Saturday, 15 January 2011
Things to do when you should be commenting on writing, #1
A spin off from the "Things to do when you should be writing" series... Many thanks to all the artists / critics involved.
Saturday, 8 January 2011
The St Petersburg Times
What is it?" she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov intently, and weighing the pledge in her hand.
"A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it."
"It does not seem somehow like silver.... How he has wrapped it up!"
Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him altogether for some seconds and stood with her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and fall.... A sudden giddiness came over him.
"But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old woman cried with vexation and moved towards him.
"A thing... cigarette case.... Silver.... Look at it."
"It does not seem somehow like silver.... How he has wrapped it up!"
Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to the light (all her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling heat), she left him altogether for some seconds and stood with her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out altogether, simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let the axe slip and fall.... A sudden giddiness came over him.
"But what has he tied it up like this for?" the old woman cried with vexation and moved towards him.
He had not a minute more to lose. He
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Friday, 17 December 2010
The True History of The Nativity
A couple of absolutely glorious Christmas stories I heartily recommend - please, please check these out, and more, here. A new telling each day until Christmas. Do you get the idea?
The Third Wise Man - N Quention Woolf
Herod - Ross Hopkins
The Third Wise Man - N Quention Woolf
Herod - Ross Hopkins
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
A Christmas Story
Fair dos, the gaffer’s got a sense of humour.
‘Gabriel mate. Got a job for you down Bethlehem way,’ he says. ‘Fancy dress.’
‘What’s the theme?’
‘Well, there’s gonna be a shepherd or two, some wise guys, some animals. I thought you could wear your comedy wings. No-one would bat an eyelid. Just the basic though. Don’t give them no speeches. Turn up, flap your wings a bit, job done.’
So I put on the wings. A bit moth-eaten, and I’ve seen a few dinners since the last time I could really pull off a loop-the-loop in them, but the partygoers will probably be too drunk to notice. So I express this hope to the boss. He tells me the party is dry. There’s even going to be a baby there. So I’m not to arrive with a six pack, acting all lairy. Shame – me and the shepherds had a good session drinking under the stars the other night. I wonder if these ones are the same guys? It’s probably all part of that lost sheep scam.
Now it’s known in certain private circles that the boss has a theory about lost sheep. Reckons that one lost sheep returning to the flock might be more valuable than a whole bunch of them that never leave. So the scam in the hills is this: Shepherd A drives his flock over the hill and parks them with Shepherd B. He then finds an excuse to leave his flock and wander down to the town. Lately these shepherds have been claiming that they’ve seen a star in the east, and it’s some kind of portent. Corny, but the old ones are sometimes the best. So they go down to town, have a night out around the bars while they’re there. Next day they come back, report the sheep are lost, then trot round to Shepherd B to bring them back. Hey presto, Shepherd A’s flock is now worth ten times as much. Usually 50% of the profit goes direct to the farmer, then Shepherd A splits the remainder 60:40 with Shepherd B. Needless to say there are a lot of lost sheep in this neck of the woods now.
The boss seems to be aware of this. He’s always said, if he ever has a son, he’ll make him a farmer. He has a particularly shifty look about him today. Something tells me he has a stake in this open air gig down in Nazareth, as well.
I pitch up a bit short on my way down, meaning to land just beyond the manger where it’s nice and flat and there are no cross winds. Instead I go through the roof. Ruffles a few of my feathers, that does, and no mistake. A young guy with watery eyes and a bum-fluff beard looks at me like I just broke wind.
‘Are you here for, erm...’ he says. The wishy-washy type. His bird is lying down in the manger, in a state of partial undress, and there are all these animals about. Aye aye, I think. Pretty liberated. Then I see something moving, and hear something wailing, and it all makes sense. They’ve only gone and spawned a sprog, haven’t they. A home birth. Obviously they couldn’t make it to Bethlehem General.
I walk over to the baby. I’m not sure what I’m meant to say. Do I call it he, she, or it? And it’s a familiar-looking thing. Come to think of it, it looks like the boss. I’m thinking the old man’s not been spilling his seed on the stony ground. Crafty sod.
The baby shoots out a finger at me.
‘Alright, big man?’ I say.
‘Waaaaah,’ it says.
I flap my wings a bit, and my work here is done. This isn’t my scene. A geezer pitches up next to me in some kind of a crown and bearing all kinds of bling in his hands to offer the baby.
‘You’re not giving him that, are you?’ I say. ‘It’d be quite happy just playing with the wrapping paper you know.’
Well, he goes and gives me such a look for that. So I turn round and see who else I can find. I recognise one of the shepherds. We nod at each other. He gestures an imaginary pint. Good plan. I nod again, and we head down the road.
‘Gabriel mate. Got a job for you down Bethlehem way,’ he says. ‘Fancy dress.’
‘What’s the theme?’
‘Well, there’s gonna be a shepherd or two, some wise guys, some animals. I thought you could wear your comedy wings. No-one would bat an eyelid. Just the basic though. Don’t give them no speeches. Turn up, flap your wings a bit, job done.’
So I put on the wings. A bit moth-eaten, and I’ve seen a few dinners since the last time I could really pull off a loop-the-loop in them, but the partygoers will probably be too drunk to notice. So I express this hope to the boss. He tells me the party is dry. There’s even going to be a baby there. So I’m not to arrive with a six pack, acting all lairy. Shame – me and the shepherds had a good session drinking under the stars the other night. I wonder if these ones are the same guys? It’s probably all part of that lost sheep scam.
Now it’s known in certain private circles that the boss has a theory about lost sheep. Reckons that one lost sheep returning to the flock might be more valuable than a whole bunch of them that never leave. So the scam in the hills is this: Shepherd A drives his flock over the hill and parks them with Shepherd B. He then finds an excuse to leave his flock and wander down to the town. Lately these shepherds have been claiming that they’ve seen a star in the east, and it’s some kind of portent. Corny, but the old ones are sometimes the best. So they go down to town, have a night out around the bars while they’re there. Next day they come back, report the sheep are lost, then trot round to Shepherd B to bring them back. Hey presto, Shepherd A’s flock is now worth ten times as much. Usually 50% of the profit goes direct to the farmer, then Shepherd A splits the remainder 60:40 with Shepherd B. Needless to say there are a lot of lost sheep in this neck of the woods now.
The boss seems to be aware of this. He’s always said, if he ever has a son, he’ll make him a farmer. He has a particularly shifty look about him today. Something tells me he has a stake in this open air gig down in Nazareth, as well.
I pitch up a bit short on my way down, meaning to land just beyond the manger where it’s nice and flat and there are no cross winds. Instead I go through the roof. Ruffles a few of my feathers, that does, and no mistake. A young guy with watery eyes and a bum-fluff beard looks at me like I just broke wind.
‘Are you here for, erm...’ he says. The wishy-washy type. His bird is lying down in the manger, in a state of partial undress, and there are all these animals about. Aye aye, I think. Pretty liberated. Then I see something moving, and hear something wailing, and it all makes sense. They’ve only gone and spawned a sprog, haven’t they. A home birth. Obviously they couldn’t make it to Bethlehem General.
I walk over to the baby. I’m not sure what I’m meant to say. Do I call it he, she, or it? And it’s a familiar-looking thing. Come to think of it, it looks like the boss. I’m thinking the old man’s not been spilling his seed on the stony ground. Crafty sod.
The baby shoots out a finger at me.
‘Alright, big man?’ I say.
‘Waaaaah,’ it says.
I flap my wings a bit, and my work here is done. This isn’t my scene. A geezer pitches up next to me in some kind of a crown and bearing all kinds of bling in his hands to offer the baby.
‘You’re not giving him that, are you?’ I say. ‘It’d be quite happy just playing with the wrapping paper you know.’
Well, he goes and gives me such a look for that. So I turn round and see who else I can find. I recognise one of the shepherds. We nod at each other. He gestures an imaginary pint. Good plan. I nod again, and we head down the road.
Monday, 22 November 2010
Miss Writerly Raises Her Hand
HOST: Now would anyone like to ask any questions of our guest tonight? Is that OK, Lucinda? I don't want to impose on you. Just thought everyone would be really interested to have a chance to talk.
LUCINDA: Of course.
HOST: Feel free to talk about your own work, people. No point in hiding your light under a bushel.
LUCINDA: What is a bushel?
HOST: We're asking the questions! Anyone?
[An insignificant YOUNG WOMAN in the corner tentatively raises her hand. LUCINDA looks interested. MAN #1, a self-important older male, stands up to speak though, moving slightly too aggressively, a glass of wine spilling in his hand. LUCINDA can be seen to take a small step back, catching his sharp movement in her peripheral vision.]
MAN #1: Well I've written THREE novels now, drawing on some twenty years experience in headhunting. I was wondering what advice you had for the, ah, more advanced writers out there with a significant body of work? Should I send synopses of all of them?
HOST: And also, what is the plural of synopsis?
LUCINDA: Gosh, plural of synopsis. I'm not sure there should be one. I'm not sure that was ever meant to be, if you get my drift. My advice to you is to choose the one synopsis you think we would be interested in. And if there isn't one, please don't send it on the off chance we'll read it and change our prejudices just for you.
MAN #1: Only one though?
LUCINDA: Well, maybe it's just me. I'm sure there's some kind of literary porn out there in which editors and agents beg for simultaneous submissions from the same author. Not in real life though. I find the thought rather depressing. It's always men that do that, too. I assume your stories are all in a consistent genre, at least?
MAN #1: Fast paced thrillers set in the world of executive recruitment. I've had interest from several people.
LUCINDA [looking deeply sceptical now]: Any agents?
MAN #1: Well, I don't think agents really grasp the potential of this kind of work. I don't think they really see where the market is going to be. I guess they are a stage removed from actual publishing...
HOST: OK, let's move on to the next question...
[The YOUNG WOMAN in the corner tentatively raises her hand again. LUCINDA looks towards her encouragingly. But a self-important OLDER WOMAN interrupts.]
OLDER WOMAN: Yes. Lucinda. I wondered, with respect, what advice you could give me as to my novel set in a retirement home. Given that you are a commissioning editor probably still in your twenties...
LUCINDA: Thank you. I mean, I wish.
OLDER WOMAN: ...it's hard to see how you would quite empathise with that subject matter. And that audience. But there is a great readership among older people, that isn't being properly considered.
LUCINDA: Well I understand what you're saying. Although I generally think that anything that's written with empathy will appeal to anyone who has empathy. I published a novel recently about a group of pigeon breeders in Manchester , wich I'd have to admit is beyond my usual horizons. It was the warmth of the thing that appealed though. You just need to think about what is universal about your work, and make sure it is brought out properly. But not just in your writing - in your covering letter, in your synopsis.
OLDER WOMAN: But most novels still seem to be essentially of the Bridget Jones type.
LUCINDA: Well, that is true enough. In a strange way - and don't hate me for saying this - the struggles of younger women will always be more appealing. Even to older readers. So you will be struggling against that current. Don't hate me for saying that - I'm not saying that's my preference but that's definitely how markets work. Grannies on the bus aren't reading about grannies on the bus.
OLDER WOMAN: As a figure of influence, don't you think you might be in a position to change that though?
LUCINDA: No.
[OLDER WOMAN looks shocked.]
LUCINDA: Let's see now. I'd rather keep my job than be right and unemployed, any day. I have no more of a desire for martyrdom than anyone else. There's a poem, you know. Well, not a poem as such. Here lies the grave of Edward McVeigh, who died maintaining his right of way... he was right, dead right, as he sped along, but he's just as dead as if he were wrong. I know it might seem obscene, but we are in publishing to sell books and at the very least stay afloat. I'm sure there are hundreds of books inspired by Twilight and X-factor doing the rounds now, and the blunt answer is we need those books to publish the ones we personally believe in. The odds are that your beautifully observed metafictional story of life and love in twelfth-century Rome, the one I've been yearning to push on to the bookshelves, is not going to pay its own way. If they did, we'd publish more of them. Simple as that. Does that make me seem like a terrible person?
[Short silence. Then general laughter.]
LUCINDA: Oh god, it went all silent for a moment there. I am a terrible person. But you know what I mean. I'd encourage any writer to remember that publishers are not registered charities. I don't want anyone specifically writing for an audience - in the end, it just appeals to no-one - but maybe just think what would this novel about accounting mean to someone who isn't an accountant?
OLDER WOMAN: Although it's set in a retirement home, if you remember.
LUCINDA: Er, yes.
HOST: OK very good, any more questions?
[The YOUNG WOMAN in the corner raises her hand yet again. LUCINDA points to her this time.]
YOUNG WOMAN: I -
[Self important older MAN #2 rises to his feet instead.]
MAN #2: Just how long should a synopsis be?
LUCINDA [instantly]: 512 words.
[Small titters from the audience, some of whom are not 100% sure whether this is actually untrue.]
LUCINDA: Exactly. Not a word more, not a word less.
MAN #2: But how long should a synopsis for a trilogy of novels be? I have quite a lot of ground to cover in them...
LUCINDA: 512 words.
MAN #2: But seriously now.
LUCINDA: Sorry. Sorry. The trick is to read the submissions guidelines. They're kept on web sites, to keep them secret from the public.
MAN #2: Should it be a plot synopsis though, or more like the blurb on the dust jacket?
LUCINDA: I think that very much depends on the editor. Or the agent. I like an indication of style, myself - you never really work out much of the character of a book from a plot synopsis, but I imagine a publisher at the popular end of the market - I should say, non-literary, perhaps - would want to see fairly strong evidence that you know how to structure the story. To be honest I do too, but in literary novels it's not so easy to judge in formulaic terms. I mean, I'd love it if John Banville jumped ship and came to me with a plot synopsis like a Brazilian soap opera. But it's only ever happened the once.
HOST: Really? John Banville?
LUCINDA: And then I woke up. I was most annoyed with my husband at that moment, I can tell you.
HOST [laughing]: I just hate being woken up in the middle of a promising approach.
LUCINDA: You know, the scary thing is that someone over there is actually writing that last bit down. Anyone else, now?
[YOUNG WOMAN raises her hand again. No-one interrupts this time.]
YOUNG WOMAN [surprised]. Oh! Shit. Um.
LUCINDA: Of course.
HOST: Feel free to talk about your own work, people. No point in hiding your light under a bushel.
LUCINDA: What is a bushel?
HOST: We're asking the questions! Anyone?
[An insignificant YOUNG WOMAN in the corner tentatively raises her hand. LUCINDA looks interested. MAN #1, a self-important older male, stands up to speak though, moving slightly too aggressively, a glass of wine spilling in his hand. LUCINDA can be seen to take a small step back, catching his sharp movement in her peripheral vision.]
MAN #1: Well I've written THREE novels now, drawing on some twenty years experience in headhunting. I was wondering what advice you had for the, ah, more advanced writers out there with a significant body of work? Should I send synopses of all of them?
HOST: And also, what is the plural of synopsis?
LUCINDA: Gosh, plural of synopsis. I'm not sure there should be one. I'm not sure that was ever meant to be, if you get my drift. My advice to you is to choose the one synopsis you think we would be interested in. And if there isn't one, please don't send it on the off chance we'll read it and change our prejudices just for you.
MAN #1: Only one though?
LUCINDA: Well, maybe it's just me. I'm sure there's some kind of literary porn out there in which editors and agents beg for simultaneous submissions from the same author. Not in real life though. I find the thought rather depressing. It's always men that do that, too. I assume your stories are all in a consistent genre, at least?
MAN #1: Fast paced thrillers set in the world of executive recruitment. I've had interest from several people.
LUCINDA [looking deeply sceptical now]: Any agents?
MAN #1: Well, I don't think agents really grasp the potential of this kind of work. I don't think they really see where the market is going to be. I guess they are a stage removed from actual publishing...
HOST: OK, let's move on to the next question...
[The YOUNG WOMAN in the corner tentatively raises her hand again. LUCINDA looks towards her encouragingly. But a self-important OLDER WOMAN interrupts.]
OLDER WOMAN: Yes. Lucinda. I wondered, with respect, what advice you could give me as to my novel set in a retirement home. Given that you are a commissioning editor probably still in your twenties...
LUCINDA: Thank you. I mean, I wish.
OLDER WOMAN: ...it's hard to see how you would quite empathise with that subject matter. And that audience. But there is a great readership among older people, that isn't being properly considered.
LUCINDA: Well I understand what you're saying. Although I generally think that anything that's written with empathy will appeal to anyone who has empathy. I published a novel recently about a group of pigeon breeders in Manchester , wich I'd have to admit is beyond my usual horizons. It was the warmth of the thing that appealed though. You just need to think about what is universal about your work, and make sure it is brought out properly. But not just in your writing - in your covering letter, in your synopsis.
OLDER WOMAN: But most novels still seem to be essentially of the Bridget Jones type.
LUCINDA: Well, that is true enough. In a strange way - and don't hate me for saying this - the struggles of younger women will always be more appealing. Even to older readers. So you will be struggling against that current. Don't hate me for saying that - I'm not saying that's my preference but that's definitely how markets work. Grannies on the bus aren't reading about grannies on the bus.
OLDER WOMAN: As a figure of influence, don't you think you might be in a position to change that though?
LUCINDA: No.
[OLDER WOMAN looks shocked.]
LUCINDA: Let's see now. I'd rather keep my job than be right and unemployed, any day. I have no more of a desire for martyrdom than anyone else. There's a poem, you know. Well, not a poem as such. Here lies the grave of Edward McVeigh, who died maintaining his right of way... he was right, dead right, as he sped along, but he's just as dead as if he were wrong. I know it might seem obscene, but we are in publishing to sell books and at the very least stay afloat. I'm sure there are hundreds of books inspired by Twilight and X-factor doing the rounds now, and the blunt answer is we need those books to publish the ones we personally believe in. The odds are that your beautifully observed metafictional story of life and love in twelfth-century Rome, the one I've been yearning to push on to the bookshelves, is not going to pay its own way. If they did, we'd publish more of them. Simple as that. Does that make me seem like a terrible person?
[Short silence. Then general laughter.]
LUCINDA: Oh god, it went all silent for a moment there. I am a terrible person. But you know what I mean. I'd encourage any writer to remember that publishers are not registered charities. I don't want anyone specifically writing for an audience - in the end, it just appeals to no-one - but maybe just think what would this novel about accounting mean to someone who isn't an accountant?
OLDER WOMAN: Although it's set in a retirement home, if you remember.
LUCINDA: Er, yes.
HOST: OK very good, any more questions?
[The YOUNG WOMAN in the corner raises her hand yet again. LUCINDA points to her this time.]
YOUNG WOMAN: I -
[Self important older MAN #2 rises to his feet instead.]
MAN #2: Just how long should a synopsis be?
LUCINDA [instantly]: 512 words.
[Small titters from the audience, some of whom are not 100% sure whether this is actually untrue.]
LUCINDA: Exactly. Not a word more, not a word less.
MAN #2: But how long should a synopsis for a trilogy of novels be? I have quite a lot of ground to cover in them...
LUCINDA: 512 words.
MAN #2: But seriously now.
LUCINDA: Sorry. Sorry. The trick is to read the submissions guidelines. They're kept on web sites, to keep them secret from the public.
MAN #2: Should it be a plot synopsis though, or more like the blurb on the dust jacket?
LUCINDA: I think that very much depends on the editor. Or the agent. I like an indication of style, myself - you never really work out much of the character of a book from a plot synopsis, but I imagine a publisher at the popular end of the market - I should say, non-literary, perhaps - would want to see fairly strong evidence that you know how to structure the story. To be honest I do too, but in literary novels it's not so easy to judge in formulaic terms. I mean, I'd love it if John Banville jumped ship and came to me with a plot synopsis like a Brazilian soap opera. But it's only ever happened the once.
HOST: Really? John Banville?
LUCINDA: And then I woke up. I was most annoyed with my husband at that moment, I can tell you.
HOST [laughing]: I just hate being woken up in the middle of a promising approach.
LUCINDA: You know, the scary thing is that someone over there is actually writing that last bit down. Anyone else, now?
[YOUNG WOMAN raises her hand again. No-one interrupts this time.]
YOUNG WOMAN [surprised]. Oh! Shit. Um.
Monday, 15 November 2010
More things to do when you should be at your writing group
Tony Bell reads Sebastian Aston's very fine 'She Doesn't Know How Tough It's Been' at Liar's League, Tuesday 9th November.
Tony : There's a really good writing group I go to. It's in a bookshop on Brick Lane.
Blogger : Oh, you too? When do you go then?
Tony : Tuesday evenings.
Blogger : (Thinks to himself) Like this one?
Tony : There's a really good writing group I go to. It's in a bookshop on Brick Lane.
Blogger : Oh, you too? When do you go then?
Tony : Tuesday evenings.
Blogger : (Thinks to himself) Like this one?
Friday, 12 November 2010
Man vs Nanny State
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A little story I read out recently at Storytails.
Fortunately I managed to finish this disturbing tale before the Hassidic Jewish family arrived for their family photograph session. Here's to comic double-bookings of upstairs pub rooms...
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Compare and contrast
No pirates.
This, then, is my challenge. A story from one of the following:
-Thriller set in an airport. No words longer than 'marmalade' required.
-Teenage romance (with/without vampires)
-Pynchon-esque description of a recent political event
All I can say is this: there is a reason why right-thinking people dress up as pirates at Halloween.
This, then, is my challenge. A story from one of the following:
-Thriller set in an airport. No words longer than 'marmalade' required.
-Teenage romance (with/without vampires)
-Pynchon-esque description of a recent political event
All I can say is this: there is a reason why right-thinking people dress up as pirates at Halloween.
Figure 1: Rubbish vampire kid
Figure 2: Brave, fearless pirate
Saturday, 6 November 2010
The Theme
It's taken nearly a hundred years of debate (or it seems like it, at least). By now you'd have thought we'd all have jet cars and be wearing space-age leisure suits, and possibly the Omega point would have been reached before this: the theme for the next Brick Lane Wednesday writing group anthology has been set. And it is
part Secret Santa, part sadism. Each person in the group has been given the name of another person in the group for whom the first person must concoct three titles or ideas for a short story. These ideas should be designed to take the recipient well out of their comfort zone. For instance, if the person whose name you've been given likes nothing better than to write a soppy romance, what better subject to give them than a high octane thriller? If your nominated person always writes from a female perspective, it's time to get them thinking like a man. You get the picture...
...which you might think a rather complicated elevator pitch. Since I chose to attend a puppet show(!) rather than attend the final decision on the theme, I was sadly not privy to the decision making process. Rather wish I had been there now. I should think it was very much like the World Cup draw. Possibly without Charlize Theron. Almost certainly without David Beckham.
Personally, I'm hoping to be asked to write something about pirates. I can promise I've never written about pirates before.
part Secret Santa, part sadism. Each person in the group has been given the name of another person in the group for whom the first person must concoct three titles or ideas for a short story. These ideas should be designed to take the recipient well out of their comfort zone. For instance, if the person whose name you've been given likes nothing better than to write a soppy romance, what better subject to give them than a high octane thriller? If your nominated person always writes from a female perspective, it's time to get them thinking like a man. You get the picture...
...which you might think a rather complicated elevator pitch. Since I chose to attend a puppet show(!) rather than attend the final decision on the theme, I was sadly not privy to the decision making process. Rather wish I had been there now. I should think it was very much like the World Cup draw. Possibly without Charlize Theron. Almost certainly without David Beckham.
Personally, I'm hoping to be asked to write something about pirates. I can promise I've never written about pirates before.
Tuesday, 2 November 2010
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