Further to the last post, it must be admitted that some people don't need anagrams to be amusing. Over at Edward II: Cool Names Of The Early Fourteenth Century, Alianore has posted some gems from her historical period of interest. As historical novellist Susan Higginbotham says in a comment, Adam le Fuckere and Jordan le Cok so badly need to be the heroes of a medieval erotic novel...

Hie thee to yon blog and have a giggle.

Over at The Internet Anagram Server (or "I, rearrangement servant"!) you can create anagrams of anything you like. Some bloggers are showing off neat anagrams of their names. Good fun, I thought, so I went and played for a while last night. I tried several of the many handles I've had in my 65 years (my names are legion) and here are some of the results:

Lama flails vet (An eye-catching headline, that!)
Calf Veal Roll (New recipe, Jo?)
Cavalry feral moll (No, no, not me, surely. That's got to be one of those amazing women created by Glenda Larke or Marianne de Pierres.)
Calf Removal Rally (The Animal Rights Activists annual convention?)
Carload in (Yeah, well, these days I guess I am.)
Canard oil (I'm a carload because of all the duck oil I've ingested?)
Rani La Cod (Queen of the Fishes? Ok, so it was codliver oil.)
Lady Valve Elf (A hotrodding fairy?)
Anal cut Troll (Sorry, Troll lady - made a mess of the lad's circumcision.)

The best anagram for SATIMA on its own was "aims at". Yeah, and usually misses...

Strangely, there are no anagrams for FLAVELL on its own. If, as the site assures us "All the life's wisdom can be found in anagrams. Anagrams never lie", then I think we have a problem, Houston.

On the other hand, maybe uniqueness is a virtue.

Well, the Deed is Done. My sister Anne was going to the hairdresser yesterday and on impulse I had the cutter also make free with the scissors on the birdsnest that my hair has become since my shoulder's been sore. I'm quite pleased with the result and will try to get a photo of myself to put up for your edification and delight. Actually, the do probably won't look all that different in a photo, as it's still off my face. No, no, I'm not off my face, just my hair...

Although it's easier to take care of, short hair has the drawback of needing constant attention, and as the price of a haircut is about the price of a book, that's probably nine or ten fewer books I can buy in the course of a year. Mind you, I need more books like I need the bubonic plague. I had a parcel of eight or nine turn up from one publisher on Monday. I've sent off an SOS to a couple of reviewers whose tastes, I know, run to the sorts of books that were in the parcel, so maybe I shall find good homes for most of them. I have a pile of things to read on my bedside table already - books I "should" review; books friends have lent me with assurances that they are very, very good and I "should" read them, and a few that I just happen to want to read because they are by favourite authors. I read slowly these days, savouring every word. When I was younger I used to read about 500 words a minute and could get through a sizable tome in a day: I can't read that fast now and nor do I want to. The more leisurely approach, I think, makes reading more enjoyable.

My sisters and I went to see the film Australia today. I had no expectations as the reviews have been somewhat mixed, so I was pleasantly surprised to find that I really enjoyed it. At least, I enjoyed it once it got going properly. The first half hour I found positively cringe-making - clunky dialogue and acting that was overdone in some cases and wooden in others made me grateful for the amazing scenery of the Northern Territory and the presence of Brandon Walters, the delighful, talented child who played the role of Nullah. Fortunately, the cast warmed up as the script took a turn for the better, and the three hours passed far faster than I would have thought possible. I loved the music - it shouldn't have worked, but did. There was hardly an original phrase in the whole score, yet the pastiche suited the era (WWII) and the themes of the movie. Clever references to - and in some places, out and out theft of - the works of composers old and new lent unexpected layers of meaning. I'm glad I went to see Australia, and I hope that if you go to see it, that you'll enjoy it too.

This meme was, I believe, originated by Charles Stross, who gave permission for it to be turned loose into the wild. My version is based on the one from Sharon Lee's blog . Lee Battersby has a version and that's where I first saw it. Some users have chucked the references to non-fiction publication, which is about all I can lay claim to, really. So I've put them back in.

* Age when I decided I wanted to be a writer: 8

* Age when I "wrote" my first story: 5 (A play ripped off from Oliver Twist, as I remember! I made my entire family take part, but reserved the lead for myself.)

* Age when I first had something published: 7 (A poem called "Dolly's Lullaby" in what was then the Manchester Guardian.)

* Age when I next had something published: 11 (Numerous poems and descriptive pieces over two or three years in something called "Chucklers' Weekly". Yes, really! I got paid a pound a time!)

* Age when I got my hands on a typewriter: 21 (An Oliver, manual and sort-of portable. My daughter still has it!)

* Age when I landed a paid magazine column: 45 (In the now defunct "Music Maker", later "ArtsWest". I didn't kill it: in fact, it died when I left. The editor said he was unable to find a decent dance columnist, despite trying out several. Then another writer also left and the mag folded. Sad.)

* Age when I wrote my first novel: 53. I'm a slow starter.

* Age when I wrote my first short story: 58. I don't believe in rushing things.

* Age when I first submitted a short story for professional publication: 58

* Age when I sold my first short story: It depends what you mean by "sold" - so far, paying markets have seemed strangely resistant to my charisma. Non-paying ones seem slightly more appreciative.

* Thickness of file of rejection slips prior to first story sale: Unless you count FTL (for-the-love) pubs, that file's still in the fattening pen.

* Age when I first came close to selling a novel: Close? Not within scent of it yet!

* Age when that first book deal imploded (prior to publication): Heaven forbid that it ever happen!

* Age when I killed my first market: 59 - I submitted my first novel to an e-publisher and they went broke the next week. I've never sent it out again for fear of destroying the entire industry.

* Age when I first sold a non-fiction book: I haven't written any. (Addendum: I haven't written any for sale to publishers. I have actually written several family histories, for my own family and for paying clients. Do they count as "sales"?)

* Age when I first wrote a saleable novel: HAH!

* Age when that novel was published: I'll let you know...

* Age when the second saleable novel finally sold: Ditto

* Age when the second saleable novel came out: Hey, lemme get the first one out already!

* Age when the third saleable novel came out: Ditto

* Age when the fourth saleable novel came out: Give over, will you?

* Age when I first won an award: LOL

* Age when I finally shut down the day-job and became a full-time novelist: 59

* Age when the money coming in exceeded my previous salary: HEH!

* Age when I returned to the day-job because of publisher implosion: I'm too old for that to happen, goddess be thanked.

* Age now: 65

* Number of books/poems/articles sold: Not sure. No novels or paid shorts, but probably several hundred articles, a few poems and a smattering of family histories.

* Number of titles in print: 0

* Number of titles fallen out of print: 5 or 6 - all family histories.


Hmm. Maybe I should take up golf.


The original author says: if you write professionally, feel free to post your own equivalent of this list. (Obviously you'll need to customize it to track your career path -- but you get the idea.)

Mount Gambier, you will be pleased to know, is still here where I left it. So is my flat, which desperately needs a good clean but apart from wiping down the kitchen benches I've done little to change that, the main reason being that my shoulder is sore, and has been for several weeks. Make that months. In fact. I can't quite remember when it started to play up, but it must have been as early as June or July, maybe even earlier. Funny how aches and pains sneak up on one, remaining only half in consciousness until the body part concerned starts to scream for attention.

Well, it finally screamed loudly enough to make me take myself off to the doc. She sent me for a scan and an x-ray, which revealed that I had damaged the supraspinatus tendon in the left shoulder. Such a small piece of equipment to go wrong, yet the pain had reached something like seven or eight out of ten before I finally got it seen to. Not just the shoulder was hurting, but the entire left arm, with shooting pains down to the wrist and constant aches and jabs in the upper arm and elbow. Yoga became more and more difficult and finally I gave up on it, since I was doing the poses so badly I figured it wasn't doing me any good anyway. Doing my hair has taken on the nature of an Extreme Sport as I try to pin up my ever-recalcitrant locks while leaning over to the left to avoid raising the left arm overhead. The wretched arm simply will not lift more than about forty-five degrees in any direction: abduction beyond waist height is agony and putting it behind my back, almost impossible. A few millimetres out of the comfort zone are enough to bring on tears. Isn't it amazing how we don't appreciate the body until something goes wrong with it?

The worst part is that it could take as much as two years to get better and even then it's unlikely to recover its full range of movement. Surgery might help, but then again it might not: apparently they don't recommend it for older people save as a last resort. So I'm stuck with a frozen shoulder, perhaps for good, dammit. Oh well, it's the best excuse I've ever had for the avoidance of housework.

I've tried all my usual therapies, primarily Chiropractic and Bowen therapy, both of which I've found very helpful in the past. Not with this baby. The only thing that's brought a bit of relief is an electro-magnetic device that I've hired from a man in Perth at great expense - $10 a week! On a pension, that's almost as bad as a damaged arm! But it the little gizmo does seem to help, so I'm pathetically grateful for it. Mind you, it set off the alarm at the airport when I flew out from Perth and it took ages for security to decide whether or not I should be allowed on the plane with it. However, we reached Adelaide in almost record time so who knows? Maybe it helped the plane as well as my shoulder.

Anyhow, my shoulder and I are back in Mount Gambier, where, as expected, it is still cold and damp. I'm looking forward to warmer weather within a few weeks. Summer is the main tourist season, largely because of the famous Blue Lake. It's a lovely stretch of water nestled in an extinct volcano, and it turns the most glorious shade of cobalt blue from November to March each year. This photo was taken last year by my niece, Linda, who is a dab hand with a camera.

Nothing's happening on the writing front; maybe in a week or two when I've settled back here...Meantime,I take my hat off to all those enthusiasts who have done NaNoWriMo this year, and I lift it even higher (with my right arm, of course) to the ones who have done the required 50K words and in some cases even more. Noble souls, the lot of them!