Cyclones and eavesreaders

Not that I wish to complain, people.
But I've only just lived down Hurricane Wilma, and now I've got to deal with Cyclone Wilma; and this time it is not simply trying to hunt down and kill my management structure off in Mexico somewhere, it's coming to where I live and looking for me.
This complicates my life on several levels., some of them obvious. One of them is this : I like to do my writing on the ferry - to work and from work. This is obviously a creatively ambient atmosphere and all, but more importantly, you get a lot of elbow room. When the ferry gets cancelled - this happens in high wind; and only happens to the Gulf Harbour ferry, because it is the only one whose route is not protected by Rangitoto (yes, in this part of the world we are protected BY volcanoes rather than FROM volcanoes) the ferry company puts on a bus. Which is fine, but there goes the elbow room, and, it seems, the personal bubble. There is a certain lady who seems to seek me out on the bus and sits next to me and reads whatever I'm writing.
Anyone else find that offputting? I tilt the book at an impossible angle and she actually cranes her neck to carry on. I find myself so off track after a few minutes of this that I start writing werewolf p0rn.
She seems to like reading that, too.

How Not to Meet Your Neighbour

We have a new neighbour. She has a huge deck, which overlooks our house, and two dogs complete the package. One is large and deep of woof, the other is smaller than our cat. I know this for a fact, as we emerged from our house last week on Saturday to find said cat arching his back in readiness for dog shredding, nose to nose with small dog, who obviously doesn't understand the Cat for I-will-floss-my-teeth-with-your-innards. I dived on the cat, Daughter dived on the dog, who beat it back whence he came - which, as it turns out, is through an extremely small hole in the fence behind the garage. The owner-lady emerged and we agreed we would put Something over the hole - she already has the gates blocked so that the dog can't get out, since he also doesn't understand the Car for You-Are-Roadkill.
We nailed netting over the gap, and she subsequently wandered up with a large plank which we used to reinforce the barrier; Small Dog has not returned, so I assume he is Minding The Gap.
He has developed an annoying yapping habit, which she is slowly bringing under control.
Last Friday, a friend, Martin, popped by with his drill, to help Son and me get a biltong box constructed. We worked on our deck, to the drill-WOOF-drill-WOOF symphony. Engaged in explaining to Martin exactly how the box needs to be ventilated, when the neighbour hushed the dog and called out something to me, I gaily called back, "Yes, but don't worry, the barking doesn't bother us that much!" Sons' open-mouthed expression alerted me to the fact that something was Not Quite Right about that statement, so I looked back at her to see her staring at me with a backing-off-now look on her face.
Apparently what she had shouted was "I have a huge rat in the kitchen - do you have problems with rats over there?"

7th January MeMe

It’s January 7^th 2011. I’m remembering January 7^th 1980. It was the last holiday I had with my Mum. Aunty Nancy came too. We went to Amanzimtoti, on the South Coast of South Africa, by train; my Mum was no longer up for the drive even if I did it. It was an eventful trip; you left at night – always – and arrived at Durban by 8, in time for a hurried change for ‘Toti. We’d brought sandwiches and all that to save money; and we picked up a stray.  You always picked up a stray with Aunty Nancy. She was carrying an awkward bundle and wearing a thick jacket in the heat; and she seemed almost hunched. We muscled our way into a compartment – OK, Aunt Nancy did that – and then she finally relaxed. Her name was Alexis; I told her that was so exotic, and she asked me what ‘exotic’ meant. She took off her coat once the ticket inspector had gone. She had a pet budgie under her arm, and she was carrying a sewing-machine, it belonged to her dead mother.

As always, Aunt Nancy knew exactly what to say.

“Did you want a ham sandwich or a chicken one?”  

I remember thinking it was all vaguely like a war movie;  there were lots of ‘troopies’ (South African National Servicemen) on the train; and Aunt Nancy definitely received and enhanced the flirtatious gene in the family. We had left the door open for air and soon the passing soldiers were yelling, “Hey, Nancy!” as they passed back and forth. Alexis,  having opened up enough to accept sandwiches and salad,  had closed back up again, and was staring at nothing much. One of the troopies dared my mothers’ glare enough to ask me, “Are you going to play that thing, or is it just for brags?” and Alexis looked up at my guitar and said, “I’ll sing if you do.”

Aunt Nancy never stopped talking about that night.

Alexis had a lovely singing voice, and we learned to harmonise really quickly. Eventually there were troopies gathered all down the corridor of our compartment and into the doors of any left open by families who realised that they were just boys away from their families, wanting to concentrate on something else than being away from home, for a while. Some sang, some clapped in time; we never had trouble making ourselves heard. It’s the biggest audience I’ve ever played to and I didn’t need a microphone.

By two, the conductor was making polite but suggestive noises, and the party wound down quietly. Well, aside from Aunt Nancy’s standing ovation. Mum and Aunt Nancy were out pretty quickly. I heard Alexis talking to her budgie and we both knew he couldn’t answer. We kept our voices down.

She lived in Durban. She had been through a difficult time since the family divorce; she loved her parents and found it difficult to divide her love as they seemed to expect her to do, especially given her Dad was in Durban and her Mum was in Johannesburg; so she found a boyfriend to act as one target for all the concentric circles of her love, and we all know how well that works out.

Then her Mum died, so suddenly. While her Dad was making practical arrangements that drove her mad with their slowness and apparent lack of grieving, she picked an epic fight with him, and ran out into the night where her willing boyfriend drove her straight north. Shock takes a while to catch up with you and grief closes off other senses, so by the time she figured out that there was actually a price tag attached to that drive there was only just enough time to seize the nearest mementos – the sewing machine and the budgie – before running to the stranger neighbours and throwing herself on their mercy.

They phoned her Dad; they made the travel arrangements, they got her to the station; all while we were packing and making sandwiches.

She cried less after the sewing-machine-heist section of the story.

So, okay, I slept with a girl in adult form. Also, a budgie.

When we were getting ready for – detraining? – the next morning, Alexis warned me that she would not hug goodbye, as she was going to have to hold tight to herself to face her Dad after what she had done to him. I said that was all good; I’d written our address down and given it to her so she could write if she wanted. She frowned hard, and said that she thought if she was going to get to be a grown-up she would need to cut a few things off. Like pruning flowers.

A note to my younger readers. 1980. A lot of people still used the term grown-up for adult. And a lot of people in Durban are brilliant gardeners, given the climate.

She stepped off the train into her Dad’s arms the next day; but none of us thought it would be any other way. I don’t think she could see any of us through her tears; and my Afrikaner upbringing dictates that you move away in those moments.

Also, we had a train to catch.

As the Facebook Turns

Intrigued to find one Stefan Salvatore on my daughters’ Facebook friends list (yes, I stalk my daughter to make sure she’s talking to people I know about)  I clicked on his picture. This solved the mystery; he is apparently married to my daughters’ school friend. So that’s all right then, so long as he isn’t a stranger. And he has a brother, which is reassuring, particularly as the brother is a billionaire who apparently studied at Harvard. Ah, Facebook, where would we be without you?

Since my coffee was by now cold, I typed the name Stefan Salvatore into Google, which led me to IMDB, which  in turn revealed that the two brothers in question are characters in a TV series, called The Vampire Diaries. What with the title being a bit of a spoiler and all, I read the provided storyline, and fell over dead.

“Carlisle Cullen and his coven Two vampire brothers, eternal adolescents, have been leading 'normal' lives, hiding their bloodthirsty condition, for centuries, moving on to Forks before their non-aging is noticed. They are back in the Virginia town where they became vampires, as high school students. Edward Angel Stefan is noble, denying himself blood to avoid killing, and tries to control his evil brother Spike Jasper Damon. Edward Angel Stefan falls in love with schoolgirl Buffy Bella Elena, whose best friend Willow is a witch, like her grandma.”

I swear,  my ribs are aching. The possibilities are just endless. The Corner Lurking Loss Support Society! The Spell and Study Glee Club!

I had to do it. I had to go and read the episode guide, and it improved the already-surreal quality of my life tremendously.

“We meet the orphans, Sookie and Jason Elena and Jeremy Gilbert who are living with their grandmother aunt Jenna in Mystic Falls, Virginia. Elena is adjusting to her new life by taking lessons from Buffy making entries in her journal in the local cemetery and hanging out with her friends Bonnie and Caroline. Jason Jeremy, on the other hand, enjoys dealing drugs, getting high and chasing after anything in a skirt Vicki Donovan who is more into Jeremy's friend Tyler.”

Bless them, there’s a Tyler. Please tell me he has a crushable van?

“The episode ends with Bill Angel Stefan going over to Sookie’s Buffy’s Elena's house and getting invited in!”

Edward could FIX this for you, guys. You could totally bypass the inviting stuff! Edward, remember the oil for the window!

I started to read Episode 2 and I gave up because my mascara is now all over my desk and I don’t think I can stand very much more. I leave you with this :

“We are then brought to see Edward and Bella Stefan and Elena writing about liking each other in Twilight and Midnight Sun their diaries and being busted in English History class for staring at each other.”

I have found a new cure for depression.

Musings on fanfic

This came to mind because Daughter had another Sleepless Episode last night, and since Dad had told her in disgruntled fashion that she was getting too old to come up and sleep with us because it meant he didn't get a good nights' rest; she came up and stood by the door and sobbed instead, refusing flat out to come in and lie down; I ended up going back downstairs with her . She comes by her stubbornness honestly, I will say. At these times she really just needs talking down on any of a variety of subjects; and last night (via a complicated route) I explained that social icons don't mean the same thing to everyone. I told her of a talented writer I knew who had written a novel and was asking as many people at work as possible to read it, and many did. Darth Vader features significantly in this novel; I mean that literally. Every time he shows up for a heart-to-heart, you know the character is having a Significant Moment. Also possibly risking his friends and family staging an intervention. Anyway, the point is, my team leader at the time achieved the near-impossible feat of silencing me totally by asking me, rather irritably, who Darth Vader was.
Yes. I worked for the only man in the Western World who had not see any of the Star Wars movies.
I was still getting over the gobsmackitiness of that moment in hindsight when Daughter asked seriously, "Why do people use other peoples' characters?"
I told her that I think they sometimes do it to allow themselves to focus less on character development and more on story. I mean, when Dracula shows up in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, we all know what it means. There's no point in elegant and detailed word pictures of how he got to be what he is, or any need to invest him with some redeeming qualities because let's face it, you don't build a snowman for cuddling purposes. Once he's in the story, he's the emblem of ultimate evil and strength, potentially the final nemesis of the Slaying One, and we can all concentrate on how many shades of agony Angel can faceflash per scene, how many foot-changes Zander can fit in his mouth and whether Willow is finally going to prove that it is in fact possible to die of empathy. All the budget can go into the action scenes., and there's even going to be time for a few Flashbacks Of Rich Costumery.
An extreme example of this is The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.  The characters are so well embedded in the collective social psyche there's no need to spend time in backstories explaining how they got to be as extraordinary as they are; you just know that Quartermain will be resourceful most extraordinaire; Captain Nemo will overcome plot-holes with flair and technology and Mina Harker will go batshit in the literal sense and rematerialise fanged up and feisty. It all aids in the willing suspension of belief and allows the film the luxury of covering a lot of action.
So perhaps, in a sense, using other people's characters in this way is just a way of using symbols and icons, and I do not mean that in a Hollywood sense.
Writers - and filmmakers - don't just use other peoples' characters though - they use stories. Many of Shakespeares' stories reappear as something 'rich and strange' - and he was not always the first one to write those stories. Some fairy stories have many retellings and reinterpretations - some lighthearted, some less so.
Russian literature and early African literature have in common that they employ leitmotifs - symbols that mean something to their hearers and provide shortcuts. In any African story, if the protagonist is fighting his way back to see his family and lightning splits the sky while he's on his journey, you can bet he's in for at least one funeral.
I think it's the way of all literature to evolve to the use of leitmotifs, and the age and sophistication of those leitmotifs reflects the age and sophistication of the civilisation behind it; if the novel was the bark of the tree, the leitmotifs would be the rings you could count cutting through it.
So, literature evolves, that's not really headline news. And the process seems organic and harmless.
Then there's fanfic.
You can't stop it; and the Internet has fuelled its growth along mutant lines. You can't stop it because you can't police it - for one thing it would be physically impossible and for another fanfic sites - with originators of any sense - carry disclaimers everywhere; on the site, on every page and in most cases at the top of each story. Authors can't trademark characters - and, in any case, which character do you trademark, J.K Rowling Snape , or Alan Snape Rickman? I can guarantee you that if you so desired you could sit down and scribble the story of Helen Potter, girl magician, who spends seven years of her life fleeing from supernatural creatures, and until you actually tried to flog that manuscript to some agent (who presumably lives in a hole under a rock in Kazakhstan, or else you've found my old team leader)  nobody could get you for a thing; but after that you'd be hunting lawyers faster than you can pronounce plagiarism.
Authors are divided on the subject of fanfic, and I think the dividing line is this one, what harm can it do?
Can it do harm at all?
I would guess that 90% of the time that answer is no. It may even keep a few TwiMoms behind their computers instead of stalking Robert Pattinson, and that's a good thing; the boy looks haunted enough already.
Here's my take though. As with everything else, it's OK when the fanficcers have their feet firmly on the ground, and no trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality. And remembering that standard disclaimer regarding fanfics : "These characters belong to The Real Author and We Are Only Borrowing Them" .
I've been trying to find an interview I read years ago, with a well-known author, who I think MIGHT have been Diana Gabaldon. But I could be wrong; and if I am I apologise. She said she had two problems with fanfic/fan letters containing fanfic (ie suggestions - because, people, if you're writing to an author and telling them what you think their characters should do, then its fanfic)
-What if she read something that contained a plot twist/direction she had already written but not published? Aside from the legal worries - and despite the fact that she would likely win it is not fun to spend years of your life tied up in legal proceedings I KNOW THIS WELL! - it would be difficult to go on writing with the mental changes someone else had suddenly thrown at you. Kind of like choosing the style of your wedding dress and telling you to go ahead and pick any colour you wanted.
-What if she read something that contained a plot twist/direction she wanted to write - but now really didn't want to any more BECAUSE of the fanfic?
To me both of the above cases showcase the whose-character-is-it-anyway? danger of fanfic; and apply to the minority.
My only remaining argument is that I proofread - a lot - and have proofread some fanfic; and there are talented authors out there who need to take the last step - letting go of other peoples' characters and creating their own. Whether that's a danger or a regret, I can't tell.
Anyway, the good thing is that by this time, Daughter was snoring.

It's Not My Problem

So, here it is, Jan 1st 2011. Today I have spoken to four people; my husband, leaving for golf, my son, leaving for Warhammer. My daughter, not leaving for anywhere. And Chris.
Three years ago, I sold Chris my beloved retro Suzuki 250. I bought it from Holeshot Suzuki on the North Shore, and I used it for the work commute after Paul was made redundant; it saved us huge amounts in petrol (it cost a whopping $6 to fill it in those days and it needed filling once a week).
After a bad fall at Viponds Road (I was in the left lane, a van in the right lane decided he needed to go left, it had been raining off and on and the road surface was slippery) I lost my confidence (I used to ride a 500 but that was back when I was 22 and immortal and now I have children) so Volty got sold.
I had it serviced first and WOF'd (that's MOT'd for you in the UK and serviced-by-legal-requirement everywhere else in the world) by Holeshot.
A year later, after Chris had been riding it to work and back at Helensville military base, he took it for a WOF somewhere that wasn't Holeshot. It failed.It has a right American headlight; which as you can imagine in a country that nominally drives on the left is all wrong. I'm only thankful that the times of day it was being driven meant that Chris was never in danger.
What stopped me in my tracks was this : I thought a WOF was a WOF, no matter where you went in New Zealand. This revealed that there are lax standards in some places, which only get picked up when you go to other places. This fact was highlighted when Chris went back to Holeshot Suzuki, who claimed that the VIN number on the motorbike wasn't on their database.
The famous refrain, yet again. It's Not My Problem.
Chris, thankfully, does not give up easy.
He contacted Suzuki New Zealand, who looked up the VIN number (I know from my time working for Nissan UK that VIN numbers ARE unique) and confirmed that it was imported by Holeshot Suzuki and was therefore their responsibility.
Holeshot have since replaced the headlight at their own cost. I do not have feedback from Chris about how happy they were to do this.
It seems a lot of American-built bikes of the same type were imported at this time.
How many other bike-owners out there are at risk, because it is Not My Problem?