I know all the answers

Disturbingly, this blog is turning into an edition of "Children Say The Funniest Things".  Nevertheless, I am unrepentant and offer another episode.

N was leading me through the steps of a bizarre running-around-the-car-park game, involving two trips around the (imaginary) tree, jumping off a (low) kerb and taking "sip-steps" (whatever they are, but it looked a lot like stamping).  All of a sudden, apropos of nothing, she stopped, wagged her finger sternly and said, "Don't give me any answers.  Because, you know, I know all the answers."

At two years and nine months, she already values my knowledge and experience as worthless to her.  Maybe so, but until she either gets trousers without buttons, or learns how to do them up herself, she still needs me.

Later on, sitting in the car, me in the driver's seat, N on the driver's lap, the engine off (of course) but the CD player going full throttle, she gave me her critical appraisal of my taste in music.  "This is very nice, daddy.  But I have had enough of Nick Cave now."  Yes, he's good, but, as far as N is concerned, he's never going to write anything as good as the song with the la-la-la.

(For those who can't recognise it by that description - "She Called Up", by Crowded House.)

Some time ago, I said to J that I would use the word 'rapscallion' in this blog, at least in part because it is so unfairly underused that, simply by typing 'rapscallion' again, I have probably tripled its usage over the summer of 2008.  I was reminded of this intention when I saw it in the wonderful book "The Amazing Adventures Of Kavalier & Clay" (which, if there was any justice in the world, would have outsold all the Harry Potter books combined and which every sensible person should immediately buy and devour).

I cannot offer any more context or excuse for inserting the word 'rapscallion' here (again) but, as I am tangentially praising Michael Chabon's book, let me also say what a joy it was to see him referring to flanken, thereby making him only the second person that I am aware of even using the word.  The first person (AP) not only used the word, he also used the food to great effect.  And many thanks to "Bruce's" of Great Neck was cooking it even though, to a British tourist eye, the portion sizes didn't just border on the insane - they had crossed that border some years ago and never looked back.  We ordered a meal for three and at least seven hungry people probably couldn't have made it all the way through the food which arrived.  I'm not complaining - it was delicious and the boxed-up left-overs took us through the next three meals.

And, while on the subject of cultural differences, S phoned a hotel in the USA last night and mentioned that she was calling from "abroad".  We wondered afterwards whether the word is in as common usage as "a broad" and so whether, in turn, the lady at the reservations desk wondered why S would tell her that she was phoning from a woman.  Having just looked up the word on the internet, I discover that such a meaning is usually deemed offensive and can imply a lady of ill-repute.  The implications boggle the mind.

another summer birthday party

Tomorrow I celebrate another birthday, even though my actual birthday is not until the following day. And it looks as though the weather will be sweeping us indoors with our Pimms, our crisps, our fairy cakes and whatever other goodies the friends are bringing.

When I originally said, "If the weather is rubbish, we'll relocate the whole shebang to our home," I had high hopes that we would be basking in a luke-warm summer afternoon, sitting in the gardens of a stately home, eating as much cake as would still allow us to drive home afterwards. Indoor eating may save an untold number of paper plates from landfill but does still present the two additional challenges of clearing up and getting rid of stragglers. The new Nick Cave album ought to achieve the latter but doesn't offer any clues on the former.

N was reluctant to go to sleep this evening, possibly due to an impromptu and lengthy late afternoon nap. Bringing her to the lounge to watch a recording of Top Gear didn't persuade her that sleep was preferable, while a three month old Later With Jools Holland just made her run round the table, waving her arms in the air. I can't really blame her for that one as I was running round the sofa, arms similarly waggling, but at least my steps were in time with the music.

I have not set foot outside the flat today. I'd like to blame bad weather but I fear inertia may have played a part. I'll also blame cakes. There are so many of them to bake for tomorrow.

Returning to a subject on which I ranted earlier this week - my latest rejection letter. I can cope with sentences like this one: "Regrettably I do not feel either novel would be strong enough for our list." It's clear, it's to the point, it expresses personal opinion which, while disappointing, can be respected since everyone is entitled to have one.

I do, however, take issue with this: "Too many names/characters bombard the reader, with not enough focus on the person who is to be the protagonist. The frequent shifts in scenes, too, don’t help to anchor the thrust of the stories."

So I wrote a prologue - a few pages at the beginning of one of the two books, not dealing with any major characters explicitly, in order to set the scene. In a book of about 175 pages, I spent a few pages at the beginning on a prologue. I felt that, as the main protagonist is, well, the main protagonist, I could perhaps wait all of three pages before letting him loose on the story except, of course, he's in the background in those three pages - the reader just doesn't know it yet.

Maybe it doesn't work very well - in which case it could be excised without too much trouble and the main protagonist could enter on page one. Hell, I could even make his name the first two words...

People say that I don't respond well to feedback and, er, I suppose I don't respond well to being told that. I dislike lazy feedback and feedback which I can't use and feedback which is so trifling as to not be worth thinking about. If you don't like the prologue, it can be taken away. It doesn't give you the right to assume that a narrative style employed as a lead-in will be wholly indicative of the rest of the work, to such an extent that the part must stand for the whole and the whole must therefore be worthless.

And what about the other book? Nothing at all about that one. If the rejection letter had just said, "Regrettably I do not feel either novel would be strong enough for our list," then I would have been much happier.

I really need to package up my happy words and post or email them to the next literary agent on my list. It will add an extra frisson of excitement to the sound of the postman or the sight of the Outlook Express progress bar as another message is sucked in from the outside world until, finally, the reply comes and I either celebrate or complain somebody else not appreciating me, the tortured artist.