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.
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