Drawn Forward

IMG_2936We had a few little flurries of snow yesterday.  Nothing that made any difference, other than to make a point of how cold it was, but those few little flakes dancing about on the wind reminded me of all the photographs I took when I went to Paris last month.  Then the snow was so thick on the ground it changed the look of the city.  It’s place I’ve visited many times and have taken scores of photos, but the whiteness of the ground and sky there everything into relief, compelling me to take even more.

It’s been something I’ve been thinking about in my writing recently too; taking something familiar, maybe overly familiar, and adding something new to make the perspective change, not something necessarily shocking or outrageous, but instead a salient detail which highlights the point of the narrative.

I like this photo of the gardens at the Palais Royal, because, although it’s possible to see how straight the avenues of trees are whatever the time of year, in the summer the leaves and branches create a shady walk, and on a ‘normal’ winter’s day everything blends together in a palette of greys, but on this snowy day, the eye is drawn inexorably towards the vanishing point ahead because of the dramatic contrast between dark and light colours of the elements in the view, and the geometric straightness of the line of trunks as well as the symmetry of the pruned branches.

What awaits the lone figure at the end of her walk?  An unhappy encounter with a faithless lover, or a warming cup of hot chocolate laced with cognac in a convivial café with her adult son?  Or something else?

It’s All Material

IMG00767-20130215-1405There are some experiences which are simply easier to cope with, if, while they’re going on, I think about how they are raw material, which I shall be able to use one day.  It is by no means always clear how I might be able to use them, in fact it frequently seems highly unlikely, but that doesn’t stop the thought process from being extremely helpful, especially when the experience in question has exercise in futility written all over it.

This all started when, for reasons that are far too dull to bore you with, I needed to take a reading off the water meter for my flat.  Now I’ve lived in the same flat for several years, and I pay for my water with regular monthly direct debits, and a couple of times a year I receive a bill, which, so long as, using that age old auditor’s trick, it looks much like the one for the previous year, I’ve never thought twice about.

According to these six monthly bills, they are calculated according to an accurate reading from a meter; so someone must come periodically to take the reading.   But where from?

Just outside, and around the corner, there are four manhole covers, down which I was promised I would find my meter.  Trouble was, no-one knew down which of the four it would be, nor which of the 8 dials in each hole would be mine.  I have a 16 digit alpha numerical identification code, but embossed plastic when down a five foot deep wet hole become encrusted with mud very easily.

I was lucky to have help from S, who came equipped with a crowbar to lever up the manhole covers, and the thick gloves necessary to operate this sophisticated tool; and thankfully, most usefully of all, he was prepared to lie full length on the muddy turf beside the hole to try to decipher which meter was which.  When this revealed nothing other than the installation appeared to be in a random order, I ran inside and sent a morse code message through the pipes by way of turning the kitchen tap on and off at 10 second intervals.

Ta da!  Finally it was identified.  It has left me with the lingering doubt that I have ever received a bill for the right supply, but, more importantly, I’ve seen down the hole, and through into an underground world where confusion reigns.

‘Harvest’ by Jim Crace

‘Harvest’, Jim Crace’s new novel, begins as the barley harvest is nearly over, the cutting has been done and the women and children are gleaning the last pearls before the pigs are allowed onto the fields to rootle around for the scraps.  It’s a routine familiar to every resident of the unnamed village, but their traditions are under threat.

The omens are poor when three strangers, a mysteriously appealing woman, and two men set up camp on the village’s common ground, and, on the same night, part of the manor house is set on fire.  At the same time, another man, nicknamed Mr Quill, is walking around the village scratching things in a book.

These events lead to violence, suspicion and destruction.  Over a period of a week, Walter Thirsk, the narrator, sees his adopted home ruined and his neighbours scattered.  The villagers punish the strangers cruelly, and as things worsen, turn on each other; while the landowner, newly arrived to survey the area, takes advantage of the resulting disorder.

The story is set in a past on the verge of change; old ways will be set aside to make way for sheep on the land.  It’s a time when a man might be fearful of being injured at night in case the pigs come to attack, and when the trouble caused by the arrival of strangers will so disrupt a community that they can think of nothing else, and leave farm and housework undone in order to plot revenge.

This is a book which is likely to provoke a variety of responses; dip into the discussion of it on Radio 4′s Saturday Review and you’ll get a flavour of the disparity of strongly held views.

I enjoyed it for the lyric fluidity of the prose, the evocation of an unnamed place in a time I will never know and the creation of a character I was not sure I entirely believed or trusted. But I was frustrated by the slow pace; what had felt like luxuriant description in the early chapters, got on my nerves towards the middle and end; and I was also puzzled by the narrative voice, by the complexity of expression of Walter, who declared himself to be such a simple man, but who had an extensive and elaborate vocabulary. While I was enjoying the read, I surrendered to the beauty of the voice, but, inevitably, enjoyment turned to resistance when I became impatient with the pace.

This has, however. broken a spell of my not enjoying reading anything I attempted, a time which made me feel out of sorts, and now, having found much to admire in this book, and having read it with an appreciation that took me away from being aware of the passage of time, my proper relationship with books has been restored, for which, a heartfelt thanks.

Hark at Us

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What’s wring with red wine in the afternoon?

A Parisian café table, it’s just the place for debate and contemplation isn’t it?  You can sit with a friend and pretend to be Sartre and de Beauvoir, or Gertrude Stein and her coterie, whenever you are minded, you can set the world to rights or reminisce or tell tall tales; it’s also a place where it’s possible to sit in company and do entirely your own thing, reading, writing, drawing or simply watching the world go by.

Even travelling with a friend, and nowhere near the Left Bank, we were able to pile our books on the table and read, chat and do whatever we fancied.  At one café, on Saturday afternoon, G spent time sketching while I sat on the opposite side of the table writing.  Hark at us and our boundless creativity.

IMG_2959

Getting lots of things done……

I so enjoyed my weekend that I think I have now regained my ability to enjoy the city.  I used to travel there regularly and frequently for work. They were not always happy sojourns, so that I developed a near physical aversion to Gare du Nord; the bap bap bada chimes which precede the public announcements in the station could induce a feeling of anxious nausea.  It’s such a relief to have new, good memories to overlay thepoor ones, and to remember and rediscover the fun of the place.

Do pop over to her blog and see the results of Gillian’s sketching.

The End of the Hiatus

You’ve probably noticed, I’ve had a little break since Christmas, a bit of a hiatus between post 699 and 700.  It wasn’t really a plan, but the result, probably, of feeling a little jaded and regrouping for a few days.  But as New Year relentlessly follows on from Christmas, we all have to face those dismal opportunities to reflect on the 12 months just about to finish, and feel the pressure to make something different happen for the coming 52 weeks.

I dislike the fakeness of it.  We can make a change, or remain the same on any day of the year, or at any moment during the day; instead of sitting wondering what to do next I could do something I’ve never done before now; I don’t  have to wait until an arbitrary moment as the page turns in a calendar.

There are many people who wonder that while I usually spend Christmas in Scotland, I very rarely spend Hogmanay there.  Isn’t Scotland the best place for New Year’s Eve? they ask, and I always have to say that I prefer not to.  It always feels like a rather forced celebration to me, and perhaps more significantly, it goes on for far to long.  I much prefer to go to bed at the usual time and then get up fresh and early the next morning.  Where’s the pleasure in being sleep deprived and a bit hungover after staying up longer than you really wanted to?

If pressed, I would say the New Year’s eves I remember best are the less elaborate ones, of going to a late afternoon showing at the cinema, a cup of tea with friends and then home before all the drunk people hit the streets, or the year I was sitting in my car in the tube station car park, listening to the radio as Big Ben struck midnight, waiting for a friend whose flight had been delayed, or the two years I went to Red Square in Moscow, because I could walk home afterwards, when the crowd started throwing fireworks and smashing shampanski bottles on the cobbles, or of being with friends having a nice dinner, glancing out of the window at the fire works in Prague or Edinburgh, raising a glass and then retiring to bed.

This year I shall be with friends, and I’m hoping for sun on January 1, as the South African amongst them is planning a brai.

Don’t be constrained by the conventional calendar constraints!

Conversation as Currency

There is an anecdote in Richard Ellman’s biography of Oscar Wilde which has been in my mind a fair bit recently; at least, I think that’s where I remember it from.  and even if the story isn’t true, or I have not recalled it correctly, it still has a peculiar and compelling relevance.

Graham Greene recalled meeting Oscar Wilde in Paris when Greene was a very young man and Wilde was near broken and in exile after his release from prison.  They spent a congenial time together in a café bar, and Greene was gratified, but very surprised, at how Wilde entertaining was, that such an eminent man would be so gracious and engaging in conversation with young strangers; until he realised that Wilde was paying for the drinks Greene bought him in conversation, the only currency at his disposal.

A fair exchange.

On a Circular Roll

IMG_2911Not obviously photogenic circular things have been attracting my attention over the last couple of days.

This weekend, a friend brought a box of tea cakes to our writing group, and immediately we were thrown back on memories of childhood.  For those of you not familiar with a Tunnock’s Tea Cake, they are a biscuit topped with s sort of soft white marshmallow all covered in a thing layer of chocolate.  They are manufactured in a factory on the outskirts of Glasgow somewhere, and they are an intrinsic part of nostalgic memories for many Scots.

There is absolutely nothing nutritious about them, and they disappear in your mouth as soon as you take the first bite.  But there is something delicious about the first taste, while at the same time a box of six might be just a bit too much to eat alone.  The fact that they are wrapped in silver paper is important too; the unwrapping is a vital part of the ritual.  It wouldn’t be the same if someone else had unwrapped them first.

 I suspect they will last forever, so I’ve put them to the top of the cupboard in the hope that I won’t be tempted to eat them all at once.

It’s All Material

IMG00665-20121019-0948Ailsa suggested circles as a theme for this week, and I thought of this photo I took a month or so ago.  It’s probably a little bit odd to take a photograph of other people’s detritus in the first place, and then to post it and relate it to the rather lovely shots of fountains, flowers and architecture published by other people, is even odder.  Maybe it’s because Costa is in the news this week, largely on the basis that’s not Starbucks which is currently the subject of attention because of its tax affairs. (I can feel my fingers itching to write something on that topic whenever I read one of the more confused and under informed articles that are everywhere at the moment, but I’m not sure you’d be as interested in that as I am.)  But for whatever reason, that’s the way it is this week.

The cup of coffee’s mine, but the empty sugar sachets and cigarette butts were already there when I got to the table.  It’s a phenomenon I’ve noticed, since the introduction of the ban on smoking inside any public building: the area outside, and any tables there, are dominated and occupied by people smoking.  I understand why, but it’s a topsy turvy kind of thing that the atmosphere can smell cleaner inside a coffee shop than outside.

But I suppose I was more interested in what the little pile of rubbish could tell me about the characters who left it there.  It’s one of the things that story tellers have in common, probably, that they look at things, ordinary as well as peculiar, and wonder what narrative led there, and what manner of people have left their traces behind.

So, who takes that much sugar in their coffee?  Did they try to arrange the empty packets in a pile which has been disturbed by the wind? Or were they untidy and left the paper where it fell?  Were they the types who shake the sugar sachets vigorously before tearing the ends off and then stir their coffee for longer than is really necessary?  Or were they simply slapdash?  How many people were there?One with a bad cold, perhaps, who tried to leave everything tidy, but who was foiled by his companions?

Was the smoker one of those who stubs out their cigarettes with little stabbing actions, or a deliberate twisting and pressing grinding into the ashtray?  Stub ends always look like they’ve been subjected to violence, but then, without the smoking, the techniques they tried to teach him at the anger management course are even more useless and ineffective.

Or maybe the table should have been cleared hours ago, but the shop was just a bit short staffed because a member of staff hasn’t arrived yet because of the black eye he sustained when he walked into a door by accident last night.  Or at least he’s going to tell them it was an accident.

‘The Writer in the Digital Age’ – The Writer’s View

I wrote yesterday about my observations of a discussion on the proliferation of independent publishers hosted by TLC at the Free Word Centre last week, from my perspective as a reader.  Today I thought I’d reflect a little on what  I learnt from a writers point of view.

I think there are many, like me, who continue to strive to achieve publication by the ‘traditional’ route.  I’d like to engage an agent to sell my novel to a mainstream publisher.  I’d like to receive an advance (no matter how modest) and I’d like to be able to walk into a book shop on a High Street in a town I’ve never visited before and see my beautifully printed novel on the shelves.  I’d like to know that people I’ve never met have read it and connected with it in some way, and that they could appreciate it as a piece of work into which I had poured a great deal of time and effort.  If they wanted to buy it in digital form, that would be OK too, but deep down, it wouldn’t give me the same visceral thrill.

Even as I type this, I know it’s a romantic dream from a time that is nearly over; and I know the likelihood is that I will have to compromise on some, if not all, of it.

Many of you may be thinking  just get on with it.  It’s so easy to publish it yourself.  But I hesitate at that advice.  I’ve worked very hard to write it, and invested a great deal of time and effort in it, and so I want it to go out into the world as well dressed and as well presented as I can possibly achieve.  No matter how much I believe in it, it will still need copy editing, proof reading, and then, when it is finally ready to go, it will need the engine of publicity to make sure that it doesn’t disappear amongst the piles of other books being pumped out into the world.

Listening to the discussion last week about the growth of small independent publishers in the UK, confirmed to me that, while the business models are changing, broadly the same steps in the process of publishing a quality novel remain.  What is changing is the allocation of the risks and rewards.

Under the ‘traditional’ model, broadly, the agent handled all the business affairs, negotiated contracts and advances and royalty rates.  The publisher invested in the author, buying the rights to the book, having it edited and proofed, and then printed and marketed.

In the new world of Independents and Self Publishing all of those elements, the contracts, the money, editing and publicity are still all there, it’s just much more likely that it is the writer who will have to bear most of the upfront costs, hopefully, in return for a greater share of the sales revenue.  But without an agent, or any business savvy, the scope for losing out has increased exponentially.

It is in this environment that people are trying to form their own networks of skilled practitioners, of freelance editors and designers, to work directly with writers.  Byte the Book, which was represented at the talk, is one such example, running networking events for people interested in the new publishing universe.

But at the end of the day it’s a business, and if you want to succeed you have to adopt appropriate business strategies, which, you’ve guessed it, include working out what is the right way to brand yourself in the market…….. I’m just going to have to rid myself of that mental image of a lassoed calf squealing as the smoking branding iron is applied to its rump.

‘The Writer in the Digital Age’ – The Reader’s View

How can we negotiate our way, as both readers and writers, through the world of books and literature in this era of great change?  As greater consolidation is underway amid the traditional publishing houses,  small independent houses pop up every day, and direct digital self publishing becomes easier and more accessible, choice and selection can be confusing, and so it was an opportune time to attend a discussion on the subject hosted by TLC at the Free Word Centre.

I am both a reader and a writer, so I am interested in how to negotiate the new environment in both capacities.  How can I find interesting new things to read, and how can I get my own work out into the market place in the most effective way?

How do we choose what to read?  Understanding how that choice is made, can inform how I might choose to publish my own work.

With all the changes in the publishing environment, browsing in a book shop today, I can have the feeling that I’m seeing only a fraction of what is available in the market; but, equally, I don’t particularly enjoy looking through listings on internet book sites, as I feel over faced by all the stuff that’s there, and don’t know how to gauge the quality of what it is I’m looking at.  I know that there are books out there that have been carefully crafted, edited and cared for, but also there are even more that have not.  How can I tell the difference?

Before this recent period of upheaval we used to rely on mainstream publishers to make the broad selections for us, to essentially curate a collection from which we could choose our preferences.  For the moment, it is not clear who has replaced them in their curating role, but it seems inevitable that from the chaotic multiplicity of the current marketplace, that some new ‘ taste-makers’ will have to emerge.  They might be book bloggers, book groups or other collectives and networks.

The idea of brand is as prevalent in the book business as it is in bottled water,  But which is the relevant brand now?  Is it the writer or the publisher?  Many readers make their choice on what to buy by reference to the writer; I certainly did in my early reading years, and have the complete works of Graham Greene, Iris Murdoch and F Scott Fitzgerald in their 1970/80s paperback livery to prove it.  Others rely on the reputation of the publisher,; that was probably me too as I loved the line of Penguin orange spines arranged on the shelves in my bedroom, because I was confident in relying on most of the choices they has made for the compilation of their lists.

Some small publishers, today are tapping into that pleasure for book lovers of having a beautiful row of co-ordinated volumes on their shelves, or like And Other Stories  are inviting readers to subscribe a financial contribution to the publication of future books, hoping that their reputation for making excellent choices will create a group of followers/’stakeholders; the short listing of Deborah Levy’s Swimming Home for the Man Booker prize will only enhance their reputation.

Talking of the Man Booker, it is interesting to note that this year the judges short listed three books published by small independent houses. Were they trying to make a point?  Are there more interesting things being published outside the major houses?  And if they are, why is that?

How can the average reader find all these gems without the help of some sort of filter?  The big trick then is to find the right filter for you.

Tomorrow I’ll write about the discussion points I found interesting from the writer’s point of view.

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