INKY SQUIGGLES

J. Jonah Jameson, the editor everyone loves to hate, in  Marvel Knights Spider-Man The internet is teeming with people and companies marketing ultra-competitive editing and proofreading services. For the UK market alone, there's Dissertation Britain, British Proofreading, London Proofreaders, Oxbridge Editing, Cambridge Editing... and ever on. Quantity doesn't denote quality, however (Oxbridge 'connection' or no), and such a competitive landscape inevitably breeds unscrupulous individuals who run their businesses like the editing equivalent of a sausage factory. I should know – I worked for one early in my editing career, after all (my ex-employer would probably even agree with this assessment; he 'hilariously' referred to the company as a 'sausage factory' on more than one occasion). While their services might be comparatively cheap, you wouldn't want to pay for a manuscript with the editorial integrity of reconstituted mystery meat (this could act...

Throughout the pandemic, one international location in particular haunted my imagination : South Germany. While locked down, I took advantage of my daily exercise allowance of a single socially distanced outing in my local area. However, while I'm lucky to have access to abundant pretty, green spaces, my hometown is also a place where noteworthy sheep regularly make the front-page news. Like everyone else in the world, I craved a change of scenery – so I turned to the immersive worlds of books, films and adventure games to transport me from my somewhat fertiliser-seasoned surroundings. And, with its majestic forests, fairytale castles and melding of medieval and modern locales, the setting of FMV adventure game  Gabriel Knight 2: The Beast Within  gave me the perfect fantasy fuel. Better yet, it was rooted in reality; this was somewhere I might actually go someday – as fellow adventure game fans  AdventureGameGeek and IPKISS4LIFE had before me. So, as soon as internatio...

Spot the difference. Embracing the four-eyed life I'd been wearing glasses for around twenty years, after a short-lived phase in early secondary school of 'forgetting' my pair in an effort to look cool. Somehow the penalty -- squinting in vain across the dining hall for familiar faces -- seemed worth it at the time.  'You really need to wear these at all times,' my horrified optician scolded me after I casually revealed this. And so I came to terms with the fact that some things -- like seeing where I'm going -- should probably rank above others -- like whether my glasses clashed with my outfit. Eventually, I even grew to like my glasses, assimilating them into my style and routinely opting for their familiar comfort over the hassle and waste of contact lenses. So when the time came to refresh my pair, which had -- quite literally -- seen me through multiple job and house moves, a postgraduate course and a pandemic, I took the task seriously. I spent hours combi...

Open-air restaurants in Shidai residential block, Chengdu. Photo credit: Rick's Photo Thing (RPT) Around a year and a half ago, I read a Guardian article with the provocative title 'Free range is a con. There’s no such thing as an ethical egg'. As a long-term vegetarian, while I was aware of some of the issues with factory farming, I had been somewhat reassured by labels such as 'free range' and 'organic'. The article confirmed what I think, deep down, I had already suspected but hadn't known how to address given that so many veggie alternatives are heavily reliant on egg and cheese ingredients. It made for an eye-opening, unsettling read. I shared it with my partner, proclaiming, 'I can't eat another egg again in good conscience.' We decided to trial a vegan diet almost immediately.

Photo credit: Rick's Photo Thing Last September, I started a new chapter in a book I had convinced myself I had long since finished. Resuming higher education through an MA in Publishing wasn't something I'd mapped out as part of any five-year postgraduate plan. Though I had toyed with the possibility as a recent graduate, this was more out of a sense of obligation than anything else. Besides, I wasn't exactly grief-stricken to see the back of late-night essay-writing frenzies and endless grade-chasing. While I went on to pursue journalism training, this turned out to be one of the most unbalanced and stressful periods of my life. Why, then, was I potentially putting myself through something like that again?

The interviewer looked me in the eye and smiled. "Where do you see yourself five years from now?" "When will people stop asking me this ridiculous question?!" I groaned. "How am I supposed to know?! Anything can happen! Life can change dramatically in one afternoon, one year, let alone five! Having goals is one thing, but why do you have to put a timeline to it?!" Alright, I didn't say that. Out loud, anyway. I certainly thought it. There are two questions I never know how best to answer: "Where are you from?" and "Where do you see yourself in the next five years?" From this article I grew up moving between towns, cultures, and countries  –  I spent my formative years in England, South East Asia, and the United States. Thanks to my parents' work as pastors and missionaries, life could be shaken up overnight  –  an exciting, sometimes heart-breaking reality. Occasionally I wondered if I was alone in my struggle to ans...

Photo credit: Rick's Photo Thing I remember the first time I had to study through the whole day, stopping only once I climbed into bed, defeated and dreading starting all over again the next day. I had been plagued by a particularly bothersome high school assignment for my least favourite subject, biology. It was the early noughties, and my household had no internet access; our only reference books comprised an outdated encyclopedia collection that pre-dated World War I. I particularly remember the intense dismay I felt at the knowledge that I wouldn't be able to play my recently acquired copy of  The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time that night.

'That constant humiliation to survive. If you're not angry, what kind of person are you?' – Ken Loach, director I've tried not to dwell on my time on the welfare system, which remains one of the darkest points in my life. However, even though I've now been in full-time employment as a copyeditor for around two and a half years, the spectre of unemployment hangs over me. Working at a small but busy company that has previously let go of a coworker due to financial strain and knowing talented, hardworking individuals who have met the same fate, the prospect of being made redundant is never far from my mind. As my time after graduation has shown me, sometimes one's best efforts don't count for much.

Photo credit: Hiroto Hata (Mili) I learned early on that I wasn't seen in the same way as everyone else. My friends and I had been playing a careless game of Block 123 with a street lamp as our target post when a passing neighbourhood kid pointed at me. 'Eurgh,' she sneered. 'Why are your arms brown? You look dirty.' It wasn't said with malice, exactly; we lived in a small, racially homogeneous village and she was genuinely oblivious  –  both to why my skin looked that way and how her words might make me feel. And, having never been confronted with the brownness of my skin before, I didn't know how to respond. Although it had nettled me, I simply pretended not to care.

Sometimes, the thing that got to me the most  about the job-hunting process  wasn't the existential dread of drifting purposelessly through life. Nor was it the employers who never called when they said they would, like fickle dates. It wasn't even the  rigorous hoop jumping I was subjected to each week to secure my paltry Jobseeker's handout . Nope. Sometimes, after a hard week's jobseeker grinding, the thing that really irked me was the desperately bad writing that pervades so many job adverts.

I recently read an article about "imposter syndrome" and recognized myself within it. Imposter syndrome is basically the feeling of being inadequate, in spite of evidence of high achievement; it leaves people afraid that they will be "found out" and exposed as frauds in their field. I've felt this way...

'Without even thinking about it, I used to be able to fly. Now I'm trying to look inside myself and find out how I did it.'  - Kiki, Kiki's Delivery Service After my fellow blogger Lynette shared a climactic passage from one of her first stories, in the interest of fairness, I dug around in my own under-the-bed reserves of shame (the writer's equivalent of the dirty magazine collection, if you will). I present to you an extract from one of my earliest longer story attempts, The Lightbearers :

I have just reread one of my first works of fiction , grandly entitled: "The Jealous Rival: In Death Not Divided". Featuring beautiful maidens, awful love poetry, and grisly deaths, it is a masterpiece of my 10-year-old imagination. Here's a gem of a scene: "Bertram and Geraldine were immensely happy and started to make plans for a grand wedding. But then, alas, shadows began to darken over their paths. Cordelia was secretly in love with Bertram de Vere herself, and when Geraldine told her about the engagement, she was simply furious...One evening, Cordelia, thinking they were alone, pushed Geraldine off a bridge with a wild mocking, 'Ha ha ha! You will never marry Bertram now!' But Bertram saw it all and at once he plunged into the dangerous current, exclaiming, 'I will save thee, my peerless Geraldine! Have no fear!' But alas, he had forgotten that he couldn't swim, and they were both drowned, clasped in each other's arms." Well,...

Three stories up. Unforgiving concrete below. My heart was hammering in my throat as I swung my leg over the balustrade of the balcony, and I froze, suddenly and acutely aware that dying was a possibility if I messed this up. But I had to get out of the house. Everything I wanted was out of the house. I simply couldn’t stay in the house any longer. Climbing from my balcony to my next door neighbour’s balcony was the only way out, since there was a party in the street below and many guests had parked their motorbikes and were sitting at tables right outside my front door. I didn’t know how long the party was going to continue. Eyeing the celebrations below me, I wondered how traumatic it might be for the guests if a phalang (foreigner) suddenly crashed their party—literally.

When a friend recently challenged me to list ten books that have influenced my life in some way, I was presented with two problems. The first was the painful process of whittling my favourites down to just ten. I hummed and hawed over the issue for several days and had to suppress some serious feelings of guilt at 'betraying' some of my other favourites before reaching any kind of resolution. The second was the frustrating feeling that Facebook (where the challenge was circulating) wasn't an adequate platform for conveying just how much I loved these books. After all, as Jorge Luis Borges wrote, 'I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met... all the cities that I have visited.' To redress that wrong, therefore, here are my picks in the order that I discovered them, alongside some of my favourite book covers and quotes for each. 1. The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien Collins edition (2002)

The definitive fantasy antiquities bookstore, St. George's Books of Jane Jensen's adventure gaming classic,  Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers One of my dreams has always been to run my own hybridised bookstore/teashop. Antique stained-glass windows, chintz teacups suspended from the rafters, an elegant tufted armchair set before an open fireplace... and one of those bitchin' ladders on rails for swooping dramatically during spontaneous sing-songs. Like Belle. Not Nigel Thornberry. I'd actually considered this to be one of my more down-to-earth dreams, but given the proliferation of online book giants and the dwindling presence of high street indie booksellers, it now seems about as likely as my teen aspirations of edging out Mrs Bon Jovi. Nevertheless, the appeal of being paid to spend my days surrounded by books never quite left me (if the  Kingyo Used Books  series has taught me anything, it's that the life of a bookseller is a continual voy...