Authors long for 'the movie deal', but how many are pleased with the results?
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A blog about writing. Not just mechanics and craft, but the ideas that go into my stories.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Alan Garner on Alan Turing
Since I first learned of Alan Turing I have been outraged at what was done to him. A comfortable outrage, I now realize. Intellectual. From a safe distance.
No longer.
A blow to the stomach -- a shock wave shattering my complacent sanctimony into bitter fragments of self-understanding and horror.
Alan Garner's simple, short biographical statement does more to show evil in the guise of morality than any epistle or sermon ever could.
This is what writing can do.
He was stocky, barrel-chested, with a high-pitched, donnish voice and the aerodynamics of a brick. He was funny and witty and he talked endlessly, but I understood very little of what he was saying, and it became clear that he ran in order to think. He seemed to be obsessed by mathematics and biology. That much I could work out.
We had one thing in common: a fascination with Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, especially the transformation of the Wicked Queen into the Witch. He used to go over the scene in detail, dwelling on the ambiguity of the apple, red on one side, green on the other, one of which gave death. We had both been traumatised by Walt.
On one occasion he asked me whether, in my opinion as a classical linguist, artificial intelligence was possible. After a couple of miles of silence I said that, in my opinion, it was not. And that was that.
He killed himself when an ignorant and uncouth judge gave him the choice of a prison sentence or chemical castration; and I was overwhelmed by fury at the salacious, gloating humiliation imposed on my friend, and by a sense of guilt that I did not, could not, help him; which lasted for decades, and was made only worse when the Official Secrets Act revealed his true heroism.
He died of cyanide poisoning. By his body was an apple, partly eaten. The apple was not tested for cyanide. His name was Alan Turing.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/11/alan-turing-my-hero-alan-garner
No longer.
A blow to the stomach -- a shock wave shattering my complacent sanctimony into bitter fragments of self-understanding and horror.
Alan Garner's simple, short biographical statement does more to show evil in the guise of morality than any epistle or sermon ever could.
This is what writing can do.
My hero: Alan Turing, by Alan Garner
In the 1950s I was an athlete. Those were the days before joggers clogged the highway, so it was unusual for me to see another runner when I was training. We fell into the habit of meeting up and pounding the miles together for company.He was stocky, barrel-chested, with a high-pitched, donnish voice and the aerodynamics of a brick. He was funny and witty and he talked endlessly, but I understood very little of what he was saying, and it became clear that he ran in order to think. He seemed to be obsessed by mathematics and biology. That much I could work out.
We had one thing in common: a fascination with Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, especially the transformation of the Wicked Queen into the Witch. He used to go over the scene in detail, dwelling on the ambiguity of the apple, red on one side, green on the other, one of which gave death. We had both been traumatised by Walt.
On one occasion he asked me whether, in my opinion as a classical linguist, artificial intelligence was possible. After a couple of miles of silence I said that, in my opinion, it was not. And that was that.
He killed himself when an ignorant and uncouth judge gave him the choice of a prison sentence or chemical castration; and I was overwhelmed by fury at the salacious, gloating humiliation imposed on my friend, and by a sense of guilt that I did not, could not, help him; which lasted for decades, and was made only worse when the Official Secrets Act revealed his true heroism.
He died of cyanide poisoning. By his body was an apple, partly eaten. The apple was not tested for cyanide. His name was Alan Turing.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/11/alan-turing-my-hero-alan-garner
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
How to Die?
This article is about two deaths. Two men, both artists, and how they faced early death.
One in dissolution and despair. One in awareness and creation.
Isn't this article really about how to live?
NPR's Krulwich Wonders
One in dissolution and despair. One in awareness and creation.
Isn't this article really about how to live?
NPR's Krulwich Wonders
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Kids or Spouse?
A friend and I had just been discussing this question. We wondered how many other women question this. Of course, there's two sides to the question: kids and no spouse, or spouse and no kids. Either way, society often frowns.
I'm thinking a lot about cultural myths lately. Tradition dictates marriage and family. But in this as in all things, people should be free to choose -- and most importantly, society should support those choices. It's all too easy to feel guilty for wanting a non-traditional life.
Then I think about choices that are even more non-traditional, and I am once again humbled at the courage people have, who choose not to hide who they are: different sexual orientations, gender change, even (omg) atheists.
We are getting better, I think, as a society, but there's still so much intolerance, even hatred for those who don't abide by a perceived norm. But what is normal, and why? And who decides?
I think it's easier on everyone to stop insisting we have the right to tell others how to live, and ask instead for respect. Be kind. That's all.
http://www.arcamax.com/newspics/28/2805/280589.jpg
Saturday, October 29, 2011
I know I'm a Writer Because ....
I've read the quotes. 'unhappy is the house where a writer lives' sorts of things. I don't know about unhappy, but a writer does live here.
I am not a person who writes. I am a writer.
I know this because my deepest, most soul-stirring or harrowing emotions are greeted with a rapturous: "Oh cool! Now if I can just get this into words, I can use it in a story!"
I am not a person who writes. I am a writer.
I know this because my deepest, most soul-stirring or harrowing emotions are greeted with a rapturous: "Oh cool! Now if I can just get this into words, I can use it in a story!"
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