This book was a Christmas gift from an old friend who clearly knows me well. Despite having studied philosophy reasonably intensively in the past, this little book of thought experiments was both entertaining and engaging. One of the things that I love about philosophy is that it can be read and understood at many different levels and this book is no exception. Baggini has taken 100 famous philosophical conundrums, re-written them in his own words and then added a brief discussion of the topic at hand. These can be used at face value, as short sharp ideas that you may not have thought about before or as a starting block for more serious thought and contemplation. In this way, the book will suit all levels of philosophical ability, from beginners to the more advanced.
There are so many ‘rules’ in life. Everywhere and anywhere: rules, rules, rules. Writing is no different. There are a lot of ‘rules’. I didn’t know this until long after I started writing but it appears that I’ve been missing a trick by ignoring the ‘rules’. Now that I know what they are though, I’m beginning to wonder whether they actually deserve to be rules, because rules need to come from some sort of firm basing, right? Right. So although I’m not as qualified as some (like Stephen King) to examine the rules of writing, I want to look through each of them and decide whether or not they are right for me. And hence begins a new series to this blog (a mini-series, if you will, a series within a series of Friday Feels’): Deconstructing the Writing Rules. I’d like to point out though that I am in no way editing these rules in relation to anyone else – if you find some wisdom in this series, then awesome, and if you can relate then that’s cool too but that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m not trying to tell anyone what the ‘rules’ should be but instead, I’m looking at the rules and deciding how they work for me.
This story is dedicated to my husband, Roy Froud, who told me to write a story about my very own arch-nemesis, Mr. Procrasto!
The rope that held Captain Workhard to the table cut into his wrists. He could hear the whirring of the computer as it loaded and tippy-tapping of Nate’s typing. A robotic arm moved the screen across the room and brought it down over Captain Workhard’s face.
“You won’t get away with it this time, Mr. Procrasto!” he shouted, twisting his face away from the screen and screwing his eyes shut. “I won’t look!” The muscles in his arms bulged as he tensed with fear.
Stephen King has always been a bit hit and miss for me – you’ve got Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption versus The Breathing Method in Different Seasons, you’ve got Misery versus Pet Semetary and numerous more examples. I’m always a little reluctant to pick up a King novel for that reason – although unjustly because when it is good, it is very good – just like 11.22.63.
Do you know what I hate? Actually, don’t answer that – I hate lots of things; I’m a grouchy old woman at heart. Curmudgeonly, you could say. Cantankerous even. Irritable, crabby, complaining, belligerent. Okay, I admit, I’m not quite that bad but they are good words, aren’t they? And I do get rather grumpy at lots of things (the thesaurus clearly not being one of them).
“Ah, there you are, Queenie darling. You look absolutely ravishing today,” McCavity swooned as he waltzed into Queenie’s chambers carrying a pork pie that he intended devour as soon as he sat down. He was wearing his much-loved top hat and tails, the buttons of his jacket stretched on a slowly growing paunch.
This story is dedicated to Diana Slampyak, who sent me the prompt ‘schizophrenia’.
Lucy tied the apron around her waist and looked around the dark and dingy bar. She sighed as she picked up her tray and walked over to her nearest table. Life wasn’t supposed to turn out like this, she thought, her dull eyes sagging with exhaustion and just a hint of misery. It wasn’t that her life was terrible – she had a job that she could tolerate and a small place of her own. A part-time boyfriend and a dog too. Life was okay and she knew that so many people had it so much worse. It just wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. She’d had plans. Pressure too, she remembered. There was a lot of that.
So, corporate giant Amazon has opened a bookshop. A real, live bookshop. You know, a physical place that you can actually visit, and where it will probably be frowned upon to fill a basket with many wonderful things and leave it sitting there for weeks on end until you finally pluck up the courage to admit to yourslf that actually, you can’t afford all those things and eventually empty your basket, only to repeat the process again a few days later. I’m not the only one who does that, right? Well anyway, I’m guessing I wouldn’t get away with it in this brand spanking new store, which opened on the second of November in Seattle. Seattle, America, all the way across a massive ocean, so yep – a bit far for me to go, just to buy some books (‘just’? ‘just’? ‘Just’ is blasphemy!) but hey, at least I now know a grand total of two things about Seattle (the other being Frasier).
“Ya!” Herr Sharpe declared excitedly as his head bobbed up and down like a plush nodding dog from the back of a car. His smile took up most of his face.
From A to Biba: The Autobiography of Barbara Hulanicki is the account of Barbara Hulanicki’s life up to, and a little after, the collapse of the major fashion retailer ‘Biba’ in 1977. I had, of course, heard of Biba and the faint whiff of legend behind the name but didn’t really know much about it. Since reading the book, I have ‘googled’ (aahh…the wonders of Google) images of the clothing and found them to be beautiful – both Hulanicki’s vintage stuff and the modern (and prohibitively expensive) House of Fraser collection that Hulanicki was not involved in. This book itself follows suit.