On Writing a Novel, Part 1.

Shipmates,

If you know me at all well mates, you know that I have a fair and open mind that I bring to bear whilst judging the literary merits of popular fiction. Certainly, I’ve had some harsh words for the Rowlings and Browns of the world, but with due cause. The educated citizen well knows that these “authors” march at the fore of the philistine phalanx intent on tearing down the walls of erudite society, unfurling the sacred scrolls and besmearing the best that’s been said or written with their Tom Clancyesque babel! In many ways, having tasted of the fruits of our cultural legacy, I’m left in a fearful position: forever wishing to shore up the all-too-porous barriers that keep the frenzied masses at bay—their cries of “team Jacob” and “team Edward” an affront to even the most feeble-minded street urchin with any respect at all for the glories of language—I’m forced by the cruel vagaries of quotidian necessity to lower the trowel of learning and take up the sledge of ignorance in order to earn my own humble crust. That’s right shipmates, I, your humble narrator, find myself often “recommending” the likes of John Grisham, Debbie MacComber, and Danielle Steel!

Well, let it not be said that Ian is a snob; a man of dignity and taste perhaps, but not a haughty patrician with nose upturned at the sight of my less-fortunate brethren struggling to cobble together an interesting thought using their meager, underdeveloped mental faculties! If my thread is to be shuttled into the deep recesses of the ignorant, I wait on bended knees for my fate. In fact, rather than stand out as the sole thread of deepest vermillion in an otherwise muted and matching field of brown, I’ve decided to immerse the fabric of my learned mind in the muddy ink of the common herd of humanity if only to better know the guests whose service is my profession.

To this estimable end, I’ve decided to launch upon a course of popular reading to augment my usual literary gleanings. I’ve started with David Baldacci’s “One Summer.” To be kind, it was a quick read. In short, Baldacci’s novel is the sentimental tale of a man dying from some unnamed illness whose wife tragically perishes while running to fetch his pain meds on an icy Christmas Eve. Rather than succumb to said illness, our hero miraculously recovers, regains the custody of his three children, and moves to his wife’s decrepit childhood home. There is much to be recommended here: the book is printed on a thin yet fibrous paper that would make an excellent fuel with which to start a fire on a cold winter’s night. The literary merits are not quite as pleasant. The following exchange, between father and daughter after said daughter has confessed to betraying her father, should demonstrate my point aptly:

“Will you ever be able to forgive me? To trust me again?”

He touched her cheek. “I do, on both counts.”

“Why?”

“Something called unconditional love, honey.”

I ask you, by what generous stretch of the imagination can we consider this literature? Does our proud, albeit distant, boreal cousin deserve to sacrifice his* life so that a travesty such as this can show its ugly face? Evil demon of public taste! Why do you mock me? And yet, why rail against the ever-eroding tides of ignorance? Have I not proclaimed my own acquiescence to the hand of fate? Like Ahab, I have seen the whale-tied Parsee, augury of my own fate, dragged down to his inglorious end!** Avast! Up with the harpoon of basest ignorance! I too shall land my barb in the flesh of marketplace success! The ripest clichés shall turn to gold under the stroke of my eager fingers! To the typewriters men!

*Are trees gendered? Perhaps if any plant biologists stumble upon these words, they might chime in with some clarification.

** Also known as the New York Times Bestseller List.

The Dread Pirate Dewey’s Guide to Graceful Aging, Part 1.

Well shipmates, I promised a stirring diatribe against the old*, but the cargo freighting my imagination on this topic requires a series of posts to fully unload. Let me begin though, with a disclaimer. “Aging ain’t for sissies” someone once said**, and so I’m not going to ossify my audience by describing the grossness of the elderly flesh that daily basks poolside before my horrified gaze. We all face the prospect of liver spots and hair loss; in fact, the strange goal of life is to become a doddering, diaper-glad fossil, so I’m not going to criticize those who have won at this game. I have found, however, during my recent foray into the gerontological world that is the Peqoud, that there are ways to age gracefully. Thus, while there certainly is some bile that this post will help my spleen expel, I want you, dear readers, to glean something useful from my brushes with those whose departure for the river Styx is imminent.

Allow me to begin by describing an encounter I had this very morning—an encounter, I might add, eerily similar to a dozen I have each day. Whilst seated at my desk, safely ensconced behind my well-thumbed copy of Moby Dick, an older couple entered the library and sat at one of the computer terminals. After a dozen or so minutes of ever-lowering brows, the male component of said pair waved me over. That is correct. He used his withered appendage to beckon me as one would a wayward dog or child. When I arrived and asked humbly how I might be of service, he answered rather tersely, “we can’t sign into our email account.” Now, many people have difficulty initially signing into the internet system that Ahab allows—it is expensive, slow, and of the poorest quality. And so I understand how people can become frustrated. These people, however, had managed to access the system and reach the sign in page for their account. They were stuck, I discovered, at the page that verifies your identity when in unusual locations. It seems they could not remember what they had answered for their security question. I explained this to them. The female then sternly demanded, “well how are we supposed to sign in?” I explained once more how the security system worked. I then waited with a look of “sympathetic concern” on my face as they once more attempted to gain entry to their account. When they failed, the woman stated triumphantly, “see, we keep getting this page.” “Hmmmm, yes,” I said, and then proceeded to explain again just what was being asked of them. After a few more minutes of this ever-so-useful exchange, I suggested they consult our internet manager and found an excuse to slip away.

The lesson I wish to draw here is not that old people are bad with technology***, but that there is a way to gracefully deal with such frustrating situations: be patient. Relax. I savour those elderly people who approach the mysteries of the digital with the stoic reserve befitting their age. My main point of advice, in fact, is about this sense of stoicism, this dignity that is the cornerstone of the good life. When you confuse raging against the dying of the light with acting like a child because you have forgotten your own password, you surrender any dignity you might once have earned. And thus, you act ungracefully and disgust your humble narrator. In my next edition of The Dread Pirate Dewey’s Guide to Graceful Aging, I will touch upon this theme of dignity as it pertains to proper manners and the treatment of friendly librarians, but for my next post, expect a photographic journey through the best and the worst of cruise ship uniforms.

* And their old people ways.

** Winston Churchill I think.

***For the record though, old people are bad with technology.

Aboard the Pequod

Shipmates,

Well, it’s been over a week since I donned my monkey coat aboard the ms Pequod,* and what, you, my faithful reader, might ask, do I have to say of my experience thus far. Tis a fair and right-rigged question I admit, but such a course is not as easily plotted as you might hazard. In a single word, the last week could be described as “overwhelming.” I could dwell upon the negative: I share a tiny room with another fully-grown man; I go to work at the appointed hours wearing the appointed clothing; I have windows throughout the day wherein I might eat or workout; I will live under these conditions for 4 months. Basically, I live in prison. A constantly rocking prison filled with old American Republicans who insist upon telling me how Obama is ruining America.**

But there is vodka in this orange juice!***I can see that after the initial transitional period fades, I will have a job that requires little actual labour. We have a library of some 5000 titles (2450 of which seem to have been written by either Glenn Beck or Newt Gingrich. Seriously.)**** , and I already spend about half my time reading. I assume that once I get more practiced, this will easily creep up to 75-80% of my “work” time. And in my time away from the demands of the library, I bask in the Caribbean sun.

The single dying fly that threatens to spoil the screwdriver that is my life, is the atrocious internet access. When I get finally get a signal, it generally takes me about ten minutes to actually access any specific website. Thus I apologize formally and publicly for my recent silence. I know my legions of readers are clamouring for the slightest mention of my name. “Your exploits Ian!” They scream, “tell us of your exploits!” Well mates, I can only urge patience in the face of such rapacious appetite. In the coming weeks, I promise at least three blog posts: one with pictures documenting the daily sartorial indignity I face, a second post that will in fact be a bitter tirade against old people,***** and a third for my crossfitting friends. In these posts you will learn why I plan to never grow old, why TABATA squats performed on a ship on the high seas can be both good and bad, and perhaps more than you ever wanted to know about how I look in orange.

* In order to retain the freedom to say slanderous things about the company for which I work, I am adopting Melvillian names. It also makes me sound smart.

** This actually happened. Not the Obama ruining America thing, the obnoxious republican (is that an oxymoron?) thing.

*** Not that orange juice is equivalent to prison, just that vodka is pretty awesome.

**** Not seriously. We have a number of James Patterson “thrillers” as well.

***** And their old people ways.

Captains Courageous and Other Idols Destroyed

Dearest reader, I understand how one might weary when forced to endure the endless proclamations of doubt that constitute the bulk of my blog. But while you cry for your own pain, please shed a sympathetic tear for your humble narrator! My own doubts are real; they truly are the demons that nip at my proverbial toes during the cold pre-dawn hours. And these demons have coupled with the incipit voice of social criticism. At first, their bastard love child left me a quivering mass of human detritus barely able to stem the idiot drool constantly poised to soil my shirts! But repeated exposure to a couple questions has steeled my nerves, and thus, before you stands the upright citizen to whom many of you doff your caps in the street with nary a backward glance.

One thing people ask me when I tell them I have been hired to serve as a librarian aboard a cruise ship is, “is that a real job?” At first this query seemed the height of amusement—I could hardly believe it either! A librarian? On a cruise ship? Great Scots man! Can there be such an unlikely beast? Can we call such an undertaking a “job?” One wit claimed that I was perfectly suited to the position as, after many arduous years spent studying English, I had finally mastered the 26 key points of the job. The photographs of the library (actually labelled a “lounge” on the ship’s deck plan) that shall be my workplace have left me with the impression that I probably have more books in my bedroom than there are in the few bookcases that are to be my responsibility. And, as I own nothing by Stephanie Meyers, Dan Brown, or J K Rowling, my own collection is indubitably of a higher literary calibre. But where does this line of questioning and self-deprecation lead me? Am I in for a rather tumultuous transition once I finally take my post?

The second question I am routinely asked concerns recent events off the coast of Italy. People ask me something such as, “are you worried that your boat might sink? Look what happened with the Costa Concordia!” First of all, I feel obliged to point out that I shall be working on a “ship” not a “boat.” This is a key piece of nautical terminology. Absolutely vital. You sound like the most inbred turnip-farming hick when you confuse “boat” and “ship.” Secondly, no. No, I do not fear for my safety. We all take insane risks everyday when we drive about in our automobiles blithely unaware that all manner of drunken pervert troll the streets of our fair cities and towns in search of cheap thrills. Why just the other day I, idiotically pleased by my good fortune, jumped into a friend’s car without a second thought. What if she was some sort of adrenaline junkie just coming off a 3 day meth and “Fast and the Furious” bender only too eager to drag race the next Honda Civic filled with equally death-prone teenagers? No, the only fear I have after the sinking of the Costa Concordia is a fear that my ideals have been tarnished forever. I always had an unexamined mental image of the brave captain who would always choose to go down with the ship. Yes, this captain, attired in a spotless uniform, would stand with his whiskers trimmed and his hands folded sedately behind his back as the waves began to wash in: a proud man and a study in stoic resolve. Also sexism I suppose. I apologise for that; he looks something like Gregory Peck in my mind’s eye. Regardless of my own unexamined sexism though, I always assumed that the captain chose to go down with the ship, but I have read that Captain Schettino might be charged with abandoning ship. Gone are my romantic images of the honourable captain! If it is a legal obligation, the lustre of self-sacrifice is made impossible. Oh foolish legislators! When will you let captains be captains again? Free to roam the oceans and, yes, to go down to a watery grave if and when they feel compelled!

Thus, questions have left me perhaps more confused than ever. Days like these make me wish I were the porcine lad pictured above with a manly captain to protect me.