Something with soul

I admire whomever has enough discipline to start and finish writing a novel. I don't think I could do it. But then... that's why I'm a Wannabe LitAg and not a Wannabe Writer. I can tell (I hope) whether a novel is good but I wouldn't be able to produce a good novel.
Having said that, it doesn't mean that everything that gets published deserves being published. And it certainly doesn't mean that everyone who writes should bother.
Sometimes reading from the slush pile feels like watching the auditions for the X Factor... "but... but... my friends told me that I really really talented..." or "my mum heard me singing in the shower and said that I should try it as a career". And you want to shake your head and pity the paper this awful pile of words has been printed on.

I dream of finding something good. Something with soul. With a big worthy idea behind. Something eternal. That speaks of human passions. George Orwell-like. Down and Out in Paris and London is the account of the writer's two years of living as a pauper. Not his best work, certainly. But it has soul and sense. I like his humanity and his philosophy. Now, I don't expect to find someone as good as George Orwell... well not at first. I hope to but I don't expect it. But at least a sign... a sign that I'm on the right path. Because to be honest sometimes when I'm tired... I start questioning my ability to recognise talent. I shouldn't. I won't.

George Orwell, Ayn Rand, Victor Hugo... could you give me a sign please?

My first lesson as a Literary Agent

I have to be a Literary Agent. Because that's the only thing I can see myself doing. And I think I can do it well. Seriously what else could I do?

It's my thing. Books are my thing. Books are what people remember me for (when they remember me). Reading books, talking about books, about stories, convincing people to read books. It's the only thing I know how to do. It's the only thing that comes natural. If that doesn't work I will have to find something trivial to earn a living with.

I read a lot. Not nearly as much as I would like or as I should. I'm considering a few manuscripts at the moment. And last week I learnt my first lesson.

A Literary Agent must be fast. Superfast.

A couple of weeks ago I went to the presentation of an anthology from the students of an MA in Creative Writing. It took me a few days to start reading the extracts in the anthology. There was one in particular that I liked. By the time I emailed the writer it had already been snatched. Good news for them. Bad news for me.

Bottom line is: if you read something that you like you gotta be quick. Grab it. Don't mess about. Don't waste time.

Edith and Coco

I just finished watching La Vie En Rose with an awesome Marion Cotillard playing the leading role of Edith Piaf...
Why wasn't I born French? My dad is not great but had he been French I would have been less resentful. What a difficult life she had and what a difficult person she was, Edith Piaf, not Marion Cotillard.
Her story made me think about Coco Avant Chanel, the movie on the life of Gabrielle Chanel before she became the icon of elegance that she's famous for.
Both Coco Chanel and Edith Piaf were born at the beginning of the 20th Century (Coco was born before the turn of the century), they were both extremely poor and both of them had just their talent to hold them up and nothing else. Just their talent to survive. They were talented women hardened by life and by a love that didn't want to be found. Both of them lost the only love of their life, the only man they had allowed in.
It got me thinking about the part that grief plays in our lives. Are we better people for the pain we endure? Someone once told me that the pain we experience digs and carves and shapes our soul as if it was a vase. The deeper it is the more joy and happiness we will be able to fill our soul with. Is it true? Were Coco Chanel and Edith Piaf better artists because of the pain they lived through?
Would we give up our talents whatever they might be and however successful they might make us in exchange for a smooth heart? For a heart with no scars? For the chance of looking back and not be filled with the melancholy of the loss of the one we loved?
Can love and talent survive alongside one another? Is great talent always a substitute for love ? or the other way around?
I'm jealous of Coco Chanel and Edith Piaf, and not because of the success or worldwide admiration they enjoyed but because of the talent they had. I'm thirty and I still don't know what my talent is or whether I have one at all. What if I wake up one day and realize that I have none? I know what my passions are but that's not the same. If I was incredibly talented in any field I think I would know by now. It's crushing having to accept the fact that I will never be a Coco Chanel or an Edith Piaf.
I would simply like to find something so totally absorbing to make me lose sense of space and time; something that I love so much, that makes me so completely happy and at one with myself that I can get lost in it to the point where I don't need anything else. I'm a Buddhist of Talent.
Talent, like love, can make you happy, but with talent like with love you've got to be very careful and handle it with respect or it will turn around and leave you helpless and utterly defenseless.

La Mala Educacion

I was at home by myself last night recovering from a busy and wet Sunday. I decided to watch a movie to accompany my roasted lamb with new potatoes. I picked La Mala Educacion di Pedro Almodovar, borrowed from Miss C's flatmate. Even though I certainly recognize Almodovar's talent(who am I to criticize?) his movies usually leave me cold (with the exception of Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!). Yesterday though I found myself struck by the carefully constructed plot and by the twist that didn't arrive with an Hollywood bang but crept up subtly but all the more powerfully.

Basic info in case you haven't seen it. Aspiring actorIgnacio gets in touch with former fellow student now filmmaker Enrique to offer him a story he's written as a possible idea for a movie. It's his story, their story. When they were young kids in a Catholic School Ignacio and Enrique fell in love. Ignacio however was the object of the lurid attentions of Father Manolo. Father Manolo couldn't stand the boys' passion and expel Enrique so to have Ignacio for himself.
Ignacio grows up carrying the scars of the abuses. He's now a drag queen with an expensive drug habit. He has written the story of his childhood and decides to blackmail Father Manolo with it.
But things are not that simple, everything is not all it seems and people are not who they say they are. I won't say what happens as I don't want to spoil it but the movie gave me food for thought on a subject I dwell on quite often.

Ignacio blames Father Manolo for the person he became and his shortcomings. The abuses that Ignacio suffered at the hand of Father Manolo are unquestionably horrible and unforgivable but they are also the symbol on a more general level of what we go through as children. We all suffer abuses and small or big acts of cruelty growing up: whether it's psychological bullying or expectations being enforced upon us or emotional blackmail, all parents damage their kids one way or another.

My question is: when should we stop blaming our parents or our early experiences for the adults we are? The person we are is the result of our life experiences; what we are taught as children shapes the way we relate to life and to other people but can we really decline responsibility for what we are, and what we are not, because of what we went through as kids?

Sometimes (quite often) I look at myself and I look back and I recognize father's imprimatur on my fears and on my relationships, no doubt, but I also realize that endlessly blaming him for what's wrong in my life is pathetic, sad and above all pointless. I can decide to deal with it and move on and maybe being what I want to be or keep blaming him... Certainly blaming him would be safer but the problem is once we have a choice, we have control and once we have control we have power and once we have power, we have responsibility. The responsibility of doing the best for ouselves.

The Proposal

I went to the cinema tonight to see The Proposal with my friend Paul. Paul and I are not above the odd chickflick/rom-com. I guess it helps us keeping our cynical selves under control.

Sandra Bullock is Margaret, a Canadian boss from hell to her assistant Andrew (Ryan Reynolds). When Margaret finds out that she's going to be deported back to Canada because her visa has expired, she blackmails Andrew into marry her.
To prove to the Immigration Authority that their marriage is not a scam, they fly to Alaska to spend a weekend with Andrew's family. That's where and when Margaret realizes that she can't ruin Andrew's life and his lovely family's to save her own. They fall in love, she's not a bitch anymore and everyone is happy. Yeah, right!

It happens in every other movie that total bastards (usual men, sorry guys!) turn into Prince Charming. In this case the Wicked Witch turns into Snow White. Gender doesn't matter: they are selling us lies. I know... I know it's a rom-com what did you expect?
We keep going to see movies like that because we desperately want to believe that one day the he or she of our dreams will finally see the light and suddenly realize what a great catch we are.

Well, I tell you what: I've been on both sides of the fence. I've been Snow White waiting for Psycho to turn into Prince Charming and I've been Elpheba torturing super nice guys for my own unreliable pleasure, while they were probably silently praying that I would turn into Snow White. But here's the twist: I've seen the light! I really have.

One day I looked at myself in the mirror and the green had started coming off. This guy I had tortured for years... is sweet and funny and clever and sexy and honest. He truly is. What was I thinking? And he's also very very intelligent, well he has to be because he decided that he had had enough.

So I guess the difference between movies and reality is not that in real life people don't come to their senses. The difference is that in movies when Margaret realizes how special Andrew is, she finds him still waiting for her and wanting her; in real life Andrew would have said "Naa sorry love, not interested. Thanks but no thanks!". In real life usually you see the light one second too late. And there's nothing you can do about it.

And there you have it... your first regret.

The Diving Bell and The Butterfly

Jean Dominique Bauby, editor of Elle France is handsome and rich and clever but he's not a nice man. He's a womanizer who neglects his children and abandoned his wife for a young model. His life suddenly changes when he suffers a massive stroke that leaves him, at the age of 43, paralized and unable to speak or move. The only thing he can move is his left eye. Time has come to decide whether to let himself die or to face the facts and his own self. Starting with making amends.
With his left eye he learns to communicate and goes on to write a book, a tribute to all the people he loves and who had loved him. Jean Dominique Bauby will die ten days after the publication of The Diving Bell and The Butterfly. This is the movie based on the book.
Are men and women capable of changing or just adjusting? Are men and women capable of changing just in the face of traumatic events? Why do we wait to be slapped in the face by destiny to show that we care? Is it because of our inner denial of death and of the idea of death? Are we so afraid to acknowledge our mortal nature, our human nature, that we prefer having the regret of not having said/done something? Is it because the human brain cannot contemplate anything else other than the present time and the present status? Is it because we are not able to imagine to be something different from what we are now? Why do we think of ourselves as immortal? Why do we think that we have all the time in the world when in fact life shows us every single minute of every single day that immortal we are not and our time allowance is pretty small?

Evening

At the end of her life, Ann starts thinking about her past and her first "mistake". A man she met when in her twenties is the man whom, unbeknown to her daughters, she's been in love with, her entire life.
Was her mistake falling in love with this man or not following him when he asked her to? What made her fall in love with him? What made her decide not to follow him? Was it guilt? Fear? What affects our choices and our decisions? Are we able to look ahead and visualize how the decisions we make now will impact our future selves? Is a regret always a mistake? Are we able to look back and forgive ourselves for the things we didn't have the guts to choose? For the decisions we didn't have the courage to make and the roads we weren't adventurous enough to pick?
Is it a consolation saying "At that time, that option was the right one for me" if, as a result, you go in a direction you really didn't want to go or it takes you further away from happiness? Are we scared to do the right thing? Are we scared to be happy? Why are we afraid to risk and take a bold unpopular decision if there's a chance that this can turn us into the type of person we want to be and makes us happy in the long term? Is this the type of person we've become?
Are we more afraid of failure than to be unhappy?