I share the sense of humour that Julian Barnes seems to have but I do like a good story. I mean I wouldn't write a novel like Talking It Over even though it's really funny and the characters are these really neurotic half-grown individuals (slightly cultured and well-read) that half the world seems to be now. The other half comprises people who are smart, incisive, boring, can do arithmetic in their head and have clear views on Maoists as the Enemy of the State.
I am slightly feverish and irritated with everything. Today I wanted to destroy my charger. I felt like a character out of Virginia Woolf's fiction. Or even Anita Brookner. I could feel my consciousness oozing out of the pores of my skin and destroying the charger. By gad, I wish I could be less the protagonist of a Booker-nominated novel and more a 21 year old with mere issues. Why do I say Booker-nominated? Because these novels don't win anymore. They're all boring, all, all- even the ones that win. It was really funny that Kiran Desai called that horribly boring novel what she did. I mean, so apt. Her mother didn't win so she did. I'd call it the The Inheritance of Loss As Gain. Thankfully not in two volumes.
So I see my charger creeping into my phone, violating it, ravaging it, making it throb with current electricity. Everyday they do it. Excuse the sexual metaphor. I hated the charger. I felt like crushing it. (Don't psychoanalyze me this once.) Making it powder and then going out for fancy coffee. Alone, with P.G. Wodehouse in my bag for company. Or Wendy Cope who writes exquisite poems on hehe. Haha. Mwahahahahahaha. Find out for yourself.
I don't know why I can't be a fatally interesting novelist. I really don't know. I must try too. I am sure I could write about The Tiger that Ate My Libido In a Sea of Marijuana in three volumes. It will be about the depraved, wasted, stressed out youth in some century. A grand trilogy in all earnest. Well developed characters and global concerns. Horrendously subtly beautiful language.
Ooooh. I know why I can't.
When I win the Bookers
I hope- them awful lookers-
I'll tell them a rather nasty truth
Them bitchy, filthy hookers!
~addressed to men and women who have been "nasty" to me all my life. :D and there have been plenty, plenty, plenty. Comes from being snotty, potty, and spotty. Perhaps also haughty.