Bulgakov: Master Satirist

Mikhail Bulgakov is one of the most overlooked Russian satirists/geniuses of the 20th century.

I’ve read two works of his now, and both have floored me with the scathing cleverness of their satire, the sheer originality of their ideas, and the fact that both these Russian texts – written during Stalin’s reign – are instantly accessible to the modern reader.

The Heart of a Dog (1925) is a short blast against the ‘New Soviet Man’ – a comment on the declining power of Communism and the changing tides in the Soviet power structure, which up until then, had been an excruciating series of proletarian rebellions and bourgeois sanctions.

Most importantly, though – the book is utterly hilarious. Narrated by Sharik, a stray dog hours from a chilly death on the streets of Moscow, the tale follows our mongrel hero through his rescue from the ‘mad Professor’ Preobrazhensky, his transformation from a dog into a man, to his life as an unruly proletarian scoundrel, mooching off his bourgeois masters.

The humour is mainly farcical – most certainly inspired by the work of Nikolai Gogol, esp. his masterpiece The Overcoat. A metaphorical war between the classes ensues as Sharik tears the doctor’s flat apart, kills wandering tabbies, and lands a job for the Moscow Cleansing Department through a vengeful trade unionist seeking the haughty professor’s arrest.

Bulgakov, who spent most of his writing life as a dramatist, has a perfect ear for dialogue and captures the absurdities of his homeland with a sense of unfazed abandon. It is his fearlessness as a satirist that makes this novel such a pleasure to behold, and even more telling that it would take a further sixty-two years before this book was printed in the Soviet Union.

A man ahead of his time who defined his era so wonderfully. Read him.

Blog Etiquette with Janis Der Von Füberünter

Hallo, fish-tickling European blog visitor! I write the blogs, as I am sure you do too, ja? Over the next four chocks, I will guide you through the bumps and belches of the blogging world, and will share with you my Klugheit (intelligence) and Unterwäsche (knowledge) on the blogging scene!

1. Arrival on the blogging scene.

So, you have chosen to write a blog. Congratulations. Now… it is your task to offer something NEW to the lacklustre world of confessional blather, self-promoting über-tedium and amusing pictures of gurning kittens. Use your words, ja? Wield those words like a pirate on Vaseline! We have a saying in my hometown: Ich bin ein Arsch (the word is sacred).

2. Make blogging acquainti and read their bloggings.

So… you expect ten comments on your first post, ja? Nein! You must network. Sample the giblets of another blogger’s effort. The most loyal blogging friends are those who read your work in return on a regular basis and spread the news of your blogging snippets. Test blogging buddies! Dump those who ignore you! You will find your friends, do not worry!

3. Be friendly.

Fill your page will smiling kittens! Write amusing kibbles of thought and spurt your brain lard about the place, making sure to invite feedback! You don’t want Fräulein Der Von Füberünter to come and spank your plank, nein? Do not set your comments to the ‘approval only’ option! It makes you look like a llama licking his own anus with his tongue. Invite all comment!

4. You are not interesting!

Remember this! Give the reader something to work with, ja? We do not want to know about the size of your underpants. When you write about you, make it über-giggletime and leave scope for a dialogue. We do not care how brilliant you are! Never make your reader feel inadequate! You perp.

Thus concludes Fräulein Der Von Füberünter’s blog squirming. I invite feedback, but I will neither goose your chickens, nor essen Sie Ihre Penis (take care of your children’s socks).

Danke, word-spankers.

101 Dalliances

Dan Rhodes makes micro-fiction writing look pimps.

His lauded collection, Anthropology, collects 101 stories, each approx 101 words (the word count isn’t rigidly adhered to), and over the course of 200 pages, breaks down the bulk of a billion novels about heartbreak, obsessive lovers, hapless male losers, and pouting femme fatales into hilarious, touching and poignant mini-stories.

I have been a doubter of micro-fiction for some time, but reading this collection has opened my eyes to the possibilities of the form. How often have you written a meandering story of some 2000 words, only to realise the idea could easily be encapsulated in one tight block of brilliance?

Rhodes takes the overdone subject matter, slathers his vignettes with wit, insight and pathos, creating a tight set fit for the modern ADHD reader.

I still abhor the prevalence of micro-fiction, esp. on the net, where everyone is meant to have the attention span of a Chelsea bimbo, but a unified collection like this is inspired. Had Rhodes written one of these pieces and posted it on a website somewhere, it would have faded into insignificance quicker than a bull’s belch – locking antlers forever with the million or so other attempts at sublime cleverness and Wildeian pithiness.

However, because Rhodes has sunk his gnashers into this mammoth undertaking – this obsessive pursuit of the ultimate conciseness – this project feels as deep as a novel or a short story.

So… hurrah to Rhodes to converting me to the form and saving me from a depressing world where anyone can commit 100 words to a 'submit' box and become a four-minute interwoob sensation. He may not have the length or breadth, but he certainly has the depth.

Gleaned Genius (Pt 1)

When I told people I was doing a Creative Writing MA, there were predictable howls of scepticism.

The consensus among the league of beleaguered writers I liaise with (and whom I love with massive slabs of affection) seems to be that writing courses are bunk, bollocks and bungleable.

I thought so too. The argument that tutors mould writers in their own image is a powerful one. How can one writer, imparting their wisdom and experience on a class, sidestep the clone treatment, subliminal or otherwise?

However, this one at Napier Uni seems to be tight. The tutors are on the same wavelength as the disillusioned doubters, and have devised an attack plan of writing that encompasses a whole smorgasbord of innovative approaches to fiction and non-fiction.

This blog will be filled with actual thoughts about writing from now on. Yes, actual thoughts, as opposed to feeble-minded rants and passive-aggressive whines. The freedom, the brilliance of using one’s brain!

Or… the tedium of navelgazing and pseudo-academic windbaggery. We’ll see. Ta-ta for now.

Rejection Missive From 322Review.org

Could this be a contender for the most generic rejection EVER?


Dear Writer,

We regret to inform you that your submission to 322 Review was not accepted for publication. However, we would like to thank you for considering our magazine, and we hope that you consider us for future submissions.

Best,

The 322 Review Editors


It's the personal touch that counts.

The Mitchell Tapes [2]

In his late twenties, Mitchell Hampton was in the habit of giving live readings of esoteric 17th century poems in techno clubs around Glasgow. This one snippet finds him performing a poem by London-born poet Robert Herrick (1591-1674) entitled, "A Night-Piece to Julia."

This sentimental piece sits well with the surrounding drum 'n' bass cacophony from local noisemakers The Slit Nipple. The music becomes louder towards the end, drowning out the text, but most of the original poem is intact and the crowd of stoned listeners were no doubt enthralled by Mitchell's reading.

The Novel-In-A-Day Fiasco

Tuesday:

I sit, barren of inspiration, at my desk, attempting to fluff up a rather generic narrative about unpleasant wankers in the publishing industry. After hours of humming and tutting and sighing I abort the project and waste as much time as it is humanly possible to waste without watching terrestrial television.

I eat a Kit-Kat. I pace around. In my inertia, I even contemplate phoning my parents for a chat. Then, in a moment of inspired stupidity, I recall a plan I once made to write an ENTIRE NOVEL IN ONE DAY.

“It can’t be done!” scoff the cynics. “You fool!” say other cynics. “Give it a go, handsome!” says my uncynical girlfriend, who wasn’t even in the room at the time. And so, armed with nothing more than a desire to unclog my barren inkwell, and to prove I am the best writer in the whole room, I vow to complete a 75,000 word novel in 24 hours.

On Friday, I would spend 23 hours writing non-stop, with two 30-minute breaks for eating and pooping. Simple. Well, not exactly.

Wednesday-Thursday:

I prepare mentally and physically for my feat by catching up on sleep, eating enough food for a week, and informing everyone that I will be incommunicado for the day and to leave me the hell alone.

My ego inflates to ludicrous proportions. At one point, I draft up a list of writers I wipe the floor with – among them Dickens, Shakespeare and Cartland. I post an ill-informed rant about how I am too good to be published (see below) and get blocked by five former friends on Twitter. Yes, the stakes are being raised – a sense of mounting drama is mounting.

I go to bed early, apply my beauty moisturiser, tuck myself into beddy-byes and drift off to sleep, dreaming of victory.

Friday:

I rise at 8AM sharp and have a quick breakfast as my computer slowly boots itself. Scotland’s nine-month autumn/winter melancholy has begun outside, and when I shut the curtains, it’s pitch black – a perfect darkness to lose myself in as I begin my project.

To keep me energetic, I have a stack of music to listen to as I write, some nibbles and a vat of coffee. Then – when the coffee gets cold – Coke and Dr. Pepper. All distractions vanquished, and comfortably moulded into my luxury chair, I launch into my story.

I begin with a flourish – writing a not-hideously-egregious paragraph establishing the protagonist and the setting. We meet Leslie as she pops down to the council building to complain about her electric bill. We meet a verbose man, whose lengthy, rambling dialogue is the perfect excuse to up my word count by hundreds and keep the story entertaining.

Then I hit the one-hour mark and check my word count. To complete my task, I need to write approximately 3200 words per hour. After the first sixty minutes have elapsed, I have only reached 1800 words. Never mind, I think. Let’s solider on… increase my typing speed.

So, I battle through the next three hours, hammering the keyboard at an alarming rate and filling the page with enormous streams of drivel. No time to check spelling or punctuation. Just have to crank it out, and worry about the rest later.

After four hours continuous clacking, my sides are aching, and my word count is only a feeble 9000. This means I’m completely off target. Oh dear, I think. I’m never going to do it! I’m behind. Yes – doubt sets in.

Doubts dogs me as I prepare lunch. Unfortunately, preparing lunch takes longer than I had expected, and I have to extend the break by thirty minutes. I launch into the next four-hour block. The words come, at first with the same bolt of enthusiasm, then with increasing defeat, then – at last – with a crushing realisation that I’m never going to do it.

To sit in a chair alone for 23 hours is a mammoth feat, never mind completing a whole novel. At 3PM, I stop completely. Suddenly, a sense of freedom overcomes me – I don’t have to complete a novel in a day! Hurrah! I leap from my desk, hurl on my coat, and go for a walk.

While out, I decide writing the novel in three days is definitely possible. This way, I can get a proper snooze each night and write in a less brainless frenzy. If I can hammer out another 10,000 words over the next four hours, I can average 20,000 a day, taking me short of my 75,000 target – but still in the acceptable novel-length range.

I return home and begin the next block. This is moderately successful until, upon reaching 15,000 words – a sense of utter futility and melancholy sets in, as though I am the most stupid man on the planet, and every word I write is a smelly waste of virtual ink. In short – I’m blocked.

OK… it’s not too bad, I think. I’ll write 20,000 words tomorrow and on Sunday. I’ll have an acceptable novel done over the weekend. Oh, the naiveté!

Saturday:

I wake up at 11AM. Half the morning is gone and I stink. I shower and eat breakfast and waste time reading emails I’ve read twice before until 12PM. Waking up at this awkward time means I’ll need to break for lunch in an hour and a half. This being the case, I postpone the first writing session until 1:30. Big mistake.

In this time, I have become so lazy and demotivated, I can only manage a feeble 3000 words before my block sets in. Frightened shitless the whole project will die a horrible death, I run outside for a walk and regroup. Perhaps I can write the novel over the week, I think. No. It’s too late. You’re a bottler, Nicholls – a wretched bottler!

Bottler. Bottler. The bottler returns and stares at the screen for an hour, making strange faces at his words. He reads and corrects the work so far, and gets some motivation back reading the funny and not-hideously-egregious bits. Perhaps I can tailor it into an acceptable novella instead?

Bottler.

Sunday:

I wake up with a throatful of snot feeling like someone’s been repeatedly choking me overnight. Not good. Not a good physical state in which to write.

And so, as I approach my computer, sit down and begin, I realise that I want to cough up my lungs into a waste bin and collapse back into my bed with a bucket of Beechams and a good book.

The project will never be completed if it is left today, I think. So, I tack on 1000 words, wrap up the bugger in a rush, proofread the text, and ironically send it out to publishers to see what kind of hilarious rejection letters await me.

I managed 19,000 words. I failed by 56,000. I am 56,000 times a failure.

So, my advice to anyone who wants to complete a novel in a day, or three days, or any unworkable period, is this – don’t.

You’re not impressing anyone with that swaggering behaviour. Grow up and toil like the rest of us.

On the plus side, the project has taught me to be less of a slow, plodding neurotic arse when writing. Hammer it out first, then worry about the quality later. That’s the credo. Thanks for your time.