Pulp Friction (by Les Green) October 2018

During my last holiday (‘holiday’ as in a week off work, rather than a planned excursion to another place, often involving sunburn and sand in your underwear), I found that I had time to read again. It’s true that I have also recently cancelled my Sky subscription, and I’m sure this could also be a contributory factor, but rather than doing something else I chose to read.

The trouble with my reading material of choice is that it’s usually very eclectic, covering both fiction and non-fiction, and including all kinds of genres and styles. I say ‘choice’ in the sense that I select the book from the library shelf personally, but it’ll be based on a fine mathematical calculation that moves between points, from ‘yes I’ve heard of this one’ at one end, and ‘ooh, what a nice cover’ at the other. I don’t tend to settle on a single author, or stick resolutely to a series of books that should be read in a particular sequence, so I feel no pressing urgency to get my hands on the latest in the series of children’s wizard books (Harry or Gandalf), dilapidated detectives, Scandinavian noir or the masters of the macabre.

Quite often I find myself biting off much more than I can chew (cosmology, nanotechnology and operatic libretto for example) but I often take a second bite to make sure I was really biting as hard as I could last time. Then I go off and console myself with some comforting pulp fiction. Usually it’ll be absolute classics like Elmore Leonard (outstanding dialogue) or George Pelecanos (gritty, realistic 70s crime, cross-referenced with music from the period) but I don’t shy away from the authors people frown upon. Like Dan Brown for example.

I know he isn’t popular among some writers – especially those I actually know – but I think that comes down to whether you want to write popular books or “literature” (the Da Vinci Code sold 81 million copies by the way). During my holiday I read his latest (Origins), and even though it was a bit laughable in places, with a ramshackle plot, and it relied on the reader suspending disbelief a little too often, I kept turning the pages (over 500 of them, which is more than I did for some of the “classics”).

Given my previously illustrated opinions of Shakespeare, there will be those reading this that will assume that I’m wallowing in a form of inverted snobbery, but that wouldn’t be true. I’m just recognising that we don’t need to look down our snooty noses at people that write this kind of page turner. You can read it and decide you don’t like it – or even give up on it part way through if it isn’t gripping you, like I’ve done many, many times with many, many books – but to absolutely dismiss a writer that sold 81 million copies of a single book is a bit disrespectful. As much as I dislike the works of Shakespeare, I do acknowledge how important his work has been. I tried it but I don’t have to like it!

Another mega-popular writer with more than 100 million copies sold is James Patterson, but I was surprised to learn that he has “a stable of writers working for him” according to the Independent (December 2016), so if you buy a Patterson book, then you’re only really buying his name on a book not written by him (as with Robert Ludlum, who still producing Bourne books in his own name, many years after his death, written by a stable of writers), in much the same way the classic artists like Da Vinci did with their schools – which is a nice way of circling back to Dan Brown.

I can’t make you read it and I can’t make you like it, but I think you should at least respect it

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David Varley, On Reflection (September 2018)

Driven by long-burning feelings of guilt, I finally surrendered to the inevitable and volunteered to do the blog. But what to do? What could I possibly put here?

I decided it was time to lay out some reflections from a not-terribly-new-anymore member of VRWG, and consider what the group means to me and how it’s affected my approach to writing. I’m not sure how long I’ve been a member, but I dimly recall two summer parties and (through the alcohol fog) two Christmas binges. Long enough, then, to be trusted with the sacred duties attendant on being the Hot Drinks Monitor™, but not long enough to have penetrated all the group’s mysteries (such as how Bob remembers everybody’s name, or how Bill never gets a round in despite having access to the VRWG riches).

I have always been a writer for as long as I can remember, but before joining VWRG it was a strictly solo endeavour. Fiction was like philately or masturbation: a shameful, secretive hobby to be practiced in the dark isolation of your mother’s basement. I cast around for a group while I lived up North, but despite rumours of such a collective in the promised lands across the wastes (to wit, Sunderland), I never did find one. I would work through all my daylight hours, retreating at night to the darkness of my study like a degenerate carrion-eater, chewing on my fiction like strips of old meat.

I wrote my first novel when I was fifteen, convinced that I was writing a classic that would be studied for centuries to come (the fact that it featured a samurai sword-wielding nun should have been a clue to me that I hadn’t written our generation’s Mill on the Floss).

My second novel was quite different. This time the nun had a machinegun.

I consider these juvenilia to be my ‘Dan Brown’ period. They exist now only on a single CD, which I occasionally dig out to remind myself that no matter how dissatisfied I might be with something I’ve just written, at least I haven’t plumbed the dreaded depths of the departure-lounge-paperback.

Then there’s poetry. I’ve written poems for far longer than I’ve written stories. Scratch some of the dull tarnish off my soul, and you’ll see it’s a poet under there. I’m a poet who just so happens to write stories every now and then.

Suffice it to say, I think my journey to being a tolerable poet has been a long one. I had my Wordsworth phase. Oh god, did I have my Wordsworth phase. For a time, every bloody poem was full of sunshine and flowers, banging on about how jolly wonderful Dame Nature and Her Ways were, and how nice it would be if everyone was just happy and content in the world. Then I had my T S Eliot phase, and banged on incessantly about how wonderful death and despair were, and how everyone should be unhappy and miserable all the time.

I like to think I now strike something of a middle ground.

So what has been the effect, then, of VRWG on my wildly fluctuating and occasionally short-circuiting muse?

Well, mainly, I now give many of my stories and poems titles in foreign languages, mostly to torment Marian.

But also, my output has skyrocketed. I feel like I need to produce something each month. Somehow, it has become the thing that validates me as a writer. The warm reception, the constructive feedback, the camaraderie – they’ve served to drag my secretive habit into the light of day, and to my surprise it has grown rather than perished by the exposure.

It is thanks to the prodding and encouragement of the members of VRWG that I am now a published writer (and yes, I am going to milk that one professional publication for all it’s damn well worth). It is thanks to VRWG that the prospect of an open mic and an expectant audience don’t terrify me quite as much as they used to.

It is thanks to the wonderful community of VRWG that, for the first time, I’m comfortable in describing myself as a ‘writer’.

George Orwell once wrote that nobody writes because they want to, they write because some terrible inner demon drives them to it. This is quite true, but now at least the terrible demon that tortures me has, in VRWG, acquired some much more wholesome, friendly and supportive inquisitors.

Long may their reign of terror loom over me.

Tonia (by Carolyn O’Connell)

You came into my life with a gentle touch
extending friendship to a stranger, supporting
me in a sable winter of new exploration;
you were inspiring, kind as an open snowdrop.

We planned adventures, as we became close,
expeditions with others to discover untried places
and new people who would let our voices ring.

We could talk, understand, for we walked the same paths,
you lent me a supportive arm on this unknown track
but you were further on the route.

No one knew that you had reached the Pike,
would step over in the darkness of the night.

I’ll hear your laugh, pace and words
stirring as I follow the trail alone,
with those who cherished you until
I reach that peak, step over
and know that unknown you.

 

Carolyn O’Connell

* Note: In this poem, the use of Pike refers to the Rivington Pike, one of the summits of Winter Hill marked by an ancient tower, and I imagine her spirit waiting for us beyond the climb and summit.

Our Friend Tonia (by Liz Leech)

I drove home from the meeting

Through a late evening sunset,

Blush pink in a sea of orange

That merged into that special

Clear blue of a hot summer nights’ sky

And thought of you,

Flitting through your garden

Touching this and that bloom

With a gentle caress of your hand.

You were not there tonight,

As we met and shared words

That tumbled and jostled

And vied for attention.

We will never hear again

That coy well enunciated brilliance

That you conjured up,

Well defined and honed

By your imagination.

You were not there, and yet

You will always be there

In step with us

Encouraging and urging us

Towards a higher level.

As you tripped through your garden,

You will tiptoe through our minds

Call us to book, and we

Will try just that little bit harder

To emulate that magic that was

Truly yours.

Kid’s Stuff (by Debbie Mitchell, June 2018)

When Wirral-based author and former teacher Jon Mayhew came to Northwich to host a Writing for Children and Young Adults workshop, he brought with him a collection of his notebooks, original manuscripts, ‘visual-maps’ of plots for stories, and a number of rejection letters from publishers. But he also brought THE letter. The golden one. It was written in 2009, from Bloomsbury publishing house, and it was a letter of acceptance for his Victorian Gothic novel, Mortlock. The letter also included a ‘let’s do lunch’ offer, to discuss matters. Ach, imagine that. A book deal. Lunch with an editor. The stuff of dreams.

Scroll on almost two decades later and Jon is an internationally acclaimed, award-winning author, with many more books under his belt. His children’s novels are still published the traditional way, by Bloomsbury, but he has also dipped his toe into the self-publishing waters with his books for adults, which he writes under a nom de plume. The best of both worlds, if you will.

I’ve attended a few workshops and talks by authors in my time, and I’m always in awe of how they actually find time to write. Jon is no exception. He regularly attends schools and libraries and such, to hold workshops. And he’s a Royal Literary Fund Writing Fellow at the University of Chester, offering his expertise to students and staff.

But on this particular afternoon in Winnington, Jon was offering his expertise to a group of 12 Northwich (and beyond) writers – all eager to learn more about the writing process, the tricks for creating a good children’s book, tips for unearthing ideas, how to read the market etc.

To get their ideas and creative juices flowing, Jon asked the participants of the workshop to remember what it was like being a child. To remember a time when they were embarrassed, left with a sense of injustice, laughed at something, or what memory evoked a strong emotional response. This helps to put the writer’s mind into the mind of their young protagonist. Jon set the group an exercise: to write a childhood memory in 200 words.

He then talked about how to create great characters, the importance of conflict, aspiration and wish-fulfilment in a story, the structure of it, and how to tap into that big well of ideas that exists out there.

Cull hidden histories, old traditions and sayings, myths, proverbs, and superstitions to use as a basis for a plot. Never be afraid to venture into the dark side, but always be mindful of the age of the readers. And don’t preach to them. If you have something to say, don’t say it, SHOW it. Allude to things, rather than explain.

In the six-hour session, Jon offered the group a wealth of information and tips and tricks of the trade (too much to mention here), all delivered in an authentic, energetic and engaging way.

It certainly gave the Northwich writers a lot of food for thought. And maybe sent them away dreaming of the day they receive their own golden letter.

 

Shakespeare and Beetroot (by Les Green)

Shakespeare was a master of the soundbite in an era where the requirement for it didn’t exist. Some of the quotes are excellent and I think they lend themselves well to inspirational posters or would look great on a tee shirt. It isn’t all witty parry and thrust though.

I never got along with Shakespeare, and I never understand other people’s enthusiasm for it either. In a way, I see it like a royal wedding because (a) there’s always room on BBC Breakfast for a feature, (b) there’s always someone trying to sell us an over-expensive decorative plate, and (c) there’s always somebody that feels they must educate me on the finer points, thinking I don’t understand the nuances of it all – implying I’m too thick or too Northern to “get” it. “You have to evaluate it in context with social opinions and politics of the time

Iambic pentameter” they say. I shrug. There’s no way I could care any less than I currently do about Iambic Pentameter. Oh, hang on, yes there is a way actually – if you decide you’re going to be the one that simply must explain it to me, that might do the trick.

Yes, I enjoy writing when the mood takes me, but that doesn’t mean I see Shakespeare as the patron saint of writing. It also doesn’t mean I enjoy knowing upfront that they all die in the end, because Quentin Tarantino does it with a much better soundtrack. The nearest I got to enjoying Shakespeare was the recent BBC comedy series ‘Upstart Crow’, (starring David Mitchell as Shakespeare, and well worth a look) because it cocked a snook at old Bill himself – and his output – and much funnier than any of the comedies penned by his nibs because it’s written by Ben Elton, so you won’t need a professor of English literature to point out where all the jokes are.

What I occasionally find incredibly baffling is when directors get it in their head that they need to shift the original play into a different time or setting. I can only assume that they too think old Bill got it completely wrong, but only they know how to fix it. I remember reading a few years ago about Henry V being re-set in a modern battle setting (the Gulf), and I heard recently on Radio 4 that there was a new Othello, in which the title character is played by/as a gay black woman. So what do we get next? Hamlet Meets Ghostbusters? Macbeth vs. Scooby Doo? Although in fairness the Sharks and the Jets did manage to stick a boot up the arse of Romeo and Juliet (they all die in the end). However, West Side Story had to be quite far removed from the actual Shakespearean version in order to become watchable. So much so, that I had to have it pointed out to me before I could acknowledge the relationship (only some of them die in the end in this version).

 

I remember a time when I thought it might be me, just like it was with red wine. I wanted to like red wine so I occasionally tried a glass now and then until I’d developed a taste for it. It worked so I tried it with olives, and I like them too now. Although it didn’t work with beetroot. And perhaps there’s the rub (deliberate ironic misquote). At school, I used to eat beetroot. I never liked it but I had a kind of tolerance to it so I could eat it without it being a totally hateful experience. The same could be said about my relationship with Shakespeare during the same period. Occasionally I would be presented with a bit of Bill, with not a lot of choice involved. It would be directed at me and I would accept it like I accepted most things at school – it was there to be tolerated. As an adult with free choice, I never touched beetroot after I left school. Why would I? I didn’t enjoy it, and nobody was making me eat it. Years later I thought I might like it by now so I tried it again and I still didn’t like it. Years later I tried it again but the dislike had turned to detestation. So, I asked myself the question; could I develop a taste for rambling Bill from Warwickshire, like I did for olives and red wine? Or would it end up like beetroot? I tried and tried but in the end, it was beetroot all over again so now I’ve finally given up on it. I never had to force myself to enjoy Michael Crichton or the Marx Brothers or beans on toast, so why don’t I just devote my remaining time on Earth to doing things that I like?

So that’s what I do now. The things I want to try again, I will keep having a go at until it becomes clear we have no future together (that’s right, I’m talking about you mister Gym Membership). And the things I used to try because other people think is a good idea for me, I now disregard if I don’t immediately like the idea of it, or see no emotional satisfaction in it (yep, Gym Membership falls into this category too) and I suggest you do the same.

Don’t get me wrong, if you get the opportunity, try some new foods and visit new places. Say hello to strangers and try to smile at ugly babies, but there may come a time when you find yourself noticing that everyone around you is commenting on how fine the King’s new clothes are, and you alone can see that he’s actually naked. Don’t be fooled into thinking he’s had a Gok Wan makeover though, because attending a Shakespeare play is like wearing shoes that are a size too small – they may have looked great, and it all seemed like a good idea when you were in the shop, but you get most pleasure from them when you finally take them off.

Which brings me to the reason for my rant… The forthcoming VRWG Summer cultural picnic is almost upon us, and the choices available to us fall into the obvious categories; Shakespeare or not Shakespeare? That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of iambic pentameter? Or to take arms against a sea of troubles and opt for Oscar Wilde instead?

I can understand that you may be persuaded to try it one more time, because when it finally ends, at least you can say to people “Well I tried it, so you can stop trying to ram it down my throat now.” And if they persist, you can return the favour and invite them to something equally terrible and abhorrent “You really should come to one of my Nazi re-enactment tea and orgy afternoon soirees some time.” and when they decline the opportunity you can point out to them that they just don’t get the subtle nuances of it all, and explain that they need to understand the politics of the time and put it in context… And of course, nobody needs to die in the end. Unless that’s what you want? In that case, you need to see a Tarantino movie instead.

Joe Blogs (Les Green, April 2018)

 

When I was a kid I had one of those faces that people liked, and I would often find myself being pinned into a corner while somebody spilled their life story to me, or told me their problems. Teachers felt like they needed to explain things to me, and friend’s mums wanted their kids to play with me. In the 70’s, I worked on the markets in Liverpool and I would often be press-ganged by a queue of  middle aged ladies every weekend, and they would regale me with the minutiae of their lives while the other marketeers stood around in groups laughing at me. Say what you will, but I sold more toilet rolls and scouring pads than anybody else back then.

So, people liked me. In secondary school, though, this – just like anything else that marked you out as different – became a stick to beat me with, as the older, tougher kids saw this as a good enough reason to give me a hard time. Eventually I learned to adapt and, over the years, my resting face has settled on an unreadable neutral expression (using the same logic as my friend Michelle, who has what she describes as a “resting bitch face”). I find it easy to turn my neutral glare into a scowl or menacing stare when I need to, so I sometimes pick one to make me appear disagreeable or aggressive.

When I occasionally use public transport – which I tend to avoid whenever possible – I find myself falling into some of the behaviour patterns that I follow when I’m in my car. In my car, I’m most often travelling alone because I prefer it that way, so on a bus or a train I do my best to discourage people from sitting next to me. I don’t go so far as to put my belongings onto a vacant seat or piss myself, but I do try and make myself look like the kind of person you don’t want to sit next to. So once again I pick my aggressive or disagreeable facial configuration and style it out.  It all falls to pieces of course as soon as the seats fill up around me and an old lady needs somewhere to sit, but at least I made it to Edge Hill (a reference for Scousers of a certain age).

Part of the reason for all this passive aggression is due to an unopposable rule of cosmic physics, which can best be represented by the scientific argument;

if there is a double-decker bus with 30 double bench seats, with a total combined capacity to carry 60 passengers in comfort, but none of the seats are fully occupied; when the local lunatic gets on the bus at the next stop, why does he always sit next to me?

Which brings us to the white jump board at the edge of the sandpit of this rather long run up to the actual point …Blogging.

Why do people bother? I do it for Vale Royal Writing Group because we have a blogging policy and somebody has to do it (usually me but there are other regular contributors). But if it doesn’t have an element of a formal requirement, why would a person feel the need to record details of the crap we don’t care about? I tried to do a bit of research to try and justify my rant but there was just too much of it (blogging not ranting, but sometimes these are the same thing).

I found one blog that existed purely to provide bloggers with subjects to blog about – and even that isn’t an anomaly because once I knew the concept existed I discovered there were loads of similar blogs, and many blogs that provide the tools for bloggers to manage their blogs. So, stretching the existing acceptable levels of endless loops of people disappearing up their own intimate cavities, I think perhaps I’ve identified a gap in the blogging market, for a blogger to write blogs about people who tell people how to write blogs.

Amongst all the pages and pages of blogs on fashion, make up, hair, recipes, babies, dogs, cats, books, restaurants, art, cinema, writing, music etc. ad infinitum, I also discovered that “blogger” is now an acceptable job title. I found myself reacting to that information in the same way I did when I found out that (A) a man in his 30s can earn a living riding a BMX, (B) having your own YouTube channel is aspirational, and (C) DJs are thought of in the same reverence as gifted musicians, like Charlie Parker, Django Reinhardt and Ella Fitzgerald. The world has always been a bit weird but I think I’ve discovered where I want to draw the line.

In my opinion, reading a blog (including especially this one) is like seeking out the lunatic that you used to dread sitting next to you on the bus, and asking him to tell you all about himself, and what the voices in his head are telling him to do. So, in a way, of all the people on this bus that we’re on, dear reader, you chose to sit next to me. So, settle yourself in and let me tell you all about myself …