Like many people across the country, our household was deeply affected by the announcement earlier this year that Iain Banks was a bit "poorly". Chris and I rarely agree on books - Iain Banks was one of the few novelists we both enjoyed. So much so that when I just trawled our bookshelves this morning I found a Banks novel in every bookcase (sometimes the same copy twice). We were very saddened to hear about his cancer diagnosis, and even more to hear that he had died last weekend.
Last night we sat up very late to watch Kirsty Wark's recent interview with Banks which I would urge every one of you to catch if you can, regardless of whether you liked his writing. He comes across as such a marvellous human being. As he reflects on his astonishing output (29 novels); the irony of writing a novel about a man dying of cancer, only to get the diagnosis himself 87,000 words in; & what it feels like to face death, you just can't stop warming to the man. (Watch out for his enthusiastic fanboy gushing for his favourite authors, lovely). The interview is moving and funny and, despite the dark subject matter of many of his novels, he comes across as a kind, tolerant human being, a bloke you'd like to share a pint with. Such as shame we no longer can.
I first read Banks sometime after The Wasp Factory came out, it being one of those literary must-reads at the time. Back then I think I hated quite a lot of it: I enjoyed the black humour, the quality of the writing was peerless, but the ghoulishness of Frank's actions, the violence, the nastiness was rather off-putting. I was glad I'd read it, but I put Banks aside for the next decade dismissing him rather as a writer that men would appreciate more than women. It was not until ten years later when on holiday with my family that I picked up another of his novels. Casting around for something to read, I thought I might as well try The Crow Road. From the moment the grandmother's pacemaker explodes at the funeral, I was absolutely hooked, so much so that I couldn't put it down. I even read in the back of the car all the way back from Bayeux, despite the inevitable car sickness. The Crow Road is a great mix of black humour, mystery, horror - a corking family saga with a heartbreaking father-son relationship at its centre.
But it was only when I met Chris, and discovered he was a massive fan, that I was truly converted. It is impossible to buy presents for my beloved. I will be forever grateful to Iain Banks that he usually had a book out in September, making at least one gift easy. I even got to meet the great man once. I happened to notice in the paper that he was doing a book signing near my office, so I trotted off to get a copy for Chris and for a friend whose ex also had a birthday. The signing did confirm one prejudice, I was the ONLY woman in the queue of young geeky men, but it also confirmed what lovely bloke he was. Apparently he hated book tours, but I'd have never guessed, he was chatty, funny, happy to sign two copies of A Song of Stone and to pose for a picture. Turns out when I got back Chris already had a copy, but now he had one that was signed and having met the author, I was very keen to read it. A Song of Stone is one of the darker novels, very very brutal, and bleak, but brilliant executed.
After that I dived into Banks old and new, particularly enjoying The Bridge, a fascinating exploration of a totalitarian state that exists on a bridge to nowhere (one of my favourites) and Complicity in which a serial killer takes out all evil people - corrupt politicians, arms dealers and the like in increasingly brutal fashion. I must confess some of his later novels The Business, Dead Air, The Steep Approach to Garbadale didn't grab me quite as much, but I can't say I've ever been disappointed by a Banks novel. And though I find the science fiction a bit dense - (I think I read Consider Phlebas and The Player of Games before giving up) - I do recognise that the creation of the Culture is a towering achievement. We are grateful he managed to finish his last novel The Quarry, before he died. By all accounts it's vintage Banks - we can't wait to read it.
Banks was known for his love of whisky, even writing a travel book on the subject (of course we have a copy), so Ian Rankin's twitter tribute was a perfect way to mark his death. Alas! We haven't got any whisky in the house at the moment, but it hasn't stopped us raising a glass or two to this wonderful writer, thanking him for the pleasure he has given us. He's away the crow road far far too soon.
Saturday, 15 June 2013
Friday, 7 June 2013
The Cottage in the Country #fridayflash
Last week's Friday Flash told the story of a mother waiting for her daughter's visit. Some of you wondered what was going on in with her daughter. Well here goes...
You never meant to leave her behind: all alone in her cottage in the country. You were always going to home one day. But when you finally escaped her, leaving behind the claustrophobic chintz curtains, the china ornaments, the constant smell of cup-cakes, freedom was just too delicious. The more you relished the ability to live by your own rules, the harder it was to return to hers.
You really did intend to come back that first year. Honest you did. When you saw that porcelain spaniel with the sad eyes and floppy ears in the gift shop, you knew it was the perfect gift. But then Dan invited you to spend Christmas skiing with his family in the chalet and you persuaded yourself you wouldn't be missed. You wrapped the spaniel up, put it in the post, consoling yourself with the thought she'd have a better time with Uncle Jim, before boarding the flight to Switzerland.
It got harder after that. You'd used up all your annual leave on the holiday; and somehow, afterwards, you never could quite find the time to visit. You wouldn't admit it, but the thought of a weekend of banal conversation, drinking tea from porcelain cups, eating the inevitable Victoria sponge, made you want to puke. So you made your excuses, knowing she didn't believe them, that neither of you did. And knowing it didn't matter: preserving the fiction you understood each other was more important than the truth.
And now there are no excuses left. The conference centre is only twenty minutes from her village. You could get away with it of course, if you don't ring she'll never know you were even there. But some vestige of conscience, some memory of skipping the path to the village shop, of baking cakes in her kitchen prompts you to pick up the phone.You'll be in the neighbourhood, you say, could you pop in for a cup of tea? You try not to wince at the breathless excitement in her voice when she says yes. She's always placed too much importance on your activities - it's part of the problem.
It's sod's law that the conference runs over, that you're in a mobile blackspot and can't get a signal to let her know. You really do have to be in London for 8 for a social engagement that is too important to miss. But you can't help feeling bad. You try to be casual on the phone, pretending that it doesn't matter; that you're the kind of daughter who visits regularly; that it's easy to rearrange. You pretend that you believe her when she says she's not made an effort, though you know deep down that making an effort is all that she ever does, all she has ever done for you.
It's not your fault, you think as you drive away from the layby where you stopped to phone. It's really not your fault, you convince yourself, trying not to think of her sitting in her kitchen with a sponge cake that she'll eat by herself. The trouble is, she was always too much for you. She still is. How can she expect you to come backnow? No, it's not your fault, you think, as you pass the road that leads to her door. You put your foot on the pedal and accelerate, getting away as fast as you can.
You won't be back in a hurry.
You never meant to leave her behind: all alone in her cottage in the country. You were always going to home one day. But when you finally escaped her, leaving behind the claustrophobic chintz curtains, the china ornaments, the constant smell of cup-cakes, freedom was just too delicious. The more you relished the ability to live by your own rules, the harder it was to return to hers.
You really did intend to come back that first year. Honest you did. When you saw that porcelain spaniel with the sad eyes and floppy ears in the gift shop, you knew it was the perfect gift. But then Dan invited you to spend Christmas skiing with his family in the chalet and you persuaded yourself you wouldn't be missed. You wrapped the spaniel up, put it in the post, consoling yourself with the thought she'd have a better time with Uncle Jim, before boarding the flight to Switzerland.
It got harder after that. You'd used up all your annual leave on the holiday; and somehow, afterwards, you never could quite find the time to visit. You wouldn't admit it, but the thought of a weekend of banal conversation, drinking tea from porcelain cups, eating the inevitable Victoria sponge, made you want to puke. So you made your excuses, knowing she didn't believe them, that neither of you did. And knowing it didn't matter: preserving the fiction you understood each other was more important than the truth.
And now there are no excuses left. The conference centre is only twenty minutes from her village. You could get away with it of course, if you don't ring she'll never know you were even there. But some vestige of conscience, some memory of skipping the path to the village shop, of baking cakes in her kitchen prompts you to pick up the phone.You'll be in the neighbourhood, you say, could you pop in for a cup of tea? You try not to wince at the breathless excitement in her voice when she says yes. She's always placed too much importance on your activities - it's part of the problem.
It's sod's law that the conference runs over, that you're in a mobile blackspot and can't get a signal to let her know. You really do have to be in London for 8 for a social engagement that is too important to miss. But you can't help feeling bad. You try to be casual on the phone, pretending that it doesn't matter; that you're the kind of daughter who visits regularly; that it's easy to rearrange. You pretend that you believe her when she says she's not made an effort, though you know deep down that making an effort is all that she ever does, all she has ever done for you.
It's not your fault, you think as you drive away from the layby where you stopped to phone. It's really not your fault, you convince yourself, trying not to think of her sitting in her kitchen with a sponge cake that she'll eat by herself. The trouble is, she was always too much for you. She still is. How can she expect you to come backnow? No, it's not your fault, you think, as you pass the road that leads to her door. You put your foot on the pedal and accelerate, getting away as fast as you can.
You won't be back in a hurry.
Saturday, 1 June 2013
Tea for Two
"You look happy this morning," Mrs Giles sounds surprised. I can't say I blame her. I have been a bit morose of late. Winter never agrees with me and this one has been worse than most. It's exceeded it's sell by date by at least three months. In March I froze, in April I turned the heating up, by May I was still shivering. It's not made me very sociable, I have to admit.But that's all changed today. Today the sun is shining. Today I feel warm for the first time in months. Today my bones don't ache, my knees aren't sore. And today "My Ginny's coming home." I tell my neighbour, "She'll be back in time for tea."
"No wonder you're looking so pleased with yourself," she replies. "It's been a while since she's been back hasn't it?"
She's right, it has been a while - that useful catch-phrase which round here means anything from a month to a decade. Four years in Ginny's case. Four years in which my only contact with my only child has been the odd postcard or phone call. She often tells me off for not having a computer: it would be so much easier to be in touch if I had email or Facebook, she says. I want to reply that if she'd only move closer, we wouldn't need computers to keep in touch, but I never do. Instead I nod as if she could see me, and promise I'll look at the catalogue she sent me in the post. We both know I won't, but preserving the fiction we understand one another is important . It helps us avoid dealing with the questions I never want to ask: Why has she been away so long? Is she ever coming home?
Today at least, the second is answered. "She'll be home by 4," I say, "I'm going to make a Victoria Sponge."
"How lovely. I hope you have a nice visit."
I will, I know I will, as I head to the village shop where I purchase the necessary ingredients. It doesn't seem so long ago that we used to take this path together. I used to love the feel of her tiny hand in mine, the way she bounced with excitement at the thought of an afternoon spent baking. In the old days we'd race back to the house anxious to get started, so we'd have the cake in time for tea. Just the two of us, the perfect pairing. Today, I move at a more sedate pace, enjoying the surprise of the sun on my back, the smell of mown grass signalling the possibility of summer.
In the kitchen, I unpack the shopping, take out a plastic bowl, put on the pinny she bought me one Mother's Day years ago. Chief Cook and Bottlewasher it says, though the blue writing has faded over the years and after all this time without her, I no longer feel I own the title. Still, I won't let myself think about that, as I cream the butter and sugar together. In a couple of hours, she'll be here sipping tea, eating warm sponge cake, just like she used to when she was a child.
I'm humming as I break the eggs in a bowl, Tea for Two, and Two for Tea. We always used to love singing that song as we worked, and this was always her favourite part. The tapping of the egg on the side of the dish, the crack as it broke open, the yellow yoke plummeting into the centre of the bow. Finally the joy of pouring it over the butter and sugar, watching it liquefy into a gooey mess. I smile at the memory, stirring the flour in. Soon I have two tins ready for the oven.
Ginny would always beg me to lick the bowl afterwards. I can still see her sitting on the step, wooden spoon in hand, cake mix round her lips, grinning from ear to ear. I think about keeping the bowl out for old time's sake, but it would make the kitchen messy. Besides, she's probably too grand for such childhood nonsense now. I take the bowl, rinse it under the tap, tidy up the kitchen and put my feet up until the cakes are ready.
At a quarter to four I take the tins out of the oven. They have risen beautifully. I smear jam on the inside of each cake. The sponge has the perfect consistency, springy, crumbly, it will melt on the tongue. The perfect cake, for the perfect tea with the daughter who has been missing too long. I try not to get too carried away as I put the kettle on and warm the pot. But it's difficult. It's been so long since I've seen her. I can't help wondering what she'll be wearing, whether she's changed her hairstyle, what we'll talk about. The kettle bubbles away feeding my excitement. She'll be here soon.
At four o'clock I listen out for sounds of the car approaching. But the road brings no-one, and all I can hear are the swallows chirping as they swoop overhead. I put the kettle on again. Warm the pot again. I want the tea to be ready as soon as she gets here.
At quarter past four. I touch the top of the cake. It is still warm. Though I suppose it won't really matter if it's cold when she comes. So long as she does come. The kettle has re-boiled four times now. I'd better not boil it again. It's such a waste of electricity.
At half past, I step out onto the lane to see if I can catch sight of her. After I've watched a blue Citroen, a black Ford, and a red Micra go past without stopping, it strikes me that this is pointless: I don't even know what car she drives. The sun has gone in, and I am beginning feeling cold. I return to the house. The cake is cold.
It is nearly five o'clock. I put the sponge in the fridge. Ginny hasn't said she'd be staying for dinner, but she's so late now, she'll need feeding won't she? I'll cook something special and we can have the cake for pudding. I root through the freezer and come across two steaks. Lovely. I'd never have these normally.
Just as I am placing them on a plate, the phone rings.
"Hi Mum."
"Ginny, where are you?"
"Look, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it today after all. The conference ran over and I have to get back to town."
"Oh."
"There was no signal at the venue, so I haven't been able to call till now."
"I see."
"You didn't put yourself out did you?"
"No of course not."
"I'll check my diary, find a better time."
"I'll look forward to it." But she has hung up, driving off to her mysterious life in the city, that has no place for me.
I return to the kitchen. I look at the steaks. It's not worth cooking them just for me. I put them back in the freezer. They can wait for that better time, when her diary is clearer and her conference won't over-run. Tonight, as usual, I will prepare supper for one. Omelette, I think. It's easy and I am tired after the days exertions. And perhaps, afterwards, if I can stomach it, I might help myself to a slice of cake.
"No wonder you're looking so pleased with yourself," she replies. "It's been a while since she's been back hasn't it?"
She's right, it has been a while - that useful catch-phrase which round here means anything from a month to a decade. Four years in Ginny's case. Four years in which my only contact with my only child has been the odd postcard or phone call. She often tells me off for not having a computer: it would be so much easier to be in touch if I had email or Facebook, she says. I want to reply that if she'd only move closer, we wouldn't need computers to keep in touch, but I never do. Instead I nod as if she could see me, and promise I'll look at the catalogue she sent me in the post. We both know I won't, but preserving the fiction we understand one another is important . It helps us avoid dealing with the questions I never want to ask: Why has she been away so long? Is she ever coming home?
Today at least, the second is answered. "She'll be home by 4," I say, "I'm going to make a Victoria Sponge."
"How lovely. I hope you have a nice visit."
I will, I know I will, as I head to the village shop where I purchase the necessary ingredients. It doesn't seem so long ago that we used to take this path together. I used to love the feel of her tiny hand in mine, the way she bounced with excitement at the thought of an afternoon spent baking. In the old days we'd race back to the house anxious to get started, so we'd have the cake in time for tea. Just the two of us, the perfect pairing. Today, I move at a more sedate pace, enjoying the surprise of the sun on my back, the smell of mown grass signalling the possibility of summer.
In the kitchen, I unpack the shopping, take out a plastic bowl, put on the pinny she bought me one Mother's Day years ago. Chief Cook and Bottlewasher it says, though the blue writing has faded over the years and after all this time without her, I no longer feel I own the title. Still, I won't let myself think about that, as I cream the butter and sugar together. In a couple of hours, she'll be here sipping tea, eating warm sponge cake, just like she used to when she was a child.
I'm humming as I break the eggs in a bowl, Tea for Two, and Two for Tea. We always used to love singing that song as we worked, and this was always her favourite part. The tapping of the egg on the side of the dish, the crack as it broke open, the yellow yoke plummeting into the centre of the bow. Finally the joy of pouring it over the butter and sugar, watching it liquefy into a gooey mess. I smile at the memory, stirring the flour in. Soon I have two tins ready for the oven.
Ginny would always beg me to lick the bowl afterwards. I can still see her sitting on the step, wooden spoon in hand, cake mix round her lips, grinning from ear to ear. I think about keeping the bowl out for old time's sake, but it would make the kitchen messy. Besides, she's probably too grand for such childhood nonsense now. I take the bowl, rinse it under the tap, tidy up the kitchen and put my feet up until the cakes are ready.
At a quarter to four I take the tins out of the oven. They have risen beautifully. I smear jam on the inside of each cake. The sponge has the perfect consistency, springy, crumbly, it will melt on the tongue. The perfect cake, for the perfect tea with the daughter who has been missing too long. I try not to get too carried away as I put the kettle on and warm the pot. But it's difficult. It's been so long since I've seen her. I can't help wondering what she'll be wearing, whether she's changed her hairstyle, what we'll talk about. The kettle bubbles away feeding my excitement. She'll be here soon.
At four o'clock I listen out for sounds of the car approaching. But the road brings no-one, and all I can hear are the swallows chirping as they swoop overhead. I put the kettle on again. Warm the pot again. I want the tea to be ready as soon as she gets here.
At quarter past four. I touch the top of the cake. It is still warm. Though I suppose it won't really matter if it's cold when she comes. So long as she does come. The kettle has re-boiled four times now. I'd better not boil it again. It's such a waste of electricity.
At half past, I step out onto the lane to see if I can catch sight of her. After I've watched a blue Citroen, a black Ford, and a red Micra go past without stopping, it strikes me that this is pointless: I don't even know what car she drives. The sun has gone in, and I am beginning feeling cold. I return to the house. The cake is cold.
It is nearly five o'clock. I put the sponge in the fridge. Ginny hasn't said she'd be staying for dinner, but she's so late now, she'll need feeding won't she? I'll cook something special and we can have the cake for pudding. I root through the freezer and come across two steaks. Lovely. I'd never have these normally.
Just as I am placing them on a plate, the phone rings.
"Hi Mum."
"Ginny, where are you?"
"Look, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it today after all. The conference ran over and I have to get back to town."
"Oh."
"There was no signal at the venue, so I haven't been able to call till now."
"I see."
"You didn't put yourself out did you?"
"No of course not."
"I'll check my diary, find a better time."
"I'll look forward to it." But she has hung up, driving off to her mysterious life in the city, that has no place for me.
I return to the kitchen. I look at the steaks. It's not worth cooking them just for me. I put them back in the freezer. They can wait for that better time, when her diary is clearer and her conference won't over-run. Tonight, as usual, I will prepare supper for one. Omelette, I think. It's easy and I am tired after the days exertions. And perhaps, afterwards, if I can stomach it, I might help myself to a slice of cake.
Sunday, 12 May 2013
Plug of the Month - Ten Things I've Learnt About Love by Sarah Butler
I usually use this slot to plug books by friends and family. But I'm making an exception this time. Partly because I met Sarah Butler at the January Short Stories Aloud & she was absolutely delightful, but partly because I think this is a great first novel, and in this day and age, first time novelists need all the help they can get. I was lucky enough to get the last copy that was on sale that night which meant I read it before publication day, which is always a bit of a thrill. And I'm delighted to say it lived up to the all my expectations.
Ten things is my kind of book. It's set in London, and perfectly captures both the murk and the magnificence of my wonderful home city. In addition, it deals with fathers and daughters, grief and loss, the complexity of family life, the meaning of home: all subjects close to my heart. It alternates between the viewpoints of two protagonists, Alice and Daniel. As the novel opens Alice is returning from Mongolia to be at the side of her dying father. We discover that she has always found it hard to settle, struggles to connect with her sisters, and is mourning the loss of a relationship that was always doomed. The second narrator, Daniel, is a homeless man, with angina. Obsessed by the thought of the daughter he has never met, he criss-crosses London in search of her. A creative, sensitive person, who is also synaesthetic (seeing names and people in colour) Daniel too mourns lost love, as he seeks out the daughter who doesn't even know he exists.
I don't want to say anymore, as this is a novel that should be read with minimum pre-knowledge. Suffice to say,it is a finely crafted book, with believable, sympathetic characters. Though there are moments of total heartbreak, I found it ultimately hopeful - however transient we may be, we can always connect with each other if we are willing. Ten things is my choice for my book club this month - and I can't recommend it highly enough.
Coincidentally, Sarah Butler has literally just tweeted her latest short story, check it out - it's brilliant
Thursday, 9 May 2013
The Summit in my Sights
If you've been paying attention to this blog, you might have noticed I've been writing a novel...and for rather a long time. It is just over nine years since the original scene of Echo Hall popped into my brain - a woman overhearing a conversation at night time, only to discover the participants are not there - and I've come a long way since then. It took seven and a half years to complete my first draft and take a rest half up the hill. That version was 65,000 words too light, full of narrative inconsistencies, weakly drawn characters and rather too much melodrama, but it gave me something to work with. IAfter a short break, I ploughed on upwards with energy and vigour, finishing my second draft last November. At that point I could see I was nearing the summit and now I am happy to report, I definitely have it in my sights. It has taken me a mere four months to redraft the latest version, which is nothing short of miraculous for my work rate. Thanks to wonderful critique at the York Festival of Writing and from my lovely twin Julia Williams and lovely friend Anne Booth, who both read the whole thing, I've had plenty of advice about how to improve it. And it's been a lot of fun.
After Christmas I was full of energy and focus. Throughout January and February I rose at 6 most mornings, completing an hour's editing, before waking the household up. I was particularly inspired by a writing challenge set down by a twitter friend Imran Siddiq (@flickimp) who kept me on track with a weekly review of our mutual achievements. And at the end of Feb, I was lucky enough to have a a fantastic weekend in the Gladstone Library. I promise to blog about the marvels of that wonderful place, but for now I will say I had a fab time working for 3 days flat, and came back with only 1 part to revise. Life being what it is ( I did run the Reading 1/2 marathon in March) I slowed down after that, but by the end of April I finally completed the draft.
This time round has all been about re-shaping. Having worked pretty linearly before, I decided it was time to take each separate story and look at them as a whole. So I worked on Parts 1 &5, 2 & 4 and 3 in succession.
Part 1 & 5 are written in the first person, and tell Ruth's story in 1990/1. The opening needs to be the strongest part of the novel and my feedback suggested it wasn't quite cutting it. Ruth was too weak and wishy washy, her husband Adam too mean, and his grandfather mellowed far too quickly. So Part 1 has had a complete make over and a whole new chapter. Chapter 1 has moved to Chapter 12, and Chapter 2, to Chapter 1 (which funnily enough restores some of the original material back to the beginning again). The remaining chapters have moved forward to compensate, and been spliced and diced to change the narrative pace .This has made it easy to fill out the chapters that were a bit light in Part 5 and rework some of that material. . Though it was only just as I was finishing that I finally worked out something crucial to Ruth's back story which explains a lot about her indecisive nature. . There's a lot of work still to do, but I think most of the criticisms have been dealt with.
Parts 2 &4 follow Elsie's story in 1942/3. These too have had quite a re-write. One of the most radical changes is to place it in the present tense. These sections are supposed to be based on diaries and alternate between Elsie and Daniel (her husband's cousin) points of view . I tried writing them as diaries but that felt wooden. So I wrote them in the third person in the past tense. Changing this to the present has livened them up I think and given the sense of immediacy I was after. The other major changes here have been to do with pacing. Some key scenes have switched from part 4 to part 2 which gives a better shape to the arc and I've fleshed out some chapters that were a bit thin. This part of the novel was always the strongest and I think the changes are all to the good.
Part 3 is all about Rachel, and covers the longest period, 1911-1924. This has been the hardest section to write. It's narratively important as what happens to Rachel, her sister Leah and their husbands Joseph and Jacob, lay the foundations for the resentments, conflict and tragedies that follow. But it's been difficult to get the narrative voice right, and pacing has been much more harder over thirteen years then two. I think I've solved both. I always had the idea that Rachel's son Daniel was telling this story, so last time round I made him the narrator. It was OK but the voice wasn't right, and I wasn't quite convinced he and Elsie could have sat on a hillside long enough for him to tell it. I've found a plausible reason (I hope) to locate them indoors, and by making it clear that this is his imagined reworking of his parents' past he is able to be the omnipotent narrator I need him to be. The last draft ended in a rush. I was so glad to finish and get on to the next section that I killed off four key characters in the space of a few pages. It was all a tad melodramatic, so this time round I've added four new chapters, allowing the ending room to breathe. We reach the same conclusion but I hope it's more satisfying to the reader.
I've also intentionally worked on improving connections between the three stories - some obvious (repetitions of locations, seasons, events) and some less so (odd lines, emotions). I've added some more political speeches which might need toning down but I think are necessary, and after reading Adam Hothschild's moving To End All Wars remembrance has become an important theme.
So all in all, the view from up here is looking quite good. The sun is shining and I can see I'm closing in on the top, though it'll take some effort to get there. I still have narrative defects and character flaws to iron out, and I'm a long way off the language doing justice to the story I want to tell. But I've come this far, and nothing is going to stop me now.
I can't wait to get going again.
After Christmas I was full of energy and focus. Throughout January and February I rose at 6 most mornings, completing an hour's editing, before waking the household up. I was particularly inspired by a writing challenge set down by a twitter friend Imran Siddiq (@flickimp) who kept me on track with a weekly review of our mutual achievements. And at the end of Feb, I was lucky enough to have a a fantastic weekend in the Gladstone Library. I promise to blog about the marvels of that wonderful place, but for now I will say I had a fab time working for 3 days flat, and came back with only 1 part to revise. Life being what it is ( I did run the Reading 1/2 marathon in March) I slowed down after that, but by the end of April I finally completed the draft.
This time round has all been about re-shaping. Having worked pretty linearly before, I decided it was time to take each separate story and look at them as a whole. So I worked on Parts 1 &5, 2 & 4 and 3 in succession.
Part 1 & 5 are written in the first person, and tell Ruth's story in 1990/1. The opening needs to be the strongest part of the novel and my feedback suggested it wasn't quite cutting it. Ruth was too weak and wishy washy, her husband Adam too mean, and his grandfather mellowed far too quickly. So Part 1 has had a complete make over and a whole new chapter. Chapter 1 has moved to Chapter 12, and Chapter 2, to Chapter 1 (which funnily enough restores some of the original material back to the beginning again). The remaining chapters have moved forward to compensate, and been spliced and diced to change the narrative pace .This has made it easy to fill out the chapters that were a bit light in Part 5 and rework some of that material. . Though it was only just as I was finishing that I finally worked out something crucial to Ruth's back story which explains a lot about her indecisive nature. . There's a lot of work still to do, but I think most of the criticisms have been dealt with.
Parts 2 &4 follow Elsie's story in 1942/3. These too have had quite a re-write. One of the most radical changes is to place it in the present tense. These sections are supposed to be based on diaries and alternate between Elsie and Daniel (her husband's cousin) points of view . I tried writing them as diaries but that felt wooden. So I wrote them in the third person in the past tense. Changing this to the present has livened them up I think and given the sense of immediacy I was after. The other major changes here have been to do with pacing. Some key scenes have switched from part 4 to part 2 which gives a better shape to the arc and I've fleshed out some chapters that were a bit thin. This part of the novel was always the strongest and I think the changes are all to the good.
Part 3 is all about Rachel, and covers the longest period, 1911-1924. This has been the hardest section to write. It's narratively important as what happens to Rachel, her sister Leah and their husbands Joseph and Jacob, lay the foundations for the resentments, conflict and tragedies that follow. But it's been difficult to get the narrative voice right, and pacing has been much more harder over thirteen years then two. I think I've solved both. I always had the idea that Rachel's son Daniel was telling this story, so last time round I made him the narrator. It was OK but the voice wasn't right, and I wasn't quite convinced he and Elsie could have sat on a hillside long enough for him to tell it. I've found a plausible reason (I hope) to locate them indoors, and by making it clear that this is his imagined reworking of his parents' past he is able to be the omnipotent narrator I need him to be. The last draft ended in a rush. I was so glad to finish and get on to the next section that I killed off four key characters in the space of a few pages. It was all a tad melodramatic, so this time round I've added four new chapters, allowing the ending room to breathe. We reach the same conclusion but I hope it's more satisfying to the reader.
I've also intentionally worked on improving connections between the three stories - some obvious (repetitions of locations, seasons, events) and some less so (odd lines, emotions). I've added some more political speeches which might need toning down but I think are necessary, and after reading Adam Hothschild's moving To End All Wars remembrance has become an important theme.
So all in all, the view from up here is looking quite good. The sun is shining and I can see I'm closing in on the top, though it'll take some effort to get there. I still have narrative defects and character flaws to iron out, and I'm a long way off the language doing justice to the story I want to tell. But I've come this far, and nothing is going to stop me now.
I can't wait to get going again.
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
Blogging Against Disablism "Never forget where you came from"
I grew up in a world where disability was hidden. There were no accessible buildings, buses, or tube stations. Disabled people didn't feature in television programmes. They weren't comedians or actors. Insults like "mong" and "spaz" were acceptable. I never knew any disabled people till I was into my teens and I did a bit of voluntary work with children. But outside the special clubs or holiday programmes, I never saw the kids I helped in day to day life. It was as if they were invisible or lived in a parallel universe.
When I was 18, I went to live in a L'Arche community and my life changed completely. In 1984, L'Arche, though 20 years old, was still a revolutionary concept. The majority of people with learning disabilities still lived in decaying, Victorian hospitals isolated from their families and the places they had been born into. L'Arche started in France and soon spread round the world, to provide places for people to live in their own communities, supported by live-in assistants. It was in L'Arche that I first appreciated, disability is an impairment, with the right support, any disabled person can find their place in the world. And it was in L'Arche that I discovered the brutal horror that many people with learning disabilities experienced in long stay hospital.
Two of my friends John and Doris, had previously lived in a hospital in Caterham called St Lawrence's for over 30 years. Both had been sent there aged around 10, by professionals who advised their families it was for the best. Both John and Doris told me many many times, that such a life was not the best for them. John's disabilities were mainly associated with being able to understand his emotions and manage social interactions, yet he was highly intelligent. In the hospital, no-one believed in him, like all the patients he was considered "stupid". He hated the place. He really loved our home, being able to have his own room, to walk to the sheltered workshop, buy his own clothes, sit on the wall and chat to the neighbours. But though he was able to escape the walls of St Lawrence's he never quite escaped the damage of institutionalisation. He was a gifted, sensitive man, yet he struggled to accept that he was capable of any achievement. He often created beautiful art, or rugs in the sheltered workshop, but if you praised him his emotions would sometimes spill over, and he would lash out in anger at himself or others. Though he stayed in the community for over a decade, in the end he became unable to tolerate living in an environment that offered so much freedom. He found it harder to control his behaviour and the community found themselves unable to support him. John ended his days in a residential care home, whose more regimented environment provided the familiarity of the institution, though thankfully not the cruelty of St Lawrence's.
Doris, too was immensely damaged by St Lawrence's. I hated that place, she would always say, telling me stories of staff that never used her name, of never being allowed to keep any possessions, have her own money, and the greatest trauma of all, losing contact with her parents, and not being told when they had died. She too, experienced bouts of anger (I was often on the receiving end), but unlike John, as she grew older, she was able to reconcile with her past. She proudly gathered a room full of possessions around her, made friends with the neighbours on the street, came to terms with the death of her parents, became a vital member of her local church and the grand dame of the community. She was an avid lover of the Royal Family, and when she died, her coffin was piped down the High St to the same music as the Queen Mother. In death, she became the matriarch she should have been if she'd lived in another time.
L'Arche changed John and Doris, and it changed me too. After I left, I went to University, intending to be a Biologist, but after three years, I knew that wasn't the life for me. I began to apply for jobs in social care, and within months of leaving was back supporting people with learning disabilities. I've not looked back since.
I'm telling these stories today because today is Blogging Against Disablism Day. A lot has changed in the last thirty years, and the majority of it has been good. Today people with disabilities are visible, buses and buildings are accessible. There are disabled actors, and comedians, disabled people appear in TV programmes. The world is a richer place because of it.
I'm proud to have been part of the revolution that tore down the hideous institutions of the past and freed people with learning disabilities. I've been proud to stand beside disabled friends at rallies, to support campaigns for better access, opportunities for employment, independence. I've been proud to work with self-advocacy and campaigning organisations, and to help make self-directed support a reality. For most of the last thirty years, the journey has been hopeful, exciting, a chance to break down barriers. The last thirty years have been about progress, improvement, greater opportunity.
And yet, this year, I fear for my friends with disabilities like I never have done before. I fear about the impact of cuts and welfare reform that will curtail people's freedoms and independence. I fear about the effect of a relentlessly negative media which is resulting in an increase in hate crime. I fear about the minority of bigoted politicians who don't mind anyone knowing they think disabled people are worthless.
This year, it feels like this country is on the brink of turning back the clock thirty years: trapping disabled people into lives of poverty and grinding dependence at the top of a slippery slope which ends in institutionalisation at best, and at worst a world that accepts eugenics is a reasonable social policy. It feels like we are on the brink of a nightmare, and it frightens the hell out of me. And yet, I don't believe the majority of people in Britain are like that. I believe we are better than that, as individuals, and as a nation. Today, we mustn't forget where we've come from, and the future we are still trying to achieve. Because, no matter how much progress we've made, there's still plenty more to be done. We mustn't let austerity stop us.
Which is why I'd like to urge everyone who reads my blog to stand up on the side of disabled people and get involved in some of the campaigns I support:
Please sign the Wow Petition and use twitter to spread the word.
Follow these brilliant bloggers to educate yourself about what is happening. Sue Marsh, Kaliya Franklin, Steve Sumpter,Centre for Welfare Reform
Contact your MPs and councillors to let them know you won't stand for it.
Write to your local press pointing out what is happening.
Stand up to every snide comment, wrong assertion and outright lie you hear about disabled people.
And never, ever, forget where we came from. We can't go back there. We just can't
When I was 18, I went to live in a L'Arche community and my life changed completely. In 1984, L'Arche, though 20 years old, was still a revolutionary concept. The majority of people with learning disabilities still lived in decaying, Victorian hospitals isolated from their families and the places they had been born into. L'Arche started in France and soon spread round the world, to provide places for people to live in their own communities, supported by live-in assistants. It was in L'Arche that I first appreciated, disability is an impairment, with the right support, any disabled person can find their place in the world. And it was in L'Arche that I discovered the brutal horror that many people with learning disabilities experienced in long stay hospital.
Two of my friends John and Doris, had previously lived in a hospital in Caterham called St Lawrence's for over 30 years. Both had been sent there aged around 10, by professionals who advised their families it was for the best. Both John and Doris told me many many times, that such a life was not the best for them. John's disabilities were mainly associated with being able to understand his emotions and manage social interactions, yet he was highly intelligent. In the hospital, no-one believed in him, like all the patients he was considered "stupid". He hated the place. He really loved our home, being able to have his own room, to walk to the sheltered workshop, buy his own clothes, sit on the wall and chat to the neighbours. But though he was able to escape the walls of St Lawrence's he never quite escaped the damage of institutionalisation. He was a gifted, sensitive man, yet he struggled to accept that he was capable of any achievement. He often created beautiful art, or rugs in the sheltered workshop, but if you praised him his emotions would sometimes spill over, and he would lash out in anger at himself or others. Though he stayed in the community for over a decade, in the end he became unable to tolerate living in an environment that offered so much freedom. He found it harder to control his behaviour and the community found themselves unable to support him. John ended his days in a residential care home, whose more regimented environment provided the familiarity of the institution, though thankfully not the cruelty of St Lawrence's.
Doris, too was immensely damaged by St Lawrence's. I hated that place, she would always say, telling me stories of staff that never used her name, of never being allowed to keep any possessions, have her own money, and the greatest trauma of all, losing contact with her parents, and not being told when they had died. She too, experienced bouts of anger (I was often on the receiving end), but unlike John, as she grew older, she was able to reconcile with her past. She proudly gathered a room full of possessions around her, made friends with the neighbours on the street, came to terms with the death of her parents, became a vital member of her local church and the grand dame of the community. She was an avid lover of the Royal Family, and when she died, her coffin was piped down the High St to the same music as the Queen Mother. In death, she became the matriarch she should have been if she'd lived in another time.
L'Arche changed John and Doris, and it changed me too. After I left, I went to University, intending to be a Biologist, but after three years, I knew that wasn't the life for me. I began to apply for jobs in social care, and within months of leaving was back supporting people with learning disabilities. I've not looked back since.
I'm telling these stories today because today is Blogging Against Disablism Day. A lot has changed in the last thirty years, and the majority of it has been good. Today people with disabilities are visible, buses and buildings are accessible. There are disabled actors, and comedians, disabled people appear in TV programmes. The world is a richer place because of it.
I'm proud to have been part of the revolution that tore down the hideous institutions of the past and freed people with learning disabilities. I've been proud to stand beside disabled friends at rallies, to support campaigns for better access, opportunities for employment, independence. I've been proud to work with self-advocacy and campaigning organisations, and to help make self-directed support a reality. For most of the last thirty years, the journey has been hopeful, exciting, a chance to break down barriers. The last thirty years have been about progress, improvement, greater opportunity.
And yet, this year, I fear for my friends with disabilities like I never have done before. I fear about the impact of cuts and welfare reform that will curtail people's freedoms and independence. I fear about the effect of a relentlessly negative media which is resulting in an increase in hate crime. I fear about the minority of bigoted politicians who don't mind anyone knowing they think disabled people are worthless.
This year, it feels like this country is on the brink of turning back the clock thirty years: trapping disabled people into lives of poverty and grinding dependence at the top of a slippery slope which ends in institutionalisation at best, and at worst a world that accepts eugenics is a reasonable social policy. It feels like we are on the brink of a nightmare, and it frightens the hell out of me. And yet, I don't believe the majority of people in Britain are like that. I believe we are better than that, as individuals, and as a nation. Today, we mustn't forget where we've come from, and the future we are still trying to achieve. Because, no matter how much progress we've made, there's still plenty more to be done. We mustn't let austerity stop us.
Which is why I'd like to urge everyone who reads my blog to stand up on the side of disabled people and get involved in some of the campaigns I support:
Please sign the Wow Petition and use twitter to spread the word.
Follow these brilliant bloggers to educate yourself about what is happening. Sue Marsh, Kaliya Franklin, Steve Sumpter,Centre for Welfare Reform
Contact your MPs and councillors to let them know you won't stand for it.
Write to your local press pointing out what is happening.
Stand up to every snide comment, wrong assertion and outright lie you hear about disabled people.
And never, ever, forget where we came from. We can't go back there. We just can't
Friday, 19 April 2013
After the Rapture
I don't often write sequels - but after I wrote this Friday Flash I have wondered from time to time what happened to the characters. I'm currently working on a collection of flash fiction and this story just appeared...
After the Rapture
The sun is beginning to set behind them. Orange beams radiate from the
top of the copse streaking a fiery path
across the blue-grey ocean. Sylvie's back aches. Her knees ache. Her head aches. When she comes to think about it, everything
aches, and has been aching all day. This is not the rapture he has promised
her. They have been waiting for two hours for nothing to happen.
Jim, is as silent as he
was this morning; this time he has not been able to find the words to help her
keep the faith. This time she is beginning to doubt. She looks at him in side
profile: long nose, blue eyes, fair hair, a face she has loved for over a year.
Tonight for the first time the treacherous thought creeps in, why, exactly?
What is it about him that has made her abandon her life, her mother, her
friends? His smile? The attention he pays her? His passionate conviction that
God has been speaking to him, and him alone? Perhaps it is all three, but now
his certainties have been vanquished, he suddenly seems as full of human
frailties as everyone else. Sylvie aches.
She has had enough. She wants to go home.
She is about to stand
up, and tell him enough is enough, when he leaps to his feet. "Do you hear it?" he says, his eyes shining.
"Hear what?" All she can hear is the sound of the wind, the crash of
the waves on the rocks below, the screeching of gulls in the air above them.
"Listen," he pulls her to her feet, "Close your eyes, and really
listen."
"To what?"
"The angels
singing."
Sylvie is torn between
non-belief and belief. After all this time, she hates the idea of finding him
wanting, fallible, human. But the truth is, "I can't hear anything."
"Sssh," he
says stroking her hair, bringing her close to him. She can hear his heart
beating, he is breathing deep calm breaths. "Listen," he says again,
"Have faith. Listen."
Sylvie wants to have
faith. She wants to believe. She closes her eyes, resting her head on his
chest, letting it rise and fall with every breath he takes. And then, she hears
it. Above the noise of the gulls, the crashing waves, the sighing wind, she
hears it: the song of angels, pure, high, so beautiful she could cry with joy.
She opens her eyes and sees tears in his. "I hear them."
" They are calling
to us. A final test."
"What?"
"We are the only
ones left. Can you hear the thunder?" She nods, hearing the rumble in the distance behind them. "It's a sign. Everyone else is gone, the plagues and pestilence will be starting.
Listen to the angels. We have to take this leap of faith." He walks to the edge of the cliff,
extending his arm to her.
"You mean
jump?"
"The angels will
carry us up to heaven. We just have to believe."
She looks at his
radiant face, the rapture glowing in his eyes. She doubts no more. She
takes his hand and steps forward.
"I love you,"
she says."I love you too." As she steps forward, he lets his hand drop. It is too late for her to stop, and she is falling through the air. The gulls screech, the wind sighs, the waves crash. The sky above her glowers with black clouds... And the angels have disappeared. Her last sight is of Jim standing, arms outstretched on top of the cliff, as if he is blessing her flight.
Jim watches her
descent, forming the account he will provide of the incident.She had more faith than me, he will say,
She took a leap of faith. Her earthly
body was dashed on the rocks. But I saw her lifted up to heaven. For the rapture is
not for all of us, we sinners are left behind. She had more faith than me. And
she leapt.
He will tell the police a different story.
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