Am I the New Carrie Bradshaw?

There are a handful of people out there who actually believe I am well-read. Not to toot my own horn too much but they have good reason for thinking so: one look at my bookshelf here in Bucheon and you'll find Sherwood Anderson, Roland Barthes, Walter Benjamin, John Berger, Jorge Luis Borges, Andre Brink, (Greg has my Calvino), Bruce Chatwin, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Graham Greene, (traded in my Elfride Jelinek), (lent Kat my Kundera), D.H. Lawrence, Cormac McCarthy, V.S. Naipaul, Michael Ondaatje, Orhan Pamuk, W.G. Sebald, John Updike and Raymond Williams (how will I ever get all this home?). To probably misquote Borges: "Some boast of the books they've written, I boast of those I've read." For me it's merely a case of owning them that gets me bragging; the task of reading is clearly secondary.

Still, I have read most of them (53% counts as most, right?) and so it pains me to have to admit that my writing still smacks of a pathetic Sex and the City rip-off. If the bloody-obvious hasn't already smacked you in the face like Carrie receiving the cold shoulder from Mr. Big (again) then take a quick look at the "But have we? Have I?" section of my "Is Teaching English the New Unemployment?" posting - and for that matter take note of the title - and do your best not to wince quite much as Miranda having to listen to one of Samantha's stories.

Just a few minutes ago, Kristina - perhaps wanting to hand me an olive branch after pointing out the Candace Bushnell connection - asked me if whenever I get into a writer do I begin to take on their personalities. "Well obviously not!" I erupted. "I'm not influenced by Sex and the City!" It's nice to know that reading nothing but Borges the last ten months has paid off so fruitfully.

A dozen years ago I was consciously trying to ape Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole and now it seems this diary/confessional approach of mine has come back to bight me (is there a possible SATC reference I can use here? Please write in your suggestions). The lit-snob in me refuses to pick up a copy of Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude because of the hideous "Oprah Book Club" logo emblazoned on the cover but my cred takes a hit when my prose sounds like something Frances Mayes wouldn't cliche to death.

I guess there is a back-handed compliment, however: I write like a successful, published author. I'm still a long way off from penning the sort of beauteous ramblings that my beloved Sebald was able to do so effortlessly but maybe there was a time when everyone thought there was a bit too much Pearl S. Buck in him as well.

Is Teaching English the New Unemployment?

A student in one of my conversation classes this week informed me that Korean artists and writers try to get jobs in North America. "Do you know where North American artists and writers go?" I asked her. "They come to Korea."

Setting up this sucker in some haste - no doubt shamed into action by Kat's recently created blog - I realised that I already said everything I wanted say in the "About Me" section to your right. But what - if anything - does all this say about English teachers in general and why they all want to write a bloody book?

First off, my generation (that is if I'm part of a generation at all: given that I was fourteen back in 1991, I've never felt much like an Xer and "Y" is so vapid and inane they couldn't even come up with a decent name for themselves - it's not as though the Baby Boomers are called Generation W, is it?) has never stopped dreaming. Granted our dreams may be less noble and idealistic than those of our folks but the hippies eventually grew up and became venture capitalists - not so much selling out as waking up. But have we? Have I? Every single person I knew a decade ago with even the faintest trace of creativity is still gamely plugging away at their craft, holding out for that ellusive pay-off. Some of us continue to wait.

Meanwhile, there's nothing quite like a bit of the expat experience to put off the inevitable - be it getting a real job or going toe-to-toe with that dream artistic project. As opposed to McJobs, teaching carries with it a level of respectability and the work isn't particularly taxing (correction: it isn't at all taxing). As such, I have the perfect environment for creativity to blossom but where idleness conspires to make it stagnate.

(A chicken and egg scenario: did I create this blog only to realise that I have an emerging sense of artistic ennui or did this malaise spur me into a blog?)

If nothing else, being over here gives us the chance to feel a little bit special. That is until we spot another English teacher who's also planning to write a book.

This Week's Best Bowling Score: 145
Personal Best: 183