Snowflake Book nice fluffy things to do.

Feed ducks ( not take photos due to robbing stress ) Walk around with mp3 player ( cheap one more than phone because easier ) Do folklore notes. Listen to cricket and non topical podcasts or old cassettes. Have baths. Play computer games. Make cakes ( possibly stressful actually ) Eat potatoes, thighs etc. Do not phone Sue or folx. Do not fiddle with computer or stereo wires. So let's fill the rest of this Boke some more. Maybe with a lovely review of 2007. Or not. Not a very nice year in onve or two or ten places. Jan Mar on the sick, then off the sick and nagged by Vera. June on work solutions course, of use=0, but did discover a cute little park. Also rather liked hanging in Night and Day. Then the sick hearing went wrong and was more nagged until Sept. and the course, which seemed a bit off from the start, but was warming up. Then Oct 21st, oh dear and after that, could the year get any worse? Then the course falls apart. Curious. Curious. I am in March, in suspension and no-one has contacted me at all. They are waiting for me to hang myself. Also after Easter they will get another chunk of money and 'attendance' out of me. I'm not registered at Edge until the medical paperwork has gone through. Last I heard, it was floating through the academic affairs office. Another odd factor is that noone at all from the course has spoken to me. These are the last few pages of this Book, written early on. It has carried on long and covered a pitchy-black but strangely useful time, that should maybe provide some dandelion stalks. I found Ikea and Liverpool, and at least that I can talk well to large groups on little sleep. What else? Train travel is tragic but beautiful and nothing on earth seems to motivate me to write properly possibly. Also I'm not much of an academic, but I can pick out cards very tastefully. Possibly I can draw a little and write excellent flowery replies to flowery tv reviews. And I need to keep in touch. Also I make people rars and printouts. Birthday 2007 Far away, really far in a dark black bus crept city singing for supper so grateful so so much house around Only really so much flat. I don't want one of that. I want a many million more But not that. " You? Ethical? I click every day on rainforests and lately I even fed the poor. You? You can only antifund mines if you have credit?'' And as he said, he slid, that you have a credit hole as big as the world

Only far more orange. But there are other ways. After the act and the guinness, after the monochromatic duffel coat boy. The boy who wanted to know how often I passed through his orbit. We three, we bland or shruggers, polishing routines and skirting edges in our yappers. We trilled through a fence to a starlit liminal, only my head was cold. My hat ! My poor hat ! A birthday gift from me to me a year since, poor hat gone where my poor gloves went, gone... They went back ! Back and back and further back in spacetime and further looking in the hardly-seen star-strewn wastelands till it glowed forth again. O hat ! O chat ! O rambling forth without sofas. A world where they just receive arses in silence. O world. Smelly caf, camomile other caf and a hard banana, these times are from afternoons. The fish in the museum, see-through wisps unsurvived. As unsurvived as the high hopeless caught white bear, aframed drape in hair. Pictures of other victims from elsewhere stares of despair, paws cutting nowhere. Stood or walking or curled up to sleep, perchance to die alone and away on melting few ice. Chopping carrots, chopping fruit. Gutting peppers. Some skills stay. And half-remembered peep like gleams of gold. This I can do Squaring fruit, carving strips neatly corralling lumps of matter in radiating coloured bands for the transfer of cheesy goop. What I can't do is flirt, flirt with those men that butch bluffly (Oh, women I can flirt with, Quietfaced and green crinkeyed elven Newport nymphs I can distract and glitter, to no personal end but still it goes ) Visualisations, setting up a laptop far away and often resought for a swirly yellow blob of it. Meanwhile, the mysterious calling of like to unlike, jug ears hard voice blunt eloquence Calling dryly. Smiling ( really, truly ) oncely, oh the visualisation up down this way that. Dumb with hope and blind with taste, seeing the grabs and feeling the socket thump. Feeling it thump in again. While staring cleanly at flowing oil. Another said oh nicking doesn't matter and quoth I that not at all matters if you say it isn't nicking but better say borrow and this her followed and all was calm. The golden blobs and writing inks pull and pulse on the screen and yet I see a different pulsing, getting bad now, need another dose like a long-peaking toothache waking, The last two days were quiet, after the scrabble scuffle and tension. Standing on the head for hours but not to get attention. To stop a line of quim and dirk while lumping logy with soggy, Tidying up fish and half-served pizza. Muttered talk and wash up later.

I trod on the laminate, I used the soap, I took the telly over. Find morning quiet exit and no hug, no bloody buses either but we met And bought hair cream and buses, saw a Virgil pastoral with trucks ( Oh less than a year later the pastoral slept to its doom ) and some pretty faced foreign podfilm, and swapped gifts and saw her chum A lot of fairy lights in fluffy pink, more of a huggity business than brfore Simple route home, shame of the bike As glancing useless pink as fairy lights, the old pc, the realm of trying. Muscle pull and clothes a drying, she still hasn't called yet. -######### A petal, pushing up acurled in a fat grassy shell tangled like hair all crawling spiralled in fingers in rings in wrongs. Sped into songs. A cup of air, poured from the side mouths wide. Long curling streaks of heartfelt feelings and snow-made wishes, Buried underground like fishes Seen not felt on the floor And scrabbled by a paw. The sun never sets twice, They light the evening star And count the thousand dusts on the road, painted by the petal on a wayward stem What do I miss? Lying here lump-stomaching on grass when I should be busy. What do I miss that I can't fix? Where would I put my thoughts if they were caught in a net if they were unborn yet? I miss the outside while outside.

The splash of bars, their drinks and single gold drop of fee. The strange work of shopping New-maker made celebrating. This grass blade is fat The tree here heaves up. Under a silent sky the non clouds don't go by and I know. The music plunges me inside The sunflames fire my heels. -######## methodically / smoking my cigarette / with every breath / I breathe out the day / with every delicious sip / I drink away the night / stroking my hair to / the beat of his heart / watching a boy / turn into a man. For each a road / for every man a religion / face everybody and rule / fuck everything and rumble / forget everything and remember / for everything a reason / forgive everybody and remember / final eternity arouses reactions / freeing excellence affects reality / falling empires are ruling / find earth and reef / fantastic expectations, amazing revelations / final executions and resurrections / free expression as revolution / finding everything and realising. Was it in actuality that you misconstrued your reality? " Oh I know you're working in a way, but isn't it just an escape from your responsibilities? Isn't it more than just a sort of laborious idleness? What would happen if everyone shirked as you're shirking? " " The answer to that is that everyone doesn't feel like me. Fortunately for themselves, perhaps, most people are prepared to follow the normal course; what you want to forget is that I want to learn as passionately as others want to make money... It may be that when I'm through I shall have something to give that people will be glad to take. It's only a chance, of course, but if I fail, I shall be no worse off than a man who's gone into business and hasn't made a go of it. " The question, Raymond, is what do you want to do? ... to think that there are moments when the gods look away, that there are times when you're alone, that anyone's destiny or fate ever went wrong, that the unfolding can be disrupted, that there's a dimension that doesn't include love and laughter when those bugs are just so small, and silly, and made of plastic. That stupid joke, to think your life is a story being told by anyone but you. Until the rain washes you clean again. You'll never hear it right, until you watch it unfolding and realise it couldn't have been any other way. The gods and time work together to tell you this story, as many times as it takes, until you start paying attention. All she is, is this bad-ass architecture, built around something broken and screaming she can't even access and wouldn't want to. You wouldn't either. This is a woman so cut off from her own centre, by misuse and terror, that she cannot imagine herself as a parent, or a lover, or a person who trusts. She doesn't get to make choices. She was running well before the bomb, and taking these things away from her is like removing skin. Like Eustace Scrubb, where he gets ripped completely open under the moon and comes out all fresh & naked & allegorical. " We found them ! They're alive ! " Bathed in light, Sharon smiles " Yes we are'' She and Six smile at each other again. " We're alive'' breathes Six, so

full of hope and pride. The answer to the question at the end of the armistice ( " are you alive?'' ) , at the beginning of the story and this war: they're alive. So are we all. You and me both. -###### The Curio Project Curio b.90 d. 49 MM b. 83 d. 30 Curio papa b. 110 d. 53 Fulvia b. 77 d. 40 In 63, what was Curio doing? Did MM ever live with Sura? ( certainly he did ) Sura b. 110 ish d. 63 ( laquere gulam frengit ) MM had two brothers, Lucius b. 86ish d. 28 ish and Gaius b. 84ish d. 42 ( in the war ) M Creticus d. 71, when MM was 12. Curio was said to be suicidal over the brat MM. He would be about 23 or 24 and MM 16 and in his praetexta. Since Lentulus was already plotting at this time, you can see how Curio's papa would be upset. Not to mention ( prateritia ) that MM was a slut and possibly the largest teenage bankrupt of all time. ( Need to look up other chat online as well as more formal pieces ) Later supposedly a friend of Cicero, but Cic thought it was ok to slander him after his death, not so much with gayness but with the overwhelming love and dizziness. Sura did share his house with MM growing up ( plutarch, ant ii, plutarch, cic 22 and a random bitch in the phillipics. This partly explains the violent hatred MM had for Cic. He alleges that Cic wouldn't let his mama bury Lentulus, but that is bobbins. Curio's ''intimate friendship'' with him led him to debt although his papa left him plenty of debt on his own. " In order to make him more manageable, engaged him in drinking bouts " . - doesn't mention the year, but elsewhere it says one was allowed to play the puer until about 19 ( so in the year 64 or so, just in time for his stepfather to get executed ) . Between them, they raised a huge debt that Curio stood for, but his pa got annoyed and banished MM ( why the hell is it his fault? ). MM went off to be a soldier with Gabinius. Cic reckons all this was M's fault, of course and Curio was a wee lamb. Plutarch goes the other way and reckons that Curio was the seedy older man leading innocent wee lamb MM astray. MM hung out with Clodius, probably in 63, but left because too many creditors hated him. Curio turned MM into a Caesarite. Spent a lot of money getting him elected tribune in 50. Curio was trib in 50. He was driven away by Pompeyites in 49. Plutarch says with Cassius, others say with Curio and Caelius Rufus. (Appian. Civil Wars 2.32 ). Also Suetonius 'Augustus', Phillipic 13 and lots and lots of Cic letters. These need to be looked at in the college library or something pretty intensely. Anyway, it's fairly certain that Curio was in the famous 'handcart across the

Rubicon' and most certainly was MM. According to Phil 2, this proves he started the civil war. Ffs. He was popular with the soldiers, but had " ill repute for his relations with other men's wives''. Caesar didn't give a crap about that sort of thing, but just liked the leadership and soldierly qualities. Curio was known as 'Curio's little daughter', the queen, until he did well politically. Despite this, MM was rumoured to be the girl of the outfit and even dressed as a bride (and as a slave even unto his fifties ). Later, it was alleged he dressed up for Cleo, only that time it was maybe in service of the cult of Dionysius. Mutable gender, mutable clothes etc ). Allegedly, Clodius and MM fell out over Fulvia, as MM started courting her (ahem, as the translation put it ) before Clodius died and certainly before Curio married her, but before MM married her. Clodius and MM nearly fought to death over Fulv, but Clod died and MM was busy married to some random poorish girl at the time. He got about. Curio was a decent politician and turns up in Caesar's 'Civil War' a lot. One MM theory is that he never quite grew up. It's a good theory. Caesar was ok with Dolabella, but MM hated him, and they couldn't work together, shamefully enough. He was good in adversity and happy to eat roots and starve with his soldiers. Octy split from Cic because Cic was in favour of democracy etc, especially ones run by himself. He was very happy to see Cic's bitchy hand brought to him. Bet MM shagged Tullia, which explains the Phillipics somewhat. Why do the notes to Cic's letters say that Curio was 'a Pompeyan brought over by Caesar'? I got the impression that he was in deep with the MM crowd before then. Lucan mentions him (chron sum '50). The MM gang member known as Caelius Rufus was the star of the court case 'Pro Caelio', which may have some details about the partying lifestyle. Did MM go with Caesar to Britain? (And is he mentioned in the 'Gallic Wars'?) Suetonius 'Julius' has a famous quote by Curio in it about some fey boy. Plutarch thinks Caesar brought Curio to his side with a large bribe, which Curio needed because he'd spent all his money on an amphitheatre for his dad and paying MM's debts. Curio then brought his up-and-coming soldier tart friend over to Caesar's side and the rest is quite literally history. Sallust is about the same age as MM, so he was pretty young when the Catiline thing happened. For 63, you also need 'Pro Murena' and 'Pro Sulla'. In eum locum postquam demissus est Lentulus, vindices rerum capitalium, quibus praeceptum erat laqueo gulam frengere. Ant. Hybrida is MM's uncle and turns up in the 63 stuff a lot as Cic's coconsul. Book list Plutarch Cicero, Pompey, Caesar, Ant & Brutus Appian civil war Suetonius Augustus 2nd and 13th Phillipic Pliny Histories 14 Lucan Chron ch. 50 Sallust Catiline and fragments

Cicero Murena, Sulla, Caelio, Catiline & ad fam Quintilian Inst. Oratory 12 Caesar stated in public that he thought Cic had acted illegally in putting Lentulus to death partly why he went into exile. (Gabinius consul, but the Gabinius? ) Clodius was pals with Caesar, who'd authorised his Tony Benn isation. He also hated Cic. Curio's papa died in 53 and he got a large will off him but he still took a big bribe from Caesar to join his party, so what was he spending his money on? When did MM come back from Greece and what were the dates of Fulvia's weddings? Cic is setting up Curio for an amici mutual back-scratching operation. He has 'backed him', as it were, to go upwards. In 51 Curio is trib plebs, poss with Cic's help. However, he says in Phillipics that MM only made any office (aedile, trib pleb) with the help of Curio etc and his chums, surely more his contemporaries than his patrons (I mean, one of the gang had to do well, so it may as well be the pretty one ). It's not certain who boosted MM, maybe Caesar himself (although I like the idea that Curio was brought over to Caesar's side first and then he brought MM afer him). Cic must have had a fair bit of new money himself to rise so far in politics. Maybe he already had a literary rep by then. Vixerunt indeed. He is an oily old duffer, and very circumloquitious. I know an Mphil isn't all that, academically, but what is the way to form the 'about' into a question, and make it the slightest part researchable?) - What were the links between the nobiles of the 80s generation? - What was the role of Curio in the late republic? - How did the combination of relationships in the Curio/Clod/MM gang affect the 49 revolution? (would like to mention the Phil 2 couch scene without being too slashy) Using Curio/Cic as an example of the client relationship, including the oddness of Cic slagging him after death. - How did the relationship between Curio, Clodius and the MM brothers manifest themselves? Add some sort of Eng Lit meta level, historiography, the reporting of the report. What does Cic's account of Curio say about Cic? (not a lot that's nice ). Using Curio as anexample of the range of primary sources for this period. I mean, is there even a year in Curio? Possibly him, Clodius and Lucius Ant; all interesting background bods. Maybe throw in Caelio Rufus and the mythical Fulvia too. Although it's all rather 'circling the unnamed famous person' heh heh. Also need a solid excuse to study Greek, such as the ability to read raw Plutarch. Stress use of originals and not translations, esp. 'piissimos' (the first recorded use of the word made by MM himself). Curio's trib pleb was the year before MM's, although I still can't tell why he was a Pompeyan. Maybe because his father was close to Cic. Of course, a woman is only known by her husband, and I think mine are worthy of note. My first husband was pulled apart by an angry mob after turning the wrong way down a back alley. My second husband was in love with my third, and as for him... he was famous. You're probably only reading this because you want to know if that story about them is true.

Used to use the pen, but not Because a start is what Doesn't begin and end well Nor does a paperless shell A thought in a shade away Unwritten doesn't stay Lines on lineless paper fade Is this all I've made? The finish never comes the Start seems to shrivel. The spark swamps under Some more mundane drivel If heart and laugh are gone Then what words make a song? The year in culture. Well, I didn't go to a cinema again, but I think other people started to say the same thing. I got the download pony working full time (especially those wacky pre-airs). Most of them were appalling gubbins, esp. the comedies, but 'Chuck' was ok. Got into 'Heroes' through the dubious method of Thinking People Are Cute. Also, a rather half-hearted viewing of 'Rome' led to a fun session doing complicated historical research, some of it in Latin. So yay for Gaius Scribonius Curio. Musically not much except an actual indieboi on AI. Top tune of the year (that I could bear to hear) was 'Bshorty 4' probably not to be repeated jazz-trance effort from the boy. they are like bands of an alien planet encircling this, houses smiling in shadow, tied to the ground like secrets warm hot whispers in willing ears strong midwinter pink clear as a new thought smearing the blue, singing. The dark crisp end of one train of thought the rolling midlane stop in a path and confused you turn left right reft light-footed scamper away under the last strained lights between branches and wishes merging together at night-nearnight. Still the outer planet holds us close to its clouded chest. Indie indie & dance indie & rawk indie & folklore indie & class, culture, politics indie = glittery white people, unfortunately.

The indie guitar solo is not 16th fretwank. Indie singing can be terrible indie style, clothes & videos indie is for the ladies the birth of indie indie & mainstream pop 'college rock' indie as used on tv and film indie as seen on tv and film top 9 albums and songs the radio jp, annie, podcasts the inkie mags internet/skate/mainstream indie one hit wonders scenes and movements indie drugs Speed and cheap beer Weed/cheap resin Acid / mushrooms whoo! Pills for the first time. Smack temple of love bob marley vibe dark o moon fine time / happy mondays j & mc / velvets / nirvana end with Kelly C vs record company, and that really hypocritical beets medley. Ok, things are pretty dire here but it's not terminal in any literal sense. The command structure for admin jobs is a lot clearer - It's worth trying so far, but maybe not try too hard - They seem to be keeping me from work, but that could be deliberate. - Postcard tutoring much easier now with this expertise. There were only a few bowls left at the party, so Shige ran out to the shops to get more chocrusts. V mentioned fruit, or something at least a little healthy but he was shouted down. At least it had got to the 'shouted down' stage, avoiding little shoals of board games. Sreth even laughed more. More than normal, when she seemed to rely on some sort of lavender-fag-sucking gnomic dryness. She laughed like a tinkling peal of badly-tuned silver bells. Snood had got her to demonstrate a fey courtship dance, and she insisted on replicating the flower garland with an old piece of tv aerial. My amazing new term list small pencil case parker and short cartridges a5 notebook medium rucksack black boots

waterproof jacket trip to london trip to n'pton trip to wales (yeah, sort of covered that) holiday on beach new passport expanding shower-curtain-pole thing for bedroom printer and ink (acquired in dodgy circs) a bright sprite like a reflection a hollow echo like a photo blurring on the path a smile always like a path blocked with wet weeds the only living line of the face flashes past under knowing the same smile that doesn't see. Next: 1. do osama work 2. plookship piece, 2000 words for sfx 3. do calendar stories and type up 4. copy out river journey story from course book. 5. type up other notebook stories. The footprint More now than then The precise shape has gone A small square bare foot leaving a print on the grass dark as grubby toes and green as a new life. Ignored for a while like a finger scarred by a good secret woodfire, and hurting later in bed. like scratch kittens in a barn and coughing from silly hay fags in paper. The footwide hollow fills and the dew comes by like the dew clinging to morning scaffolds as you creep round above the houses (or was that me, done in your style?) The shape so wider and deeper than my own. A gap like the hole

in a row of flowers in a bed in someone's front that shouldn't be there but got snuck off resold barefaced and it wasn't my idea or was it or anyway, a long tale. I am balanced stupidly between now and then like a babybound boddhina sat on a pillar waiting for the bus to come and drag us flung side to side lurching into hilly valleys talking of boys and hair and souls and songs and the bright lights in the town up ahead. ---\ Some writing tips from the black book Also consider shape will there be a lot of dialogue? Do you want large chunks of scenery description? How long do the scenes or chapters need to be for Flow? Making decisions about shape will help a lot, far more than future plots. When do you work? Would it help to do the opposite? 1. Night or morning night ( try morning somehow) 2. Music or silence or tv general noise (try complete silence ) 3. Coffee yes please (try none, or a lemony drink) 4. In bed, or on a chair sitting on the bed mostly (try the desk or in the bath) 5. Cafe, library etc no no (maybe try the library) Try writing in silence, in the morning and in a library. Like, go to the library at dawn and scribble on one of their little desks? Nah. Maybe the eggy cafe or the darn Hilary. It was ok last Sunday, if not very sociable. Get up every morning and do something, whether articles, study, writing or copy. One of those things at dawn, rather than rubbishy sitcoms. Do it for her, because someone should be published, someone at least. It is useful for F&SF writers to be able to visualise new places. A 'good imagination' can include things like clever similes for everyday objects. Good writers are observant. They see how they see things and how other theys may otherwise see the same things. The mathematicians are so used to simplifying their work for Others, they have become expert metaphoricians. Write many observations and make detailed descriptions of things.

The alleys she walked down shone clear blocks of back windows like lighthouses of serenity. The cobbles curled away from her feet and they were mute with leaves. Every six feet a pyre of rubbish stood. Sometimes the Alley Fairy had left a whole bookcase or a rattan side-table, but other times she just left inexplicable suitcases bursting with wet clothes, or strung-out pieces of dissected table-lamps. The lamp opposite has a fancy paper shade. That is, the paper is fancy but the shade is just stapled together. It's red-yellow home-made stuff from 'Paperchase' with odd little threads in it. I sometimes wonder if it will burn, but it gives a nicer light than the lamp on its own. There is a small rug pinned over the little door by me. The door is about three feet high and leads to a gap in the eaves that would be useful for storing boxes if it wasn't so draughty. Hence the rug, which was previously on the 'kitchen' floor but is now used to keep the refreshing little hurricane from bothering my neck. The computer-mouse is silver and a little over-shouldered, too big for my hand as they all are. It's connected at the other end to a USB port rather an a PS2 port because my last computer had something snapped-off in the PS2 port and I couldn't get the bit of plastic out of the slot even with blu-tak. What if? oh, what if? What if my socks came from space-goats? What if I were cursed to only eat peas? What if Tory candidate David Cameron is a shill paid for by the Labour Party? The lamp was a strange greenish-yellow and drew moths from all round the world to its unique colouration all through the summer. This meant that I learned where one could legally buy chloroform. The door to the eaves led to a garden. Lit by brilliant hydroponic bulbs and lined with foil, grass grew on the floor and roses climbed the walls. The police raided because of the infra-red readings but found nothing and went away bitching. The mouse was optical and easier to use in bed. This led to a lesser need to dance round the room and take long baths to rest the wretched back. I became one of those people who buy special 'fat' clothes. People talk and act in cliches quite often, so originality often ends up like writing-group tiresomeness. The best way to microcosmic originality is through accurate description, like Henry James or someone. This is due to people and their perceptions being entirely original (or so they say). This bowl I have is an almost ludicrously standard charity-shop bowl. It slopes fairly steeply and evenly, a snapped-off cone with smoothed-over edges. The rim of the bowl was once gold-trimmed but is now so despeckled that it can be safely microwaved. There is a pattern inside of greenish-blue roses with grey stems and small brown star-shaped flowers behind. On one side a half-blown rose, a bud and two sprays of brown flowers run along the bowl, chasing on the other side another smaller bud with fewer brown starflowers. This one is pointing the same way as if rushing towards a meeting. The best inspiration often comes after the most pedestrian start. It comes

after the mechanical plodwork of writing bollox for ages, or even practicing the touch-typing. The determination to Finish will provide amazing feats of inspiration. This does not mean last-minute deadline frenzy. What is a comfortable amount (physically) to write every day? Try to increase that amount gradually. Write for five minutes after the following sentence: " Blue makes me think of...'' Blue makes me think of tiny frogs today. In the vivarium section of Manchester Museum, there are (or were) tiny laquered-blue frogs, clinging to moistened vines and sprayed by water. They are barely more than a fingernail long, well, a bigger fingernail than mine, more a thumb-joint. Also, there was a patch of spilled paint, dry, powder-paint of a horrific, daring, universe-warping ultramarine. Outside Phil's house, that path where the popping 'snapdragon' buds are. I have too many blue things and not enough pink ones. If I had more interest in pink, I would be a better person. I must go to the vivarium soon and further research lizards. They might even have a book of lizard-care there? Using different trigger-words, do this exercise whenever you feel 'stuck'. The associations that tag alongside the piece will be useful. (How do you write about the dead? What is the best way to immortalise someone you haven't seen for years and your shockingly vast reaction? Should it stay in poems, in lists of people to phone, submissions to turn in? Or the largest and most accurate portrait you can draw?) "I find it hard to start''. It all starts with the blank page. Don't worry about a perfect start, even the first chapter might be the wrong one. Think of it like a doorway. Just focus on the destination. Start with one particular detail. In a stock romantic scene, how does it not sound obvious? Concentrate on a particular detail. Try a surprise angle, or tense, or focus on an unusual detail. Or start at a random point in media res. More beginning can be written later. Write immediately about three lines following " Emma said that...'' Emma said that her head hurt. The hat was driving her to foaming insanity with its band, needed for the wind. She said she'd never normally wear a hat but this was just that kind of cliched wedding. She was even wearing a peach skirt suit. If you cut out the 'said' part, you have a nice start for a third-person monologue. It can be useful to start with extra tags, 'I remember that' or 'She was famous for'. This can turn big chunks of terrain into just chatting narrative story-telling. Editing and redrafting can take as long as the original process. There is nothing to fear about writing badly (it clearly never scared Dickens). Do not use fancy words, but also don't restrict your innate vocabulary either. Write down good wordses. Make a note of quaint ethnic speech patterns. Writing courses hate long words anyway. The literary review of reviewings in an obscure area: Books featuring Horace Odes 1.9, and the language used to communicate with the 'informed reader', whoever that might be. " From a Sabine Jar'' Lowell Edmunds, Univ NC Press, Chapel Hill & London

1992 (mcr univ library 874.5 BA 63) 1. Why is this poem popular? 2. What function are the critics/theorists performing? 3. Who are they speaking to? 4. What language do they use? 5. Where do they stand on the blank page/bio thing? 6. What do they conclude about its meaning, language, place in politics then and now? - also Loeb. " Reading Horace'' David West (Univ Edinburgh 1967) town lib. 874.5