Saturday, November 06, 2004

Novel writing exercise Day 6 - spurned Pagan fire festival


John's kids - gagging to start a semiconductor factory in my front room
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A few friends have contacted me to point out the flaws in the draft novel chapter I posted a few days ago. Very rightly they have said ...
  • it's too jerky
  • it's too dense, with no pauses for description or mood setting
  • every paragraph starts the same way
  • etc
Yes, you're all correct but get with the program people - that particular novel is dead and will be replaced by a sex and violence based script suitable for selling out to Hollywood. The first fruits of this new direction will appear shortly.
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I haven't been able to work on the novel this weekend because my time was focused on other projects; notably writing up a field report on my visit to Kensal Green Cemetery, worshipping my other 1/2 in commemoration of her birth and offering minimalist hospitality to visiting friends.
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Tracy's birthday coincides with Bonfire Night and we celebrated both events by staying in and cooking a meal. We both agreed that we could eat better and in a more pleasant environment than a London restaurant by cooking at home and that attending a firework display wouldn't be much fun.
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How sad are we?
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Bonfire Night isn't what it once was. When I was a lad we would celebrate the ancient festival of Samhain by attending an informal local orgy and attempt to drive off evil spirits with loud fireworks. We would also burn large, sacrificial wickermen on bonfires; in the hope that our Pagan Gods would accept our sacrifice and hasten the onset of a fertile Springtime as soon as possible. Then we'd get really drunk; all unmarried men would be called Robin for the night, maidens would be referred to as Marion and we'd all copulate in the woods under the watchful eye of the Friar of Unreason; who would perform a blasphemous parody of Christian marriage. Ah, happy days.
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Over the years the ritual changed; with The Reformation in the 16th and 17th century we had to pretend that our ceremony was something to do with an attempt to blow up Parliament. Later on, in the late 20th century, our local displays became untenable because of the growth of compensation culture and the need to pay for expensive insurance.
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The sacred festival was damaged further by hooligans failing to respect the Holy Sabbath and letting off fireworks for weeks before and after the True Date of the festival. Even worse, our youth, bored of simply warding off evil spirits, took to throwing fireworks at people on the street.
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I saw an item on a news program the other day; a Manchester policemen was explaining the measures his Force had taken to make Bonfire Night safe again. Referring to a recent initiative to prosecute shopkeepers selling dangerous fireworks, and without a trace of humour in his voice, he said:
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'This is the kind of firework local youths have been using to destroy telephone boxes.'
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He pointed to a four foot long object that looked very much akin to a LAAWS anti-tank rocket.
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'Hang on', I thought, 'didn't Dirty Harry take down an armoured car with one of those in The Enforcer?'
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No. Bonfire Night isn't what is used to be. So, I put masking tape on the windows, drew the curtains and cooked Tracy a birthday dinner.
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Later on in the evening an old friend, John appeared for a rather impromptu visit with his wife and young twins; half Korean, half frustrated geologist, fortunately the Korean side appears to be winning out.
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They're cute and well-behaved in a way that only oriental children can be. If Tracy and myself could be certain we would have Asiatic babies we would get married and start reproducing straight away. Sadly, the chances of such an outcome are slim.
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And they're not just cute, they're sharp as well. In the hour or so they were with us, it was all I could do to stop them negotiating a major steel production and ship building contract with Tracy; as it was we settled for a five year car assembly franchise and called it a day at that.

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