Hi folks,

Well it’s finally happened. I never liked blogs. So I’ve been writing this blog with one eye closed and the other eye shut. I’ve been doing it with half a heart, a soul full of boredom and an off-hand desire to build something of a reputation. Which is hilarious. Because I don’t give a toss for reputations. My view is that you either do something you believe in or you don’t do it at all. You either do it with a flaming gut (and a burning snatch) or you move on to something completely different.

So it’s finally caught up with me. I have bored myself to the hackles, to my brother’s earlobes with this blog. Which is why, instead of boring myself (along with the other three souls who kindly read this blog), I’d really just rather quit.

You see, I got it wrong. I thought the blog was going to be a window on my new novel. I thought it was going to give people a glimpse into the way I write. Irony is, both things have happened. Just in a twisted upside-down way. Let me explain.

I write novels in a chaotic, barbaric, fragmentary way, driven entirely by random images, memories, moods and a natural talent for self-centeredness and invective. Strangely however, in writing this blog, I started doing something horribly unnatural. I started writing linear narrative. Uninspired linear narrative what’s more, that has finally stuck in my literary throat like a wordy fish bone.

As I see it, two things happened.

First, quite unexpectedly, the blog ruined the novel and the novel wrecked the blog.

Second, also quite unexpectedly, my readers did get a glimpse into how I write. Just not the way I intended.

You have all seen now that for me, writing involves a long series of blind alleys, wrong turns and skin-thickening rewrites. Fact is, this is a blind alley. It’s a wrong turn. And it must be corrected.

A novel is a novel. It is not like writing copy. Or like writing blogs. It is cold, personal and secretive. Writing a novel is like having a degraded secret no one knows about. Writing copy (or a blog) is like being in the park with your husband and children. It is friendly, short and public. A novel is dark, brooding and misanthropic. You don’t write a novel the way you write copy. You don’t write a blog the way you write a novel. A novel isn’t written with your boss or your audience peering over your shoulder. Blogs and copy are (no prejudice intended, only clarification). A novel therefore has its own self-imposed pace. Its frozen charms. A novel is cold lonely and intimate. It is possessive. It is jealous. It will not abide by coercion. And it will not share its secrets unless you leave it alone.

But the drug of novels once tasted cannot be traded in for the wide airiness of the Internet. The wide world of the instantaneous. Blogs belong to their readers. A novel belongs to its author. Only when it is finished, can it be handed over to the reader, never to return. In this sense, it is monogamous. Ruthlessly so. Once in the hands of the reader, it no longer belongs to the author. But until then, it is totally and entirely mine. The author’s. And possessive I may not be in matters of love. But in the writing of a novel, I am as possessive as an Oedipal mother, as jealous as the most bloodthirsty mistress.

Therefore, since I hate linear narrative. Since I am a terrible misanthrope who loves to talk to herself and brood over her own writing. Since I must have the time to sift through my life and its chaos of points competing for my memory’s organizing focus, I am unfortunately going to bow out of this ill-advised blog business. And go back to doing what I love best. Writing novels.

I do hope all of you will visit me on my new website though, which should be up soon. All those who’ve liked what they’ve seen here. If you would like to know more about that, leave me comments here or mail me at miamakarand@gmail.com

Yes indeed. In a world where the icecaps are melting faster than Britney can get her next fix, who has the time to delve into straight line details? Not me at any rate. The world is sinking. The urgent need is to write before it drowns. And in a way that will get your nerves singeing and your brain frittering. Like good old Dario Fo (the Nobel Prize-winning Italian dramatist) said, le théâtre doit faire violence. The theater must be violent in its impact. That’s what I think.

Writing should be jagged, inhuman and violent.

Or not at all.

All the best

Mia

Soleil et Loisirs was a residential hotel. Part of an immensely successful chain and concept that involved large sprawls of turnkey ugliness which ruined the view for the locals but served to accommodate the kitschy beachy hordes of Europe who wanted to be on holiday without having to worry with pesky details like local color, local food and local people.

Soleil et Loisirs wasn’t cheap. It was actually quite expensive. But it helped you save on the small things. Things like restaurants, children’s activities and housekeeping. It was perfect for responsible red-faced husbands who brought home the bacon and knew how to give the missuz a piece of the pie. Here they got to rent a small apartment to store their old folk and brats in while still feeling like they were on holiday. Here they could stare at young breasts burning alongside a pool while drinking uncontaminated water, avoiding exotic food and catching up with their buddies over a cold beer. In short, the place was convenient. It was home away from home with the added attraction of sunshine, a pool and very occasional trips to France. I mean, the country you were actually in. It was the most important word in places like this: convenient. And the wives loved it too. Soleil et Loisirs was in fact perfect for the family. The thrifty hard-working pink-skinned family that wanted to be in the sun but not in the country where it shone. That wanted to show it had money but never actually spent it. That wanted to be on holiday without really knowing how to relax.

I got out of the car with my overpacked oversmall suitcase and waited self-consciously. Then with a phony smile pasted on my face, I followed Harcourt and the woman up in an elevator and onto a large open area with reception desk at right and bar slash pool-table area at left.

I was immediately transfixed. I had never been to a place like this. The kind you saw on holiday brochures and wouldn’t dream of visiting because you preferred the small auberges and local restos (not that you had the cash anyway). This kind of brash and tasteless luxury wasn’t for me. But it did look incredible So I looked admiringly, incredulously, shamelessly. Again I had that feeling of undeserved luxury. Unwarranted privilege. I was being paid to be here, I thought. I was being paid to be here. That’s what was fabulous.

The pool was right out of a postcard. The whole thing was right out of a postcard. The pool was large and shimmering turquoise with sculptures in its center and at the far end, a landscaping effect that made it look like it blended right into the sea. Like it fell into the sea. And then there was the Mediterranean beyond. It looked magnificent. A deep tranquil blue. Giving off an easy luxurious feel, with cruise ships and yachts, swift racing boats striking white lines of foam on its cool unhurried surface. Everywhere you could see the wealth, leisure and glitz of Cannes. It made you want to send a postcard right away. To all your friends. To all your enemies. Yes indeed. You wanted to show this off more than anything else. It was like an autograph. Like this festival. Like its overdone celebrities. People who came here cared more about showing it all off than what they really did here.

At the check-in desk we waited while Caro, our driver went around and greeted some friends. The girls at the desk were polite Scandinavian bimbos, an immediate reason for me to sense envy snaking up through my overweight veins.

But we did check in and were told where to go. My room was at the end of an excruciatingly long walk. The hotel was done up in pink like all the local houses, but otherwise, in architectural style, resembled a Greco-Roman pukefest. Large Greco-Roman amphora-style pots stood everywhere carrying flowers and plants, and all around the complex were several damaged Greco-Roman statues. There was also a maze of forbidding paths, trails and stairways, which gave the whole complex an unpleasant, unpopulated and lonely feel aside from making walks to the lobby horribly horribly painful.

That’s what was strange, I thought. They all crammed into places like this but didn’t want to see each other. Not even catch sight of each other. This was why even though my room was on the same level as the lobby, I had to go down two flights of steps and up two more to get to it. My suitcase wasn’t large but it was heavy enough to make the walk reminiscent of Dante’s infernos. Yes it is strange, I thought. I’m on the same level as I was to begin with. But I have descended and climbed at least fifty-eight steps. Go figure, I thought. Either the architect is a sadist. Or he’s a nincompoop.

Still, when I got to the door, I was pleased. It looked good. I was perched on top of all the other rooms and figured I’d have a good view. So once I’d struggled with the card key a little, I opened the blue door. And I walked in. The apartment was fine. A long rectangular apartment, with white floor, blue fixtures, bunk beds in one side room, bathrooms, and a small well-equipped main living room with kitchenette, dining table and two foam sofas that faced each other. But the view was absolutely stunning. Yes indeed. When I pulled the patio curtain aside, it hit me like a ton of bricks. And I thought again that privilege was good. Yes indeed. Privilege was fabulous. Damn. I thought. Damn. Hell. And damn.

It was truly magnificent. Utterly breathtaking. On all sides was the deep blue sea. So I put my bags down, and reveled in it a little. Sure, I thought. This was a hideous place that made the countryside look like buttock acne. And of course it represented the most repugnant of human endeavors: the brutal disrespect for culture in favor of mass tourism and mass mercantilism. Sure, it was all those things. But little ole me was getting a good view from her room. Little ole me was being gifted this view. Little ole me was being spoiled for once. So, I mean, I could just enjoy it for once, couldn't I?

Yes sir, I told myself. You bet you can.

And then I called Claudie. I called my husband. I told him about the apartment and I told him the view was incredible. But then the feeling faded. Because Claudie had used a word. A nasty cruel word that ushered in dark and unpleasant feelings. Claudie had said I would have to call Belle. Our boss down at Toujours Plus. To announce our arrival, she said. Because I was in charge. Because I was their contact in the translation team. Not Harcourt but me.

Well I dreaded it. Belle was head production assistant at Toujours Plus. And her promising name notwithstanding, Belle was reigning queen bitch of the north south east west and every other more obscure cardinal point you could think of. They were all expert pricks at Toujours Plus, but not quite as expert as Belle. It was actually under her able guidance and leadership that they had all become inveterate assholes. Belle Lustiger could have given a master class at a modeling school in how to be a superlative skin-singeing bitch. How to make people feel small shitty and utterly loserish about themselves while swanning about with her big ass, blonde hair and god-given air of superiority was what Belle did best. It was what she did superbly. The rest of them merely followed. They all showed off how much they were part of the in-crowd and we weren’t. But Belle set the tone. Belle set up the blade-topped, barbed wire barriers. So no, I did not look forward to calling her. Unless suicidal dread can be considered as looking forward to something.

But I called. And luckily I got Luc. Luc was nice. Luc was Belle’s assistant. A nice, lanky bespectacled youth whose youth was fast being pumped out of him by his succubus boss and her skanky co-workers. Luc remained uncannily nice. I told him we had arrived.