Wet Ink

Election Break

Well, I'm taking a break until after the election, but for now, here are some quotes I thought I'd share.  Most of them aren't about writing, but they are writing, of course.

"I'll be the man with broom / If you be the dust of the room / And there's only so far you can hide / Before I corner you."  From "Last Day of Magic" by The Kills (from their album, Midnight Boom).

"But all drama is unwise.  We do not live by wisdom.  We live by the drama -- tragic loves, misplaced energies, errors, prejudices.  Errors.  I believe in making human errors, in having illusions."  Anais Nin, in Fire.

"What you read to me is swimming over me.  Your language is still more overwhelming than mine.  I am a child compared to you, because when the womb in you speaks it enfolds everything -- it is the darkness I adore." Henry Miller, in a letter to Anais Nin, from A Literate Passion : Letters of Anais Nin and Henry Miller 1932-1953

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- / I took the one less travelled by / And that has made all the difference." From "The Road Not Taken", by Robert Frost.

Well, see you after the election.  Sweet dreams.

Health, Pain, Courage - A Personal Take

In the novel I'm editing right now, the hero and heroine have a tough relationship.  As two thieves, they find it hard to trust, and they seek to control one another, sharing their addictions.  And yet, their connection is deep.  Is it love?  Yes, but darkly so.  As I work on the piece I have a note by my desk, which reads, "Health, Pain, Courage."  Here's why.

I know that in this novel as in much of life, I wish to avoid a hefty moral judgement.  I want to connect with characters' hardships, to judge them only in the light of how they've suffered.  Cruelty can breed cruelty, this we know.  We don't all come from a comfortable place.  Those who've abused have in turn been abused -- and when we think about it, that's a tough one.  So I want to understand my thieves' misery and cruelty, be compassionate towards it, shine a light on why it's there.

The moral compass I'm using for this novel has more to do with courage.  The fact my characters keep going as they are, with their moments of connection and their wish to protect, is more amazing to me because of what they've suffered.  I feel awed by their sharing of burdens, their moments of sacrifice.  

It's hard to write a piece that's morally complex and in which right and wrong are tricky to pin down.  It's easier to say "He's good, he's bad," or "they're cruel and nasty", rather than connecting with pain.  When I think in terms of "good and bad" I lose my complexity.  When I think in terms of "pain and health", I can work on deeper levels.  When we're vengeful, it comes from suffering, and when we long to hurt, ditto.  I don't see this as a deep-seated evil: it's a human way of coping with loss.

As a teacher, I enjoyed working with the risky, hard-edged boys.  "You do well with the wild ones," said the Deputy Head.  "You somehow understand them."  But of course, those kids taught me too -- much about compassion and hidden pain.  Such lessons so moved me that I'm always going back there.

A Touch Too Wholesome

A long time ago, I tried to read a novel about a female detective with psychic powers.  I gave up pretty early on, mainly because I couldn't get past the premise, but the thing that stopped me reading - the moment I clammed up - was when the protagonist confessed her wholesome lifestyle.  She didn't get home at midnight and raid the peanut butter, smoke a roll-up or watch some crass TV.  She had zero addictions, didn't drink or swear; had no liking for cookie-dough, gossip or caffeine.  At the page on which I left her, she couldn't sleep, had witnessed a death and was stressed right out, and what did she decide to do?  Prepare herself a salad.  I couldn't go on, after that.  I just didn't buy it.

Don't get me wrong.  This book had really sold.  There are zillions of readers who love this protagonist.  But me, I'm back with Chandler, longing for the whiskies; though hardboiled isn't everything - the tiniest flaw will do.  Even Mma Ramotswe has a liking for gossip and a self-confessed dependency on tea.  Truth is, I like my characters to be a touch sullied.  Why is this?  Pain, I think: a longing for the struggle.  Here I am with my own collection of flaws (cussing and too much Guinness, to name only two), and I wouldn't sacrifice them - they're part of who I am.  They prove I'm complicated and alive.

Ever seen Dexter?  I've never read the books, but the TV series is extraordinary.  In season two, addiction is treated with staggering courage.  This is the kind of complexity and humanity I admire.  What "Dexter" is really looking at is what drives a killer - his deep pain, his tragedies; yet, by also drawing on other addictions, the writers makes the script more widely relevant.  The issues make us think about humans as a whole -  the reasons we crave and hurt.  Dexter calls his addicted side "The Dark Passenger".  Take a look at this:

"I just know there's something dark in me and I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it, but it's there always, this Dark Passenger. And when he's driving, I feel alive, half sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don't fight him, I don't want to. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me, not even... especially not me. Or is that just a lie the Dark Passenger tells me? Because lately there are these moments when I feel connected to something else... someone. It's like the mask is slipping and things... people... who never mattered before are suddenly starting to matter. It scares the hell out of me."

From Dexter, Season Two (written by James Manos, Jr., and team).

Nothing too wholesome there, and yet the writing is packed with compassion.

Right.  I'm off to make tea so strong you could stand a spoon up in it.

You're a Bit Different, Now, Aren't You?

I love it that, as a writer, I can be strange on paper.  Truth is, those of us who never tap 'the weird side' are missing something crucial.  When Kafka made his protagonist, Gregor Samsa, wake up as a giant beetle, there were bound to be sniffy readers, but what the heck?  Without his "Metamorphosis", where would we be?  Take a look at his opening, which you may well know:

"One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug.  He lay on his armour-hard back and saw, as he lifted his head up a little, his brown, arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections.  From this height the blanket, just about ready to slide off completely, could hardly stay in place.  His numerous legs, pitifully thin in comparison to the rest of his circumference, flickered helplessly before his eyes."  From Kafka's Metamorphosis

I love the specificity of this giant bug.  Kafka describes brilliantly the "armour-hard back", the "brown, arched abdomen", the "rigid bow-like sections".  So specific are his descriptions that the creature's made real for us: both visible and textured, lying in that bed.  Thus it's easier to enter the 'weird' situation, which eventually brings deeper questions: such as what is it like to be estranged?  Can we only be loved, when we're similar to others?

When I tell people I'm working on a linked collection entitled, "Touch Me, I'm a Monster", they usually either laugh (a flattering response) or look at me, eyebrow cocked, as if I've lost my marbles.  Truth is, what is sometimes called 'strange stuff' - stories of monsters who are vulnerable misfits - comes from a deeply human urge to express how it feels to be different.  Oh, I've been called 'strange' so often in life that it's become my norm, and I'm sure there are those of you who feel the same.  

I was talking to a friend of mine the other day about my dislike of the adjective 'odd'.  "I don't mind strange," I said, "and weird's not so bad, but 'odd'?  I can't stand the word."  Odd, we decided, had certain connotations.  If you call something odd, it's beneath you; not just different, but unsavoury, ill-fitting.  Anyone calls my monsters odd and I'll get quite defensive; especially considering the lessons a mermaid can teach, or a werewolf, or a ghost...  If you want to get wise, you've got to get different -- you must have known the suffering of being kept apart.  

Of course, we know this as writers.  We're a little different, too...

Ways We Bolt

I love the word bolt, not only because of the way it sounds but also because of its meanings.  I realised today that as a writer I bolt often - it's part of who I am.

As a door bolts:

We learn, as writers, to bolt our inner doors.  Until we're ready to share, we work alone.  I'm not saying our work can't be communal - I'm a firm believer in the power of critique - but there's a time that's right for each of us to open the door.  Sharing work before it feels ready is like undressing for a lover before we truly want to. It can leave us shy, afraid of going back.  It's neither helpful to the lover nor ourselves.

As a horse bolts:

In this sense, I really am a bolter.  I'm capable of deep commitment, but when I stop trusting I run for the hills.  I have to fight an urge to abandon drafts too quickly, telling myself "This will never get there."  Truth is, our best work can start quite messily because we're delving deep and challenging ourselves.  To bolt too early is to lose our faith in growth, which, though often painful, is usually valuable.

As an eater bolts:

Oh, that feeling of glutting on stories!  Whether as a reader or writer, it's great to feel compelled by a piece.  Stories that we can't get enough of are a privilege indeed.  I see no problem in allowing work to hook me, but sometimes there are limits.  Part of being a writer (or any story-lover) is living one's own life's tale: that's to say, being a creative in a range of ways.  Writing is an important part of who we are, but our work can be richer when our diet is eclectic:  Be it kicking up autumn leaves, dancing, playing pool, telling bad jokes or traveling to Rome, it's good for our writing to quit the keyboard, if only for a while.

Be Careful, When You Make Those Paper Planes

When I first worked as a teacher, I'd often find paper planes on the floor at the end of lessons. The finds could be both intriguing and frustrating. Occasionally, a kid would have made their plane out of a piece of work. This used to sadden me. Either they'd no pride in what they'd created, or they'd sacrificed their writing for a don't-care reputation. At other times, however, they'd use notes to one another: love-letters, or doodles, or old detention slips. I'd glimpse, on the wing, a heart and a name, or a caricature of a teacher. "Be careful," I'd tell them, "when you make those paper planes." But few of them listened. The private scraps continued. When, later on, my management strengthened and the kids stopped throwing their missiles, I admit, I missed them. There was a beautiful riot in those rushed-out scrawls.

The other day, I went through my bag. It was full of bits of paper: post-it notes, receipts, flyers and envelopes, jotted with story ideas. (It's funny: though recently I bought myself a notebook, I seldom seem to use it for sudden thoughts!). Instead of just putting these scraps aside, I placed them on the table, and as the collage grew, I got a picture of myself: a bizarre mix of story-thoughts and words. What would a stranger think, if they came across them? Even as I read these notes, they made a kind of poem. As a writer, my mind often feels this way: a mix of strange wonders.

At the weekend, in a coffee shop I rarely visit, I found a pile of notebooks on the table with the mags. The books were there for customers to share their random thoughts. In the one I picked up, I found lonely letters, witty poems, gossipy notes. The book touched me. After all, I'd been addressed with a load of emotions from a group of total strangers. It reminded me of the time, when working as an examiner, a candidate had sat and written me a letter. "Dear Examiner..." it began. Of course, I had to refer it (it didn't answer the question!), but how amazing when our lives collide, and we glimpse a stranger's insides.

Everyone Loves a Moaner

On the strange disappearance of Eeyore the donkey's tail:

"'You must have left it somewhere,' said Winnie-the-Pooh.
'Somebody must have taken it,' said Eeyore.  "How Like Them,' he added, after a long silence."

From Winnie-The-Pooh, by A.A.Milne

My friend apologised in the pub the other night for moaning too much.  I gave a hefty snort.  The pub, I explained (as he's often said to me) is perfect for venting because we're amongst mates.  As it happens, I added, moaning is important: it can propel us into action, or help de-stress.  Hell, a good moan can even prove our freedom!  Ranting also brings a bit of grit.  Wouldn't "Winnie-The-Pooh" be a touch saccharine if not for the negative donkey?

Moaning is often seen as a very British pursuit.  Our sitcoms, for instance, are full of downbeat personae, including Basil Fawlty  and Victor Meldrew.  Why this obsession with characters that moan?  Perhaps we admire their plain speaking?  Or do we even find their moaning therapeutic?  Certainly, with Meldrew, his grouching is never rewarded.  Maybe we draw vicarious pleasure from his rants, though the shame we feel means we have to see him punished...  I once had a neighbour who'd moan about the weather, and, once she was through, would slap my arm.  "Oh Sue," she'd say.  "You, you're always moaning!"  It used to make me laugh because I'd hardly said a word.

No post on moaning would be complete without addressing the other usage.  Back when I was taking a class on writing sex-scenes, we spent much time debating "moan".  Overuse, our tutor said, can sound a little grim.  After all, as a noise, it's almost animal.  One moan, okay, but too many and it's a zoo!  Of course, as is the case with any stock-word, it bears associations.  Cracking the cliche is vital in a sex-scene (unless, of course, you want to fit a certain mould!).

Well, whatever your usage, moan on, I say.  Damn... looks like rain...

Large on the Medium

"Listeners are like dogs," joked historical writer Sarah Vowell at her brilliant reading in Harvard last night. Talking about the difference between radio-listener and reader, Vowell reminded us that with a book you can flip back a page or take a break and return when you like; but a radio-listener has to keep with you -- once you've lost them, they're gone. For this reason, in audio, complex lists are out, and pace takes on a new importance. Vowell likes to pause while recording because she knows such gaps can be edited; however, she once had a 20-minute discussion about whether to cut out a single breath! One other thing about adapting for radio, it seems: there are quite a few specialists involved! 

I once did some training with Rex Gibson, a UK expert on teaching Shakespeare. The reason that a lot of kids are turned off the Bard, claimed Gibson, is because they're made to read his work first. Shakespeare wrote dramas to be acted on a stage, not texts to be read in class. He also wrote in what was then accessible language. Maintain the language, Gibson said, but help the kids to play with it; allow them to own it and get them off their seats! So, with just a few lines from "Romeo and Juliet", I took a class to the school hall. There, we played with performing the lines and making them our own. It was still a text, of course; but one that lived for them. 

At present, I'm learning one of my stories by heart, with the aim of storytelling it. Titania: True Confessions lends itself to an oral approach; not only is it highly visual, but it's also in the first-person. "Titania" is based on Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream", which was, of course, written for performance. I'm thinking very carefully about stress and nuance. I've become my own director. It's a whole lot of fun. Experimenting with medium can help us reach new levels. Let's put those words where they work best, and let the work breathe. You can buy Sarah Vowell's audio recording of The Wordy Shipmates here. There's a pretty impressive cast! Or if you prefer the written text, you can buy the book.

Last Night, I Merged

Yesterday, I stood up in front of forty odd people to read my story "The Moth Catcher".  Initially, I was nervous.  For someone who's taught huge classes of toughened teenagers and acted in plays with audiences of a hundred, this may seem surprising; but when it comes to sharing my writing, I've always been shy.  Even though I'd close friends sitting in that audience, the exposure still got to me -- the laying out of the self.

The problem with this attitude is it keeps me separate.  By worrying about what others think, I'm not so involved in the piece.  I realised this in a flash when I got to paragraph three.  I thought: Daniel Moses is a character I love -- I've just got to be him and merge with the story.  Once I made the leap, the reading was hugely enjoyable.  I forgot about judgment.  I was simply Daniel.  And I'm sure, in that state, I gave him more fully.

We know the feeling, as writers, of merging with our work.  When what we write swallows us, we gain a sense of flow.  We fuse, become.  We are what we're doing.  In this state, you can't think about judgments and maybe that's why it can bear such fruit.  I know that, on stage, I became my characters, which is why I acted well and felt no fear.  And this attitude, of course, is less self-obsessed: it acknowledges something greater than the self.

Csikszentmihalyi tells us, in Good Business: Leadership, Flow and the Making of Meaning: "To be successful you have to enjoy doing your best while at the same time contributing to something beyond yourself."  Well, a commitment to stories certainly works beyond the self.  To be absorbed in a piece means giving it more fully, and this can bring us greater fulfillment. 

Aim: Less fear, more merging.  Ready?  Bring it on.

Thanks so much to everyone who came last night.  I had a fantastic evening!