Trust

One thing that the late and unlamented News Of The World was respected for (and for that matter, its sister paper the Sun) was its sports coverage. By this I think we all know we mean football; I'm sure Mr Murdoch didn't get where he was today by aggressively pursuing the Crown Green Bowls-playing demographic. There's no hint on the tabloid back pages that papers have any bias towards particular major players or teams, whatever skullduggery might or might not be going on under the surface. This independence reflects the isocline between the players and managers on one hand and the press on the other, and the suspicion with which the former regard the latter. Long may that remain so, if the alternative is the cosy punditry of Alan Shearer.

I mention this not because I care deeply about football, but because of envy. Sometimes I wish I could read a review in the Guardian's Review section, for example, and have the same confidence that the journalists were not mixing for social drinks with novelists; that novelists did not have a career path into journalism; that journalists did not have a career path into novel writing. There is a telling lack of honest loathing in our book talk, and when we do it, our criticisms are so broad-brushed that we can barely discern the guilty party. But we know that books can really suck, don't we? And not just collectively, when they're out with their mates. Sometimes particular books can suck, all on their own, in their own special way, whatever the hype in the media. And just occasionally, I suppose, writers work to live up to that hype they never deserved at the start.

I wrote a much more honest version of this, ten minutes ago, and thought better of it... By way of analogy, I might have called it Steve McLaren, England Manager.

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Hot & Bothered

Liars League, tomorrow @ 7:30, The Phoenix, explores a theme of 'Hot & Bothered' featuring

- Underneath by Erinna Mettler
- Brothers' Eyes and Curtain Rods by Robert Long
- This Isn't Heat by Richard Smyth
- Pampas Grass by James Holden
- Kenny by Frances Clarke

I'll be there, and I'd encourage you to be there too!

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M*a*s*h (u*p)

Why the asterisks? Because it pains me to be so modern when the thing is so old, and the fashion comes and goes. This is, depending on your bent, might go back to Laurence Sterne, E.T.A. Hoffman et al in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, or was reinvented with Seth Grahame-Smith's Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. At it's simplest, it might be a pleasant parlour game (though possibly not so compelling when approaching it sober: see what you think - me, I'm distinctly underwhelmed). Or, why not a whole novel?

Personally, I'm not sure there's very much more to be achieved by this than a certain comic effect. It's a bit much to hope for pathos:

I was a shade perturbed. Nothing to signify, really, but still just a spot concerned. As I sat in the old flat, idly touching the strings of my banjolele, an instrument to which I had become greatly addicted of late, and you couldn't have said that the brow was actually furrowed, and yet, on the other hand, you couldn't have stated absolutely that it wasn't. Perhaps the word 'pensive' just about covers it. It seemed to me that a situation fraught with embarrassing potentialities had arisen.

'Control,' I said, 'do you know what?'
'No, sir.'
'Riemeck's dead.'
'Yes, indeed,' Control declared.
'Awkward, what?'

That, you may have identified as P.G. Woodhouse (Thank You, Jeeves), with a sprinking of two or three lines from John Le Carre's classic The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. This is in fact only the smallest extract of an exercise I did for the sake of exploring the concept for this piece; I need not trouble to include any more of it here as I think the concept is clear enough (and I have no wish to bring upon me the wrath of the copyright police). My personal taste forbids the union of concepts that simply jar (Jane Austen + Zombies = a first year undergraduate's desperation for effect, in my book). In this case though, I thought there was actually surprising common ground between the two novels I was sampling, not least in the characters of Control and Jeeves. At the start of both novels, both these characters utter the very same words in response to the main protagonist - 'Yes, indeed.' Both stories are grounded in English culture and manners, albeit from slightly different backgrounds and eras, and have a similar interest in what Bertie Wooster might have called sportng behaviour, or the lack of it.

How far could this have gone? In all honesty, probably not that far. The best sampling probably comes unconsciously to both the writer and the reader. It's also quite hard to do well. If nothing else, it should make anyone complaining of writer's block reflect that writing from scratch might actually be easier.

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Confessions of a second hand book addict

Now here's a question: When is it ethical to buy books second hand?

Possibly when the author is already dead, and I'd have to admit that most of my current reading matter falls into that category. Hard-hearted as I am, I don't feel the same pity for the affairs of late authors' estates as I might for the living. Nonetheless, I may be an outlier among readers in my dustier literary interests at the moment, and it's an accepted wisdom of publishing that if readers buy books second hand, they are denying proceeds to the (living) author and thus undermining publishing. In a forum on the ethics of book buying on the writing site WriteWords, I came across one particular comment that encapsulated this view, and a little more:

"I would never buy a book second hand if it's available new, as I'd be depriving the author of a sale they'd otherwise have had - and that'll be me soon. That's the realisation on which PLR was founded, after all. Just as I never use pirated software. "

Put like that, it seems clear - new writing must be directly impeded if it is no longer possible to make a good living from it. This does seem to ignore the fact that most aspiring writers are educated enough about the state of publishing to know that very few published writers do make a living from it; and the motivations of writers may have more to do with art or status than financial reward. It could be argued that to reduce the proceeds of writing might even encourage those who are writing for higher reasons than profit.

The piracy claim is a new one to me though. I'd always assumed that if a book is sold second hand that this might inherently be a comment on the (perhaps disappointing) quality of the book, and that it might be expecting a bit much for the author to be expect to be paid again on account of their book being less worth holding onto. Certainly there are many goods that we do buy second hand without scruple. Is there reason to suppose that the trade in second hand cars is piracy, for example? Was I tearing bread from the mouths of assembly line workers when I bought my chav-white Renault Clio second hand? Well, yes, I suppose I was.

Perhaps I have learned something today. It may even encourage me to buy new books a little more often, when I can find it within me to trust an author sufficiently. One of the reasons I've always been prepared to experiment with an author I might not like is that if I buy their book second hand, I'm not risking rewarding bad writing, which in my (admittedly disproportionate) mind is a crime comparable to funding terrorism.

So I admit I may have done my part to keep other writers penniless/honest. Shoot me now. Before I die though, allow me these parting words - I feel for fellow writers, and I feel for publishing. But it turns out I really hate William Gaddis. If he were alive, I'd hate him too.

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Bullying (for the purposes of fiction...)

Since I started being more prim about my coffee instake, my life can no longer accurately be measured in coffee spoons. Nonetheless a week rarely goes by without me feeling the need to bore someone with my grand unified theory of Life And Fiction, and this is a sufficiently regular event that it might do just as well. The thought is this - that a good life makes for bad fiction, and vice versa, and if your life resembles a particularly boring novel then you are probably much the happier for it.

Clearly, bullying is A Good Thing*. Plenty of novels succeed without it, but the inclusion of a bully is a pretty good way to establish sympathy with a protagonist, particulary when that protagonist is no angel him or herself. One of the most blatant but nonetheless effective examples is the opening of Wolf Hall, in which Thomas Cromwell is kicked and beaten by his father. There is a crucial caveat here though: a hero cannot be a victim without putting the story in great peril. Thomas Cromwell may be beaten* only because he is a brave youth who will not be cowed, and we see his courage and quality from the manner in which he takes his beating. We know, or a least strongly suspect, the tables will be turned in time. If he had been established as an innocent, doe-eyed child with watery eyes, we might have had a different novel altogether; specifically, a less interesting one. One thing strikes me though - we have rather less patience for victims now* than perhaps we had in the past. This seems most obvious in our national culture.

Take for example Trollope's The Way We Live Now. It is built around the central bullying character of the recent immigrant Augustus Melmotte, who is arguably rivalled in a more personal context by the 'wildcat' American Mrs Hurtle. A modern reader is liable to find the native English characters so insipid and long suffering that there would be almost greater satisfaction in them being successfully crushed or manipulated by their foreign superiors* than in triumphing at the last. There is far more to be admired in Mrs Hurtle's threats to whip her fiance for his cowardice* than in Paul Montague or Roger Carbury's ethical mithering, or in their hand-wringing fear of a female planet.

Our traditional identification with decent and timid protagonists carries through in the novels of Patrick Hamilton. In The Slaves of Solitude his heroine Miss Roach is bullied equally by a German emigre and a blustering old Englishman, but in particular it is the constraints of English manners that stops her from fighting back. When she finally escapes her tormentors, it is only by providence. In Hangover Square, George Harvey Bone eventually takes a murderous revenge, but it is neither a triumph of righteousness nor courage. Unlike his enemies, he has not even lived well by his own code, and only exacts revenge through a mental illness that prevents him being conscious of his actions. Far from overcoming his tormentors, he can then only commit suicide.

So does that mean that in fiction, fire must always fight fire? Surely conflict is what it's all about? Well, yes. Up to a point. Stepping beyond that point, that's when I encounter the epically tedious violence of Cormac McCarthy, or Bukowski's alter-ego Henry Chinaski trapped in an endless cycle of sad fisticuffs. Me, I just want the bullying* - not a bloody martial arts movie.
* for the purposes of fiction

Ten Openings That Never Went Anywhere - #2

The First Sixty Seconds of A Searcher

He'd heard it said that sometimes - in other people's lives, this would be - an adventure starts with a knock on the door. Which might have been a lovely thought for people who didn't get out much, but it wasn’t quite the same when he was the one doing the knocking.

This, here, now, was a matter of getting out on his feet and walking. Initiative. Journeying. Coming to the mountain. Mike knew that real adventures didn’t start that way. Only Outward Bound trips started that way. He was on the wrong side of the door. Fate abhors initiative. The universe hates a searcher.

Through the frosted glass, a shadow grew within a shadow, and the door opened. A short, slightly stocky man answered the door and looked at him; immediately he realised he’d be a stranger here.

‘Mike Briggs,’ he muttered by way of introduction, and flashed the wallet containing his Oystercard as if he’d done this a thousand times. ‘Cake Police.’

‘You can leave chuck your stuff in that room there,’ said the man regardless – possibly one of his cousins? – at any rate, the figure shuffled off towards a handful of people drinking from paper cups in the living room.

Mike didn’t have a bag. It wasn’t his way, and nor was a polite drinks session in the living room; which was odd, because nothing he’d ever done in his life would have remotely suggested otherwise. He went into the kitchen instead, and looked for signs of life. Nothing doing. An empty kitchen? At a party?

Some fifteen seconds or so after entering the party, he saw the kitchen door. He took it. Within thirty, he was round the back of the house and slumped in a plastic chair in the garden. He puffed his cheeks, and looked up. Shades of grey hung in the sky, not even mixing. It seemed set like concrete. Through the patio doors, he could see more shades of grey talking inside. No chemistry there. One test tube of water was being poured into another.

T+35 seconds after first entry, he realised he wasn’t alone. A man in a dufflecoat sat huddled atop of a large black rubbish bin in the corner.

‘Random,’ Mike muttered to himself.

Five more seconds passed. In the background, he could hear the passing traffic just the other side of the house. Slow, doleful rumblings. He watched the man, hoping for some sign of animation. The man watched him back, with no little suspicion. Perhaps he should introduce himself. Maybe this time he could avoid complimenting the house, asking the guy where he was from, talking about the weather, pretending he wasn’t just here for the refuelling. Was that too much to hope for?

‘Fucking delayed gratification,’ Mike finally said. Quietly, of course; he was pretty much a virgin when it came to free speech. Still, the chattering of the birds seemed to cease that moment, as if they were shocked by his language. He looked at the man more closely. A gold watch peeked out from under his sleeve. He was round shouldered, with slender hands. An accountant perhaps? A lawyer? A squash racket in its soft case, presumably his, lay leaning against the wall next to him. Possibly no-one had ever said such a thing in this man's hearing before. Almost certainly, in fact. He was probably someone’s husband. Involved in the community. Respected. But also, sitting on a rubbish bin.

The silence ended. It seemed like the dawn of a new age.

‘Word,’ said the accountant.
‘Not enough people here who could say fuck.’
‘Fuck no,’ said the accountant.

A thought struck Mike.

‘Are you cousin Vinny?’
‘Yeah. You Mike?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fuck, we’re predictable.’
‘Your lot going on about the weather too? The delays on Junction 14? Their lovely holiday?’
‘I expect so.’
‘And you fit in with it too? Nicey nicey?’
‘Like a fucking glove. And I wear the marigolds when I’m washing up. Practically grafted now.’
‘You swear like this normally?’
‘Fuck, no.’
‘We’re back yard people, Vinny. Under our sensible coats, anyway. We’re not house people.’
‘Cousin, let’s liberate a bottle from the wine rack. Something with a dusty label.’
‘Oh baby, we’re so good for each other.’

Slot Together Animals

It's not only that I'm lazy this particular week. I'd always hoped to have more of this thng in my blog, if nothing else to guard against solipsism - but one must have standards of course. Have a look at the works of Tom Sears, whose illustrations and short stories have an imagination and life about them that is distinctively his own. Me, I like the slot together animals. Particularly the gorilla.

Ten Openings That Never Went Anywhere - #1

(or, Why My Enthusiasm About Other People's Promising First Chapters Is Inevitably Tempered By Premonition Of Later Disappointment)

The Squareness of Cows *

Chapter One - On First Looking Into Loxton’s Cow

 It occurred to him, while leaning over his neighbour's rusty farm gate, that this spectacularly squarish animal in front of him, its back and arse forming a perfect right angle, its spine rigid and straight, its four equal legs at the four corners of a body the proportions of a standard bale, and a neck that allowed it to tidily fold its head right down to the ground - above all, this animal was designed to be stackable, much like the chairs in the village hall, and farmers before him had missed a trick in not realising the space-saving potential of the bovine form.

It further occurred to him that such intelligent design was evidence of the existence of God; possibly a Swedish one, at that. Evolution could not possibly provide an account of why cows would need to be stackable by more than the cow-plus-bull configuration necessary for mating purposes, and even that arrangement, when he thought about it, was more like a lean-to than a proper stack. This was no accident of biology. Yes, there was a God, he was sure; and a personal one too; and most importantly, He was going to make him very rich.

* A traditional X of Y formula; see this post for more details

The curious incident of the dwarf, a rubber band and your best mate in the night time

So what is storytelling? On the face of it, it's everything between the two covers of a book. Anything outside of those pages comes under another some other jurisdiction. The suburbs around it, we might call Promotion, for want of a better name. Everything beyond that, is just Life, Non-Fiction, The World, call it what you will. At the very least though, we're positive that the blurb on the back of a book that sucks you right into the story is definitely not part of storytelling. Nor is it when you write a synopsis; or put into practice that ten second elevator pitch; or when someone is telling you I just bumped into that old friend of yours in Sainsbury's, you know the one you thought was dead - I'll tell you all about it later. All that, we would call promotion again, and promotion, as all respected authorities will tell you, is Wrong. It is the opposite of storytelling. Not keeping it real.

Except...

You meet your friend at the pub. Have you heard, X says, almost bursting, what just happened to Y? Well you know what Y is like, don't you? That thing he has about dwarves? Well I heard the other day that...

None of this is the story yet, of course - this is all promotion. A serious, out-and-out reader would be paying no attention. But in truth you only came to this pub in the first place because you heard someone whisper something about Y and dwarves and rubber bands, and a prurient streak in you wanted to know more. That too is Promotion, and that too is Wrong. You wouldn't ordinarily care about the problems of dwarves and rubber bands at all, but in this case it has intersected with your world. Y is actually someone you know, so suddenly the story is relevant and universal, and as for the rubber bands, well there but for the grace of god - the rubber band issue is something quite personal to you too, though heaven help you if anyone finds out about that. This story you're going to hear is something more in the context - not just about some dwarf with a rubber band - who would care about that? Now it's a story about a dwarf with a rubber band and already, it connects with your life. Because the thing about the dwarf incident is this - you would never have made such an embarrasing mistake in the dark, would you? Almost certainly not. Probably not. Although perhaps you might. And it might have had unwound for you the same disastrous way, that really wouldn't bear thinking about. And anything that doesn't bear thinking about, pretty much gets itself thought about. Boy, you're stuck in a web of story now.

Sometimes I wonder why I post illustrations here of the events in my novel. Why I write my blog at all. And then I think, oh yeah - it's storytelling, isn't it? It begins here, and carries on to the last page. And if it really, really works - it keeps going...

Cake - an exhibition of FriggArt, 19th-26th May

An artist's rendition of the Cake in the chapter titled, "Cake". The work, in pen on paper, is a commentary on the insufficient description of cakes throughout the novel, and explores the nature of visual writing in a literary form increasingly influenced by the conventions and symbols of writing for the screen.

A celebration of Halloween. I'm struggling to recall what part of the novel could possibly have inspired this. Is it possible the readers had other things on their minds than my story?

Who ate Lisa's Cake? Microsoft Excel's Cake Chart feature provides the answer.

It's just, like, a word cloud.

To this day I do not know what this comment was meant to say. The suspense...

This, I have decided, would be the official bookmark for Darlington Frigg. I have not yet made a decision on action figures or cartoon series spin-offs, and strangely, no major toy manufacturer or TV company has approached me either. It's a cruel world.