Have set up a Facebook account. Major displacement activity. Now have several friends. Obsessively visiting site to see if I have any more. Somebody has written on my wall. Somebody has made me into a Zombie. Some days I feel like a Zombie. Engage in debates about relative merits of MySpace and Facebook and Bebo with Large Viking Like Son. Networking is looming very large in my life at the moment. Suspect that it's very much the way forward for writers and artists as well as musicians, who are already making the most of their opportunities. Doom laden sense of potential for timewasting vies with perception of all the exciting possibilities. Feel I am taking baby steps, in the dark. Absolutely fascinating.
The Scent of Blue - a Poem about Perfume
Well, it's about much more than perfume, but I suspect a few people may identify with that aspect of it! I haven't consciously written poems for years, although I once published quite a lot of them, including a collection called A Book of Men, that won a 'new writing' award from the Arts Council. I used to do readings, as well. Enjoyed performing. Then the plays and the prose took over. The plays in particular seemed to use that part of my creativity that had inspired the poems and they just didn't come any more. Now every writer knows that if you wait for inspiration to strike, you'll never produce anything. And it's true that you can make yourself sit down and write prose, and plays. But I couldn't make myself write poems.
For a long while, every new poem I attempted seemed like cliched, stilted nonsense. Nothing worked.
So I wrote stories, plays, novels, non fiction. But not poetry.
Then, quite recently, a strange thing started to happen. The plays in particular became more and more like poems. The director who worked on The Price of a Fish Supper told me that she was reluctant to ask me to cut anything, because it was all linked so intricately together.
Now, each play I write tends towards poetry. Is this good or bad? I don't know.
A day or two ago, I got out an old folder of unpublished poems. Usually, that's a salutory experience. Going back, I mean. Novels that you once thought were brilliant, fall apart before your very eyes. Plays wither on the page.
But not the poems. I could swear that the poems are still good. It was like finding an old bottle of whisky in a shipwreck and discovering that it still tasted of itself.
And then I wrote something new. I wrote the Scent of Blue.
I'm not sure quite what it is, but I think it's probably a long poem.
There are still a dozen novels, and other books, lurking in my head, crying out to be written. There are still ideas which only seem to present themselves as plays.
But for some strange reason, ideas for poems are also elbowing their way in, demanding to be heard.
Perhaps it's a leap of inspiration.
Perhaps it's yet another red herring.
Perhaps it's just something else I have to explore.
But here it is. And I reserve the right to change it, or delete it altogether, because I think it may be part of a work in progress. Judge for yourself.
THE SCENT OF BLUE
A concert in Edinburgh, years ago.
She manages to find a single seat.
Two people sweep past, ushered by the
front of house manager in his dark suit.
He's a famous conductor,
silver haired, sharp featured like some
bird of prey, but smaller than you would
expect, in evening dress.
On his arm a thin woman,
taller than he is, strides with
striking face and hair, a cloud of
grey blonde curls around her head.
Not a young woman but a
diva surely, inhabiting her clothes,
inhabiting her skin with such confidence.
She wants to be like that some day,
longs for self possession.
And she remembers the scent of her,
musky, mysterious, a heavy, night time
scent, like flowers after dark.
The scent of passion.
The scent of money.
The scent of blue.
She searches for the scent for years.
Her mother wore Tweed.
Now she wishes she could
open a wardrobe door, and
smell her mother’s plain sweet scent,
almost as much as she
wishes she could tell her mother so.
As a girl, she wears Bluebell,
fresh and full of hope, or
Diorissimo, like the lilac she once
carried through the streets,
on her way from meeting a man
she desired and admired, thinking
Girl with Lilac, still so young,
self conscious, not possessed.
Later, she tries l’Air du Temps and
Je Reviens and Fleurs de Rocaille
but they are none of them the scent of blue.
She wears Chanel, briefly, with dreams of Marilyn,
loves to watch her, loves to hear her voice,
satisfying as chocolate or olives but
Number Five is not her scent, never suits her, never will.
She discovers Mitsouko.
Some tester in some chemist’s shop somewhere.
An old, old fashioned scent,
syncopated, unexpected, not to every taste.
When she wears it,
women ask her what it is,
I love your scent they say.
How strange the way scent lingers in the mind.
How strange the way scent
changes on warm skin.
On her it ripens to something
peachy, mossy, rich and rare.
But it is not the scent of blue.
She loses her heart.
It is an affair of telephone lines,
more profound, more sweet and
bitter than Mitsouko,
a sad song in the dark,
and the colour of that time is blue.
Afterwards, she searches through
Bellodgia, Apres L’Ondee, Nuit de Noel, Apercu
Until drawn by nostalgia
She finds Joy,
dearly bought roses and jasmine,
a summer garden in one small bottle.
She loves Joy.
She marries in Joy.
She wears Mitsouko
and she forgets the scent of blue.
Older, she glances in her mirror and only
sometimes likes what she sees.
She finds Arpege,
not just rose and jasmine but
bergamot, orange blossom, peach, vanilla, ylang ylang,
one essence piled on another like the notes on the piano she
used to, sometimes still does, play.
Oh this is not a scent for the very young.
It is too dark for that,
a memory of something lost,
an unfinished story.
This scent has a past.
She sees him across a room.
Another woman ushers him,
this way and that, makes introductions,
a little charmed the way women
always were charmed by this man.
It used to make her smile the way
women flocked around this
man who belonged to
nobody but himself.
She is wearing Arpege.
Not a scent for the very young,
vertiginous as the layers of time between.
With age comes wisdom,
but like mud stirred at the bottom of a pool,
memories bubble to the surface.
Not wisely but too well they loved.
Now, they are waving across a
chasm of years.
They speak in measured tones,
they speak and walk away,
they speak again in careful words, that
every now and then
recall the scent of
No.
It will not do.
Only in dreams
can one innocently recapture that
first fine careless
So much more is forgotten
Than is ever remembered.
And the clock insists
let it be let it be.
1911
One summer evening
a young man observes the way twilight closes the flowers,
whose scent lingers on the last heat of the day,
the way the light goes out of the sky,
painting it dark blue, how
soon the war will tear this place apart.
How soon all things resort to sadness.
In a new century,
She finds among jasmine and rose
vanilla and violet,
a dark twist of anise, like the
twist of a knife.
First last always.
The scent of the diva.
The scent of passion.
Fine beyond imagining.
She sees it is essentially
sad, sad, sad, a
sad scent:
L’Heure Bleue.
All things come to sadness in the end.
The beautiful bitter foolish scent of blue.
Catherine Czerkawska
For a long while, every new poem I attempted seemed like cliched, stilted nonsense. Nothing worked.
So I wrote stories, plays, novels, non fiction. But not poetry.
Then, quite recently, a strange thing started to happen. The plays in particular became more and more like poems. The director who worked on The Price of a Fish Supper told me that she was reluctant to ask me to cut anything, because it was all linked so intricately together.
Now, each play I write tends towards poetry. Is this good or bad? I don't know.
A day or two ago, I got out an old folder of unpublished poems. Usually, that's a salutory experience. Going back, I mean. Novels that you once thought were brilliant, fall apart before your very eyes. Plays wither on the page.
But not the poems. I could swear that the poems are still good. It was like finding an old bottle of whisky in a shipwreck and discovering that it still tasted of itself.
And then I wrote something new. I wrote the Scent of Blue.
I'm not sure quite what it is, but I think it's probably a long poem.
There are still a dozen novels, and other books, lurking in my head, crying out to be written. There are still ideas which only seem to present themselves as plays.
But for some strange reason, ideas for poems are also elbowing their way in, demanding to be heard.
Perhaps it's a leap of inspiration.
Perhaps it's yet another red herring.
Perhaps it's just something else I have to explore.
But here it is. And I reserve the right to change it, or delete it altogether, because I think it may be part of a work in progress. Judge for yourself.
THE SCENT OF BLUE
A concert in Edinburgh, years ago.
She manages to find a single seat.
Two people sweep past, ushered by the
front of house manager in his dark suit.
He's a famous conductor,
silver haired, sharp featured like some
bird of prey, but smaller than you would
expect, in evening dress.
On his arm a thin woman,
taller than he is, strides with
striking face and hair, a cloud of
grey blonde curls around her head.
Not a young woman but a
diva surely, inhabiting her clothes,
inhabiting her skin with such confidence.
She wants to be like that some day,
longs for self possession.
And she remembers the scent of her,
musky, mysterious, a heavy, night time
scent, like flowers after dark.
The scent of passion.
The scent of money.
The scent of blue.
She searches for the scent for years.
Her mother wore Tweed.
Now she wishes she could
open a wardrobe door, and
smell her mother’s plain sweet scent,
almost as much as she
wishes she could tell her mother so.
As a girl, she wears Bluebell,
fresh and full of hope, or
Diorissimo, like the lilac she once
carried through the streets,
on her way from meeting a man
she desired and admired, thinking
Girl with Lilac, still so young,
self conscious, not possessed.
Later, she tries l’Air du Temps and
Je Reviens and Fleurs de Rocaille
but they are none of them the scent of blue.
She wears Chanel, briefly, with dreams of Marilyn,
loves to watch her, loves to hear her voice,
satisfying as chocolate or olives but
Number Five is not her scent, never suits her, never will.
She discovers Mitsouko.
Some tester in some chemist’s shop somewhere.
An old, old fashioned scent,
syncopated, unexpected, not to every taste.
When she wears it,
women ask her what it is,
I love your scent they say.
How strange the way scent lingers in the mind.
How strange the way scent
changes on warm skin.
On her it ripens to something
peachy, mossy, rich and rare.
But it is not the scent of blue.
She loses her heart.
It is an affair of telephone lines,
more profound, more sweet and
bitter than Mitsouko,
a sad song in the dark,
and the colour of that time is blue.
Afterwards, she searches through
Bellodgia, Apres L’Ondee, Nuit de Noel, Apercu
Until drawn by nostalgia
She finds Joy,
dearly bought roses and jasmine,
a summer garden in one small bottle.
She loves Joy.
She marries in Joy.
She wears Mitsouko
and she forgets the scent of blue.
Older, she glances in her mirror and only
sometimes likes what she sees.
She finds Arpege,
not just rose and jasmine but
bergamot, orange blossom, peach, vanilla, ylang ylang,
one essence piled on another like the notes on the piano she
used to, sometimes still does, play.
Oh this is not a scent for the very young.
It is too dark for that,
a memory of something lost,
an unfinished story.
This scent has a past.
She sees him across a room.
Another woman ushers him,
this way and that, makes introductions,
a little charmed the way women
always were charmed by this man.
It used to make her smile the way
women flocked around this
man who belonged to
nobody but himself.
She is wearing Arpege.
Not a scent for the very young,
vertiginous as the layers of time between.
With age comes wisdom,
but like mud stirred at the bottom of a pool,
memories bubble to the surface.
Not wisely but too well they loved.
Now, they are waving across a
chasm of years.
They speak in measured tones,
they speak and walk away,
they speak again in careful words, that
every now and then
recall the scent of
No.
It will not do.
Only in dreams
can one innocently recapture that
first fine careless
So much more is forgotten
Than is ever remembered.
And the clock insists
let it be let it be.
1911
One summer evening
a young man observes the way twilight closes the flowers,
whose scent lingers on the last heat of the day,
the way the light goes out of the sky,
painting it dark blue, how
soon the war will tear this place apart.
How soon all things resort to sadness.
In a new century,
She finds among jasmine and rose
vanilla and violet,
a dark twist of anise, like the
twist of a knife.
First last always.
The scent of the diva.
The scent of passion.
Fine beyond imagining.
She sees it is essentially
sad, sad, sad, a
sad scent:
L’Heure Bleue.
All things come to sadness in the end.
The beautiful bitter foolish scent of blue.
Catherine Czerkawska
The Locker Room and the Specialist Reader
It serves me right. Absolutely and completely my own fault. But it's quite interesting. So here goes.
The back story is this. I have this play called The Locker Room which has been sitting in a folder in a drawer for several years. I wrote it with the Traverse in mind. It is a dark study of the effects of sexual abuse on a young athlete and, having revised it extensively, I eventually submitted it to the Traverse from whence it bounced back quicker than a speeding bullet. The artistic director didn't like it although he didn't feel there was anything technically 'wrong' with it - and their 'reader', whoever that was, I've never been able to find out - had been very enthusiastic indeed. I filed it away, as you do, and then sent it to one or two Scottish theatres, including the Ramshorn, at Strathclyde, but heard nothing. And by nothing that's exactly what I mean. Plays (much like manuscripts sent to Scottish publishers) simply disappear into black holes. They don't say yes and they sure as hell don't say no. Me, I think they use them to fuel their central heating boilers.
Anyway, cue forward several years, and I read about the Scottish 'Playwrights' Studio' and their 'Fuse' scheme. You can submit a play which is then read, anonymously, by a 'very experienced specialist reader' (reader, not writer) who delivers a judgement. The play is then forwarded - with or without the assessment, it's your own choice - to various 'partner' theatres within Scotland, a long list of them, some of whom I wasn't even aware of. Couldn't hurt, I thought, even though the scheme is probably not aimed at playwrights of my weary years of experience. So I printed out the full length play, sent it in, with the proviso that the assessment should not accompany it to the theatres - do you think I'm daft or what? - and went off on holiday for a week.
Somewhat to my surprise I returned to an instant response (so instant that I wondered what else the reader had had to do with his time, but hey, why I am complaining about speed?) Did he like it ? I'm saying 'he' because I suspect he is of the male persuasion, but I could be completely wrong on this one. No he didn't. S/he began by saying 'you clearly have an ability with language and some interesting ideas or intuitions about the ambiguities of love in its various forms'.
Well it's kind of nice to know after all these years that I still have an ability with language (sometimes you do wonder!) - and why do I think it's a man? - oh yes, it's the faintly perjorative use of the word intuition.
He thought there was no clarity of motivation - which I take issue with. Well, what I suppose I mean is that I take issue with that as a criticism. Show me the character who has clarity of motivation, and I will certainly be looking at a two dimensional character.
Nobody real ever has clarity of motivation. Do you?
He thought - strangely -that there was a contradiction between the 'single setting' and the 'poetic style'. Not sure why. I'm never averse to moving my characters around, but in this instance, I made a conscious choice to place my characters in one enclosed, claustrophobic, and slightly risky space. So no, the play won't ever 'move' in that sense.
His main gripe - much more helpfully in my book - was that there was an imbalance in the characters and 'no competition of energies' and he could be right. The Locker Room is, in essence, the story of my main character, a young ice hockey player called Matt. And perhaps that's all it should be. Another monologue. Or a dialogue between Matt and his 'ghost' - the coach who abused him, and who is now dead.
In this instance, the reader's observation was spot on.
But I wonder if - knowing who had sent it in - his response would have been the same. Well maybe it would. One hopes it would. But it does strike me that some of our better known playwrights and novelists might well benefit from the same treatment. Perhaps experience makes you lazy. Not, mind you, that I have ever found anyone reluctant to offer criticism where my own writing is concerned. Quite the opposite.
So what to do now I wonder? Is it worth my while expending the considerable effort involved in rewriting the play with a new kind of focus. Well maybe.
Or should I wait to see what, if anything, the various theatres make of it? But then this particular reader reckoned that it wasn't worth sending out to them - so perhaps that won't happen.
Or should I post it on here? But it's dark, and not altogether suitable for family reading.
And it is rather long.
And definitely poetic.
Hey ho.
At the moment, with a dozen other fish to fry, and not entirely sure myself about the play, I will probably return it to its drawer and do nothing.
But I'll let you know if I decide to do some rewrites - and how it goes!
The back story is this. I have this play called The Locker Room which has been sitting in a folder in a drawer for several years. I wrote it with the Traverse in mind. It is a dark study of the effects of sexual abuse on a young athlete and, having revised it extensively, I eventually submitted it to the Traverse from whence it bounced back quicker than a speeding bullet. The artistic director didn't like it although he didn't feel there was anything technically 'wrong' with it - and their 'reader', whoever that was, I've never been able to find out - had been very enthusiastic indeed. I filed it away, as you do, and then sent it to one or two Scottish theatres, including the Ramshorn, at Strathclyde, but heard nothing. And by nothing that's exactly what I mean. Plays (much like manuscripts sent to Scottish publishers) simply disappear into black holes. They don't say yes and they sure as hell don't say no. Me, I think they use them to fuel their central heating boilers.
Anyway, cue forward several years, and I read about the Scottish 'Playwrights' Studio' and their 'Fuse' scheme. You can submit a play which is then read, anonymously, by a 'very experienced specialist reader' (reader, not writer) who delivers a judgement. The play is then forwarded - with or without the assessment, it's your own choice - to various 'partner' theatres within Scotland, a long list of them, some of whom I wasn't even aware of. Couldn't hurt, I thought, even though the scheme is probably not aimed at playwrights of my weary years of experience. So I printed out the full length play, sent it in, with the proviso that the assessment should not accompany it to the theatres - do you think I'm daft or what? - and went off on holiday for a week.
Somewhat to my surprise I returned to an instant response (so instant that I wondered what else the reader had had to do with his time, but hey, why I am complaining about speed?) Did he like it ? I'm saying 'he' because I suspect he is of the male persuasion, but I could be completely wrong on this one. No he didn't. S/he began by saying 'you clearly have an ability with language and some interesting ideas or intuitions about the ambiguities of love in its various forms'.
Well it's kind of nice to know after all these years that I still have an ability with language (sometimes you do wonder!) - and why do I think it's a man? - oh yes, it's the faintly perjorative use of the word intuition.
He thought there was no clarity of motivation - which I take issue with. Well, what I suppose I mean is that I take issue with that as a criticism. Show me the character who has clarity of motivation, and I will certainly be looking at a two dimensional character.
Nobody real ever has clarity of motivation. Do you?
He thought - strangely -that there was a contradiction between the 'single setting' and the 'poetic style'. Not sure why. I'm never averse to moving my characters around, but in this instance, I made a conscious choice to place my characters in one enclosed, claustrophobic, and slightly risky space. So no, the play won't ever 'move' in that sense.
His main gripe - much more helpfully in my book - was that there was an imbalance in the characters and 'no competition of energies' and he could be right. The Locker Room is, in essence, the story of my main character, a young ice hockey player called Matt. And perhaps that's all it should be. Another monologue. Or a dialogue between Matt and his 'ghost' - the coach who abused him, and who is now dead.
In this instance, the reader's observation was spot on.
But I wonder if - knowing who had sent it in - his response would have been the same. Well maybe it would. One hopes it would. But it does strike me that some of our better known playwrights and novelists might well benefit from the same treatment. Perhaps experience makes you lazy. Not, mind you, that I have ever found anyone reluctant to offer criticism where my own writing is concerned. Quite the opposite.
So what to do now I wonder? Is it worth my while expending the considerable effort involved in rewriting the play with a new kind of focus. Well maybe.
Or should I wait to see what, if anything, the various theatres make of it? But then this particular reader reckoned that it wasn't worth sending out to them - so perhaps that won't happen.
Or should I post it on here? But it's dark, and not altogether suitable for family reading.
And it is rather long.
And definitely poetic.
Hey ho.
At the moment, with a dozen other fish to fry, and not entirely sure myself about the play, I will probably return it to its drawer and do nothing.
But I'll let you know if I decide to do some rewrites - and how it goes!
Life, Literature and Sheep.
Sheep seem to be looming quite large for me at the moment. I've been watching Shaun the Sheep every afternoon - more displacement activity, the only justification for which is simply that I love it - so clever, so funny, and yesterday's episode with the bees was kind of sinister as well. So there I was, upstairs, which is where my study is, thinking 'Shaun the Sheep is about to start, better go down' when I heard this loud bleating and thought 'Did I leave the TV on?' Only it seemed very loud, and very realistic. I went over to the window which looks onto the village street and there was a small flock of sheep, running between the parked cars.
Every year a local farmer moves them from one field to another, and this entails taking them along the back road through the village. I remember turning up at the crucial moment a couple of years ago, and his wife asking me to stand in the middle of the road with my arms out, to stop them from making a detour down our road. Obviously, this year, they had decided to explore. They were cut off at the pass, so to speak, and headed back the way they were supposed to go. I watched out of the window as one of my neighbours stepped out of his front door to be met by a whole flock of Shauns trotting past.
Isn't it strangely satisfying when fantasy and reality coincide like this - and doesn't it happen rather more often than you would expect?
Every year a local farmer moves them from one field to another, and this entails taking them along the back road through the village. I remember turning up at the crucial moment a couple of years ago, and his wife asking me to stand in the middle of the road with my arms out, to stop them from making a detour down our road. Obviously, this year, they had decided to explore. They were cut off at the pass, so to speak, and headed back the way they were supposed to go. I watched out of the window as one of my neighbours stepped out of his front door to be met by a whole flock of Shauns trotting past.
Isn't it strangely satisfying when fantasy and reality coincide like this - and doesn't it happen rather more often than you would expect?
Plot versus Characterisation
Last night, I was reading an interesting piece by Alison Graham in this week's Radio Times, in which she talks about 'well constructed, gripping drama that tells good stories, something drama over here long ago sacrificed for the dreaded "characterisation." ' I found myself pondering this in the early hours of the morning - one of those comments that work away like yeast in the mind.
For years I've conducted writers' workshops, and people invariably ask me about plot and characterisation. I usually find myself repeating the conventional wisdom that character is what really matters, it is from character that plot springs, get that right, and everything follows on as night follows day, etc etc etc.
Which is true, most of the time! I write quite a lot of issue based drama, and there is nothing more boring than drama where the issues are firmly placed into the mouths of cyphers.
But it did start me thinking.
I've been watching Rome, addictively. Now I'm normally chicken hearted where gore and violence are concerned. But even when I have to watch this from behind a cushion, I find myself pinned to the sofa, unable to take my eyes off the screen. And when I think about it - apart from the acting which is exceptional, so many great performances that it would be hard to single any one out - the thing that has kept me engrossed has been the story. For sure, it wouldn't be so involving if the characters themselves weren't absorbing as well. But it is the way the story is put together that finally does it for me: the energy, the variety, the unexpectedness and outrageousness of so much of it.
So what does Graham mean by 'characterisation' I wonder? Well, if I'm honest, I know exactly what she means and I can remember the point where everything changed. Years ago, I used to watch a series called London's Burning, about firemen. It was good, solid entertainment, a new story every week, with a continuing group of interesting people. And then quite suddenly, one season, it changed. No longer was it a series of gripping adventures. It had become a series of personal dilemmas with the weekly 'story' only there as a vehicle for detailed explorations of ongoing relationships. Not only that, but these people were so obviously 'characterisations' - all back story and no substance. They were cliched, predictable, and irritating. I stopped watching. I stopped watching Casualty as well, just about the time when I found that I could predict exactly the way each week's story was going to go from the way everything was flagged up - by heavy handed characterisation - in advance.
So have we got the balance wrong, when as human beings we love nothing better than a good strong story, well told?
Take Doctor Who for instance. ( And what on earth will I do with my saturday nights now that the series is finished? Sad or what? I'll just have to buy the DVDs) We know enough about the Doctor, and his companions - enough to make us care about them all, but never so much that the back story dominates the drama of the present. There are other dramas that manage it as well, often, but not exclusively, American. But it would be interesting to know what anyone else thinks about this. And how does TV differ from other media in this respect?
For years I've conducted writers' workshops, and people invariably ask me about plot and characterisation. I usually find myself repeating the conventional wisdom that character is what really matters, it is from character that plot springs, get that right, and everything follows on as night follows day, etc etc etc.
Which is true, most of the time! I write quite a lot of issue based drama, and there is nothing more boring than drama where the issues are firmly placed into the mouths of cyphers.
But it did start me thinking.
I've been watching Rome, addictively. Now I'm normally chicken hearted where gore and violence are concerned. But even when I have to watch this from behind a cushion, I find myself pinned to the sofa, unable to take my eyes off the screen. And when I think about it - apart from the acting which is exceptional, so many great performances that it would be hard to single any one out - the thing that has kept me engrossed has been the story. For sure, it wouldn't be so involving if the characters themselves weren't absorbing as well. But it is the way the story is put together that finally does it for me: the energy, the variety, the unexpectedness and outrageousness of so much of it.
So what does Graham mean by 'characterisation' I wonder? Well, if I'm honest, I know exactly what she means and I can remember the point where everything changed. Years ago, I used to watch a series called London's Burning, about firemen. It was good, solid entertainment, a new story every week, with a continuing group of interesting people. And then quite suddenly, one season, it changed. No longer was it a series of gripping adventures. It had become a series of personal dilemmas with the weekly 'story' only there as a vehicle for detailed explorations of ongoing relationships. Not only that, but these people were so obviously 'characterisations' - all back story and no substance. They were cliched, predictable, and irritating. I stopped watching. I stopped watching Casualty as well, just about the time when I found that I could predict exactly the way each week's story was going to go from the way everything was flagged up - by heavy handed characterisation - in advance.
So have we got the balance wrong, when as human beings we love nothing better than a good strong story, well told?
Take Doctor Who for instance. ( And what on earth will I do with my saturday nights now that the series is finished? Sad or what? I'll just have to buy the DVDs) We know enough about the Doctor, and his companions - enough to make us care about them all, but never so much that the back story dominates the drama of the present. There are other dramas that manage it as well, often, but not exclusively, American. But it would be interesting to know what anyone else thinks about this. And how does TV differ from other media in this respect?
Comment on this Blog and Interesting Times
A few friends have told me that they have had difficulty posting comments on Wordarts and presumably also on The Scottish Home. I have now tweaked the settings, so comments should be possible, particularly positive comments about The Corncrake/The Summer Visitor (Although the consensus at the moment seems to be veering towards The Corncrake as a title.)
We live, it seems, in interesting times, in the Chinese curse sense. Large viking like son returns from Europe next week, and I will be chewing my fingernails until he is safely home - but then for most of the year he lives in Glasgow, so there will only be a small respite. And life has to go on as near normal as possible, in spite of the fact that relatives dropping friends at Prestwick Airport this morning report that there were more police than passengers. Or should that perhaps be 'because of' rather than 'in spite of'?
In the face of such onslaughts - and who among us, hand on heart, can say that when they first saw that young man pinned to the ground outside the terminal building last night, they didn't think 'hope it really really hurts him?' - we strive to be normal and happy, which is, after all, the best revenge.
Consequently, a group of us had a barbecue in somebody's barn last night, while the swallows that nest there every year, flew in and out, feeding their young, twittering in a disgruntled fashion at being disturbed. Then, because it had finally stopped raining, we played boules or petanque, whatever you prefer to call it. Two jack russels and a pet lamb called Madser (as in 'madser fish') trotted about after us, getting in the way of the boules and in imminent danger of concussion. We drank about enough wine and came home feeling a bit less ragged. Friendship is a pretty good revenge as well.
This morning, Gordon Brown on the TV was oddly comforting, in the way that the familiar presence of a mountain (Ben Lomond? Ben Nevis?) is oddly comforting . Granite through and through.
We live, it seems, in interesting times, in the Chinese curse sense. Large viking like son returns from Europe next week, and I will be chewing my fingernails until he is safely home - but then for most of the year he lives in Glasgow, so there will only be a small respite. And life has to go on as near normal as possible, in spite of the fact that relatives dropping friends at Prestwick Airport this morning report that there were more police than passengers. Or should that perhaps be 'because of' rather than 'in spite of'?
In the face of such onslaughts - and who among us, hand on heart, can say that when they first saw that young man pinned to the ground outside the terminal building last night, they didn't think 'hope it really really hurts him?' - we strive to be normal and happy, which is, after all, the best revenge.
Consequently, a group of us had a barbecue in somebody's barn last night, while the swallows that nest there every year, flew in and out, feeding their young, twittering in a disgruntled fashion at being disturbed. Then, because it had finally stopped raining, we played boules or petanque, whatever you prefer to call it. Two jack russels and a pet lamb called Madser (as in 'madser fish') trotted about after us, getting in the way of the boules and in imminent danger of concussion. We drank about enough wine and came home feeling a bit less ragged. Friendship is a pretty good revenge as well.
This morning, Gordon Brown on the TV was oddly comforting, in the way that the familiar presence of a mountain (Ben Lomond? Ben Nevis?) is oddly comforting . Granite through and through.
What's in a Name?
My husband has just thrown the cat among the proverbial pigeons, by telling me that he doesn't like the title 'Corncrake'. So I've spent a wildly unproductive night trying to come up with a better name for the novel. Choices so far are The Corncrake, the Tattie Howker (intriguing, but does anyone outside Scotland know what a tattie howker is - and wouldn't that be a bit offputting?) and the Bonnie Irish Boy. Which I kind of like, but feel that it does suggest a different sort of book. And finally, The Summer Visitor or The Incomer. Both of which I also kind of like. All opinions about possible title, on the strength of the first four chapters below will be gratefully received!
The Sad Truth About Writing
There is a sad truth about the struggle to earn a living as a writer, and it is something that has been - exercising - me. That's probably the right word. It exercises me, usually at four in the morning when, to quote Marian Keyes, I wake up to have a bit of a worry.
This sad truth is that eventually, whenever you get a modicum of success, you know full well that you've been there before, all too many times, and it means very little in terms of your future ambitions.
Let me try to explain what I mean, because I don't want to sound cynical or unhappy or ungracious. I'm none of these things. I love writing. And I don't have many regrets.
BUT
Way back in the 1980s, I can vividly remember the phonecall from Philip Howard, the artistic director of the Traverse Theatre, in Edinburgh, telling me that he wanted to direct Wormwood, my play about Chernobyl, in the coming season. I can remember the elation, the sheer happiness, the feeling that I had finally arrived. There were other times: my first book of poetry, the notification that I had received an Arts Council bursary, finding an agent, finding a publisher for my first novel, winning a couple of major awards for radio plays. Then there was the film company who were interested in my idea for a television series about a group of unemployed Glasgow men, who got together to become male strippers. I'm not joking. That was years before the Full Monty, it was called They're Lovely and They Dance and I still have the scripts. We had meetings in One Devonshire Gardens in Glasgow. They were enthusiastic. I wrote and rewrote for no payment. Then, of course, nothing happened.
The sad truth is that for all but a tiny minority of writers (and it is infinitesimally small) each success is not some kind of milestone on the route to somewhere else. Most of the time, for most of us, in the long run, it makes no appreciable difference.
Wormwood had excellent reviews and there have been other extremely well reviewed plays. The Price of a Fish Supper was one of them. I still send plays out to no response. The Curiosity Cabinet was shortlisted for a prize, published, was well received, sold out. As I write this, there isn't even a single second hand copy available on Amazon. But I still can't sell the next novel, Corncrake. I could cite many more examples, but I won't bore you. There is no progression, no real continuity. Some you win, some you lose. That's just the way it is.
Which means - and this is the good bit - that it is the work itself in which any satisfaction must and indeed should lie. The immediacy of the work as you are writing it is what is really important.
I think I always knew this, or why would I have carried on writing?
But I don't think I saw it so clearly as I do now, with a modicum of age and wisdom.
All the other stuff, the stars, the ratings, the competitions, the cv only matter a little. The occasional payment is nice. It's good to get stuff out there. But you should never, ever write what you don't really want to write, just because somebody says it will look good on your CV.
Write because you truly, madly, deeply want to do it. Or failing that, write for money.
If you can manage to do both at once, you are one lucky person.
But believe me, in the long term, to write what you don't much want to write, solely because somebody tells you that it will be 'good experience for you' is probably useless, and will finally prove vexatious to the soul.
This sad truth is that eventually, whenever you get a modicum of success, you know full well that you've been there before, all too many times, and it means very little in terms of your future ambitions.
Let me try to explain what I mean, because I don't want to sound cynical or unhappy or ungracious. I'm none of these things. I love writing. And I don't have many regrets.
BUT
Way back in the 1980s, I can vividly remember the phonecall from Philip Howard, the artistic director of the Traverse Theatre, in Edinburgh, telling me that he wanted to direct Wormwood, my play about Chernobyl, in the coming season. I can remember the elation, the sheer happiness, the feeling that I had finally arrived. There were other times: my first book of poetry, the notification that I had received an Arts Council bursary, finding an agent, finding a publisher for my first novel, winning a couple of major awards for radio plays. Then there was the film company who were interested in my idea for a television series about a group of unemployed Glasgow men, who got together to become male strippers. I'm not joking. That was years before the Full Monty, it was called They're Lovely and They Dance and I still have the scripts. We had meetings in One Devonshire Gardens in Glasgow. They were enthusiastic. I wrote and rewrote for no payment. Then, of course, nothing happened.
The sad truth is that for all but a tiny minority of writers (and it is infinitesimally small) each success is not some kind of milestone on the route to somewhere else. Most of the time, for most of us, in the long run, it makes no appreciable difference.
Wormwood had excellent reviews and there have been other extremely well reviewed plays. The Price of a Fish Supper was one of them. I still send plays out to no response. The Curiosity Cabinet was shortlisted for a prize, published, was well received, sold out. As I write this, there isn't even a single second hand copy available on Amazon. But I still can't sell the next novel, Corncrake. I could cite many more examples, but I won't bore you. There is no progression, no real continuity. Some you win, some you lose. That's just the way it is.
Which means - and this is the good bit - that it is the work itself in which any satisfaction must and indeed should lie. The immediacy of the work as you are writing it is what is really important.
I think I always knew this, or why would I have carried on writing?
But I don't think I saw it so clearly as I do now, with a modicum of age and wisdom.
All the other stuff, the stars, the ratings, the competitions, the cv only matter a little. The occasional payment is nice. It's good to get stuff out there. But you should never, ever write what you don't really want to write, just because somebody says it will look good on your CV.
Write because you truly, madly, deeply want to do it. Or failing that, write for money.
If you can manage to do both at once, you are one lucky person.
But believe me, in the long term, to write what you don't much want to write, solely because somebody tells you that it will be 'good experience for you' is probably useless, and will finally prove vexatious to the soul.
Fish Supper at the Gilded Balloon
Well what do you know? The nice young man who phoned me before I went off on holiday, has got back to me to say that they do indeed want to do The Price of a Fish Supper at the Gilded Balloon, in Edinburgh, as part of their 'best of the Oran Mor' season. Maybe the thing is not to care too much. Then perhaps the cosmos drops things in your lap, just to remind you of who's in charge. Perhaps I could write a self help book about it...
He asks me if I have copies of reviews because they can't find any. Fish Supper was well reviewed. Joyce Macmillan liked it. Somewhere I have copies. But where? Since the play was reviewed I have completely renovated the room where I write (and got rid of about a third of my books, and a small Finnish forest of paper in the process.) Spend several hours hunting in all the usual places. Eventually find reviews in a folder in one of the unusual places, a shelf that involves a balancing act to reach it. Very good they were too. 'Blisteringly eloquent writing'. Why am I not more famous?
Get several emails about play but realise that nobody has yet given me dates, so I can't pass them on. More as it happens.
He asks me if I have copies of reviews because they can't find any. Fish Supper was well reviewed. Joyce Macmillan liked it. Somewhere I have copies. But where? Since the play was reviewed I have completely renovated the room where I write (and got rid of about a third of my books, and a small Finnish forest of paper in the process.) Spend several hours hunting in all the usual places. Eventually find reviews in a folder in one of the unusual places, a shelf that involves a balancing act to reach it. Very good they were too. 'Blisteringly eloquent writing'. Why am I not more famous?
Get several emails about play but realise that nobody has yet given me dates, so I can't pass them on. More as it happens.
Amazon Reviews & The Curiosity Cabinet
Have been reading reviews of The Curiosity Cabinet on Amazon. All writers do this, and most of us also compulsively Google our own names and work. If you are ever contemplating plagiarism, you can be fairly sure that your sins will find you out.
Read nice review which nevertheless says the book is 'not as deep as Emotional Geology.' Now I have read, and greatly enjoyed Emotional Geology, but have to take issue with the 'not as deep' bit. On reflection though, sometimes I think that the poet and playwright in me likes to pare down my writing to the nth degree and I'm not always sure that it does me any favours with the novels. I'm always reading other people's books and finding them slightly overblown, but I suspect that I do need to indulge myself just a bit more, otherwise readers may mistake simplicity for superficiality.
Every time I look at The Curiosity Cabinet on Amazon, I am filled with rage that it has comprehensively sold out, and that Polygon have refused to reprint even a small run, and yet as I write this, there is only one second hand copy available. I think I have the last few remaining books in my own possession. Am sorely tempted to ask my agent to reclaim the rights, and Lulu it.
Read nice review which nevertheless says the book is 'not as deep as Emotional Geology.' Now I have read, and greatly enjoyed Emotional Geology, but have to take issue with the 'not as deep' bit. On reflection though, sometimes I think that the poet and playwright in me likes to pare down my writing to the nth degree and I'm not always sure that it does me any favours with the novels. I'm always reading other people's books and finding them slightly overblown, but I suspect that I do need to indulge myself just a bit more, otherwise readers may mistake simplicity for superficiality.
Every time I look at The Curiosity Cabinet on Amazon, I am filled with rage that it has comprehensively sold out, and that Polygon have refused to reprint even a small run, and yet as I write this, there is only one second hand copy available. I think I have the last few remaining books in my own possession. Am sorely tempted to ask my agent to reclaim the rights, and Lulu it.
More Thoughts about Working for Nothing - oh and a not quite gratuitous mention of David Tennant.
Just back from a week in South of France, staying with inlaws in their little flat in a holiday village on the Mediterranean coast. Weather windy and warm, then just warm. Scarcely an English accent to be heard, which gave us all the chance to try out our French. Reassured by how much came flooding back, mostly because I used to have to speak French to my Polish relatives, that being our only common language.
Came back to a week's worth of emails as well as
A phone message about The Physic Garden - will I call back? Yes, but I only get the answering machine.
Another phone message from a pleasant sounding lady who says she has met me. She edits a small literary magazine, and wonders if I would like to do a big interview with a famous writer for them.
Switch on the PC to be met by hundreds of emails, most of which are garbage. Check them however, since Norton has a habit of dumping the odd goodie in the spam box.There is one from the same nice lady. They would like me to do the interview in June, which suits the famous writer, and then write the piece (2000 words) before autumn. The snag is that the magazine is so small that there is no money for fees. She hopes that it won't put me off because she is sure I would make a good job of it. Too right.
I have some questions.
Foremost among which is
Who among us can honestly say that they would really love to do a week's hard slog on behalf of somebody else, for no payment whatsoever? I mean I do it all the time, of course, just about whenever I write, but then I'm doing it for me, and I'm doing it because my agent has a certain amount of faith in me, and I'm doing it because - really - I can't stop myself. Plays or fiction, I love it all.
Also, why does nobody ever ring me and ask me if I will - for example - do a good long interview with David Tennant. I might stretch a point. Particularly since I could ask him if he would like to be in my next play.
I would make a good job of that kind of interview as well
I stare at the email and the phone rings. It is the nice lady. I tell her, apologetically, that I can't do the piece. Besides, I have a book review and an article to write, both of which will result in a small payment: real money of the kind much encouraged by Tesco in exchange for food.
And then, oh then, I'm resuming work on the new novel. Of which more, much more, later.
Came back to a week's worth of emails as well as
A phone message about The Physic Garden - will I call back? Yes, but I only get the answering machine.
Another phone message from a pleasant sounding lady who says she has met me. She edits a small literary magazine, and wonders if I would like to do a big interview with a famous writer for them.
Switch on the PC to be met by hundreds of emails, most of which are garbage. Check them however, since Norton has a habit of dumping the odd goodie in the spam box.There is one from the same nice lady. They would like me to do the interview in June, which suits the famous writer, and then write the piece (2000 words) before autumn. The snag is that the magazine is so small that there is no money for fees. She hopes that it won't put me off because she is sure I would make a good job of it. Too right.
I have some questions.
Foremost among which is
Who among us can honestly say that they would really love to do a week's hard slog on behalf of somebody else, for no payment whatsoever? I mean I do it all the time, of course, just about whenever I write, but then I'm doing it for me, and I'm doing it because my agent has a certain amount of faith in me, and I'm doing it because - really - I can't stop myself. Plays or fiction, I love it all.
Also, why does nobody ever ring me and ask me if I will - for example - do a good long interview with David Tennant. I might stretch a point. Particularly since I could ask him if he would like to be in my next play.
I would make a good job of that kind of interview as well
I stare at the email and the phone rings. It is the nice lady. I tell her, apologetically, that I can't do the piece. Besides, I have a book review and an article to write, both of which will result in a small payment: real money of the kind much encouraged by Tesco in exchange for food.
And then, oh then, I'm resuming work on the new novel. Of which more, much more, later.
Theatrical Ups and Downs
Have sent out several drafts of new play, The Physic Garden, to people who have asked to see it. Have irresistible impulse to tweak script in between times. Suddenly decide that the linguistic differences between the two characters should be more marked. One must be much more obviously Scots than the other. This seems to change the relationship between the two men significantly. Then decide that some of my changes are just too phonetic and would hinder rather than help actors. So tone it down, but it has served its purpose. Also, play seems much longer. An hour perhaps? Is it too repetitive? Is it, in fact, a load of old rubbish? I no longer know.
To add to my incipient paranoia, there has been no reply. Zilch, nada, nothing.
Suspecting spam boxes and deletions, I try again, but still no answer.
Attempt to print out hard copy.
Printer throws wobbly and starts printing out page after page of code. Decide that PC is definitely male. Have suspected this all along. It cannot multi-task.
Ink cartridge runs out. Find replacement at bottom of drawer.
Finally manage to print out hard copy and put it in the post.
In the evening, the phone rings. It is nice man who asked to see a copy of The Price of a Fish Supper some time ago.
They have chosen six of the Oran Mor plays to be staged at the Edinburgh Festival.
Fish Supper was the seventh on the list. Story of my life.
By now, though, I can see exactly where he is going, and why.
At the worst possible moment, from a publicity and planning point of view, the actor from one of the chosen six plays has had a better offer and has pulled out. Would I be agreeable to Fish Supper coming off the subs bench so to speak?
I would.
But of course all this depends upon (a) availability of director (b) availability of actor and (c) the final decision of the venue which may decide to go for an empty space instead of a play.
And there is very little money.
Which presumably means that the empty space costs less.
So bearing all this in mind, says nice man, would I still be agreeable?
Can he see my big shrug, I wonder?
Yes, I say. That's absolutely fine by me.
Which, of course, it is.
But meanwhile, I will not be holding my breath.
Would you?
More later, as it happens.
To add to my incipient paranoia, there has been no reply. Zilch, nada, nothing.
Suspecting spam boxes and deletions, I try again, but still no answer.
Attempt to print out hard copy.
Printer throws wobbly and starts printing out page after page of code. Decide that PC is definitely male. Have suspected this all along. It cannot multi-task.
Ink cartridge runs out. Find replacement at bottom of drawer.
Finally manage to print out hard copy and put it in the post.
In the evening, the phone rings. It is nice man who asked to see a copy of The Price of a Fish Supper some time ago.
They have chosen six of the Oran Mor plays to be staged at the Edinburgh Festival.
Fish Supper was the seventh on the list. Story of my life.
By now, though, I can see exactly where he is going, and why.
At the worst possible moment, from a publicity and planning point of view, the actor from one of the chosen six plays has had a better offer and has pulled out. Would I be agreeable to Fish Supper coming off the subs bench so to speak?
I would.
But of course all this depends upon (a) availability of director (b) availability of actor and (c) the final decision of the venue which may decide to go for an empty space instead of a play.
And there is very little money.
Which presumably means that the empty space costs less.
So bearing all this in mind, says nice man, would I still be agreeable?
Can he see my big shrug, I wonder?
Yes, I say. That's absolutely fine by me.
Which, of course, it is.
But meanwhile, I will not be holding my breath.
Would you?
More later, as it happens.
Poles and Poland in Translation
Have been asked to review a couple of books of Polish poetry, in translation, for a literary magazine. This means putting brain very much in gear, since this is demanding (but also rewarding) stuff. Wish my dad had taught me Polish when I was a child - especially now, when bilingualism might give me another source of income, since the UK is currently inundated with incoming Poles.
My dear, late dad came over here at the end of the war, via Italy, with a Polish (tank) unit of the British army. He had had a horrible bleak time of it,during a war which included the complete loss of house and home, the imprisonment and subsequent death of his own father, and successive occupations from West and East. There was a spell living in the forest, and at some time he acted as courier for the resistance. He was also in a prisoner of war camp for a time. He was a lovely lovely dad: patient, kind, optimistic and interested in everything. He almost never spoke about the war, although he did tell me plenty about his childhood in the Polish 'wild east' in what is now the Ukraine and wrote quite a lot of it down for me. Much of it was extraordinary - tales from a lost world.
He was stationed near Helmsley in North Yorkshire, and after he was demobbed, worked in a mill, on the outskirts of Leeds, which was where he met my mum. He was an economic migrant, I suppose. Later, my mum told me, somebody said to her 'I think they should send all those awful Poles back, don't you?' and she said 'No. I've just married one.'
He was trying to improve his English (and studying at night school - he subsequently became quite a distinguished research scientist) so when I came along, we always spoke English at home, although we did sometimes eat Polish food, and we did follow Polish traditions at Christmas and Easter.
Later still, I started to write a novel - a sort of Polish 'Gone with the Wind'. I didn't realise that, at the time when I began it, Poland was very far from being a marketable proposition.
Of which more, in due course!
My dear, late dad came over here at the end of the war, via Italy, with a Polish (tank) unit of the British army. He had had a horrible bleak time of it,during a war which included the complete loss of house and home, the imprisonment and subsequent death of his own father, and successive occupations from West and East. There was a spell living in the forest, and at some time he acted as courier for the resistance. He was also in a prisoner of war camp for a time. He was a lovely lovely dad: patient, kind, optimistic and interested in everything. He almost never spoke about the war, although he did tell me plenty about his childhood in the Polish 'wild east' in what is now the Ukraine and wrote quite a lot of it down for me. Much of it was extraordinary - tales from a lost world.
He was stationed near Helmsley in North Yorkshire, and after he was demobbed, worked in a mill, on the outskirts of Leeds, which was where he met my mum. He was an economic migrant, I suppose. Later, my mum told me, somebody said to her 'I think they should send all those awful Poles back, don't you?' and she said 'No. I've just married one.'
He was trying to improve his English (and studying at night school - he subsequently became quite a distinguished research scientist) so when I came along, we always spoke English at home, although we did sometimes eat Polish food, and we did follow Polish traditions at Christmas and Easter.
Later still, I started to write a novel - a sort of Polish 'Gone with the Wind'. I didn't realise that, at the time when I began it, Poland was very far from being a marketable proposition.
Of which more, in due course!
The Cutty Sark, the City of Adelaide and Living with Invisibility
In London, the Cutty Sark goes up in flames, and it headlines the national news. There is weeping and wailing, gnashing of teeth and much wringing of official hands. It is part of our heritage, it is a much loved vessel, it will be rescued come what may and cost what may.
Meanwhile, in Irvine, Ayrshire, the even older clipper, City of Adelaide (later renamed the Carrick) lies, as it has done for years, a mouldering wreck in the hugely underfunded maritime museum, another casualty of the curse of Ayrshire as well as the curse of our complete disregard for our maritime history, explored recently in the Scotsman
Expert Jim Tildesley comes on TV to say that the ship will almost certainly be 'deconstructed' - for which read dismantled under archaeological supervision, with large parts of it burnt to a crisp or sold on as souvenirs.
There was a time, a few years ago, when the harbourside at Irvine was a vibrant place, with a real buzz about it. There was the Magnum pool, ice rink and theatre, there was the Maritime Museum and there was the Big Idea science attraction. Now the Big Idea is a large white elephant, closed for many years, with the council determined to develop the land for housing. They want to move the Magnum so that they can build there too, so presumably all that will be left is an increasingly underfunded Maritime Museum full of mouldering vessels, surrounded by houses and flats.
Ayr is a particularly hideous example - read The Price of a Fish Supper below, to find out what can really happen to a harbour when the developers get their mitts on it - and now Irvine will follow suit. It would be OK if these developments included shops, restaurants and shoreside cafes. But they don't. They just include flats, and private walkways. The councils in Ayrshire have this strange skewed view of things. They want visitors to come and spend money in the area. They simply don't want to have to provide any kind of attractions for them when they get here. Well, only Golf. Meanwhile Prestwick Airport flies in screeds of tourists, who head north to the Highlands, without so much as a backward glance.
And why not?
There are times when living in this part of the world feels like living in Brigadoon, a place that is magical but invisible most of the time. Even the first BBC's 'Coast' programme completely ignored a vast chunk of picturesque south west Scotland, and only revisited it when they got a Scottish presenter. Sometimes it's as if there is a line drawn from Gretna to Glasgow, and anything to the west of it is a sort of non place which can safely be forgotten. And at one time, Ayrshire could safely be forgotten by our Labour politicians at Holyrood and Westminster, because it was such a sinecure for them. Somebody once said to me that you could have a fruit bat standing (or should that be hanging?)on a Labour ticket in Carrick, Cumnock and Doon Valley, and folk would vote for it.
There seems, thank God, to be a wind of change blowing, even in Ayrshire - but too late, perhaps, to save the Carrick /City of Adelaide from being recycled as a pitiful handful of museum exhibits and a million souvenir boxes.
Meanwhile, in Irvine, Ayrshire, the even older clipper, City of Adelaide (later renamed the Carrick) lies, as it has done for years, a mouldering wreck in the hugely underfunded maritime museum, another casualty of the curse of Ayrshire as well as the curse of our complete disregard for our maritime history, explored recently in the Scotsman
Expert Jim Tildesley comes on TV to say that the ship will almost certainly be 'deconstructed' - for which read dismantled under archaeological supervision, with large parts of it burnt to a crisp or sold on as souvenirs.
There was a time, a few years ago, when the harbourside at Irvine was a vibrant place, with a real buzz about it. There was the Magnum pool, ice rink and theatre, there was the Maritime Museum and there was the Big Idea science attraction. Now the Big Idea is a large white elephant, closed for many years, with the council determined to develop the land for housing. They want to move the Magnum so that they can build there too, so presumably all that will be left is an increasingly underfunded Maritime Museum full of mouldering vessels, surrounded by houses and flats.
Ayr is a particularly hideous example - read The Price of a Fish Supper below, to find out what can really happen to a harbour when the developers get their mitts on it - and now Irvine will follow suit. It would be OK if these developments included shops, restaurants and shoreside cafes. But they don't. They just include flats, and private walkways. The councils in Ayrshire have this strange skewed view of things. They want visitors to come and spend money in the area. They simply don't want to have to provide any kind of attractions for them when they get here. Well, only Golf. Meanwhile Prestwick Airport flies in screeds of tourists, who head north to the Highlands, without so much as a backward glance.
And why not?
There are times when living in this part of the world feels like living in Brigadoon, a place that is magical but invisible most of the time. Even the first BBC's 'Coast' programme completely ignored a vast chunk of picturesque south west Scotland, and only revisited it when they got a Scottish presenter. Sometimes it's as if there is a line drawn from Gretna to Glasgow, and anything to the west of it is a sort of non place which can safely be forgotten. And at one time, Ayrshire could safely be forgotten by our Labour politicians at Holyrood and Westminster, because it was such a sinecure for them. Somebody once said to me that you could have a fruit bat standing (or should that be hanging?)on a Labour ticket in Carrick, Cumnock and Doon Valley, and folk would vote for it.
There seems, thank God, to be a wind of change blowing, even in Ayrshire - but too late, perhaps, to save the Carrick /City of Adelaide from being recycled as a pitiful handful of museum exhibits and a million souvenir boxes.
Keep on Blogging
Have been considering the struggle to be known, to network, which seems to be what it's all about these days. Piece in last week's Scottish Sunday Herald about publisher's editors trawling blogs for the Next Big Thing. At once heartening and depressing. Do you know how many millions of blogs there are out there? And then some.
Trouble is, it's possible to waste whole life in pursuit of elusive Next Big Thing, while somewhere else, the true Jaberwocky of the real Next Big Thing is unexpectedly whiffling through the tulgey wood of somebody else's imagination, no doubt burbling as it comes.
Have been whiffling my way happily through Chris Anderson's wonderful, anarchic, iconoclastic book, The Long Tail, over the past few evenings. 'Fundamentally, a society that asks questions and has the power to answer them is a healthier society than one that simply accepts what it's told from a narrow range of experts and institutions' he says, with which I can only agree.
The essence of the book is that the future of business does not lie only in a small number of blockbuster 'hits' but in those, plus an endless line of all those millions of things, real, or virtual, from music to books, from specialised widgets to specialised information, to be found on sites from Amazon and eBay to Wikipedia and MySpace - and Blogger, of course - with all the opportunities in between. Given access to more choice, our tastes are more eclectic than even we ourselves realise - and we will find like minded souls in ever more niche areas of life. Which is strangely heartening. The Web is a seredipitious place, which is why most writers love it.
So we keep on blogging, because we're communicators, and it's better to get stuff out there than to keep it sitting in a folder in the bottom drawer of the desk. Even if we do it for free. Which should be a scary thought for publishers everywhere. There is, let's face it, a microscopically small number of writers who make any more than a pittance out of what they write. The rest of us soldier on for peanuts, or nothing, in the hopes of being discovered as the Next Big Thing. But more and more of us seem to be deciding that we would rather write what we like, and put it out there ourselves, for nothing, than desperately search for the elusive 'deal' which is about as likely as winning the lottery, only takes up a hell of a lot more time and effort than buying a ticket.
There may be a hell of a lot of crap out there, but there is also plenty of interesting stuff to be discovered, and coming across it is one of the joys of the Web. As Anderson points out, what we need is more and better aggregators - unconstrained by the bottom line, the accountants, the suits - to point us in ever more serendipitous directions.
Trouble is, it's possible to waste whole life in pursuit of elusive Next Big Thing, while somewhere else, the true Jaberwocky of the real Next Big Thing is unexpectedly whiffling through the tulgey wood of somebody else's imagination, no doubt burbling as it comes.
Have been whiffling my way happily through Chris Anderson's wonderful, anarchic, iconoclastic book, The Long Tail, over the past few evenings. 'Fundamentally, a society that asks questions and has the power to answer them is a healthier society than one that simply accepts what it's told from a narrow range of experts and institutions' he says, with which I can only agree.
The essence of the book is that the future of business does not lie only in a small number of blockbuster 'hits' but in those, plus an endless line of all those millions of things, real, or virtual, from music to books, from specialised widgets to specialised information, to be found on sites from Amazon and eBay to Wikipedia and MySpace - and Blogger, of course - with all the opportunities in between. Given access to more choice, our tastes are more eclectic than even we ourselves realise - and we will find like minded souls in ever more niche areas of life. Which is strangely heartening. The Web is a seredipitious place, which is why most writers love it.
So we keep on blogging, because we're communicators, and it's better to get stuff out there than to keep it sitting in a folder in the bottom drawer of the desk. Even if we do it for free. Which should be a scary thought for publishers everywhere. There is, let's face it, a microscopically small number of writers who make any more than a pittance out of what they write. The rest of us soldier on for peanuts, or nothing, in the hopes of being discovered as the Next Big Thing. But more and more of us seem to be deciding that we would rather write what we like, and put it out there ourselves, for nothing, than desperately search for the elusive 'deal' which is about as likely as winning the lottery, only takes up a hell of a lot more time and effort than buying a ticket.
There may be a hell of a lot of crap out there, but there is also plenty of interesting stuff to be discovered, and coming across it is one of the joys of the Web. As Anderson points out, what we need is more and better aggregators - unconstrained by the bottom line, the accountants, the suits - to point us in ever more serendipitous directions.
Poetry and Pond Life Cookery
Spend morning in kitchen, baking a very large pie for a friend's birthday barbecue this afternoon. Pie filling consists mainly of rhubarb from the garden. While making pastry (never my strong suit) watch strangely compulsive saturday morning cookery programmes on TV. Two chefs are competing for privilege of cooking for some event in France. Miss beginning of programme, so am not sure what event.
Am bemused by judges, a trio of such crashing old snobs, their comments so close to self satire, that if I wrote them in a play the critics wouldn't believe me. Do they imagine that the majority of people watch the programme to admire their perception? Do they know that the majority of people watch it, partly to see the chefs sweat, partly to marvel at the strange and uneppetising combinations of food, and almost wholly to scoff at the judges? Amazingly clever double bluff on part of the programme makers. They can't lose really, can they?
Just as I am fitting swathe of Jamie Oliver's buttery pastry into large and lovely earthenware pie dish (made by my friends at Peinn Mor pottery near Girvan, if you want to know) I am brought up short by a dish described as 'A warm salad of duck liver, heart, snails and bacon.'
Even typing those words gives me a quick qualm of nausea. Wonder why? Think it has something to do with the connections between the words. It's like a line from a poem, in that it conjures up a crowd of images over and beyond itself. Not very nice images either.
Not helped by one of the judges commenting on the 'wonderful smell of offal'.
Queasy stomach is improved by the next programme which involves Gary Rhodes cooking duck breasts this time, in competition with a Takeaway. No contest really. Don't need all these gimmicks with Gary. He's sheer poetry and theatre rolled into one. Why don't they just let him cook and talk to the camera? Suspect he could even make warm salad of pond life seem appetising.
Am bemused by judges, a trio of such crashing old snobs, their comments so close to self satire, that if I wrote them in a play the critics wouldn't believe me. Do they imagine that the majority of people watch the programme to admire their perception? Do they know that the majority of people watch it, partly to see the chefs sweat, partly to marvel at the strange and uneppetising combinations of food, and almost wholly to scoff at the judges? Amazingly clever double bluff on part of the programme makers. They can't lose really, can they?
Just as I am fitting swathe of Jamie Oliver's buttery pastry into large and lovely earthenware pie dish (made by my friends at Peinn Mor pottery near Girvan, if you want to know) I am brought up short by a dish described as 'A warm salad of duck liver, heart, snails and bacon.'
Even typing those words gives me a quick qualm of nausea. Wonder why? Think it has something to do with the connections between the words. It's like a line from a poem, in that it conjures up a crowd of images over and beyond itself. Not very nice images either.
Not helped by one of the judges commenting on the 'wonderful smell of offal'.
Queasy stomach is improved by the next programme which involves Gary Rhodes cooking duck breasts this time, in competition with a Takeaway. No contest really. Don't need all these gimmicks with Gary. He's sheer poetry and theatre rolled into one. Why don't they just let him cook and talk to the camera? Suspect he could even make warm salad of pond life seem appetising.
Random Weirdness on the Phone
Have just had call from weird American trying to interest me in a mineral mining operation. He says he has emailed me. I refrain from telling him I have software to deal with that sort of thing. I am not that kind of business, I tell him.
But don't you have investments? he asks me.
No, I say. I'm a creative writer. I don't have any money, never mind investments. And - I add - I think I am terminating this call now. Which I do.
Afterwards, wonder why I felt impelled to use that very strange turn of phrase?
Was fast asleep in bed the other night when woke with a start to sound of mobile phone ringing in room next door.
This is, incidentally, the only room in the house which gets a signal. You usually have to lurk near the window to pick it up. The phone was nowhere near the window, so the very fact that it was ringing seemed a bit odd.
Plus, phonecalls at one in the morning are not good news.
Went off before I could get to it. Message flashed up. Twelve missed calls. Hell's teeth.
All from large viking like son.
Aaaargh.
Generalised mum's panic sets in.
While I'm fumbling about with it in semi dark and no specs, it starts ringing again.
Press green button to be met with strange click clack noise, faint traffic sounds (like city skyline FX in a radio play) and the occasional distant voice in conversation with somebody else.
Nobody actually speaking to me.
Switch it off and it rings again. Same noise.
This happens several times.
Then silence.
Try dialling number. It rings twice, and then seems to be answered by ....strange click clack noise, faint traffic sounds, distant conversation.
Try a few more times. Same reply.
Switch it off and go to bed. Do not sleep well.
In the morning, restrain self from meanly calling son at 7 am. Wait until 9 o'clock and call. He is up and working. Denies all knowledge of calls.
'But the keypad was locked' he points out.
Call him later in the week. His phone - a simple, pay as you go phone - has been making random calls to other people in his address book. Friends have contacted him to ask why he called them several times.
Told you so, I say.
Gremlins. Glitches in the Matrix. The phones are alive.
But don't you have investments? he asks me.
No, I say. I'm a creative writer. I don't have any money, never mind investments. And - I add - I think I am terminating this call now. Which I do.
Afterwards, wonder why I felt impelled to use that very strange turn of phrase?
Was fast asleep in bed the other night when woke with a start to sound of mobile phone ringing in room next door.
This is, incidentally, the only room in the house which gets a signal. You usually have to lurk near the window to pick it up. The phone was nowhere near the window, so the very fact that it was ringing seemed a bit odd.
Plus, phonecalls at one in the morning are not good news.
Went off before I could get to it. Message flashed up. Twelve missed calls. Hell's teeth.
All from large viking like son.
Aaaargh.
Generalised mum's panic sets in.
While I'm fumbling about with it in semi dark and no specs, it starts ringing again.
Press green button to be met with strange click clack noise, faint traffic sounds (like city skyline FX in a radio play) and the occasional distant voice in conversation with somebody else.
Nobody actually speaking to me.
Switch it off and it rings again. Same noise.
This happens several times.
Then silence.
Try dialling number. It rings twice, and then seems to be answered by ....strange click clack noise, faint traffic sounds, distant conversation.
Try a few more times. Same reply.
Switch it off and go to bed. Do not sleep well.
In the morning, restrain self from meanly calling son at 7 am. Wait until 9 o'clock and call. He is up and working. Denies all knowledge of calls.
'But the keypad was locked' he points out.
Call him later in the week. His phone - a simple, pay as you go phone - has been making random calls to other people in his address book. Friends have contacted him to ask why he called them several times.
Told you so, I say.
Gremlins. Glitches in the Matrix. The phones are alive.
Head for the Cities
If I were asked to give one piece of advice to young, aspiring writers, I know what it would be.
Go and live in a city. Or don't leave one.
It doesn't have to be London. Though if you want to be a novelist, it might be a good idea. But if you want to be a playwright it had better be somewhere with a thriving theatrical life.
Some years ago, I was at a stage in my career where, as well as masses of radio drama, I'd had a novel published, I'd done a bit of telly, I had a London agent, I was giving public readings, and becoming reasonably well known as a Scottish writer. Then, for a complicated combination of perfectly good reasons, I took the decision to move to the countryside. Personally, this was exactly the right move at the time. It was certainly the right move in terms of my emotional life and for my family. So I can't say I have ever regretted it. I love where I live, and I've never really been in the business of might- have-beens.
But as far as my career goes, it was quite possibly the worst move I could have made, especially since, at the time, I had aspirations as a playwright.
If I had stayed in Edinburgh or Glasgow, my profile would have been that much higher. When I look at my track record, it's pretty good, but there has never been a time when I felt - or was treated - as though I was building on the solid foundations of a well established career. It's like having to apply for the same job, over and over and over again.
We're assuming a certain amount of writing talent here, but to make it as a playwright, it isn't enough to write a few reasonably well reviewed plays.You also have to be seen in theatrical circles. You have to hang about in the Traverse Bar or the Tron and meet people. You have to go to opening nights, and network like mad. All of which I quite enjoy. But when you live a long way out of town, that becomes a problem in itself. Sure, it can be done, but it costs money which you don't have. And it takes time. And that's just Scotland. Move out of your comfort zone to England or the US and you'll probably have to start all over again.
Even with novels - and again assuming a basic level of talent and a handful of original ideas - the launch parties matter, the networking, who you know and who knows you, where you are seen, how comfortable you are within an urban context and - increasingly - whether you can write grittily about that urban context.
It is, I suspect, too late now - though if I had a premium bond win, my first purchase would be a small flat in Glasgow for part time use - but I reckon it's good advice all the same. There are anomalies of course: writers who work with such a strong sense of a particular rural place that they are completely enmeshed and associated with it. You would think that the Web would have changed things, and maybe it has. But we're still only at the start of that interesting process and for now, my best advice for aspiring writers everywhere, but playwrights in particular, would be to head for the bright lights, put on your best smile, and get yourself known
Go and live in a city. Or don't leave one.
It doesn't have to be London. Though if you want to be a novelist, it might be a good idea. But if you want to be a playwright it had better be somewhere with a thriving theatrical life.
Some years ago, I was at a stage in my career where, as well as masses of radio drama, I'd had a novel published, I'd done a bit of telly, I had a London agent, I was giving public readings, and becoming reasonably well known as a Scottish writer. Then, for a complicated combination of perfectly good reasons, I took the decision to move to the countryside. Personally, this was exactly the right move at the time. It was certainly the right move in terms of my emotional life and for my family. So I can't say I have ever regretted it. I love where I live, and I've never really been in the business of might- have-beens.
But as far as my career goes, it was quite possibly the worst move I could have made, especially since, at the time, I had aspirations as a playwright.
If I had stayed in Edinburgh or Glasgow, my profile would have been that much higher. When I look at my track record, it's pretty good, but there has never been a time when I felt - or was treated - as though I was building on the solid foundations of a well established career. It's like having to apply for the same job, over and over and over again.
We're assuming a certain amount of writing talent here, but to make it as a playwright, it isn't enough to write a few reasonably well reviewed plays.You also have to be seen in theatrical circles. You have to hang about in the Traverse Bar or the Tron and meet people. You have to go to opening nights, and network like mad. All of which I quite enjoy. But when you live a long way out of town, that becomes a problem in itself. Sure, it can be done, but it costs money which you don't have. And it takes time. And that's just Scotland. Move out of your comfort zone to England or the US and you'll probably have to start all over again.
Even with novels - and again assuming a basic level of talent and a handful of original ideas - the launch parties matter, the networking, who you know and who knows you, where you are seen, how comfortable you are within an urban context and - increasingly - whether you can write grittily about that urban context.
It is, I suspect, too late now - though if I had a premium bond win, my first purchase would be a small flat in Glasgow for part time use - but I reckon it's good advice all the same. There are anomalies of course: writers who work with such a strong sense of a particular rural place that they are completely enmeshed and associated with it. You would think that the Web would have changed things, and maybe it has. But we're still only at the start of that interesting process and for now, my best advice for aspiring writers everywhere, but playwrights in particular, would be to head for the bright lights, put on your best smile, and get yourself known
Jean Armour and Robert Burns.
Burns on the Solway (see post below this one) was another Oran Mor production. The play was a long time brewing, and one of these days I may go back to it and write something longer on the same subject, though Lord knows there have been plenty of plays about the poet. I've loved Burns, ever since we moved to Scotland when I was only 12 - a romantic and impressionable age! Once I discovered his songs, I was hooked. What other writer, at this time and place, could so precisely put himself into the mind of a woman, and write so sympathetically from her point of view? And if you want to know what I mean, read My Tocher's The Jewel for a fiercely female song, a full two hundred years ahead of its time. There are a number of otherwise distinguished Scots writers who can't even manage it now.
Later, I wrote a radio play about the inspiration behind Tam O' Shanter. And I gradually realised that - unlike so many (male) academics who wrote about the poet - I was becoming fascinated by the woman who became his wife: Jean Armour. She always seems to be relegated in favour of Highland Mary, Clarinda, or Maria Riddell, depending upon the writer's particular taste in heroines. (Men can be romantic too, they just conveniently categorise it as something else.)But I began to believe that Jean Armour may have been the one real love of the poet's life.
Perhaps writers are deterred by the Gilfillan portrait of 1822, when her husband had been dead for 26 years: a rather grim-faced elderly lady in a bonnet. But look closer and you will see her for what she is: a smart matriarch (why else would she be wearing her best bonnet?) with greying but still dark curls peeping out from below the frills, large, wideset, thoughtful eyes which must once have been stunning, rosy cheeks, and a slightly set line to her mouth which speaks not of ill temper, but of the memory of sorrow, or possibly even present pain: arthritis or rheumatism. She has a real 'Ayrshire' look about her. You can see many like her today, bonnie lassies all: lovely, clear skinned, capable young Scotswomen, like trees in bloom, strong and attractive.
Mauchline was a small place. Jean knew Highland Mary Campbell and her reputation, and by some accounts didn't like her very much. Like many a woman before her, she couldn't see how Rab could be so deceived in her, but Rab was always a soft touch where a pretty face and female vulnerability was concerned. The same goes for Clarinda. Although he wrote one of his most beautiful love songs for Nancy McLehose, it doesn't make her any less of a tease, nor does it change the sense you get from their correspondence that Rab was playing a game and that she was a willing conspirator - a kind of flirtatious game which it would never in a million years have occurred to honest Jean to play. Maria Riddell was a more serious proposition. It seems they were friends, and may or may not have been lovers. Certainly, she was bright, clever, and adored him. He enjoyed her company, genuinely liked her and was cut to the quick when she fell out with him, big time. Why else would he have written such bitterly satirical verses about her? They were reconciled before he died; Maria even visited his widow, and did her best to organise some financial help for her.
But Jean was the real woman in his life. It was serious with Jean. Her voice, herself, the essence of her is in so many of his best songs. She is at the heart of so much that we know and love about him. And if that seems overly romantic, it doesn't mean that it isn't true. It's just that her influence on him is seriously undersold.
She could sing, for one thing. Though Burns knew a good song when he heard it, and was perhaps the best lyricist ever to come out of Scotland, he was no musician. Jean was his voice. So many of the songs are essentially her songs. Even when they were not directly about her, I think he heard them in her voice. She was a kindly soul, a good woman in the best sense of the word, although she was very afraid of her father. She was attractive, and - although inexperienced when they met - she was comfortable in her own body. She loved him. She loved him enough to forgive him. She loved him enough to bring up his children by other women, although the more I learn about her, the more I suspect that she just loved children. She knew what it was to lose a child, and there was no way she was going to allow the sins of the father to be visited on his offspring.
For sure, she was a country lass and much is made of the fact that she wasn't his 'intellectual equal' - but there is another side to Robert Burns. Contemporary accounts (often with a certain amount of surprise) tell us that for much of his time, he was happy to live the life of a country farmer, fond of hearth and home, with the weans playing about his feet. And why not? It was the life he had been brought up to and it suited him.
So the play is as much about Jean, as it is about Robert - it is about the relationship between the two of them, as much as it is about the 'great poet'. It's not meant to be judgemental: it's just an exploration of the way it may have been, and an attempt to restore Jean Armour to her proper - and central - place in the poet's life.
Later, I wrote a radio play about the inspiration behind Tam O' Shanter. And I gradually realised that - unlike so many (male) academics who wrote about the poet - I was becoming fascinated by the woman who became his wife: Jean Armour. She always seems to be relegated in favour of Highland Mary, Clarinda, or Maria Riddell, depending upon the writer's particular taste in heroines. (Men can be romantic too, they just conveniently categorise it as something else.)But I began to believe that Jean Armour may have been the one real love of the poet's life.
Perhaps writers are deterred by the Gilfillan portrait of 1822, when her husband had been dead for 26 years: a rather grim-faced elderly lady in a bonnet. But look closer and you will see her for what she is: a smart matriarch (why else would she be wearing her best bonnet?) with greying but still dark curls peeping out from below the frills, large, wideset, thoughtful eyes which must once have been stunning, rosy cheeks, and a slightly set line to her mouth which speaks not of ill temper, but of the memory of sorrow, or possibly even present pain: arthritis or rheumatism. She has a real 'Ayrshire' look about her. You can see many like her today, bonnie lassies all: lovely, clear skinned, capable young Scotswomen, like trees in bloom, strong and attractive.
Mauchline was a small place. Jean knew Highland Mary Campbell and her reputation, and by some accounts didn't like her very much. Like many a woman before her, she couldn't see how Rab could be so deceived in her, but Rab was always a soft touch where a pretty face and female vulnerability was concerned. The same goes for Clarinda. Although he wrote one of his most beautiful love songs for Nancy McLehose, it doesn't make her any less of a tease, nor does it change the sense you get from their correspondence that Rab was playing a game and that she was a willing conspirator - a kind of flirtatious game which it would never in a million years have occurred to honest Jean to play. Maria Riddell was a more serious proposition. It seems they were friends, and may or may not have been lovers. Certainly, she was bright, clever, and adored him. He enjoyed her company, genuinely liked her and was cut to the quick when she fell out with him, big time. Why else would he have written such bitterly satirical verses about her? They were reconciled before he died; Maria even visited his widow, and did her best to organise some financial help for her.
But Jean was the real woman in his life. It was serious with Jean. Her voice, herself, the essence of her is in so many of his best songs. She is at the heart of so much that we know and love about him. And if that seems overly romantic, it doesn't mean that it isn't true. It's just that her influence on him is seriously undersold.
She could sing, for one thing. Though Burns knew a good song when he heard it, and was perhaps the best lyricist ever to come out of Scotland, he was no musician. Jean was his voice. So many of the songs are essentially her songs. Even when they were not directly about her, I think he heard them in her voice. She was a kindly soul, a good woman in the best sense of the word, although she was very afraid of her father. She was attractive, and - although inexperienced when they met - she was comfortable in her own body. She loved him. She loved him enough to forgive him. She loved him enough to bring up his children by other women, although the more I learn about her, the more I suspect that she just loved children. She knew what it was to lose a child, and there was no way she was going to allow the sins of the father to be visited on his offspring.
For sure, she was a country lass and much is made of the fact that she wasn't his 'intellectual equal' - but there is another side to Robert Burns. Contemporary accounts (often with a certain amount of surprise) tell us that for much of his time, he was happy to live the life of a country farmer, fond of hearth and home, with the weans playing about his feet. And why not? It was the life he had been brought up to and it suited him.
So the play is as much about Jean, as it is about Robert - it is about the relationship between the two of them, as much as it is about the 'great poet'. It's not meant to be judgemental: it's just an exploration of the way it may have been, and an attempt to restore Jean Armour to her proper - and central - place in the poet's life.
Monkeying About The Secret Forest
I was emailing a colleague yesterday, when I realised that my husband and his friend were carrying large, carved, scary, wooden monkey through house. Is it me, or are such bizarre events increasingly commonplace in this household? Life grows ever more surreal.Monkey, nicknamed Harrison, for reasons best known to Alan (possibly string of connections starting with Chewbacca, via Han Solo) is destined for the Secret Forest in Kelburn Country Centre, near Fairlie in Ayrshire.
Alan has a large number of his carvings there (and some of his paintings in the cafe as well). Every year, he has to replace a few of them, since they are pinched, by appreciative members of the public. Wish they would decide to buy them, rather than nicking them, but at least they like them. Says he is considering carving 'Stolen from Kelburn Country Park' into the back of them.
Harrison is intended to be scary, and has teeth like no monkey in life. He was transported to Troon Cruising Club, where he embarked on small yacht to be ferried to Largs Marina, by water. Husband and friend tell me they lashed him to the mast for the final leg of the journey. They also say that as they motored into the marina, there were many spectators, but nobody laughed. Find this hard to believe, but sailors sometimes take things (and themselves) very seriously. Harrison will be seen, shortly, by visitors to Kelburn.
Late yesterday afternoon, I joined the boat. Harrison had already departed for his new home. Boat is joint project of husband and friend. Old and rather nice Scandinavian built yacht, called Swedish Maid, which name always elicits giggles. Wonder why?
Always forget how much I dislike sleeping on small boats. Or not sleeping. Must down to the seas again, or perhaps not. Bang head all the time. Husband and friend are like two small boys, camping in the garden. They adore it all. Only remedy is to drink a lot of wine Once spent three months aboard a boat in the Canaries - but it was a 50 foot catamaran, that Alan was skippering for a charter company. It was wonderful. Sat and watched the harbour for days on end. Wrote an extremely romantic book called The Golden Apple. Came back pregnant. Nothing has ever really lived up to it since.
The Physic Garden
Finally finished another draft of the new play. Well, I use the word 'finished' loosely, since plays are never finished but hang around in your head, demanding to be tweaked. I suppose what I mean is that it really is time to stop for a bit, let it lie fallow, maybe let somebody else have a look at it - and come back to it in a little while. This is a two hander about William and Thomas. William is a gardener and Thomas is a doctor. The play is set in the early 1800s in Glasgow, and these were real people. I've called the play The Physic Garden for so long that I can't think of it as anything else, but still feel that An Uncommon Gardener may be a better title.
What is it about? The question every writer dreads. (Along with 'Are you still writing?' of course.) It's about an uncommon gardener and a lecturer in botany. It's about two men from quite different stations in life who are nevertheless friends. It's about (I increasingly realised as I wrote it) at least one of them loving the other, though in denial about it. It's also about botany versus anatomy, about a passion for green and growing things, versus the showmanship of dissection. It's about disappointment and the desire for success, about the fear of poverty and aspirations than can never be fulfilled. From this end of the process I realise that these are big ideas for what is really quite a small play - three longish scenes. Maybe I am trying to pour a pint into a half pint pot. Don't know. It may need to be longer and have more characters. But perhaps not yet. Of the two, William the gardener has become so real to me that I can see him move and hear him speak. So why is it Thomas that I find myself feeling sorry for?
These days, I write plays the way I used to write poems. I have this uncontrollable impulse to pare the language down and make line endings and rhythm and punctuation - or lack of it - matter. The shape on the page becomes important as well as the shape on the stage. Love doing it, love hearing these voices and seeing these people move, and love seeing what actors make of it (when I can!) but in the writing of it am like somebody feeling my way through a dark maze. Not sure where I'm going or if I'll get there in the end.
What is it about? The question every writer dreads. (Along with 'Are you still writing?' of course.) It's about an uncommon gardener and a lecturer in botany. It's about two men from quite different stations in life who are nevertheless friends. It's about (I increasingly realised as I wrote it) at least one of them loving the other, though in denial about it. It's also about botany versus anatomy, about a passion for green and growing things, versus the showmanship of dissection. It's about disappointment and the desire for success, about the fear of poverty and aspirations than can never be fulfilled. From this end of the process I realise that these are big ideas for what is really quite a small play - three longish scenes. Maybe I am trying to pour a pint into a half pint pot. Don't know. It may need to be longer and have more characters. But perhaps not yet. Of the two, William the gardener has become so real to me that I can see him move and hear him speak. So why is it Thomas that I find myself feeling sorry for?
These days, I write plays the way I used to write poems. I have this uncontrollable impulse to pare the language down and make line endings and rhythm and punctuation - or lack of it - matter. The shape on the page becomes important as well as the shape on the stage. Love doing it, love hearing these voices and seeing these people move, and love seeing what actors make of it (when I can!) but in the writing of it am like somebody feeling my way through a dark maze. Not sure where I'm going or if I'll get there in the end.
Bookshop Miseries
Rainy Glasgow. While waiting for my son, I wander round Borders books on Buchanan Street.
Am distressed and puzzled to find that I cannot see a single book I want to read, let alone buy. Why? It's like when you spend £100 at the Supermarket and arrive home with nothing you can actually eat.
Could it be because this seems to be so obviously somebody else's choice, so different from my own, so thoroughly Metropolitan that I just don't get it?
Or could it be because so many of them seem to be rehashes of the Last Big Thing in an effort to turn them into the Next Big Thing?
Notice that the trend seems to be for covers to look like vintage railway posters. Covers actually seem much more interesting than contents.
It must, surely, be me, faintly depressed, in rainy Glasgow.
The single book that draws my attention is a new translation of stories by Tove Jansson called The Winter Book. I dramatised her Summer Book for BBC Radio 4, way back when. It was a favourite of mine, and the producer alike, a masterpiece in miniature. It took us years of trying to get it through the BBC's suspicious defences. (A Finnish writer of children's stories? Who could possibly be interested?) I almost buy The Winter Book, but the queue is so long that I think better of it. Don't have twenty minutes to spare. Will probably find myself looking for it on Amazon, while lamenting the demise of the book shop.
There is a brilliant blogger called Grumpy Old Bookman. Realise that I am definitely becoming a grumpy old bookwoman.
Realise too that I find second hand bookshops (or those with an enticing mixture of new and old) far more congenial than the big chains. Which is some admission for a living writer to make. There is one in Wigtown called Readinglasses which is so wonderful that I'd be happy to live there for a while, browsing happily, fortified by their excellent home made bread and local cheese and fresh coffee.
Am distressed and puzzled to find that I cannot see a single book I want to read, let alone buy. Why? It's like when you spend £100 at the Supermarket and arrive home with nothing you can actually eat.
Could it be because this seems to be so obviously somebody else's choice, so different from my own, so thoroughly Metropolitan that I just don't get it?
Or could it be because so many of them seem to be rehashes of the Last Big Thing in an effort to turn them into the Next Big Thing?
Notice that the trend seems to be for covers to look like vintage railway posters. Covers actually seem much more interesting than contents.
It must, surely, be me, faintly depressed, in rainy Glasgow.
The single book that draws my attention is a new translation of stories by Tove Jansson called The Winter Book. I dramatised her Summer Book for BBC Radio 4, way back when. It was a favourite of mine, and the producer alike, a masterpiece in miniature. It took us years of trying to get it through the BBC's suspicious defences. (A Finnish writer of children's stories? Who could possibly be interested?) I almost buy The Winter Book, but the queue is so long that I think better of it. Don't have twenty minutes to spare. Will probably find myself looking for it on Amazon, while lamenting the demise of the book shop.
There is a brilliant blogger called Grumpy Old Bookman. Realise that I am definitely becoming a grumpy old bookwoman.
Realise too that I find second hand bookshops (or those with an enticing mixture of new and old) far more congenial than the big chains. Which is some admission for a living writer to make. There is one in Wigtown called Readinglasses which is so wonderful that I'd be happy to live there for a while, browsing happily, fortified by their excellent home made bread and local cheese and fresh coffee.
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