(no subject)

This is the morning of wild procrastination. I'm even procrastinating on the morning in bed I promised myself. I still have the side effects of yesterday and my body says 'sleep' but my brain says "You fool, you should spend this valuable time doing useful things." I'm caught in between Charybdis and Scylla.

I shall order my books for tomorrow's library trip. That'll make me feel as if I've done something and it will force to mock my today's self tomorrow, when I'm out, doing useful things. The NLA allows me to order 15 books in advance, so I shall try to finish with fifteen books tomorrow. I only need a chapter for half of them, so it isn't nearly as ambitious as it sounds.

Between tomorrow and next Tuesday, I should finish with the slabs of reading I was supposed to have done three weeks ago. I should be able to start crossing things off my "Aaargh, I'm so behind on these things!' list very soon! When I do that, I'm allowed to be amusing for five minutes.

On agreeing with people

I'm looking at Oscar Wilde again. In fact, I'm reading his thoughts on art and clothing. I so want to review my latest book following his principle of agreeing entirely with someone when agreeing entirely with someone means pointing out that they admit they are pig-ignorant and possibly not very bright. This approach doesn't actually fit my review book at all, because the writer is both knowledgeable and intelligent. I find this a sad state of affairs, so I'm blogging my thoughts and not using them in the review.

Let me make a promise: I will agree with people, always, when they venture opinions while denying understanding and/or intellect. Like Wilde, I will be agreeing with the polite demurral as if it were not polite at all but a realistic summation of that person's real capacity. Mostly, I shall think it rather than say it aloud, so the next time a questioner at any event starts their sentence with "I don't really understand this, but I think..." watch me agree with them heartily. I shall merely nod and look equable, but my heart will be saying "Look, this person is an idiot." Even if they're not.

I suspect I've never understood people who expect to be taken seriously on a subject while calling themselves fools. I do it, of course, but then I genuinely think myself ill-informed when I say so, which is quite a different thing. If it isn't, you may listen to me ask stupid questions at conferences and you may nod and look equable, while your heart is saying "Look, this person is an idiot." Even if I'm not.

The problem is not when someone really should be polite and full of demurral ie in the company of folks who genuinely probably know lots more or who are vastly worthy of respect. The problem is when "I know more than all of you" opinions are ventured under the guise of "I'm just a poor little person who dares to venture an opinion in this august company." It's a form of hubris. It is a very unattractive form of hubris, which is why Wilde skewered it without mercy.

I can see some of you are nodding, even from here. The question is, are you also looking equable?

(no subject)

Dear Writers and Critics and Writers who are critics and Critics who are writers, and Editors and Publishers and...let me start again.

Dear Readers

Writers were not always encouraged to be silent when unfavourable reviews eventuated. Oscar Wilde, for instance (and Wilde is full of good moments) wrote to the editor of the Scots Observer, on 9 July 1890:

SIR,--You have published a review of my story, The Picture of Dorian Gray. As this review is grossly unjust to me as an artist, I ask you to allow me to exercise in your columns my right of reply.

The intervening comments are not his most illuminating, but the way he ended his letter is full of glorious grouch:

In conclusion, Sir, let me say how really deeply I regret that you should have permitted such a notice as the one I feel constrained to write on to have appeared in your paper. That the editor of the St. James's Gazette should have employed Caliban as his art-critic was possibly natural. The editor of the Scots Observer should not have allowed Thersites to make mows in his review. It is unworthy of so distinguished a man of letters.--I am, etc.,

I am, etc.,

Gillian

(no subject)

Now I'm fascinated by Wilde's sales. Quite a few of his books - from the height of his fame - were printed in editions of 500 or fewer. His blockbuster plays (including Ernest) were printed in vast print runs of 1000.

My tweets

• Wed, 20:41: I need lessons on how not to be grumpy.
• Thu, 11:42: Today I'm falling in love with Oscar Wilde's brain...again.

ETA: I didn't put these here. The intarwebz amuse me.

(no subject)

I ought to be working, but I think I might take the evening off. Or some of the evening off, at least. I have appointments with eleven books tomorrow and when I get home it will hopefully be full steam ahead on the novel for a few days. By Tuesday evening I intend to have crossed three things off my do-by-10 May list. Possibly five. Also to drink much coffee.

On a more important matter, there will be tiny little chocolate cakes on Wednesday, for those friends planning to drop round for afternoon tea. I not only have the ingredients (thanks, Rachel!) but I have the cutest little cupcake moulds to cook them in. Also, I was thinking of home made olive and cheese bread.

(no subject)

I've got my novel edits to read through! I shall be working tonight after all, but only on the coolest possible things. Novel edits!!!!