Spend most of saturday, gardening, or in Dobbie's buying stuff for garden. Expensive but their plants are fabulous, well cared for, and ready at the right time, unlike the big DIY stores where everything is too big and too tired, much too early for local conditions. Have also had excellent half price bargains there, since enjoy nursing half dead twigs back to life. Prefer to grow things from seed, but am behind with everything this year, due to building work, writing work, etc, etc. Realise, while pushing trolley slowly down alleys of scented shrubs in brilliant sunshine, all by myself, reading labels with nobody harrassing me to 'get on', that I am perfectly, nay ecstatically, happy. Immediately worry that this too is a sign of impending seniority.
Ladies loo is full of grey permed heads, short polyester trousers and sensible lace up shoes. Realise that have strayed into middle of coach party. They run coach tours to garden centres these days and why not? This place has gifts, clothes, food hall, books, great cafe, as well as plants - oh and fish. Mustn't forget the fish. Used to visit something called long horned cow fish here - extremely friendly Disney-type fish with puckered lips and blue eyes - till it was sold.
Gardening is big time displacement activity for me at the moment. How can I sit in and write when there's so much to be done out there? eBay is also major d.a. but necessary and excusable since this is what pays most of the household bills these days.
Love garden very much indeed, but this time of year it's more slog than pleasure since we have huge patch at back of old cottage where everything seems to be flourishing. Rain last night, says husband, means that grass will grow like weeds. Also means weeds will grow like weeds.
Quite like weeds. Tend to leave rather a lot of them to flourish, to protect the wildlife that lives in the undergrowth. Well that's my excuse anyway.
Dreaming About Alex Salmond
For the first time ever, I confess it, I voted SNP. (Well, I think I did.) I didn't do it with any high hopes, I might add, but will vote for anyone who seems to care about (a) small rural post offices (b) small rural schools (c) local hospital services, all of which are seriously under threat hereabouts.
Find myself constantly enraged by way in which Labour Party (which used to be my party of choice) rabbit on and on about climate change while busily centralising everything they can get their hands on so that if we want to do anything whatsoever we have to travel. If the post office goes (and why wouldn't it, when they have taken away everything that made it profitable?) the shop will go as well. If the school goes, as seems increasingly possible, the heart will go out of the village. Meanwhile Accident and Emergency is going to be transferred to Crosshouse in Kilmarnock, many busy miles away, which already cannot cope with what it has.
Also, although Labour Party claims to care about the Arts, they want to be very much in control.Watching a politician trying to deal with writers and artists of all varieties is like watching somebody herding cats. Only those previously sedated can be handled with impunity. The rest have to be crammed spitting and screaming into small cages before they can do any damage.
Spend night dreaming about Alex Salmond. This was embarrassing and faintly disturbing, like when you dream that the queen comes to tea.
Wake to electoral chaos. This isn't surprising. Needed two degrees (which I have) to understand system. Yesterday I think I got my crosses and numbers in the right place, but folded paper when shouldn't have. Friend phones from Arran to say that it was his boat that broke down while taking ballot boxes to the mainland.
Realise that there is serious lack of coverage from Scotland on all available media. After an initial phone in about the election, BBC Radio Scotland has - I kid you not - Fred Macaulay wittering on, and some woman who has phoned in to sing a song. Cannot decide whether this confirms reasons for voting SNP - surely we should be able to find dedicated coverage from, in, by Scotland at this time in the morning - or reason for not voting SNP (breweries and organisation of urination therein )
Decide on former because cock up so obviously not their fault.
Alex Salmond is on afternoon news, talking about cock-up. Sounds reassuringly capable. Innate cynicism wars with desire to be able to trust somebody.
We await the final results with interest.
Find myself constantly enraged by way in which Labour Party (which used to be my party of choice) rabbit on and on about climate change while busily centralising everything they can get their hands on so that if we want to do anything whatsoever we have to travel. If the post office goes (and why wouldn't it, when they have taken away everything that made it profitable?) the shop will go as well. If the school goes, as seems increasingly possible, the heart will go out of the village. Meanwhile Accident and Emergency is going to be transferred to Crosshouse in Kilmarnock, many busy miles away, which already cannot cope with what it has.
Also, although Labour Party claims to care about the Arts, they want to be very much in control.Watching a politician trying to deal with writers and artists of all varieties is like watching somebody herding cats. Only those previously sedated can be handled with impunity. The rest have to be crammed spitting and screaming into small cages before they can do any damage.
Spend night dreaming about Alex Salmond. This was embarrassing and faintly disturbing, like when you dream that the queen comes to tea.
Wake to electoral chaos. This isn't surprising. Needed two degrees (which I have) to understand system. Yesterday I think I got my crosses and numbers in the right place, but folded paper when shouldn't have. Friend phones from Arran to say that it was his boat that broke down while taking ballot boxes to the mainland.
Realise that there is serious lack of coverage from Scotland on all available media. After an initial phone in about the election, BBC Radio Scotland has - I kid you not - Fred Macaulay wittering on, and some woman who has phoned in to sing a song. Cannot decide whether this confirms reasons for voting SNP - surely we should be able to find dedicated coverage from, in, by Scotland at this time in the morning - or reason for not voting SNP (breweries and organisation of urination therein )
Decide on former because cock up so obviously not their fault.
Alex Salmond is on afternoon news, talking about cock-up. Sounds reassuringly capable. Innate cynicism wars with desire to be able to trust somebody.
We await the final results with interest.
Cut Glass
Oh speak to me of things that do not matter.
Our friendship is a fragile thing
Speak too loudly and
It will shatter.
Each self is patterned with
The other self.
We are similar but not the same,
Surrounded with a tissue
Of touches now and then
Or compliments.
The light shines through us,
Is distorted.
We both pretend
Not to know
That this fragile thing
If subject to one outright blow,
Would shatter.
Take care.
Oh speak to me
Of things that do not matter.
Catherine Czerkawska, Edinburgh 1973.
Our friendship is a fragile thing
Speak too loudly and
It will shatter.
Each self is patterned with
The other self.
We are similar but not the same,
Surrounded with a tissue
Of touches now and then
Or compliments.
The light shines through us,
Is distorted.
We both pretend
Not to know
That this fragile thing
If subject to one outright blow,
Would shatter.
Take care.
Oh speak to me
Of things that do not matter.
Catherine Czerkawska, Edinburgh 1973.
Edinburgh in the 1970s.
The semi-hippy chick in the middle is me, back in the early seventies, in Edinburgh. There's a maxi skirt in there somewhere as well, although the bike is in the way. The guy on the right with the guitar is distinguished poet and novelist Andy Greig. Standing between Andy and me, with his hand on the bike, is poet and playwright Brian McCabe. (He's wearing a false face in case you're wondering.) On the left of the picture is somebody called John Schofield, who organised poetry festivals in Edinburgh way back then. The last I heard of him, he was involved with archaeology in the City of London. In front are two musicians from Fife, George (with another false face, beard etc) and John, of the cheekbones with the fag hanging out of his mouth. Cool. They were part of a band. My own writing on the back of the pic tells me that there was a Pete and a Dave and another Dave involved too, but I can't for the life of me remember who they were. I do know that John of the cheekbones (I think he was the one, but I could be wrong) wrote some brilliant music to one of my poems, called Cut Glass, which has come back to haunt me from time to time. More prescient than I ever imagined. I'll post it immediately after this.Looking at it now, the thing that really strikes me about this picture is how modern we all look. You would expect a thirty five year old photograph to look dated. I suspect that this could have been taken on the Meadows (which was where we were back then) yesterday. John from Fife has a Paolo Nuttini look about him. Only John Schofield's too smooth leather jacket gives the game away.
If anyone out there knows what became of the band from Fife, I'd love to hear from you.
Browsing through Primark the other day was a deja vu experience. All those brightly coloured prints and smock tops. Dug out vintage Marimekko dress I brought back with me from Finland in the mid seventies. Felt strangely elated - and saddened - by rush of memories . Or as I wrote at the time: 'Take care. Oh speak to me of things that do not matter.'
On Crowning Glories and Shabby Chic
Have spent three hours and more money than I can really afford getting hair done.
But cannot afford to go about looking like tired old bat, not when women of a certain age become completely invisible. This doesn't mean that they don't enjoy themselves. Just that nobody younger than, say, fifty, notices them doing it. Don't really mind cloak of invisibility, but still have career ambitions, so a certain attention to appearance is in order.
Do NOT go grey, mum, says large Viking like son. I concur.
Meet acquaintance who says I look ten years younger with straight hair. Ponder this. How old does she think I am? How old do I look with hair in its usual messy mass? (Or should that be massy mess?) How old do I feel?
But she's right. Wavy hair, even naturally wavy hair, is curiously ageing. Rats. Will have to spend an extra half hour every morning drying hair.
Remember when I had clouds of long, dark, naturally wavy hair, so long at one time, that I could sit on it. Remember Irish boyfriend's mum saying 'You have lovely hair, God bless it.'
Sometimes I find myself dreaming about it and wake with regret.
Ponder girly things. Love, and have always loved clothes, handbags, shoes. Husband has been known to refer to me as the Imelda Marcos of Ayrshire.
Try to comfort myself by thinking of advantages of growing older in relation to all of above. Difficult. Still can't afford to shop where I would like to shop. Big Cheese at Writer's Guild once accused me of preferring to spend my money on 'clothes and cosmetics' rather than on exortionate yearly contributions. Since all of my clothes that year had come courtesy of Oxfam, I laughed, hollowly, before writing rude letter in response. Mind you, favourite jacket is still Italian pink wool lined with white silk creation, £5.00, courtesy of the British Heart Foundation. I was doing vintage before it became shabby chic.
Can only think of one distinct advantage of accumulating years. Have always adored vintage perfumes. (I buy them on eBay). Now, I can wear scents like Mitsouko and l'Heure Bleue, to which I have an almost alarming addiction, without feeling outclassed by the scents themselves. This only comes with age and a certain amount of confidence. More about perfumes in future posts.
But cannot afford to go about looking like tired old bat, not when women of a certain age become completely invisible. This doesn't mean that they don't enjoy themselves. Just that nobody younger than, say, fifty, notices them doing it. Don't really mind cloak of invisibility, but still have career ambitions, so a certain attention to appearance is in order.
Do NOT go grey, mum, says large Viking like son. I concur.
Meet acquaintance who says I look ten years younger with straight hair. Ponder this. How old does she think I am? How old do I look with hair in its usual messy mass? (Or should that be massy mess?) How old do I feel?
But she's right. Wavy hair, even naturally wavy hair, is curiously ageing. Rats. Will have to spend an extra half hour every morning drying hair.
Remember when I had clouds of long, dark, naturally wavy hair, so long at one time, that I could sit on it. Remember Irish boyfriend's mum saying 'You have lovely hair, God bless it.'
Sometimes I find myself dreaming about it and wake with regret.
Ponder girly things. Love, and have always loved clothes, handbags, shoes. Husband has been known to refer to me as the Imelda Marcos of Ayrshire.
Try to comfort myself by thinking of advantages of growing older in relation to all of above. Difficult. Still can't afford to shop where I would like to shop. Big Cheese at Writer's Guild once accused me of preferring to spend my money on 'clothes and cosmetics' rather than on exortionate yearly contributions. Since all of my clothes that year had come courtesy of Oxfam, I laughed, hollowly, before writing rude letter in response. Mind you, favourite jacket is still Italian pink wool lined with white silk creation, £5.00, courtesy of the British Heart Foundation. I was doing vintage before it became shabby chic.
Can only think of one distinct advantage of accumulating years. Have always adored vintage perfumes. (I buy them on eBay). Now, I can wear scents like Mitsouko and l'Heure Bleue, to which I have an almost alarming addiction, without feeling outclassed by the scents themselves. This only comes with age and a certain amount of confidence. More about perfumes in future posts.
The Outlook Express is Grim
Remember the old joke? (Well, not that old really...) There is no cock-up so great that a computer cannot make it a million times worse in a fraction of a second...
Two days ago, I managed to delete all the emails in my inbox in one fell swoop.
Now I don't know about you, but I keep various 'not answered yet but definitely need to be dealt with some time' emails in my inbox. Not, mind you, as many as my sister in law who had about 400 in there at the last count...
Disaster.
Where have they all gone?
Do I have an - aaaargh - VIRUS?
Run around like headless chicken for a bit, panicking.
Run compulsive virus scan.
Reassuring stack of zeros. Nothing found. Don't have virus.
Nothing in inbox either.
Check delete box. Those are gone as well.
Check all other possible files. Everything where it should be but no sign of contents of inbox.
Realise that - just around midnight and knackered beyond belief - I must have pressed the wrong buttons. Deleted whole inbox, and then deleted delete box as well.
Worrying thing is, don't remember doing it.
Calm down. Try hard to think what was in there. What was in there? Did it matter?
Not as bad as academic friend who inadvertently deleted six months unbacked up work in a few easy keystrokes.
Remember some of emails and their contents. Reply to them.
Bugger. Realise that have deleted email from Douglas King Smith (any relation of the more famous Dick?) who was trying to sell me advertising in a festival magazine on behalf of sculptor husband. Are you out there? If so, I have deleted you. Please contact me again!
Two days ago, I managed to delete all the emails in my inbox in one fell swoop.
Now I don't know about you, but I keep various 'not answered yet but definitely need to be dealt with some time' emails in my inbox. Not, mind you, as many as my sister in law who had about 400 in there at the last count...
Disaster.
Where have they all gone?
Do I have an - aaaargh - VIRUS?
Run around like headless chicken for a bit, panicking.
Run compulsive virus scan.
Reassuring stack of zeros. Nothing found. Don't have virus.
Nothing in inbox either.
Check delete box. Those are gone as well.
Check all other possible files. Everything where it should be but no sign of contents of inbox.
Realise that - just around midnight and knackered beyond belief - I must have pressed the wrong buttons. Deleted whole inbox, and then deleted delete box as well.
Worrying thing is, don't remember doing it.
Calm down. Try hard to think what was in there. What was in there? Did it matter?
Not as bad as academic friend who inadvertently deleted six months unbacked up work in a few easy keystrokes.
Remember some of emails and their contents. Reply to them.
Bugger. Realise that have deleted email from Douglas King Smith (any relation of the more famous Dick?) who was trying to sell me advertising in a festival magazine on behalf of sculptor husband. Are you out there? If so, I have deleted you. Please contact me again!
Baby Mine Don't You Cry
Two weeks ago, took four year old Clio for its MOT, and came away with eighteen month old VW Polo in a beautiful shade of bright blue, instead. Car not quite so stylish inside as Clio, but salesman assures me this is German engineering versus French style.
Husband likes new car much better than old.
Salesman is family friend and categorically best salesman I have ever met. Also - worryingly - is accomplished player of card game called 'Cheat'. He once spent a week playing Cheat aboard small yacht with self and husband, and won all the time.
Am bereft without Clio. Had disproportionate love for Clio. Feel like someone acquiring new dog.
I have gradually come round. It drives well. It feels safe and solid. It looks sporty.
But most of all it has a CD player instead of a cassette player.
Upon which, I can play Alison Krauss, singing Baby Mine, to my heart's content.
This is the song that Dumbo's mum sings to him, when people have been mocking him about his big ears.
I saw this movie when I was very young. I cried. I also lost my mittens and we had to go back and look for them under the seat.
Later, my mum would sing the same song to send me to sleep when I had an asthma attack, and was wheezing my way through the night. Sometimes, she said, she couldn't tell whether the strange rattling sound was my lungs or the railway shunting yard down the road. That was in smoky Leeds, and I now have the peak flow of a woman half my age, thank-you for asking.
Later again, I sang my own son to sleep with it.
Now I drive along wondering where all those years have gone. Rest your head, close to my heart, never to part, baby of mine.
Husband likes new car much better than old.
Salesman is family friend and categorically best salesman I have ever met. Also - worryingly - is accomplished player of card game called 'Cheat'. He once spent a week playing Cheat aboard small yacht with self and husband, and won all the time.
Am bereft without Clio. Had disproportionate love for Clio. Feel like someone acquiring new dog.
I have gradually come round. It drives well. It feels safe and solid. It looks sporty.
But most of all it has a CD player instead of a cassette player.
Upon which, I can play Alison Krauss, singing Baby Mine, to my heart's content.
This is the song that Dumbo's mum sings to him, when people have been mocking him about his big ears.
I saw this movie when I was very young. I cried. I also lost my mittens and we had to go back and look for them under the seat.
Later, my mum would sing the same song to send me to sleep when I had an asthma attack, and was wheezing my way through the night. Sometimes, she said, she couldn't tell whether the strange rattling sound was my lungs or the railway shunting yard down the road. That was in smoky Leeds, and I now have the peak flow of a woman half my age, thank-you for asking.
Later again, I sang my own son to sleep with it.
Now I drive along wondering where all those years have gone. Rest your head, close to my heart, never to part, baby of mine.
Strange Experiences with the Dundee Book Prize (Episode 2)
My novel The Curiosity Cabinet, started out as a radio play in three parts. I wrote it many years ago. Back then, I was an 'Award Winning' radio writer. Still have trophies, which are useful for hanging things on: rubber bands, bits of string, notes to husband... It was a very nice production, by Hamish Wilson, another Good Thing who sadly became surplus to requirements at the BBC (Moira Stuart by no means the first...nor will she be the last.) but I was dissatisfied with my part in it, ie plot, characterisation etc etc .
Years pass. In my spare time, I write it as a novel, changing everything about it including plot, characterisation etc. Rewrite it. Rewrite it again. Pare it down as far as I dare. Seems like poetry to me. But it's a love story. You know how critics, especially male critics, feel about love stories. Will anyone look beyond the love story to the poetry?
The setting is an island not a million miles from the Isle of Gigha. The Curiosity Cabinet of the title is inspired by a stunning Stuart embroidered box in The Burrell Collection in Glasgow. Box and contents link past and present day women. Wish owned similar box. Could sell it and write only what I want to write.
Lovely agent says she likes book very much so she sends it out. A string of encouraging rejections come back, the gist of which is that they like my writing very much as well, but the novel is too 'quiet' to survive in the bear pit that is modern publishing. Do more rewrites. Agent suggests entering it for Dundee Book Prize, biennial competition for new novel, with guaranteed publication by Edinburgh publisher, Polygon. Send in manuscript and promptly forget all about it. That was about 2004 though memory not what it was. Brain cells destroyed by age, frustration, white wine, sitting in front of PC for hours at a time...
Some months later, I am phoned by charming young man. Can I come through to Dundee to have dinner aboard the Discovery? It's very short notice, I say, huffily. If I'm honest, I can't bear driving all that way to applaud somebody else's success. Selfish I know, but there you go.
'You really should come', says charming young man. 'You will learn something to your advantage', he adds, sotto voce. No, I made that bit up.
Would genuinely love to see Discovery. Book last double room in Travel Lodge and go to Dundee with husband. Am royally entertained aboard wonderful ship, courtesy of Dundee Council. Have always loved this city, ever since I lodged with the parents of a friend in Broughty Ferry while I was working as community writer for the Arts in Fife and looking for a flat. Realise that was back in the late 1970s. God, have I really been writing for such a long time?
Husband eats in the Travel Lodge and then wanders over to ship where - like a Dickensian hero - he can watch us favoured folk being wined and dined. Somebody apologises for exclusion of partners. No room.
Husband gets illicit glass of wine on deck. I am one of three writers: the others being Claire Collison and Malcolm Archibald. We are entertained by two of the judges: Ian Rankin, and a broadcaster / journalist whose name I have shamefully forgotten, but who totters up and down the gangways, wearing the highest pair of killer heels I have ever seen. Mind you, doubt if she would remember me either. There are assorted dignitaries. And a couple of people from Polygon. Poet John Burnside, the third judge, and somebody I very much wanted to meet, isn't there. He liked my book, love story and all.
Ian stands up and makes an encouraging speech, of the 'work hard and you too may one day be up here, judging the work of others' variety. We three compare notes afterwards, and realise that we have all spent long years on various forms of writing : plays, history, articles, poems, etc etc as well as - possibly - far too much time judging the work of others for workshops, competitions, literary awards...
But perhaps that's the problem. All of us are 'tainted by experience' to quote a friend of mine, another ex-BBC producer . That's how come we can write a proper full length novel. What they are looking for is the emerging genius, young, clever, preferably beautiful (female) or provocative (male) and unexpectedly brilliant. What they get, year after year, is people who are just writers.
Gist of evening is that a decision has been taken to publish all three books instead of one. So no final winner is to be announced yet. (Why? Could the judges not agree?) Once published, they will be circulated in proof form to various book groups throughout Scotland (which?) These groups will vote on final winner who will get the dosh. (Is this not shifting goalposts in mid comp? Didn't know we were going to be subject to the vagaries of Book Groups.) Bemused, I rejoin husband at Travel Lodge for nightcap. What is going on? See the next thrilling installment as soon as I can remember it. It seems like an awfy long time ago.....
Years pass. In my spare time, I write it as a novel, changing everything about it including plot, characterisation etc. Rewrite it. Rewrite it again. Pare it down as far as I dare. Seems like poetry to me. But it's a love story. You know how critics, especially male critics, feel about love stories. Will anyone look beyond the love story to the poetry?
The setting is an island not a million miles from the Isle of Gigha. The Curiosity Cabinet of the title is inspired by a stunning Stuart embroidered box in The Burrell Collection in Glasgow. Box and contents link past and present day women. Wish owned similar box. Could sell it and write only what I want to write.
Lovely agent says she likes book very much so she sends it out. A string of encouraging rejections come back, the gist of which is that they like my writing very much as well, but the novel is too 'quiet' to survive in the bear pit that is modern publishing. Do more rewrites. Agent suggests entering it for Dundee Book Prize, biennial competition for new novel, with guaranteed publication by Edinburgh publisher, Polygon. Send in manuscript and promptly forget all about it. That was about 2004 though memory not what it was. Brain cells destroyed by age, frustration, white wine, sitting in front of PC for hours at a time...
Some months later, I am phoned by charming young man. Can I come through to Dundee to have dinner aboard the Discovery? It's very short notice, I say, huffily. If I'm honest, I can't bear driving all that way to applaud somebody else's success. Selfish I know, but there you go.
'You really should come', says charming young man. 'You will learn something to your advantage', he adds, sotto voce. No, I made that bit up.
Would genuinely love to see Discovery. Book last double room in Travel Lodge and go to Dundee with husband. Am royally entertained aboard wonderful ship, courtesy of Dundee Council. Have always loved this city, ever since I lodged with the parents of a friend in Broughty Ferry while I was working as community writer for the Arts in Fife and looking for a flat. Realise that was back in the late 1970s. God, have I really been writing for such a long time?
Husband eats in the Travel Lodge and then wanders over to ship where - like a Dickensian hero - he can watch us favoured folk being wined and dined. Somebody apologises for exclusion of partners. No room.
Husband gets illicit glass of wine on deck. I am one of three writers: the others being Claire Collison and Malcolm Archibald. We are entertained by two of the judges: Ian Rankin, and a broadcaster / journalist whose name I have shamefully forgotten, but who totters up and down the gangways, wearing the highest pair of killer heels I have ever seen. Mind you, doubt if she would remember me either. There are assorted dignitaries. And a couple of people from Polygon. Poet John Burnside, the third judge, and somebody I very much wanted to meet, isn't there. He liked my book, love story and all.
Ian stands up and makes an encouraging speech, of the 'work hard and you too may one day be up here, judging the work of others' variety. We three compare notes afterwards, and realise that we have all spent long years on various forms of writing : plays, history, articles, poems, etc etc as well as - possibly - far too much time judging the work of others for workshops, competitions, literary awards...
But perhaps that's the problem. All of us are 'tainted by experience' to quote a friend of mine, another ex-BBC producer . That's how come we can write a proper full length novel. What they are looking for is the emerging genius, young, clever, preferably beautiful (female) or provocative (male) and unexpectedly brilliant. What they get, year after year, is people who are just writers.
Gist of evening is that a decision has been taken to publish all three books instead of one. So no final winner is to be announced yet. (Why? Could the judges not agree?) Once published, they will be circulated in proof form to various book groups throughout Scotland (which?) These groups will vote on final winner who will get the dosh. (Is this not shifting goalposts in mid comp? Didn't know we were going to be subject to the vagaries of Book Groups.) Bemused, I rejoin husband at Travel Lodge for nightcap. What is going on? See the next thrilling installment as soon as I can remember it. It seems like an awfy long time ago.....
The Dundee Book Prize and other Disappointments
Hot hot hot day. Spend most of it in saleroom. Buy nothing. Should have stayed at home, writing. Husband is at sea, operating liberty boat for local Cruising Club lift-in day, ferrying boat owners to and from their newly afloat boats. Comes home looking like a beetroot in a teeshirt. Will not need to light lamp in sitting room tonight. Can simply read by the light of husband's crimson face. Looks like victim of Masque of Red Death in the old movie. Saw it when much too young and was comprehensively terrified though understood not a word of it.
'Why didn't you put sun cream on?' I ask, furiously. He has only just had treatment for sun damage on forehead.
'Forgot' he says. 'Went out at six in the morning and forgot. We all did. Forgot our sun-hats as well.'
Why do men neglect themselves so much? Why do none of the socks in the washing machine at any one time match? Why is the car you are buying 'very much in demand', while the one you are selling 'not what people want these days'?
Why do we believe that going in for - or even winning- a literary prize will help our career?
Have been thinking about The Dundee Book Prize, reminded of it by news of this year's winner.
In interests of fairness, consider it from the publisher's point of view. The main drawback must be that you have no control over the judges, or the submissions either. And you have no idea who will win. You may loathe him/her/the book.
So you publish the winning book(s) anyway, milk the prize generated publicity for all it's worth, and then leave the writer to get on with it.
From the winning writer's point of view, however, this seems like the Big Break. This is the start of a Beautiful Relationship with Your Publisher. Everything is falling into place. The future looks rosy. You are already thinking about the next novel. Until you are comprehensively dumped. This doesn't do you any good at all. You are now damaged goods. The very next publisher you try will wonder what the hell went wrong the first time round.
The Dundee Book Prize is promoting itself as 'the UK’s premier prize for emerging novelists.' It may well be all of that, but here's an interesting fact. So far, and excluding this year's winner who may, God and Polygon willing, fare better, there have been three winners of the main prize . They are Andrew Murray Scott, Claire Marie Watson, and Malcolm Archibald. There is also myself, and Claire Collison, who were runners up, a couple of years ago, when the competition itself took a very strange turn and Polygon kindly decided to publish our novels as well. (Of which more later)
Have any of these novelists had anything else published by Polygon?
Don't think so, though am willing to be proved wrong.
Mind you, I have. My book about Gigha, God's Islanders, was published by Birlinn, the main body of which Polygon is the literary arm. But that was non fiction, commissioned well before the competition, took years to research and write, and was only published last November.
Have any of them (or maybe I mean us) been nurtured by this publisher in particular and Scottish publishing in general, as the 'emerging novelists' proudly promoted by the competition? Not on your life. Five writers, five completely different novels, and none of us worth cultivating? Not what people want these days?
I wonder.
'Why didn't you put sun cream on?' I ask, furiously. He has only just had treatment for sun damage on forehead.
'Forgot' he says. 'Went out at six in the morning and forgot. We all did. Forgot our sun-hats as well.'
Why do men neglect themselves so much? Why do none of the socks in the washing machine at any one time match? Why is the car you are buying 'very much in demand', while the one you are selling 'not what people want these days'?
Why do we believe that going in for - or even winning- a literary prize will help our career?
Have been thinking about The Dundee Book Prize, reminded of it by news of this year's winner.
In interests of fairness, consider it from the publisher's point of view. The main drawback must be that you have no control over the judges, or the submissions either. And you have no idea who will win. You may loathe him/her/the book.
So you publish the winning book(s) anyway, milk the prize generated publicity for all it's worth, and then leave the writer to get on with it.
From the winning writer's point of view, however, this seems like the Big Break. This is the start of a Beautiful Relationship with Your Publisher. Everything is falling into place. The future looks rosy. You are already thinking about the next novel. Until you are comprehensively dumped. This doesn't do you any good at all. You are now damaged goods. The very next publisher you try will wonder what the hell went wrong the first time round.
The Dundee Book Prize is promoting itself as 'the UK’s premier prize for emerging novelists.' It may well be all of that, but here's an interesting fact. So far, and excluding this year's winner who may, God and Polygon willing, fare better, there have been three winners of the main prize . They are Andrew Murray Scott, Claire Marie Watson, and Malcolm Archibald. There is also myself, and Claire Collison, who were runners up, a couple of years ago, when the competition itself took a very strange turn and Polygon kindly decided to publish our novels as well. (Of which more later)
Have any of these novelists had anything else published by Polygon?
Don't think so, though am willing to be proved wrong.
Mind you, I have. My book about Gigha, God's Islanders, was published by Birlinn, the main body of which Polygon is the literary arm. But that was non fiction, commissioned well before the competition, took years to research and write, and was only published last November.
Have any of them (or maybe I mean us) been nurtured by this publisher in particular and Scottish publishing in general, as the 'emerging novelists' proudly promoted by the competition? Not on your life. Five writers, five completely different novels, and none of us worth cultivating? Not what people want these days?
I wonder.
On David Tennant as Hero, Cherry Ghost as Incidental Music etc etc
Am meant to be writing my new novel, The Fifth Mary but am blogging instead. Suspect lovely agent thinks the book is almost finished. Actually, I'm fairly sure she knows that it's nowhere near finished but is living in hope. Make swift calculations on notepad beside PC. If I manage to write a thousand words every day for the next month I will have a draft to send to her by the end of May. Are the jackdaws getting bigger or was that a pig that flew past the window just now?
Have pinned a picture of David Tennant over PC. Sexy sexy Scottish hero. Then, to confound evil comments of husband, have pinned another of Billie Piper, on other side. Heroine. Have real soft spot for Billie, think she's a first class actor, and could cast her in any number of roles.
Have several pressing problems that may interfere with above schedule.
Mainly to do with computer.
The PC upon which I do all my writing, which is upstairs, in a nice little room with a view, next door to our bedroom, is - in computing terms - geriatric. I like it because it isn't hooked up to the internet, and the older version of Word, installed thereon, is quicker, clearer and altogether better than the new all singing all dancing one on this PC which is the one I do all my internet stuff on.
This means that the only way of backing up data is by means of floppy disk. Only the drive is beginning to object in various ways - blue screens and error messages. This in turn means that I am reluctant to work on said PC without any means (other than printing out, which I do compulsively) of saving work.
When spoke to assistant in PC world about this he laughed. Nobody uses floppy disks these days, he said. Too true.
Need to embark on acquiring new PC with all accompanying horrors. Can I afford it? Can I afford to have man come out and set it up, transferring all data from old PC to new one? Should I have major swap around so that new one lives downstairs to be used for internet business, slightly elderly one moves upstairs, and geriatric one goes to saleroom to be flogged for a fiver? Am tired just thinking about it all.
Large, viking like son comes home tomorrow. Apart from being gorgeous, he is a computer literate mathematician. Will ask him what he thinks. Last time I did this, he said 'Mum, there are too many computers in the house.'
Must remember to ask him if he and fellow mathematicians like Cherry Ghost's Cold Mathematics.
I adore it. Play it over and over. Not sure if this is sign of impending dementia, or attempt to recapture lost youth.
Have pinned a picture of David Tennant over PC. Sexy sexy Scottish hero. Then, to confound evil comments of husband, have pinned another of Billie Piper, on other side. Heroine. Have real soft spot for Billie, think she's a first class actor, and could cast her in any number of roles.
Have several pressing problems that may interfere with above schedule.
Mainly to do with computer.
The PC upon which I do all my writing, which is upstairs, in a nice little room with a view, next door to our bedroom, is - in computing terms - geriatric. I like it because it isn't hooked up to the internet, and the older version of Word, installed thereon, is quicker, clearer and altogether better than the new all singing all dancing one on this PC which is the one I do all my internet stuff on.
This means that the only way of backing up data is by means of floppy disk. Only the drive is beginning to object in various ways - blue screens and error messages. This in turn means that I am reluctant to work on said PC without any means (other than printing out, which I do compulsively) of saving work.
When spoke to assistant in PC world about this he laughed. Nobody uses floppy disks these days, he said. Too true.
Need to embark on acquiring new PC with all accompanying horrors. Can I afford it? Can I afford to have man come out and set it up, transferring all data from old PC to new one? Should I have major swap around so that new one lives downstairs to be used for internet business, slightly elderly one moves upstairs, and geriatric one goes to saleroom to be flogged for a fiver? Am tired just thinking about it all.
Large, viking like son comes home tomorrow. Apart from being gorgeous, he is a computer literate mathematician. Will ask him what he thinks. Last time I did this, he said 'Mum, there are too many computers in the house.'
Must remember to ask him if he and fellow mathematicians like Cherry Ghost's Cold Mathematics.
I adore it. Play it over and over. Not sure if this is sign of impending dementia, or attempt to recapture lost youth.
Some Reflections on The Weight of Linen
Spend most of morning standing in saleroom, eyeing up fellow dealers, waiting to bid on large box of old linen. Not just any old linen either. Fabulously embroidered old linen, of the sort that only comes along once in a blue moon. And this has been a very blue moon. With some TLC it will keep my eBay shop in contented buyers for many weeks. Carry it home in triumph. Actually, I carry it home in my sister-in-law's Citroen, parked half a mile away from the saleroom. Divide it into two big boxes, and stagger along with one each. 'Getting...too...old...for this' we gasp at each other as we go. On reflection, was never young enough for carrying these kind of weights, but seem to have spent most of life to date hefting blocks of wood in one form or another (married to woodcarver) now exchanged for linen. Which weighs a ton. Immense college students lumber past ignoring our groans. Only help offered by smartly dressed pensioner. Smile nicely, say thank-you, but decline kind offer. He would have heart failure, and we would feel guilty. Have had back twinges ever since.
Have also had more twinges of gloom. Big self doubts. Have been writing professionally for more than thirty years. Aaaargh and double aaargh as Bridget would say. Have had several books published, many many many plays produced for stage and radio and literally hundreds of other projects successfully completed.
Am nice to people, and can speak in public without a microphone.
Can make people laugh.
Scrub up nicely and am not bad looking.
So why does nobody at the business end want to know? What am I doing wrong?
Writer Friend says have to be 15 years old and put a dragon in the story somewhere. This is even more depressing but probably true.
Have also had more twinges of gloom. Big self doubts. Have been writing professionally for more than thirty years. Aaaargh and double aaargh as Bridget would say. Have had several books published, many many many plays produced for stage and radio and literally hundreds of other projects successfully completed.
Am nice to people, and can speak in public without a microphone.
Can make people laugh.
Scrub up nicely and am not bad looking.
So why does nobody at the business end want to know? What am I doing wrong?
Writer Friend says have to be 15 years old and put a dragon in the story somewhere. This is even more depressing but probably true.
Sucks to the Beeb.
A couple of sleepless nights later, and I'm still mad as hell.
All week my mailbox has been full of emails from people who have enjoyed The Price of a Fish Supper so much that they have written to tell me so.
Then somebody comes round to the house with The Daily Telegraph Magazine, in which distinguished critic Gillian Reynolds says 'Catherine Czerkawska is a wonderful writer of radio plays. She is poetic, humane, funny, makes you think, but for some strange reason, she hit the buffers with Radio 4 a few years back and couldn't get a single thing broadcast. '
Rosy glow of self satisfaction has barely had time to subside when another email comes from my producer. Proposal (200 word 'pitch' ) for new radio play about Scottish poet Robert Tannahill, which she thought was 'wonderful', has fallen at first hurdle. The answer is no. No way. Not interested.
Am not really mad at Beeb. I kind of expected it. Somebody there really doesn't like me or my plays. Am more mad at self for allowing self to be lulled by success of Fish Supper, into dropping my guard and giving them the satisfaction of saying no all over again.
Hell will freeze over before I send any more proposals Auntie's way. Have pleasant daydream of publishing immensely successful novel. BBC executives are begging on knees to adapt it. Tell them to piss off and take it to ITV instead.
Just you wait 'Enry 'Iggins, just you wait.'
All week my mailbox has been full of emails from people who have enjoyed The Price of a Fish Supper so much that they have written to tell me so.
Then somebody comes round to the house with The Daily Telegraph Magazine, in which distinguished critic Gillian Reynolds says 'Catherine Czerkawska is a wonderful writer of radio plays. She is poetic, humane, funny, makes you think, but for some strange reason, she hit the buffers with Radio 4 a few years back and couldn't get a single thing broadcast. '
Rosy glow of self satisfaction has barely had time to subside when another email comes from my producer. Proposal (200 word 'pitch' ) for new radio play about Scottish poet Robert Tannahill, which she thought was 'wonderful', has fallen at first hurdle. The answer is no. No way. Not interested.
Am not really mad at Beeb. I kind of expected it. Somebody there really doesn't like me or my plays. Am more mad at self for allowing self to be lulled by success of Fish Supper, into dropping my guard and giving them the satisfaction of saying no all over again.
Hell will freeze over before I send any more proposals Auntie's way. Have pleasant daydream of publishing immensely successful novel. BBC executives are begging on knees to adapt it. Tell them to piss off and take it to ITV instead.
Just you wait 'Enry 'Iggins, just you wait.'
Plays and other things
Have sent emails to various friends and acquaintances, to tell them about Fish Supper. The production company, meanwhile, has sent out a smashing publicity email, with a picture from the original production. Listened to the play on a CD last night. It makes me cry - not my own writing, but the character himself. Somehow he became a real man in the course of the writing and the production, and I'm sorry for and about him. It's one of the joys of writing plays - the collaboration involved seems to produce something over and above the original text.
I've been busy drafting out a new stage play called The Physic Garden, but it's not yet at a stage where I would be prepared to let anyone else read it. For me, anyway, the process always involves getting something - anything - down, and then reworking it countless times. It always amuses me when I come across an aspiring writer - as I did recently - who tells me proudly 'I never rewrite anything!' as though their deathless prose emerges fully formed onto the page or PC. They wish. Ten drafts is not out of the ordinary. Twenty sometimes does it. Writing has to be left to lie fallow. It's only when you come back to it, several weeks or even months later that you can see what is wrong with it. And for me, plays in particular are like poems. They have to be honed and honed. Line endings matter. So does punctuation. So does finding exactly the right word or phrase. It seems to me that plays are only ever as fixed as the last - or perhaps I mean the next - production!
I've been busy drafting out a new stage play called The Physic Garden, but it's not yet at a stage where I would be prepared to let anyone else read it. For me, anyway, the process always involves getting something - anything - down, and then reworking it countless times. It always amuses me when I come across an aspiring writer - as I did recently - who tells me proudly 'I never rewrite anything!' as though their deathless prose emerges fully formed onto the page or PC. They wish. Ten drafts is not out of the ordinary. Twenty sometimes does it. Writing has to be left to lie fallow. It's only when you come back to it, several weeks or even months later that you can see what is wrong with it. And for me, plays in particular are like poems. They have to be honed and honed. Line endings matter. So does punctuation. So does finding exactly the right word or phrase. It seems to me that plays are only ever as fixed as the last - or perhaps I mean the next - production!
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