The Word Cloud

I've seen lots of these compilations lately and I'd very much like to know  Clouders' best reads of 2011.

Here are suggested 'best' categories, although you might have others:

New (published in 2011)
Catch-up (book you've been meaning to read for a long time)
Re-read 
Discovery (author you've not not read before) 

To get the ball rolling:
New: Great House by Nicole Krauss
Catch-up: The Gathering by Anne Enright
Re-read: The Waves by Virginia Woolf
Discovery: Short stories of Alice Munro 

A friend posted this on her FB status the other day:

TH15 M3554G3 53RV35 TO PR0V3 H0W 0UR M1ND5 C4N D0 4M4Z1NG TH1NG5! 1MPR3551V3 TH1NG5! 1N TH3 B3G1NN1NG 1T WA5 H4RD BUT NOW, ON TH15 LIN3 YOUR M1ND 1S R34D1NG 1T 4UT0M4T1C4LLY W1TH OUT 3V3N TH1NK1NG 4B0UT 1T, B3 PROUD! 0NLY C34RT41N P30PL3 C4N R3AD TH15. R3 P05T 1F U C4N.

Reminds me of another one where the first and last letters of each word were preserved but the letters in the middle were jumbled up. But there was still enough information for your brain to figure out what it was saying.

Amazing what our brains can do!

 

We’re delighted to launch a competition today for the first 75 uploaders to our Beta site.

We’ve sourced a great writer services prize for you being among the first ebook uploaders to our Beta, courtesy of Cornerstones Literary Consultancy.

Read more…

Seen at a technology fair is the latest reader to rival the ubiquitous Kindle: the i-scroll. 

 

One of the first of a new generation of readers, the i-scroll takes customer preference for a tactile reading environment seriously. The parchment-textured surface even smells of old libraries. Storage is virtually unlimited, because the i-scroll incorporates a unique roll-up mechanism.

As with all new technology, there are potential problems. The analogue interface should allow personalized textual comments and the posting of critiques. However, the design of the stylus is suspect, and ridiculously over-engineered. Referred to as the ‘quill’, it is .ink-compatible.

Rumour has it that the transfer rate is slow and data-loss common.

It should be worth waiting a year for the expected i-scroll 2, as pundits expect it will utilize PEN technology.

I curse you, overtime, for I have seen my husband for 30 minuets today as he has come home from working overtime and then left on a call out.He is not a doctor on call he is an electrican; someone needs a light bulb changed forty miles away. I do not mean this in a sarcastic way, that is genuinely the reason he has been dragged out of bed, I curse the Gods of Health and Safty.
I do get time to write, but then I write when he is here anyway, so no real win there.
I have been editing my fantasy novel and have updated the start with a passage I found very hard to write, due to it's rather violent nature; funny when writing what are inocuous words in this context made me actualy feel a little sick; is that the best way to start a book?
I have also been trying to write a synopsis for my finished contemporary novel 'At night all cats are grey,' which I am going through withdrawal from at the moment; having finished it a few days ago, finished the fourth edit anyway; I have sent it to a friend to read and am waiting for her feeback and missing my characters. I want a second opinion because it's vital, I want to hear that she likes it; but in an odd way I would really like her to say it needs more, so that I can go back and write some more scenes in it, because I miss hanging out with them! (Of course, I also fear that she will send them all to the dustbin of history, as am now too close to remain objective) To keep myself going I am having a second go at writing a synopsis, one has been a damp squib as I had missed the point that I need to make it grab an audience and stuck to a pedestrian retelling of the plot; so don't read that one, read this one. Only now I am scared, in case this sounds dull too, I must be brave, if they need a massive rewrite, so be it. Courage mon Brave, as Del Boy might say...
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'In then end, I asked him for a new rug, neglecting to tell him it was to cover the bloodstain. Geoff had never noticed it but I knew it was there even though I had the floor sanded and sealed twice with all the diligence of Lady Macbeths’ dry cleaner.'

 

The trouble with Saskia Coopers very twenty-first centaury divorce is that everyone involved has been so damed reasonable about it. Her ex-husband Geoff, who asked her to marry him so he had a good story to tell about 9/11 having missed the main event; and who left her four years later for Michael, is still the only man in her life; good for their daughter, bad for her. A talented artist with nothing to make art about, she is adrift in a world of pushy soccer mums and interior decorating, a world away from her grey little English childhood and her decadent younger days in early ninties New York.

            A chance encounter in a lower East side strip club she has been commissioned to decorate, brings her into contact with Danko, a charming, foul mouthed, macho Russian ex-con fifteen years her senior and twenty pounds heavier than he ought to be. Despite herself she lets him seduce her and they embark on a passionate affair that both embarrasses and thrills her; much to Geoff’s disgust and despite his attempts to break them up. Sensing danger but addicted to the thrill of her sexual reawakening and the shared experience of mutual revelation with Danko; she finds her creative energies soar as their relationship spirals into a darker place and it becomes a struggle to hold onto what was good against the drag of both the past and the present. Saskia never looses her dry sense of humor, even as tragedy and betrayal threaten as she wrestles with the dilemma: can a man who does bad things still be a good person; and does she really want him to be?

‘It’s truly amazing what you can find out about on u-tube.’

I keep saying we just need to be strong but really I don’t know what we will do.  It was so harmless, to start with, such an innocent thing.  That's what's so shocking.

We were settling in for a long wait at Gatwick and my wife bought a copy of Bad Luck and Trouble.  She had finished it by the end of the journey and bought a couple more of them.  After that she couldn’t stop.  At first I thought the best thing was to help her with her addiction, and if I spotted one she didn’t have in a book shop I would bring it home.  I came back from a trip to the States the day Nothing to Lose came out.  She was so pleased when I gave it to her.  Her face lit up and it felt like I had my wife back again.  But in moments she was back in her chair turning the page every minute, her eyes a pale shadow and her cheek sandwiched between her teeth, lost to me once more.  She is altered somehow when she goes under.  It is her but not her.  Her legs twitch but don’t move, her lips move but I can’t hear what they’re saying.

The worst thing is, she wanted me to share this with her.  I didn’t think I could do it, to be honest, but in the end I thought, it’s just a book like any other, and she really wants me to try one.  She lent me Killing Floor and after a couple of days I picked it up.  It’s just so normal looking from the outside, such a dull cover, such an ordinary title, but the first page beckons with its longing white space, the first sentences are so short and crisp, whispering insistently to you until you give in.  In a second you have turned the page and then, oh god!  You can’t help yourself.  I thought I would be firm.  I can try one and just put it away, I said.  I am such a fool.

Why do you do it? – That’s what everyone asks.  What nobody tells you, nobody admits to, is the sheer bloody pleasure of it.  It felt kind of dirty but still I didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.  I got all my Tylers, Atwoods, Kennedys and Kingsolvers off the shelf and stacked them with the spines facing the back of the bookcase.  They didn’t need to see this.

It’s probably too late for us both now, Dawn and me.  We go out occasionally but it doesn’t mean anything any more.  Since Gone Tomorrow, we have survived until 61 Hours in a kind of netherworld, like living in a muslin bag.  Everything is faint and distant and dull.  Maybe no one can help us any more, but there’s still time to warn others.  If only we hadn’t taken that flight, I keep thinking, if only I hadn’t encouraged her, if only I had resisted, if only, if only.  Now we must face our uncertain future with what courage we can.  Hope can be so hard to hold on to, but it is such a good thing, I don’t want to let it go.

Maybe you have suffered too.  I will be hoping that this message finds you and finds you well and that you have found a way to beat this thing.  I have to believe that.  It will be so good to know that someone has read one of these devilish books and somehow found a way back from the other side.

Yours in hope,

Jules

All is quiet in the sitting room. The only sounds are the gentle breathing of a sleeping cat and the rustle of pages being turned as my husband steadily reads towards the end of the novel he's been devouring for the past week. Normally he isn't very keen on fiction, but a few weeks ago he began reading Paul Scott's The Raj Quartet and has been unable to read anything else since. He will be desolate tomorrow when he finishes the final book in the series. But right now he's completely immersed in it and can hardly bear to put it down. 

We all know the feeling. So what have you read recently that was welded to your fingers and which stayed with you even when you weren't reading it?

It has been said that when it comes to sexual arousal, men act on what they can see and women on what they can feel. That is of course a huge sweeping statement and there may be exceptions for both sexes. However, when it comes to erotic writing, literature which is aimed at women is generally soft core which focuses on arousing the senses. Hard core erotica aimed at men often zooms in on the action with hardly any background, visual description, build of tension or attention to feelings. Women usually need the soft lighting, relaxing aromas and soft touches to build up arousal whereas men can go straight for the action. I suppose this is all biological, women are the child bearers and therefore need to be in touch with feelings, whereas the male is predominantly more interested in hunting and fire gazing! A predator with little use for roses and boxes of chocolates! We have established that the senses play a big part in arousing a woman. The literature should play on sights, sounds, smells and what she can hear, perhaps even taste in some cases. Bird song, a gurgling brook, lime blossom... These things create a whole world of feminine fantasy. Tension and back story are important in soft core erotica and I was made very aware of this recently when I read the work of another fellow eroticist. The story gave a good background into the character’s lives and their motives etc. It did not rush to the action but built up the tension slowly with vivid visual images of the characters and their gently unfolding passion for each other. It made me look at my own work and realise I wasn’t doing enough leg work. Reading back over some of my old stories I found that the ends came to abruptly leaving the reader feeling unsatisfied, whereas what I had read from another writer kept the tension going until the final crescendo. Characters need to be believable and not cardboard cut-outs! A woman reader may want to place herself in the shoes of your character and so the more you can say that she can relate to, the better. The reader looks for escapism and in my opinion erotica should be filled with glamour. The clothes should be expensive, elegant and sexy; the location should lend itself to sensuality, for example an Exotic Thai Spa retreat, Paris or Venice. All of these locations ooze romance and decadence. I’m not saying you should never write about the sweaty plumber in the damp London tenement, but good luck with it. I for one am not inspired to read on. My mind is already conjuring up the cockroaches and watching I don’t lie on the damp spot! So far I have looked at the requirements of different audiences. Another thing to be aware of in erotica is the terms used for body parts. I have discussed previously in my article The Mystery of Erotica, the use of the word c**t. I would definitely not expect, or want to see the word in soft porn though I know writers who do use it. In my opinion its use is bordering on degradation and has no place in erotic writing, mainly because it is a term of profanity. You won’t see dictionary technical terms for genitals in erotica! In soft porn more appropriate names vary from slang to metaphorical variants of what is being described. For example you might see the word pussy, slit, opening or innuendos such as lotus, snake, garden and so forth. Looking at the needs of the audience you are writing for is important with any genre and I hope that this has helped to highlight the ways men and women respond to erotic writing. www.blacknightjar.com

My face dropped, blood drained to my feet, “Go on, it’s only 15 minutes” they said, “It’ll be fine, we’ll be there to support you” they said. “Go on, go on, go on” they continued until all I could see in my mind was Mrs. Doyle pushing a tray of cakes into my hand but instead of a delicious ice bun I was being offered the chance to perform my writing in front of…other writers and performers.

 I tried desperately not to look them in the eye, scared that their extreme enthusiasm would jump out and bite me on the ass, infecting me with a sudden desire to embarrass and possibly scar myself for life. There were 3 of us and 2 of them.

 One by one they fell, until I was the last woman standing. The word ‘Yes’ eventually prized itself out of my mouth, falling upon a table of very satisfied people. My only saving grace is I have until June to write something that can warrant an audience and luckily I won’t be alone.

 This has led me to ponder the question “Am I a face or am I a voice? Can we actually be one or the other to make it as successful writers or do we have to be both?”

Dyslexia – aMAZEing Words.

 

At age seven I could barely read and couldn’t read at all. The words on a page held endless fascination for me but they remained a mystery. I couldn’t understand why everyone else had so little difficulty. I failed every spelling test and had become used to such teacher utterances as:

“Oh Orla! You really must put more effort in.”

“Orla-Jo, miss”

“Well I’ll get you’re name right when you hand me up an exercise that looks like it’s written in English”

 

But just before I turned eight my life was saved by a two Wizards and a Hobbit.

 

My brother also had trouble reading. He had hidden it well but at thirteen, people were starting to notice. My mother bought a copy of Harry Potter because she had heard it was good for boys Sean’s age. I went with her to the book shop and stared in confusion at all the kids my age reading pages filled with black symbols that seemed to move around the page like little ants.

The older of my two brothers was with us too. I followed him quietly to his favourite section, fantasy and science-fiction. Miserably I watched his face light up while flicking through the shiny paperbacks. On spotting me staring Eamon sighed and called me over. He picked a book at random and started to tell me the story.

“Dragons, Eamy, really?”

Eamon clipped the back of my head.

“Don’t call me Eamy, boy remember stupid.”

“Eamon don’t hit your sister!”

My mum had reappeared. She caught my longing glance at the shelf and spotted something good. A graphic novel version of ‘The Hobbit’ by JRR Tolkien, which was mainly pictures and speech bubbles with only some narrative writing which someone could read to me but I could follow the story without.

I gazed in wonder at the beautiful drawings of dwarves and wizards, trolls and goblins, hobbits and giants. Best of all I like the Elves in forests and the dragon Smog. I would go through it hundreds of times a day. Slowly working my way through the dialogue a speech bubble per reading. But the fantasy universe had captured my soul so completely that I could never have been satisfied at that.

 

Every night during this time my mother and Sean would sit on the sofa reading Harry Potter. She would read half a chapter, then Sean. I would sat and listen to the story, totally captivated.

 

Then one night in the lead up to Christmas I was sitting in the sitting room of my mother’s friend while they had a very boring conversation. It was then I noticed a copy of Harry Potter on the coffee table as it was on every coffee table at this time. Out of sheer boredom I picked it up.

“What the hell” I thought.

At first it was as it always was. The words ran their ant-like race in all directions, but soon my memory of the story helped me decipher their magical code. Two hours later when my mother realised how long she’d been talking for she nearly died of shook to find me pouring over a book with no pictures in sight.

From then I read every fantasy novel I could get my little eight year old hands on. All three Lord of the Rings, Alan Garner’s Weirdstone of Brisingermen, Moon of Gomrath and The Owl Service flew beneath my hands as my reading level; much to the shock to all my teachers began to surpass that of all my class mates. When at ten I sank my teeth into Sense and Sensibility but still couldn’t spell “orange” with writing “organge” my mother took me and my brother to get assessed for dyslexia.

 

I remember that grey waiting room well. My brother and I holding hands for the first time in five years as if our very lives were at stake; I remember his furtive whisper too.

“What if we’re not dyslexic? What if we’re just stupid?”

I was too nervous to answer so I just gulped.

To no ones surprise we were dyslexic and extremely dyslexic at that. Various patronising remedial classes later I found myself with a called Mrs Nixon and a free government laptop.

 

Every now and again I would have nightmares where I couldn’t read and write anymore and no one thought I was clever anymore. I would wake up in cold sweats but it was just a dream.

 

I learned how to touch type and learned the wonders of the Spell Check.

And so writing began…and whole new path to the fantasy dreams of my muddled youth.