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The Waiting Game

It’s happened.  I have finally submitted my novel to an agent.  Now all I can do is wait with bated breath.  I feel sick in my stomach and paralyzed by fear.  It is a somewhat similar feeling to the first time you proposition a girl as a teenager.  You do your up most to prepare yourself for the worst, therefore logically trying to minimise the likely hurt when you get the expected rejection.  As someone who lived through his teenage years, years ago I remember that it doesn’t really work.

There is a distinctly Hollywood element to the act of submitting a manuscript.  The feeling that ‘those things only happen to people in the movies’ means that its impossible to think any other way than pessimistically which actually suits my natural demeanor.  Nevertheless such an approach creates a natural apprehension.

Another problem which emerges is the inability to be objective about your own work.  I can no longer look at my manuscript.  Every time I do I have a conflicting feeling.  One day I feel it is great, the next I feel it is a disaster.  The safest thing I can do for now, is to put it somewhere out of sight and out of mind while I try to busy myself with dull tasks to avoid thinking about the significance of my first submission.

Can I now say I have written a novel?  Does that mean I am a writer?  What if they reject me?  Does it mean I am not good enough?  Does it mean that my writing is bad or that my idea is bad or that both are bad?  The only thing which is clear to be right now is that it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Postcard From Geneva – The Verdict

Neither old nor new, neither ugly nor beautiful, neither city nor town.  Geneva, what the hell are you?

Geneva’s location is as picturesque as it gets.  Surrounded by mountains on its outskirts and with a stunning crystal clear lake at its centre, there is no doubting its appeal.  However like a lingerie model in the light of day, there is no denying it’s flaws.  Whether it rubbish strewn streets or buildings in disrepair it is a jekyll and hyde city.

The people of Geneva are a cosmopolitan mixture which would make London blush with embarrassment.  As lovely and liberal as the concept is it inevitably leads to people feeling a greater association with the culture of their nationality than any affinity with their city, and that is visible in Geneva’s unkempt appearance.  Generally speaking the people I encountered were a contradiction to normality as there first language is French, yet somehow they have learnt manners and were generally helpful.

I was also surprised to see that they have a national obsession with cheese.  Whether they boil it or fry it or fire it from a rocket, pretty much anything goes with cheese.  I am all for cheese, however after two and a half days in Geneva I suspect my dna is now approximately 38% cheese.

The stereotypes regarding watches, cuckoo clocks, chocolate and lederhosen appear to be massively misplaced when examine Geneva.  There are an impressive number of watch shops and there is even a watch museum however that is it.  I saw 1 cuckoo clock, no yodellers and a lot less chocolate than I expected.

I experienced a tiny cultural education regarding the writer JJ Rousseau in an audio visual museum charting his life.  Very early in the tour the audio guide proudly recounts a moment when JJ and his dad got drunk with a group of soldiers and his declared ‘that jj would never find any other people like Genevians’.  Obviously his Dad being drunk bared no relation to him believing that the soldiers were his best mates.  Interestingly enough his work was later banned and burned in home town.  It’s a perfect example of this alluring, yet hypocritical melting-pot which is Geneva.

Would I recommend visiting Geneva?  It is certainly worth seeing but it is not worth a standalone trip.  2 days is enough to see what’s worth seeing.  It’s one of those places which you visit just to say you have been.  

Postcard From Geneva – First Impressions

Before I arrived here I already had a picture of Geneva in my head.  It was that of a rich modern super city organised by Germans whilst being culturally styled by the French.  How wrong was I?

In the first 30 mins of arriving I found myself marvelling at the unique beauty of its location,the unique mish mash of cultures which surround you and the bizarre sight of shop signs advertising their wares in both French and English.  However it wears off quick enough.

The first thing which wakes you back into reality is the sheer cost of living.  It isn’t only that everyday things are inordinately expensive its the fact that they try to charge you for anything they can thing of. Whether its the ‘free’ WiFi or wanting to buy take away food to actually take away,they would charge you for the air you are breathing if they thought they could get away with it. 

It set me thinking about why on earth it is so expensive?  As a city its not much to look at.  The streets are dirty and in disrepair.  Many buildings look as if they haven’t had a lick of paint for 500 years.  Then the answer came to me.  The reason life is so expensive here is that they have to pay for a time machine which keeps them trapped in the 1980’s.

Regarding the internationalness of Geneva.  After some time it struck me that I hadn’t seem a swiss restaurant/shop/cafe/bakery/church anywhere.  In fact I hadn’t seen a single sign which advertised any aspect of Swiss culture.  I am seriously starting to wonder if they have any.

The last thing I shall say is that in my hostel I was delighted to note that they sell Swiss army knives.  The reason it made me happy was two fold.  First of all it explains why Switzerland has remained neutral through any conflict.  It’s not that they are pacifists its that they don’t any confidence in an army which goes to war with a knife, a magnifying glass, a nail file, scissors, a bottle opener but no gun.  The second is that it only confirms my theory of the 80’s time machine.  Back when kids used to go out and climb trees, when apple’s were things which people ate and not electronic crack for teenagers, a multi-functional out door tool would have been appreciated by any young boy. 

Perhaps I am missing the bigger picture.  Perhaps the reason I haven’t seen a single teenager in my first few hours here is because they are all up in the mountains practising their yodelling and Swiss armying with their knives.  Perhaps life is better here.  What I have seen is a mere scratch on the surface.  It’s like the star-headed screwdriver on your Swiss army knife.  It’s a comforting thought but it isn’t actually any use out here in the wild 

Apocalyptic Airports

I am writing this from the discomfort of an airport in the early hours of arse o’clock.  It never ceases to amaze me how god fucking awful and depressing airports are, that shiteness literally trebles when you are travelling alone. 

Surrounded by shuffling zombies, none of them rushing but all in a bigger hurry and slightly more important than the next. 

The trendyness of the 21st century traveller is infuriating.  When I was a kid I envisioned airports being full of men in suits and bearded hippies.  Nowadays its trendy people with their trendy haircuts and their trendy clothes making calls on their iphones whilst listening to their ipods whilst mulling over the fact that they don’t have any i-personality. 

You never see children reading anymore.  They sit at the airport playing on little boxes of light and sound shooting fictional aliens from outer space in the face.  If they do read it’s because they are part of a family of four and there name is Tarquin or something modern like Apple or fucking strawberry and their dad wears suede shoes with no socks and their mum went to an all girls school and wears floral print dresses.

The fact that air travel has been common place for so many years yet people still are thoroughly unprepared. Shorts and sandels may well work fine in a tropical climate but in a pressurized air cabin thousands of feet in the sky will inevitably make you feel cold. 

I guess what I am trying to stay is that within the confines of an airport you will come face to face with the fact that the human race is utterly stupid, as there are so many examples around you that you wouldn’t be able to ignore, even if you are an ostrich.

Fear And Tortoises

My synopsis is finished, my cover letter is written and my sample from my manuscript is corrected.  I am ready to start sending out my novel.  NOT.  I have found yet another excuse.  I haven’t finished the last draft of the whole manuscript.  Initially I was thinking about sending it out and then finishing the draft, but my chosen target is likely to get back to me quickly so I feel like I would be better off waiting until I am 100% finished.  That is of course if they get back to me.  And that is where the fear lays.

If every human being is an animal then I am a rather miserable tortoise.  I grew up believing that fear is wrong so I would refuse to fear things.  Obviously I was afraid of many things like any normal kid but I would never admit that I was afraid.  Essentially when faced with something frightening I would retreat into my ‘house’ and wait till it was over.  Occasionally an annoying kid would prod and poke my house until I would eventually bite his fingertip off but by and large I was a hider.

As an adult I am just the same.  Right now I am desperately seeking things to fill up my time to avoid doing what I should be doing.  In some respects my subconscious is trying to stop me sending out my manuscript.  And that thought fills me with doubts.  Is it because I think my novel isn’t good enough?  Is it just plain fear of rejection?  I don’t know.  What I am certain of is that I am experiencing some form of mental menopause.  As I work through my novel I am having moments where I am amazed at how good some part of it is, I am also having other moments when I am gritted my teeth and physically fighting with the urge to burn it.  I guess the overwhelming fear is what happens when I get the first rejection.  I will finally stop being Scott the man and I will become Scott the Literary Failure.

Inactivity is the death of man.  We currently live in the laziest version of the world so far.  At 16 years old we are expected to know what we want to devote our lives to when no one ever attempts to teach us a thing regarding decision-making.  I am not blaming my ills on the world outside me.  I am more than conscious of how utterly stupid I am.  I just need to man up and grab life by the balls and ask it to dance.  In the meantime I am going away for the weekend……Is that a fail?