As I promised yesterday ...

As promised, this is the new and improved 'showing' version of yesterday's post, which is now a scene in my memoir WE'RE NOT ORDINARY PEOPLE. It's still in first draft stage so it might become even more detailed further down the track. If any of you speak French, please let me know if I have written the hotel owner's dialogue correctly! I just used an Internet translator. My mother's dialogue doesn't need to be fixed because she's supposed to be saying things incorrectly. Hope you like it! And, of course, critique is always welcome :)

Due to some ridiculous advice from her doctor, Mum refused to sleep on any soft mattresses—her back had to be straight and supported at all times. This made it very difficult to find a room, and we always ended up staying in bug-ridden pensions because we couldn’t afford proper hotels. Snarls. Yes, we regularly received vicious snarls when Mum would go traipsing through every single room, inspecting the beds, as though she were about to stay in a 500 dollar suite at the Hilton.

In Nice, standing in front of perhaps the fifth pension we practically ransacked that day, Mum pulled out her pocket-sized French phrase book and said to the little old man sitting behind the tiny reception desk, “Parlez-vous l'anglais?”

The little old man shook his head, “Désolé, je ne parle pas d'anglais.”

“Er …,” mum paused for a moment. She looked at Demetri for help, who was staring at the wall paper. It was of tree branches covered in pink and yellow blossom, and there were brown wrinkles of paper curling off the walls—although, it didn’t look too bad because in places you could mistake the peeling paper for the brown twigs in the pattern.

“Demetri! Help me find the words in the phrase book. I don’t know where to look.” She gave the book to Demetri, huffing and puffing impatiently. He flipped through a few pages, um-ing and ah-ing.

“Christ. Give it back. We’ll still be standing her tomorrow morning if I leave it up to you.” Mum snatched the phrase book off him and after few more seconds of furiously sifting through pages, she found what she was looking for.

“It’s right here, you idiot,” she whispered heavily pointing her forefinger down so hard on the page that the tip of her finger went a sweaty shade of white and red. “Um … Je … um … blessure …,” mum continued, pointing to her lower back. “Je, non mou … lit … Oui?” The little old man nodded. He seemed to catch on to what she was trying to say.

“Oui, oui, suivez-moi,” the little old man said, gesturing for us to follow him. He took us up a very narrow flight of stairs. The place smelt rather moldy, but I felt comfortable despite the fact. I was really hoping we’d find a hard bed—my feet were throbbing from schlepping round the streets and traipsing up and down countless staircases, not to mention my tired shoulders from carrying my backpack. To be honest, I was just happy to get away from the smell of poodle poop and perfume—it really accentuated the smell of our three-day old dirty sweaty bodies.

The little old man showed us one room—my mum felt the mattress—it wasn’t hard enough. He showed us a second room—my mum felt the mattress—it wasn’t hard enough. He showed us a third room—my mum felt the mattress—it wasn’t hard enough. He showed us a fourth room—my mum felt the mattress—it was hard enough.

Mum started nodding, “Oui, Oui.”

“Bon, bon. Comment voudriez-vous payer?”

“Um, er … how much?” Mum asked waving her hand in the air beside her right cheek.

“Pardon?”

“Um …,” she flicked though the book again. I could see she was getting tired. She rubbed her back and shot Demetri a ‘look’. One of those looks that meant Demetri was being useless. He shot her a look back. A defenseless look, a look that meant, he had no control over the situation. He never had control over any situation, mind you. He was the ‘yes man’. Mum said jump, and he’d jump, and then he’d stuff it up and be in big trouble. “Um … combien?” Mum asked finally.

“Vingt franks par nuit,” he replied. He must have realised from our blank expressions that we didn’t understand, and fetched a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote something down, which I never saw, and Mum shook her head.

“Too much. It’s too much. Sorry.”

“Pardon? Vous ne l'aimez pas?”

“No. Sorry,” Mum said, and started to head out of the room with Demetri and I following behind her like Mary’s little lambs. But the petite old man started to yell.

“Vous m'avez fait vous montrer chaque pièce dans l'hôtel! Et maintenant vous ne l'aimez pas ? Vous êtes idiots!” He half opened a door which seemed to lead into a kitchen, poked his head in and yelled out something I couldn’t make out. Seconds later a fat greasy middle-aged woman with a protruding chin and a bloody apron chased us down the stairs and out into the street with a carving knife. The type of woman you’d read about in Brother’s Grimm books. I started crying, my mum started hyperventilating and Demetri, always looking on the bright side of life said to me, “Don’t worry, Sweetie. Just think of the stories you’ll be able to tell your kids!”

PS: Don't forget to check in tomorrow for the Internal Conflict Blog Fest!!!

I'm being interviewed over at Dee's :)

Today (the 11th May) the glorious Dee is interviewing me over at Say Anything. See you there! :)

.....

Guys, sorry about the mix up. It was posted yesterday. You can see the interview at this link.

Deleted Scene Blog Fest

Another blog fest! Make sure you check out the other entries too, and especially the host, Mia @ My Literary Jam and Toast.

The following was cut out of my novel DEAD IN THE CORNER OF MY BEDROOM because it was just a lot of backstory and a whole lot of telling without any real purpose to my plot. I've actually adapted this scene for my memoir because it was something that actually happened. So, for 'learning purposes', tomorrow I'll post the adapted scene, so you can see how 'showing' can bring something like this to life.

Due to ridiculous advice from her doctor my mum refused to sleep on any soft mattresses – her back had to be straight and supported at all times. This made it very difficult to find a place to stay. We always stayed in bug-ridden pensions because we couldn’t afford proper hotels, so you can imagine the snarls we received when my mum went into every single room inspecting the beds as though she were about to book a room in a five star hotel.

It was probably the fifth pension we had checked out that afternoon. My mum explained her problem using a French phrase book and managed to get her point across to the little old man sitting behind the tiny reception desk – he seemed very kind and sweet. He took us up a very narrow flight of stairs. The wallpaper was of tree branches covered in pink and yellow blossom and there were brown wrinkles of paper curling off the walls – though it didn’t look too bad because in places you could mistake the peeling paper for brown twigs. It smelt rather moldy too, but I felt comfortable despite the fact. I was really hoping we’d find a hard bed – my feet were throbbing from schlepping round the streets and the traipsing up and down staircases, not to mention my tired shoulders from carrying my backpack. To be honest, I was just happy to get away from the smell of poodle poop and perfume – it really accentuated the smell of my mum’s jeans.

He showed us one room – my mum felt the mattress – it wasn’t hard enough. He showed us a second room – my mum felt the mattress – it wasn’t hard enough. He showed us a third room – my mum felt the mattress – it wasn’t hard enough. He showed us a fourth room – my mum felt the mattress – it was hard enough. He told us the price of the fourth room and it was too expensive. He half opened a door which seemed to lead into a kitchen, poked his head in and yelled out something I didn’t understand. Seconds later a fat greasy middle-aged woman with a protruding chin and a bloody apron chased us down the stairs and out into the street with a carving knife. The type of woman you’d read about in Brother’s Grimm books. I started crying, my mum started hyperventilating and James, always looking at the bright side of life said to me, ‘Don’t worry, Jane. Justht think of the sthtories you’ll be able to tell your kidsth!’

I just can't keep reading this ...

I tried.
I really persevered.

The fact that this book started off with the protagonist killing her dementia-ridden, diarrhea-soaked, helpless yet bitch of a mother, was enough to evoke disgust - BUT a damn lot of curiosity.

So I kept reading ...

I felt like puking, but I seriously wanted to know how she was going to get out of this. Then followed a whole lot of back story - WAY too much of it - and I got bored. What is going to come of this murder? But I still kept reading because the first chapter was so off the wall and disgusting enough for me to want to know what's going to happen to this strangely interesting woman.

Finally, about 30 more pages through, she puts her mother in a freezer in the basement, chops off a lock of her hair and puts it in her purse. She visits her best friend, who isn't at home - but her son is. So she tells her best friend's teenage son to get in the car and to "fuck" her - he obliges.

Great.
This woman is filthy, insane - so why do I want to keep reading?

I don't like her at all, but I sure do want to know what is making her tick.

So I keep reading ...

I've now read past 100 pages, and it's all backstory and I haven't found out anything else to do with the killing of her mother, just why she hated her so much when she was a kid. I'm bored, and though still quite disgusted in her, I have lost interest now becasue the pace has slowed way down and I still don't like her.

I love the premise of the story. I love the fact that I want wanted to read about a woman I passionately disliked, but the intensity faded. Too bad.

So, The Almost Moon, by Alice Sebold, the best-selling multi-millionairess, shall officially be put to rest today. I don't give a toss what happens. I'm starting another book.

Awardz Shmordz and Schmouchez to Youz Allz

Ok, I've been a slacker. Yep, you can slap my hand if you like. I deserve it. (Ouch! Not that hard!) I have awards dating back weeks that I have neglected to reciprocate. I can't remember the rules so I'm just going to link you up to each of the wonderful bloggers that gave me these awards and hand them out to one other wonderful blogger each! In some cases I've received the award twice, so I'm just going to list who I got them from first as those are the links attached to them in my side bar. If you gave me an award and I haven't listed you, I deeply apologise! Please know though that I really appreciate you thinking of me!

But, before I get into any of this, I'd just like to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for all your support. I'm flabbergasted at the amount of new friends I've made these past two months. That's right folks - my entire wobbly blogging history only dates back two months. Fairdinkum! LOL (I've always wanted to say that on here - I miss Aussie slang). So thanks! You're all awesome!

So, let's get the party started ...

From the lovely and sincerely genuine Sugar from Randomness with the Whiting's.

This award goes to:

Marjorie from Everything Emerald

 

From the fantastically fantastical Caledonia Lass (aka Mel) from Writings, Musings and Other Such Nonsense

This award goes to:

Elizabeth Mueller

 From my gritty heroine and fellow rockette Candace @ The Misadventures of Candyland.

Awesomesauce award goes to:

Tracy @ Forever Endeavor

One Lovely Blog Award goes to:

Bethany Elizabeth @ Ink-splattered

 From the creepily like my twin sister regarding our past Katie @ Creepy Query Girl.

This award goes to:

Matthew @ The Quintessentially Questionable Query Experiment

From the freakishly talented suspense writer Mary @ The Write Stuff.

This award goes to:

Hart @ Confessions of a Watery Tart

 From the sweetest most choc full of compliments Nicole @ One significant moment at a time.

This award goes to:

MissV @ Rambles & Randomness

From a gal close to home Niki @ Wool 'n' Nuts.

 This award goes to two dedicated commenters:

Indigo @ Shattered Prose

Alesa @ Part Gilt-Part Gold

From the witty toughly innocent and supportive angel of mine Jen @ Unedited.

This award goes to:

Angela @ Slushpile Slut

From the caring and giving and beautiful soul Tori @ This Journey Called Life.

This award goes to:

Lindsay @ Adventures in Writing

From the intriguing and humongously talented Raquel @ Edge of your seat Romance

This award goes to:

Kierah @ Kierah Jane Reilly

 

From my darling talent who doesn't know how good she is Majorie @ Everything Emerald.

This award goes to:

Rayna @ Coffee Rings Everywhere

Rightio! Whoof! That was a feat! Ok, blogging buddies, do yourself and everyone in this blogosphere a favour and check out these wonderful links!

I'm off to bathe my fingers now for all their hard mouse-clicking work ... it seems my middle finger has got the most workout today from my scroll. Shame there's no one that I feel like sticking it up at - I could probably keep it up for hours ... (hmm, if only I was a man with a beautiful woman who needed some nookie).

Have a great weekend everyone!

'I’m not hungry’, he says.

‘What do I do with this?’ he asks, staring blankly at the can opener,
After he offers to make the tuna salad on his own.
So I open the can of tuna. I show him how.
Then he accidentally drops it on the floor, with a defeated moan.

Of course, I tell him to sit down – ‘I’ll do it’, I say.
And I watch him drag his feet towards the couch.
He looks at the TV guide, and grabs the remote.
I tell him to sit up straight and not to slouch.

I bite my lip. I try not to yell – I do.
In silence I wipe tuna broth from the kitchen blinds.
I’m a nagging wife, and he’s a lazy husband.
Is this how we’re going to spend the rest of our lives?

Frankly, what is there to say to a man so stubborn?
So stubborn he neglects to wash his phlegm down the drain.
Why do I always have to clean up all his mess? I ask.
Or take his washing off the line in the rain?

Clean, wash, eat, wash, clean, yell.
Can he not lend me a hand for just one day?
Nag, prod, whine, prod, nag, complain.
How does he manage to always get his way?

I bring him his salad. ‘I’m not hungry’, he says.
I feel my face go hot and my ears burn red.
He says, ‘Put it in the fridge. I’ll eat it later.’
At times like these, I wish he were dead.

I go back into the kitchen and put the salad in the fridge.
I pour myself a glass of wine. I put poison round the rim.
I return into the lounge, in my crazy calm,
And I say, ‘Oh darling, sorry, would you like some gin?’

He grunts and nods. I take that as a yes.
I expect he’ll take a sip from my wine.
I bring him his gin, but hasn’t touched my glass.
Tonight will not be the night, I commit this crime.

Instead, I decide, it’ll be my last night.
I don’t care if I go to heaven or if I go to hell.
No more waiting hand and foot on a grumpy old man.
No more pretending life is all dandy and well.

I begin to sing a song I wrote for him once.
With wine glass in hand, I jump onto his lap.
He tells me to get off and to ‘shut up, slut – Now!’
I scull my wine. He says, ‘Cut the crap.’

So, I watch the blue light flicker on his stale face.
It slowly becomes a blur. I feel myself fall.
It’s over, I sigh. I’m finally fading.
Then I realise he had sipped my wine, after all.

We both meet each other, on the other side.
And he tells me off for killing him.
‘It’s not my fault you took a sip from my glass’, I say.
But I misunderstood. That was not the sin.

‘I love you,’ he says, before he leaves me standing alone.
He never makes it through the wall of light.
I watch him now, from above, as he cooks and cleans.
Perhaps we missed a chance to make things right.

I’m stuck somewhere. I don’t know where.
But I don’t ever, ever seem to sleep.
And I’m burdened now, with my husband’s grief.
And I’m forced to watch – watch him weep.

Athens Riot Update

Hey Everyone!

Thanks for all the wishes on yesterday's post. :) I really appreciate your concern. I'm thankful I work from home. Went out this morning - more riots going to happen this afternoon and the streets stink like chemicals (from the tear gas I assume).

I'm just really keeping my wits about me - a lot of robberies happening too. The other night next to the club my partner runs, five people stopped a guy on his motorbike - stabbed him to death and took his bag full of cash from his shop. People are even holding up Dentists' with shot guns and taking people's wallets in the waiting rooms etc. Everyone is scavenging for money - it's so sad. Three people died yesterday in a bank that was set on fire too. So tragic :( See below for footage of yesterday.

I'm in such a lucky position working as a freelancer. People's wages have been decreased by 20%, and 2 monthly salaries cut (here in Greece we used to get 14 monthly salaries per year - not that that helped much). Things were hard enough without these cuts - people were still struggling to make ends meet. I'm really worried about the state of this country. And I'm sure it won't take long before the companies I work for begin offering me less money to do my work. I'm so dreading that day ... I'm just making end meet as it is myself.

On a happier note: Don’t miss out on my contest! Critiques up for grabs!