home from this competition, one that he desperately wanted to win, one that he desperately needed to win because work was so hard to come by. Out of hundreds of candidates and days of auditions and callbacks, my father came in....second.
It was devastating for him. He looked completely numb. To come that close and lose tore out his heart. But the next morning, at 6:00 AM, the same way he had done every morning since the age of 12, he did his mouthpiece drills. He did his warm ups. He practiced his usual routines, the same ones he tells his students they need to play every single day. He didn't take the morning off. He just went on. He was and is a trumpet player and that's what trumpet players do, come success or failure.
Less than a year later, he went on to win a position with the Los Angeles Philharmonic, where he played for three decades. Good thing he kept practicing.
So with my father's example in mind, here I sit, coffee cup steaming in its mug and dog asleep at my feet, starting my work for the day, revising yet another script, working out yet another pitch, thinking of the future (the next project, the next election) because I'm a screenwriter, and that's just what screenwriters do.
In the words of Ed Wood, "My next one will be BETTER!"

Saturday, August 27, 2011

The Incidental Bookseller

I am a bookseller.

But I'm not primarily a bookseller. My highest calling is that of Creative Genius but unfortunately the world hasn't yet realised this and so I'm forced to supplement my meager living by selling books. It's not so bad. Quite sexy in fact, at times, when the new stock comes in and there are all those luscious taped up boxes full of unsullied books wanting nothing more than to give up their retail virginity to me. To me! Ooh, it feels so GOOD! Suck it and see for yourselves, all you green eyed book monsters out there. A writer who is also a bookseller. Maybe there is a god after all.

Still, satiating as it can often be, being a bookseller is not an afternoon at the beauty spa. Selling books is hard work. It is at least as hard as writing them - this I know because I have done both - and it is most certainly much harder than reading them. Well, most of them anyhow. I'm sure we all have a difficult book in our past, the reading of which was the frustrational equivalent of having your eyes sandpapered out of their sockets by an angry soccer hooligan. But that is food for another blog...

Now, to the specific aspects of the general difficulty of selling books.

1) Physically, the most difficult thing is that BOOKS ARE HEAVY.  Carrying one lonely book from the kitchen to the front veranda to sit in the morning sun and sip a fresh made coffee is no great imposition, it's true. But now I want you to close your eyes and imagine carrying ten or fifteen of the suckers from the back of the shop to the front and then carrying the ten or fifteen that were at the front down to the back for no apparent reason except to participate in the mysterious ritual  of 'rotating the stock'.  When I first heard of 'rotating the stock', I tried cheating by just picking up a few books at a time and  turning a quick circle. But it didn't seem to help sales at all so I stopped doing that - I felt a bit silly.

2) Emotionally, the most difficult thing of all for a Creative Genius like myself is DEALING WITH THE PUBLIC. The Public, in case you didn't know, is a seething mass of crazy idiosyncrasy*. They want the impossible yesterday. When you offer to order it for them by tomorrow, they huff and they puff and they finally grudgingly agree to wait the extra day for whatever impossible thing it is that they can't live without. So you run around like a cat with a dead rat strapped to its tail and procure the preferred impossibility for them. You dutifully, smugly even, have the impossible sitting there waiting for them to pick up and while they're about it, give your ego a quick but hearty touch up. You know, say something like, "Holy shit! How the HELL did you ever manage to get this impossible thing for me so swiftly? Who are you really? SuperBookGirl? You're astonishing! You're fantastic! God, let me slip you an extra tenner just for being so damn clever" and other suchlike things.

Now keep in mind, this is only what I think should happen, what I am expecting to happen, what God has decreed should happen to all diligent book sellers who go beyond the call of duty for a customer who desires the impossible.

What actually happens is a good bit different. What actually happens is that they don't even bother to pick it up at all.

After a week, you put it back on the shelf sadly. Another week later and you feel glad when someone else buys the impossibility - it hurts too much to see it there, a reminder of your magic-making gone unappreciated. Another week later again and the original customer comes back and wants to know where their impossible to find book is. When you tell them that you sent it home with someone who actually wanted it enough to give you money for it, they call you names and walk out, vowing never to return. It's cruel and unusual and I don't know how I go on sometimes.

3) Finally, spiritually, the most difficult aspect of selling books, the roughest, the most soul destroying, is that you somehow have to stop yourself from standing around all day reading the stock. 


Or not.


* Why don't we just cut out the middle man and spell idiosyncrasy with a z? Idiosyncrazy. That says it all.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Everything is over-rated...

I remember once, a guy came into The Incidental Bookshop looking for a calligraphy set for his daughter. He was a funny man and we kind of chatted a little as I tried to find the set for him amongst the piles of new stock that came in the day before. "It should be in the craft section," I said.

"Oh, forget it then," he said. "I've already got craft."

I raised an eyebrow at him, not really understanding what he was saying.

"Craft. Can't Remember A Fucking Thing."

Haha.

I found his calligraphy set and as he paid, he said, "Calligraphy. You know, good handwriting is over-rated." I wasn't going to argue about it even though I happen to be heavily in favour of beautiful penmanship.

A philosophical look came over his face. "Well, just about everything is over-rated really. DEATH is over rated."

I raised my eyebrows again as though to say, "Oh, really?"

"Yep. I've been dead. It's not as scary as everyone makes out."

"Hmmm..." I said. "Did you see the white light?"

"It was more of a blue really," he said. He picked up his calligraphy set and left.

For the rest of the day, I was thinking, "You know, I REALLY want to know the rest of that story!" 

Monday, August 22, 2011

A Punk in the 21st Century: Part 2 - False Arrest

Continued from August 18th...

So anyway, Sir Punk's name is Jeremy and he's from Woollongong. He told me that he settled on buying Les Miserables because he played Gavroche in a stage production when he was a kid. We had a great little chat and before he left, I gave him the address of the blog so he could check himself out.

What I didn't give him amongst all the chit chat was his receipt of purchase.

Five minutes later, Janelle from The Other Bookshop came in and picked up one of the classics. She brought it over to me and said, "You didn't just sell a bikie looking guy one of these books, did you?"

Oops! They sell the same edition there and he went into their shop straight after mine. She saw him walk out with the one I'd just sold him and called Security. Oh dear. She hotfooted it back to The Other Bookshop and called Security again to say something along the lines of "Abort! Abort! Mission to apprehend the only punk in North Queensland has been aborted!"

I thought it was kind of funny until about five minutes later when up rocks Mark the Security Guard holding a familiar copy of Les Mis. "You didn't just sell a punk this book, did you?" Obviously, Janelle's message didn't reach them soon enough.

Jeez, YES! I did sell the bikie looking punk a copy of Les Mis. But look, if it's so unbelievable that he would buy the damn thing, why the hell would he nick it?

I said just that to Mark but in a nicer way and he said they were holding Punk Jeremy from Woollongong at the Police Beat office. I felt real bad about it; it was because I got chatting about the blog and Les Mis and all of that that I didn't get him a receipt and he walked out without a bag.

I'm known as a bit of a soft touch in the centre - I'm always saying things like, "I'm not that worried about locking up the shop - who's going to go to the trouble of breaking in to steal books that they couldn't even sell at full price in the first place?"

"Mate!" says Paul, the hardened Security Guy. "Mate, they'd steal anything! They'd steal the sole off your shoe if you walk too slow around here."

I don't think Mark really quite believed me that the guy had bought the book. I think he thought I was having a compassion attack and was lying to protect him. I said, "Hey, I took a picture of the man holding up his book!"

Mark said, "You what?"

I struggled valiantly to make my phone cough up the photo in question - usually I would wait to get The Princess Bookaholic to work my recalcitrant tech gadgets for me but she wasn't around and there was a Punk In Distress being unjustly detained.

I got the photo on screen finally and Mark cracked a smile as he looked at it. "Well, that's proof I guess," he said shaking his head at the oddness of me having a photo of The Punk.

When we got to Police Beat, Paul my other favourite Security Guy was waiting outside the door with a look like thunder on his face. Apparently Jeremy had been somewhat aggravated at being dragged into the cop shop and he and Paul had got their masculinities a trifle ruffled; they were in the midst of a little to and fro-ing involving terms such as 'dick-head' and 'fuckwit'.

Paul was NOT happy to be told he had to let Jeremy go. He looked at me and said, "He bought it???'

Yes. For the hundredth time. The Punk bought a book!

"Bullshit!" said Paul and grabbed the camera off me to have a look. "Ok. Give me the book."

I pulled it out of his reach. "Uh-uh."

"I'll give it back to him," he said in the same tone as he might have used to say I'll shove it up his arse. "I'll give it back to him, no worries - but first I'm going to keep him here for an hour so he misses his bus." He grabbed the book off me.

"You can't do that." I grabbed the book back. 

"Why not? He's being a cockhead!" He grabbed the book again.

"Paul! Because he didn't DO anything!" I grabbed the book finally and irrevocably, held it out of his way and headed into Police Beat. There sat Jeremy in the waiting room, leaning forward, elbows on thighs, gazing sadly at the floor. He looked up at me like I was his long lost mother. I bent over and patted his cheek and said, "Oh, I'm sorry about that! It's my fault I didn't give you the receipt."

As we left, Paul and Jeremy exchanged final little zingers. Dickhead. Prick. That kind of thing. Mark smiled and shook his head.

Outside, Jeremy said, "I was saying to them, 'The lady even took my photo!' They didn't believe me!"

"Well, I can't say I blame them - I don't believe I took it either."

What are the odds that the first time I talk myself into asking a stranger for his photo for the blog that I would need it within half an hour? What are the odds that the first time I have any business whatsoever with security regarding shoplifting that I would have photographic proof to back up a story that Paul was disinclined to believe?

Just before he went off with his book, now in a plastic shopping bag, he said, "I hate it that just because I look like I do, they think I can't read."

He's not worried that they might think he's a thug. Or that he might scare little old ladies with his blue and leopard print mohawk and his safety pinned ears. He just doesn't like it that someone would have the audacity to think he's illiterate! Bless his little cotton wifebeater.

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Anderson Cooper almost pisses himself on camera whilst ...





... delivering a pun filled bit on how Gerard Departwo pissed himself on a plane.

I'd never heard of this guy before now I want to marry him and tell him jokes in bed for the rest of my life. This is flat out the cutest thing I've seen all week and best male giggle I have ever heard in my long career of checking out male giggles.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

A Punk in the 21st Century: Part 1


I was sitting in the Incidental Bookshop one time, tapping away on my laptop and thinking about how I should be be doing more with my blog, The Obsessions of an Incidental Bookseller, when into the shop walked a punk. 


Yeah, for real. Not the Clint Eastwood do-you-feel-lucky-today-well-do-ya-punk type punk. The Sid Vicious type punk. The Vivian-off-The-Young-Ones type punk. I thought to myself, "See? That's the kind of thing I need to put in the blog." I thought to myself, "In fact, I ought to ask this guy if I can take his picture for the blog." 


But I didn't expect I really would. I always think, when someone interesting comes in, that I should have taken their picture for the blog - but that's after they've left. I never actually do it. 


So then, the punk came right up to me and asked where the novel table was. I told him and asked if he was looking for anything in particular. Yeah. He was. Charles Dickens. Ha! There's fuel for your stereotype exploding machine, I thought to myself. I REALLY ought to take this guy's photo. 


I tried to take a long shot of him without his permission because, you see, it's just not that easy asking strangers if you can take their photo. It has the potential to sound really very creepy. But I just couldn't get a decent shot of him with my camera phone as he rummaged around the classics table. 


I watched him walk towards the counter with his book, still debating with myself - will I/won't I will I/won't I ask The Punk for permission to take his photo. It's hard. You're basically saying to someone, "My, don't you look UNUSUAL!" But what the hell! He did look unusual!


He slapped down Victor Hugo's Les Miserables on the counter and I said to him, "My, don't you look UNUSUAL!" No, I didn't. I said, "Hey, I keep a blog about the interesting people who come into my shop and you're one of them. Can I take a photo of you for it?" He gave me a nice smile and said, "Yeah, sure." 


"Hold your up book then," I said and snapped. 


I can't believe I actually decided to ask. I can't believe I actually took that photo. I can't believe even more that within half an hour, due to a bizarre set of circumsatances both he and I would be extremely glad I did!


to be continued...

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

But where is Tripitaka?


This is one of those things where first you think it's funny then you think it's disturbing then you think maybe it's cruel then you think, 'Holy shit, Batman - someone made a million dollars off this!'



Monday, August 15, 2011

Sunday, August 14, 2011

the war on terrible scripts...

God, I know how much it hurts when my bloody computer eats just a couple of pages of my blood, sweat and tears - that is my latest novel, book or script.  But this? THIS?


Beverly Hills police blow up screenwriter's laptop, script

LINK: Eddie Murphy may not be all that funny anymore but Beverly Hills Cops are still blowing shit up



Friday, August 12, 2011

When do we want it? NOW!

Well, having decided to start a union for bloggers - I've been racking my brain for a cool acronym - I discovered once more that there's nothing new either under the sun and more especially on the internet.

In 2007, The Bloggers Guild of America went on strike.

'What do we want? More webdings. You know, more pictures like the letters. ... And those computers in Minority Report...'

Ted. tedsworld.blogspot.com. President, Blogger' Guild.








my coming wealth...

How do I contact the blogging commission? You know, the ones that pay you for writing blogs? I need to put in my time sheet.

They owe me a lot of money. A lot! Not only did I spend all day on this little beauty, but I also have several other half baked blogs hanging around the place filling up cyber space for them, place-holding till the real thing comes along.

It's not that I mind doing it - I don't! It's just that there is a little thing called time that I don't have unlimited amounts of and if I'm going to be spending too much more of it filling up the empty spaces here, the Internet is going to have to get its check book out.