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.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
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.
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