Wet Ink

Onward, As One

You know the feeling of marching on protest? Of holding up a banner, and chanting a truth? That's how I think of us writers. Often, our voices remain unheard except by a choice few. But we're all marching, and together we're loud. We know that our work can touch others, or deepen our selves; in short, that it is meaningful.

A few weeks back, I heard about the soap-opera dispute in Afghanistan. In short, the Afghan authorities have banned an Indian soap, which is popular with many Afghan families. In fact, households often spend what little they have on a license, just so they can watch. On the BBC Radio 4 News, an interviewer spoke to individuals affected. Folks said how they relied on the soaps to lift them emotionally. Often, whole families gather together to watch as one. The authorities disagree with the morality of the soaps, hence the overall ban. (See more here).

But there's been some non-compliance. The soaps continue to be broadcast.

You can't argue with the idea that stories are important. Orwell, Frankyl, Harper Lee -- thank heaven they moved us. But though it's desirable to have a large audience, to reach and touch, this isn't the nub of the matter. The fact we read and write -- this is what's important. Our striving, you know? Our voice.

Many Moons

The moon comes up a lot in my work. I love her as a symbol. She represents the hidden, the sly unconscious, the place we're not aware of but by which we're deeply swayed. She has played her part in magic, in the feminine, in sex. She represents trickery, controls the tides, is the bringer of light in the dark. Then, of course, there's her goddess Artemis, champion of hunting and purity. Opposing forces, we might think -- typical of the moon.

When we place a character in moonlight a whole new potential arises. Regardless of folklore and myth, the setting itself is rich. Perhaps we see only half of their face: an eerie warning. Perhaps their secrets are underscored by all that subtle light. Moonlight softens the features, can make one more alluring, and thoughts of dream and illusion rise quickly in our minds.

I once had a wonderful teacher who lectured us on A Midsummer Night's Dream. The class was English Folklore. I'd already studied the play. But this time we read it from a folklorist's perspective, looking at symbol and rite. Of course, in Shakespeare's time, an audience would have been more aware of what a half-moon symbolised, or the meaning of moonbeams shining in a lap. Folklore was alive, a vast, living system: a necessary literacy for all. But I argue that, today, given Jung's work, some of this still resides in us. Few would trust a half-moon. We sense it isn't safe.

Of course, the sly planet is one of Folklore's richest symbols, and has often been attributed great power. Maids have walked circles beneath the full moon to bring themselves true love, and some still believe she can change us into wolves. Spells have been conjured, sacrifices made. Juliet tells Romeo not to swear by the moon, which is far too fickle to be trusted.

So when Titania, Queen of Fairies, speaks of the rift between herself and her king -- a quarrel so powerful that nature's grown unruly -- it isn't surprising the moon plays her part:

"Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
That rheumatic diseases to abound.
And thorough this distemperature we see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,
And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set."

From A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare (2:1, 104-111)

So next time you write of the moon, consider the depths. Power, magic, secrecy. Dizzying stuff.

By the way, do check out my friend Mike Schiavone, a talented author who recently took second place in the "Glimmer Train Very Short Story Contest".

!

At the moment, I'm spending a lot of time cutting exclamation marks. It's an addiction I don't notice when the story's rushing out. When my friend, who's loathes the things, underlines them on my drafts, it's like a magic eye -- dear God, where do they come from?

Worse still, such punctuation drove me nuts when I was teaching. Talented young students would overly rely on them, arguing the marks added passion to their work. But genuine feeling arises by itself, and certainly can't be constructed. If we seek to manipulate, to make our work exciting, I think we miss this truth.

Perhaps my reliance is at another level. I've somehow attached the marks to an emotion. I hear my character's rage, and the punctuation comes. Much of the time, all I need is a full-stop*: a mark that can be processed almost silently by most. Who needs interruptions when we're deep in the flow? After all, that's when we truly find the story for ourselves.

So I'm dieting right down. Here's the aim. More chocolate and fewer exclamation marks.

*That's a 'period' in US English.

P.S. My friend Amy reminds me that first drafts are a great place for exclamation marks. Now that's true wisdom.

Spellsing

Do you, like me, often get asked about spelling? "Ask Sue. She'll know how to spell it," and sometimes I just don't. A popular assumption seems to be: writer = spelling genius. Well, I guess I spell just fine, but my talent's really stories. I use a spell-checker just like anyone else. And until recently, when I commented that a Naval Orange has a sort of belly-button, I thought "naval" meant "of the navy", and the discovery brought on a fit of laughter. "No no, captain. These oranges aren't right. Our troops must be given the official variety." I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Certainly, it's good to spell as well as possible -- this for clarity and smoothness. Plus the language is a beautiful thing, and a word well-spelled is a gem. But oh, we're lovers of words, and that's different to perfectionism or knowledge of facts. Personally, I like the occasional spelling mistake. It shows we're not too controlling, that we're all about the flow. To be caught by a story or the richness of a thought is surely more important than technical aplomb.

As a teacher, I was often asked about a student's spelling. Parents felt, if their child could spell, it meant they'd be set for life. But I always feel an alternative talent is a tingling in the gut. If you write down a word and think "Hold on. That looks wrong," you can reach for the dictionary and check it. And of course, bottom line: we've spell-checkers now, and as long as you've the basics these are wonderful tools.

My take: When you truly love something, you have to let it breathe. A passion for language and the beauty of words -- their music, their meaning -- is a must for us. Spellings can be corrected by any number of means. Imagination, guts, a love of humanity -- I know these count more deeply.

To Touch the Page

I love not only the contents of books, but how they feel. Oh, the smell and the sound of turning pages. If I've borrowed a book from a library or a friend, I sense the contact of those who've held it. Naturally, any object holds a story, and books are no exception.

When I was a kid, I had the "Fungus the Bogeyman Plop-Up Book", by Raymond Briggs. This book, which I had to keep a secret, was full of slimy monsters who terrify people, but are likable in their way. The "Plop-up" of course meant "Pop-up" and if you pulled the tags, the toilet-seat would rise to reveal a sheet of slime. But the bit that made me laugh -- nay screech in fits -- was once the monsters were asleep. The reader was instructed to "Close this book quietly," -- after all, we didn't want to wake the sleepers. But there was a deliberately squeaky spine and you had to fail. What bliss.

I was chatting with friends the other night about e-book readers. Apparently, the technology is really quite something, and laid on the screen, the pages look real. They're environmentally friendly and handy gadgets too. You can take whole libraries anywhere. Yeah, it sounds great. But I'm wondering how I'd cope without the touch of pages or the weight of each book being different to the last.

Having expressed this love-affair, I must admit, if I own a book I scribble in the margins. Pencil, yes. Lightly, I promise. I underline phrases so I'll find them again, or make a note to myself. Similarly, if a friend reads my work and jots some suggestions on the text, I treasure the pages more deeply for such helpful interaction. I think of books as living things, especially in draft, and the "physical" presence of a reader is exciting. Plus at uni, when I was studying English Lit, how cool to buy a second-hand book and finding someone's notes in the margins! Talk about another perspective. It always got me thinking. And sometimes there was really sharp stuff.

Well, we each have our own relationship with books. My friend asked me why I owned a large handbag when I didn't keep much inside. I took the book that was sitting between us and dropped it into my bag. "See?" I said. "Just enough room." She shook her head and laughed.

If you've been so good as to lend me a book, I promise it's safe with me.

True Restraint

One of things I have to watch is revealing my stories too quickly. I've a tendency in early drafts to give too much away. It's because I'm excited, lost inside my head. I have to learn to be restrained, to let the mystery take. But oh, the story's roaring, and it's hard!

I do something similar in difficult moments. It's tempting to run from a scene that gets really tough. When a moment ties us in a knot and makes us want to flee, it's hard to stay the pain and draw it out. Ultimately, I guess, I want to protect my characters, but as we all know, this isn't real love. It's a case of allowing the risks, I guess. Of letting fledglings fly.

Like me, are you tempted to make fierce emotions erupt too soon? Holding onto anger, letting it build, allowing the discomfort of keeping it back -- this makes me squirm. But how many times is true, deep rage let out in the first moments? The expression of rage is a social taboo, and there's often a reason to keep it in. True, bright, burning rage has usually simmered first; besides, waiting for the eruption can deepen up a scene.

Speaking of holding back in terms of revelation, I'm itching to share an excerpt with you. Chuck Palahniuk could write a massive tome on how to begin a story, and I'd read the whole lot. Here's his opening to Invisible Monsters:

"Where you're supposed to be is some big West Hills wedding reception in a big manor house with flower arrangements and stuffed mushrooms all over the house. This is called scene setting: where everybody is, who's alive, who'd dead. This is Evie Cottrell's big wedding reception moment. Evie is standing halfway down the big staircase in the manor house foyer, naked inside what's left of her wedding dress, still holding her rifle.

Me, I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs but only in a physical way. My mind is, I don't know where.

Nobody's all-the-way dead yet, but let's just say the clock is ticking."

From Invisible Monsters, by Chuck Palahniuk

Oh now, that's holding back. Don't you wish I'd turn the page?

Personal Journeys (Or A Bear Called Paddington)

Today, I bought myself a Paddington Bear. This was a bit of a landmark.

I was born in Paddington, London, which made the Paddington Bear stories a big part of my childhood. If you don't know about Paddington, here's a potted history. He was first discovered in Paddington Railway Station, carrying a suitcase containing marmalade sandwiches. (These, it transpired, were his favourite snack and he always kept a couple under his hat). There was a note attached to his coat saying, "Please look after this bear. Thank you." Michael Bond, the author of the books, said the note was prompted by the war evacuees -- so many children he'd seen at the station bearing similar notes. According to the story, Paddington came from Peru. He'd been sent away by his Great Aunt Lucy who'd had to go and live in a home for retired bears, but at last he was adopted by the Brown family. Well, that was just the beginning...

One of the things I loved about Paddington was his famous "hard stare", which he used in the face of injustice. This caused the recipient to grow rather flustered.

Yeah. A bear with guts.

Upon seeing the stuffed Paddington in my local British store, I wondered why, until this day, I'd never actually owned one. As a kid, I had all the books, which my father used to read to me, and that was clearly enough. But even better than Paddington were the stories my dad created himself. He made them up on the spot -- the tales of Jeremy, a young boy with extraordinary skills. Jeremy lured an elephant back to the zoo with donuts from the bakers'. He was mischievous and clever: my father in disguise.

Funny how the stories we love return to us in the end. I was also a hardcore fan of Winnie-The-Pooh (I did like my bears, it has to be said). When I left my first teaching job, instead of giving a speech, my lovely boss read the last story from The House At Pooh Corner. I cried my darn eyes out. It was a beautiful thing. Also, once we'd moved to America, on a trip to New York, I discovered that the original Winnie-The-Pooh -- Christopher Robin's real stuffed bear -- now resides in the city and is an expat himself. Perhaps a part of me has been secretly tracking "the bear of little brain", craving his deep answers.

One thing I know. I am a writer because of these stories. I learnt that tales are all about giving, and no matter what, they live on.

In Loving Memory...

Let's Do The Maths

Maths was never my strongest subject.  I could do it all right, but I didn't have the edge.  Only with algebra was I a whizz, and that, I'm sure, was thanks to the letters.  I wasn't in the fast-track group and found division hard.  I left school believing I wasn't good with numbers.

Having said that, I'm beginning to change my mind.  When we're aware of the rhythms in a sentence, or a certain cadence, are we not being mathematical?  The amount of times we count syllables out, or hear, in a flash, the need for different stresses.  Then of course, there's plot.  Does an arc peak too early?  Does a showdown come too soon?  Perhaps what we're dealing with is an artist's sense of rhythm: an awareness of aesthetic, a finely-tuned ear.  For the music in writing is mathematical, at times.  We're in touch with the Maths, but we call it something else.

We certainly excel in the areas we love.  Take a load of kids who think they suck at spelling, who hate reading books and want to be playing football, and give them a board-game involving letter-squares (something like Scrabble, where each letter holds a score) and more often than not their fear disappears.  They start to use a dictionary -- not because they have to, but because they realise it'll help them win.  Suddenly they're spelling stuff, being sly with words.  Why?  Because they love the system of football, the liberation of playing a game.  In these moments, they forget they're working with words.  And more often than not, you'll find some clever wordsters, who simply don't view themselves that way.

I argue it's similar for us.  Give us a pen and paper, and we'll show 'em Maths.  We just mightn't realise at the time.

What I Tell Myself When Everything Stays Dirty

Yesterday, I was cleaning the kitchen when I had this urge to return to the keyboard.  The need was so powerful I had to obey.  My next reaction: guilt.  I thought I should be cleaning.  And dammit, my writing felt like a sin.

To be frank, I've never been a squeaky clean girl and as a child I believed this made me sinful. I was always trying to avoid cleaning up so I could write or paint or do stuff with mud.  But I'm glad I was a mucky pup, at least some of the time.  Why?  Because I argue muck can be creative.  As artists, we have to foul up before we improve, and learning to let go like this is hard.  Perhaps by writing when we want, and letting the chaos reside, we're learning this skill.

Besides, is a heart that's soapy-clean better than one that's known dirt?  I've walked into houses so pristine I couldn't relax, or just be.  I never want my home to be that way for others. I want them to kick up their shoes, be loose with the peanut butter.  After all, we're humans, and I know what I prefer:  I'd rather have Pip to dinner before he meets Estella, than soon after when he's denying his messier roots.

And while we're at it (see, I'm warming to my theme!) I don't want to read a sparkly story where no one messes up.  Where nothing gets spilt; where everything glistens.  I want stories to reach inside and grab my heart and wrench it.  I want to love the dirty as well as the clean, and, as a writer, this begins with my self.

Well, everyone has their own level (I promise I don't live in permanent grimness!), but here's my own epiphany:  Though I'm not going to tell myself to leave everything filthy (there's some cheese in the fridge that's growing fur and a snout) I do want to be as human as I can --  to tap my darker depths.  And if the writing-urge is more potent than the wish to wash up, well thank God...

Norms

The other day, I was in the supermarket, when the guy at the checkout asked me how I was. I wasn't feeling great it has to be said, so I told him I was "Oh you know, ticking along, thanks." He started to laugh. I asked him why. Apart from the phrase 'ticking along', which he thought was rather comical (!), he had a further explanation: "Everyone either says 'good' or else they say nothing at all. But as it happens, I feel like you. Just kind of average." We went on to have a cool conversation. And to my relief, as I was leaving, he didn't just tell me to "have a nice day".

I guess we all have scripts we're expected to adhere to. What's interesting is when characters are in conflict with the rules. I've been reading Best American Short Stories 2007 (ed. Stephen King). In Toga Party, by John Barth, a couple, Dick and Susan, have been invited to a toga do and are anxious to follow the norms. Here's a conversation between Dick and his friend:

"Latin? I don't know any damn Latin."
"Sure you do: Ave Maria? Tempus fugit? After that, and some joking around about all the crazy getups, it's just a friendly cocktail-dinner party for the next couple hours, till they wind it up with some kinky contest games with fun prizes. Susan will enjoy it; maybe even you will. Veni, vidi, vici!"
"Excuse me?"
"You're excused."...

Terrific fun.

As writers, it's important that we sometimes break the norms. It's fun to crack the traditional mould. Tarantino wanted Pulp Fiction to end on a high and sliced up the plot into three different sections, which he could then shuffle up. By playing with time the way he does, the film ends exactly as he wanted. Similarly, I love how Chaucer created the Canterbury Tales -- a group of pilgrims telling stories as they journey towards a holy shrine. Stories within a story. It had never been done before. Not only the first linked collection, but the first, in England, to be written in a colloquial tongue. Shocking to many, in its day. Oh Chaucer, you still rock.