To Anyone Who Might Criticise Me

All told, I've had a pretty shitty August and September. These two months have been filled with shitty people telling me shit; not taking responsibility for their bullshit words and behaviour; and carrying on like that shit don't stick.
Well I've had enough of this crap.
My home-made 'die you shitty people' voodoo spells have failed miserably - I am left with enough frozen chicken parts to last till next spring - so I have resorted to a (borrowed) response, which does not contain any foul language or four-letter words.
This response comes courtesy of the wonderful h l mencken whom I shall now paraphrase. You see, this guy thought of how to confound his critics before their bullshit criticsims rained. Now that's some super foresight. He wrote a letter titled (and this is where the paraphrasing starts), 'To Anyone Who Might Criticise Me', and it goes a little like this:

Dear xxx

I am sitting in the smallest room in my house [and y'all know which room that is] with your letter of criticism before me. Very soon it will be behind me.

h l mencken

My Blogger's Prayer

Oh merciful Father
in Heaven above
send me a super freak geek
to love

Someone who knows
how to link to Youtube
Then cut, splice and paste
like that's all he's been used to

It's the least he should know
cos I got cool tings to show
like poetry jaming
and Floetry's floe

After the blogosphere
we'll retire via the stairs
for playtime and cheer
but nothing too sleazy
just your average freak, yeah?

I can see it right now
oh and how,
people will quote
from my great blog of note
and yes, I will gloat
and say, 'oh I just hooked up,
with this super cool bloke'.





(copyright: writer girl)

Blog on

Big up to all the bloggers in Burma, Afganistan, Pakistan and Sudan. The truth shouts out from the hidden flicker of your computer screens.

This week's O.P.P (Other Person's Poem)

This week's poem is Still I Rise by Maya Angelou. (www.poemhunter.com/poem/still-i-rise/)

I always imagine the narrator to be like Celie from The Colour Purple, or a would-be Beyonce without an audience or hope for success, or even a modern day female banker who is fed up of being bullied at work . In any case, it is punching-the-air category poetry. Rise, people!

Come Alive

During a recent WW spat one author said something like, 'I'd rather be alive, and I'm not alive if I'm not writing, and being read.'

Well, I say a big Amen to the being read part; I can't wait to see my book on the shelf of some funky bookstore (independent or otherwise, I ain't bothered) with a white post it note saying 'Store Staff Picks' stuck on the front.... Man, I get goose bumps just thinking about it.

But the statement itself, about being alive and writing made me think about what writing really means to me. Because lately, I have been thinking about giving up. My reasons are quite straightforward really. Writing takes time and what with a busy corporate job, three hour daily commute, and sole responsiblity for a child who needs more than just love to grow into a confident well-adjusted human being, I sometimes wonder how much of that precious time is being needlessly frittered away by this solitary tap tapping on my laptop.

How many friends have I dissed, how many evenings out missed because I have to write?

When I think about it, anything well almost any other hobby, would be less isolating and time-consuming. I could take up origami, flower pressing, even mud wrestling and be free of these characters in my head. What's more, I would not have to be alone to do any of the three, although the concept of solo mud wrestling sounds like self-abuse by another name...

But seriously though. I have been thinking about this for some time so I decided, last week, to give up writing. I looked around me, exhaled and thought, yes! Now for some real living. Instead of all that compulsive writing, I'm going to socialise.

So I dusted off my old party clothes, polished the handbag and shoes and waited. But the phone did not make a sound. That was the hardest part. I was not, as I had always imagined, suddenly innundated with invitations from wild and interesting people to accompany them to wild and interesting places. I waited and waited but nothing happened. Then I decided to watch more television and films, but that soon became oppressive as I started thinking of great story lines for my own book.
Worst of all, The Child did not really appreciate me trying to interfere with Barbie play with, story lines that just do not fit the genre. Whoever heard of Barbie and her friends discussing the meaning of life and playing the money markets whilst Ken looks on, happy in the knowledge that his sole purpose in life is to lie face down on the carpet?
I was told that my story was boring and silly.

So like a repentent lover who knows he has much grovelling to do, I flipped open the lid of my lap top and looked lovingly at my work in progress. Aaah! My heart skipped a beat; my mouth felt like it does as I am about to pop a piece of fried fish into it....

Sigh. It feels good to be back. It takes a lot of heartache, juggling and pain but what can I say, it's great to be writing again.

O.P.P (Other People's Poems)

The lovely Anne Brookes (see the link to her blog on the right) has a Poem A Week on her blog so, not being as prolific as she is, I decided to post a link to a favourite poem of mine each week. This week's poem of choice is Invisible Kisses by the wonderful Lemn Sissay. http://www.lemnsissay.com/poems/index.htm
I suggest you lie down in a dark candle lit room while your intended recites this to you. Let the words wrap around you, and fall in love all over again...

MC SlickP

Like most writers I like new and unusual stories. I know very little about rap music but I love the idea of this new rapper who has a different story to tell from the usual (I know I may be prejudiced). I met SlickP the rapper about a week ago and was struck by his African/European/Urban/Corporate vibe. Good luck, Slick P

Cracking Funnies

What makes you laugh? The punch line at the end of a joke or your own intelligent memory?

I went to a live comedy show the other night and noticed that even the 'experimental' acts were great story tellers. Those who succeeded in making the folk on my table laugh - and believe me, I was the only person laughing at the lame jokes - were able to weave lots of potentially funny 'building blocks' in their narrative build up so that once we were at the punch line, it was easy to reflect on the entire story and then erupt into fits of uncontrollable laughter. But did we laugh at our own cleverness at being able to join up all the dots in the story? I don't know.


There was also a cultural dimension to this. The acts that did well were very English, self-deprecating, 'I can't get laid/this is my come face/I'm a bit weird' type acts. This is in stark contrast to some of the Def Comedy acts on YouTube which seem to be much more concerned with advising women on (in a humorous way, of course) how to keep their men from behaving badly...


And the comedy on African television shows seems to be based on ridiculing superstition or the lack of sophistication.


Funny old world really...

Feel the fear and do it anyway

They say that money makes the world go round. But I disagree. I think it's fear. Fear of rejection and the loneliness that comes with being left on the shelf, fear of being too happy or vulnerable, fear of growing old and unattractive, fear of missing the boat, fear of ending up with nothing, fear of never achieving the dream, fear of reaching the dream and finding out its not enough, fear of finally realising that it's not them but you who are irredeemably dysfunctional, fear of not stacking up, fear of being too different, fear of failure, fear of success and how to maintain a winning edge, fear of what the neighbours will think, fear of how God will judge....fear fear fear.

Fear can make you foolish. At fourteen, I was so worried that my sophisticated class mates would turn their noses up at my (fairly invisible) dandruff that I washed my hair in skin-scorchingly potent disinfectant which burnt my scalp...

I had no hair for a long time but hey, everyone said it suited me.

Another time, I was so upset at being considered 'too thin' (yeah, things are back to front in Africa), that I stuffed myself with great big handfuls of kenkey last thing at night, in an attempt to wake up 'fat and healthy looking'. This just gave me excruciating indigestion; but maybe I was more greedy than fearful.

In any case, I think a little blue pill (or red if you so fancy) that could banish all fear would far outsell the pill for a broken heart and the one for a flat stomach.

In fact, I'm just waiting for someone to make such a pill. When they do, I'm going to go down to my local pharmacy to get me a bucket load.

I made it to Bookslam

I have never really felt the need to blog about single mummyhood because, well, these days there are so many of us around doing our thing: basking in the ecstasy of motherhood; striving to bring up a 'just as good as' child; becoming financially astute; fantasising about a social life beyond the endless kiddie parties, fun fairs and God knows what else.

I might be unusual in this regard but on those rare occasions when I do happen to slither out of my front door, I hardly ever choose the venue or outing. I guess it's because I can't really believe I am escaping and so just go with the flow. Either way, be it an invitation to the cinema or a work related social event, I very rarely do what I want to do....

But all that is about to change because I finally made it to Bookslam. Billed as 'clubbing for grown ups', last week's Bookslam was everything I expected it to be and more. The poetry and readings, the music (check out Vula on MySpace), the crowd, the vibe, the Thai/Chinese food served in American style cartoon thingies....it was like finding an African restaurant serving kenkey and fish in the middle of the Scottish Highlands. I spent the entire evening grinning at anyone who would make eye contact, thrilled at my little find.

And when I came home, I was still so excited that I danced around my room.