Book Review: The Picture of Dorian Gray

Another month, another classic selection by the book club and, sadly, another tedious read that I absolutely hated. Full of the supposedly witty epigrams for which Wilde was famous (and which Monty Python parodied so brilliantly), such as "there are only two kinds of people who are interesting: those who know nothing and those who know everything." [quoted from memory only - I can't be bothered to trawl the book for the accurate text]

Each of the male characters appears to be a thinly-veiled Oscar Wilde, and the book a vehicle for his pontifications on the state of the world and his place in it. His dialogue is stilted and wooden, his characters forget who they are talking to in every sentence and have to repeat each other's names to remind themselves, and he regularly changes perspective in the middle of a scene. With more judicious editing (or indeed, any editing at all) this would have made a very good short story. As a novel it's a royal snoozefest for the first 170 pages or so.

In particular, reading the passages where Dorian is diverting himself in various pursuits feels like one of those dreams where you're running as fast as you can and not getting anywhere. I'm not a huge fan of skim-reading but it was the only way I could crawl my way through this section. It was that, or give up on the book entirely. The scene where he convinces Campbell to dispose of the body is so ludicrous as to be laughable. I could sum it up as: "I want nothing to do with you Dorian. Oh, go on then, I'll get rid of your body for you." The pretext of a dreadful secret of Campbell's that Gray threatens to expose is not even foreshadowed.

The story finally picks up in the last few chapters but the payoff is hardly worth all the life you've wasted reading almost 200 pages to arrive at the "good bit" such as it is. Another candidate for this summer's book swap, I'm afraid.

An injection of adrenalin

3am. My sleeping ears hear a noise downstairs that my brain interprets as someone trying to open the cloakroom door. Again.

Only this time they can't, because I've fitted locks.

I leap out of bed, put something on (unlike last time O_O), grab my trusty weapon (thanks, Paul!) and head downstairs, making as much noise as possible and turning lights on as I go.

I unlock the cloakroom door and fling it open, ready for a confrontation.

There's no-one there, and the new window is intact.

I check the kitchen and study. Nothing. I peer out to the back, and to the front. Nothing.

I return The Weapon to its resting place and climb back into bed. "Did you hear something?" Nikki asks.

5.20am. With adrenaline still coursing around my body, I check the clock for the fiftieth time in two hours.

6.20am. The alarm wakes me up.

12.45pm. A colleague with whom I'm lunching, and who has also been burgled recently, asks me how long the paranoia lasts. "At least six weeks," I tell him wrily.

My erection subsides

Finally, after a week of cajoling, chasing, and being put off by the weather, the scaffolding started to be...umm...whatever the opposite of erected is. De-erected. Reducted. Taken down.

They still had to dodge the showers, but by the time I came home from my briefing session (around 1pm) most of the top platform had gone. Apparently it takes almost as long to take down as it does to put up, which I suppose makes sense because the fastenings all have to be undone by as many turns as they were done up with, and the poles and planks have to be hauled back to the truck and stacked for the next job. The only part of the task that is slightly more complicated and time-consuming on the way up is making sure the base is secure and the platforms level, which I guess wouldn't take long for an expert.

So it'll take two full days to be completely rid of it, which might stretch into Wednesday, but at least it's all down from the front of the house now, thus making the property less attractive to burglars.

I need a creative sat-nav

It's an interesting limbo I find myself in now. I've never been here before, so I don't know what it's supposed to feel like. Before I started my first novel, I had a very clear idea of the main plot points of the story. It was the only story. The one that had been bubbling around in my head for ages. Of course, it needed the application of some craft. Some technique. It needed a full synopsis, and that then needed work to heighten the dramatic tension; to provide action and reaction; tension and release, or whatever you call them. It needed characters fleshing out, interactions designing and all the usual stuff (which, for the avoidance of doubt, was nothing like "the usual stuff" to me back then, because I had no idea. I learned as I went along).

So there was a path, with some clear milestones, and above all there was a destination.

It's been an 8-year process to get here. On the way, I've had other ideas and, as per good practice, I've kept a note of them all in my log lines folder. In a way, then, I'm much better off than I was in 2000. I have eight years worth of learning and practice under my belt, a much clearer idea of the fictional narrative, character development, and all that good stuff. And I have at least a dozen ideas where before there was only one.

And there, Horatio, lies the rub.

Which one to choose? Which is the best one? Another technological thriller; or a science fantasy; or a character-driven, feel-good meander through the lives of a handful of characters we haven't met yet but would recognise in an instant? Or should I spend a while dreaming up a totally different idea? This is tough! I need more tea...

Friday Five

Didn't fancy the last one, so I'm now caught up with these :o)

1. When did you last get lost?
That's a test of memory!! It doesn't usually happen, because mostly I know where I'm going, or have a map, or an atlas, or sat-nav (someone else's, so far). The most recent time I can remember is travelling back to East York from Newmarket one "fateful" night (*vbg*) driving through torrential rain when neither of us really knew which way we were going and, eventually, where we were. We got there in the end though ;o)

2. Have you ever been flying?
Yes, many times. As a passenger, never in anything unusual, although having said that, I have had three VERY memorable flying experiences. In reverse order of size: the 21-seater jump-jet between Toronto and Kingston (both directions); the 10-seater private charter jet that EMC Corporation flew me to Cork in, when they were trying to sell me a storage solution (both directions, with cucumber sandwiches served both times); and the sea-plane from Vancouver Island to Vancouver - 8-seater and just about the most exciting trip I've ever made. One direction only that time, cos I went over on the ferry.

3. Who do you always listen to?
There's no-one I ALWAYS listen to. Nikki and my daughters come closest.

4. When does the day feel long?
Those days when I have to go into the office, and I don't have anything to do, so I have to make it look as if I have something to do. For eight hours. Sheesh.

5. Friday fill-in:
Are we _____ ?
having a cup of tea?

I could never be a project manager

I've known this for a long time of course, but it was brought home to me again today when my roofer called to check whether the scaffolders had been to take it down. No, they haven't. So off he went to chase them up. And there, right there, is the reason I don't make a very good project manager, and in a similar way, I would almost certainly make a lousy producer.

I totally and completely hate chasing people up to chivvy them along to do something they said they would, or that I asked them to, and haven't. In fact it took me years ("thirty years" probably ;o)) to realise that you needed to do that at all. Surely, I reasoned, if you'd asked someone to do something, especially if it was their JOB, they'd do it. And years of experience to the contrary were not sufficient to ram that message home: that you need to be on top of people, or across the situation, or whatever the latest term is, ALL the time to make sure it gets done, gets done right, and gets done on time.

Knowing that it's a necessary part of a job is still a mile away from doing it though, and I continue to avoid situations where I'd need to behave like this. Like most things, it's probably down to some childhood trauma. I certainly have a lifelong hatred of being told what to do and, even worse, reminded when it needs to be done by, which may well explain why I dislike doing the same thing to others.

Hiatus

As you'd probably noticed, I've been off. Off from here, I mean. It wasn't intentional, but having reached the end of my intense novel-writing activity - at least until the comments come in from reviewers - I've been kind of regrouping for the last week. Taking some time for new ideas to steep. Reading around the subject. Wondering what to do next. What direction to take.

And, as a result, not writing. Or at least, not blogging. I guess any activity vaguely connected with writing counts as... writing. I could call it research. Or "filling the well." Or thinking.

I remember working with a guy once who spent a lot of time thinking. He would always look as if he wasn't doing anything. He had a rubber (an eraser, I mean) he used to fiddle with. Spin it round in his fingers, nibble little bits of it away with his nails. Or just sit and stare at it. He was designing software. In his head. At the time I thought he was just... well... lazy. Bored. It was a good lesson for me. The absence of any sign of activity does not necessarily mean the lack of activity. Like a duck - there was a lot going on under the surface.

At the end of days of apparent wool-gathering, this guy would turn on his PC and write an entire design from beginning to end that was complete, coherent and almost entirely bug-free. He wasn't an impressive guy to look at or, as I've explained, to watch. Most of the time. But he sure ended up impressing the hell out of me.

So that's where I've been and what I've been doing. Only without the rubber.

Gifted

I was watching Channel 4's "Child Genius" tonight. A rather sad look at the lives of children with extremely high IQs - as in, the maximum score possible: 170. I'm not going to go into the details of the programme, but one aspect of it sticks in my mind. One of the super-bright kids' brother was being tested for the first time and the family waited with bated breath to see how he would do.

His result was 137. "Oh, good for him," his exceedingly intelligent elder brother scoffed, "he's quite bright." Difficult to know how he could possibly have invested that simple sentence with more disdain, tinged with relief that his brother hadn't bettered him (which, being "exceedingly intelligent" he should already have worked out was impossible given he already had a perfect score).

But I digress. My point is, the announcer declared 137 put the brother within the definition of "gifted." Who knew? When I was 12 my IQ was measured at 144. Hey - I'm gifted! Was I sent to a special school? Was I tutored at home? Did my parents fuss around me and make sure I had access to all sorts of mind-stretching and creative endeavour? The answer, as you may have guessed, is no. I just got on with it, like everyone else I knew.

Which, for me, begs two questions. One: how would life had panned out if I'd had more pushy (or maybe, more aware) parents, prepared to treat me differently on account of me being... different? (And from where I sit now, the answer to that - at least one potential answer - is very scary. I'm glad I grew up with something-approaching-normal socialisation, friends, mistakes, challenges and triumphs).

Two: how many more "gifted" children slip through the net, and end up not fulfilling their potential, simply because their parents never conceive of them being gifted, and their teachers are too hard-pressed to notice? That, perhaps, is the most scary thought of all.

Fourth draft put to bed

Last month I told you I'd completed the third draft of my novel. Today, I'm even happier to report the fourth draft is put to bed, only a little over a month later.

There's a few reasons for my greatly enhanced speed of working. Firstly, I've resigned from the large and significant project I've been working on for the last two years. Its first release went live successfully and on time last month, and this milestone presented me with the opportunity to leave gracefully, having led the project technically through its proof of concept, procurement, development and initial delivery phases. This gives me vastly more spare time, which this month I've devoted almost entirely to writing.

Secondly, I designed a small macro to highlight "danger" words. Running this against my work made it much easier to spot overwriting, run-on sentences, passive voice and a host of other no-nos, so I was able to rattle through and correct all these things much more quickly.

And finally, there's nothing better for focussing the mind than the possibility that your work may actually see the light of day. I can't say very much about this at the moment, but let's just say I'm much more hopeful of finding a publisher now than I was a couple of months ago.

So is it done? Well, not quite. Editing my way through the whole thing this time round, it was clear that the second half is much better than the first. You expect the pace to build up later, I know, once the characters and the plot have been established, but even so I feel I can do a better job with the first half, so I'm giving myself one more go-through to make the thing as good as it can be.

I'll need to concentrate more on the job at hand though. All too often I reach the end of a chapter and realise I've just been reading it rather than editing it. Tsk. Concentrate!

The welcome of the Twisted Spire

I'm still nervous about leaving the house unoccupied with the scaffolding up all around it, but we didn't have much choice this weekend. Drove to Mum's right after work Friday to deliver the birthday present she's been waiting a month for, and perform the "duty visit." Having listened to standard conversations 1 through 10, we escaped to the pub as soon as politeness allowed and although we hadn't planned on a long session ended up staying until around 11pm.

Saturday breakfast was followed by standard conversations 1 through 10 again, at which point we made our escape again, this time in the direction of Chesterfield - the real reason for the weekend's travel. The "excuse" - insofar as we need one - was to have a planning session for our upcoming week in the Lakes, but really we don't need a reason to enjoy the Welcome of the Twisted Spire.

We had our third attempt at walking around Chatsworth too, previous tries having been aborted owing to family illness and inclement weather respectively. This time round the rain was threatening again, so forking out for the formal gardens seemed like a waste of money. We wandered around the various tat shops for a while and walked up and down past the children's farm, until everyone decided we'd had enough fresh air and it was time to head for the Robin Hood and go into a huddle around a couple of pints.

Then it was back to the house and time for the girls to run through the essentials of provisioning and menus for the week while the lads pored over maps none of us really understood, and planned the rendezvous point and the route from there to the cottage. Yes, I'd have to agree that we had the easier job, but then we are blokes so we couldn't cope with anything too taxing.

Planning complete, we negotiated a short walk to another of Phil & Vicky's locals for a session that ended up going on far longer than expected, after which we "walked" back to the house for a later-than-anticipated (but still fabulous!) meal. These days the result of four pints and a wonderful meal is inevitable, but the embarrassment was relieved slightly when I discovered I'd been joined in the Land of Nod by two of the other three guys and at least one of the girls. At which point we all made our excuses and headed for our rooms. Is this how it's going to be in the Lakes? I expect so - we'll have days full of fresh Lakes air and walking to contend with then on top of the other factors!

We returned at lunchtime today to find the house still in one piece. I'll still be happier when this scaffold is down though.

Friday Five

Thank God for Friday Fives, cos there's no news on the flippin' roof today. The whole day was a wash-out, weatherwise.

1. When were you born?
On a Saturday, just before breakfast, in a 20th century November.

2. What's your favorite photograph?
This is a really tough one. Partly because there are so many, but partly because I don't really think of things this way. It's unfair to pick one, and even if I did I'd probably feel different about it the next day. Or hour.

3. What's the longest distance you've run?
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Right.

4. What is familiar?
My home town. Family. Mates. Comfort food. The smell of a spring day. Weekend routine.

5. What do you count on?
Things never being simple.

Noisy stripper

We've had a noisy stripper on our roof all day today.

Yes, finally the weather took a turn for the better and some real progress was made. The gang were working at the front, but even so the noise of several hundred tiles slipping and sliding onto the scaffold could be heard all over the house, and went on for about an hour and a half.

Followed shortly by the noise of battens being nailed back on over the new felt. This created a serious cleaning up task in the attic room, as just about every clout nail on the ceiling has now popped and showered everything in the room in small pieces of plaster.

Felt a bit sorry for the men at the end of the day, actually. With only a small section left to do, the heavens opened and the rains came down like stair-rods. They must have been drenched within seconds, but having started that final section they had to finish it to make the roof weathertight.

One side to go - but it's the complicated side, since it has 3 Velux windows.

Conveying the tiles

The tiles arrived today, so the target for the day was to transport them all to where the action is. Remember I said you learn a lot watching tradesmen? Apparently you're not allowed to carry this stuff on a hod these days. Health & Safety. The only thing allowed on a ladder is yourself and your tools. Materials have to be conveyed with a crane, an elevator or, as in our case, a nifty little conveyor belt with a small two-stroke engine.

Such a small belt, actually, that had a special stick to support it halfway up. Bless.

When the tiles had all been racked and stacked, the rain started up again, so that was it for progress today. I reckon that's a day-and-a-half lost to weather so far (out of 3).

Rained off rip off

A day without action on the roof today, as the weather remained determinedly weathery all day. Here's the rear gable, taken from one of the upstairs Velux windows. These give a totally different perspective on the operation.

From ground level the scaffolding, as I've mentioned before, resembles a huge Meccano set. From above, it simply looks like a path around the top of the house. Maybe if I could cope with getting up there in the first place (and down again, of course) I could be a roofer after all! No?

No, you're right. It's a bit physical. I'll stick with hammering a keyboard.

The rip-off begins

With scaffold erection complete (yesterday! Much to the annoyance of my roofer who actually wanted to start last Friday), the stripping off of tiles could start.

Stripping off also entails re-felting and battening so that the roof remains watertight during the whole process (amazing what you learn when you're having work done!) which means when the weather is unpredictable it's prudent to work in small sections, felting as you go. This takes longer, but ensures you aren't stuck with an entire side to felt in the pissing rain.

As it happened, today, the team managed to strip only the front and back gables (or whatever the pointy bits are called) before rain stopped play.

Friday Five

Paul and I attended the "mandatory first night curry" with the Players last night. Only it turned out to be not quite so mandatory after all, with most of the cast and crew crying off having "already eaten" or "thinking they'll go tomorrow." In the end it was an intimate soiree with four of us in total. If Paul & I hadn't come out specifically for the curry it's certain no-one would have bothered. Added to that, owing to the lateness of the hour we had to use the Azad Manzil: the only curry house that will serve after 11pm and even then they were all stood around the till tutting as we left.

When I first came back to Chorlton 8 years ago Azads was a really good meal. Not sure if it's changed hands, but the quality has gone right off. My "chicken madras," while full of large meaty pieces of breast meat, was soused in an indistinguishable bright red sauce that tasted of nothing but hot. Like they'd simply amalgamated whatever sauces they had left over, and splashed in some chilli essence to bring it up to Madras temperature. Disgusting. I won't be going back there. After years of listening to people say how much better Asian Fusion is, having now tried it twice I have to agree. For a local curry, that's my preference from now on.

After an abnormally long outage caused by various trips and computer kerfuffles on the part of my "source" for these Friday Fives (*wink*), here we are again:

1. What song frequently gets stuck in your head?
I don't have a single ear-worm, but I DO remember being told years ago that the way to clear them was to hum the theme from Hawaii Five-O. And it works! For some reason this song doesn't simply replace the one you had stuck and get stuck itself. It's a bit like mental Febreze!

2. Choose one line from a song that sums up your life thus far.
I drove all night, to get to you. Is that alright?

3. Do you have one all-time favorite song (if so, what is it?) or do you skip around?
I skip around, but in a small pool. In common with most people there are songs that evoke particular memories or times in my life that will always be my favourites (even though in some cases they may not be especially "good" songs!). Some that spring to mind, although not because they are necessarily *more* significant - just the ones I can think of right now - are: Seven Seas of Rhye, Have I Told You Lately That I Love You, Samba Pa Ti, Baker Street, anything from T'Pau's Bridge of Spies.

4. How do you listen to music most often (pod, radio, etc)?
At home: MP3s off the PC*. In the car: short journey - radio; long journey - iPod via iTrip Auto FM broadcast.

5. American Idol: fantastic show or overrated?
Love it. Missed the first two seasons but I've been an avid fan ever since and am currently glued to Season 7. Just a shame the results show airs here two days later than in the US, so we have to stay away from online resources to avoid spoilers.

*Stop Press: Since drafting this, I've bought a Logitech MM50 speaker station for my iPod, so I can use that in the house now too :o)

The Scaffold

No, not the old Liverpudlian crew who did Lily the Pink. *Our* scaffold. For the roof. The erection started yesterday. Imagine that! A two-day erection! Makes your eyes water.

Fascinating watching it go up though. Not a job I'd fancy at all. Once they get going the structure grows by the minute. Reminds me of my old Meccano set.

Since I've still not recovered emotionally from the recent break-in, an unfortunate side-effect of having this framework surrounding the building is that I'm even more nervous now that access to the upper storeys is facilitated by a glorified climbing frame. Fortunately it should only be up for the next two weeks or so.

Abigail's Party

Dress rehearsal for the Players' latest production tonight, so I thought it would be fun for Paul to come along and get snap happy at the same time as I was taking "the production photos." Boy was I glad he agreed.

With new flats in use for the first time, and everyone and their auntie having been "raped" (the Director's phrase) for seventies gear, the set looked really spiffy, and the production as a whole proved to be every bit as hilarious as the BBC One original thirty years ago. Indeed, in keeping with my regular reference to that era on this blog, the reason for staging Abigail's Party was that 2008 marks the thirtieth anniversary of its seminal appearance on the telly.

Without a doubt, the funniest moment for me was when "Ange" (played by Charlotte King) got up to dance with "Lawrence" (played by James Kerr). This girl's comic timing is impeccable, and she totally inhabited the character of Ange. The start of the dance was a pant-wettingly funny moment.

After taking over 200 pix of the event, I flicked over to review some of them before leaving the hall. My camera declared "no valid picture to display." Huh? Unable to work out what was wrong Paul and I returned home, where I discovered the 200+ pictures had been replaced with a single 9MB file with an unpronouncable name, and which Windows refused to move or delete from the memory card. Some sort of corruption had occurred, resulting in the total deletion of everything I had taken. I had to reformat the card from scratch.

Hence why I was so pleased Paul had been there. If not for him, we would have had NO photo record of this cracking production. Thanks, mate! (As a bonus, two of his pix were later published in the local free rag, which gave the production a glowing review)

Only thing is, now I'm worrying when my 2GB memory card will sick up on me again :(