My Tolkien Odyssey – Part 6


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Hello, my dear strangers!


My Tolkien Odyssey began last year with Roverandom and is now finally finished with The Return of the King. I’ve been completely enchanted by Tolkien’s style, themes and his unique approach to writing and that enchantment will never wear off. There is so much to learn from his pages, so many lessons to walk away with, an abundance of messages on not only how to be a better writer, but how to be a better person. Sounds cheesy, but it’s true. Tolkien’s presence will never diminish and this work – The Lord of the Rings, will continue to stand as the pillar, the crown, his greatest literary achievement for many centuries to come, I hope.

I hate repeating myself, but I believe that honestly no words of praise will ever be excessive when it comes to Tolkien’s masterful use of language, his poetic style, the sheer tenderness of his pen. This was a man who was born to write. And am I glad that he did. He enriched the world of literature beyond words, altering it and steering in the best direction possible.

The Return of the King offers us the very end of the Quest the Fellowship set out to accomplish in the first book (the first of six, not the first of three). There’s no more warming up, no more preparation, the end is nigh. We’re thrown into the chaotic climax along with our protagonists and fully exposed to all of their suffering, pain, despair and sorrow. The pages are drenched in hopelessness.


One can easily envision the man Tolkien was through his words. He was definitely ahead of his time in many aspects and the aspect I liked the best was that of gender roles. His description of Éowyn gives us a clear indication that Middle-Earth can just be just as unfeeling towards women as our world is. Éowyn challenges traditional gender roles. She is bitter about her duties and longs to go to war and fight for what she believes in. A shieldmaiden of Rohan, she angrily states that she is neither a nurse nor a hostess. Her heart is that of a warrior. Going against her king’s wishes, Éowyn rides to war in a disguise and manages to overthrow one of the greatest villains of the novel almost singlehandedly. I’ve already raved about Faramir in my previous review and think that the two of them make a perfect match.

And while I’m on the subject of Faramir, it seems a good time to explore the relationship between him and his father. We were given glimpses of the underlying frustration and their opposing views in The Two Towers, but this tome really covers the gap that exists between father and son. Denethor goes so far as to flat-out tell Faramir that he valued Boromir’s life more his brother’s. He is unsupportive and dismissive of Faramir’s bond with Gandalf, perhaps even jealous. It isn’t until Faramir is brought to his feet virtually dead that Denethor finally comes to realise how much he loves his son, though by that point it doesn’t even matter anymore so much, since Denethor is steeped deep in madness and only wants to burn out of this world. Thankfully, his burning of Faramir is stopped by Pippin’s intervention and although the heroes succeed in rescuing Faramir, Denethor proceeds to burn.


Even though he was given the benefit of the doubt by many characters (and readers), Gollum proves to be beyond any salvation. The ring has its claws in him so deep, that Gollum can no longer exist without it. He is aware of his own powerlessness and the addiction the ring provides, yet cannot let go of it. Literally. Having embraced the only thing he cared for in centuries, Gollum falls to his death, irrevocably pulled over to the other side of his psyche.

Gandalf remains Gandalf, one of my favourite characters. Wise, determined, passionate and careful about trusting either hope or despair too much. He also knows when to step down. After the demise of Sauron, Gandalf goes on to calmly accept that his time in Middle-Earth is at an end and that he must obediently pass over to another place – a beautiful metaphor for aging and the struggles of accepting death gracefully. His time and involvement in the war haven’t made him more severe and cruel, but rather softened him. He offers Saruman help, though he refuses it in his pride. He also offers us one of his best lines in the form of a simple, sane piece of advice. “So, leave him!”, he tells Wormtongue after Grima expresses his desire to be rid of Saruman’s domineering ways. Simple and sane. It isn’t going well with another person and you feel dominated and unappreciated? Leave them. The nature of your relationship doesn’t matter, only the fact that you’ll help yourself immensely by getting out of such toxic, dysfunctional and sometimes downright abusive relationships.


Another great theme Tolkien introduces us to is the differing ways in which we view others in comparison to their true strengths. Pippin thinks that Denethor looks wiser, more learned and calmer than Gandalf. His appearance may suggest that, though Pippin recognises that he knows Gandalf well enough to know that few mortal men could ever match Gandalf’s wisdom, no matter how ragged and dishevelled he may appear.

While Denethor’s fathers come from a great line of sires, he himself is not regarded as king, only a steward. On the other hand, Théoden comes from a line of lesser sires, “lesser children of lesser men”, yet in his own land, he rules as king.

Despite his small stature and no apparent strengths, Pippin is an instant hit in Gondor. He gets a prestigious local title in the local tongue and is revered as a stranger of great worth, due to his connections with Boromir, Denethor and Mithrandir. While he may confess to Bergil that he is a person of no great power, Pippin’s reputation has already grown out of proportions.

In all three cases, we see a deep wedge between how people perceive themselves and each another and their true strengths, qualities, values and faults.


And at last we come to Sam, beautiful, patient, immensely optimistic Sam, probably one of my favourite characters. Frodo has a heavy burden to carry and it takes a great toll on him, which may serve as his excuse, but even before the Ring of Power ever walked into his life, Frodo was less-than-hero material. He has initiative and inner strength and resilience, yet I just cannot see him as a hero or a protagonist. The reason is probably because all of his deeds pale in comparison with Sam’s. It isn’t even about the deeds, but about one’s mindset and outlook. What Sam has in abundance, Frodo lacks.

For a brief period of time, Sam experiences what it’s like to be the Ring-bearer. He even experiences reluctance when the time comes to give it back to Frodo. And even though his time spent as the Ring-bearer can in no way be compared to Frodo’s, we still get an insight into Sam’s thoughts and realise the kind of person he is, even under enormous pressure and in the presence of great temptations. We all know those people who are so plain, simple and uncomplicated (though certainly complex characters), that even the greatest of evils cannot taunt them. They remain as good and as pure as they ever were. Sam experiences situations few characters find themselves in, yet retains optimism, strength and righteousness. He daydreams about the plainest of pleasures during the darkest of times.

Upon the hobbits’ return to the Shire, Sam manages to pick up and glue the pieces back together, throwing himself into gardening, governing and life. Frodo never manages to achieve the same peace, which is understandable. Some wounds can never be healed. To return from such a great Middle-Earth-shattering adventure replete with perils into one’s sleepy hometown where the people remain largely unaware of the outside world and are too preoccupied with their own frivolous concerns can only be described as disheartening. It comes as no surprise then that Frodo decides to leave such a world behind. In his own words: “The Shire has been saved, but not for me.” It is sad to think about all that Frodo has had to sacrifice in order to make a better world and have it turn out a world he can no longer enjoy in.


When the hobbits say their farewells to the rest of their travel companions and head home, the reader expects them to find peace and the idyllic picture of the Shire they carried with them all the way. However, the last two chapters largely constitute their final struggle against the enemy’s servants. However, this time there is no Aragorn to defend them, no Gimli to bravely charge into battle before them, no Gandalf to offer them sound advice. They must defend their home all on their own. It isn’t until then I think that the reader truly gets to appreciate everything they’ve been through and, maybe even more importantly, everything they’ve learned. They organise the defence of their home and drive out their enemies and we realise that the hobbits have been observing and soaking in everything from the day they left. It is there, on their doorstep, that they make their final stand against the forces of evil, all on their own, albeit on a much smaller scale. And then they get on with their lives, each in his own way.


There are times when I wish a chunk of an asteroid would smack me in the head and leave me with amnesia. Those times largely occur after I’ve read a great book. It’s no wonder then that I find myself wishing for that asteroid now. I wish I could completely lose any knowledge of this novel and its accompanying movies and get to relive it again, fresh and untainted by previous information. I have no doubt that I’ll reread this masterpiece many, many times in the years to come, but the experience will never be as fresh and as new and as rewarding as it is now. Sadly, that asteroid will probably never come for me, which is probably for the best. So, with that, I’ll close the book and return it to the shelf and proceed to make enough popcorn to last me the entire run of The Lord of the Rings marathon I’m about to treat myself to. Just to round-up the experience. And to watch Faramir be cute and awesome.

Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.

Keep reading 🙂

Kathryn Stockett’s The Help


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Hello, my dear strangers! 🙂

When I first began reading The Help, I couldn’t help but be drawn in the story immediately. Having already seen the movie, I just knew I had to get my hands on it and quench my thirst for further details. As the plot progressed, I became more and more mesmerised by it and its wonderful characters.

The first thing I’d like to talk about is the writing style. It bothered me a bit at first, mainly because a) it felt too simplified and b) I felt it broke the sacred show-don’t-tell rule way too often. However, as the novel progressed, I found that it somehow worked. Whether because of its themes or the inexperience and naivety of its characters, anyway – somehow it just worked.
The amount of humiliation these characters went through is enough to make even the calmest person out there foam at the mouth. So much ignorance, so many limitations, so many rules. It’s downright unbearable. It’s interesting to draw parallels between the white and the black women portrayed in the novel and realise that both groups, albeit with drastic differences, suffered similar limitations. None of these characters started out free. They were all bound somehow, by societal norms, by the notions of appropriateness, by the time period, by the backwardness of their small worlds. The author has managed to seamlessly blend in her simple writing style with these, at times horrifying scenes, and give each character a unique voice of their own. Even without the title cards announcing which character’s point of view we’d be following in the next few chapters, you’d be able to guess whose story was about to be pushed to the forefront.
The three main characters – Aibileen, Skeeter and Minny – are all immensely interesting and perfectly planned out. I’ve spent the last few weeks thinking about character development, looking at my friends, family members, people I know, but mostly myself, trying to identify all those quirky, contrasting traits that make us who we are. We are such spectacular, jumbled up, complex people in reality, but it’s hard to put all that on paper faithfully. For all my effort, my own characters sometimes come across as one-dimensional and devoid of any real personalities. I suppose that’s something most fledgling writers struggle with. Not Kathryn Stockett, though. She managed to flesh out complex, rounded characters that feel so real, you can almost feel the pages breathing under your fingertips. Even minor characters considered too airheaded to hold a thought or think on their own, such as Elizabeth, have dimension to them, little details planted throughout the book that tell us more about those characters and teach us that minor characters need not be underdeveloped or neglected.

Aibileen is a stoic woman who not only lives under the same restrictions all black women lived under at the time, but experiences another, even more unbearable burden on her soul. The callous death of her only child leaves her cold and emotionally distant to almost everyone. From her perspective, the events of the novel may be interpreted not only as her own, personal liberation and unburdening, but also as a means of healing and coming to terms with her son’s death. Even though that’s the kind of sorrow one never gets over, Aibileen still manages to survive her plight and resurface as a liberated woman.
Minny is interesting in her own right. On the one hand, she is a sassy woman few dare to cross. On the other, she continues to walk on eggshells and put up with her brutish husband, despite a previous sour experience with drinkers. When we first meet her, we get an impression that this is a woman who’d never accept to live a certain way, at least until we’re given a peek into her inner insecurity and the quiet paranoia which makes her cling to her abusive partner. It’s not just his unpredictable nature that Minny has to deal with. After getting on Hilly’s bad side, Minny is forced to accept a job with an odd woman whose quietly strange ways make her want to pull her hair out. In the end however, after six children, an alcoholic husband, dozens of families she’s had to work for and an opportunity to express herself and tell the world everything she feels, Minny gets her freedom. Abandoning a husband and taking your kids away from him was, I presume, difficult in those times even for white women, let alone black ones. However, Minny manages to do it and gains her independence and liberation.
Skeeter is a child of privilege. That may not mean much in the 60s, not for a woman, not even for a wealthy, white woman, but Skeeter’s nature allows her to dream for more and fight for more. A twentieth-century equivalent of Jo March, Skeeter is a little girl with big dreams, high morals, a gift for writing and a courage that stretches far beyond the small world she was raised in. She is most probably the one I relate to the most. Even with all the privileges she enjoys, Skeeter still encounters various obstacles on her road to prove her worth, the first and most shackling ones being the societal norms she’s expected to live within. Her mother and her friends have taken it upon themselves to correct Skeeter’s appearance, interests and manners, all for the noble quest of finding her a husband. Skeeter knows that there is a much bigger world out there, a world beyond the cocooned bubble of her surroundings. Out there somewhere is a world where women can work fulltime without being scorned and looked down on, a world where a husband and kids aren’t a priority in one’s early 20s, a world where education and free thinking are encouraged. Skeeter longs to join that world and longs to integrate it into her own town, a place with little resemblance to it. She starts by telling the truth, by acknowledging all the faults that exist in her own backyard and then by working to correct them or, at least, raise people’s awareness about them. By the end of the novel, she’s gone through experiencing a different world so far removed from her own, through first love and heartbreak, through learning more about her mother and is on her way to bring changes. She too has found liberation.

There are many other characters that go through liberation in this novel, such as Celia and Skeeter’s mother and then there are those who remain the same people they’ve been on page one. Her fleeting moments of lucidity aside, Elizabeth proves to be a weak person, one unable to cross over into a better existence. She’s likely to stay Hilly’s lapdog for the remainder of her life, a person dominated by rules and regulations, her mother and her bleak friendships. All her life, Elizabeth’s allowed to be pushed around by others, unable to carve her own path and yet, unable to say ‘no’ to the things she wasn’t ready for. She is too immature to handle a family, yet finds herself with a husband and two kids because that was the kind of thing she was expected to do.
Hilly, with all her domineering ways, is herself trapped. Trapped by her fear of change, trapped by society’s expectations, trapped by the very burden of being Hilly Holbrook. The very persona she had created for herself is slowly becoming her prison cell. The reputation she had fought to establish is beginning to drown her. By the end of the novel, she is still crude and hard on the surface, yet desperate and more frightened than ever on the inside. The world is changing before her very eyes, yet she isn’t capable of embracing this change and keeps running into dead ends. The reader is left to wonder what will happen to the youngest characters in the book, the ones whose opinions are still not set in stone. Little Mae Mobley (what a stupid name) has plenty of time to grow and mature and we can only hope Aibileen’s teachings will prevail over her mother’s influence.
It is difficult to look at people we love and realise just how flawed they are. Skeeter’s perspective of the two maternal figures in her life changes drastically over the course of the novel. Her love for Constantine and Charlotte is still there, perhaps stronger than before, but her perspective has definitely shifted. Skeeter comes to learn more about them, about their decisions and their regrets. At times, these revelations make her think less of them, perhaps even question her own feelings for them, though all of this gets pretty much smoothed out before the end. However, Skeeter adopts a new, more mature way of thinking and realises that both immense love and immense cruelty may exist within a same person.
Skeeter’s reaction to what her mother’s done to Constantine is particularly captivating, as it captures perfectly that fine balance we all experience, that moment when you finally see the person you love for who they really are. No more walls, no more pretences, only truth. Skeeter can’t help loving Charlotte, especially with her being so sick and frail, yet cannot reconcile herself to accepting her own mother was capable of such deplorable actions. Those are the hard truths we must live with for the sake of people we love. Loving them, sometimes even against our better judgement, means living with the awful things they’ve done, loving them despite those actions.

The most sobering fact about this novel is that, while it may be a work of fiction, inspiration for it was drawn from reality. Women faced practically insurmountable odds in their quest to find themselves and many succumbed to the life that had been planned out for them. It’s interesting that the plot of the novel is set in a time which represents the first rebellion, somewhere between the deeply ingrained family values of the 50s and the rebellion and breaking out of the 60s. The golden age of Hollywood-like dresses and hairdos is slowly being left behind, with people aching to usher in a new era in which anything is possible. It’s certainly an exciting time, but I glad I’m not there. I’d be too exhausted to wage wars every single day, trying to make my surroundings liveable for the kind of woman I want to be, having to wait for decades before any real, tangible change comes. Circumstances are still not perfect, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to be a woman today than it was fifty years ago.
The Help is a wonderfully written novel teeming with serious themes and downright heart wrenching scenes. Norms are challenged, characters pushed to the brink of sanity. The novel offers many difficult questions, some of which are still under debate, even today. One thing is certain, though. There are no easy answers in it, only a mature portrait of a world in which there are two sides to every story, a world in which we are faced with perplexing events every day, a world in which nothing is ever black and white.

Keep reading 🙂

Short Story Contest


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Hello, my dear strangers!

I may have mentioned this before, but there was a short story contest at my Uni a few weeks back. I submitted my story, though I had no high expectations. There were probably about eighty other students entering the contest as well and all I really hoped for was some positive feedback or perhaps a chance to enter the final round. Enter the final round I did and, though I didn’t take home the winning prize, I have nonetheless won second place.

The announcement came during the first exam period of the summer, a very stressful time filled with textbooks and studying and despairing. It gave me a boost of confidence I sorely needed and reassured me that my work was up to scratch. The 1000-word-limit represented a bit of an obstacle, as I’m not very good with “showing and not telling” and require lots of detailed descriptions. I like to dissect emotions and then write down as much as I can about them, once I’ve broken them down into microscopic pieces. So, I decided to experiment a bit and tried my hand at writing in a minimalist style, which is something I’d never done before. And – it paid off!

Seldom do I show my work to other people, as I can’t stand the thought of having my baby criticised and butchered by others. However, I’m showing it to you, with the deepest hope that you’ll be kind with your constructive criticism. This story is something of a love letter to my parents, a way to say “Hey, congratulations, you raised a crazy kid and an autistic kid and you’ve still got all your marbles. You made it through to the other side and we couldn’t be more grateful for everything you’ve done for us.” Enjoy.


A day in the life of a woman, a man and a boy


“So, what happened today?”, the woman asked.

All of a sudden, his look turned distant. His smile receded. His hand clutched hers that much tighter. The woman sighed and looked away.

She knew she wouldn’t be getting an answer. She remembered reading once that children process grief and trauma much differently than adults do. There might be shudders within, but no more than a ripple on the surface. Besides, she had already grown used to the boy’s silence.

The principal had already told her about what had happened at school that morning. The story never deviated much. The boy’s strange ways and his innate desire to fit in often clashed with the norms, prompting his peers to distance themselves from him even more, labelling him as the other, the one whose behaviour could never be accepted. His inarticulate screams and puzzling hand gestures never were interpreted for what they really were – earnest attempts at reaching out.

“Sticks and stones”, the woman repeated her trite mantra.

“Zzzzz”, the boy hissed through his teeth. Besides an occasional ‘mum’ and ‘dad’, that was the only sound he had ever uttered.

The woman had noticed an almost imperceptible change in the boy’s demeanour. While he was usually ready to accept such statements with an unwavering faith of a child, he now seemed more sullen and dubious. The doctor had told her that was a good sign. It meant the boy was growing up and accepting injustice that came with being.

They slowly made their way home. The boy didn’t like public transportation. The woman dreaded it as well. There were too many disapproving stares, usually directed at her. She could read the tacit rebuke in the eyes of the elderly ladies.

“Eat your veggies”, the woman said once they had reached their small apartment, placing a colourful plate in front of the boy.

A quiet ‘zzzzz’ was his only comment of objection. He slowly raised the fork and tried to aim at the mouth. As usual, peas scattered everywhere.

The woman quickly gave him a spoon, then collected the peas and tossed them in the cat’s bowl. It suddenly occurred to her that she wouldn’t be able to make it to her high school reunion. The boy had a check-up the following morning, an event that required lots of preparation and soothing words. She wondered sometimes just how much of it he understood.

The doctor had told her it would get better. The priest had advised her not to lose hope. She smiled bitterly at the memory. There was nothing in the holy book of lies to alleviate her pain, nothing that would vouch for advancement. She used to be an aimless child of privilege, the entire world beneath her feet, ready for the taking. As the years went on, her options seemed fewer and fewer. Her idealism was caving under the pressures of responsibility, washed away by the waves of tomorrow.

She sometimes missed the boy. Even though they had lived under the same roof, she missed the illusion of what their relationship would’ve been like, had he been born a healthy baby.

Fear for the future crept back into her bones, yet she wouldn’t fight it. At times, it felt as though fear was the only thing she had. Without it, she failed all of life’s tests.

The door opened and the man walked inside. He smiled and set down a rectangular parcel on the counter. A beam of light coming from the narrow balcony shone over his face and, for a moment there, he looked like he was twenty again, his face wrinkle-free, his shoulders unburdened. The woman smiled. She knew it was a folly. The arrow of time points in one direction only.

“I bought the cake”, he said and gave her a routine peck on the cheek, before going to the bathroom.

“I’ll get the candles”, the woman said.

Another memory snuck back into her thoughts. Shortly after the boy had been born, the man had offered to quit his job and stay home to look after him. The woman loved him for being ready to do it. But she could see that he would never be able to live with such a sacrifice. So, she had quit her job and stayed home instead. She never thought she could do something like that, but one way or another, she kept allowing for more. Her tolerance and the very notion of what was acceptable and what wasn’t perpetually kept expanding. She couldn’t figure out whether that had meant she was losing her principles or her innocence. In any case, day after day, she kept allowing for a little more reality.

The sun was beginning to descend. The woman quickly changed into a pair of old, bleached jeans and her nicest cashmere sweater. Her best friend had given it to her seven months earlier, when they had arranged a meeting in a busy cafe. Her friend had squeezed her in between two power lunches, regaling her with anecdotes from her travels and the successful deals she had closed. The dreaded question hadn’t been far off.

“So, what about you?”, her friend had asked, sipping her pricey cocktail.

The conversation had died down soon afterwards. Her friend had offered her a few sympathetic words of comfort. At the time, they had sounded genuine.

After putting on some light make-up, the woman went to the kitchen and quickly lit the candles atop a simple chocolate cake. She set it down on the dining room table and then peeked in the boy’s room. The man was helping him dress.

They came out shortly afterwards and the man seated the boy in a chair before the cake. They sang for him. They blew out the candles for him. They clapped their hands for him. The woman quickly brought a knife from the kitchen and began cutting the cake. The man knelt down beside the chair the boy was sitting on, embraced him and said: “Happy fourteenth birthday, son.”


On Writing


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Hello, my darling strangers!


On Writing has left me feeling excited, yet calm, blown away, yet strangely tranquil, as a person who’d just received some good news which they’d already anticipated. Something along those lines, not really sure how to put it to words. I read this book for three reasons:
1. I love Stephen King’s style
2. I wanted to learn more about his life, his childhood, his thoughts, beliefs and lifestyle
3. I wanted to pick up as many tricks of the trade as it was possible

I won’t go into many details concerning his writing style. Naturally, it differs from the one he uses when writing fiction, though not considerably. Simple, consistent and unassuming, yet packed with great vocab. It felt a bit like going back to a childhood favourite, rereading it and enjoying as that familiar warm sensation grabs at you all over again.
His life was an interesting one, spectacular at times, mundane at others. He writes clearly and truthfully about the more trying moments of his life, such as his addiction and his accident. At times, he seems almost like your average Joe, but then he writes something which makes you remember that he’s one of the great literary minds of our time. All in all, he seems like the perfect conversationalist, one you could sit down or take a walk with, spending numerous enjoyable hours talking with on a sundry of different topics. I’d like to meet him one day and get to have that conversation, although I’m not sure what I would say or if I could in fact avoid the Annie-Wilkes-scenario and just blurt out “I’m your number one fan!”
Now, as far as all the tips and pieces of advice go, I’m still not certain what to make of them. I agree with most of them and have already spotted the ones that represent my weaker points. The road to Hell is paved with adverbs, indeed. Yet, adverbs were created for a reason. They serve a purpose and sometimes you can’t avoid them. More than that, you don’t feel like avoiding them at all. You crave them. Perhaps that’s just my beginner writer mindset talking and perhaps adverbs really do represent crutches for desperate, unsure writers, but I simply don’t feel like parting ways with them. At least, not yet.

I have been writing for as long as I can remember. And, for as long as I can remember, my writing has primarily been in English and not my mother tongue. I couldn’t elaborate on that. It simply is the way it is. I’m in my early twenties, attending Uni (an English major, go figure, very original), volunteering, making sure I visit my Gran as often as possible, fighting my cat’s urinary infection, travelling, trying to spend decent amounts of time with my family and friends. It’s fair to say that, although reading takes up a decent chunk of my time and is an activity I could never give up, writing is somewhat neglected. The semesters are chaotic little three-month units packed with exams, tests, essays, presentations, classes, seminars and so forth. For fast learners, that presents no problem. I know people who pass all exams with flying colours, all while maintaining a healthy social life, cooking their own meals, going to the gym, volunteering, travelling and what not, the kind of people who learn 90% of what needs to be learned in class. Try as I might, I am not, nor will I ever be one of those people. My studies frequently leave me awake till the wee hours of the morning, studying till my eyes begin to bleed with a sort of stubborn determination one can only find in slow learners. I’m not trying to make excuses for neglecting writing, I’m just telling it as it is. Ok, I may be trying to make excuses just a little bit…

Where was I going with this again? Not sure. Anyway, I’ve accumulated gobs of work in the past twenty years or so. My mum recently found a poem which I had written back when I eleven or twelve, consisting entirely of the word ‘kill’ repeated over and over again across three pages of her old recipe book. What can I say, mum, you raised a sociopath. Or maybe that’s just the mindset of any prepubescent girl? My work has never been published, since it’s almost exclusively in English, though a few stories of mine have found themselves on several writing sites. So far, my work has mostly been preparatory. Probably none of it is any good, but it’s been preparing me for what’s to come and has served its purpose in honing my skills. Some say your real good writing begins in your twenties, other say thirties, others still forties. Whatever the case, I feel like I’m ready to slowly put an end to the work I’ve been writing so far, finish everything that’s left to finish and tie all the loose ends before moving on to my ‘real writing’. It’s going to take some time, since I have several unfinished projects I can seldom afford to work on, but I predict it’s all going to be done and dusted before I graduate.
Anyway, another aspect I’m having a lot of trouble with is ‘show, don’t tell’. I’ve never believed in astrology and the behavioural patterns lurking behind horoscope signs, simply because I never behaved the way my sign is supposed to behave. When you think of a Virgo, what’s more – a female Virgo, your mind is probably already predestined to conjure up an image of a dainty creature, as perfect and as polished as an idealised anime girl, her organisational skills bar none, all neat and tidy and a bit too prim and proper. Being a self-proclaimed bull in a china shop, my room messy, my car messy, my hair dishevelled and afraid of the brush, my clothes ripped or smeared with yesterday’s meal, I’m the furthest thing away from a Virgo. Yet, as I grow older, I’m beginning to notice a few patterns that invariably remind me of the textbook example of a Virgo. My flat and car may be messy, the dishes in my sink may be reaching seven-dwarfs heights and I may not pay much attention to my clothes being all wrinkly even when I go out, but my mind is very much Virgo. I don’t make lists, yet my head is full of them. I have an analytical mind that’s always in the fifth gear. I’m the kind of person that likes explaining things thoroughly and that appreciates things being thoroughly explained to me. I suspect that’s why I’m having trouble with ‘show, don’t tell’. I show, but I do a Hell of a lot of telling as well. Just look at this paragraph and how much it has taken me to convey that simple fact. There’s another issue there – I like my style. I like it a lot. I suspect it suits the analytical, introverted, navel-gazing brats such as myself a lot. Others, not so much.

For instance, I experienced a lovely moment with a fascinating young man a couple of weeks ago. He hugged me. I know it doesn’t sound very spectacular, but it was his child-like innocence, refreshing idealism, a positive outlook, the conversation leading up to it and his overt interest in me that had made that moment memorable, even magical. It had taken me roughly two and a half hours to retell that scene to my friend later on. I kept digressing into minor details, the weather conditions of that particular day, his views on equestrian sports, the skirt that I had been wearing and so forth. And while I’m certainly not in love, not even infatuated with him, and have already placed him firmly in the friendzone (sorry, H.), I definitely found that moment very adorable and lovely and felt like telling it. Only, it didn’t feel as if I was retelling a scene from my own life to my friend. It may have seemed like that to her, but what I was actually doing was narrating. I was telling a story, kind of detached from it, as if it had happened to one of my characters and not to me. I kept digressing so much that she could barely keep up with me. I could barely keep up with my own thoughts and frequently made brief pauses in order to remind myself of what it was that I was actually trying to say. You can spot that clearly in one of the paragraphs above. I had a point, I just know I had a point I was trying to get across in that passage, yet I kept digressing so much that, in the end, I lost it.

And therein lies the greatest problem when it comes to my writing. I’ll digress again. 🙂 A couple of weeks ago, we were asked to write a short story for our grammar class. I decided to take a different approach and experiment with a minimalist style, not only for the sake of experimenting and challenging myself to write in a way I wasn’t accustomed to, but also because we had a thousand word limit to work within. Our grammar professor graded the stories based on grammar, tenses, conjunction and vocabulary and our literature professor graded it based on the stories’ literary quality. Sounds reasonable. They later got together and agreed upon a final grade. I got a ten. Both professors lauded my story in front of the entire class, simultaneously making me blush and making me vaunt (internally). Yet, beneath the smiling veneer, I felt somewhat uneasy. I wondered how my story would have been graded and how much it would’ve been praised, had I decided not to experiment with minimalism and kept to my usual style.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I like my story. I like the end result. I like reading minimalistic works. But, that style… It’s just not my cup of tea when it comes to writing. I had to work against myself a lot to finish it and submit it the way it was. I would never opt for minimalism if given a choice. And that brings me to the final and most torturous issue that reading On Writing has raised for me. What if my work will only get to enjoy success and appreciation of the readers if I write against myself? If I follow the well-established rules and ignore my innate desire for over-description and digressing? Should I follow the rules which will supposedly help me grow as an author or follow my heart and my instincts, even though that may lead to my work being considered bad or of lesser quality? And, mind you, these are not just Stephen King’s rules; ‘show, don’t tell’ is an age-old rule which writers have been advocating since forever. Maybe I am capable of producing better-quality work, but simply don’t enjoy all the rules that come with that. That is certainly one of the topics I’ll discuss with Mr. King if I ever get to meet him and somehow persuade him to take a stroll with me.

I feel like I may have focused entirely too much on the craft part of this book, while largely downplaying the importance of its first part, the so-called C.V. in which King weaves the tale of his life. Perhaps because the craft part is the freshest in my mind. As I’ve already mentioned, parts of his life were spectacular, while other parts were mundane. But, none of them were ever boring, at least not to me as a reader. I especially enjoyed that phase before the breakthrough success of Carrie, while Stephen and Tabitha were juggling kids and jobs and struggling financially. Though I’m sure they didn’t enjoy living through such trying times half as much as I enjoyed reading about them. There’s something about success after a period of struggling that I’ve always appreciated. Call it ‘the underdog syndrome’ or a ‘rags to riches’ story. It’s not even about money and the financial aspect of the story, but about your hard work being appreciated and rewarded.
I just remembered another aspect I’d like to discuss, regarding showing and not telling. Some people have called my characters too self-aware. I know they are and I’m proud of them for being that way. Has it ever happened to you that you’re watching a movie or reading a book in which a character says something along the lines of “I don’t understand what’s happening to me?”, all the while showing classic signs and symptoms of something? I don’t want my characters to be that daft and when I see other people’s characters acting that way, I invariably ask myself – have these people ever heard of Stockholm syndrome? Depression? Survivor’s guilt? Post-traumatic stress disorder? Menopause? Mid-life crisis? Quarter-life crisis? Well, my characters have. They’re well-read, or at least informed enough about this world to figure out what’s happening to them without a doctor’s note specifying it. For example, I hate depression. Not the state (although there’s lots to hate about it), but the word ‘depression’ itself. I feel like it is being thrown around way too lightly. There are real people out there suffering from real depression, so, no – you do not get to use that word just because you’re on your period, or your team loses a match or, God forbid, your favourite literary character dies. But, there are times when your characters truly are depressed. Hey, it happens, nothing you can do about it. I will not be telling you that they’re depressed. They are going to tell you themselves. I don’t consider this a transgression of the sacred ‘show, don’t tell’ rule. I simply believe in my characters enough to trust that they can figure out what’s happening to them and read all the signs and symptoms for themselves. In today’s world, you don’t have to be a genius to know what’s going on. You just need access to the internet. Or, at the very least, a well-stocked medical library.


What about you? Are you a fledgling writer yourself? What’s your best quality as an author? What’s your worst? Any heartbreaking rejections or criticisms of your work? Go on, share, embarrass yourself in the comments section, it builds character.

Keep writing, my dear strangers 🙂

Shakespeare Month: Macbeth


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Hello, my dear strangers!

I gave Macbeth five out of five stars. Justly earned, too! Definitely, definitely, definitely the best WS play I’ve ever read! I loved it so much! I don’t even know where to start.

Macbeth, our flawed protagonist, is a man of great potential. His prowess on the battlefield is one of his most striking features. The battlefield is where he feels at home the most. He was born to be a warrior and to die being a warrior, serving his king in the manner best suited to him. However, he rose beyond himself. With great desire come great temptations. Macbeth is a play with no easy answers. There are a lot of loose ends and unchecked assumptions left by its end. Scholars have been trying to decipher them for centuries, but ultimately, it’s all left for the reader’s own interpretation of the events.
For instance – the witches. They represent the ominous portents of fate and things beyond human comprehension, yet my own interpretation is slightly different. I don’t believe that their role was to profess the future, but rather that their aim was to meddle with humans for sport. They already possess an innate understanding of human psyche and are quite aware of what’s going on around them and they use that knowledge to spur on weak souls, again – for sport. They knew that Macbeth had received the title of thane of Cawdor much earlier than he did and they used this to make him believe they could see the future. Everything else, in my opinion, happened because humans did it and the witches knew they’d do it, not because they’re psychic, but because they possess a profound understanding of the human psyche.

Take Banquo. I don’t believe his son will ever become a king for two reasons – firstly, he knows nothing of the witches’ prophecy and secondly – he has no desire to take the throne. Banquo could have acted differently upon hearing the prophecy. He could’ve taken steps to insure that his children would take the crown. But, he didn’t. It was a conscious choice. Macbeth, on the other hand, never would have dreamed of taking the crown, had it not been for the witches. Yes, ambition did linger in his heart, but he never would’ve acted on it. That is the crucial difference, in my opinion. The witches’ prophecy does set in motion the play’s plot, not because it’s an accurate reading of the future, but because the characters themselves chose to pursue it or ignore it, respectively.
Lady Macbeth is one of the most remarkable heroines of Shakespeare’s to grace the stage. Her strong presence, intense ambition and ever-so-shakeable psyche are superbly portrayed. One might argue that the Bard was a bit of a chauvinist, given his slightly misogynistic portrayal of female characters within the play. After all, it is women who initiate the play’s chaotic chain of events and it is women who demand that they persist till the bloody end, spurring on male characters and providing encouragement and support when they waver. Misogynistic or not, Lady Macbeth’s nature is still a compelling one. As a woman living in a certain age when a sundry of societal norms exist to limit her desires, Lady Macbeth acts the one way she can and uses the only weapon available to her – manipulation. She openly defies her husband, mocks him, berates his manhood and manliness, provoking him and challenging him. Her ambition is even greater than Macbeth’s. So is her guilt. Her earlier statements that it only takes a bit of water to wash their hands clean of Duncan’s murder are later countered by her heavy conscience. She begins sleepwalking, hallucinating, blabbing on about their crime, slowly descending into madness until the breaking point when she decides to take her own life.

Macbeth, ironically, ends his back in his rightful place. He used to be a warrior. Then he became a king. Nevertheless, he suffered a warrior’s death, hacking away at enemies on the battlefield, until being slain. The play begins and ends with him as a warrior, a position he never should have abandoned. In reaching too high, in placing blind faith in the words of three haggard witches, Macbeth seals his own fate. He could’ve been a great man. Hey, a thane of Cawdor, that’s not a bad title at all! However, his potent ambition ironically proved to be his demise.

Another excellent theme of the play which I find extremely interesting is the one of gender roles. Lady Macbeth is described as woman with manly qualities. She gets what she wants by poking fun at her husband’s manhood, equating his hesitation to commit murder with impotence. Note how this royal couple has no children. In a similar manner, Macbeth manipulates the assassins to slay Banquo – by questioning their masculinity. In many of the characters’ eyes, being a man equals being ruthless and violent. Even Banquo, a character many see as grounded and sensible, uses his last breath to urge his son to avenge his death. Not to forgive, not to forget, not to make deals, simply to “act as a man” and solve his problems with violence. Lady Macbeth herself notes that she would like to be “unsexed”, so that she could murder on her own, without having to rely on a hesitant husband. In some ways, the play may even be interpreted as liberating to women, since it at least acknowledges the limits women were expected to live within. Lady Macbeth’s frustration at being trapped in a dress is a strong echo of thousands of female voices who have felt just as trapped and frustrated throughout history.
Yet, there is one character out there who doesn’t equate manliness with violence and bloodshed. And, interestingly enough, it is a male character. Upon hearing the news of his wife and children’s deaths at the hands of Macbeth, Macduff experiences a sort of pain no one wishes to feel. Malcolm, the young heir to the throne, urges him to take it as a man and channel his grief into ire, yet Macduff answers that he must first feel it as a man. Obviously, there’s more to being a man than simply spilling enemy guts. A profound loss such as one Macduff experiences simply has to be processed, no matter how primitively and harshly within the bounds of an earlier, tougher era. To become a man, a boy must first learn to feel. And that is one of the greatest lessons that Malcolm, the future king of Scotland, learns.

And that concludes my Shakespeare month. Hope you enjoyed. Keep reading 🙂