Garp

I have just finished reading, “The World According to Garp” by John Irving.  I can only apologise.  I should have read it before now, I know, I know…...  

Indeed, as a teenager, I promised I would read it after seeing the film starring Robin Williams,  but, I was put off by the 600 pages, and stuck instead with my Graham Greenes and abridged Reader's Digests.   The film, however, had opened my eyes to the possibilities of good fiction. Irving's quirky imagination, and unique characters made me want to be a writer, even before I had read a single word of his.

Now, having read it, I don't just want to be a writer.  I want to be a great writer.  Irving gives me ambition, inspiration, a jealous regard.  Like Dickens, the 'voice' is so consistent through all of his novels, that reading any one now, I almost immediately settle into the rhythm of the words, and the pages fall away effortlessly.

He is the only modern writer whom, when I am reading, I can hear an imaginary narrator's voice in my head, rather than my own monotone dirge.

And despite the tragedy at the heart of this novel, for me the only depressing thing about it is that Irving has made Garp a writer, a fictional writer who produces fictional works that any real writer would cut their index fingers off for.  Yet there they are, invented, to show the reader that Garp was a real writer.

I saw a jokey tweet recently from some bookish type about needing time off work to mourn the loss of a much beloved character.  At the end of Garp, I knew how they felt.  I had forgotten the end, Robin Williams' portrayal diminished in the fog of memory.  

I took it badly.  I'll miss him.  Having finally read his story, I'll miss him.

Back again

Yes, back again.

Blogging.

It being such a success previously....

Anyhow, having, finally, settled into a rigid writing regime, I find I have the time, and more importantly, I need the variety.  So a-posting I will go.  For now.

This week, I went to Waterstones, Piccadilly, for a book launch.
Firstly, I love this store.  In the old 'Simpsons of Piccadilly', it houses six floors of books, comfy chairs, and a coffee shop that always seems to be at least half-occupied by wistful, staring-into-space would-be writers. (I'll be the guy in the corner, watching, giving everybody character-defining, Dickensian-ish names.)
(Alert - hyphen use limit breached.) (Alert - bracket use limit reached.) (Alert - alert limit breached.)
The Art-Deco building only enhances the noble experience of buying a book.  It is a temple.  Go there.

The event itself, was a new experience for me, as it was for the newly published Amy Liptrot, who was exceedingly nervous.  But charming. She spoke candidly about her difficult life, and tried to speak about her writing style and effort.  This was where she struggled a little, I believe because her style is so natural to her, the process so free, that to explain it verbally was very difficult.  Especially in front of a crowd.  No doubt as her success continues, she will develop the stock answers and anecdotes that most authors have to such repetitive questions.  But I'm not being snippy, I simply mean it was refreshing to see someone so natural and honest, struggle to explain the abstract. (God, I'm drifting.)
So, moving on, it was good, I enjoyed it, can't wait to read her book.

Thanks for reading this.  I'll keep the posts short and sweet.
Tune in next time to remind yourself you're not the biggest eejit on tinterwebnet.
Good luck.

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"What about this weather then?"

Stood on a rooftop in Bristol, hunting leaks, I look out across a sea of disfigured triangles, tethered flights of fancy by box-ticking architects, and I am a lone figure among the sharp shoulders of slate and tin.  Behind all, the sky glistens with grey as the rain mists in again, veiling everything, as if now being viewed through net curtains in dire need of a soak.

This is my weather.  (And, at the moment, I am being spoilt.)  It is the weather of the introvert, the lonely dreamer, the one who welcomes the quickening it introduces into everyone else’s step, and the reluctance it engenders to chat.  It panders to my default position, my Celtic compass, that draws me back, to the harsher, shaded, sodden fields of my youth. It brings me back round to myself, makes me put my chin down and the defences up, and ‘keep buggering on’.

Properly clad, I relish working out in the rain.  It transports me back to the tinkling, corrugated roofs of my youth, and the warm fire that the end of the day promised.  

“I am haunted by waters.” – Norman Maclean, 'A River Runs Through it.'

But I am lucky.  I speak from the high ground.  I retire every evening to the relatively dry south east, driving home on a thin ribbon of black past fields, and lives, slowly sinking into mercury. 

I have never known so much rain.

And I have just seen another low swirl predicted to sweep in next week.  (I wish I was in the umbrella business, the streets are littered with their broken skeletons.)

But rest easy, the government are at last taking it seriously.  Prime Minister Canute  has promised to stem the relentless tide. (oh no, sorry, that's immigrants.)

“Gad, it’s hot…  Around us is the Red Sea, a festering green sheet of un-skimmed molten brass.  You can grab a handful of air and squeeze the sweat out of it.” – Spike Milligan, 'Letters.'

But, if you need warming, be assured we have started our long journey back towards the sun, but only just.  The light still seems an age away.  But it's coming.  It always comes.  And surely this year it will appear brighter than ever.  (I certainly hope so, have just booked an Easter break in Somerset. )

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The Sound of Silence

I am currently reading "Quiet" by Susan Cain, a book that explores the prevalence of the extrovert ideal and how the noisy have stamped on the right of the individual to sit back and reflect rather than engage at volume.  It is, and I detest myself for using the word, somewhat 'empowering', underlining what I have been trying to explain to my family, and their friends for years. 

I enjoy being quiet.  I often yearn for solitude.  I get pleasure from daydreaming, having a quiet ponder.  I prefer to look in at a crowd rather than feel a need to be part of it and I have even managed to stop feeling obligated to interact with people out of mere social convention.  I just don't do small talk, and if I were to attempt it, the result would be much worse than the silence.  

But despite all this, despite what others may think, I am not odd.  I am not shy.  I am not miserable.  I am not unsociable. (I am NOT having a rant!)  I am simply reflective.  I prefer to consider my words, at length, before throwing them out.  This is probably why I am doomed never to finish writing my great novel.

And because I write, I do have a keen interest in other people's lives, their quirks and foibles, their values and failings, their loves and losses, but I do not feel the need to concoct an empty conversation with them to drag out these details.  Behind the writer's eye, and in the writer's imagination,  their story really blooms.

But today everyone is expected to be outgoing.  If you go to a wedding, you are told that you 'just HAVE to dance'.  No you don't.  Personally, I detest dancing.  That does not make me a 'misery' anymore than it would make you 'ignorant' if you refused my insistence that you sit down and read a book.  

Years ago, I worked in a bank, and was doing quite well there, progressing on my merit and hard work, when, a new structure was announced, and a selection process brought in that everyone would have to go through.  It was basically a half day in a grotty hotel conference room, sitting within a large circle, having a debate about something no-one had any real interest in, and you were judged on your ability to work within the group.  However, most were so keen to inflict their personalities on the rest, that it turned into a shouting match in which I took no part, thinking it was all at least laughable, if not completely ridiculous.  I was judged to be rather submissive and not a 'team player'.  I left soon after and have never regretted it.

Similarly, a friend's son is currently in secondary school, where he is excelling.  He has a large circle of friends, many outside interests, and is remarkably bright, with a true gift for creativity. He possesses an eye for drawing, and an easy flair with the written word that leaves me agog. But his mother has been told he will struggle in English because his oral skills let him down.  He is seen as a little shy, a little 'too' quiet.  Pfftt!  FFS.  WTF.  (And other such acronyms.)

Everyone is different and, in truth, introvert / extrovert is a crude measure; but we would all be able to put ourselves somewhere along that scale.

It just strikes me as a little dis-spiriting that we do not view the reticent with the same charm as we do the out-going.  We are all constantly being told to 'think outside the box'.  I live 'outside the box'.  It's nice. Come on out.

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Guilt, Goals and Early Mornings.

Am I alone in finding the time I set aside to write, somewhat of an indulgence.  At the moment,(HAHA, at the moment? Deluded idiot!) as it is not my 'job', ie, I make no money from it, I feel that I must justify any time I spend on it.  I view it as a treat.  I'm sure to others, it appears I am just sitting at the laptop, plugging away, enjoying myself.  I look up often to see the endless stuff that needs doing looking back at me, eyebrows raised, and tapping the watch.
Must be a man thing, I suppose, guilt. You women wouldn't understand.

In  a similar vein, I went to Ireland for a long weekend, where my WIP is set, to visit uncles and to get some decent, atmospheric writing done.  Instead, I spent most of the time cleaning, feeding or moving around either said uncles or their recalcitrant cattle.  In a brief moment of respite, I parked up in the middle of the sleepy town, (where I have a couple of scenes set, pivotal conversations against the backdrop of bucolic ease), whereupon the guards immediately set up a roadblock on the crossroads in front of me, (it being a nice day and all, better i suppose than chasing the drunks around the county town down the road), and the electricity board starting tearing up the tarmac behind me.  I would have had more peace in the middle-lane of the M25.

But, guilt can also be a motivator.  Recently, I've stopped setting myself tangible goals, the constant missing of which was starting to grate and weigh on the mind.  As a part-time, when-I-can writer, I have only one aim now: to be able to enjoy a guilt free bottle of beer on a Friday night, riding the high stool.  So now, I ensure that the novel has moved along, or even backwards, every week, and this momentum, glacial though it may be, will eventually get me over the line.

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P.S. A lot of writers suggest getting up 'a little earlier' in the morning 'when we are at our most creative' to get some work done before the day starts in earnest.  I normally leave for work just after 5am.  I am certainly not very creative in the morning.  I struggle to create enough energy to turn off the bleeping, insistent alarm clock.  Instead, can I start a new movement and suggest that we have more arguments with our children so that we can write in the peaceful interlude that follows, whilst they fume behind their bedroom doors, and my witty ripostes to their turgid arguments have inspired me to be
' at my most creative'.

Days off, day out.

Days off, day out.

A busy week.  Still working nights, leaving me all day to sit and stare at the telly write or watch youtube videos on home-improvement do some work around the house.  To break the stifling boredom further improve myself, I visited the Royal Academy summer exhibition, the biggest open submission art show in the world.  Was agog at some of the yet-to-be-lauded-appropriately talent on display: sketches, portraits, landscapes, all beautifully crafted.  I went around without a catalogue as I didn't want to be distracted by fantasy shopping, so remain oblivious to the artists in most cases.  But one that stood out for me was a piece where an artist had used a paint chart as a background and had drawn a little vignette on each coloured square.  It was simple, and inspired.

I thought the technique might also be a good aid to writing.  using an old paint chart to throw down ideas, the background colours might inspire a particular emotion or feeling.  I'm going to try it anyway.....

Also, whilst sat in the temporary 'Friends' cafe, which has been moved during a refurb, I was surrounded by walls stripped bare, uncovered back to the original timber cladding, which was peppered with a history of small nail-holes left by the hangings over the last two centuries.  It was like the DNA of the building on display, a time-line etched on the bare limbs of the house. It was as fascinating as any of the art in the other rooms.

S'funny how often visual art inspires me write.

The Good Book.

I have a notebook.  It goes everywhere with me.  I carry it around like a little black-bound conscience, and I'm sure is often mistaken for a bible, causing people to give me a wide-berth, fearful that I may be about to preach at them.  (A blessing in itself.)  It snarls at me, it nudges me, it comforts me.  It is a symbol of my good intentions.  It is my sanctuary.

It contains over-heard conversations, family anecdotes, snippets of poetry, drawings, maps, timelines, sudden bursts of inspiration, plots, plot-holes, miraculous answers to all my plot holes, character sketches, and many more questions than answers.  But, everything is thrown into this crucible, to fester, to mature, to form connections and grow.

It contains all of my best work.  Artistically, it is what I am most proud of.  No-one will ever read it.

And I have read many opinions that keeping such a notebook may actually stop me ever writing anything else.  I can't agree.  I couldn't give up my notebook.  I view it like a sourdough starter, something that needs to be fed everyday, and which, in turn, leavens and nourishes my writing, producing a lighter, more individual style.

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