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Too many notes, Mr Mozart!

9/27/2014

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Recently, and for the first time since I threw Virginia Woolf's Orlando across the bedroom three years ago, I gave up on a book. I didn't throw this one as I was reading it on my Nexus but I'd had enough. I’m getting to the age when you don’t buy green bananas in case you’re not around when they ripen so I have less patience than I used to with a book that’s dragging me down. It was Fantasy, which I usually enjoy but it broke many of the rules, as I perceive them as a reader.

It had an alternative world. Great. There were loads of characters, all with new, unmemorable names so the reader has no mental peg to hang them on. Not so great. It was populated by some sentient, talking animals. Fine. But if you define your animals as being like pigs, then call them noggletrugs you've added another word for the poor reader to remember.

There has to be a danger, a journey or quest, some fights - all the usual things. But the reader struggling to remember who's who will very soon forget the whys and wherefores. I literally lost the plot while trying to remember all the names of the characters and their relationship to one another. I couldn't remember who was going where and why. I didn't care why the noggletrugs were fighting with the… for flip's sake, if they’re like goats, call them goats! I stopped reading.

Tolkien had lots of characters in LOTR but he'd introduced some of them in The Hobbit and eased us in gently. He called his trees trees but the tree-herders were Ents. In giving the Ents characters, a story, a part in the plot, he made them memorable. But he called his horses horses and his eagles eagles. We were in with a shout.

I know that Mozart’s patron was supposedly showing his ignorance of the musical style when complaining that there were too many notes, but I find myself thinking there are too many names in some books. I feel that if the character isn’t important enough for us to get to know him/her so that the name has a meaning and not merely a sound, then that character probably doesn’t need to be there.

At the risk of appearing a philistine, like Emperor Joseph II, I have to say, ‘Too many names, Mr Author!’


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What if...?

9/16/2014

4 Comments

 
Picture
The connection between plant breeding and writing novels? They both start with, 'What would happen if...?'

I love tomatoes. I grow a variety of colours but I choose them for their flavour. The dark ones at the top of the picture are known to me as French Black. A friend from a gardening forum bought some on holiday in a French market, loved them and saved the seeds, which come true to type. 


Underneath those are the classic red Alicante. This is an old variety our dads probably grew and has the old-fashioned tomato taste you don't get in the shop-bought. Again, if you save the seed, the resultant tomatoes are the same as their parents.

To their left are the fabulous Green Zebras. In my opinion this is the world's best grilling tomato with its balance of sweetness and acidity. Unripe, it's pale green and dark green. It's ripe when the pale green becomes yellow and the tomato feels soft. This also breeds true. These three are all pollinated by their own pollen so there's no genetic diversity.


At the bottom (there's a pound coin for scale) the oval yellow tomatoes are my own variety. I have one variety which I cross-pollinated but it's not in the picture as I didn't grow it this year. It'll be on next year's menu. The yellow is a selection from Sungold, a well-known orange cherry tomato famed for its flavour. It's also famed for its price - around £3 for 6 seeds! That's because it's a cross from two parents and has to be crossed each season.


People who know these things will tell you that you can't save seeds from a first generation cross of two varieties - known as an F1 hybrid - like Sungold. Don't be deterred if you want to do it. You can do anything! What you won't get if you do, is a Sungold tomato from your next generation. I did it about 7 years ago (it's called unhybriding or dehybridising) and from each generation of several plants, I saved seed from those with the best flavour. I no longer have a round orange tomato but an oval yellow one and each year I chose a flavour I like. I also select out the ones with the tough skins. This tomato is called Sweet Eleanor (after a grandchild). These Sweet Eleanors mostly come true from seed but there's still a little genetic 'settling down' going on. I've never had one that wasn't worth eating and the current line is producing a delightful tomato with a good balance of sweet/sharp flavours.

Incidentally, if anybody would like seeds of any of these, let me know before the season is over and I'll make sure I save enough. 
4 Comments

Short Story - Dead End

9/1/2014

1 Comment

 
This short story from me came second in a monthly competition run by Michael Brookes and you can see the three prizewinners on his website if you click his name.

Here's mine

Dead End 


It has been reported in some of the more dubious press outlets that 3.7 million Americans believe that they have been subjected to alien abduction. Ridiculous. Why would aliens choose one nationality above others? I know that they don't. They took me.

I lost a week from my life last year. I went to bed as usual and when I woke I assumed it was the following morning. I felt a bit sore but otherwise I had no reason to think anything was amiss. People asked where I'd been when I went into work 'next day' and I didn't know what they were talking about. Reality came back slowly, like the snatched morning memories of nightmare.

I went to bed one night and woke, sedated and partially anaesthetised, in a gleaming laboratory staffed with metal ‘workers’. I never knew where it was situated: on a ship: on another planet? An ovum was removed from my body and returned fertilised. I was left alone then, but for the metal beings which brought me food and drink and removed my waste products with mechanical efficiency. My belly swelled at a frightening rate and three days later the true nightmare began.

The hot, tight mound of my abdomen began to lurch and writhe. It appeared that the gestation period was mercifully short. I lay upon the couch, groaning as my body tried to wrench itself apart. I was mortally afraid. I did not see any of my abductors so, thank god, I didn’t know what the father of the hybrid child looked like. I struggled to expel it, screaming both in pain and in rage at the violation of my body.

With one final lurching contraction I expelled the monster in a slurry of stinking mucous and it lay, writhing and tormented, between my trembling thighs. It was unnaturally thin and long and had been curled, folded, within me. It stretched and opened a ghastly mouth ringed with needle-like teeth and I could immediately see that there was no throat, no oesophagus. This thing could not feed! I felt elated and hoped they would discard this as a failed hybridisation experiment.

They returned me to my bed at home but the horror is not yet over. Unwilling to admit defeat, the alien beings seem bent upon keeping this creature alive, perhaps to backcross it and introduce some element of its genetic make-up into their moribund species. I am not expected to feed it as I would a human child. Thank god! But they return it to me every night to clutch at my body, lie along the length of me in a travesty of a human hug, and leech the life-force from my body as it grasps me with its cold, sticky limbs.

This cannot go on. I am losing weight and will not live much longer. When I die, it will die too, this hybrid disaster; this evolutionary dead end. I am happy, on both counts.



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    Author

    Kath Middleton, author of Ravenfold
    Message in a Bottle
    Top Banana
    Long Spoon
    Souls disturbed
    Stir-up Sunday
    Beneath the Ink
    The Novice's Demon
    The Flesh of Trees
    The Sundowners
    The Angel Monument Muriel's Bear
    Tales from Daggy Bottom Becca.
    ​Through His Eyes
    ​Contributor to Beyond 100 Drabbles
    ​Criminal Shorts
    ​Part-author of Is it Her?



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