scribbles tagged ‘1991’

Holy pronoun, I wrote it!

Thursday, September 1st, 2011 | tags: , , ,  |

A book!

Bound with an ISBN number, available to the public  in a library

My agent:

  • commissioned the book
  • met with me, irregularly, to check progress
  • provided encouragement and suggestions to improve the process and book quality

My publisher:

  • provided strict regulations for binding, cover-cloth, font size and placement
  • specified the primary distribution method – library system
  • specified the minimum number of copies – 3

My printer:

  • a large Xerox machine in a University department
  • me, one copy a night across 3 nights

As author

  • It took 4 years of research and scribbling before I was ready to publish over 300 pages
  • I knew every sentence, every sketch, intimately
  • weeks after I’d deivered it to the publishers I’d rewrite sentences, paragraphs, and themes in my dreams

It was difficult to let go of this growing  intimate part of my life. I wanted to chuck it away and start writing again from scratch, I could do an infitnitely better job with all that I’d learned along the way. But I’d run out of money, I needed a job. The book was ‘good enough’. Good enough. hurumph. I wanted it to be special, unique, exceptional. More than good enough

Even when your book isn’t a PhD thesis, the agent a PhD superviser and the publisher a University, the experience of writing a book has strong similarities

Holy pronoun, I wrote it!
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Burnel Penhaul

Tuesday, December 13th, 2005 | tags: , , ,  |

Silent companion  

Complete pussycat

Erotic God(dess)

This picture was part of a card he  made to let me know that he had won the Alternative Miss World Competition as ‘Miss Gale Force” in 1991.  

We met when he was responsible for the set design for a production of Rumplestiltzkin.    I was cast as Rumplestiltzkin.   His set was wonderful.   He let me help him paint it.  

In Birmingham UK, we often found ourselves in the same nightclubs.    We would dance near each other without acknowledging we knew each other.   I would call for him in the small hours of the morning and sit on his bed drinking tea,   reading, writing, or watching TV while he worked on some project, for hours at a time.   In those days when he wasnt clubbing  he looked like a young Jim Morrison .  

He leant me clothes.  

We rarely spoke.  

His last spoken words to me were about 4am on a 1986 June  morning as I left his room

Wendy: “bye”  

Burnel:  “Do you want to talk about it?”      

Wendy: “No.   I would  cry” <left room then cried>

Even then the moment was a  flashbulb memory  for me;   as if I somehow  knew that  I would never see him again.    We wrote  across the years before he died.   More was said in any one letter than passed between us when together.

I miss him most during the dark long winter nights  of the party season.   Sometimes when I’m very sad I imagine he’s there,   just there,   silently working on a project.   I’m glad he once was.

W Missing

Burnel Penhaul
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