From the Guardian Books Blog

By Tom Edge - Does size matter?

It occurs to me that the simple definition of novel versus novella could usefully be updated to account for ultra-sized works of fiction, those titanically-proportioned books so often taken to be the defining criterion for admission into the Serious Novelists Club.

Ulysses, The Corrections, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell: All are books wide enough to carry the author's name horizontally across the spine when shelved.

HP and the Order of the Phoenix, Infinite Jest, Moby Dick: These are the kind of books that furniture removal men hate, but which can also be used as furniture (small stools, door stops and so on).

At present we have the short story (small), novella (larger, but still small) and then the novel. Perhaps we need a new word for the type of 600 pages-plus book that will concuss a Chihuahua if knocked from the kitchen table...

Like comedies at the Oscars, short works often seem overlooked in the canon of Great Novels, physically dwarfed on the bookshelf and struggling to compete for critical attention. We seem impressed by marathon efforts. Short stories, on the other hand, get relatively short shrift.

The organisers of NaNoWriMo say "we don't use the word "novella" because it doesn't seem to impress people the way "novel" does." They're right. Which is a shame, as there are some wonderful writers out there who rarely, if ever, overstep the 300 page mark.

"When someone tells you there is no such thing as truth, they are asking you not to believe them.  So don’t."

Michael Ramsden

The Eagle has landed

The earth rise.

Exploring the Sea of Tranquility.  What a name.  The Sea of Tranquility.

Gosh, can you imagine? 

Is it slightly geeky that I keep these pictures - and many more space-related ones - on my laptop?  That the pic above is my desktop photo?  Yes.  But I don't care.

At the Back of the North Wind.

When he knew he was coming awake, he would sometimes try hard to keep hold of the words of what seemed a new song, one he had not heard before—a song in which the words and the music somehow appeared to be all one; but even when he thought he had got them well fixed in his mind, ever as he came awaker—as he would say—one line faded away out of it, and then another, and then another, till at last there was nothing left but some lovely picture of water or grass or daisies, or something else very common, but with all the commonness polished off it, and the lovely soul of it, which people so seldom see, and, alas! yet seldomer believe in, shining out.

"Could it be all dreaming, do you think, sir?" he asked anxiously.

"I daren't say, Diamond," I answered. "But at least there is one thing you may be sure of, that there is a still better love than that of the wonderful being you call North Wind. Even if she be a dream, the dream of such a beautiful creature could not come to you by chance."

Care to read it yourself? Project Gutenberg is so nice.

This is terrible drivel. Almost unreadable, really.

Guess what, blog? We've moved.  I only cried once, after leaving my bestie's house after a night of mad partying (in my life, mad partying = Oggi's pizza and Mimi's desert in the same night.  Woo hoo!).  I try to tell myself that the misery of crying alone (while driving, I might add) is so reserved and stiff upper lip and British of me, but, unfortunately, stiff upper lip isn't really such a huge thing in the UK anymore. Now it's just pathetic.

(Parentheses happy tonight are we Kelsey?)
I'm very tired, but who isn't in this whiny world?


May I say,
I DON'T CARE THAT NO ONE READS THIS BLOG. REALLY, I DON'T. IN FACT I FIND IT SOMEWHAT FREEING.
Have I said that before?
It's true though.  And tonight it struck me that besides being true it's also sad.  Why do I feel like I'm actually being myself only when no one is watching?  Did that sentence make one iota of sense?  I hope so, because I really want to figure this out.
Being an individual in private doesn't make much sense, does it?
Okay, let's talk about ME for a minute.  Because I never write completely narcissistic posts on this blog, ever.  (On a side note, I wonder how many people actually know where the word "narcissistic" comes from.  I wonder also if I think I'm much cleverer than I actually am for knowing.  Ah, well. Take any victories you imagine you have, Kels.)
I've always had an eager to please personality, and, in general, I've very few complaints about being so.  I avoid arguments with surprising ease.  I can manage grouchy people.  The idea of waitressing doesn't appall me.  It's mostly good.
The main problem though, is when "eager to please" becomes "eager to repress any symptoms of personality or original thought in some misguided and largely unconscious attempt to make people like you".  And, unfortunately, for me it frequently does.  I don't know why.  It's not as if I think my opinion about this or taste for that is less legitimate than that of the person I'm talking to (unless, um, it is).  And I do have opinions.  I do!
Here's my theory:  I am, at heart, a self-conscious and rather shy person.  When I'm chatting with people outside a small group (family and besties), I'm in a continual fluster.  I don't think when I'm talking, I just bleat out whatever I can manage.  I figure that I just don't think about what I'm saying or what I'm agreeing with, I'm just hoping to get through a conversation without making an absolute fool of myself.


And now, after much wandering, I believe we have finally come to the heart of the matter.
I care too much.  I worry about what people think to a degree bordering on paranoia.
So, blah.  I suppose the next thing to do is figure out how to not-care quite so much.  If I ever want to quit feeling like the best friend and become the leading lady of my own life (see? the movies are good for you) I will have to exert myself.  Not be pushy or domineering or obnoxious - just say what I actually think.  be me.  And heck, myself may very well be pushy, domineering and obnoxious.  I have no idea.  Which is sort of sad, isn't it blog? Somebody please call the waaaaambulance.






About three hours later, and entirely unrelated:
Since we're being entirely self-centered this evening, I have another question to ask.  Can a person have too low an opinion of himself?  Or, in this case, herself?  I've read in C.S. Lewis somewhere (oo, sudden twinge at the thought of how vastly inferior my writing is to his) that it's silly for a man who knows he has built the best cathedral in the world to try to tell others and himself that it's really quite ordinary and not at all special.  He ought to be able to take pride in his achievement without becoming a proud person.  Now, I can think of plenty of things I can't do and not many I can, but that's not quite the same issue I'm trying to figure out.  So why I mentioned it at all is a question worth asking.
 What I really mean is this: how can knowing that you're not good at this or not the best at that be a problem?  I'm aware that I'm not a terribly great writer or singer or any of those sorts of things - and I don't see how it's wrong to know it.   I'm revolted by confidence without a base of skill or superiority, and the whole "believe it and you can achieve it thing" disgusts me almost as much.  And, gosh, excessive confidence in general is pretty unappealing as well.  I mean, don't you just shake your head when people declare themselves the best of the best - whether they are the best or not?  Don't we call them big conceited dorks?  Aren't the people who can accept a compliment with grace - and without adding more praise to it - the people we like the best?
 Can a person's opinion of themself - without dipping down into, like, inferiority complex territory - be too low?  Can they be proud of what they produce, like a killer English paper or a good poem or a beautiful cathedral, without being proud of their ability to produce it in the first place?  Does this make any sense?  Am I a nutcase who needs to get off the computer and go read a book or something?
Finally! A question we can answer! YES!

I think I need a sunrise.  Good bye California.  It's been fun. Weep, weep, let's be all soppy. I reserve the right to still feel smug when I hear "California Girls" no matter how far away I move. 

So, guess what blog?  I move on Saturday.  How weird is that?
I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, or when my life is put into context (as in, there are like 55 billion zillion other people out there and you are pretty insignificant - that kind of context) this move is not a big deal nor should I be all wound up about it. For the record, I'm not really wound up at all.  I haven't cried or moped or been grouchy, as far as I know.  I've laughed ridiculously at things that aren't really very funny, which is a definite symptom of stress and/or exhaustion, but other than that I feel fine.  I'm exceedingly sorry to leave people, and I know I will  cry over it at some point.  But that point has yet to come.
Yes, I have a heart of stone.
But, gosh, for me moving is a big deal.  I've moved six or seven times in California, but never out of state.  And, man, we're going to Arkansas.  Of all places! Arkansas!  Not, like, Oregon or Ohio (which, who nows why, seem more reasonable destinations) - but ARKANSAS.

And, another strange thing: I have no reason, except the fun of being with my family, to think moving and living there will be in any way enjoyable.  I have no friends waiting for me out there (whereas my mum, dad, and sister have best friends), unpleasant college prospects and life in a teensy apartment to look forward to.  It's a step in the wrong direction from a trying-to-get-into-the-work-I'd-like perspective.  Besides staying with my family (who, by the way - though I know it isn't hip to admit -I love very much), I have no reason to go.
I'm sorry I'm so whiny, blog. But I'm trying not to think about this stuff, and I want to talk about it even less. This is an outlet, I suppose.

Ugh, drama, drama, drama, Kelsey. It's really the end of the world, your life, and happy existence as you know it.
Kelsey, you think Arkansas is beautiful.  You love the trees and the ponds and the complete absence of billboards shouting "San Diego's Loosest Slots!"  You love the manners.  You love that your parents will be able to retire before they're 100 years old.  You appreciate what financial freedom really means.  You love your family. Heck, Kelsey, I've often heard you say that the friends you're moving to are basically your second family.  I've also heard your idling dreams - afternoons spent reading by lakes and walking through woods - all of which were set in Arkansas in your head.  I've heard you moan over California traffic and wish you were in Little Rock where rush hour consists of five cars.  I've heard you mutter sadly about quality of life in the soul-destroying suburbs of SD.  I know you think "the great mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation" every time you drive through certain parts of El Cajon, and that's not a happy thing, Kelsey.
You will be sad to leave your friends, but you're going to good, Kelsey.  Good life.  And why should everything be easy for you?  If you want something, you have to fight for it.  Prove yourself, Kelsey.  You feel inferior, but you probably have more fighting spirit than you know, kid.
Loose the gloomy outlook. There's a great, big, beautiful tomorrow coming. Be kind, be brave, and have a little trust, kid. That's all I have to say.