Dotty’s New Novel – Part 2 – This Is Not A Love Story

 

Before I get started, here’s the link to the first post I did about my novel in case you’ve forgotten I was writing one or you’re a recent follower who hasn’t seen the post.

 

DOTTY’S FIRST NOVEL – BUY IT, BUY IT, BUY IT EVERYBODY 

 

It’s been a while since I last posted about my novel and progress has been GOOD. I’ve decided (a decision!!) that my novel will NOT be a love story (you might have already spotted that bit in the title), it’s going to be a HATE story because there are far too many love stories in the world and NOT NEARLY ENOUGH hate stories – NONE that I can think of, but I might be wrong. And why is that, you might ask?

It’s because of the RAMPANT and SICKENING hatred people have for hate. THE HATRED OF HATE is WRONG. Hating hate is HATEFUL and DETESTABLE and it needs to STOP. Hate should be allowed the same rights as any other emotion. Aren’t we supposed to be striving for a world of EQUALITY and TOLERANCE? A world in which all are fairly treated and everyone is given the same respect and dues as everyone else? But no it isn’t like that, is it? The world is full of BIGOTRY and DISCRIMINATION. Those who hate hate are nothing but hatists, which, by the way, is pronounced hate-ist not hat-ist so really it should be spelt hateist but then people would pronounce it like atheist, hate-eist and there’s no such word. Oh, wait, hang on a minute — on second thoughts YES IT CAN BE HATEIST because AGEIST has kept the E and no one pronounces it ag-eist (rhyming with raggiest), do they?

So don’t be a hateful hateist full of hatred for HATE. It’s not nice. GIVE HATE A CHANCE.

 

 

So now you know the main theme for my novel (hate). And you also know, from what I’ve just said, that my novel will incorporate many elements of my campaign for equality for hate, that within the complex and refined layers and depths of my novel the crusade for fairness will always prevail, transmitting its honour and rightness directly to the hearts of my readers via subliminal messages intertwined throughout my carefully chosen words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters.

 

 

Which leads me to the reason for this post. I want to give you the privilege of being the first people to see MY SECOND WORD OF MY FIRST NOVEL. I’ll also give you a demonstration of how my subliminal messages work.

 

My first word is –

The

my second word is —

threat 

 

Can you see what I’ve done? Can you?

my first word is THE

my second word is THREAT

my second word includes ALL THE LETTERS THAT MAKE UP MY FIRST WORD with the remaining letters spelling RAT and what is THE RAT if it isn’t a THREAT?

AND

THE RAT is an ANAGRAM of THREAT.

Also, I’ve very cleverly used the word THREAT because it includes my theme word HATE and the remaining letters when you take out the word HATE are the letters T and R which, when put together and repeated fast enough, sound like the word TEAR and what happens when you see a RAT that you HATE and it’s a THREAT? You cry a little TEAR, don’t you? And, if you haven’t already noticed, the word TEAR is also included within the word THREAT. So is the word EAT (what the RAT will do to you) and the word ATE (what the RAT did to someone else).

AND – the word HEART is within the word THREAT.

ART is there too.

So is HEAT.

 

 

Fucking brilliant, isn’t it? I doubt whether Kafka or Stendhal or Hemingway could have come up with such LITERARY EXCELLENCE in such a short space of time. In fact, I’m doing so well with this, my first novel, I’m writing so speedily and with such depth, that I’m thinking of making a WHOLE NEW BLOG for my novel in order to show all you wannabes out there HOW IT’S DONE.

 

Thank you and goodnight.

 

 

 

 

N.B. — It’s not night, it’s morning. But night sounds better.

 

Fifty Shades Of SHITEY DROSS

 

Lottie had a copy of this SHITE in her bag. I nicked it when she went to the loo, not to READ it (you can all shoot me if I ever get THAT desperate), I wanted to take the piss out of it. But I can’t take the piss out of it, it’s too SHITEY. It’s TOO BAD TO MOCK. The horrendous writing makes me SHRIVEL IN DISMAY.

This is the first sentence —

I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.”

 

This is the last sentence —

I curl up, desperately clutching the flat foil balloon and Taylor’s handkerchief, and surrender myself to my grief.”

 

This is the first paragraph I saw when I opened the book randomly —

“”I want to bite this lip,” he murmurs against my mouth, and carefully he tugs at it with his teeth. I moan, he smiles.”

How does he smile with her lip in his teeth? And how does she see him smile? Is she bog-eyed?

 

Oh go on then, heres another random sentence —

I wake early to a gray Sunday morning after a surprisingly refreshing night’s sleep and lie awake staring at my crates.”

I’ve never heard them called that before.

 

That’s it, I’ve had enough.

IT’S SHITE.

 

The World According To Dotty (An Illuminating View Of EVERYTHING)

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Victor Tookes Came Out Of His Books To Visit Dotty

For some strange and unfathomable reason I seem to attract a lot of dead people and fictional characters into my life. I don’t know WHY I attract them, maybe it’s because they can smell the heady and alluring aroma of Cumberland sausages floating from my kitchen and they want some. Maybe they feel sorry for me? Maybe they just like giving me presents?

Victor Tookes (the zombie killer) gave me a present when he called round on Saturday. I wasn’t expecting anyone so when I opened the door (hooray me!) and saw it was Victor standing there I almost had a full-blown panic attack – I thought he’d come to kill Kumblant! But no he hadn’t, he come to give me a present (or so he said, I think he really wanted a Cumberland sausage sandwich – he ate 12). We had a little natter after he’d scranned his sandwiches then he had to go, back to Book Four before he was missed.

After he left I started reading my present. It’s called

WHAT ZOMBIES FEAR – A FATHER’S QUEST

and it’s the first in a series of three (the fourth is being written NOW, that’s why Victor had to rush off – in case something drastic happened and he wasn’t there to help stop it). I read it over two nights, and if you saw my post last week about reading a book for the first time in ages you’ll know I have difficulty concentrating – I STILL haven’t finished that book I told you I’d started – but Victor’s story is a true page-turner, it kept me engrossed all the way through. I’m not telling you what it’s about except that it’s set after the zombie apocalypse, but you can tell how much I like it (and Victor’s blog) by the very fact that I’m doing this post.

If you like zombie apocalypse stories this is one of the better ones, if you’ve never read a zombie apocalypse story go and buy this one, you won’t be disappointed, and if you think you don’t like zombie apocalypse stories buy it anyway, it’ll change your mind.

If you go to Victor’s blog you’ll be able to read more about the characters through their side stories and find out how to buy the books.

WHAT ZOMBIES FEAR

Now for Book Two…

A Very, Very Short Post That Isn’t Really A Post

 

I’m not doing a post today. I’m reading a book — for the first time in fuck knows how long I can concentrate on reading something longer than a blog post because this morning Kumblant brought me some squishy workman’s earplugs that block out all outside noises and leave me with just the noises in my head to listen to – oh, and my heart beat has moved up to my brain, bdum, bdum, bdum, so at least I know I’m not dead. 

The book’s called ‘The Wilding’ and it’s by Maria McCann and it was longlisted for the Orange Prize and it was the top book on one of the stacks in my collection of books to read because I stack them as I get them so the most recent acquisition goes on top. Up to now it’s fair to middling and I haven’t thrown it out of the window in disgust although in my opinion the MC sounds just the slightest bit too girly for a 26 year old man (I thought he WAS a girl in the first few sentences of the book) although he isn’t girly, but he isn’t exactly a stud either. Normally something like that would bother me enough for me not to continue (so many books, so little time) but it’s not a heavy read by any stretch so I’m just enjoying it for what it is (good story, nice suspense build up, gentle humour etc etc).

So, sorry and all that, but no post today – unless I get sick of the tinnitus and being reminded I’m alive by the bdum.

 

 

Little Emily’s Book Reviews by Ellis Bell

 

I’m sick and tired of little Emily nagging at me to let her write a post on my little blog. Who wants to read her posts? She should get her own fucking blog if she’s that desperate instead of trying to write on mine. I’ve resisted and resisted her but this morning she turned up at my house with a final draft of her FIRST novel which is unpublished as yet because she’s been busy writing the one with Heathcliff in it and she hasn’t bothered sending this first one off yet. And, bless her big white cotton bloomers, you’ll never guess what she’s been doing these last couple of days? Copying out the whole novel BY HAND – yes, bloggy people (and COF) writers used DECIPHERABLE HANDWRITING to write before typing was invented – and she did it ALL FOR ME. So the least I can do in return is compromise – I can’t let her have a whole post to herself but I asked if she wanted to do some book reviews and she (quite grudgingly, for some strange reason) said yes, she would like to do book reviews. I made it very clear that she isn’t TAKING OVER the book reviews, she’s got this post and that’s her lot so she’d better make a good job of it, no shoddy writing or spelling mistakes or bad grammar or thoughtless punctuation because you won’t find any of those things anywhere else on my little blog and I won’t stand for it on this post either. And no ink blobs either (her hands are stained to fuck).

So, I’ll hand you over to little Emily who’s sitting next to me waiting for me to turn the laptop round to face her.

 

(hurry up, idiot, they’re waiting)

 

 

Dear Reader,

Good afternoon. My name is Ellis Bell and I am a man. I am a man for whom a good book is an essential requirement for a content and happy day. I am a man (I am a man) with a life-long, deep-held appreciation for words. I am a literary man of literature and letters. I am a man of books.

 A book review is, ideally, a delicate examination of the inner workings of the author’s craft, and of the outer manifestations of the author’s ability to execute said craft. I am a man with a delicate eye with which to see. I am a man with a delicate hand with which to underline. I am a man with a delicate tongue with which to critic and praise. I am not a fierce man. I am not a harsh man. I am a fair and subtle man. I am a generous man. I am a gentle man.

I shall commence with the first book which has been selected for review by Mme D. Headbanger…

 

Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

(The girl, Tess, hails from a place in the southern counties. I managed to determine her unfortunate origins by hearing her speak for a short time. Her accent is dreadfully thick, excrutiatingly so; it is such that I can not elicit one single, legible sentence from her. I refuse to waste the little space and time allocated to my reviews in the arduous task of translating her words. We shall continue to the next on the list).

The Moonstone – Wilkie Collins

(I do not wish to review this book. My brother provides a generous and ample supply of laudanum-fuelled writings for my sisters and I to peruse. Besides, the author is a wicked, immoral cad).

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

(My dear, dear friend! Please, I beg of you, do not force me to go in there. Dotty, I implore you! Miss Havisham has fleas!)

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

(The pretty face of Dorian Gray is undeniably enticing, however, I am forbidden to venture into the realms of this works by my dear father, a pious man of God, who has read of the author’s imprisonment and refuses to allow his daughter son to associate with ne’er-do-wells and lags).

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

(What is this? What is it?)

 

I have had quite enough of this foolishness. The books listed for review are not of my choosing; I deeply regret that I did not stand firm and insist upon the choices I myself made. I have squandered my one and only opportunity to become a far-famed blog author, lauded and esteemed, praised and admired throughout the Empire. If only my choices had been acceptable to Mme D. Headbanger, but what possible use are ‘if onlys’, now, at the summit of my shame?

Disgrace is upon me. I must hasten home.

Yours, in spasms of mortified ignominy,

Ellis Bell

 

 

Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t feel sorry for her, you should have seen HER list – actually, I’ll show you it or it’ll be me who ends up being the bad one in this —

 

Confessions of a Shop-a-holic

Bridget Jones’s Diary

Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason

Mills & Boon – a  Doctor & Nurse romance

A book by Barbara Cartland

 

 

That’s what she had on her list.

Fucking stupid Victorian. Why do I bother?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dotty Book Review – Villette

 

Little Emily has asked me to review one of her sister Charlotte’s books. She begged me to do a hatchet job to get back at Charlotte for butchering some of little Emily’s poems after little Emily died. Yes, little Emily IS dead. Is that a problem for you? Are you a BIGOT who discriminates against dead people in blogs? You’d better not be.

I was going to opt for The Professor because it’s the thinnest of Charlotte’s books, not so many pages of DRONE to get through (I dismissed Jane Eyre because everyone knows Jane Eyre). Instead I chose to review Villette because of course it’s the one I’d choose, me being a she-hermit and knowing a bit about isolation and depression and all the shite that goes with them.

 

DEAD. DEAD. THEY ARE ALL DEAD.

This should have been the title of the book because although the mourning and despairing Charlotte does manage to hide herself adequately behind her main character, Lucy Snowe, she is still very apparent if you look for her – a half-solid shadow walking behind Lucy who every now and again peeps over Lucy’s shoulder and says BOO to the reader. Little Emily tells me that’s what Charlotte is like, a bit nosey, a bit controlling (little Emily is still SO fucked off about her poems) a bit attention seeking.

But Charlotte’s presence in the book doesn’t necessarily distract the reader, whereas the presence of SISTER AGONY AUNTIE DOTTY does – she crept into the book with the intention of SAVING Lucy but she was spotted before she could guide her to a happy ending; Charlotte punched her in the eye and wrote her out and tried to pretend Sister Agony Auntie Dotty was a man in disguise – not a good move, Charlotte, you could have come up with a more plausible lie as a cover-up.

How to describe Lucy? Ugly, mad, loser. Yep, that about covers it. And spinster, which IS a harsh and lonely word but it correctly describes her harsh and lonely life. Some people are frightened of the book because of the madness it contains – Lucy IS mad, nails through brains type of mad (HELLO!) which is why I like her, even though she doesn’t actually DO any trepanning in the book, probably because people would react in the same way as my sister Lottie reacted when she sneaked into my house that night. But nailing through to your brain isn’t good, it’s nothing but amateur over-enthusiastic trepanning –  LEARN TO DO IT PROPERLY, LUCY, OR YOU WILL GET AN INFECTION.

Lucy’s enemy is Reason, (which I understand all too well). She embodies the many conflicting thematic polarities that run through the book – on the outside she’s a bit of a cold fish, not very likeable, but her inner self is passionate and fiery. Fire and ice, life and death, imagination and reality, madness and sanity, fairytale and realism – Charlotte threw them all in, including a lot of red and white (Sister Agony Auntie Dotty’s BIG RED CROSS is left in even though Sister Agony Auntie Dotty got booted). There’s lots of imagery, lots of metaphors, lots of angst, lots of madness, lots of words and a few of Charlotte’s friends from Angria get a look in too (including the changeling with pygmy hands, Paulina, who steals Dr John, the man Lucy fancies JUST when Lucy gets him out on a date).

Poor Lucy never gets the man. She falls in love with M. Paul but everyone else conspires (didn’t I say it – they ARE out to get you) to keep them apart and he goes off to the West Indies. Lucy spends “three happy years” waiting for him while he sorts out a future for them both but when he’s on his way back to get her his ship sinks during a terrible storm and he dies. There are some debates about this ending because Charlotte purposely wasn’t very clear about it, maybe she couldn’t think of a proper ending so she left it open for the reader to decide, which is the lazy way out – (finish your fucking book, Charlotte, you spent a long time writing it) – but for me, he’s dead.

 

 

ADDENDUM — A newly discovered revelation – this book is about Charlotte and little Emily’s sister, Anne. I’m surprised no one else has made this discovery because it’s not hidden very well. The name LUCY SNOWE is the key. Here’s why —

LUCY is the word LUNACY with the N and the A taken out. What does N/A stand for? NOT APPLICABLE – which means the character of Lucy is not applicable to the author, Charlotte.

So who is it applicable to? Take those two letters, N and A, and put them with Lucy’s surname, SNOWE, make an anagram of them and stick LUCY on the end of it and you get ANNE WOS LUCY.

FUCKING OBVIOUS.

 

 

Little Emily – A Withering Shite (And Then Not)

 

 

Very hurtful remarks have been made to me by someone who shall remain nameless but she’s little, she wears long dresses and tiny boots, and her brother very kindly sorts out my Laudanum requirements.

I don’t want to tell you what she called me. It’s humiliating. I’ve always said she has a way with words but to use them in such a snidey, bitchy manner towards ME  –  HER SO-CALLED BEST FRIEND –  is like using a JCB to dig up a dandelion – FUCKING UNNECESSARY.

And I couldn’t fight back. I was glued to the bed by a big beige glob of apathy, not listening to her at first, not caring what she said.

UNTIL she called me a —

 

 

 

 

 

No.

I can’t say it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, go on then, I’ll tell you. I’ve humiliated myself enough in this blog as it is, once more won’t make any difference.

 

 

 

She called me a SUFFERING CLUCK.

And then she shouted at me —

“You there, woman in the bed. You perceive me to be limp and timid, of no use to you but as a passive listener and maker of hot drinks. You have no concept of what I can offer you as a token of our friendship. Think of it, woman, think of what I DO – I create monsters, I bring forth maniacs, I write of pitiful atrocities, gargantuan brutalities and the cruelty and harshness of human fate. I am NOT a nodding drip. I DESTROY BOOKS IN MY BOOK.”

Her eyes looked like big black shiny marbles.

‘Just fuck off, little Emily. Go away.’

No. This acedia you meekly surrender to will wreck your soul if I allow it further hold on you. Up you get. Up, I say.”

And she PUNCHED ME IN THE BACK.

And it fucking well hurt, right between my shoulder blades, she’s got a right wallop on her. I jumped out of the bed before she could do it again. ‘WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THAT FOR, YOU SKANKY BITCH?’ I screamed.

She smiled at me and took something out of the pocket of her dress. “I’ve brought a gift. They’re from the sock drawer at home.”

‘How did you get them?’

I mingled nonchalantly with a group of braying Oxford students; I slipped the socks inside my pocket when the Curator turned her back. They are mine, I have a right to take my own clothes. But they’re yours now. Put them on.”

So I did. They’re nice. I’ll have to find something to hold them up though – they’re long, they go up past my knees and when I wear them for more than two seconds they fall down and I’m more like Nora Batty than Victorian Sock Lady. We went downstairs and little Emily made me a cup of coffee and gave me another present, a nice big vial of laudanum that Branwell sent for me. I love little Emily. Look how she’s revived me – she’s even got me using semi-colons.

 

I’m going to make her a Cumberland sausage sandwich for her supper. She deserves one.

 

 

 

 

Dotty Book Review – Wuthering Heights

 

My new best friend, little Emily, is the credited author of this book with a teensy bit of help from yours truly – Cathy Earnshaw has ginger hair and this was my doing because little Emily couldn’t make up her mind what colour hair Cathy should have so I advised her – ginger. Cathy runs around the moors a lot. I think she has a mental illness that makes her think she’s a ginger sheep she gallops about up there so much. I asked Branwell if he can sort her out with a little tot of laudanum to calm her down (his prices are very reasonable).

It’s Heathcliff I feel sorry for. Have you seen the state of his little house? It’s nothing but RUINS, a few tumbledown stones. I worry about where he sleeps in winter. In summer he’s fine, he sits drinking in the Black Bull all night with nice American tourists who’ve travelled a long way to visit him and when they find out he has nowhere to stay they very kindly stump up the cash for his Bed & Breakfast in the pub. It’s when the nice Americans go away that concerns me, what does he do then? Little Emily won’t have him in the house he’s caused so much trouble. He’s a moody sod at the best of times, so how anyone would put up with him lodging in their house I don’t know. I wouldn’t have him to stay with me, I couldn’t anyway because I HAVE PEOPLE PHOBIA and a moody man in the house would scare me. Having JUDAS to stay was bad enough and he’s my ex-brother, imagine what it would do to me having a relative stranger around all the time, especially one as morose as Heathcliff. No, he can’t come here.

Cathy should be the one to take him in but she won’t. She’s a bit of a bimbo, and she’s a bit slutty too. And she can’t sing. When she had black bushy hair (before little Emily saught my advice) she changed her name to Kate and she used to stand outside Heathcliff’s window singing a synopsis of the book. I’ll leave you to listen to her singing it, I don’t want to hear her again, I’ve got tinnitus and she’d do my head in. This is what she sings —

 

Out on the wiley, windy moors

we’d roll and fall in green.

You had a temper — like my jealousy,

too hot, too greedy.

How could you leave me

when I needed to — possess you?

I hated you, I loved you too.

Bad dreams in the night

told me I was going to lose the fight,

leave behind my Wuuuthering, Wuuuthering,

Wuuuthering-a Heights

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Oooh it gets dark, it gets lonely

on the other side from you.

I pine a lot. I find the lot

falls through without you.

I’m coming back love,

Cruel Heathcliff, my one dream,

my only Master.

Too long I roam in the night.

I’m coming back to his side to put it right.

I’m coming home to Wuuuthering, Wuuuthering,

Wuuuthering-a Heights

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Ooh, let me have it,

let me grab your soul away.

Ooh, let me have it,

let me grab your soul away.

You know it’s me — Cathy.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so coh-oh-oh-old,

let me in at your windoh-oh-oh-ohw.

Heeeaathcliff! It’s me, oh Catheee

I’ve come home I’m —- so cold.

by Kate Bush (Cathy’s stage name)

 

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