Dear Oktay,
I’m trying to imagine you. But try as I may, I can't reconcile the image inspired by your name with the image inspired by your choice of reading. Oktay. A hearty, Central Asian name in the tradition of those nomadic, tribal Turks, which like the native Americans, quite fancied their nature and war references. Oktay, from the word Ok -arrow. Who could shoot his backwards and sideways and upside down on a galloping horse. All hair and beard and six foot ten. A man who eats a whole lamb in one sitting; shish-kebabs a platoon of crusaders before noon, because they looked at his woman sideways; and expresses his meaning more eloquently in grunts and growls than all your smooth talkers of our modern age. When a man like that utters a statement comprising of more than just monosyllables, then you really know he'd bring down dynasties for you.
Why this all of a sudden? I am labouring with the labour pains of bringing into this world my protagonist. I’m trying to imagine a Turk. Nay Ottoman. Nay Armenian Ottoman –that’s it, beautiful characters are made through complexity. An Armenian Ottoman in Istanbul in the year 1921 is an epic tragedy just waiting to happen.
So, a tall and slim build? No, let’s have average height. Built by hard labour and war feats. Gruff. With bad teeth. Which reminds me: 50 Lira says you are fat. Am I right? Of course I am. After all, you, Oktay, are a far cry from those Oktays of old. It's the standard issue frame working against you, you see. The big boned, stout build that could reach such magnificent proportions but which you simply lack the capacity for. What's happened then, is that all that Oktay potential has been stunted to collect at the gut.
To your further detriment, Oktay, you have no talent for facial topiary. Being clean shaven exposes your round, moon mug as a perfect target for bitch slaps. But you don't see any of this, do you? Nay, raised by a doting, moron who probably bore you to flaunt you, you suffer from a severe case of self-importance. The word deluded, doesn't cut it. You literally see Brad Pitt when you look in the mirror, and you haven't even the sense to see a more contemporary heart-throb. What's more, you pride yourself on your modern sensibilities, which require that your wife works to supplement the domestic budget, while also housekeeping, rearing children, and looking fabulous simultaneously. But I ask you, Oktay, what need does a woman have for such a man, if she can indeed accomplish all of that on her own?
I diverge. So let us assume all of this to be true. Neil Gaiman's 'Graveyard Book.' What gives? I'm not always right, I must admit, though most of the time I think I am. It's the crazy. See a woman who is loved has the benefit of a man to drive crazy. But a woman who is single, only has herself to drive crazy. This isn't a bad thing. On good days it's an absolute rave in my mind, I promise you. But I can see that it might get tiring for others when I get carried away. In any case, Neil Gaiman means: a) You wear black and have, or have had at some point in your life, an asymmetrical haircut. b) You were bullied as a child and sought consolation in the heroics of misfits and freaks, which in turn nurtured a love of nerd culture. c) In a wasted effort to improve your English through reading, you picked out Neil Gaiman from the young readers section of the bookshop at the airport. Option ‘c’ I think. Fat and predictable is what you are. I’m bored of talking about you. So bored I’d rather stare at the blank screen of my opening chapter.
On a more positive note: John Anal gave us a smile today. I think it might have been the best thing I saw in over a month.
I’m trying to imagine you. But try as I may, I can't reconcile the image inspired by your name with the image inspired by your choice of reading. Oktay. A hearty, Central Asian name in the tradition of those nomadic, tribal Turks, which like the native Americans, quite fancied their nature and war references. Oktay, from the word Ok -arrow. Who could shoot his backwards and sideways and upside down on a galloping horse. All hair and beard and six foot ten. A man who eats a whole lamb in one sitting; shish-kebabs a platoon of crusaders before noon, because they looked at his woman sideways; and expresses his meaning more eloquently in grunts and growls than all your smooth talkers of our modern age. When a man like that utters a statement comprising of more than just monosyllables, then you really know he'd bring down dynasties for you.
Why this all of a sudden? I am labouring with the labour pains of bringing into this world my protagonist. I’m trying to imagine a Turk. Nay Ottoman. Nay Armenian Ottoman –that’s it, beautiful characters are made through complexity. An Armenian Ottoman in Istanbul in the year 1921 is an epic tragedy just waiting to happen.
So, a tall and slim build? No, let’s have average height. Built by hard labour and war feats. Gruff. With bad teeth. Which reminds me: 50 Lira says you are fat. Am I right? Of course I am. After all, you, Oktay, are a far cry from those Oktays of old. It's the standard issue frame working against you, you see. The big boned, stout build that could reach such magnificent proportions but which you simply lack the capacity for. What's happened then, is that all that Oktay potential has been stunted to collect at the gut.
To your further detriment, Oktay, you have no talent for facial topiary. Being clean shaven exposes your round, moon mug as a perfect target for bitch slaps. But you don't see any of this, do you? Nay, raised by a doting, moron who probably bore you to flaunt you, you suffer from a severe case of self-importance. The word deluded, doesn't cut it. You literally see Brad Pitt when you look in the mirror, and you haven't even the sense to see a more contemporary heart-throb. What's more, you pride yourself on your modern sensibilities, which require that your wife works to supplement the domestic budget, while also housekeeping, rearing children, and looking fabulous simultaneously. But I ask you, Oktay, what need does a woman have for such a man, if she can indeed accomplish all of that on her own?
I diverge. So let us assume all of this to be true. Neil Gaiman's 'Graveyard Book.' What gives? I'm not always right, I must admit, though most of the time I think I am. It's the crazy. See a woman who is loved has the benefit of a man to drive crazy. But a woman who is single, only has herself to drive crazy. This isn't a bad thing. On good days it's an absolute rave in my mind, I promise you. But I can see that it might get tiring for others when I get carried away. In any case, Neil Gaiman means: a) You wear black and have, or have had at some point in your life, an asymmetrical haircut. b) You were bullied as a child and sought consolation in the heroics of misfits and freaks, which in turn nurtured a love of nerd culture. c) In a wasted effort to improve your English through reading, you picked out Neil Gaiman from the young readers section of the bookshop at the airport. Option ‘c’ I think. Fat and predictable is what you are. I’m bored of talking about you. So bored I’d rather stare at the blank screen of my opening chapter.
On a more positive note: John Anal gave us a smile today. I think it might have been the best thing I saw in over a month.
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