I’ve gotten a bad review on Amazon. A really really bad review. Here it is;

“This is NOT a finished book, but a collection of ideas that someone intended to use in the writing of a book. Initially, I thought it was written by a young person, or someone whose native language was much different from English, with the bizarre use of language, grammar and punctuation, but now I know that it’s not a book at all. There are odd half-finished scenes, action jumps from place to place incoherently, when I started reading I kept going back to see if somehow I had missed some reference or connection…pointlessly, there is no connection between sentence, paragraph, or chapter.
I guarantee you, if you make the mistake of purchasing this book, not only will you lose your money in a most egregious way, you will, as I have, lost your most precious asset, your time.
I almost didn’t write this review, as I feel that any writer who would be satisfied with this…whatever it is, must surely be severely compromised in some way, but I had read a review that said it was a great read and felt I should write a review that will help potential readers to make a better decision.”

Wow. Goodness. I’ve sat and been quite taken aback by the strength of feeling attached to this, which surprises me. I would have expected indifference, but the anger of this is really quite something.

So what can one say?  Writers of much more skill and fame than I have received scathing reviews, and in fact the more successful a writer is the more eagerness is there to show how awful their work is. So I suppose this is just to be expected. This is par for the course.

From Cellar Door Pictures.

Running when you’re fat is an exercise in hope. You have to do it to get fitter, but you look terrible. One day I will feel like this when I run:

For the moment, however, I look like this:

Still, I loved being out there again. Wonderful feeling to move with speed again, I felt lucky.  The problem is in my head. I think that as I am not photogenic, that I am unpleasing to look at when I exercise, that I should hide away, should refrain from this side of life. Why? Who on earth would be offended by this? I know that society insists in a variety of ways that women must be decorative and that they fail if they don’t. It seems to be one of those times when I police myself and censor myself rather than any specific real concern.

Still…..

He’s asleep, and the hubby isn’t home for at least an hour. Time enough to have a literary affair?

The problem is, I have no idea how long my little boy will sleep for. And I am somewhat tired after my eight hour day plus commute. So having a go at writing isn’t appealing.

Actually, I’m lying. I just don’t think I can do it. I have two major themes to incorporate into the text. Changing a draft seems like getting a marching band to suddenly change the order of progression while it is still moving. I am not sure how.  Can’t I just surf Twitter instead?

Will we ever get wise? Our processing of information, does it ever improve? Can we see more or ever get better with regard to our perceptions? Science would say no. Our synapses deteriorate over time and use. Old pathways degenerate and new ones don”t come about. Minds become static, fail and fall away.

So how come we still dare hope for change? Why are we so foolish as to imagine that we can change, either personally or as a society? We run through the same routine day in and day out, but do we learn anything? Do we see anything? Do we break out of the chains that bind us?

Every single time I”ve grown as a person, it has been through a painful experience. Learning new perceptions always comes from old ones being pulled painfully away. I will cling to pokie slots my childish nature until the last possible moment and will look back on earlier times with nostalgia, regret. The same goes with a society; it will cling to a childish belief until it has to, must, move on to a more adult view, especially if it is formed from false first principles.

Ireland, you”ve killed again. This time a woman who took two days to die as priority was given to the contents of her womb. A sad, stupid sullied death born about from an infection in our blood, our minds and our sad, worthless history. I”m old and going gray and I have no faith in you any more, but you still manage to sadden me with your pointless behaviour. So much for you and your lauded principles.

Ah here. Here”s a pretty tune to take our minds off this.   Night all.

I have written a novella while on maternity leave, as regular readers will know. I’m supposed to be editing it at the fallow periods like lunchtime and bus trips, but the fact is I tend to use those periods to stare blankly into space. (“What’s your favorite humming noise? Mine is buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…”)

I’ve managed to do some this lunch time, however. Seeing the ideas I have begin to form on the page is a pleasure, a real pleasure that comes from the center of the brain. But its taken a long time to get the will to do that, as I have been avoiding it. Too hard and no fun! But when I am there, and I can objectively survey the work I have done, I can reject the childish notions I’ve put down on the page and instead show a mature version that thinks of those who will be reading this. Remember, no one wants to read your work. No one wants to work through a difficult obscure prose style or a character that holds no water it is so weak. Your work should persuade your reader to keep reading, to see it and to be greedy for it.  That’s why writing is when you get to do whatever you want. Editing is when you reflect the world outside your mind and do what it wants.

Writing is Childhood. Editing is Maturity. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go stare into space. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz………………

He”s asleep. I might get a chance to have a look at this blogging thing for a moment.

So, how am I? I feel hardy like a marine at times, in that I can cope with four hours sleep. Get me! I”m back at work, which is lovely in that I like where I work and the people I work with. It is also Dickensian in its brutality as I walk away from my child each morning and quietly sniffle at the bus stop. Not crying.

Work itself is strange to return to. I”m astonished that I have any brain power at all these days. Folks expect me to do things, and to remember things, and I”m just grateful that I can write things down I need to remember like my name, where I live, and that yes, those are my feet. Hmm. My predecessor who was in my role before me was brilliant and created a wonderful wave of efficiency that I am just surfing on at the moment. I find myself pushing myself to just keep going, to not stop, and that alone seems to be seeing things done.

Here comes winter. We”re looking forward to our first Christmas with best australian online casino him, and I”m insisting that Santa visits the house. My husband is an atheist and I abhor the Church, so we”re happy to have him have little or no religious education. However, I believe in the magic of the imagination. so I put my foot down on the Santa Claus issue. He”s coming to the house because, as Terry Pratchett put it, man needs to believe in the fantasies of childhood such as Santa, so that they will grow up and believe in the fantasies of Justice and Honour as adults.  Plus its fun. So we will be having Santa.

Go Obama. Was there any real choice? Fox is destroying Republician Conservative thought so well that Obama seemed the only grown up in the race. I was a huge fan of his in the “08 election, less so this time. But I still feel very glad he was elected again, he was the only person close to my own political views.

I”m going to vote in the Children Referendum. The daftness of the No vote has not served debate, I”m afraid.

Finally; dreams. I”m a person who has a huge emotional landscape when I dream (I”m sure we all do). I”ve just finished reading the Sandman comics, and have fallen in love with the Romance of it all. But my own dreams get better and better as I experience my own personal happiness.  I have a sense of impeding wonder that I can”t explain. Go figure….