Message-ID: <37949asstr$1029849061@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: PleaseCain@aol.com X-Original-Message-ID: <37.2c2691a6.2a932dfe@aol.com> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Tue, 20 Aug 2002 01:30:38 EDT Subject: {ASSM} {REVIEW} Interviewing Oosh on "Pavlova" - 3/4 Date: Tue, 20 Aug 2002 09:11:01 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail X-Is-Review: yes Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.d Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: kelly, RuiJorge (Copyright 2002 pleasecain@aol.com; excerpts from "Pavlova's Bitches" Copyright 2001 Oosh.) An Interview With Oosh on "Pavlova's Bitches" -- Part 3 Q: Please describe for us your reading life: your early experiences, your current habits, your favorite subjects and writers. O: I learned to read when I was quite young. At the age of eight, I read "Doctor Dolittle in the Moon," and was utterly captivated. Over the next year I read all of Hugh Lofting's output. By eleven I had a crush on Lorna Doone. In my early teens, I developed a short-lived interest in adventure stories--I particularly liked Bulldog Drummond, although his helpless heroines were rather hard to take. I even had a brief flirtation with Doctor Fu Manchu. But then I moved on to Conan Doyle, and in comparison with his steel-minded detective the heartthrob heroes seemed lifeless. It was through Sherlock Holmes that I came to value the power of reason and insight, and savour the relatively subtle but haunting horrors of the twisted mind--infinitely more disturbing than H.H. Munro's Bolshevik baddies in their long black coats. Of course, Conan Doyle was the expert on the twisted mind: his heroes are always misogynistic, and in some of the Professor Challenger stories the misogyny becomes positively disturbing. Conan Doyle was also a militant anti-Catholic, and if you ever encounter a Catholic woman in a Conan Doyle story you can bet that she's the epitome of darkest evil. While I still relish Conan Doyle's evocative impressions of Victorian London, I turned against stories with heroes. Paradoxically, I maintained my interest in crime fiction, though favouring the works of women writers, particularly P.D. James and (unfashionably) Dorothy Sayers. Somehow I manage to shrug off Sayers's queasy infatuation with her implausible hero, instead relishing her colourful and well-observed dialogue. She can pinpoint a character in dialogue--a dull-witted labourer, an absent-minded duchess, a scatterbrained cleaning-lady. I should also make mention of P.D. James. Her work is distinguished by the complexity and depth of her characters and the fascinating way they interact. Whatever interest there is in the crime element is quite eclipsed by the personal dramas that evolve. Now I must turn from my life of crime and mention the Trollopes: Anthony's delightful Barchester series made a very strong impression on me. If (as some have said) I managed to evoke a plausibly Victorian literary style in "Pavlova," then I owe it to Trollope. Many of his characters are hilarious stereotypes, but I love his blend of serious moral themes and really sharp wit. He is a master of sarcasm. And then there's his granddaughter Joanna. Quite simply, superb characters, believable situations, serious issues. I do go on and on, don't I? I cannot mention very many more writers without threatening to exhaust everyone's patience--mine included. Q: Name a couple of powerful books, ones Oosh wishes every hungry mind would read. O: I find this surprisingly easy to answer. My first is "The Inn at the Edge of the World" by Alice Thomas Ellis. Soon I'm going to read it for the fourth time. No words of mine can do it justice. It's subtle, honest, beautiful, witty, haunting, touching. My second is Sarah Waters' recent novel "Fingersmith." I am going to have to read this several times, too. I was particularly struck by the amazing symmetries she weaves in her plot. To blend such architectural symmetry with an atmosphere of thrilling intrigue is a major triumph. Q: What is on your reading table right now? O: "Love Songs" by AnnieMae Robertson; "Mind and World" by John McDowell. (And a stack of others!) Q: Can you recommend any books, fictional or nonfictional, to shed further light on the world of PB? O: This seems a very conceited thing to say: nobody dared to speak of the world of PB until recently, because such things could not be said. People wrote not about how people are, but about how people were supposed to be. In some respects, portrayals of human nature were profound and accurate; but in others, silence was the only option. I think Rachel P. Maines' "The Technology of Orgasm" perhaps speaks loudest of those silences--and of those who would still preserve them today. Q: What is your educational background? O: I'd rather dodge this question. I will say that mathematics, science and English literature did not loom large. By far the most educational experience I have had was falling in love. In comparison with that, as Aquinas said, the rest is just straw. Q: What is your writing background? Have you taken writing classes? Have you published? O: I used to write a good deal when I was little--from about the age of eight. I wrote humorous stories for people I liked or admired (my parents, my teachers). All of these pieces are now lost. But I recall on several occasions people laughing until tears streamed down their faces. I remember my mother in agony from too much laughing. I dreamed of being a writer. In my heart I knew that I could reach people through writing. But then I wrote my first novel at the age of eleven. In retrospect, it was a fairly ordinary kids adventure story, and not at all funny. I was growing up, and started going about writing as if I were an adult professional. I wasn't very satisfied with the result. About a year later I rewrote it. Then I put it away for a while, having worked upon it for weeks and weeks and weeks. And then, at about thirteen, I suddenly lost all ability to write. Whereas once I'd been the dazzling star of English composition, I became cramped, stilted, unimaginative and dismally self-conscious. In short, I was blocked. I remember taking the novel--a two-inch-deep stack of close-typed foolscap paper--and reading the first few pages. I was horrified and totally demoralized. I hurried down to the back door and hurled my work into the dustbin. I didn't write again until late 1999, about 32 years later. I have never had any instruction in writing--save helpful responsive e-mails from friends--and I have never, and will never, seek to publish anything in print. What I have written, I have written. It has left me now, and it must make its own way. I live only for what I may yet be given to write. Q: Do you believe in writers block? If so, how do you reconcile that concept with maintaining discipline in the craft? Your writing style strikes me as having required plenty of practice, in spite of any blockages. O: I had a lot of practice when I was young. But even when I'm blocked from writing, I'm thinking about writing, planning, turning things over, trying out different possibilities in my mind. For me, blockage is a matter of having a good overall idea, but not being able to see any detail, as if I'm seeing "through a glass darkly." I can only write when I can envisage my subject with absolute clarity. Then, it's a matter of selecting the most relevant details, and trying to find the best words for them. I've always loved words. My father told me of an incident of which I still have some recall. When I was about eighteen months old, I was taken for an x-ray examination. They carried me into the x-ray room, where I looked around me--perhaps looking for something familiar amid all the strangeness. When I pointed and said "radiator," the technicians were amazed. Long words were fascinating; I was intoxicated by their power. In my very early childhood I was acutely aware of being powerless, and of needing language in order to gain some measure of control. Being sensitive to words and their meanings certainly helps in some ways, although I fear that in my case it leads to a plainness of language that deprives it of colour. I don't use very much metaphor, and I don't think I'm very good at it. Those who do, and are, have all my admiration. Q: Have you held writing or communications positions, or worked in academia? O: I have worked in academia, but never as a writer. Nearly everything I have written in connexion with my work has been deadly dull--which I suppose is most people's experience! Q: What are your writing habits? Do you write daily? Do you keep a journal or diary? O: I think my only writing habit is agonizing. Bellyaching might be a better word. When I truly believe in what I am writing, I write very fast indeed, and sometimes I will not change a word of it ever after. This happens particularly with my poems, some of which come upon me like visions. But with my prose, I will think about a piece for weeks before I begin to write it. Sometimes I'll abandon it after the first page or so, and if I do, I never want to go back. I just delete and forget. I don't keep a journal or diary. I associate that activity with an unwholesome preoccupation with my own thought-processes. Writing requires openness and selflessness. I try not to write about me, but about what is. What I am inevitably curves and distorts what is--I cannot help that--but I can at least reflect it to the best of my ability. In my writing, I am trying to make something as real as possible. In order to make that happen, I must be as unconcerned as possible about my own petty concerns--and for the most part, they are extremely petty. Q: Where do you write? What time of day? Do you write in longhand, or at the keyboard? O: I write in my junk-room, at the keyboard. I learned to type very fast as a child, and later I taught myself to touch-type. I can hardly manage a pen or pencil. When I write, I have to write fast, before I lose faith in what I'm writing. I go cold on my ideas very quickly, and unless I can somehow capture them in the short time that they are alive, they sink to the bottom of the boil--perhaps to be reborn later as something better, or to emerge in another, quite different form. Q: You have a spare, clean writing style, unencumbered by big blocks of description. Instead, you weave detail into the narrative, to maintain a nice pacing and voice. Whom would you list as influences, including writers, or anyone else for that matter? O: I'd like to be able to answer this. But I have always regarded it as my personal failing--that I'm incapable of writing the sumptuous detail in which some other writers excel. It would sound very grand to say that my spareness of style was the result of some kind of ascetic self-discipline. But that's not true at all. It is the only way I can write. One day I'd like to be able to give this question a better answer, because it interests me too. For now, I can only say that what I write is as it were forced through tightly clenched teeth, through a process that I don't understand and perhaps don't dare to question. Writing, for me, is like walking a tightrope, and I daren't look down. I'm going to struggle to say something useful, though. For me, objective reality is unsuggestive and meaningless. When I look at a cliff or at a piece of stone, I am filled with a kind of helpless dread: "what does it all mean?" I want to portray external reality as perceived by somebody: that is what brings it alive. So this is not a question of choice, nor of influence. I feel it as a personal infirmity, something that renders my whole outlook radically defective and somehow jejune. When I read splendid descriptive passages, I am overwhelmed with admiration for what others can do, but that I cannot. But if, somehow, I can make things come alive and seem real, then perhaps I'm not defective, but simply approaching the world from a slightly different angle--not better, just different. Q: Your description of your writing career surprises me. You really feel you are teetering over the chasm with each outing? O: I often do, though not invariably. Occasionally I lose all faith in what I'm doing. It's like telling a joke that you don't find funny any longer. In retrospect, I'm often surprised by the way in which I will turn against a piece, either while I'm writing it or immediately afterwards. Paradoxically, it doesn't detract from my strong sense of duty to finish it. I do know that these feelings are largely groundless. Part of the trouble is that occasionally I seem to achieve a kind of total clarity of vision, and words just write themselves. I often worry that when that very rare condition is absent, I'm incapable of doing anything well. Q: Your sexual passages are also well-written--what is your approach to writing sex, in contrast to other fictional prose? O: Again, I like to try to portray sex as it is perceived, rather than as it might appear to the voyeur. I can appreciate voyeuristic writing, but in the end it alienates me. I find it cold and hard and manipulative. These sound like harsh, judgmental words, and I know I should apologize for that. In my brain I know that the external appearance of beautiful reality is beautiful. But in my heart I am afraid of the voyeuristic eye. I have to find a way, somehow, to see the scene through the lens of the eye of the participant. "Turn away, girls, please. Miller, I want you to take note of what I'm about to show you. For the sake of science, of course." There is absolute silence. Clark is pink-cheeked, her eyes downcast. Denning, all obedience, still holds Shipman's other arm tightly. Shipman is weeping softly, the bell still jingling angrily, her ankles held fast by Kershaw. "What do you think of that, Miller?" asks Walmsley softly as she draws up Shipman's skirts. "Oh! What's happened to her?" Miller sounds horrified. The others are dying to look. "Is she usually like that?" "I somehow don't think so, Miller. Just describe, in writing, what you see." "Well, I . . ." "In writing, Miller." "Oh. Just a minute." "Haven't you seen enough?" "Um . . . well, yes." "Very well, Miller, get writing. Up you get, Shipman." "Walmsley, I could take it a little longer, honestly," protests the disappointed volunteer. "I'm sure you could, Shipman, but if we are to be scientific we have to advance the experiment slowly. We mustn't rush things. We must see what effect such a prolonged exposure to the current has on you. Aren't you in the battledore match tomorrow, by the way?" "Well, yes, I am, but . . ." "Well, then, Shipman, we shall have to see if it improves your game." "Oh! I am sure that it will . . ." "Clark? Are you in the match?" "Er . . . no, Walmsley." "No. Denning?" "Yes, Walmsley. I'm playing." "Right. You're next for a dose. Hop up on the table, girl." "Does this mean I don't get a go?" asks Clark anxiously. "Precisely, Clark. In the interests of science, we are going to examine the effects of the electrical current upon our battledore players!" Denning's eyes open wide as Walmsley's fair hands glide under her skirts. "You're not frightened are you, Denning?" "No, but . . . do you have to do it just there?" "It is the most effective place, Denning." Walmsley lovingly applies the electrical contacts. "How about there, Denning?" "Ooh! That feels funny!" "Or how about there?" "Oh goodness . . . that's . . ." "Or . . . hang on a moment . . . what about . . . there?" "Eek! Hee hee! Oh gosh!" Denning's voice is a squeak. She tries to writhe, but she is held fast. "Can you feel the energy entering your body?" "Oh! Hee hee!" This seems to be all Denning can say, but her expression seems particularly lively and interested, so Walmsley judges that the position must be about right. "One hundred and four," intones Clark sulkily. Soon the bell is ringing merrily--so merrily, in fact, that Miss Paulson leaves Carter bent over her machine and comes to see what is happening. "Benson! Shipman! Stand still! You girls seem to have Saint Vitus's Dance! Goodness, Walmsley! Where on earth are you placing those contacts?" Continued in Part 4 -- <1st attachment begin> <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+