Saturday 26 February 2011

Navel Gazing and The Blogosphere

There's a a niggling voice in my head about this blogging game, about its relevance and the noise that it makes. I sometimes trawl around the place, just listening to the 'chatter', and it seems to me to be quite maddeningly mindless - some of the time it does, and yet because it is written down it commands a little more attention than it should and it is somehow lifted in importance - seems to be lifted at least.

Don't get me wrong, some people tell you interesting things about their world or their day, things that you would tune into if you overheard them talking in a bus queue, and when they stopped speaking you'd want to ask them to go on and say more - if that wasn't a rude intrusion. Some people have useful information or tips that might be relevant to you as a novice in their field or as someone just interested in knowing stuff. But to be honest and blunt, some people are just concerned with the banal: Why when I say I am a writer do people ask what it is I have written as though they are asking me to prove it? They wouldn't do that for any other profession! What nonsense is sometimes spoken here on the blogosphere. What self-obsessed twaddle. If someone hearing that you do something is interested enough to ask for more information about what you do, be flattered enough that you seem interesting and get over yourself.

And so this has got me turning over an old chestnut of mine: why am I here? Not why am I here on this earth - that's a completely other chestnut. But why am I here blogging? I was encouraged to 'join the blog club' by other writers. They said I ought to, that it was the world we lived in, that it was another tool in the promotion of ourselves as writers (even though I hate all self-promotion and do not even plug my children's book in the school where I work because I feel that would be taking advantage of children I work with and for and care about). I can see that for some this blogging game works in the promotion of their work (even though we sometimes have to wade through the banal and the downright inappropriate - you wouldn't tell a stranger in the street the details of your own mental health... but people on the blogosphere feel that they can do that when the stranger has no face!). For long enough I was hanging up flash fiction pieces here on this blog, a couple a week, hoping that someone visiting might be interested enough to read my writing (after all that's the point of writing really, to be read). I have posted a whole novel in flashes here and that felt like there was a worthwhile point to blogging. This project has been at an end now for a wee while... and so I am like that guy at the party who is feeling a little awkward and wondering what else he can say to keep the girl beside him from moving away. And here I am indulging in a bit of navel gazing and wondering what I do now to justify this here blog. I certainly don't want to discuss my mental health or indeed the symptoms of my physical health; I don't want to discuss my job or my personal circumstances or my financial place in the world or my religion or lack of it; I don't want the banal matter of when I write and whether I use notebooks or pen or pencil or eat biscuits between paragraphs - any of that to occupy this space. But I want something.

So, I am considering another series of flashes and posting these up here. I know some writers would tell me that I could do 'better' with them and make money out of them in some other places... and if I had a head for business I might do that. But I am a writer and all I do is write; the business end of my life can take care of itself. And that sounds a bit like a manifesto to be going on with and one that I could live with. There. It is decided. I shall begin a series of flash fiction posts here next week, something to read. So, if you are interested, watch this space.

Saturday 19 February 2011

NOT SO SNARLY

NICER TODAY

In the post this morning was something surprising and nice: two copies of Fylde Brighter Writers' new anthology called 'Out of Season'. As runner up in their short story competition last year with my story 'The Boy Who Stayed at School' (also winner of Southport Writers' Competition) I have found a place in there. Apparently, according to the introduction to the anthology, it was a close run thing between myself and Anne Wilson's piece called 'Ghost Training' - congratulations to Anne. The anthology is beautifully produced and available through Lulu... all proceeds going to a charitable cause.

And, having been on mid-term for a week, I at last got down to a new piece of writing today. Have been polishing lots of other bits and pieces, but today something new... and that felt very good, because you can sometimes feel like you might be losing the edge on what you can do and you need to do it again and again to prove to yourself that you can still do it.

And all of that leaves me in a nicer mood today... not so narky or snarly... so one good thing to end on:

A once upon a time writer I worked with (but don't anymore) has just landed a deal to publish her first novel and that sort of success deserves to be celebrated. Congrats to Vanessa Gebbie and good luck for 'The Coward's Tale' due out later in the year.

Friday 18 February 2011

THE RUBBISH THAT THERE IS

(Am on mid-term break just now and without my computer and time a little heavy on my hands so have been browsing the web (on my son's machine) and I am posting stuff here just to get things out of my head... like a Mr Angry or a Mr Disappointed, at least... you don't have to agree!)

There’s a lot of rubbish said out there. ( and maybe I am just adding to it!)

There’s a debate I see often aired in the ether, a debate about which is better, butter or marge, tea or coffee, white wine or red. Science may tell you today that there are things in new red wine that are actually good for you if you consume only a glass a day, but I don’t think that is what is meant in this sort of debate.

So which is better, the short story or the novel? That’s what I am really talking about. That’s the question that is so often aired. Usually the question is raised by an ardent short story writer in defence of what they do and usually it extols the virtues of the short story in such a nonsensical way. It sometimes involves a person saying what the novel is not and what a story does that the novel cannot. They make up a definition of what the novel’s limits must be and slip the short story into the space they have created. I have read one defence that says a whole world is conjured in a short story, that it is the germ of something that passes from the writer to the reader and takes root in the reader’s imagination and lives with the reader long after the page has been turned.

I am sorry, but there are great novels that do that for me, that do as much and more than a short story does. Don’t get me wrong; I love short stories and love writing them. I think they are a better animal than flash fiction. I think they have great power. I think they can be rich and moving and complete - even when they are not complete. I also think there are great short stories that I would prize as some of the best things I have read. But equally there is a whole library of novels that I would say do for me.

So, when it comes down to it, let’s be honest: marge or butter, tea or coffee, red wine or white - it’s surely a matter of taste, really it is, personal taste, and as writers we have to accept that the market seems to prefer the flavour of the novel over the short story… hence, perhaps, the need for these airy defences of the short story in order to cudgel people into seeing sense and ‘you really ought to drink red wine‘ and short stories have feelings, too.

I wish there was more of a market for them, but if we are to shout out their virtues, lets not shout out nonsense. So, Why Short Stories? Because they give us a different flavour... seems sensible enough.

Wednesday 16 February 2011

NOTHING NEW

The Greatest Story Ever Told (and told again)

He was born on the 25th December. His mother was made magically pregnant, filled with a ‘divine fire’. The child was born in a cave in a manger. His birth was heralded by a star in the east and three wise men were in attendance. The child was taken away by his mother fearing that he would be killed. He grew to be a great child-teacher in the temple. He was baptised at thirty. He had 12 disciples and performed miracles such as walking on water and feeding bread to a multitude. He raised a man from the dead and his name was El-Azar-us. He was known as ‘the way, the truth, the light.’ He was also called ‘the messiah’ and ‘the Son of Man’ and ‘the lamb of God’ and ‘the good shepherd’ and ‘the Lord of Heaven'. He was the fisher and associated with the lamb and the lion and fish. He was called ‘KRST’ and ‘Annointed One’. He was crucified and buried in a tomb and resurrected.

You would be forgiven for thinking you know this story. But this is apparently the story of the Egyptian god Horus as gleaned from ’The Egyptian Book of The Dead’. I do not pass comment on the implications this has for Christians today (anyone interested in this might want to see the online video called ‘Zeitgeist 1‘... though there is some reason to be cautious of the evidence given in that video, and all the conspiracy theories that follow are a bit hard to swallow). However, what the story of Horus does give us is another example of how stories and ideas can be taken from one source and given new life and made something richer by a new writer or writers, and that, it seems, is a natural process.

I love the Bible stories and cannot imagine my life without them. Can you?

Tuesday 15 February 2011

HOW DO YOU BOMB?

I bomb very badly.

I have a fair amount of success in writing competitions and I am usually philosophical about what that means. It's not that I am laid back when I do hit big, as someone once said; it's more that for every hit I get, there are a handful of misses... and the misses always hit hard.

I think I was pushed as a kid at primary school and being second in the class was never good enough. Then when they stopped pushing, I pushed myself trying to win the elusive top spot in everything I did. Maybe there's a psychologist out there who'd have an explanation for why that was and why it still is; I just know that 'winning', being the person on the pedestal, is something that has shaped me and shaped how I approach my work (and writing is work).

That's why losing is so hard. Losing at anything. I slide into a 'grump' for hours whenever I hear that my name is not on a shortlist. I undermine all my successes by measuring myself against those failures... at least until next time when hope springs eternal. There's always hope. That maybe explains why I have so much stuff entered elsewhere... something to fall back on when I don't win a mention with one competition.

So you see, I bomb badly.

And here I am saying, I bombed in Willesden this year. Again. Third time in a row. But... looking at those on the shortlist... well, there are some very good names on there and one or two I'd count as friends. So, congratulations to everyone who didn't bomb in Willesden. Really, heaps of congratulations... and for the rest of us... there's always next year... or the very next competition result to be announced.

Sunday 13 February 2011

FOR THE SAKE OF LOVE

What's Love Got To Do With It?

Interesting that recently I have seen a fair amount of stuff on 'love in Fiction'. Last night it was Sebastian Faulks and he was looking at love in the novel. He started off by saying something about where we get our ideas about love from and deciding that we get it from books. I first fell in love at the age of ten (before I had read any books that contained love, and before we even had a television and the only film I had seen was 'The Jungle Book' - and ok there is that bit at the end where Mowgli is so smitten that he ditches his friends for the girl!... but I am not sure that my falling in love had much to do with that). But maybe Faulks does have something of a point.

I read literature at University and I soaked up Shakespeare and Emily Bronte and Thomas Hardy and D.H. Lawrence. Did these reading experiences define for me what love is? Did they lay down the blueprint of what I expect from love - unreasonably expect? And does film now do the same in fashioning these expectations for the whole of society?

I write a lot, and love and relationships enter into the writing. Vonnegut professes not to write about love because as in life so in fiction: it takes over. And it can. It takes over my writing... a lot of the time it does. But it is the failure of love and the madness and the pain and the yearning and the obstinate hope that colours what I write. I don't think I say anything new. I don't think I teach anything about love... but the idea that a reader might learn something about what love is from reading me, that feels like some kind of responsibility.

Then I read an interesting question somewhere online: Do men read love stories? They might say they don't. I don't do Mills and Boon, (I protest I don't) but clearly I do the rest (see my university reading above). 'Love in the Time of Cholera' and Barriccio's 'Silk' and Winterson's 'The Passion'... I have read and loved these. Maybe they have shaped my imagination and maybe that imagination shapes my view of love. Maybe. But maybe it is our experience of love that rather shapes what we read and how we see love. Few of us fall in love just the once and marry our childhood sweethearts and live happy ever after... 'the course of true love never did run smooth'. We mostly fall inexpertly in and out of love at first, experiencing all the pain and rejection and longing, before some way down the road finding someone to build a life with. And even then, another few miles down the road we may find love beset with further trials (a cooling of passion or infidelity and divorce and heartache). Maybe it is this that shapes our view of love, and what we write or read (what we are drawn to read) is what mirrors our experience of love... a bit.

The web of influence on who and what we are is a complex one... love books, though.


Monday 7 February 2011

THRILLED

FEEDBACK

I have a story called 'The Touching of Esther Roberts' posted up at JBWB (Jacqui Bennett Writers' Bureau). I've had a fair amount of feedback to this story recently and all of it positive... that can be worth more than gold.

Here's a sample of things that have been said (and I only put this up because I have been called 'laid back' about my recent writing successes and really I am so very thrilled by what readers have said. Maybe more readers might be encouraged by what's said here to go take a peek at my Esther Roberts. I hope so.)

'I truly enjoyed your story'

'So much conveyed in quick elegant lines'

'It brought tears to my eyes'

'You have a wonderful way of creating atmosphere, empathy for your characters and that feeling of being there.'

'This is a story I shan't forget'

'Fabulous story'

I am honestly overwhelmed to have had such a connection with these readers.

Thank you.

Saturday 5 February 2011

PENTLAND WRITERS' GROUP

Last year I was encouraged to enter a short story competition being run by a writing group I had formerly been a member of. It was the Pentland Writers' Group's way of celebrating 10 years as a group. I wanted to show support, but the competition was themed and I hadn't got anything that fitted. The pesky e-mail reminders for the approaching deadline kept appearing in my in-box, and eventually I caved in to the pressure and I sat down and wrote something. To my surprise my story was chosen as the overall winner. The story is called 'The Ten Loves of Lizzie Salt'.

As if it wasn't enough and already great to have won, I was invited to be a part of an event hosted last night by PWG. They put on another of their local and public readings together with songs and music from Gerda Stevenson and the Carlops Jazz Group. The weather was atrocious and that is always a concern. It was lashing rain when I left the house. I hoped, for the group, that this would not put a damper on things!

I needn't have worried. The reading took place in the Carlops village hall and it was what might be described as 'stowed out'. They had to get extra chairs to accomodate everybody in the hall! The audience was entertained by poetry and stories from members of the writers' group - and there were some very good new voices there (new to me) as well as some warmly familiar, and also good, older voices. And there was music and song - beautiful songs in scots written by Gerda and fabulous music - to break up the readings. The interval offered wine and nibbles and a chance for the audience to buy the newly launched new anthology from the group.

I feel I was given the peachiest spot of all for I was the final reader. I always read my work out loud before sending it 'out there' - but reading it to oneself is a very different experience to reading it to someone else, and different again from reading it to a packed and appreciative audience. I had my eyes opened to my own story... like reading it and it is someone else's. I love performing and performing my own work is just icing on that cake. The audience enthused about the piece and I left the event with the warmest of glows - not simply because I was in love with the story again (as I was when I wrote it), but because writing in the area where I live seems to me to be in a healthier state now than ever.

A big warm thank you to everyone at Pentland Writers' Group (PWG) - for the competition without which I would not have birthed this story of mine; for picking me as overall winner; for inviting me to an event where I got the opportunity of sharing my story with a public audience; for including my work in their lovely anthology; and for the warm welcome I always receive from PWG. Thank you.