All posts tagged: memoir

The Perfect Moment

  We sit on the patio, eager to grab some sunshine and warmth. My birthday is nearly upon me and, as is usual around this day, I have been feeling moody and grumpy — and, most of all, I have been wondering where time can possibly be going to, and seemingly always with such indecent haste. And… and is it still stepping on the accelerator…?!? More…?!? Honestly! What does it want? Light speed…? Hasn’t it got enough already…? And why can’t it for once be kind a bit, take its time a bit, give people a bit of a breather…? Oh, the things I come up with! The very concept of time taking its time… Imagine such a thing! Maybe time taking its time, or stopping for a bit of a breather, would be as preposterous as expecting… expecting what? Anything, really. I don’t honestly know. The absurdity of possibility and impossibility, of life and the preordained, and Fate and Destiny. Of compliance and deviation. I don’t know what I expect. But what would it …

camp’s over…

  Phew, have I been busy this month! I mean, it’s not as if I did not expect to be busy this April, even a bit, erm, well, somewhat busier than usual. After all, I did register for #CampNaNoWriMo and set myself a target of 25,000 of the frequently elusive little buggers we trade in. I thought it would be a perfectly attainable goal while still attending to all my other usual daily grind, and still keep up with reading and reviewing — and, most important of all, sleeping. In my bid to came to my decision more or less scientifically, I had looked at last November, earnestly, quizzically: it’s true that I had very little sleep, and that did next to nothing else, but I had managed to come up with over the required 50,000 words… So, can you follow my reasoning? Halve the goal, and the time you save will allow you to do half  of the everything-else you would otherwise neglect… plus sleep, and if you sleep then work will be, will come easier, be it with words …

Doctor Who, Sydney Newman, and his autobiography.

Not being in Britain in the 1960s, I cannot say I knew much about it from back then — at least not first hand. But I was here in the 1980s, and then again in the 90s, and the Noughties, and the Tweenies… and then I did get it, first hand and avidly. So much so that I became one of those diehard fans who absolutely needed to hit the sofa at the right time or there’d be no end of hell to pay… What am I talking about? I’m talking about Doctor Who, of course, and his astonishing T.A.R.D.I.S.. What else? Ah, of course, the stories. The stories were something else. Everything about Doctor Who was something else. That is what I came to know. When I was here in the 1980s, an English friend told me that to really appreciate Doctor Who you needed perhaps to be able to tap into what makes ‘englishness’. I’m mentioning this only because I do have to confess that, used to imagining my sci-fi inside my head, …

‘Always Expect The Unexpected’

In the midst of all the upheaval in my life lately, I’ve been thinking of my Nan Marquinhas and my Great-Aunt Alice, and their seemingly incongruous ways, more often than usual. They were a steadying presence in my early childhood, and as I grew up I found them always full of a philosophy of life that felt natural and intuitive, but which often seemed to jar with the world around us. At least, they seemed to jar with the world as I was being allowed to perceive and learn in the city, where everything was new, glittering, fast — and passing me by. Life was changing in the village too, and though there I was far less sheltered than in the city, things somehow seemed more linear, and Great-Aunt’s and Nan’s pronunciations didn’t seen so out of place somehow. Maybe it’s just that city life appeared so glamorous and safe, so new and benign… I wonder how I could be so drawn to the unknown: was it because it was the world my parents inhabited? “Always …

reading the memoir in 2017 (part 1)

This spring and summer seem to be a good time for readers of adult nonfiction, with a good few of those releases belonging to the sub-genres of memoir and biography and coming out right in time for us to enjoy the great outdoors and the lovely, warm weather that we can but hope will follow. Undaunted as I still am on my learning journey throughout the genre, I intend to read a fair number of memoirs this year. The question now is, of course, which ones and where to start. Isn’t it always? So how about I start with a beckoning towards old loves? Because, when all is said and done, aren’t loves of old the most enduring ones? § Women’s memoirs Jess Phillips, Everywoman: One Woman’s Truth About Speaking the Truth It should come as no surprise then, at least to those who know me well or have been following me on social networks for any amount of time, that the first memoir I hope to be reading this year is a book a) by a woman, b) a woman who …