I waddled through the trees like a lame duck looking for water. Golden leaves lay at my feet. Fleetingly I thought about kicking them but getting my legs to lift off the ground was struggle enough. Instead I inhaled the crisp, clean air and tried desperately not to think about the tardy baby asleep in my womb.
Now six days late his entrance was pretty much all I could think about. My mantra, a watched baby never shows his face, was wearing thin and the brisk walk was doing nothing to take my mind off my burgeoning load. If anything I was wondering where the nearest cafe was so I could sit down in a warm, centrally heated dining room with a mug of molten hot chocolate and a wedge of sticky chocolate cake.
Magnet walked happily beside me.
"You haven't finished your novel have you mum?"
"No, not yet darling".
"Are you upset about it?", she probed.
I paused, partly to catch my breath, partly to consider my answer. Do I tell her it's OK to make pacts then break them? Do I tell her that life often gets in the way of us completing our dreams? Do I tell her we should not expect too much of ourselves, instead we should opt for a life of mediocrity so that we never get disappointed? I decided against hormonally charged dramatic statements, instead saying,
"Just like this baby, my novel is late and I'm OK with that."
She smiled and walked on. I looked down at my bump, swallowing at the white lie. It didn't feel OK that the baby was late, not then anyway. But I knew that soon it wouldn't matter and I knew it would be the same with my novel.
Saturday 4 December 2010
Friday 8 October 2010
Depression in the arts
Recently best selling author Marian Keyes opened up about depression in her latest newsletter. Marian wrote her last newsletter in January and told of a bout of "crippling depression" that had rendered her useless. The newest newsletter, her first since January, tells of a long depressive episode so horrendous that she had been "knocked sideways" by "an almost irresistible desire to be dead." Indeed Marian Keyes had not written since this depressive episode started and still cannot write. Her newsletter was all the more sad because she tried to rationalise her feelings and explain that she realised she was privileged and lucky and that journalists will probably think her selfish and stupid.
It has been well documented that writers are more prone to depression than the nation as a whole. I wonder whether people with depressive tendencies gravitate towards writing or whether the conditions needed to write; extended periods of solitude and reflection, exacerbate and cause depression?
Surely it is a mixture of both?
I don't tend towards melancholy when I write however I've always found it difficult finding the time so I do not have long periods of isolation that many writers do. Since leaving work three weeks ago, to start maternity leave, I have enjoyed the solitude that has allowed me to put pen to paper although I know this time is fleeting and soon the house will be filled with the coos and cries of a newborn. Perhaps if I were sat, day after day, with my thoughts for company this would be a very different blog. Even in this short period of time I have become more inward looking.
The list of writers touched with depression is impressive; Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Lord Byron and F. Scott Fitzgerald to name but a few. I wonder then, does depression aid the writing process? Is depression to a writer what drugs are to some rock stars - something that not only aids the writing process but that is a necessary part of it? This is not the case for Marian Keyes and I doubt the case for others. Indeed this time alone has taught me that I must interact with people to keep me sane, to keep the dark thoughts pushing the light ones away.
It has been well documented that writers are more prone to depression than the nation as a whole. I wonder whether people with depressive tendencies gravitate towards writing or whether the conditions needed to write; extended periods of solitude and reflection, exacerbate and cause depression?
Surely it is a mixture of both?
I don't tend towards melancholy when I write however I've always found it difficult finding the time so I do not have long periods of isolation that many writers do. Since leaving work three weeks ago, to start maternity leave, I have enjoyed the solitude that has allowed me to put pen to paper although I know this time is fleeting and soon the house will be filled with the coos and cries of a newborn. Perhaps if I were sat, day after day, with my thoughts for company this would be a very different blog. Even in this short period of time I have become more inward looking.
The list of writers touched with depression is impressive; Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath, Lord Byron and F. Scott Fitzgerald to name but a few. I wonder then, does depression aid the writing process? Is depression to a writer what drugs are to some rock stars - something that not only aids the writing process but that is a necessary part of it? This is not the case for Marian Keyes and I doubt the case for others. Indeed this time alone has taught me that I must interact with people to keep me sane, to keep the dark thoughts pushing the light ones away.
Tuesday 13 July 2010
Writing and moving
Writing a novel and moving home have many similarities. They both seem like wonderful ideas to start with but, as the story grows and the boxes multiply, they begin to feel like summitless mountains.
As the plot of my novel starts to resemble a tangled web of disparate ideas my once methodical packing turns into a frenzied rush of throwing anything into any box. Days become weeks and the formally precious marker pens lay abandoned on the floor while the computer sits, untouched, awaiting my return to normality.
Normality has yet to return.
Soon unpacking begins, along with frequent outings to soulless stores that seem to fry the brain even more, pushing any morsels of creativity left further out to sea.
The chaos has abated, for now, and I'm back to writing. I at least wrote this.
As the plot of my novel starts to resemble a tangled web of disparate ideas my once methodical packing turns into a frenzied rush of throwing anything into any box. Days become weeks and the formally precious marker pens lay abandoned on the floor while the computer sits, untouched, awaiting my return to normality.
Normality has yet to return.
Soon unpacking begins, along with frequent outings to soulless stores that seem to fry the brain even more, pushing any morsels of creativity left further out to sea.
The chaos has abated, for now, and I'm back to writing. I at least wrote this.
Monday 28 June 2010
Top Ten novels for teens
For all you YA (that's Young Adult fiction) virgins Melvin Burgess, one of the early YA writers, has compiled his list of top 10 YA novels for The Guardian. They're not just for teens, far from it in fact. Indeed YA novels include plots that are just as complex, if not more so, than many novels written for adults. So what's the difference? Well the protagonists are, unsurprisingly, teenagers and the subject matter a reflection of that although many topics, such as love, are universal. Speaking of which Twilight is the most well known novel on the list however you'd be doing yourself an injustice if you parked at Meyers door alone.
If you read one from this list I would suggest Northern Lights by Philip Pullman. Fantasy not for you? Try out Junk by Melvin Burgess,a novel about teen heroin addiction, the first if its kind to address the issue of drugs in such a graphic and uncompromising way. One that I have not read which I'll be reading soon is Noughts and Crosses by Malorie Blackman. That is if I can steal it from Magnet first.
If you read one from this list I would suggest Northern Lights by Philip Pullman. Fantasy not for you? Try out Junk by Melvin Burgess,a novel about teen heroin addiction, the first if its kind to address the issue of drugs in such a graphic and uncompromising way. One that I have not read which I'll be reading soon is Noughts and Crosses by Malorie Blackman. That is if I can steal it from Magnet first.
Wednesday 16 June 2010
Friday 11 June 2010
Daniel Kitson
“It’s a monologue, an oral form of literature. You’ll love it.” Comedy Boy assured me as we crossed the Humberside Bridge. We were on our way to watch Daniel Kitson’s live show at the New Players Theatre in Charing Cross. Up until this point Comedy Boy had been unusually vague about what he was taking me to see. He muttered something about, "comedian", "story telling" and "monologue". Worse still Comedy Boy said “Kitson is the comedian’s comedian”. Alarm bells started ringing straight away. Most unknown comedians I’ve met dislike other mainstream, some might say, talented comedians.
I should mention that I nicknamed my husband Comedy Boy because he has performed stand up on the London comedy circuit. Being the dutiful wife I’ve sat through a plethora of comedy shows, some of which were brilliant, others were so bad I wanted to pull my ears out and throw them at the stage.
I was, then, slightly nervous at another night of missing wit, silent audiences and lost hours. At the theatre my nervousness became full on hysteria when I saw the poster and noted that the entire show was a monologue about a flat that Kitson once lived in. The title being ‘66A Church Road: A Lament, Made of Memories and Kept in Suitcases’. A show about one man’s love for his flat? What a load of rubbish, I ranted silently while smiling at Comedy Boy and snatching the bag of sweets from his hands.
We sat in the darkened theatre with the set visible in the dim light: suitcases of varying size littered the stage, there was a sash window to one side and a solitary chair in the centre. The set looked promising and my mood lightened a little when Kitson appeared and began telling the story of his love for his flat. The stage would darken intermittently and another suitcase would light up as a voiceover of Kitson would embellish upon a point he had just made using the metaphor of a relationship with a woman. Or was the flat the metaphor? I’m still not sure. The lit suitcases would show models of each room in his beloved flat. The dark stage, lit suitcases, melancholic music and voiceover all contributed to the nostalgia of the piece. As for Kitson he was eloquent, witty, humble and incredibly likeable. The narrative arched, progressively building tension throughout, holding the audience who wondered ‘would he get the flat of his dreams? Suffice to say I ate some humble pie on the way home as I told Comedy Boy how much I enjoyed it. He refrained from saying “I told you so” however asked that I keep that night in mind when next time he makes me sit through a 92 year old's magic set or the comical musings of a Croydon cannibal.
I should mention that I nicknamed my husband Comedy Boy because he has performed stand up on the London comedy circuit. Being the dutiful wife I’ve sat through a plethora of comedy shows, some of which were brilliant, others were so bad I wanted to pull my ears out and throw them at the stage.
I was, then, slightly nervous at another night of missing wit, silent audiences and lost hours. At the theatre my nervousness became full on hysteria when I saw the poster and noted that the entire show was a monologue about a flat that Kitson once lived in. The title being ‘66A Church Road: A Lament, Made of Memories and Kept in Suitcases’. A show about one man’s love for his flat? What a load of rubbish, I ranted silently while smiling at Comedy Boy and snatching the bag of sweets from his hands.
We sat in the darkened theatre with the set visible in the dim light: suitcases of varying size littered the stage, there was a sash window to one side and a solitary chair in the centre. The set looked promising and my mood lightened a little when Kitson appeared and began telling the story of his love for his flat. The stage would darken intermittently and another suitcase would light up as a voiceover of Kitson would embellish upon a point he had just made using the metaphor of a relationship with a woman. Or was the flat the metaphor? I’m still not sure. The lit suitcases would show models of each room in his beloved flat. The dark stage, lit suitcases, melancholic music and voiceover all contributed to the nostalgia of the piece. As for Kitson he was eloquent, witty, humble and incredibly likeable. The narrative arched, progressively building tension throughout, holding the audience who wondered ‘would he get the flat of his dreams? Suffice to say I ate some humble pie on the way home as I told Comedy Boy how much I enjoyed it. He refrained from saying “I told you so” however asked that I keep that night in mind when next time he makes me sit through a 92 year old's magic set or the comical musings of a Croydon cannibal.
Thursday 3 June 2010
Sensitivities
The hamster died yesterday. The previous night I watched as she crawled up the bright green ladder in her cage, her body convulsing with every step and her back legs sliding from left to right. She seemed determined to reach the ledge at the top of her cage where she would usually stare at the room, awaiting a friendly hand to take her to freedom. This time I took her cold, shivering body off the ledge and placed her into her house hoping she would go to sleep. No such luck as it seemed, despite the pain, she would not be shut away so, still convulsing, she left her house. She tried to drink from her bottle but, seemingly having gone blind overnight, she could not find the nozzle so shuffled around the cage trying to find the ladder again. This perplexing turn of events repeated itself throughout the evening.
Now I realise I'm writing about a hamster. I'm not even writing about a cat or dog however I confess I was bordering on hysterical. I called Comedy Boy in floods of tears. He promptly offered to come home. Of course I said no, it was stupid, this was just a hamster. She wasn't even my hamster. She was Magnet's, who was thankfully away at a friend's.
When Comedy Boy finally arrived home, in the early hours of the morning, I awoke, promptly burst into tears and begged him to take her to the vet. Sighing he took the morning off work and, well, the rest is hamster history.
This episode got me too thinking about how overly sensitive I am especially where I think the animal or person is vulnerable and reliant on the kindness of others. It brought back the memory of the novels, stories, films and documentaries that have caused me to blub like a baby. For instance I watched, We Are Together, a documentary about the South African children of the Agape choir, some months ago. There was a story thread about a teenage boy with AIDS. He had no parents so his sister cared for him as he deteriorated. There was one scene in which his sister gave him medicine as he lay in their hut perilously close to death. After administering the medicine she went outside (she stayed outside most of the time as if scared of the nearing presence of death) however he called her back and asked her to hold his hand. He was scared, he was dieing and he didn't want to be alone. She held his hand. Soon afterwards he died.
I cried for hours after watching the documentary. Rationally of course I realised that crying was of no practical help to anyone, least of all the millions of Africans who had died of AIDS, yet those thoughts did not dry the tears.
Magnet watched the same documentary at school and, although they edited the film, she watched the same scene and did not shed a tear. None of the children did. Either we've collectively raised children with hearts deadened by endless computer games and commercialism or I am so sensitive that I am more of a cry baby than a bunch of 11 year olds.
When talking with Comedy Boy about that documentary and other narratives that elicited strong responses in me he pointed out there is a clear over-arching theme: that of a persecuted or vulnerable child. Indeed Pans Labyrinth had me crying, for two days.
I wonder about this as I continue with my novel for children. As I write I think of the protagonist as if he is real. I speculate about how Magnet would react to the situations I put my young characters in. I remember reading an interview with J.K. Rowling in which she said she howled as she wrote the last Harry Potter book in which *SPOILER* one of the Weasley twins, Fred, was killed. I understand how fictional characters can cause such emotion in both reader and writer so really I should understand that my distress for a hamster is not out of the ordinary.
I guess it should have been obvious that I would write for children however I never planned it that way. I started my novel when I took Writing For Children as part of my Masters course and I only did that because I wanted to learn about every area of creative writing. I never thought I would want to finish the short story I started in that class much less turn it into a complete novel. Obviously I didn’t know myself as well as I thought because, towards the end of last year, the pull to research and write became overwhelming, thus my novel was born.
Now I realise I'm writing about a hamster. I'm not even writing about a cat or dog however I confess I was bordering on hysterical. I called Comedy Boy in floods of tears. He promptly offered to come home. Of course I said no, it was stupid, this was just a hamster. She wasn't even my hamster. She was Magnet's, who was thankfully away at a friend's.
When Comedy Boy finally arrived home, in the early hours of the morning, I awoke, promptly burst into tears and begged him to take her to the vet. Sighing he took the morning off work and, well, the rest is hamster history.
This episode got me too thinking about how overly sensitive I am especially where I think the animal or person is vulnerable and reliant on the kindness of others. It brought back the memory of the novels, stories, films and documentaries that have caused me to blub like a baby. For instance I watched, We Are Together, a documentary about the South African children of the Agape choir, some months ago. There was a story thread about a teenage boy with AIDS. He had no parents so his sister cared for him as he deteriorated. There was one scene in which his sister gave him medicine as he lay in their hut perilously close to death. After administering the medicine she went outside (she stayed outside most of the time as if scared of the nearing presence of death) however he called her back and asked her to hold his hand. He was scared, he was dieing and he didn't want to be alone. She held his hand. Soon afterwards he died.
I cried for hours after watching the documentary. Rationally of course I realised that crying was of no practical help to anyone, least of all the millions of Africans who had died of AIDS, yet those thoughts did not dry the tears.
Magnet watched the same documentary at school and, although they edited the film, she watched the same scene and did not shed a tear. None of the children did. Either we've collectively raised children with hearts deadened by endless computer games and commercialism or I am so sensitive that I am more of a cry baby than a bunch of 11 year olds.
When talking with Comedy Boy about that documentary and other narratives that elicited strong responses in me he pointed out there is a clear over-arching theme: that of a persecuted or vulnerable child. Indeed Pans Labyrinth had me crying, for two days.
I wonder about this as I continue with my novel for children. As I write I think of the protagonist as if he is real. I speculate about how Magnet would react to the situations I put my young characters in. I remember reading an interview with J.K. Rowling in which she said she howled as she wrote the last Harry Potter book in which *SPOILER* one of the Weasley twins, Fred, was killed. I understand how fictional characters can cause such emotion in both reader and writer so really I should understand that my distress for a hamster is not out of the ordinary.
I guess it should have been obvious that I would write for children however I never planned it that way. I started my novel when I took Writing For Children as part of my Masters course and I only did that because I wanted to learn about every area of creative writing. I never thought I would want to finish the short story I started in that class much less turn it into a complete novel. Obviously I didn’t know myself as well as I thought because, towards the end of last year, the pull to research and write became overwhelming, thus my novel was born.
Friday 21 May 2010
Writer's Block and Super Heros
Writer's block is when I sit staring at a blank sheet of paper and, an hour later, the page is still, pristine, crisp, empty.When this happens I often turn to my husband, Comedy Boy and my daughter, Magnet. I realise I've made us sound like a family straight out of a Marvel comic and perhaps we are. Indeed Comedy Boy reminded me of his many super powers the other day, "[I'm your] saviour from spiders, believer of 'they were in a sale' stories, the first person you called when you broke your finger, collaborator of great ideas, the person who attends several holidays a year with you, the bag packer while you stand there looking gorgeous at the supermarket till, the guy who picks you up, drops you off and often both, protector and investigator of noises during the night, the only person who re-charges the toothbrushes and puts the ironing board away." Now you might be thinking these super powers are a bit poor but, in my opinion, they are better than being able to fly or become invisible.
Comedy Boy does more than just provide ideas he provides invaluable support and he believes in me. In fact that is my first rule of writing: find someone whose super power is, amongst others, that they believe in you, preferably more than you believe in yourself, that way you won't flounder for too long when your brain simply won't cooperate.
Magnet's super power is also her unwavering belief in herself and in me. She would say things like, "Mum have you written anymore because I want to read it." or "mum I had a dream about a book I want to write and now I realise it is exactly like yours, well not exactly like yours but very close." Surely this is the best accolade of all. I haven't even finished my novel and my daughter already wants to steal the idea. I told her to get writing immediately.
Reading this back I wonder if my super power is finding new ways to procrastinate. I hope not but I think I should be writing my novel and not my blog so night, night.
P.S. It has been a slow week but I've written 3000 more words so far.
P.P.S I realise the super powers I've mentioned would not be exciting to read about in an actual Marvel comic.
Tuesday 11 May 2010
Writing for displeasure
When I read a review for a film or book that carries the word 'devastating' I wonder when the awards will start flowing. It seems that narratives of displeasure are just what the public are looking for. Or are they?
The Oscar/ Booker/ Bafta judges seem oblivious to their repetitive choice of winning narrative formula. Perhaps because they are so dosed up on anti-depressants, a minor side effect of having to watch and read miserable narrative after miserable narrative each with their own brand of, and this is a vital award winning ingredient, unhappiness at the end. A few examples are; Million Dollar Baby, The English Patient, The God of Small Things, Atonement. Although I'm sure you can think of many more.
Of course there are exceptions. Take Slumdog Millionaire (the novel was called Q & A, you can see why they changed it. The original title does not have a whiff of Oscar winner about it) with its happy ending. The evil Shaksperean brother dies in a hail of redemptive bullets and the princess finds her prince. Of course this happy ending was preceded by enough misery to allow it to compete with its predecessors in the misery genre. Think homeless children, eye gouging, limb cutting, rape.
I was relieved when I read that Daisy Goodwin, one of the Orange Prize judges, had complained about the amount of misery memoirs she encountered in her role as judge, "There's not been much wit and not much joy, there's a lot of grimness out there," she said of the 129 books that were submitted by publishers to be considered for the prize. I don't necessarily think there has been an increase in dark novels and memoirs, instead publishers choose to submit them to prizes such as the Orange Prize because they believe that a panel of judges is more likely to choose a 'devastating' novel as the winner than a lighter, funnier one. Indeed this does seem to be the case so publishers, in turn, think that the public must want to read this type of story. Of course this is a circular arguement: A novel with more marketing spend behind it sells well and publishers will spend more marketing budget on a book that has won a prize.
Goodwin continued '"I think the misery memoir has had its day, but there are an awful lot of books out there which had not a shred of redemption in them. I'm more of a light and shade person and there does need to be some joy, not just misery." A good story illicits feelings in the audience and keeps us captivated however one story is not nessesarily better than another simply because it offers us a dark ending. For instance I do not think Million Dollar Baby would have won an oscar without the ending it had and I don't actaully think it should have won Best Film. Obviously this is my opinion however my point is that a story is a good story and one that is bleaker than another does not always equal better.
The dark side of life exists but must we always applaud it? Would it not be nice to award novel/ memoir/ film that makes its reader/ viewer laugh, more than cry, that makes the sky seem bluer rather than cloudier, that makes our smiles brighter? No I'm not suggesting we all take the anti-depressants the awards judges have no doubt driven to after endless miserable story telling.
So should there be no light in sight? Ever? Doesn't life deliver enough grit on its own? I say bring back the Hollywood ending please. It might just lift my spirits.
The Oscar/ Booker/ Bafta judges seem oblivious to their repetitive choice of winning narrative formula. Perhaps because they are so dosed up on anti-depressants, a minor side effect of having to watch and read miserable narrative after miserable narrative each with their own brand of, and this is a vital award winning ingredient, unhappiness at the end. A few examples are; Million Dollar Baby, The English Patient, The God of Small Things, Atonement. Although I'm sure you can think of many more.
Of course there are exceptions. Take Slumdog Millionaire (the novel was called Q & A, you can see why they changed it. The original title does not have a whiff of Oscar winner about it) with its happy ending. The evil Shaksperean brother dies in a hail of redemptive bullets and the princess finds her prince. Of course this happy ending was preceded by enough misery to allow it to compete with its predecessors in the misery genre. Think homeless children, eye gouging, limb cutting, rape.
I was relieved when I read that Daisy Goodwin, one of the Orange Prize judges, had complained about the amount of misery memoirs she encountered in her role as judge, "There's not been much wit and not much joy, there's a lot of grimness out there," she said of the 129 books that were submitted by publishers to be considered for the prize. I don't necessarily think there has been an increase in dark novels and memoirs, instead publishers choose to submit them to prizes such as the Orange Prize because they believe that a panel of judges is more likely to choose a 'devastating' novel as the winner than a lighter, funnier one. Indeed this does seem to be the case so publishers, in turn, think that the public must want to read this type of story. Of course this is a circular arguement: A novel with more marketing spend behind it sells well and publishers will spend more marketing budget on a book that has won a prize.
Goodwin continued '"I think the misery memoir has had its day, but there are an awful lot of books out there which had not a shred of redemption in them. I'm more of a light and shade person and there does need to be some joy, not just misery." A good story illicits feelings in the audience and keeps us captivated however one story is not nessesarily better than another simply because it offers us a dark ending. For instance I do not think Million Dollar Baby would have won an oscar without the ending it had and I don't actaully think it should have won Best Film. Obviously this is my opinion however my point is that a story is a good story and one that is bleaker than another does not always equal better.
The dark side of life exists but must we always applaud it? Would it not be nice to award novel/ memoir/ film that makes its reader/ viewer laugh, more than cry, that makes the sky seem bluer rather than cloudier, that makes our smiles brighter? No I'm not suggesting we all take the anti-depressants the awards judges have no doubt driven to after endless miserable story telling.
So should there be no light in sight? Ever? Doesn't life deliver enough grit on its own? I say bring back the Hollywood ending please. It might just lift my spirits.
Thursday 29 April 2010
Heartbeat
I heard the baby's heart beating today at the hospital. The perfect sound of life growing inside me. Now I sit at my computer watching the clock to the right of this post. It ticks relentlessly, counting down to the baby due date and the date which my novel should be complete. The ticking reminds me of the heartbeat and for the first time I smile at it. Time is my friend not my enemy. There is no need to panic. Of course I will finish the book before my beautiful baby is born.
I've written 1000 words today already. Over the bank holiday weekend I will finish another 5000 and I hope to visit the setting for my story and conduct even more research.
My head already feels full with research, indeed facts and figures are seeping from every pore, yet I know I have only touched the surface. The waters below are deep so I must continue to dive.
I've written 1000 words today already. Over the bank holiday weekend I will finish another 5000 and I hope to visit the setting for my story and conduct even more research.
My head already feels full with research, indeed facts and figures are seeping from every pore, yet I know I have only touched the surface. The waters below are deep so I must continue to dive.
Wednesday 28 April 2010
Literary Girl in Oxford
I sit on a hard chair in a marquee beside my friend Little Miss Fetish (not her birth name in case you were wondering) waiting for Belle De Jour and India Knight, the journalist who will be interviewing Belle, to arrive. I am at The Sunday Times Oxford Literary Festival on a sunny Sunday afternoon. As I sit waiting I look around at the 30o strong crowd and I'm surprised that the average age must be mid-sixties. Indeed the front row is filled with septuagenarians. Perhaps they want some sex tips.
I ask members of the audience if they have read Belle's book or blog. A frail looking lady wearing a brightly coloured knitted jumper tells me she has not. A few others tell me they are not familiar with her work either. It seems they are here because of Belle's minor celebrity status rather than her literary talents. I wonder whether they would have come if they'd read her frank memoir Belle De Jour, Diary of a London Call Girl.
A lone man sitting on my left tells me he has not read the book but saw Belle in the paper. I ask why he is here and he answers he thinks "it's an interesting situation, someone with that sort of background going into that. Some people think it is distasteful but distasteful is not the same as being criminal." Randomly Anneka Rice is also in the audience at the back. She makes a quick escape when the interview finishes.
For those of you who have been in a hole for the past year and half Brooke Magnanti outed herself in The Sunday Times as author of the blog and subsequent book Belle De Jour, Diary of a London Call Girl. She started writing her blog in 2003, by 2004 she had 15000 readers. She is a research scientist and she maintains that she became a prostitute to pay her way through university so she could complete her PHD. She now works full time as a research scientist and is no longer a call girl.
Brooke is petite and wears a low cut floral top and long earrings. She tells the audience she would often sit on the tube, look up and down the carriage, and wonder how long it would take someone to pick her out as the prostitute in the crowd. She thinks people would go for the stereotype of the beautiful or slutty looking girl not the normal looking blonde girl wearing the designer suit.
It seems this is Brooke's first public appearance. India asks why she thinks so many people are present and Brooke, seeming genuinely baffled, says she does not know. It could be a testament to our celebrity culture that people will attend a talk by someone they have only read about fleetingly in the news or perhaps we are simply 300 voyeurs. When asked about her writing and the constant speculation, prior to her outing herself, that she must be a man Brooke says 'It's funny when people said I must be a man by the way I write I thought no, by the way I write I must be a scientist.'
Brooke is funny and witty throughout the interview and laughs when India suggests that she 'slipped into [prostitution] with ease'. In answer she says 'I was 27 slept around a bit, was a bit of a slag''.
We hear that her most embarrassing incident was when she saw a client at a friend's wedding but could not place him. In the end he came up to her and simply said 'hi' before walking off. The next morning she had to sit at an intimate breakfast with him and six others including her then boyfriend. It was, she concedes, the longest breakfast of her life.
When India opens questions to the floor Little Miss Fetish wants to know how to write good sex scenes. Belle tells her to "strip it down to its bare bones." I take down notes before realising that I won't exactly be using the advice in my novel, a book for children aged 8 - 12. Still it could be useful in the future.
A man in the audience asks, "How would you feel if your boyfriend had slept with prostitutes?", Brooke answers "I'd be alright with it." He persists, "Would you ask him about it." Brooke pauses for a moment, "only if it were hot."
Brooke tells us that she has been working on a novel for four years and that her favourite piece of her own writing is a short story called Malted.
In response to a question about whether she became a prostitute just to write about it Brooke says "14 months. That's a lot of people to have sex with just for a laugh."
That question is followed by someone wanting to know whether she orchestrated the media furore. She says something that accurately sums up public perceptions of people in the media "we've gotten used to being cynical and we're not used to people saying this is what happened and this is how it happened."
At one point Brooke has to defend herself when a lecturer says she has PHD students who have not got into prostitution to pay for their funding and fees. Brooke answers that she went into it for a specific reason and came out of it, that the funding in this country for oversees students is a joke and that she would not have made enough working in a bar or shop.
When pressed about whether she has become a mouthpiece for prostitutes Brooke explains that "the experiences are as different as the people in them."
After the interview Little Miss Fetish and I stand in the marquee looking at books and watch as Brooke has her photo taken. A young couple walk past and the man says to his girlfriend "I don't know why she left it so long to come out. It's obvious she wanted to be famous. Look at her she loves it." Can't win them all I guess.
So would I recommend her memoir? It is certainly gripping however I would not say it were erotic, in fact at times I found it quite the opposite. I did not feel it glamorised prostitution in the way that has been suggested in the press although it is eye opening. So yes I would recommend it but be warned this is a book to be read at home not on the commute to work unless you want everyone to see you blushing.
I ask members of the audience if they have read Belle's book or blog. A frail looking lady wearing a brightly coloured knitted jumper tells me she has not. A few others tell me they are not familiar with her work either. It seems they are here because of Belle's minor celebrity status rather than her literary talents. I wonder whether they would have come if they'd read her frank memoir Belle De Jour, Diary of a London Call Girl.
A lone man sitting on my left tells me he has not read the book but saw Belle in the paper. I ask why he is here and he answers he thinks "it's an interesting situation, someone with that sort of background going into that. Some people think it is distasteful but distasteful is not the same as being criminal." Randomly Anneka Rice is also in the audience at the back. She makes a quick escape when the interview finishes.
For those of you who have been in a hole for the past year and half Brooke Magnanti outed herself in The Sunday Times as author of the blog and subsequent book Belle De Jour, Diary of a London Call Girl. She started writing her blog in 2003, by 2004 she had 15000 readers. She is a research scientist and she maintains that she became a prostitute to pay her way through university so she could complete her PHD. She now works full time as a research scientist and is no longer a call girl.
Brooke is petite and wears a low cut floral top and long earrings. She tells the audience she would often sit on the tube, look up and down the carriage, and wonder how long it would take someone to pick her out as the prostitute in the crowd. She thinks people would go for the stereotype of the beautiful or slutty looking girl not the normal looking blonde girl wearing the designer suit.
It seems this is Brooke's first public appearance. India asks why she thinks so many people are present and Brooke, seeming genuinely baffled, says she does not know. It could be a testament to our celebrity culture that people will attend a talk by someone they have only read about fleetingly in the news or perhaps we are simply 300 voyeurs. When asked about her writing and the constant speculation, prior to her outing herself, that she must be a man Brooke says 'It's funny when people said I must be a man by the way I write I thought no, by the way I write I must be a scientist.'
Brooke is funny and witty throughout the interview and laughs when India suggests that she 'slipped into [prostitution] with ease'. In answer she says 'I was 27 slept around a bit, was a bit of a slag''.
We hear that her most embarrassing incident was when she saw a client at a friend's wedding but could not place him. In the end he came up to her and simply said 'hi' before walking off. The next morning she had to sit at an intimate breakfast with him and six others including her then boyfriend. It was, she concedes, the longest breakfast of her life.
When India opens questions to the floor Little Miss Fetish wants to know how to write good sex scenes. Belle tells her to "strip it down to its bare bones." I take down notes before realising that I won't exactly be using the advice in my novel, a book for children aged 8 - 12. Still it could be useful in the future.
A man in the audience asks, "How would you feel if your boyfriend had slept with prostitutes?", Brooke answers "I'd be alright with it." He persists, "Would you ask him about it." Brooke pauses for a moment, "only if it were hot."
Brooke tells us that she has been working on a novel for four years and that her favourite piece of her own writing is a short story called Malted.
In response to a question about whether she became a prostitute just to write about it Brooke says "14 months. That's a lot of people to have sex with just for a laugh."
That question is followed by someone wanting to know whether she orchestrated the media furore. She says something that accurately sums up public perceptions of people in the media "we've gotten used to being cynical and we're not used to people saying this is what happened and this is how it happened."
At one point Brooke has to defend herself when a lecturer says she has PHD students who have not got into prostitution to pay for their funding and fees. Brooke answers that she went into it for a specific reason and came out of it, that the funding in this country for oversees students is a joke and that she would not have made enough working in a bar or shop.
When pressed about whether she has become a mouthpiece for prostitutes Brooke explains that "the experiences are as different as the people in them."
After the interview Little Miss Fetish and I stand in the marquee looking at books and watch as Brooke has her photo taken. A young couple walk past and the man says to his girlfriend "I don't know why she left it so long to come out. It's obvious she wanted to be famous. Look at her she loves it." Can't win them all I guess.
So would I recommend her memoir? It is certainly gripping however I would not say it were erotic, in fact at times I found it quite the opposite. I did not feel it glamorised prostitution in the way that has been suggested in the press although it is eye opening. So yes I would recommend it but be warned this is a book to be read at home not on the commute to work unless you want everyone to see you blushing.
Monday 26 April 2010
Absent and the countdown
I've been absent. I can't think of a good enough excuse. Sure I was on holiday but they have internet in florida, I have been working but I was always working. I wish I could say that I was too busy finishing my novel to write this blog, alas, that too would be an excuse and, worse still, an outright lie.
I do however have news that may explain my absense. If it doesn't then it serves as news that this blog is changing....
I have found out that there is going to be a literary baby in October..... This blog is not about babies so I will not dwell on my baby news too much, suffice it to say however that I now have a deadline for the completion of my novel.
I have added a countdown clock to this blog. The clock is ticking down to my baby due date and now my novel completion date.
I'll update this blog every time I have written some more of my novel and I will continue to bring literary news from around London, the web and inside my head.
So no more procrastination, no more twiddling my thumbs and no more social life, well within reason. Instead I will simply be writing, writing, writing.....
I do however have news that may explain my absense. If it doesn't then it serves as news that this blog is changing....
I have found out that there is going to be a literary baby in October..... This blog is not about babies so I will not dwell on my baby news too much, suffice it to say however that I now have a deadline for the completion of my novel.
I have added a countdown clock to this blog. The clock is ticking down to my baby due date and now my novel completion date.
I'll update this blog every time I have written some more of my novel and I will continue to bring literary news from around London, the web and inside my head.
So no more procrastination, no more twiddling my thumbs and no more social life, well within reason. Instead I will simply be writing, writing, writing.....
Wednesday 10 March 2010
Graduation
Eight months after the tears, sweat and anguish that is dissertation hand-in I finally graduated with a Masters in Creative and Professional Writing today.
My 11 year old daughter was at the ceremony waving continually from her place in the crowd. Afterwards she told me she felt tearful when the speaker thanked family members for helping graduates along the way. She said "Mummy I feel really proud of you".
I had my daughter when I was still a teenager and I remember how surprised people were when I applied to university to take my undergraduate degree. People do not expect much of a teenage mum although those that know me would have expected nothing less.
Graduation was made all the more special because I saw five of my very dear friends. We initially became friends through our shared love of writing and reading, later we found we loved each other outside of those confines. Now I would be lost without them. I would not write as much and I certainly would not laugh or smile as much. If nothing else had come from my course meeting the girls would have been worth the fees alone.
So, as we stood with our families in the freezing cold March wind and threw our hats high into the air I felt nothing but thanks for all I've achieved, for my friends and for my family. Simply put, I felt happy.
My 11 year old daughter was at the ceremony waving continually from her place in the crowd. Afterwards she told me she felt tearful when the speaker thanked family members for helping graduates along the way. She said "Mummy I feel really proud of you".
I had my daughter when I was still a teenager and I remember how surprised people were when I applied to university to take my undergraduate degree. People do not expect much of a teenage mum although those that know me would have expected nothing less.
Graduation was made all the more special because I saw five of my very dear friends. We initially became friends through our shared love of writing and reading, later we found we loved each other outside of those confines. Now I would be lost without them. I would not write as much and I certainly would not laugh or smile as much. If nothing else had come from my course meeting the girls would have been worth the fees alone.
So, as we stood with our families in the freezing cold March wind and threw our hats high into the air I felt nothing but thanks for all I've achieved, for my friends and for my family. Simply put, I felt happy.
My novel
I've kept something from you. I haven't talked about my writing. I've talked around it, discussed events, authors etc however I have yet to touch upon my own work. Perhaps I feel shy because it's new. Although the idea had been whirring in my head for some time before I put pen to paper or, more accurately, fingers to keyboard.
So here goes. The novel I am working on is a childrens novel aimed at eight to twelve year olds. It's a fantasy and it's set in a famous London landmark. I've been researching it for some months now although if I counted all my visits to the place I would say I've been researching it since I was two. I'm not going to divulge the place yet because the work is not finished and I still may change it. So for now all I'll say is I'll keep you posted.
Literary Girl
So here goes. The novel I am working on is a childrens novel aimed at eight to twelve year olds. It's a fantasy and it's set in a famous London landmark. I've been researching it for some months now although if I counted all my visits to the place I would say I've been researching it since I was two. I'm not going to divulge the place yet because the work is not finished and I still may change it. So for now all I'll say is I'll keep you posted.
Literary Girl
Tuesday 2 March 2010
February Book Slam
I went to Book Slam last week. For those of you who don't know it Book Slam is 'London's Best Literary Nightclub' according to the blurb. Its moved to the Tabernacle in Notting Hill and whilst I'm still debating if I prefer the cleaner, more theatrical and grand looking venue to its dark, dirty predecessor there's no doubt that Book Slam still rocks.
Thursday saw readings from poet Robin Robertson and author Joshua Ferris. Music came from the talented Tawiah.
Robin Robertson's Scottish drawl and dry wit had me captivated. He started with "Most of my poems are about drink, sex and death. It's vital they're kept in that order." Beat. "For legal reasons." Robin lived up to his word with a poem about an artichoke which was a barely disguised euphemism for, well a "stub root" as he affectionately called it.
Patrick Neate, the brainchild behind the night and occasional, host took to the stage in his usual non-style. Clutching at a can of beer he barely concealed his discomfort at having to stand in the spotlight. This familiar style is endearing (he'd probably hate that) and was particularly so when he mentioned that he was doing a book signing. He cringed and muttered and finished by saying "I hate myself a little now." Still I don't think anyone else felt the same way. I for one miss him when he gets a professional to take to the stage.
Anyway after Robin came Joshua Ferris reading from his new novel, The Unnamed, a novel about a man, Tim Farnsworth, with a psychological disorder that causes him to walk. This compulsion to walk can strike at any time and he has no power to stop it. Joshua read from the start of the novel in which Tim has been to see another doctor who has suggested a new cure.
Certainly the premise was interesting and I came away wondering whether Tim was ever going to be cured of his malady however I'm not sure I'm going to buy it... I'll keep you posted.
Thursday saw readings from poet Robin Robertson and author Joshua Ferris. Music came from the talented Tawiah.
Robin Robertson's Scottish drawl and dry wit had me captivated. He started with "Most of my poems are about drink, sex and death. It's vital they're kept in that order." Beat. "For legal reasons." Robin lived up to his word with a poem about an artichoke which was a barely disguised euphemism for, well a "stub root" as he affectionately called it.
Patrick Neate, the brainchild behind the night and occasional, host took to the stage in his usual non-style. Clutching at a can of beer he barely concealed his discomfort at having to stand in the spotlight. This familiar style is endearing (he'd probably hate that) and was particularly so when he mentioned that he was doing a book signing. He cringed and muttered and finished by saying "I hate myself a little now." Still I don't think anyone else felt the same way. I for one miss him when he gets a professional to take to the stage.
Anyway after Robin came Joshua Ferris reading from his new novel, The Unnamed, a novel about a man, Tim Farnsworth, with a psychological disorder that causes him to walk. This compulsion to walk can strike at any time and he has no power to stop it. Joshua read from the start of the novel in which Tim has been to see another doctor who has suggested a new cure.
Certainly the premise was interesting and I came away wondering whether Tim was ever going to be cured of his malady however I'm not sure I'm going to buy it... I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday 24 February 2010
10 rules for writing fiction
I've just finished reading the Guardian's article Ten Rules for Writing fiction in which famous writers such as Roddy Doyle, Margaret Atwood, Philip Pullman and many more share their personal rules for writing fiction.
Some took a more tongue in cheek approach to the exercise such as Doyle who wrote "do not place a photograph of your favourite author on your desk, especially if the author is one of the famous ones who committed suicide." Colm Tóibín conveyed the importance of reading about ones peers, "If you have to read, to cheer yourself up read biographies of writers who went insane." Elmore Leonard took a more serious approach and focused on form and the pitfalls of using adverbs, exclamation marks and regional dialogue.
Some of the rules seemed more like rules for life than writing. 'Don't take any shit if you can possibly help it' and the more arbitrary 'don't have children'.
Some took a more tongue in cheek approach to the exercise such as Doyle who wrote "do not place a photograph of your favourite author on your desk, especially if the author is one of the famous ones who committed suicide." Colm Tóibín conveyed the importance of reading about ones peers, "If you have to read, to cheer yourself up read biographies of writers who went insane." Elmore Leonard took a more serious approach and focused on form and the pitfalls of using adverbs, exclamation marks and regional dialogue.
Some of the rules seemed more like rules for life than writing. 'Don't take any shit if you can possibly help it' and the more arbitrary 'don't have children'.
To save you trawling through I've picked out my top 10 and added the authors who suggested them in brackets.
1) Read, read everything you can lay your hands on (Michael Moorcock, Ian Rankin, Will Self (he actually says you should stop reading but only because you have read enough already), Zadie Smith (although she says you should read when still a child so this might mean inventing a time machine), PD James)
2) Don't just plan to write – write. It is only by writing, not dreaming about it, that we develop our own style. (PD James)
3) Do change your mind. Good ideas are often murdered by better ones. I was working on a novel about a band called the Partitions. Then I decided to call them the Commitments. (Roddy Doyle)
4) Marry somebody you love and who thinks you being a writer's a good idea. (Richard Ford) N.B. This one assumes that you want to get married at all. If not ignore completely.
5) Keep a diary. The biggest regret of my writing life is that I have never kept a journal or a diary. (Geoff Dyer)
6) Have more than one idea on the go at any one time. If it's a choice between writing a book and doing nothing I will always choose the latter. It's only if I have an idea for two books that I choose one rather than the other. I always have to feel that I'm bunking off from something. (Geoff Dyer)
7)The way to write a book is to actually write a book. A pen is useful, typing is also good. Keep putting words on the page. (Anne Enright) This is similar to rule number 1 but written in slightly different way so I don't think it's cheating.
8) You can never read your own book with the innocent anticipation that comes with that first delicious page of a new book, because you wrote the thing. You've been backstage. You've seen how the rabbits were smuggled into the hat. Therefore ask a reading friend or two to look at it before you give it to anyone in the publishing business. This friend should not be someone with whom you have a romantic relationship, unless you want to break up. (Margaret Atwood)
9) Open your mind to new experiences, particularly to the study of other people. Nothing that happens to a writer – however happy, however tragic – is ever wasted. (PD James)
10) Read all of Neil Gaiman's rules because that man is a genius. See his list below. (Literary girl)
1 Write.
2 Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.
3 Finish what you're writing. Whatever you have to do to finish it, finish it.
4 Put it aside. Read it pretending you've never read it before. Show it to friends whose opinion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is.
5 Remember: when people tell you something's wrong or doesn't work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.
6 Fix it. Remember that, sooner or later, before it ever reaches perfection, you will have to let it go and move on and start to write the next thing. Perfection is like chasing the horizon. Keep moving.
7 Laugh at your own jokes.
8 The main rule of writing is that if you do it with enough assurance and confidence, you're allowed to do whatever you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writing. But it's definitely true for writing.) So write your story as it needs to be written. Write it honestly, and tell it as best you can. I'm not sure that there are any other rules. Not ones that matter.
So what did I learn from an article about rules? Write as you wish, just make sure you turn off the Internet.
Tuesday 23 February 2010
On children
Paulo Coelho just posted this poem on his blog. It touched me so I wanted to share it.
On Children
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Kahlil Gibran
On Children
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Kahlil Gibran
Monday 22 February 2010
The Queen of Procrastination
I indulge in procrastination on a daily basis. So married am I to the cause that I can spend all day NOT writing a single thing. Instead I stare blankly at clothes I can't afford or read news I have read many times before. I stare at meaningless images of celebrities and read banal stories that have no consequence for me or anyone else other than to our waste precious time.
Someone once declared me the Queen of Procrastination. How nice, I thought, to have been bestowed a title for my work, or lack thereof. I thought it was important to recognise that writers need time to think, to dwell, to wonder: my weak argument for the word count refusing to budge. It wasn't until my friends had written the fourth or fifth draft of their novels, while I was still dwindling on my first, that I began to see my title as a cause for concern.
I needed a way to climb out of the procrastination time warp. So what did I do? What would help me finish my novel? Well I created this blog.
Someone once declared me the Queen of Procrastination. How nice, I thought, to have been bestowed a title for my work, or lack thereof. I thought it was important to recognise that writers need time to think, to dwell, to wonder: my weak argument for the word count refusing to budge. It wasn't until my friends had written the fourth or fifth draft of their novels, while I was still dwindling on my first, that I began to see my title as a cause for concern.
I needed a way to climb out of the procrastination time warp. So what did I do? What would help me finish my novel? Well I created this blog.
Sunday 21 February 2010
literary
lit·er·ar·y
–adjective
1.pertaining to or of the nature of books and writings, esp. those classed as literature: literary history.
2.pertaining to authorship: literary style.
3.versed in or acquainted with literature; well-read.
4.engaged in or having the profession of literature or writing: a literary man.
5.characterized by an excessive or affected display of learning; stilted; pedantic.
6.preferring books to actual experience; bookish
–adjective
1.pertaining to or of the nature of books and writings, esp. those classed as literature: literary history.
2.pertaining to authorship: literary style.
3.versed in or acquainted with literature; well-read.
4.engaged in or having the profession of literature or writing: a literary man.
5.characterized by an excessive or affected display of learning; stilted; pedantic.
6.preferring books to actual experience; bookish
A Review
I've just finished reading If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things By Jon McGregor.
I know this it isn't his latest novel, that being Only The Dogs which I saw him read an extract from at Book Slam and which disturbed me with its harrowing depiction of the heroin trade which he described in detail, from the poppy fields in Afghanistan to the heroin addict jacking up in a phone box no longer in control of his bodily functions. I digress and actually it is worth pointing out that If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things is not as dark as Only The Dogs, far from it in fact.
The opening lines from If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things are 'If you listen you can hear it. The city, it sings.', this description could be applied to McGregor's prose because this book, it sings. The residence of the street that is the focus of the novel are described in such exquisite detail that I felt I was there, with them, waiting for the impending tragedy that overshadows the story from the outset. There is a the dad with the disfigured face which we learn was burned when he tried to save his wife from a fire. There is the family who let their boys roam the streets playing havoc. There is the protagonist, a lonely girl who finds herself pregnant after a one night stand. Then there is the motif of twins that follows us through the novel and is crystallised in an ending that surprised me so much I had to read it a few times to take it in.
These stories are pieces of the collage that McGregor creates to give us insight into everyday lives. Indeed the 'remarkable things' of the title are the everyday occurrences that we take for granted. Simple acts, thoughts, encounters all play to this theme. Beautiful and nuanced this is a book worth reading.
I know this it isn't his latest novel, that being Only The Dogs which I saw him read an extract from at Book Slam and which disturbed me with its harrowing depiction of the heroin trade which he described in detail, from the poppy fields in Afghanistan to the heroin addict jacking up in a phone box no longer in control of his bodily functions. I digress and actually it is worth pointing out that If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things is not as dark as Only The Dogs, far from it in fact.
The opening lines from If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things are 'If you listen you can hear it. The city, it sings.', this description could be applied to McGregor's prose because this book, it sings. The residence of the street that is the focus of the novel are described in such exquisite detail that I felt I was there, with them, waiting for the impending tragedy that overshadows the story from the outset. There is a the dad with the disfigured face which we learn was burned when he tried to save his wife from a fire. There is the family who let their boys roam the streets playing havoc. There is the protagonist, a lonely girl who finds herself pregnant after a one night stand. Then there is the motif of twins that follows us through the novel and is crystallised in an ending that surprised me so much I had to read it a few times to take it in.
These stories are pieces of the collage that McGregor creates to give us insight into everyday lives. Indeed the 'remarkable things' of the title are the everyday occurrences that we take for granted. Simple acts, thoughts, encounters all play to this theme. Beautiful and nuanced this is a book worth reading.
Thursday 18 February 2010
In the beginning
In the beginning there was London
and there was
Literature.
I was only five or six when my dad first took me on the dirty, noisy tube from leafy Richmond into Central London. I remember walking along Regents Street staring skywards, marvelling at the large, imposing buildings. I loved feeling so small somewhere so inconcievably big. I enjoyed the rush of people, their voices, faces, feelings. I would walk through a crowd unable to see beyond a sea of legs yet I thought it exciting not suffocating or scary.
Back at home I found excitement in stories. By day I would read everything I could get my hands on, by night I would create tales and share them with my sister. She begged me to tell her just one more story and I was happy to oblige. She always said I should write them down.
So I am writing them down and hopefully I will be publishing them at some point. Meanwhile I'm enjoying reading, writing, attending literary events and now writing this blog which is about two of my favourite things, london and Literature.
and there was
Literature.
I was only five or six when my dad first took me on the dirty, noisy tube from leafy Richmond into Central London. I remember walking along Regents Street staring skywards, marvelling at the large, imposing buildings. I loved feeling so small somewhere so inconcievably big. I enjoyed the rush of people, their voices, faces, feelings. I would walk through a crowd unable to see beyond a sea of legs yet I thought it exciting not suffocating or scary.
Back at home I found excitement in stories. By day I would read everything I could get my hands on, by night I would create tales and share them with my sister. She begged me to tell her just one more story and I was happy to oblige. She always said I should write them down.
So I am writing them down and hopefully I will be publishing them at some point. Meanwhile I'm enjoying reading, writing, attending literary events and now writing this blog which is about two of my favourite things, london and Literature.
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