I seem to be leading my professional life backwards these days. Having gone back to writing poetry, I now seem to want to go back to writing short stories as well. But it isn't so very strange because I do think that poems and short stories seem to come from the same source of inspiration. Occasionally something will present itself as an idea for a poem but then you find that you need considerably more elbow room and it somehow turns itself into a short story. I reviewed William Trevor's recent volume of short stories, Cheating at Canasta, for the FT last year and it seemed to me as though his stories had the quality of poems - so densely layered that although they were a wonderful read they were a somewhat uncomfortable read as well. It was like throwing a pebble into a still pool, watching the ever widening rings and uneasily wondering exactly what has been stirred up there.
Then last week I went to a reading by Bernard MacLaverty who reminds me of Trevor, and not because both are Irish writers. Bernard's stories are quite different from Trevor's and very much in his own voice, but there is a quality of observation, of wisdom, of a deceptive simplicity with profound depths beneath, that is shared by both writers and which makes them both wonderfully readable.
Somebody in the audience asked him for advice about writing and he said 'Yes. Don't trust anybody who gives you advice about writing.' But he also suggested that - in pursuing your own unique voice - it is no bad thing to imitate those writers whose work you love. I agree. Too much prescriptive criticism from people who don't actually know that much about writing themselves can be very destructive to the creative impulses. But that's quite a different matter from using a fine writer like a pair of stabilisers on a bike - before you know it, you're off, peddling furiously all on your own.
What's in a Name?
After all these years, I am seriously thinking of changing my name. Actually, I probably don't need to do that. All I need to do is use my other name, the one I acquired when I got married. Lees. Catherine Lees. Easy to say, spell and remember.
Except that when I did get married, my then agent said 'you're not changing your name are you?' and I said 'no'. But maybe back then, it would have been a good thing.
I've been thinking about this a lot recently, because for all that I've spent the past twenty five years or so as a reasonably successful full time freelance writer, earning my living that way (a pretty precarious living, but still!) with awards and fellowships and plays and publications to boot, nobody up here in the small pond that is Scottish literature ever remembers who I am and - much more important - what it is I do.
So what has prompted this cry from the heart? Or should that be howl of protest? Partly it was because, for some unknown reason, I was prompted to join a Facebook group called Wannabee a Writer. Still don't quite remember why I did it. Anyway, I finally saw the light and thought, I've got an agent, a substantial body of published and produced work, and even, God help me, a play as recommended reading on the Scottish Higher Drama syllabus. If I'm not a writer now, I never will be. And like a small pebble starting a landslide, that caused me to question my whole writing persona.
Partly it's my own fault of course because I've chopped and changed a lot, working - variously - on radio drama, television, theatre, stories, novels, non fiction and poetry, with a bit of journalism thrown in for good measure, but then I'm not alone in this. Most writers find that they have to have a portfolio of work to keep them going.
Catherine, I said to myself, You are no longer a wannabee. (You can tell that I give myself some very good advice, though I very seldom follow it.)
But all writers, I think, find it hard to see themselves as professionals partly because a writing career generally evolves over a long period and we learn and change all the time. So we tend to retain that feeling of being an apprentice long after other professionals have taken full advantage of their experienced status. And guess what - that's how people tend to treat us. They take us at our own valuation and tell us that it's a nice little hobby we have there, and ask us what it is that we actually do for a living?
Mind you, I find that many male writers, particularly here in Scotland, do tend to be much more full of confidence in themselves and their abilities than the females. They know what they want to write and how they want to write it, they go ahead and do it - and once more, people take them at their own valuation. In promotional terms, whatever they do, they seem to start out with a very clear idea of their own branding.
So maybe that's the answer. Maybe I need to rebrand myself. Reposition myself in the market place. Invent a new me. Give myself a new name. And I think I need to start pleasing myself more. By which I don't mean selfishly ignoring the needs of others, but actively trying to ask myself what - in a professional sense - might make me happy. Pleasing myself. It's a simple enough concept but in the context of what I do for a living, it seems frighteningly revolutionary.
I think I need to go and lie down in a darkened room and think about it some more!
Except that when I did get married, my then agent said 'you're not changing your name are you?' and I said 'no'. But maybe back then, it would have been a good thing.
I've been thinking about this a lot recently, because for all that I've spent the past twenty five years or so as a reasonably successful full time freelance writer, earning my living that way (a pretty precarious living, but still!) with awards and fellowships and plays and publications to boot, nobody up here in the small pond that is Scottish literature ever remembers who I am and - much more important - what it is I do.
So what has prompted this cry from the heart? Or should that be howl of protest? Partly it was because, for some unknown reason, I was prompted to join a Facebook group called Wannabee a Writer. Still don't quite remember why I did it. Anyway, I finally saw the light and thought, I've got an agent, a substantial body of published and produced work, and even, God help me, a play as recommended reading on the Scottish Higher Drama syllabus. If I'm not a writer now, I never will be. And like a small pebble starting a landslide, that caused me to question my whole writing persona.
Partly it's my own fault of course because I've chopped and changed a lot, working - variously - on radio drama, television, theatre, stories, novels, non fiction and poetry, with a bit of journalism thrown in for good measure, but then I'm not alone in this. Most writers find that they have to have a portfolio of work to keep them going.
Catherine, I said to myself, You are no longer a wannabee. (You can tell that I give myself some very good advice, though I very seldom follow it.)
But all writers, I think, find it hard to see themselves as professionals partly because a writing career generally evolves over a long period and we learn and change all the time. So we tend to retain that feeling of being an apprentice long after other professionals have taken full advantage of their experienced status. And guess what - that's how people tend to treat us. They take us at our own valuation and tell us that it's a nice little hobby we have there, and ask us what it is that we actually do for a living?
Mind you, I find that many male writers, particularly here in Scotland, do tend to be much more full of confidence in themselves and their abilities than the females. They know what they want to write and how they want to write it, they go ahead and do it - and once more, people take them at their own valuation. In promotional terms, whatever they do, they seem to start out with a very clear idea of their own branding.
So maybe that's the answer. Maybe I need to rebrand myself. Reposition myself in the market place. Invent a new me. Give myself a new name. And I think I need to start pleasing myself more. By which I don't mean selfishly ignoring the needs of others, but actively trying to ask myself what - in a professional sense - might make me happy. Pleasing myself. It's a simple enough concept but in the context of what I do for a living, it seems frighteningly revolutionary.
I think I need to go and lie down in a darkened room and think about it some more!
Back to the Drawing Board
or back to the PC at least, from an all too brief holiday in the South of France where -unlike Scotland, for most of the time this summer - the sun was shining and it was warm. Have spent the days since our return trying to catch up on mainly writing associated tasks including drafting out a piece for the Financial Times weekend supplement about the beautiful mediaeval city of Carcassonne. Mind you - as anyone who has read Kate Mosse's Labyrinth will know, Carcassonne has a very checkered and somewhat brutal past. I knew about the place years before I saw it (for the first time, last year) because when I read Mediaeval Studies at Edinburgh University I had a friend who was obsessed with everything to do with the Cathars, the Albigensian Crusade and so on. She would bend the ear of anyone who would listen with stories of that time, and the horrific cruelties inflicted on the Cathars by the establishment, and all in the name of Christianity. It was fascinating and ever since, whenever the subject of Templars, Cathars etc has come up - quite often, since the Da Vinci code phenomenon - I have thought of Dorothy, sitting in our flat, clutching a glass of wine and regaling us with tales of mediaeval savagery. The last time I saw her, she was heading for Venice with all her worldly goods in an assortment of carrier bags. We stuffed her into a railway compartment with them - and never heard from her again.
I'm busy revising The Physic Garden which seems good in parts - and about to try to build on my recent commissions for the FT by trying to place more - many more - freelance articles. I seem to have discovered an unexpected talent for travel writing although I'm aware that it is a heavily over subscribed market. The other thing I know about and can write about in a popular way is, of course antiques and most particularly 'women's things' for want of a better term - textiles, embroidery, vintage and antique clothes, dolls, teddies, perfumes, jewellery. What really fascinates me is that whole area which antique dealers call 'provenance': the tales which are embedded in objects from the past. It's a fruitful source of inspiration for writing and I intend to try to tap into my own knowledge over the coming year.
I'm busy revising The Physic Garden which seems good in parts - and about to try to build on my recent commissions for the FT by trying to place more - many more - freelance articles. I seem to have discovered an unexpected talent for travel writing although I'm aware that it is a heavily over subscribed market. The other thing I know about and can write about in a popular way is, of course antiques and most particularly 'women's things' for want of a better term - textiles, embroidery, vintage and antique clothes, dolls, teddies, perfumes, jewellery. What really fascinates me is that whole area which antique dealers call 'provenance': the tales which are embedded in objects from the past. It's a fruitful source of inspiration for writing and I intend to try to tap into my own knowledge over the coming year.
The Physic Garden - Drafting out a Novel
I have (three cheers!) finished the first full draft of my new novel, The Physic Garden. But there's an odd phenomenon with this one and I remember it happening before with - I think - The Curiosity Cabinet. Normally my advice to any writer embarking on a full length novel for the first time would be to write at length and then set about pruning and polishing. It's invariably easier to cut than it is to 'pad things out' - a process which is generally deemed to be inadvisable. On the whole, I agree. However - in this instance, something else has happened and I think I would compare it to the way in which an artist 'blocks out' a picture. I have written about 70,000 words, but I suspect that the finished novel will be a good deal longer, at perhaps 85,000 or even more.
Somebody on a Writers' Message Board of which I'm a member, was asking about recommended novel length the other day. She had been told that 100,000 words, no more, no less was the recommended word count, which seems a mite prescriptive to me. The consensus was that it tended to be 'horses for courses'. If you are Penny Vincenzi you can get away with writing at extreme length (and she does it so very well.) But most of the published novelists among us tended to think that anything between 80,000 and 100,000 was about right with some genres demanding fewer and some demanding more.
And yes, normally, it's much better to write at length and then make your cuts.
But sometimes there needs to be another stage in the process and I think that's the one I've just completed. I needed to gallop through the whole thing for various reasons. One was to get to know my characters and try to understand what seems to me to be quite a complicated set of relationships. Another was to see if the plot actually hung together. And a third reason (this being a historical novel set in Glasgow in the early 1800s) was to find out what I didn't know. Quite a lot as it turned out. One of the pitfalls of writing historical fiction is that the research tends to dominate - you become so fond of your discoveries that they become an end in themselves and the result is heavy handed fictionalised history. Paradoxically, one way of avoiding this is to tell the story and find out what you (and the reader) really need to know. The result is often that you know more than you need to about some things and less than you need to about others. But once the story is blocked out, you can see exactly what you need to know to push the story forward.
All of which goes to explain why this first draft is a wee bit shorter than I would have expected. I can almost guarantee that the next draft will run to about 100,000 words. And then it will be pruned down quite drastically.
Which sounds like a lot of work - but for me, this is the really enjoyable bit. I like revising much more than getting that first draft down. It's like having a framework to hang onto while you venture out into the unknown and I love it!
More as it happens.
Somebody on a Writers' Message Board of which I'm a member, was asking about recommended novel length the other day. She had been told that 100,000 words, no more, no less was the recommended word count, which seems a mite prescriptive to me. The consensus was that it tended to be 'horses for courses'. If you are Penny Vincenzi you can get away with writing at extreme length (and she does it so very well.) But most of the published novelists among us tended to think that anything between 80,000 and 100,000 was about right with some genres demanding fewer and some demanding more.
And yes, normally, it's much better to write at length and then make your cuts.
But sometimes there needs to be another stage in the process and I think that's the one I've just completed. I needed to gallop through the whole thing for various reasons. One was to get to know my characters and try to understand what seems to me to be quite a complicated set of relationships. Another was to see if the plot actually hung together. And a third reason (this being a historical novel set in Glasgow in the early 1800s) was to find out what I didn't know. Quite a lot as it turned out. One of the pitfalls of writing historical fiction is that the research tends to dominate - you become so fond of your discoveries that they become an end in themselves and the result is heavy handed fictionalised history. Paradoxically, one way of avoiding this is to tell the story and find out what you (and the reader) really need to know. The result is often that you know more than you need to about some things and less than you need to about others. But once the story is blocked out, you can see exactly what you need to know to push the story forward.
All of which goes to explain why this first draft is a wee bit shorter than I would have expected. I can almost guarantee that the next draft will run to about 100,000 words. And then it will be pruned down quite drastically.
Which sounds like a lot of work - but for me, this is the really enjoyable bit. I like revising much more than getting that first draft down. It's like having a framework to hang onto while you venture out into the unknown and I love it!
More as it happens.
A Sad Little Urban Crow Poem
Here's another one - this time without an illustration. It would, I fear, be a bit harrowing!
BAMBI
The urban crow, more used to coping
with other birds, their wings a single
forlorn sail in the road, the occasional
mangled cat or flattened hedgehog,
is strangely moved by the sight of a deer
beside the motorway, none too big,
a baby, hardly begun muses the crow
but thrown clear by some careless boy racer.
The crow knows it is always men
who put their foot down hard
and never the female of the species.
Now the creature sprawls on the verge
elegant, even in death.
which is not to say that
the crow is not tempted by such
unexpected plenty and
vaguely outfaced by it as well.
Poor bambi.
But it must have made quite a
dent in his paintwork, thinks the crow
with a certain satisfaction.
Catherine Czerkawska
BAMBI
The urban crow, more used to coping
with other birds, their wings a single
forlorn sail in the road, the occasional
mangled cat or flattened hedgehog,
is strangely moved by the sight of a deer
beside the motorway, none too big,
a baby, hardly begun muses the crow
but thrown clear by some careless boy racer.
The crow knows it is always men
who put their foot down hard
and never the female of the species.
Now the creature sprawls on the verge
elegant, even in death.
which is not to say that
the crow is not tempted by such
unexpected plenty and
vaguely outfaced by it as well.
Poor bambi.
But it must have made quite a
dent in his paintwork, thinks the crow
with a certain satisfaction.
Catherine Czerkawska
Writers in Residence - a bit of a rant!
I had an interesting conversation with a friend at the weekend about MONEY. A thorny topic. Although the details are not relevant, she was pointing out to me the discrepancy between my attitude, and that of certain friends in the (ahem) legal profession. She had been bemoaning the relative paltriness of payment which she was receiving for a week's consultancy work as a seasoned professional in her particular area of expertise. I had done a quick tally and found that it was roughly equivalent to the sum that writers are paid for a week's tutoring at the Arvon Foundation, and which is considered to be pretty reasonable remuneration. 'I'd do it!' I told her. It was, incidentally, roughly equivalent to the sum that most writers - other than a favoured few - are paid as an advance for books which have taken/may well take several years to write. But hey, we are all volunteers and mustn't grumble.
What was amusing was that she then had the same conversation with a group of lawyers who pointed out that nobody could be expected to work for such rubbish money. Which possibly serves to explain why we are still such a divided society!
However, the point of this posting lies elsewhere. Some weeks ago a friendly journalist asked me what I thought about a recent advertisement for a poet in residence and I had, somewhat rashly perhaps, agreed to be quoted in that I thought the sum of money on offer was paltry. So did every other experienced writer of my acquaintance, although this is possibly because most of us have been made cynical by age and poverty.
The residency purported to pay for a 40 hour week for 9 months, for £13500 (pro rata)
But while £18000 per annum is a reasonable starting salary for a graduate, it is not a full year's salary these days for anyone with even a limited amount of professional expertise and experience and yet that was what they were advertising for - somebody with a substantial body of work.
I pointed out that shelf stacking would be a better option. A colleague, more in sorrow than in anger, pointed out that the residency was much better paid than that - but I'm not so sure. So called 'replenishment managers' (wonderful term!) for Tesco can command £22,000 with all kinds of extra benefits. And they don't need to be seasoned professionals with a substantial body of published work either.
Now I love poetry, and I'm by no means averse to working for very little or even for free when everyone is in the same boat and when it's in a worthy cause. I've done it countless times. But many years of struggling to earn a living have also taught me that the commercial sector tends to take us at our own valuation.
Now all of us would have been delighted to work for a fixed 2.5 days per week for the sum of money on offer. I do it myself for another organisation, helping students with their academic English, and thinking myself very lucky indeed to have the job. It's generous, it's challenging and enjoyable, but it doesn't expand outside those very fixed part time boundaries. What I do with the rest of the week is my business. In fact - mostly - I write! For hours and hours!
So the problem, I think, lies in the pretence that this is a sum of money which covers a full week's work of 40 hours. It isn't and it doesn't. But the result of pretending that it does, is that the boundaries all too easily become blurred. And quite soon, the work for the host organisation somehow seems to expand to fill more and more of those 40 hours.
Sadly, the general consensus about so called full time creative writing fellowships (and this from a cross section of experienced writers including myself who have worked in them over a number of years) is that few of us have ever managed to do much worthwhile writing while engaged on them, partly because too much creative energy is involved elsewhere but mostly because such fellowships invariably expand to fill just about the whole week.
I'm sure whoever has got the job will find it a stimulating experience but they would have to be youngish and mortgage free, or retired or with some other means of support, ie a non freelance husband or wife. I think many administrators don't get to hear this side of things, because writers tend to keep it to themselves, or moan about it in online groups. But the feeling is very general and is one of the reasons why so many of us feel that the whole concept of writers in residence needs to be revamped. It would be infinitely better for the writers if they functioned more along the lines of the few fellowships that are content to pay only for the time devoted to the organisation. A fair day's work for a fair day's pay, and no pretence made that the fees involved can begin to cover a full working week. Host organisations would just have to get used to treating writers like any other professional consultant, and forego the warm glow of feeling that they were giving something away. A business arrangement, not a charity. The whole concept needs drastic revision.
What was amusing was that she then had the same conversation with a group of lawyers who pointed out that nobody could be expected to work for such rubbish money. Which possibly serves to explain why we are still such a divided society!
However, the point of this posting lies elsewhere. Some weeks ago a friendly journalist asked me what I thought about a recent advertisement for a poet in residence and I had, somewhat rashly perhaps, agreed to be quoted in that I thought the sum of money on offer was paltry. So did every other experienced writer of my acquaintance, although this is possibly because most of us have been made cynical by age and poverty.
The residency purported to pay for a 40 hour week for 9 months, for £13500 (pro rata)
But while £18000 per annum is a reasonable starting salary for a graduate, it is not a full year's salary these days for anyone with even a limited amount of professional expertise and experience and yet that was what they were advertising for - somebody with a substantial body of work.
I pointed out that shelf stacking would be a better option. A colleague, more in sorrow than in anger, pointed out that the residency was much better paid than that - but I'm not so sure. So called 'replenishment managers' (wonderful term!) for Tesco can command £22,000 with all kinds of extra benefits. And they don't need to be seasoned professionals with a substantial body of published work either.
Now I love poetry, and I'm by no means averse to working for very little or even for free when everyone is in the same boat and when it's in a worthy cause. I've done it countless times. But many years of struggling to earn a living have also taught me that the commercial sector tends to take us at our own valuation.
Now all of us would have been delighted to work for a fixed 2.5 days per week for the sum of money on offer. I do it myself for another organisation, helping students with their academic English, and thinking myself very lucky indeed to have the job. It's generous, it's challenging and enjoyable, but it doesn't expand outside those very fixed part time boundaries. What I do with the rest of the week is my business. In fact - mostly - I write! For hours and hours!
So the problem, I think, lies in the pretence that this is a sum of money which covers a full week's work of 40 hours. It isn't and it doesn't. But the result of pretending that it does, is that the boundaries all too easily become blurred. And quite soon, the work for the host organisation somehow seems to expand to fill more and more of those 40 hours.
Sadly, the general consensus about so called full time creative writing fellowships (and this from a cross section of experienced writers including myself who have worked in them over a number of years) is that few of us have ever managed to do much worthwhile writing while engaged on them, partly because too much creative energy is involved elsewhere but mostly because such fellowships invariably expand to fill just about the whole week.
I'm sure whoever has got the job will find it a stimulating experience but they would have to be youngish and mortgage free, or retired or with some other means of support, ie a non freelance husband or wife. I think many administrators don't get to hear this side of things, because writers tend to keep it to themselves, or moan about it in online groups. But the feeling is very general and is one of the reasons why so many of us feel that the whole concept of writers in residence needs to be revamped. It would be infinitely better for the writers if they functioned more along the lines of the few fellowships that are content to pay only for the time devoted to the organisation. A fair day's work for a fair day's pay, and no pretence made that the fees involved can begin to cover a full working week. Host organisations would just have to get used to treating writers like any other professional consultant, and forego the warm glow of feeling that they were giving something away. A business arrangement, not a charity. The whole concept needs drastic revision.
Whoops Amazon
Have just gone to the Amazon page where my book God's Islanders is listed to find the following 'sponsored links'
2008 God's Final Witness : Unprecedented destruction will come in 2008, leading to America's fall.
King Jesus and Queen Miriam: The Love Story of Jesus & Magdalene
Free Christian Lessons: Got problems? Need help? Study the Bible. Start Fresh. Be Happy.
This is presumably because of the word 'God' in the title, although the book is a well researched history of a Hebridean Island and bears no relation to any of the links listed. It leads me to wonder if I might find links to Home Improvement manuals on the Bleak House listing. Or how about Aviary Construction in connection with The Birds. The possibilities for cyber idiocy are endless.
There's a chapter about the history of the Kirk of Scotland on the island but the God of the title may have more pagan than Christian connotations. Nor, I'm willing to bet, would anyone who might be remotely interested in reading God's Islanders, be equally interested in any of these links.
Sometimes the internet has its drawbacks. Among which is the ability of software to make moronic connections. No finer demonstration is required of the 'garbage in garbage out' maxim.
I'll retire to bedlam.
2008 God's Final Witness : Unprecedented destruction will come in 2008, leading to America's fall.
King Jesus and Queen Miriam: The Love Story of Jesus & Magdalene
Free Christian Lessons: Got problems? Need help? Study the Bible. Start Fresh. Be Happy.
This is presumably because of the word 'God' in the title, although the book is a well researched history of a Hebridean Island and bears no relation to any of the links listed. It leads me to wonder if I might find links to Home Improvement manuals on the Bleak House listing. Or how about Aviary Construction in connection with The Birds. The possibilities for cyber idiocy are endless.
There's a chapter about the history of the Kirk of Scotland on the island but the God of the title may have more pagan than Christian connotations. Nor, I'm willing to bet, would anyone who might be remotely interested in reading God's Islanders, be equally interested in any of these links.
Sometimes the internet has its drawbacks. Among which is the ability of software to make moronic connections. No finer demonstration is required of the 'garbage in garbage out' maxim.
I'll retire to bedlam.
The Urban Crow Studies Archaeology
The crow is getting a little serious here. But there you go. He can't be funny all the time. I saw him in town today. He gave me this beady glance, as if to say 'get a move on, you've been neglecting me' which is true. I've been down south. Where I saw very few crows, urban or otherwise, but quite a lot of skeletons, come to think of it.
Somewhere in the city
Archaeologists are uncovering burials.
The crow notes how they gloat
over skeletons, brittle with age,
here a clavicle, and there a skull.
He’s surprised by
their lack of respect in dealing
with the remnants of their fellows,
perplexed by the way time
confounds these humans.
He has seen the frequent
ceremony of interment,
heard them mourning mortality
heard their censure
of his own carrion habits.
Now, watching them scrabble
after a few bones,
he wonders how they can
so casually rob graves
in the name of science.
The Urban Crow Receives a Threatening Letter
I have a television license, honest, but I have friends who don't have a television, and are constantly receiving horrible letters from an authority that doesn't believe that anyone could get along without one. In fact over the past few years, here in the UK, all kinds of government sponsored advertising (mostly on TV!) has undergone a profoundly irritating change. They used to be content with patronising us. Now they assume an increasingly threatening tone. Big Brother - about twenty four years too late - is well and truly in charge.
We have reason to believe
says the letter
that yours is the only house in the street
without a television license.
That would be about right thinks the crow.
We have passed your details
to our Enforcement Officers
who will shortly be in your area
says the letter.
Bring them on, says the crow.
We will not tolerate abuse of our officials
adds the letter, loud with intimidating
phrases like
POLICE AND CRIMINAL EVIDENCE and
CAUTIONED and PROSECUTION.
The crow, well aware of the law,
knows that they would have to catch him
watching the television he doesn’t possess,
to find him with his non existent
remote control in his claw.
Cor says the crow and shreds their message.
says the letter
that yours is the only house in the street
without a television license.
That would be about right thinks the crow.
We have passed your details
to our Enforcement Officers
who will shortly be in your area
says the letter.
Bring them on, says the crow.
We will not tolerate abuse of our officials
adds the letter, loud with intimidating
phrases like
POLICE AND CRIMINAL EVIDENCE and
CAUTIONED and PROSECUTION.
The crow, well aware of the law,
knows that they would have to catch him
watching the television he doesn’t possess,
to find him with his non existent
remote control in his claw.
Cor says the crow and shreds their message.
A New Novel
I have been pondering the new novel with more than a little enthusiasm. I have been trying to get going on something new for far too long and indeed have made many long and involved attempts, only to dislike the resulting chapters so much that I have shelved them and started all over again. Not just one novel, but two (and I don't mean the Corncrake - I mean something completely new.) Anyway - at some point in the last day or so, it all came together, and I saw the whole thing, not just the story, but how it should be written, and whose voice it should be told in, and how he might tell it and for the first time in a very long time I am anxious to get going and find myself scribbling words on odd bits of paper, or waking in the night with an insistent voice in my head, this man who is trying to get his story out. I even dreamed about him.
The problem with this story, which has been lurking at the back of my mind for a very long time, was that although the characters and the situation, the time and place were all there, I couldn't see where it was all going. Well, I could see where it was going, but not how or why it got there. It was a strange and sometimes uncanny feeling for me - I could hear and see these people, three of them - but even when I gradually realised who was telling this tale, I didn't know exactly what had happened to him. I didn't know the why of it all. I knew bits of it, but none of it seemed important enough or powerful enough to explain later events. And then, all of a sudden, as though my narrator had been reluctant to get it out, even to me - as though the character himself had buried it - there it was. It shocked me. Am I tantalising you, or just myself? Watch this space.
I'll let you know how it goes!
The problem with this story, which has been lurking at the back of my mind for a very long time, was that although the characters and the situation, the time and place were all there, I couldn't see where it was all going. Well, I could see where it was going, but not how or why it got there. It was a strange and sometimes uncanny feeling for me - I could hear and see these people, three of them - but even when I gradually realised who was telling this tale, I didn't know exactly what had happened to him. I didn't know the why of it all. I knew bits of it, but none of it seemed important enough or powerful enough to explain later events. And then, all of a sudden, as though my narrator had been reluctant to get it out, even to me - as though the character himself had buried it - there it was. It shocked me. Am I tantalising you, or just myself? Watch this space.
I'll let you know how it goes!
The Urban Crow Considers Burns an a' that
This is posted by special request. Here in South Ayrshire, the birthplace of Robert Burns, we have an annual festival called 'Burns an a' that'. It's supposed to be a festival of 'poetry, music and song' celebrating the life and work of our national poet although poetry never looms very large on the official programme. Somebody who works in marketing once said to me 'Burns doesn't sell' and it's all too obvious that our local council is of much the same mind. The 'a' that' usually eclipses any tiny mention of Burns.
The headline act at 'Burns an a' that' this year was Status Quo, and there was a Harley rally as well. Excellent entertainment - but all suggestions of a 'literary' nature as part of the officially funded festival seem to have been turned down flat. Next year, a HUGE anniversary, 250 years since Rantin Rovin Robin was born, looks all set to have the same omissions. Rab would have recognised the attitude. All of which is background.
Here's the poem!
The urban crow watches television through a shop window
and wonders why a band of ageing rockers
called Status Quo are heading up a festival
named for Scotland’s national poet.
The band seem to be wondering the same thing.
The festival director who looks as though poetry is as
foreign to him as ploughing is declaring
how much Rab would have loved the Quo.
The crow is sceptical, reflects on
how folk invariably presume to
know what somebody would have done or wanted
when attempting to defend the indefensible.
The crow knows nothing for sure
although he decides that a poet who celebrated mice
and sheep but not to the crow’s knowledge
corbies - might nevertheless have
liked to go rockin all over the world.
The Urban Crow Worries Woodpigeons
Two doos are sitting on a wire.
Who, they say.
Who was it? Who was it?
It was I, says the crow.
I cannot tell a lie.
It was I.
What did you do?
What did you do?
I killed cock robin
with my bow and arrow
says the crow.
Let us fly,
say the doos
and they go.
Credulous bastards
says the crow.
The Urban Crow Looks for a Job.
There's a swear word in this poem. Apologies in advance to anyone likely to be shocked. I couldn't help it. It has to be there. For overseas readers, you should know that wheelie bins and refuse disposal and the precise regulations for the arrangement of rubbish are a weekly feature of our news in the UK at present. Some poor soul down in England was even threatened with imprisonment over his refusal to pay a fine for infringing the rules.
The city council is advertising for refuse collection operatives.
I could do that, thinks the urban crow.
He goes online and notes that big plastic wheelie bins are
environmentally friendly and convenient and
will be emptied on a weekly basis.
On the day of collection, the wheelie bin
should be placed at the kerbside
so that the handles are towards the street.
After the bin has been emptied, the householder must
ensure the return of the bin to their property
unless some wee nyaff has tipped it in the canal first.
All refuse must be contained within the bin.
Any refuse placed at the side of the bin
will not be collected
Not even dead cats asks the crow?
It is important that no heavy items
are put in the wheelie bin
due to the potential risk of the bin
falling from the vehicle’s lifting gear and
flattening the refuse collection operative
particularly if he is a bird.
If at any time the bin is considered to be overloaded
a sticker will be placed on the lid with appropriate instructions
like your fucking bin’s too full get it sorted.
Although the wheelie bin is made of high quality
environmentally friendly plastic,
corrosive substances should not be placed in it.
If you find you cannot manoevre your bin because of age
or infirmity, (or wings, thinks the crow)
and there is no one available to help you, due to your
thankless family having buggered off to Australia then
please contact the Council for assistance.
The crow decides not to bother.
He’s a pretty mean waste disposal machine
himself but.
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