Tortoise enclosure - brilliant!

Tiny beetle

For two days now a tiny beetle has been circumnavigating my laptop screen. Up one side, across the top, then down the other side. Occasionally it turns and goes back the other way, or ventures a short distance over the keyboard. Once, it fell off onto its back but, when I helped it to right itself, it went straight back to its track around the screen. It's there when I shut down to go to bed, and when I log back on in the morning, there it is. Round and round and round it goes. What I want to know is this. What, exectly, is it trying to tell me?

On concision

I've always enjoyed the concise, the pithy, even the terse. Like many others, over the last year I've found myself tweeting and being involved in that conversation far more than blogging. Is this a bad thing? I don't think so. Much of Twitter is trivial but so is much of everything, and at least it has the virtue of being briefly trivial.

However, some of it isn't trivial. Today I've seen a campaign launched to speak up for my profession which is, like many others, under threat of possible cuts. The call is for professionals to tweet what they do and why it matters, to sum it up in 140 characters or less. It's a campaign that makes us focus on the essentials, it doesn't allow for rambling arguments or going off the point. It shares the discipline of short forms of writing generally.

The New Pearl Harbor

David Ray Griffin's 'The New Pearl Harbor' and 'The New Pearl Harbor Revisited' are shocking books.

I found the books shocking not because I didn't know the events of 9/11 described in them, but because I did. I knew what happened, but I hadn't thought through just how bizarre some of the things that occurred that day were, and what the implications might be. I accepted what I was told too easily. Didn't question enough what I was not being told. Didn't want to think about the horrific images. Got tired of waiting for the official reports. Relied on journalists to investigate. Failed to notice that the phrase 'conspiracy theory' was being used to suggest that conspiracies never happen. Above all I'm shocked to realise how incompetently done a conspiracy can be and still succeed.

Some of the most inexplicable events of the 11th of September 2001

• Several civil aircraft are hijacked and flown off-course, and no military aircraft intercept any of them.
• The President is informed the country is 'under attack' but is not rushed immediately to a secure location.
• The President later speaks of having seen the first aircraft hit the World Trade Centre live on TV on 9/11, although footage of this was not broadcast until the next day.
• A hijacked aircraft is able to fly to the Pentagon without interception more than half an hour after the attacks on the World Trade Centre.
• Two steel-framed buildings collapse at virtually free-fall speed due to fires that burn for less than two hours.
• A third steel-framed building collapses at virtually free fall speed due to fire later the same day. The third in history ever to do so.
• The BBC reports the collapse of this building more than twenty minutes before it happens.

The Last Cigarette - Chichester

I'm not sure that a stage version of The Last Cigarette really works, except to draw attention to the diaries themselves.

Sadly I found Felicity Kendall - although delightful - was a major distraction from the grumpy, cantankerous, decidedly not always delightful Mr Simon Gray. His voice did come through clearly in some parts and those were by far the best. At other times he seemed to be lost somewhere in between the three actors portraying him. Another distraction was the problem of having three actors on stage with very little to do except deliver dialogue. Elaborate moving around of chairs and almost-lighting of cigarettes only drew attention to this. The one point at which there is some real action - when Simon turns on himself violently after getting his diagnosis - had all the more impact as a result.

For a work that so directly confronts the issue of death the ending was oddly vague. Inevitably the diaries themselves couldn't provide any sort of closure here but a play could have. I especially regretted that the two major ironies of Simon Gray's life; that his fame most likely will rest on his diaries rather than on the plays he felt were his life's main work, and that he did not, in fact, die of the lung cancer that appeared to be his inevitable fate but of another illness altogether, were not alluded to at all.

To provide that much of a step back from the content of the diaries themselves might have given more of a context to this life story. As it was I was left remembering the last play I saw at Chichester, Six Characters in Search of an Author, and the Father's insistance that, because of their context within the structure of a play, characters have a more immutable reality than real people and real lives do.

Idea for a story No.452

Maybe we live to sleep each night and dream, and when we die we spend eternity in the dream world we have built.

Why write?

To find out
what you would write
if you did.

Frost/Nixon

I went on a visit to the cinema that made me feel old. I remember Richard Nixon and the young David Frost, although I don't remember either one being as likeable and sympathetic as they are portrayed in this film. Maybe that's what makes it good? That it successfully calls for empathy with a couple of closed off, self-sufficient characters. It still seems to me that Nixon was the one really in control and admitted not a single thing more than he wanted to admit.

A partly political broadcast

When I was studying sociology for A level there was this theory of political convergence. It said that the two main political parties in the UK were increasingly making claims for the middle ground. Over the many years that have passed since this prediction was made I have watched it come true. To the extent that there is scarcely anything to choose now, between the so-called left and the so-called right. Precious few political candidates are willing to do anything more than mouth vague platitudes. It's all a nasty grey goo in the middle. And who wants to vote for grey goo?

In American politics the grey goo phenomena is of rather longer standing. There being nothing even remotely resembling a real left, (as that is, of course, the stamping ground of the devil incarnate and Europeans) the whole lot have to huddle uncomfortably together on the right, righter, or self-righteously rightest.

But for once in a long, long time there is, amazingly enough, a candidate who appears to have something for brains other than grey goo and the most truly amazing thing of all is... the polls say it's still pretty close and McCain/Palin might even win.

Hey USA! Don't mess this one up! I'm not sure you'll get another chance like this.

Nobel Prize

Some excellent news today about the Nobel Prize for Literature

Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clezio is a name that takes me back many years to a happy accident in a public library in my youth when I picked up one of his books. After that I looked for more for many years, didn't find them, and finally gave up.

I'm hoping that this news will mean that his books might be a little more easily available than they were, and I look forward to catching up with what I've missed.

Rain Man

I'd originally booked to go and see Rain Man a few days after its opening night. Then there was a change of director and the opening was delayed, so I ended up going to see a preview. I may be proved wrong but, with about a week to go until it opens, I can't see how this can be saved.

Josh Hartnett's character Charlie is pretty much one-note throughout. Adam Godley's Raymond spends most of his time with his head hung down and, from my seat in the Apollo's vertiginous balcony, the view was rather restricted, but even just watching the top of his head he almost made it all worthwhile. Almost, but not quite, because this should have been a play not just about two contrasting but equally emotionally blocked characters, but also about Charlie gaining what Raymond never can - insight into the human condition and relationships. Unfortunately the 'insight' he demonstrates in the final few minutes is both abrupt and unremarkable.

" "

"Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished." (Lao Tzu)

"Some people put up walls, not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to knock them down." (Anon)

"Are you going to come quietly, or do I have to use earplugs?" (Spike Milligan)

Why can't I think of anything as good as that to write?

Six Characters in Search of an Author. Chichester. August 2008.

I've never seen the original Six Characters in Search of an Author, but from what I'd picked up in the little I'd heard of it I had thought of it as a play about the excessive artifice of the theatre at the time it was written. So it was no surprise to see the Six Characters story re-framed in the context of television drama documentary, an equally questionable artifice making claims to truth.

What I hadn't appreciated was the extra layers within the Six Characters story itself, which was left largely intact in this otherwise very different production. Changing the framing device made very little difference to this, although it provided a modern context for the more timeless themes of identity and sense making in everyday life that the main story explores. It also provided a sort of a light relief to the more serious themes that most certainly are developed, even amongst the occasionally ludicrous goings on of the Six Characters drama.

I don't believe that this production is about the state of TV drama documentary any more than the original was about the state of contemporary theatre and so while I found the frame appropriate and amusing what I was really interested in was the Six Characters story.

At the beginning it seems that the Father is the character who is determined to have the truth, as he sees it, told and we might think that he has dragged the other five along. However, he has a surprisingly strong opponent in his apparantly abused Step-Daughter who is at least equally determined that her version of events will be the one to see the light of day. It is said that she has been the one most active in trying to provoke the original author to complete his story. The Mother admits that she is unable to match the Father's eloquence but in several interjections she makes it clear that she has her own perspective that she is unable to articulate. The Son's angry silence and occasional outbursts of denial suggest his account would be different again, although he would rather it all remained private!

This leaves the battle over truth to be fought out between the Father and Step-Daughter and I wonder if, in this age of moral panic over paedophiles, we fail to see this as the equally matched power struggle that it really is. The Father's attempts to present himself as someone trying to do his best and suffering agonies of guilt and shame at his failure are ridiculed by the Step-Daughter who then blames her own moral failings entirely on him. However she takes such great delight in tormenting him it is not easy to see her as a victim.

Has he mistreated his wife and abused his step-daughter? Or have they manipulated his weaknesses?

Towards the end the Father turns on the new Author and questions her claim to reality, suggesting that characters in a story have a greater claim to coherence and lasting identity than those who exist in the fluid, changable real world where each person has to attempt to carve out their own role in competition with others doing the same for themselves, and where there there is no author to impose order. Which is, of course, exactly what we have just seen happen!

In this production I was particularly impressed with Ian McDiarmid's ability to portray the Father in a way that avoids demonising the character while still having something of the diabolical about him.

Evasion

No posts for so long. Have I given up writing altogether? Almost. Not sure how that happened. I still try to keep the miso soup bubbling but I struggle even with that. My own writing group fizzled out. The local writing classes I went to came to an end, and I couldn't make the times of the new sessions. I've been moving house, busy at work, doing more and introspecting less, but those are all excuses, not reasons. I think what really happened was I realised I needed to refocus on what I want to write about and I've been evading that task.

poem?

................choose............................................................
........................which......................................................
................................................worst....perfect..............
......................................good..........fun........sweet........
...smell......................new....................happy................
.......taste......................................stinky.......brilliant...
.................................................disgrace.........................
...hear..............................................................................
...................write.....................................poetry............
...........writing......words.................................................
....................................written........................................
..................................................down..............................

A Ghost Story

The air was already shimmering with heat by the time we started out on our day’s hike after having lingered, full, after our English breakfast.

Mike, Edmund and myself had planned a leisurely walk along the stretch of coast between the village of Warnham and the next night’s B&B.

At the first turn of the road Mike stopped, resting his rucksack on a stone wall to consult the map. We were hoping to visit the Old Cemetery that Edmund had been reading about, and we needed to make sure we took the right path out of the village, to avoid having to cross a marshy section the locals had told us about.

Edmund leant over Mike’s shoulder and they argued briefly over the best route. At last they agreed and we set off.

We strolled along, boots crunching on the gravel. Our conversation ambled from one thing to another. The scent of warm grass was in the air, and there was an occasional drone of bees. We let our discussion of poetry lapse to listen to the quacking of ducks, and meandered on towards the distant glint of water.

Having expounded my views on a certain modern novelist I wandered on ahead, watching the water’s surface glitter in the sun. After a while I noticed that the others were loitering further up the path. I looked back and saw that Edmund had taken out his notebook and was writing something.

‘Ah! Observe! The writer at work!’ Mike said, with a sweeping gesture of his arm towards Edmund. ‘When we stop for the night you’ll be able to keep us entertained with the first chapter of the Tale of the Shaggy Dog, or whatever that is you’re writing!’

‘This is no hirsute canine fiction!’ snapped Edmund, 'This is a true story of an unearthly phantom! I have it on the highest authority – that chap in the pub told me last night. Of course I’ll have to change the names.’

‘Oh, come on’ said Mike, ‘we haven’t got all day!’ He paused, ‘Well, actually, now I come to think of it, I suppose we have! But if you want to go poking around that cemetery later we’d better get a move on.’

‘Alright, alright, give me a minute. I’m just making some notes for the background, you know, setting the scene. There’s nothing like walking the territory to really catch the atmosphere of a place.’

A lark began to sing and we shaded our eyes to look up into the bright blue. Edmund made another note.

By late afternoon we’d come to the gates of the Old Cemetery. We were greeted with birdsong, long and loud. Edmund pointed out the wren, in a curl of ivy twined around a fallen stone angel’s wing.

‘Nosiy little devil, isn’t she?’ he grinned.

With a flick of a wing the bird was gone. We walked on in companiable silence among the graves. The headstones were all askew, overgrown and bright with buttercups. I pointed out an inscription, ‘Not Here, Gone On’

‘And here we are still loitering around!’ was Mike’s response. ‘Have you found what you’re after here yet, Edmund?’

‘Yes, here it is’ He stopped to copy down some words and a date from one of the graves. ‘If only I could have met him...’

Mike gave an exasperated sigh and strode on.

‘Met who?’ I ask.

‘Jack.’ said Edmund. ‘Jack O’Leary, the Lantern Man they called him. That guy back at Warnham was telling me about him. Sounds like a real old character, just the kind you need for a good story.’

Edmund was unusually quiet in the pub that night, not rising to Mike’s frequent attempts to get him to talk about what he’d been writing. As the night wore on and darkness fell he seemed restless, and finally announced he was going for a stroll. Half an hour later Mike stood up and stretched.

‘Well, I suppose I’d better go and see if the lad’s wandered off and got himself lost in that graveyard!’ he said and chuckled.

A bearded man turned from the bar. ‘You don’t want to go near there, not tonight, haven’t you heard? It’s the Lantern Man’s night!’

‘I’ll be fine’ said Mike. ‘I’ve got a map, and a torch…’

‘No!’ The man said loudly, and the pub fell silent. ‘Don’t go carrying a light. Not on the Lantern Man’s ground. He’ll come at you if you do. Knock you down and kick your light out. Often enough it’s not just the light he’ll give a kicking either. If you must go, then go without a light, he may let you pass then - if you’re lucky!’

Just then Edmund appeared at the door, Mike’s torch in his hand. He was dusty, bruised and disheveled, but with an odd gleam in his eye.

Guilt

I've become aware of a sneaking sense of guilt in the back of my mind over this blog. The writing group that it's named after went off the boil a while back. Busyness, lack of inspiration, all the usual excuses. I don't suppose anyone cares. I am aware though, that the blog gets the occasional visitor, probably quite at random, but even so. I feel guilty to offer the occasional random visitor nothing new.

But I don't have anything new, so I thought I'd post something old. Something I wrote as an exercise in one of my other writing groups. I don't recall blogging it anywhere before, so it may as well see the light of day, even though it is a dark little story. I hope it may serve as a warning to writers who may be tempted to take their search for inspiration to dangerous extremes.

I'll make it the next posting.

People who may be offended by Equus

Well, as I said before, I went to see Equus. I throughly enjoyed it, and I’d highly recommend it to everyone. Hmn, well, maybe not quite everyone. So, as a public service, here is my list of…

People who may be offended by Equus

• Animal lovers. "In London, Equus caused a sensation because it displayed cruelty to horses; in New York, because it allegedly displayed cruelty to psychiatrists." Peter Shaffer (Playwright)
• Anti-psychiatrists. The R.D.Laing over-simplifiers who are offended by the way the boy is 'cured' of his unique personal experience of life.
• Anti anti-psychiatrists. Those who dislike the previous lot and are offended at their view being represented at all, even if the boy is 'cured'.
• Anti-smoking campaigners. No chance to be offended by anything else, as they walk out in disgust after the first minute.
• Atheists. Offended that the Atheist father is being blamed.
• Christians. Offended that the Christian mother is being blamed.
• Harry Potter fans. Offended at ‘Harry’s’ behaviour.
• Harry Potter fan haters. Offended by the presence of all those teenage girls who never usually go to the theatre at all.
• Harry Potter haters. Offended at ‘Harry’ appearing in a serious play.
• Heterosexuals. Offended by the presence of all those gays who never usually go to the theatre at all.
• Homosexuals. Offended that the boy's attraction to those nice men in tight trousers playing the horses is seen as deviance in need of cure.
• Horse fetishists. Who feel really got at by the whole thing.
• Normal people. Offended by the psychiatrist's rants against the mediocrity of normality.
• Pagans. Offended by the psychiatrist's rants against himself.
• Psychiatrists. See: Animal lovers and Pagans.
  
• Prudes. So offended by the constant harping on about sex, the men in tight trousers, the swearing, the smoking, and the violence that they drop their opera-glasses at the vital moment and miss their chance to be offended by the nudity.
• Puritans. See: Scottish lady dentist puritans
• Scottish lady dentist puritans. A minority group viciously attacked without so much as a two-line character with which to defend themselves.
• Socialists. Offended by being called 'old type'. In a 1970's play, no less.
• The easily offended. Probably offended by this list.

Something remarkable about Equus

I went to see Equus. I thought I’d mention it here as this is a writing blog, even if not much writing is going on here at the moment.

Something struck me about the writing of the play: there’s a thing it does so well that you hardly notice it. It handles the different time sequences that are going on within it effortlessly and elegantly. The psychiatrist’s present time musings are layered in with his memories of conversations with the boy and his parents and other characters. The boy also introduces some of his own earlier memories within these conversations. All this happens in a perfectly natural flow of words, with never the slightest doubt about what point in time someone is speaking from, even when they overlap within the same scene. At times characters in different time layers seem almost to be responding to each other, but it never gets confusing. It’s quite remarkable, so I thought I’d remark on it.

6 words

Cabbage Soup is still off the boil, I'm afraid. It has stirred slightly though, just enough to set a challenge, to the workplace in general, to write a six word story, like these in Wired magazine.

A blatant breach of the Versifiers Descriptions Act

'New Poets?' I'm feeling more old and prosaic today.

Not so new writing: The Alchemy of Haiku by Alison Williams

The Alchemy of Haiku
[Originally published in Blithe Spirit Vol.13 No.4 Dec 2003.]

Alchemy is much misunderstood and, it must be admitted, much of the reason for this lies with alchemists themselves. There is a long tradition amongst them of obscurity and indirectness, of anything but plain speaking. Some might say of deliberate obfuscation. They claim that their work is derived from basic truths and that it is a practical art rather than a theoretical philosophy, and yet they seem unable to state plainly what the truths are, or what the practice consists of in such a way that others can emulate their skill.

This is the first point of similarity between alchemists and writers of haiku. I would like to suggest that there are two further aspects of these subjects that bear comparison. A particular kind of symbolism and, perhaps, the goal of the practitioner.

Alchemical symbolism is dependent on a world view which was taken for granted in medieval times, but which has been widely discredited by the modern materialist and scientific orthodoxy. There are three interrelated aspects of this world view. One is that the world of matter is transient, and that there is an eternal reality beyond the natural world. The second is that symbolism is not of a merely metaphorical nature but is concerned with discerning real correspondences or equivalence, in the light of which seemingly very different things can be recognised as sharing essential qualities. The third is that these essential qualities are graduated from the lowest to the highest and are capable of transmutation.

The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistos [1], the nearest thing to a straight¬forward statement of alchemical principles that exists, begins, ‘In truth, certainly and without doubt, whatever is below is like that which is above, and whatever is above is like that which is below.’

dawn -
the rising mist
turns to gold

To the medieval world view it is obvious that the sun and gold share qualities and that these qualities also have their counterpart in the human body and soul. Today these correspondences, if they are noted at all, are seen as either archaic poetic fancy or as coincidental. Thus a BBC science web site [2] recently noted: ‘Mars, the Roman god of war, has always had a special fascination for us. Indeed, there is even a slight connection as both blood and Mars owe their red colour to iron and oxygen.’

R. H. Blyth [3] denied that haiku was symbolic: ‘… it is necessary to state with some vehemence that haiku is not symbolic, that is, not a portrayal of natural phenomena with some meaning behind them... There is no separation between the thing and its meaning... One thing is not used to imply another thing. ‘I would suggest that what he is denying here is that haiku is symbolic in the limited, metaphorical sense. If there is a symbolism in haiku, and surely there is, it is of the kind that seeks to discern the shared essential qualities in natural phenomena and in the human being’s inward experience.

a chained bike
up to its hubs
in yellow leaves

Perhaps the most common misapprehension about alchemists is that they are concerned with the transmutation of lead into gold as a means to wealth. It is true that, throughout the history of alchemy, there have been those ‘charcoal burners’ who wanted only to discover a formula to get rich quick. This was not the concern of the alchemist who was inclined to devote a lifetime to his work and to have more in common with a hermit or monk than with seekers after worldly riches.

The true goal of the alchemist depends upon an understanding of the concept of correspondence discussed above. In this context the physical transformation of lead into gold can only be achieved in parallel with a corresponding transformation of the alchemist himself

Is our goal to discover the formula for writing the golden haiku? Or is there some other goal which, if diligently sought, will transmute our leaden efforts into something of a higher grade?


[1] Titus Burckhardt. Alchemy: Science of the Cosmos, Science of the Soul. Fons Vitae, 1997. Translated from the German by William Stoddart. (First published by Walter-Verlag Olten und Freiburg im Breisgau, 1960) p196

[2] http://news.bbc.co.uk/l/hi/sci/tech/3093693

[3] RH Blyth. A History of Haiku. Volume 1. The Hokuseido Press, 1963. ppl3-14

Haiku article online

The Australian poetry journal Yellow Moon have now put online the article called Haiku Lessons that I originally had published in Summer 2005. It's partly a 'how to' guide for new haiku writers, but it's also a guide to the lessons haiku can provide for writers generally.

Seeing it again reminds me that it goes rather well with an article I had published in the UK journal Blithe Spirit back in 2003. I think I'll put the text of that up here as the next entry so I have one place to go to find them both.

Recycling

Carrying on the Cabbage Soup occasional summer break theme. Perhaps, as what I'm writing at the moment is, shall we say, of a certain quality, I ought to be writing on this?

Loose leaves

Sharon Bakar (Bibliobibuli) says that

"“The Old Farmer’s Almanac,” whose pages were often ripped out by people in outhouses and put to practical use, has always come with a hole in its upper left-hand corner for easy hanging."

That explains why loose-leaf updating comes with those little holes in it...

[BTW I'm on holiday, and Cabbage Soup is also on its summer break. Normal soup will resumed as soon as possible.]

work/life life/work

I wasn't sure where to put this blog entry. It's about writing so maybe it should go on my writing group blog, but it's about work, so perhaps it should go on my work blog. Sometimes life is not so neatly compartmentalised!

I've found that creative writing and ordinary, everyday writing are more closely related than you might think. Since I've been doing writing exercises (fiction and non-fiction) I've found it easier to write anything. I'm not so daunted by word counts. I have an idea how much I can convey in 500 or 1000 words and what kind of structures work. I've some experience of how to write differently when the words are to be spoken aloud, which helped in writing the same paper for delivery at a conference and for subsequent submission for publication.

Having to read out my writing group exercises - something I hated doing at first - has helped to get me used to the idea of public speaking to a wider audience.

I'm pretty sure that blogging contributes to this as well. It's a form of regular writing exercise that helps me focus on how to express thoughts and record events in a reasonably concise format.

Homework

I wonder if this would do as my next writing group exercise? I'm a bit worried about this one...

Worry

You worry too much,
he said, I know how
to prove it.

I'll suggest something
that's nothing to worry about,
and see how you react.

Imagine -
he smiled at me - imagine
you're a statue.

I stared at him,
not quite able
to believe it.

That isn't worrying,
I replied, it's simply
terrifying.

Imagine this, I said,
you're fully conscious
but can't move.

Can't see or hear,
or feel a pulse, or heartbeat,
can't ever touch.

All you can do,
all you can ever do,
is think.

He thinks
I'm a worrier, but I know
he's turning to stone.

The motivation to write

With an imminent (as in tomorrow morning) deadline for a three act play (who'd join a writing group?) hanging over me I've been reading a biography of Spike Milligan. At one stage he was writing a new episode of The Goon Show every week for broadcast on the BBC. Now there's pressure, and what it can do for productivity! Mind you, it didn't do much for his mental health, so perhaps I don't want quite that much motivation!

Happy Birthday to us!

Cabbage Soup is a year old sometime around now. It came into being in May 2005 and this blog started in July 2005. It's taken us almost exactly a year to work through all the exercises in Teach Yourself Creative Writing. We've just got the last one to do.

[Muffled scrabbling noises in background.]

I just tried to lay hands on my copy of the book to check what it is, but I seem to have misplaced it at the moment. Anyway it's something about coming up with alternative titles for books, I think. Nothing too strenuous as a final exercise. Just as well after the last one - the play writing. That was a tough one, but it was fun taking parts and reading them out loud.

What will we do now?

Blogs and writing

I'm going to so many writing group meetings I don't have time to write! No, that's not really true, it's just an excuse. Going to writing group meetings gets me writing things I never would have done off my own bat, and dredges up all sorts of ideas that would never see the light of day otherwise. Maybe just as well in some cases, but there's the odd good one amongst them. Occasionally.

I think what has caused the slow down in blog entries is the sheer number of blogs I've been trying to keep up with writing or contributing to lately. (Not all visible through my Blogger profile.) It reminds me of my phase of subscribing to poetry journals. At first I signed up for all sorts, partly to get an idea what was about and what I liked, partly as a general learning experience. Then I slowly cut it back to managable proportions.

I'm thinking about which blogs I want to keep going and which I might retire, or retire from. I haven't made any decisions yet.

Fun

Cabbage Soup had fun today. Having just done an exercise which involved writing a childrens story we went to the childrens section of a local bookshop and looked at the books to see how our efforts matched up. (There were no children there, just us!) My favourite was Lost and Found by Oliver Jeffers. A wonderful book, even though I thought it really should have ended a couple of pages before the not-quite-believably-happy ending.

New writing - Shoozle by Alison Williams

Shoozle was not a dragon. He looked a bit like a dragon, but his dark red wings were feathery, rather than leathery, and his paws were big and soft and he didn’t have claws. He got a more dragonish look about him if you annoyed him though. Then he'd turn his bright eyes on you, narrow them to slits, and stare and stare until you went away, or at least changed the subject. It was rather rude, but dragons aren't expected to have good manners.

One day Shoozle was snoozing in his cave. He almost always snoozed with one eye half open, just in case anyone tried to creep up on him and steal his hoard of gold. He didn’t actually have a hoard of gold, but it seemed like the sort of thing that a dragon should do. So when the man in the grey suit with the small suitcase started up the path leading to his cave he noticed at once, and growled quietly to himself.

When the man got to the top of the path he stopped to catch his breath and cool off before he approached the cave. He knew that dragons are quick to spot signs of weakness, and he thought they might even eat you if you irritated them, especially if you looked particularly hot and tasty.

“Good morning Sir Dragon!” he said to Shoozle politely, bowing.

Shoozle opened his eyes and slowly raised his head.

“Tell me, Sir Dragon, are you ever embarrassed by your fire breathing? Ashamed of your scales? Mortified by…”

He dodged quickly to one side. A patch of grass shrivelled and smoked.

“Ah, well yes, I see that fire breathing is not a problem for you, but…” the man looked more closely at Shoozle, “perhaps the scales?”

Shoozle’s body was covered from chin to neatly pointed tail with velvety red triangles. The man set his suitcase down on the grass, opened it, took out a small green bottle and held it up.

“Just a few drops of this potion every day, and in no time at all you’ll have the shiniest, toughest scales of all the dragons in the world!”

Shoozle eyed the little bottle, then he yawned. When he’d finished yawning he spoke.

“Go away.” he said and gave the man one of his narrow-eyed looks.

The man looked surprised and a bit worried.

“But, with those velvety soft scales of yours, whatever will you do when George comes along?” he asked. “He’s got a sharp sword you know, and he doesn’t like dragons much at all. I really think you should… consider…”

Shoozle kept staring, and staring, and it’s not easy to keep on talking to a dragon, or even something very much like a dragon, when it’s staring at you like that.

“Well… perhaps… if you should… change your mind… just… let me know…”

With that the man put the little bottle away in his suitcase, and hurried off down the path.

Shoozle settled down for another snooze, careful to keep one eye half open. Which was just as well, as it meant that he spotted George’s sword glinting in the mid-day sun while he was still quite a long way away. It did look like a very long, very sharp sword, and George was heading straight for the path that led up to the cave.

When he saw this Shoozle opened both eyes, got up, and padded on his big, soft paws to the very back of the cave where he gazed down at the king’s daughter who was curled up there, fast asleep. Then he padded back out of the cave and started down the path that George was coming up.

George, seeing Shoozle, gave a loud cry of “Dragon!”, and started to run up the path towards him waving his sword. Shoozle opened his mouth and shot a blast of fire that made George duck, but he recovered quickly and began swinging his sword wildly again. At this Shoozle reared up, spreading his feathery wings, and flew into the air, circling just beyond reach. Then, suddenly, he swooped down, grabbed the sword out of George’s hand, and carried it off between his great paws, disappearing into the distance as George stared after him, empty handed and with his mouth open.

Shoozle took the sword far, far away, dropped it down a deep, deep pit and then, as the sun was setting, he returned to the cave and padded right to the back to find that the king’s daughter had woken up.

Shoozle was tired out after fighting George and flying such a long way, so he curled up next to the king’s daughter and she stroked his feathery wings, his velvety scales and his big soft paws until he fell fast asleep.

Fun, but a little scary

Next tuesday I start my WEA Creative Writing course. Will I be able to keep up with Cabbage Soup exercises and the demands of this new group? We shall see! It will also be fun, if a little scary, to meet new writers.

Bedtime story?

I seem to have written a childrens story. Or at least, it's the closest thing I've ever written to a childrens story. I have no idea what a child would make of it. I might post it here once Cabbage Soup have seen it. I want them to see it first so I know whether it needs a PG rating for violence!

Words and music

Listening to what Daniel Barenboim is saying about music and wondering what it might mean for verbal performances as opposed to the printed page.

"I will therefore attempt the impossible and maybe try and draw some connection between the inexpressible content of music and, maybe, the inexpressible content of life."

Borrowing an ebook

Now this is interesting. An author who has got the idea that making your book available for free makes sense. Commercial sense. I'm enjoying reading Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town as each chapter arrives via RSS, its like borrowing it from a library. Authors got used to libraries a long time ago, some of them even realise that people who borrow also tend to buy. How long will it take for more to catch on to this type of thing I wonder?

The novel - almost finished - (the meetings that is!)

Our last Cabbage Soup meeting on 'the novel' is set for this Monday. It seems that we're all in the fairly early stages of writing these, even if some have more definite plans than others, we've all got a lot of writing to do before we've finished! Talking to one of the group the other day we thought that it might be good to have regular checks on progress in future, so at least we know that someone else knows and cares about that file full of notes, plans and half-formed novel we've got lurking around somewhere. It might be a motivator to actually write a bit more of it now and again if someone might ask after it. It might. I'm not promising...

After that we get back to writing exercises. I've missed doing them while we've been concentrating on each other's book plans, but it's also been a relief to have a break from deadlines. It might be fun to have to produce something again. Unfortunately it's a childrens story we're supposed to be writing, which I have no clue how to do!

Word cloud

You've read the blog? Then get the t-shirt! I think it might suit me to go about clothed in my own word cloud...

Serendipity

It's funny how you come across other blog entries by accident sometimes, or by an unlikely series of links, that are just what you would have been looking for, if you'd known it existed. If you see what I mean. Today it was this one.

Cabbage Soup off the menu yet again

We've had to delay the Cabbage Soup meeting yet again - that's about three times now. This time due to a ridiculously busy day (see my work blog if you're at all curious about the details.) It's now scheduled for Monday lunchtime. It's amazing how difficult it can be for a handful of people to find one free hour a fortnight to meet. I don't know how people manage to find convenient times for larger groups.

Of librarians and books

One of my favourite library bloggers has blogged about one of my favourite books and it's given me an idea. I could claim to have finished my novel but lost it. Tragically, only fragments are left...

(There's an in-joke here that only about two people in the world will get.)

Australia misses out

I found this today, serendipitously. If any Australian library would like a copy I'd be delighted to supply, just let me know.

Record Id: 22693391 (Australian Library Collections: Titles)
Title: Fragments / edited by Alison Williams with help from Timothy Collinson and co-operation and inspiration from all the members of Ukku.
Published: Spalding : Hub Editions, c2001.
Description: [48] p. ; 11 cm.
ISBN: 1903746043 (pbk.) :
Dewey Number: 821.04108092
Series: Hub Haiku series
Subjects: Haiku, English.
Other Authors: Williams, Alison BA. Collinson, Timothy.
Language: English
Libraries that have this item: Not yet held in an Australian library

Never mind the person from Porlock

Why haven't I prepared for the Cabbage Soup meeting tomorrow? I blame ASDA: the people who put the hassle into online shopping. I can't single out any one person to give the credit for this, it was a team effort at truly appalling customer non-service. I did get (most of) my delivery - eventually - but a trudge down the hill and back up again, heavily loaded with shopping, in the rain, would have been a more pleasant experience. So that's my excuse. Otherwise I would have finished writing my book by now.

Something new for spring 2006

This

The next meeting

We've had a bit of trouble finding a convenient time for the next Cabbage Soup meeting. It's probably going to be next Thursday lunchtime, and we're going to be discussing my novel. Oh dear...

Favourite books

The last Cabbage Soup meeting was our 'Favourite Books' meeting. Not everyone could come up with a single favourite, so I've also listed here many others that people found it hard to choose from.

Favourites

All Passion Spent - Vita Sackville-West
The Third Policeman - Flann O'Brien
The Lord of the Rings - J.R.R. Tolkien

Honourable mentions

All of These People - Fergal Keane
Fire and Hemlock - Dianna Wynne-Jones
Harry Potter series - J.K. Rowling
Gormenghast - Mervyn Peake
A House in Sicily - Daphne Phelps
Testament of Youth - Vera Brittain
The Mayor of Casterbridge - Thomas Hardy
Tess of the D'urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
Treasures of the Snow - Patricia M. St. John
The Roses of No Man's Land - Lyn McDonald
The Kindness of Strangers - Kate Adie
Give me Ten Seconds - John Sargeant
The Return of the Soldier - Rebecca West
Robinson Crusoe - Daniel Dafoe
The Foundation Trilogy - Isaac Asimov
Our Mutual Friend - Charles Dickens
Narnia series - C.S. Lewis
Sherlock Holmes - Conan Doyle
The Number of the Beast - Robert Heinlein
The Soldier's Return - Melvyn Bragg
Birdsong - Sebastian Faulkes
Charlotte Gray - Sebastian Faulkes

Not estate agents this time

Estate agents writing style must rub off on those involved with housing. I saw a house share ad today asking for a 'professional non-smoker'. I've given it up, but I wouldn't say I've gone so far as to make a career of it.

Rejection

Even the best books can be rejected by publishers. We've all heard the stories of books that got rejected many times before becoming best sellers. I suspect that most publishers have no clue what is going to appeal to the general public and are amazed when they actually manage to pick a winner. But you'd think they might recognise a prize winning book that had already been published! According to this article in the Times, they wouldn't.

Thinking about the box

My contributions to the Cabbage Soup group have been a bit pathetic lately, so it's just as well I've got a couple of things published, in actual black and white, to show them next time. There's a review of Caroline Gourlay's poetry collection 'This Country' in Blithe Spirit 15/4 and an article called 'Haiku Lessons' in Yellow Moon 18.

We keep a box of things the Soup group members have had published and it's growing, slowly but surely. I find it's good to have evidence that I can sometimes produce actual finished product, for those times when I might be tempted to doubt it!

Estate agents again

It's good to find an estate agent you can trust. "Close to the city with two genuine double bedrooms" - there's a description that gives you confidence. It's clear that in some places at the end of the day* you could step into what you thought was a bedroom only to find it was a fake.

*I'm tired of seeing this phrase used when it means no such thing, so I thought I'd demonstrate how to use it properly.

I fail again and, pathetically, try to distract attention from it by going on about policemen and bicycles

So much for doing better this time. I failed again. I can't seem to concentrate on my exercises lately. When I sit down to do them I end up getting distracted and doing something else. Luckily other Cabbage Soupers are better organised and at least one of the interview plans may be put into action.

We're going to take a break from the book exercises over Christmas and the next meeting will be a 'favourite books' meeting. Mine will be Flann O'Brien's 'The Third Policeman.' The bit about the Atomic Theory (as applied to postmen and bicycles) bears any amount of re-reading. I've got through several copies of the book over the last 30 years or so, I just wear them out and they fall apart. I think my new favourites, the Harry Potter books, are going to suffer the same fate.

It might be fun to post a list of our favourite books here, once we've had that meeting.

The interview

After my poor attempt at the last exercise I feel shamed into trying harder for the next one. It's a tough one though: the interview. Given that most of the people I'd really like to interview are deceased, fictional or such miserable curmudgeons I'd be lucky to get a word out of them, let alone an interview, I think I'd better think of something more practical.

Non-fiction

Not only did I mess up the organisation of the latest Cabbage Soup meeting, I also left doing the exercise to the last minute, then circulated the wrong version of it!

Luckily the rest of the group are much more organised and came up with chapter headings and introductions to several non-fiction books that could all very well end up being written. One almost certainly will be, the authors of the others admitted to rather more doubts about finding the time, energy, and motivation to complete the job. One book had the potential to be written as a series of articles, which is an interesting approach, and maybe slightly less daunting.

More estate agents writing

There aren't many places on the market that can offer 'A bathroom with shower over bath and parking.' Just think of the convenience of it!

Disorganised and guilty

I'm feeling guilty. I'm supposed to be organising the Cabbage Soup group and I've totally failed to either circulate details of the next exercise or set a date for the next meeting! I ought to do these things immediately after each meeting, otherwise they have a tendency to get buried among all of life's 'to do's. I must do these things today.

In which inspiration strikes

I've been avoiding thinking about the next Cabbage Soup exercise. We're supposed to be writing chapter headings and an introduction to the non-fiction book we feel most qualified to write. The trouble is I'm not sure I know any subject well enough to write a book about it. Given lack of outstanding expertise perhaps the thing to do is to go for a subject area where there are lots of worthy but boring books published, and write one that's just a bit weirder? Hmn, I think I've just had an idea...

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

I admit I know nothing about screenwriting or film-making, so it's entirely possible that I'm talking rubbish, but I think there are some basic bits of good advice that apply to all writing. One of these is not to switch genres in mid-plot without a very good reason.

In a film like Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire surely there's enough to contend with in weaving together the threads of the various genres Rowling so skilfully plays with in her text - fantasy, coming of age, mystery, school story etc - without turning what should clearly be an action-adventure sequence into vaguely psychological blundering. The only explanation I can think of is that the over-blown dragon sequence used up so much of the special effects budget that they had to cut back on the maze. I found this particularly annoying as one of Rowling's greatest strengths is in giving abstract concepts solid form: think Dementors and Boggarts for depression and fear.

There are a few minor wrong notes - sadly Michael Gambon provides several - but what does work works so well that they're forgivable. The Death (she says, evasively, as if there's anyone left on the planet who doesn't know who dies) is handled sensitively, the teenage relationships are as excruciating as an unforgivable curse, evil personified is effectively creepy, and the overall tone of juxtaposed light and dark is just right.

I think I might have to go and see it again.

Free poetry!

While I'm wittering on about poetry I ought to mention the Poetry Library's excellent site where they put the archives of poetry magazines. It's a good way of getting an idea which might actually be worth subscribing to and/or submitting work to.

Virtual poet

As Cabbage Soup is working on poetry at the moment I thought I'd mention this new bit of technological wizardry. It's very clever stuff, but the idea of a poet reading his work aloud 52 years after his death strikes me as a bit weird. Mind you, some that are still alive fit that description...

Today's shock headline

The BBC says the Internet is being used for creative purposes! Well, you don't say. This is news?

Terse verse

Shhh... Cabbage Soup is writing poetry. Actually that's not why I've been quiet this week - I've just been busy - but I've still been writing my usual seven poems a week over on miso soup so I'm feeling better prepared for this exercise than most of the others.

Note: The other exercises, I mean, not the other members of Cabbage Soup. They all seem to be having fun writing poetry, some have already been circulated - ahead of the deadline!

Inspiration

Who inspires you, and why? For me there has been one consistent source of inspiration over several decades.

George Ivan (aka Van) Morrison: The Man himself. Why? I think it's the perfect balance he's achieved betwen practicality and mysticism, craftsmanship and creativity. The fact that he has a gift to look squarely at the mundane and see it clearly, but also to see the marvellous shining right through it, and to communicate that vision to those who can't see it for themselves. That, and the fact that he's the greatest alchemist since Albus Dumbledore. That's why. Oh, and because he wrote my favourite song - In the Garden from No Guru, No Method, No Teacher (which pretty much sums up my attitude to writing too, come to think of it.)

Why am I saying this now? I'm going to see him play live soon - a rare treat - and in preparation I've been playing my CDs and thinking about the nature of inspiration.

Lively, controversial and other adjectives

I think the next Cabbage Soup meeting - on Monday - could be lively. We've got a controversial subject coming up next.

What, exactly, is or is not an adjective? I thought I knew. But after reading these seven pages I'm no longer certain that I do! The assignment is to write 300 words of description without adjectives and then (and this is the fun bit) add just one.

New Writing - The lost house by Jane Dudley

The lost house

Remnants of the old crofting communities are still to be found - nestled among the humps and hollows of these windswept glens. To pick your way over the rough ground here is to stumble upon old histories sinking slowly back into the earth.

One such ruin lies above the shores of a small loch where a whisky-brown burn chuckles past the remains of an old sheepstead, just to leeward. Abandoned long ago, only the crumbled outer walls of the croft remain – the bare bones of a home. A doorway gapes like a lost tooth, the fallen lintel long since buried in an angry carpet of briar and nettles. In the vestige of a chimney breast, tongues of bracken sprout where peat-fires once burned.

A carrion crow calls harshly, like a petulant ghost.

There was a living, of sorts, to be had here once. But that was before the horsemen came. The sour earth yielded oats, potatoes and turnips, while scattered sheep and shaggy cattle grazed around. This squat little house of thick stone walls and low thatched roof, had shielded generations. Then the glens were emptied and the final dwellers scattered to the margins of life: to a storm-wracked coast, the drumming of the Atlantic and the call of unknown continents.

New Writing - Home by Alison Williams

It was a square house, with four windows and a door, like a child's crayon drawing. The upper windows were open and gauzy white curtains lifted and fell back with each breath of wind.

A man carrying a faded rucksack was passing the house when he noticed the door was ajar. He looked around and, seeing no-one, he walked up to it, knocked, hesitated, and then gave it a nudge. The door swung open to reveal a room full of light. On each of the four walls was a tall, wide mirror. Walking in he found himself surrounded by his own, surprisingly grimy, image at every turn. He bent his head and shuffled back towards the door. It must have been the wind that blew it shut.

That was when the colours began to swirl in the mirrors, flame colours, reds and ambers, with flashes of blue, streaming out into the room where the figure of a girl formed. She was dark-eyed and slight, and reminded the man of pictures of elves in a book he'd read as a child. He gazed at her, and she stared back at him.

He was a homeless man: no-one would miss him.

We are what we do.

Don't just sit there reading this blog do something. Mind you, I'll be expecting you to let me know what you've done, once you've done it.

NaNoWriMo

Oh dear. I'm resisting as hard as I can, but I just might get dragged into this madness. Protesting loudly all the while that it's an excellent excuse to write a load of utter rubbish. (Since when did I need an excuse? You may well ask.)

House

The house exercise prompted me to go image googling for inspiration. This one has to be my favourite.It may not be handy for the town centre, but it definitiely benefits from wabi-sabi.

Estate agents writing at it's best

In the spirit of the current Cabbage Soup exercise (describe a house in 200 words) some gems from estate agents

...a stone's throw from the city centre... (Is it really? Oh dear!)

...within walking distance to most places... (What is this, a house or a tardis?)

miso soup - another item on the menu

I obviously need to get a life, because I've now started another blog!

miso soup is for haiku (and possibly tanka and haibun and suchlike related things)which tend to get lost among my more lengthy meanderings here amongst the cabbage leaves.

Diet of words

Hello to all the people who found this while searching for diet recipes. Your search engine is trying to tell you something. What's it's trying to tell you is this. Forget the diet! Join a writing group instead.

Poetry for lawyers

My last post prompted a query about the difference between haiku and senryu. David Giacalone has a good summary of the differences, with examples, and notes that senryu can be particularly enjoyable for lawyers!

haiku - autumn

autumn sunshine -
an old fireplace
out on the street

Haiku

Since I started Cabbage Soup I've written a lot less haiku which, at one time, was all I ever wrote. Perhaps the brain, or my brain at least, can only focus on one kind of writing at a time? Or perhaps it's like juggling, and the skill to keep prose and poetry in the air at the same time is one that can be learned?

Anyway, having added a few more haiku links to this blog - Snapshots, Morden Haiku and with words along with the existing one to Presence - I feel like I ought to make more of an effort.

Creative writing exercise for estate agents

Our next exercise is to write about a house, real or imaginary, and bring it vividly to life in up to 200 words. Good timing, as mine is currently on the market. Somehow I don't think the first of my 200 words will be 'This property benefits from...'

New Writing - Wally and Sam by Alison Williams

Two old men, in purgatory, up to their waists in flames.

Wally: You have two choices. Two. That’s all.

Sam: What are you talking about now, you old fool?

Wally: You’ve been here long enough, haven’t you? Surely even you’ve worked it out by now? You fly up into the clouds or you sink down into the fire.

Sam: You! You never change, do you? Even now! You always did over-simplify everything.

Wally: Just look... look, go on. Can’t you see? Haven’t you got eyes? How hard can it be to choose? Why’s it taking you so long?

Sam: I can see more than you can see, obviously. I can see that we can stay right here and not go anywhere at all.

Wally: Some time you’ll have to choose. You’ll have to. You’re just putting it off. Hanging around like a bad smell. Everyone has to choose, and you know it!

Sam: I do not know any such thing. I know a lot of old fools like you have come and gone, a lot of them, that’s all I know.

Wally: We’ve all... got... to choose.

Sam: So why don’t you choose? Go on, go and leave me in peace!

Wally: Typical! That’s just typical! Always thinking of your own comfort!

Sam: Hah!

Wally: I know what it is.

Sam: Hmn?

Wally: I know, and you know that I know. Don’t you?

Sam: I have no idea what you’re talking about!

Wally: Oh yes, you do!

Sam: I do not have any idea!

Wally: Of course I noticed it first, being sharp, and I’ve been watching you ever since. And I saw it! I saw it in your eyes when you realised what was happening.

Sam: Sharp! Hah! You’d like to think so!

Wally: You’ve noticed where they’ve all gone, haven’t you? All of them.

Sam: That’s not true!

Wally: It is - I know it, and so do you! They’ve all gone down into the fire!

Sam: You weren’t watching the whole time! I’ve seen you nodding! A small army could have marched past and you wouldn’t have noticed, you dozy old fool!

Wally: Don’t be so daft! You don’t need to sleep here!

Sam: You’re still a dozy old fool. Even here!

Wally: I’m not such a fool as you are, you think you can stay here for ever?

Sam: I don’t see why not.

Wally: Well I’ve had enough, I’m off. Are you coming or aren't you?

Sam: Where are you going?

Wally: Where do you think?

Sam: Damn you, you old goat, you can’t go down there!

Wally: Well, I can’t sprout wings and fly up there. I’ve thought about it, and I’ve argued with you about it and I just can’t. But I suppose you think you can!

Sam: ...

Wally: Ok, so let’s face it and go.

Sam: ...

Wally grabs Sam by the neck, and drags him down into the flames. A moment later two sparks fly up.

Ambiguity, allusions and arguments

Our Cabbage Soup meeting today dealt with our 500 word violent quarrels. It was an interesting discussion, one person had in their quarrel a literary allusion that went completely over my head I'm afraid (some chap called Shakespeare I think it was). And I was surprised by the reaction to mine: I thought the outcome of it was clear, but it seems it wasn't.

So I thought I'd ask you blog readers for your opinion. I'll post it as New Writing - Wally and Sam by Alison Williams and any comments you make on what it's about and what the ending means would be very welcome. Those of you who prefer to exercise your right to remain silent are appreciated too, even though silence is ambiguous.

Dragon on the keyboard

I haven't written anything for a couple of days - there's been a dragon on my keyboard. Ok, that's a feeble exuse (does he look frightening to you?) but it's an excellent metaphor! My 'dragon' at the moment is that I've realised that before I can write any more I've got to go back and revise my first three chapters, adding a vital element that I left out. Just a small thing, and hopefully it won't take long, but I'm resisting the idea of going back.

Bookner again

I'm always intrigued when I see something get an overly emotional reaction. The way the self-consciously literary react to Tolkien and Rowling's popular success for example. A lot of teddies have been thrown out of prams over that by people old enough to behave better.

Something similar seems to be happening around Bookner. I've had email asking me ask why I'm 'supporting' this unfeasible and dangerous idea and asking me to look at their self-styled 'anti-bookner' sites.

I'm not supporting the idea, I just said I thought it was interesting and linked to it. Make up your own mind. But I think it has to be either unfeasible or dangerous, surely it can't be both?

New words

Bored with using the same old words? Here are some new ones. Why not invent your own new word and use it? Who knows, it might even make it into a real dictionary one day.

Songfacts

You wouldn't think the back end of a bus would be particularly conducive to creativity, but Message in a Bottle got written in one apparently. Don't go and start poking around that Songfacts site though, unless you've got a spare lifetime. Message in a bottle... blog posting... interesting juxtaposition of ideas there.

Lazy poets site

Is it too much trouble to write someone a poem, or even type it? The Poetry Library has the answer. Drag, drop and send poetry. Well, ok, there is a bit of typing involved in sending it to someone, but much less than typing out the whole poem. And yes, I know you can just email someone a poem any time you like but when did you last do that? I thought so.

Names

My main protagonists name is Ryan. It seems that some teachers would consider that a child with that name could be 'hard work'! If you're about to name your hero Bobbi-Jo, Jayne, Liam, Charlie or Jordan perhaps you should check out this news item.

Retail therapy

For most people, it seems, retail therapy means going out and buying clothes. The last thing I bought for the sheer fun of it was... (should I admit this in public..?) a set of 10 exercise books.

They're on my bookshelf by the window, I can see them from here, looking invitingly plain and blank...

Who are these characters and what do they want?

I suspect creating a character is usually more of an organic process than a construction project. It's possible to 'build' a character from standard parts - as in the less sophisticated type of role playing game - and then put them in a setting and see what they do. But I suspect most strong fictional characters grow out of an idea of what the character wants, what their problem is, and the rest - their job, physical description, personal attributes etc - come after that. The want or problem being what makes them interesting enough to hold the reader's interest until it gets resolved.

Which would be why it's so much easier to start writing a story than it is to end it - it's easier to identify wants and problems (fictional or real!) than to resolve them.

New Writing - Daisy by Jane Coomer

Daisy was sitting on the floor pretending not to notice what was going on around her. In reality she wasn’t missing a thing. She knew she would never be top of the class, but she knew also that she was more intelligent than people gave her credit for. Doing well at school meant putting some effort in though and that really would have been too much of an effort.

She watched while the others were setting up a game and pretended she didn’t know the rules so that someone would read them out to her. After all, there was no point in doing something yourself when someone else could do it for you, she thought.

Daisy was a girl who was used to getting her own way with just about everything. She loved Barbie and knew that one day she would be a princess, or else a vet. With her long, Nordic blonde hair, huge brown eyes and captivating smile, she could do whatever she wanted and if someone dared to tell her off, she could just look at them and smile. Her misdemeanours would get forgotten. This always seemed to work with her mum especially. Daisy knew exactly how to work her mum.

Apart from princesses, Daisy’s other love was food. Not boring things like fruit and vegetables. No. Biscuits, chocolate, crisps and especially ice cream. These had to be eaten in huge quantities and in a totally unprincess-like manner, with as much as possible left on her hands and around her mouth when she had finished. And it didn’t matter how messy she got. She knew she could just smile and open her eyes wide and no-one would ever tell her off.

New Writing - Michael

Jo sat drinking her coffee, listening to Michael as he described his walk and his attempts to capture the way the light had sparkled on the sea. As always, his attempt had been sabotaged, this time by a child chasing a dog across the sand and breaking his concentration. Jo smiled inwardly – it was always the same, always his work failed on account of other people, never ever him…

The only time he was punctual was with the promise (bribe?) of coffee – afternoon tea – supper, it didn’t matter which. These pleasurable interludes formed the backbone of Michael’s day, and punctuated his work.

He did try and he did have talent, but somehow the great future predicted for him, the peak of British water colourists, always eluded him. His style seemed just out of fashion: the smaller seaside galleries loved him; the “establishment” ignored him.

It hurt. Over the years the hurt showed more, in the receding hair, the tight lines around the mouth. Disillusionment was setting in. Ten more years and it would mean he could no longer lift a paintbrush, no longer look with far seeing eyes at a blank page and see the magical mix of colour and light that denoted success.

By then the coffee or afternoon tea would have given way to stronger substances, the lunchtime drink that would last into the afternoon, destroying will power and the last of his ability to get to work on time – ignoring Woody Allen’s words that 90% of success is turning up. His working day was starting later, having more interruptions and ending on the slightest pretext.

He was still a good looking man though despite the hurt, or maybe because of it. It added character to his face – and it was a face that Jo loved.

New Writing - Paul by Alison Williams

Paul is a black haired rather sharp-featured man of medium height and slim build. He appears to be around 30 years of age. He can look quite severe but his face loses its severity when he smiles. His characteristic expression is a slight frown. He has sensitive hands and fingers.

While he actively seeks to spend much of his time alone, he also feels the need for a role in the community. In general, he prefers one to one interaction to being part of a larger group. In a group he tends to avoid eye contact, often preferring to remain in the background of conversations. He thinks carefully before he speaks, and speaks less frequently than most people. He often takes up closed but balanced positions, for example, while sitting he may lean forward in his chair, rest his elbows on his knees, and clasp his hands.

In a situation where choices have to be made without clear information he tends to err on the side of caution. He takes life seriously but does have a sense of humour, which only occasionally shows itself. He is concerned for others, sensitive of their feelings, and respects other points of view, even if he thinks they’re wrong. He is not easily provoked, and does not enjoy arguments, but will defend his beliefs vigorously if challenged. He has a strong sense of responsibility, is patient and his outlook for the long term is hopeful. He tends to fall easily into the role of counsellor with people of all ages.

While generally truthful he may hold back information if unsure of its accuracy, or of the effect it might have on others. He has some very dark memories from certain episodes in his past life, but rarely discusses them with his present day companions.

Entirely out of character

Because it's the start of term, and we're going to be more than usually busy at work, we won't be meeting for three weeks rather than the usual two. Which means we've got a lot of time to complete our next exercise - a 500 word violent quarrel.

Uncharacteristically I've actually done the exercise already, rather than leaving it until the deadline looms. It was fun! Which is odd, because at the start I'd have said it was one of the exercises I was least looking forward too. Which confirms my suspicion that it's good to be made to attempt types of writing that would not normally appeal, to be pushed out of your comfort zone and made to do something uncharacteristic.

Help! Fiction police! Character assassination!

We introduced each other to our characters today. They were a varied bunch, a child; a woman of 'a certain age'; a couple of thirty something men and one slightly older man. They were also presented in a variety of ways, a career history; a third person narrative; a physical description and interview; a view of one character through the eyes of another and a psychological profile!

I'd like to post some of them, but need to seek permission first.

Who got assassinated? My character got compared to a real person and I don't see the likeness. Well, maybe I do - superficially - now I look at my character sketch again. It helps in that I now know which of his characteristics I need to bring out more to make sure things I know about him come over to other people.

Qualifications?

What business have I got starting a writing group? You may well ask. As an attempt at a justification for this rash act I thought I'd list some of the places I've had things published - where there is some kind of online link. (There doesn't seem much point listing 100% print on paper places here.)

Haiku, tanka and haibun have appeared on a fairly regular basis in Blithe Spirit and Presence. The same three forms also appeared in a special edition ofMuse Apprentice Guild. Haibun in Contemporary Haibun Online and in Zimmerzine. Tanka in Tanka Splendor 2000, 2002 and 2003. Haiku with translations in Tempslibres and haiku in Haiku Spirit.

Poetry in Fire and Borderlines (in both cases in issues not (yet) available online.)

Prose - Poetic - the odd article in Blithe Spirit. (The one on alchemy was particularly odd.) An article forthcoming in Yellow Moon later this year and HaikuOz even allowed me to pontificate on haiku 'rules' (even though we all know there are no such things!)
Prose - Academic - A co-authored article first published in Aslib Proceedings.

The main qualification though, is sheer stubborn obsession with the subject!

A Writing Man

While I enjoy the occasional random dip into the blogosphere, there aren't many I follow with any regularity. One of my favourites has as today's entry a glimpse into the mind of a writer at work. Or not, as the case may be. Go and read it, you'll see what I mean.

Raving mad - or just creative?

There's a fine line between the two, so it says in this article anyway. If you ask me what's going on here is that boring, rational, scientific types are just miffed. And, of course, they're out to get us. Before you know it they'll be suggesting it'd be a good idea to detain those caught writing poetry or fiction, just in case they go on to something worse.

Fishy characters

These look like fish, swimming, to me. I wonder how few words you need to give the illusion of a person, living?

I suspect the important thing is getting the balance right between what you provide and the space you leave for the reader to fill in for themselves.

Changing heads

The best place for a good clear view of your self is probably not from inside your own head. I think the same thing applies to protagonists. While I know what's going on in my main character's head well enough, I don't know his appearance, his habits, or the impression he makes on other people as well as I might. I'm beginning to think that to get to know him better I'm going to have to get out of his head and write about him from another point of view. If only as an exercise.

No villains please

I'm trying to arrange the next Cabbage Soup meeting. Even with a small group it isn't always easy finding a time that suits everyone. One person offered to send his character along to the next meeting by himself.

Now there's a creepy thought.

The Queens Peace Fountain

I think I'm actually looking forward to writing 500 words of a violent quarrel. This can't be good, can it?

At least today's photo is peaceful.

Photos on this blog are taken with one of these remarkable little things. I think it's the digital camera equivalent of a haiku.

Bookner

After what I was saying about making an effort to get your book seen by a publisher it was interesting to find a new website called Bookner. It's aim is to bring writers together with agents and publishers. Sounds like a good idea. I'll keep an eye on it and see if it takes off.

First premises

I like this 'fill in the blanks' guide to writing a premise for a film - it works just as well for books. (Thanks Nelson in Toronto!)

It's helpful in making you concentrate on the main points and, maybe more importantly, the main selling points! Now I'm not being mercenary here, after all, once you've written a book you've got to sell it to a publisher before anyone else is going to get the chance to see it. Even if it goes against the grain, its only fair to posterity to make that effort.

Writing exercises

Our next few exercises are:

• a character study (300 words)
• an argument (500 words of dialogue)
• a description of a house (200 words)
• a descriptive piece with no adjectives (300 words)

Since I've thought about writing a book I'm finding this sort of exercise a bit easier to get started on. I can think of 'my' character and what he's like, the sort of arguments he might have, what kind of house he might live in (I might have a problem there!) and how I could describe something in his world without the use of adjectives. It puts the different exercises into a context, which I find helps.