I can't remember when I first heard the name Virginia Woolf, but I was probably quite small. Our Dad was an English teacher and so we had most of the literary canon on our groaning bookshelves. Virginia being a relatively unusual name, I'm sure I would have noticed it and liked the connection with my own, without actually knowing anything about the author in question.
I'm not sure how old I was when curiosity got the better of me and I picked up "To the Lighthouse." but it was way too young. I was totally mystified. For pages and pages the characters talk about going to the lighthouse and then the weather is too bad and they don't. Then all of a sudden we've rolled forward a several years, and Mrs Ramsey has died. The father (who stopped the trip) wants to make the family go but the kids are reluctant. It all seemed to me to be unbearably painful and frustrating, what was the point?. I knew enough about English literature to understand that Woolf was important, but I decided she was too difficult for me, and I put her to one side.
It wasn't till a few years later, when my lovely twin Julia Williams was writing a dissertation on women writers that I began to wonder whether I ought to reconsider. Julia raved about A Room of One's Own so much I had to give it a try, and of course, I was blown away. A few years after that I signed up to a book catalogue. (In the days before Amazon, it was the cheapest way to get lots of books when when I could remember to put an order in.) Consequently I got a whole load of Woolf in as a job lot, Mrs Dalloway, A Room of One's Own, Orlando and To the Lighthouse. And I fell in love. The trip to the Lighthouse that had puzzled me so much, revealed itself as an intimate account of family life, the moments that are precious, the moments you wish you'd acted differently, the inevitability of time passing. Orlando is just a total riot, zipping along with energy and zest and astonishingly for a novel written in the 1920's it challenges gender, sexuality and the role of women in society. And Mrs Dalloway - well it's just sublime isn't it? The most perfect example of stream of consciousness I've ever read, weaving Clarissa Dalloway's intimate thoughts with those of the crowds she wanders through, and poor doomed Septimus Smith, before returning to the heroine as she prepares for her party. It's quite, quite brilliant.
So it was a no-brainer to name this blog after my heroine's famous essay. Her dictum that a woman needs money and a room of her own has both resonated with me and made me furious enough to defy it...When I was young, I often used it as as the reason I didn't write - I had a room of my own when single, but had to work for my money, and I never seemed to find the time. Once married the situation was reversed, we were better off, but I shared my space, first with my husband and then with our three children. It was only when I took a career break 10 years ago, that it struck me that I had been making excuses too long, and that if I didn't start now, I never would. I started my writing career in a tiny two bedroom flat the five of us lived in at the time, hesitantly typing on the shared computer in our kitchen diner, when my youngest was asleep. Alas he soon took to staying awake in the day, and writing time became harder to manage. It was a couple of years before I found a way to do it, by which time I was living in a more spacious environment, but working again, and having even less time. This was the moment when I realised Woolf was both right and wrong. Right, in that if you have independent means, and personal space, it is easier to be able to write. Wrong, in that, if you don't have those things, but you do have the compelling need to write , you can't let lack of them stop you.
Recently though I've found myself criticising Woolf a bit...It was all right for her, I've occasionally thought, she had a large house, independent wealth and no kids to distract her. No wonder she was a genius. I began to think she was a bit too upper class for me, not having to bother with a domestic life because servants did everything for her. It seemed a bit disloyal, but I couldn't help myself. And I
might have gone on thinking like that, if it hadn't been for the biography of Virginia Woolf Chris gave me for my birthday which I read on holiday. Although it was a little dry, it was full of information about Woolf that has made me re-appraise her completely. As I read I found myself emotionally connecting with a woman who, like me was one of 8 children (even if 5 were step siblings). Like me, her relationship with her father was volatile. Though her father was more severe, and controlling than mine, the descriptions of their stormy arguments and intense love reminded me of my own experience. (One critical difference was that my father encouraged me to write, whereas hers prevented her. She recognised if he'd lived she'd have never been a writer, I regret my father died before I started to be one). And one of the loveliest finds of the book was the letter from Leslie Stephens referring to Woolf as "Ginia" - the name my family always call me - which I read that on the beach at Manorbier, a place she sometimes stayed. At that point, I fell in love with her all over again.
Here was a woman who was sexually abused by her half brothers, yet refused to be a victim about it, learning to mock and deride them. A woman denied the University education of her brother, who managed to educate herself. A woman, who finally broke free after her father's death and step brother's marriage to become the greatest writer of her generation. And I realised she was, in fact, less independently wealthy than I thought, needing to rent out rooms in her London home in order to stay there, and editing and writing articles from an early age to support herself. She was 33 before her first novel was published, and even then it took a while for her to be a critical success. I was reminded again what a mental struggle it was for her to write, and how critical she was of her own work. And whilst I knew that she grappled with mental health problems for most of her life, it was clear from the biography that she was lively, funny, acerbic. I am sure had I ever met her I'd have enjoyed her company - she was so intelligent, thoughtful, and though she was a self-confessed snob, she was committed to social justice, pacifism, anti-fascism just as I am. You can't know about Woolf without knowing about the manner of her ending, how she filled her pockets with stones and drowned herself in the river. And yet I was still crying at the end of the book reading her last words to her husband Leonard, so full of despair, but so full of love for him.
After that, when I spotted The Waves in Tenby's only bookshop, I had to buy it, diving into another brilliant novel. An intense stream of consciousness that leaps through the minds of six characters, following them from childhood to middle-aged, interspersed with descriptions of waves on a beach from early morning to evening. It is a lyrical, poetical novel, that stirs the emotions and somehow captures the essence of life despite very little apparently happening. A work of art from a true original.
All in all, it's been a great summer for reading, and the highlight for me has been Virginia Woolf. The woman who lined my family bookcases in childhood, who at first mystified me, then later inspired me, has reminded me again how essential she is to my literary life. I know I will never be able to write at the level and quality of my namesake, but thanks to her, I continue to be inspired to try. And knowing about her creative struggles, helps me make sense of my own.
Wednesday, 11 September 2013
Friday, 2 August 2013
Plug of the Month - Point North and Pedal
As someone with a couple of marathons & half marathons under my belt, and currently training for another half, I know what takes to complete an endurance event. I know the physical pain, mental strength and sheer stubbornness that it takes to get you across the line. But my friend Phil Cox's achievements literally left me gasping in awe. Last summer he cycled from Lands End to John O'Groats, on his own, with no back up in TWELVE days. ( That's 1,000 miles by the way, think about it.)
Point North and Pedal is Phil's account of that journey. And it's a great read, instantly recognisable to anyone idiotic to take on one of life's more extreme challenges, and soaked in his characteristic wit and sarcasm. Not only that, but being one of life's total good blokes, he's raising money for Cri du Chat Syndrome - so you by buying his book you get to support a great charity as well.
Seriously committed and a serious good read. Get your copy today!
Thursday, 4 July 2013
Almost at the top
I think I quite like this editing lark...It's been a mere couple of months since my last post and here I am celebrating the completion of the fourth edit. For once this has been quick, and relatively easy. The path has been straight, the sun has shone, I've been mostly bounding with energy as a result, I've just ripped through the text
.
Following advice from my writing friend Catherine Chanter, at the end of each edit, I've always paid to have a printed bound copy. It's a great way to enable me to read and annotate (without losing any pages!) before re-writes on the computer. Since my first draft was finished in 2011 I have developed a little ritual of going to the same print shop (the lovely Press to Print in Gloucester Green - whose staff are efficient, kind and always fascinated by my work in progress), paying for a copy and then bringing it home to dissect it. (This has become such a ritual that my son is still peeved I didn't take him with me last time! Gloucester Green is also important for this novel as it is the place where I had a complete meltdown following an awful tutorial on 2 chapters I'd submitted for a writing assignment. My lovely husband Chris was an absolute star on that occasion, meeting me on a bench, hugging me when I sobbed and promising me we would return with champagne when I get a book deal - I'm holding him to that one...) An added advantage of doing these prints is that I can mark the progress of my novel by these bound copies. The first draft completed in 2011, was a little thin full of stereotypes and half finished characters, and chapters ending in xxx because I wasn't sure quite how to resolve them. The second, completed last November, fleshed this out a lot, doubling the size and making sense of the narrative, cost me £18 instead of £8 and at least looked a lot thicker, but was still cliché ridden and a lot of it was not up to scratch. The third which took from January to April involved a radical re-working of the text, cutting and pasting, splitting chapters in half, deleting whole sections, in order to re-shape the story. This version cost £30, coming in at 125,000 words, 420 pages, and is satisfyingly solid enough to actually feel like a novel. It has, however needed significant re-writing.
So this time round I've been focussing on line by line edits. I went through the whole text with a blue or sometimes black biro, re-reading every sentence and changing every one that felt clunky, overwritten, or too clichéd. Sometimes this has involved rewriting whole scenes, or deleting them, and sometimes the excision of "that", "but", "and", which I over use, the removal of commas and semi-colons, replacing them with semi-colons and full stops. For three weeks I took my copy everywhere with me, on the bus, in cafes, and (my favourite place) the Hay Festival, where I really enjoyed sitting in coffee shops, surrounded by book lovers as I ripped my sentences apart. I even had a wonderful encounter with two lovely women (whose names unfortunately I forget) who wanted to know what I was writing and were so enthusiastic and encouraging, it gave me a glimpse of what it might feel like to be a published author...(speaking at Hay is so on my wish-list, along with staying at Shakespeare and Company and being a writer in residence at the Gladstone Library...one day...).
I returned from Hay ready to start typing, deciding this time, that I'd work backwards. I have a tendency when editing to get a bit bored by the end. As a result, earlier sections are meticulously reviewed, and by the last chapters I'm getting a bit slapdash. I think this was a wise call - I found lots more problems with parts 4 and 5 then I did with parts 1 and 2 and hopefully I've picked them up. I did save the middle section for last though, as this is still the part that continues to trouble me...
I was doing really well, managing about 3 chapters a night, thinking I might get two parts done in the space of a week, when our lives had an unexpected interruption. Chris is a peace activist, and from time to time, will take part in civil disobedience. At the beginning of June he headed over to Lincolnshire to join others in an anti-drones protest. This sort of thing is so much part of our lives, and Chris is so often away with talks, I hadn't really thought much about it to be honest. Half term was busy, with Hay, work and our middle daughter being off in Belgium that I waved him off thinking his absence would help me get on with my edits.
It didn't quite turn out like that. As expected, Chris was arrested with 5 others, and was held incommunicado all day. This is quite unusual for such a low level action but it does happen. After tea, I still hadn't heard from him, so I focussed on my work thinking he'd ring me soon. I'd reached a point where Daniel, a character in 1943 is debating whether to be a conscientious objector like his father, and considering the implications of prison, when I happened to look out of the front window to see a police car drawing up. There was a knock on the door, and I realised when I saw their plastic bags, that they'd come to raid our house, looking for evidence of conspiracy to commit criminal damage. I had a very surreal hour watching them rifle through our mail, examine our computers, desperately hoping they wouldn't take them away. Despite my protests, they took the family computer, and then said they must take the laptops. Aagh...at such a critical moment. They watched me download the novel onto a memory stick, as I silently cursed them for taking away my means of continuing to write, but for some miraculous reason, they forgot to come back to the kitchen to collect it. That was a result, but unfortunately I was so wired there was no hope of writing that night, and in fact the rest of the week was a bit of a washout. For 24 hours Chris and the others were facing serious charges of conspiracy to cause criminal damage (which have seriously heavy penalties). Chris then rang in the morning to tell me that an outstanding fine from a previous action had emerged on the system, so though the charges were lessened, and our friends released, he was sent to Camberwell magistrates court to be asked to pay. We'd been waiting for a summons on that one, and expecting a 2 week imprisonment, so the next 24 hrs was slightly anxious. When your other half is in a police cell, communication is limited to a brief phone call, so like many of my characters in Echo Hall, I was living with the absence of my husband and the uncertainty of when he would return. Luckily for Chris he got the nicest magistrate in the universe, who wiped the fines on the basis of his time spent in custody, and he was unexpectedly home in time for the Apprentice. A case of life imitating art a little too much...
It took a few days to recover from that one, but ever since, I've been ploughing through, back to my up at 6 and work till late routine. I am REALLY tired, and there have been days in the last fortnight in particular, when I've begun to feel sick of the sight of the damned thing, when I look at it and think Oh God it's complete rubbish. And days when I seem to spend hours taking commas out, only to put them back in again. But on other days I find myself reading a passage and asking, did I really write that? I haven't read it yet, but, I do believe the changes I've made, have improved the quality of the writing, & hope I've got rid of some of the clunkier passages.
Just as I was drawing to the close, I received fantastic and very encouraging feedback from a publishing professional which has provided me with a lot of food for thought. I agree with a lot of what she says, but some points she's making are a challenge. I have to weigh up whether she is right, or whether her reactions are personal with the thought that I shouldn't hold onto things I love if they are detrimental to the plot, but nor should I ditch parts I believe to be integral. So, as I completed my final chapter last night (having reworked the central section into three long parts), I've decided to pause before the final ascent. I need to think about what she's said and decide how much to take with me, and how much to discard. I need to reflect on what I think is working and what is not, and I need to seek advice from other readers and writers I trust.
What I do know, is that I am getting close to achieving my artistic aims, and that this novel definitely has the potential for publication. Whether that happens or not, will be partly down to me, to luck, and to finding the person who will be willing to champion it. In the meantime, as I rest here, drinking up the view, my eyes are firmly fixed on the horizon, where I can see a bunch of characters, assembling on a beach. Before "Echo Hall" is finally finished, I aim to make a start on "The Wave." Publishing is a tough business, I might not be successful first time. I need to keep going, and one day, who knows, I might just get to speak at Hay.
Onwards and upwards!
PS In a spookily twinny moment, my lovely twin sis Julia Williams blogged her take on her writing process yesterday as she launched Midsummer Magic. I find on reading it, we have a lot of similarities - though she of cause being a proper author gets an editor to help! (looking forward to that day...)
.
Following advice from my writing friend Catherine Chanter, at the end of each edit, I've always paid to have a printed bound copy. It's a great way to enable me to read and annotate (without losing any pages!) before re-writes on the computer. Since my first draft was finished in 2011 I have developed a little ritual of going to the same print shop (the lovely Press to Print in Gloucester Green - whose staff are efficient, kind and always fascinated by my work in progress), paying for a copy and then bringing it home to dissect it. (This has become such a ritual that my son is still peeved I didn't take him with me last time! Gloucester Green is also important for this novel as it is the place where I had a complete meltdown following an awful tutorial on 2 chapters I'd submitted for a writing assignment. My lovely husband Chris was an absolute star on that occasion, meeting me on a bench, hugging me when I sobbed and promising me we would return with champagne when I get a book deal - I'm holding him to that one...) An added advantage of doing these prints is that I can mark the progress of my novel by these bound copies. The first draft completed in 2011, was a little thin full of stereotypes and half finished characters, and chapters ending in xxx because I wasn't sure quite how to resolve them. The second, completed last November, fleshed this out a lot, doubling the size and making sense of the narrative, cost me £18 instead of £8 and at least looked a lot thicker, but was still cliché ridden and a lot of it was not up to scratch. The third which took from January to April involved a radical re-working of the text, cutting and pasting, splitting chapters in half, deleting whole sections, in order to re-shape the story. This version cost £30, coming in at 125,000 words, 420 pages, and is satisfyingly solid enough to actually feel like a novel. It has, however needed significant re-writing.
So this time round I've been focussing on line by line edits. I went through the whole text with a blue or sometimes black biro, re-reading every sentence and changing every one that felt clunky, overwritten, or too clichéd. Sometimes this has involved rewriting whole scenes, or deleting them, and sometimes the excision of "that", "but", "and", which I over use, the removal of commas and semi-colons, replacing them with semi-colons and full stops. For three weeks I took my copy everywhere with me, on the bus, in cafes, and (my favourite place) the Hay Festival, where I really enjoyed sitting in coffee shops, surrounded by book lovers as I ripped my sentences apart. I even had a wonderful encounter with two lovely women (whose names unfortunately I forget) who wanted to know what I was writing and were so enthusiastic and encouraging, it gave me a glimpse of what it might feel like to be a published author...(speaking at Hay is so on my wish-list, along with staying at Shakespeare and Company and being a writer in residence at the Gladstone Library...one day...).
I returned from Hay ready to start typing, deciding this time, that I'd work backwards. I have a tendency when editing to get a bit bored by the end. As a result, earlier sections are meticulously reviewed, and by the last chapters I'm getting a bit slapdash. I think this was a wise call - I found lots more problems with parts 4 and 5 then I did with parts 1 and 2 and hopefully I've picked them up. I did save the middle section for last though, as this is still the part that continues to trouble me...
I was doing really well, managing about 3 chapters a night, thinking I might get two parts done in the space of a week, when our lives had an unexpected interruption. Chris is a peace activist, and from time to time, will take part in civil disobedience. At the beginning of June he headed over to Lincolnshire to join others in an anti-drones protest. This sort of thing is so much part of our lives, and Chris is so often away with talks, I hadn't really thought much about it to be honest. Half term was busy, with Hay, work and our middle daughter being off in Belgium that I waved him off thinking his absence would help me get on with my edits.
It didn't quite turn out like that. As expected, Chris was arrested with 5 others, and was held incommunicado all day. This is quite unusual for such a low level action but it does happen. After tea, I still hadn't heard from him, so I focussed on my work thinking he'd ring me soon. I'd reached a point where Daniel, a character in 1943 is debating whether to be a conscientious objector like his father, and considering the implications of prison, when I happened to look out of the front window to see a police car drawing up. There was a knock on the door, and I realised when I saw their plastic bags, that they'd come to raid our house, looking for evidence of conspiracy to commit criminal damage. I had a very surreal hour watching them rifle through our mail, examine our computers, desperately hoping they wouldn't take them away. Despite my protests, they took the family computer, and then said they must take the laptops. Aagh...at such a critical moment. They watched me download the novel onto a memory stick, as I silently cursed them for taking away my means of continuing to write, but for some miraculous reason, they forgot to come back to the kitchen to collect it. That was a result, but unfortunately I was so wired there was no hope of writing that night, and in fact the rest of the week was a bit of a washout. For 24 hours Chris and the others were facing serious charges of conspiracy to cause criminal damage (which have seriously heavy penalties). Chris then rang in the morning to tell me that an outstanding fine from a previous action had emerged on the system, so though the charges were lessened, and our friends released, he was sent to Camberwell magistrates court to be asked to pay. We'd been waiting for a summons on that one, and expecting a 2 week imprisonment, so the next 24 hrs was slightly anxious. When your other half is in a police cell, communication is limited to a brief phone call, so like many of my characters in Echo Hall, I was living with the absence of my husband and the uncertainty of when he would return. Luckily for Chris he got the nicest magistrate in the universe, who wiped the fines on the basis of his time spent in custody, and he was unexpectedly home in time for the Apprentice. A case of life imitating art a little too much...
It took a few days to recover from that one, but ever since, I've been ploughing through, back to my up at 6 and work till late routine. I am REALLY tired, and there have been days in the last fortnight in particular, when I've begun to feel sick of the sight of the damned thing, when I look at it and think Oh God it's complete rubbish. And days when I seem to spend hours taking commas out, only to put them back in again. But on other days I find myself reading a passage and asking, did I really write that? I haven't read it yet, but, I do believe the changes I've made, have improved the quality of the writing, & hope I've got rid of some of the clunkier passages.
Just as I was drawing to the close, I received fantastic and very encouraging feedback from a publishing professional which has provided me with a lot of food for thought. I agree with a lot of what she says, but some points she's making are a challenge. I have to weigh up whether she is right, or whether her reactions are personal with the thought that I shouldn't hold onto things I love if they are detrimental to the plot, but nor should I ditch parts I believe to be integral. So, as I completed my final chapter last night (having reworked the central section into three long parts), I've decided to pause before the final ascent. I need to think about what she's said and decide how much to take with me, and how much to discard. I need to reflect on what I think is working and what is not, and I need to seek advice from other readers and writers I trust.
What I do know, is that I am getting close to achieving my artistic aims, and that this novel definitely has the potential for publication. Whether that happens or not, will be partly down to me, to luck, and to finding the person who will be willing to champion it. In the meantime, as I rest here, drinking up the view, my eyes are firmly fixed on the horizon, where I can see a bunch of characters, assembling on a beach. Before "Echo Hall" is finally finished, I aim to make a start on "The Wave." Publishing is a tough business, I might not be successful first time. I need to keep going, and one day, who knows, I might just get to speak at Hay.
Onwards and upwards!
PS In a spookily twinny moment, my lovely twin sis Julia Williams blogged her take on her writing process yesterday as she launched Midsummer Magic. I find on reading it, we have a lot of similarities - though she of cause being a proper author gets an editor to help! (looking forward to that day...)
Friday, 21 June 2013
Plug of the month - Midsummer Magic
It being Midsummer's Eve (that's if you believe the 21st rather than the 24th June paradigm), I HAVE to load my plug of the month. The latest book by my lovely twin sister Julia Williams is a wonderful riff on A Midsummer Night's Dream. It features hypnotism, midsummer, love, outrageous behaviour and a riotous romp through standing stones and clifftops. It's great fun and a brilliant summer read...You can download it on E-books now. Or if you're old fashioned like me and prefer a hard copy it's out at the beginning of July. So order your copy now!
Saturday, 15 June 2013
Away the Crow Road - Farewell Iain Banks
Like many people across the country, our household was deeply affected by the announcement earlier this year that Iain Banks was a bit "poorly". Chris and I rarely agree on books - Iain Banks was one of the few novelists we both enjoyed. So much so that when I just trawled our bookshelves this morning I found a Banks novel in every bookcase (sometimes the same copy twice). We were very saddened to hear about his cancer diagnosis, and even more to hear that he had died last weekend.
Last night we sat up very late to watch Kirsty Wark's recent interview with Banks which I would urge every one of you to catch if you can, regardless of whether you liked his writing. He comes across as such a marvellous human being. As he reflects on his astonishing output (29 novels); the irony of writing a novel about a man dying of cancer, only to get the diagnosis himself 87,000 words in; & what it feels like to face death, you just can't stop warming to the man. (Watch out for his enthusiastic fanboy gushing for his favourite authors, lovely). The interview is moving and funny and, despite the dark subject matter of many of his novels, he comes across as a kind, tolerant human being, a bloke you'd like to share a pint with. Such as shame we no longer can.
I first read Banks sometime after The Wasp Factory came out, it being one of those literary must-reads at the time. Back then I think I hated quite a lot of it: I enjoyed the black humour, the quality of the writing was peerless, but the ghoulishness of Frank's actions, the violence, the nastiness was rather off-putting. I was glad I'd read it, but I put Banks aside for the next decade dismissing him rather as a writer that men would appreciate more than women. It was not until ten years later when on holiday with my family that I picked up another of his novels. Casting around for something to read, I thought I might as well try The Crow Road. From the moment the grandmother's pacemaker explodes at the funeral, I was absolutely hooked, so much so that I couldn't put it down. I even read in the back of the car all the way back from Bayeux, despite the inevitable car sickness. The Crow Road is a great mix of black humour, mystery, horror - a corking family saga with a heartbreaking father-son relationship at its centre.
But it was only when I met Chris, and discovered he was a massive fan, that I was truly converted. It is impossible to buy presents for my beloved. I will be forever grateful to Iain Banks that he usually had a book out in September, making at least one gift easy. I even got to meet the great man once. I happened to notice in the paper that he was doing a book signing near my office, so I trotted off to get a copy for Chris and for a friend whose ex also had a birthday. The signing did confirm one prejudice, I was the ONLY woman in the queue of young geeky men, but it also confirmed what lovely bloke he was. Apparently he hated book tours, but I'd have never guessed, he was chatty, funny, happy to sign two copies of A Song of Stone and to pose for a picture. Turns out when I got back Chris already had a copy, but now he had one that was signed and having met the author, I was very keen to read it. A Song of Stone is one of the darker novels, very very brutal, and bleak, but brilliant executed.
After that I dived into Banks old and new, particularly enjoying The Bridge, a fascinating exploration of a totalitarian state that exists on a bridge to nowhere (one of my favourites) and Complicity in which a serial killer takes out all evil people - corrupt politicians, arms dealers and the like in increasingly brutal fashion. I must confess some of his later novels The Business, Dead Air, The Steep Approach to Garbadale didn't grab me quite as much, but I can't say I've ever been disappointed by a Banks novel. And though I find the science fiction a bit dense - (I think I read Consider Phlebas and The Player of Games before giving up) - I do recognise that the creation of the Culture is a towering achievement. We are grateful he managed to finish his last novel The Quarry, before he died. By all accounts it's vintage Banks - we can't wait to read it.
Banks was known for his love of whisky, even writing a travel book on the subject (of course we have a copy), so Ian Rankin's twitter tribute was a perfect way to mark his death. Alas! We haven't got any whisky in the house at the moment, but it hasn't stopped us raising a glass or two to this wonderful writer, thanking him for the pleasure he has given us. He's away the crow road far far too soon.
Last night we sat up very late to watch Kirsty Wark's recent interview with Banks which I would urge every one of you to catch if you can, regardless of whether you liked his writing. He comes across as such a marvellous human being. As he reflects on his astonishing output (29 novels); the irony of writing a novel about a man dying of cancer, only to get the diagnosis himself 87,000 words in; & what it feels like to face death, you just can't stop warming to the man. (Watch out for his enthusiastic fanboy gushing for his favourite authors, lovely). The interview is moving and funny and, despite the dark subject matter of many of his novels, he comes across as a kind, tolerant human being, a bloke you'd like to share a pint with. Such as shame we no longer can.
I first read Banks sometime after The Wasp Factory came out, it being one of those literary must-reads at the time. Back then I think I hated quite a lot of it: I enjoyed the black humour, the quality of the writing was peerless, but the ghoulishness of Frank's actions, the violence, the nastiness was rather off-putting. I was glad I'd read it, but I put Banks aside for the next decade dismissing him rather as a writer that men would appreciate more than women. It was not until ten years later when on holiday with my family that I picked up another of his novels. Casting around for something to read, I thought I might as well try The Crow Road. From the moment the grandmother's pacemaker explodes at the funeral, I was absolutely hooked, so much so that I couldn't put it down. I even read in the back of the car all the way back from Bayeux, despite the inevitable car sickness. The Crow Road is a great mix of black humour, mystery, horror - a corking family saga with a heartbreaking father-son relationship at its centre.
But it was only when I met Chris, and discovered he was a massive fan, that I was truly converted. It is impossible to buy presents for my beloved. I will be forever grateful to Iain Banks that he usually had a book out in September, making at least one gift easy. I even got to meet the great man once. I happened to notice in the paper that he was doing a book signing near my office, so I trotted off to get a copy for Chris and for a friend whose ex also had a birthday. The signing did confirm one prejudice, I was the ONLY woman in the queue of young geeky men, but it also confirmed what lovely bloke he was. Apparently he hated book tours, but I'd have never guessed, he was chatty, funny, happy to sign two copies of A Song of Stone and to pose for a picture. Turns out when I got back Chris already had a copy, but now he had one that was signed and having met the author, I was very keen to read it. A Song of Stone is one of the darker novels, very very brutal, and bleak, but brilliant executed.
After that I dived into Banks old and new, particularly enjoying The Bridge, a fascinating exploration of a totalitarian state that exists on a bridge to nowhere (one of my favourites) and Complicity in which a serial killer takes out all evil people - corrupt politicians, arms dealers and the like in increasingly brutal fashion. I must confess some of his later novels The Business, Dead Air, The Steep Approach to Garbadale didn't grab me quite as much, but I can't say I've ever been disappointed by a Banks novel. And though I find the science fiction a bit dense - (I think I read Consider Phlebas and The Player of Games before giving up) - I do recognise that the creation of the Culture is a towering achievement. We are grateful he managed to finish his last novel The Quarry, before he died. By all accounts it's vintage Banks - we can't wait to read it.
Banks was known for his love of whisky, even writing a travel book on the subject (of course we have a copy), so Ian Rankin's twitter tribute was a perfect way to mark his death. Alas! We haven't got any whisky in the house at the moment, but it hasn't stopped us raising a glass or two to this wonderful writer, thanking him for the pleasure he has given us. He's away the crow road far far too soon.
Friday, 7 June 2013
The Cottage in the Country #fridayflash
Last week's Friday Flash told the story of a mother waiting for her daughter's visit. Some of you wondered what was going on in with her daughter. Well here goes...
You never meant to leave her behind: all alone in her cottage in the country. You were always going to home one day. But when you finally escaped her, leaving behind the claustrophobic chintz curtains, the china ornaments, the constant smell of cup-cakes, freedom was just too delicious. The more you relished the ability to live by your own rules, the harder it was to return to hers.
You really did intend to come back that first year. Honest you did. When you saw that porcelain spaniel with the sad eyes and floppy ears in the gift shop, you knew it was the perfect gift. But then Dan invited you to spend Christmas skiing with his family in the chalet and you persuaded yourself you wouldn't be missed. You wrapped the spaniel up, put it in the post, consoling yourself with the thought she'd have a better time with Uncle Jim, before boarding the flight to Switzerland.
It got harder after that. You'd used up all your annual leave on the holiday; and somehow, afterwards, you never could quite find the time to visit. You wouldn't admit it, but the thought of a weekend of banal conversation, drinking tea from porcelain cups, eating the inevitable Victoria sponge, made you want to puke. So you made your excuses, knowing she didn't believe them, that neither of you did. And knowing it didn't matter: preserving the fiction you understood each other was more important than the truth.
And now there are no excuses left. The conference centre is only twenty minutes from her village. You could get away with it of course, if you don't ring she'll never know you were even there. But some vestige of conscience, some memory of skipping the path to the village shop, of baking cakes in her kitchen prompts you to pick up the phone.You'll be in the neighbourhood, you say, could you pop in for a cup of tea? You try not to wince at the breathless excitement in her voice when she says yes. She's always placed too much importance on your activities - it's part of the problem.
It's sod's law that the conference runs over, that you're in a mobile blackspot and can't get a signal to let her know. You really do have to be in London for 8 for a social engagement that is too important to miss. But you can't help feeling bad. You try to be casual on the phone, pretending that it doesn't matter; that you're the kind of daughter who visits regularly; that it's easy to rearrange. You pretend that you believe her when she says she's not made an effort, though you know deep down that making an effort is all that she ever does, all she has ever done for you.
It's not your fault, you think as you drive away from the layby where you stopped to phone. It's really not your fault, you convince yourself, trying not to think of her sitting in her kitchen with a sponge cake that she'll eat by herself. The trouble is, she was always too much for you. She still is. How can she expect you to come backnow? No, it's not your fault, you think, as you pass the road that leads to her door. You put your foot on the pedal and accelerate, getting away as fast as you can.
You won't be back in a hurry.
You never meant to leave her behind: all alone in her cottage in the country. You were always going to home one day. But when you finally escaped her, leaving behind the claustrophobic chintz curtains, the china ornaments, the constant smell of cup-cakes, freedom was just too delicious. The more you relished the ability to live by your own rules, the harder it was to return to hers.
You really did intend to come back that first year. Honest you did. When you saw that porcelain spaniel with the sad eyes and floppy ears in the gift shop, you knew it was the perfect gift. But then Dan invited you to spend Christmas skiing with his family in the chalet and you persuaded yourself you wouldn't be missed. You wrapped the spaniel up, put it in the post, consoling yourself with the thought she'd have a better time with Uncle Jim, before boarding the flight to Switzerland.
It got harder after that. You'd used up all your annual leave on the holiday; and somehow, afterwards, you never could quite find the time to visit. You wouldn't admit it, but the thought of a weekend of banal conversation, drinking tea from porcelain cups, eating the inevitable Victoria sponge, made you want to puke. So you made your excuses, knowing she didn't believe them, that neither of you did. And knowing it didn't matter: preserving the fiction you understood each other was more important than the truth.
And now there are no excuses left. The conference centre is only twenty minutes from her village. You could get away with it of course, if you don't ring she'll never know you were even there. But some vestige of conscience, some memory of skipping the path to the village shop, of baking cakes in her kitchen prompts you to pick up the phone.You'll be in the neighbourhood, you say, could you pop in for a cup of tea? You try not to wince at the breathless excitement in her voice when she says yes. She's always placed too much importance on your activities - it's part of the problem.
It's sod's law that the conference runs over, that you're in a mobile blackspot and can't get a signal to let her know. You really do have to be in London for 8 for a social engagement that is too important to miss. But you can't help feeling bad. You try to be casual on the phone, pretending that it doesn't matter; that you're the kind of daughter who visits regularly; that it's easy to rearrange. You pretend that you believe her when she says she's not made an effort, though you know deep down that making an effort is all that she ever does, all she has ever done for you.
It's not your fault, you think as you drive away from the layby where you stopped to phone. It's really not your fault, you convince yourself, trying not to think of her sitting in her kitchen with a sponge cake that she'll eat by herself. The trouble is, she was always too much for you. She still is. How can she expect you to come backnow? No, it's not your fault, you think, as you pass the road that leads to her door. You put your foot on the pedal and accelerate, getting away as fast as you can.
You won't be back in a hurry.
Saturday, 1 June 2013
Tea for Two
"You look happy this morning," Mrs Giles sounds surprised. I can't say I blame her. I have been a bit morose of late. Winter never agrees with me and this one has been worse than most. It's exceeded it's sell by date by at least three months. In March I froze, in April I turned the heating up, by May I was still shivering. It's not made me very sociable, I have to admit.But that's all changed today. Today the sun is shining. Today I feel warm for the first time in months. Today my bones don't ache, my knees aren't sore. And today "My Ginny's coming home." I tell my neighbour, "She'll be back in time for tea."
"No wonder you're looking so pleased with yourself," she replies. "It's been a while since she's been back hasn't it?"
She's right, it has been a while - that useful catch-phrase which round here means anything from a month to a decade. Four years in Ginny's case. Four years in which my only contact with my only child has been the odd postcard or phone call. She often tells me off for not having a computer: it would be so much easier to be in touch if I had email or Facebook, she says. I want to reply that if she'd only move closer, we wouldn't need computers to keep in touch, but I never do. Instead I nod as if she could see me, and promise I'll look at the catalogue she sent me in the post. We both know I won't, but preserving the fiction we understand one another is important . It helps us avoid dealing with the questions I never want to ask: Why has she been away so long? Is she ever coming home?
Today at least, the second is answered. "She'll be home by 4," I say, "I'm going to make a Victoria Sponge."
"How lovely. I hope you have a nice visit."
I will, I know I will, as I head to the village shop where I purchase the necessary ingredients. It doesn't seem so long ago that we used to take this path together. I used to love the feel of her tiny hand in mine, the way she bounced with excitement at the thought of an afternoon spent baking. In the old days we'd race back to the house anxious to get started, so we'd have the cake in time for tea. Just the two of us, the perfect pairing. Today, I move at a more sedate pace, enjoying the surprise of the sun on my back, the smell of mown grass signalling the possibility of summer.
In the kitchen, I unpack the shopping, take out a plastic bowl, put on the pinny she bought me one Mother's Day years ago. Chief Cook and Bottlewasher it says, though the blue writing has faded over the years and after all this time without her, I no longer feel I own the title. Still, I won't let myself think about that, as I cream the butter and sugar together. In a couple of hours, she'll be here sipping tea, eating warm sponge cake, just like she used to when she was a child.
I'm humming as I break the eggs in a bowl, Tea for Two, and Two for Tea. We always used to love singing that song as we worked, and this was always her favourite part. The tapping of the egg on the side of the dish, the crack as it broke open, the yellow yoke plummeting into the centre of the bow. Finally the joy of pouring it over the butter and sugar, watching it liquefy into a gooey mess. I smile at the memory, stirring the flour in. Soon I have two tins ready for the oven.
Ginny would always beg me to lick the bowl afterwards. I can still see her sitting on the step, wooden spoon in hand, cake mix round her lips, grinning from ear to ear. I think about keeping the bowl out for old time's sake, but it would make the kitchen messy. Besides, she's probably too grand for such childhood nonsense now. I take the bowl, rinse it under the tap, tidy up the kitchen and put my feet up until the cakes are ready.
At a quarter to four I take the tins out of the oven. They have risen beautifully. I smear jam on the inside of each cake. The sponge has the perfect consistency, springy, crumbly, it will melt on the tongue. The perfect cake, for the perfect tea with the daughter who has been missing too long. I try not to get too carried away as I put the kettle on and warm the pot. But it's difficult. It's been so long since I've seen her. I can't help wondering what she'll be wearing, whether she's changed her hairstyle, what we'll talk about. The kettle bubbles away feeding my excitement. She'll be here soon.
At four o'clock I listen out for sounds of the car approaching. But the road brings no-one, and all I can hear are the swallows chirping as they swoop overhead. I put the kettle on again. Warm the pot again. I want the tea to be ready as soon as she gets here.
At quarter past four. I touch the top of the cake. It is still warm. Though I suppose it won't really matter if it's cold when she comes. So long as she does come. The kettle has re-boiled four times now. I'd better not boil it again. It's such a waste of electricity.
At half past, I step out onto the lane to see if I can catch sight of her. After I've watched a blue Citroen, a black Ford, and a red Micra go past without stopping, it strikes me that this is pointless: I don't even know what car she drives. The sun has gone in, and I am beginning feeling cold. I return to the house. The cake is cold.
It is nearly five o'clock. I put the sponge in the fridge. Ginny hasn't said she'd be staying for dinner, but she's so late now, she'll need feeding won't she? I'll cook something special and we can have the cake for pudding. I root through the freezer and come across two steaks. Lovely. I'd never have these normally.
Just as I am placing them on a plate, the phone rings.
"Hi Mum."
"Ginny, where are you?"
"Look, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it today after all. The conference ran over and I have to get back to town."
"Oh."
"There was no signal at the venue, so I haven't been able to call till now."
"I see."
"You didn't put yourself out did you?"
"No of course not."
"I'll check my diary, find a better time."
"I'll look forward to it." But she has hung up, driving off to her mysterious life in the city, that has no place for me.
I return to the kitchen. I look at the steaks. It's not worth cooking them just for me. I put them back in the freezer. They can wait for that better time, when her diary is clearer and her conference won't over-run. Tonight, as usual, I will prepare supper for one. Omelette, I think. It's easy and I am tired after the days exertions. And perhaps, afterwards, if I can stomach it, I might help myself to a slice of cake.
"No wonder you're looking so pleased with yourself," she replies. "It's been a while since she's been back hasn't it?"
She's right, it has been a while - that useful catch-phrase which round here means anything from a month to a decade. Four years in Ginny's case. Four years in which my only contact with my only child has been the odd postcard or phone call. She often tells me off for not having a computer: it would be so much easier to be in touch if I had email or Facebook, she says. I want to reply that if she'd only move closer, we wouldn't need computers to keep in touch, but I never do. Instead I nod as if she could see me, and promise I'll look at the catalogue she sent me in the post. We both know I won't, but preserving the fiction we understand one another is important . It helps us avoid dealing with the questions I never want to ask: Why has she been away so long? Is she ever coming home?
Today at least, the second is answered. "She'll be home by 4," I say, "I'm going to make a Victoria Sponge."
"How lovely. I hope you have a nice visit."
I will, I know I will, as I head to the village shop where I purchase the necessary ingredients. It doesn't seem so long ago that we used to take this path together. I used to love the feel of her tiny hand in mine, the way she bounced with excitement at the thought of an afternoon spent baking. In the old days we'd race back to the house anxious to get started, so we'd have the cake in time for tea. Just the two of us, the perfect pairing. Today, I move at a more sedate pace, enjoying the surprise of the sun on my back, the smell of mown grass signalling the possibility of summer.
In the kitchen, I unpack the shopping, take out a plastic bowl, put on the pinny she bought me one Mother's Day years ago. Chief Cook and Bottlewasher it says, though the blue writing has faded over the years and after all this time without her, I no longer feel I own the title. Still, I won't let myself think about that, as I cream the butter and sugar together. In a couple of hours, she'll be here sipping tea, eating warm sponge cake, just like she used to when she was a child.
I'm humming as I break the eggs in a bowl, Tea for Two, and Two for Tea. We always used to love singing that song as we worked, and this was always her favourite part. The tapping of the egg on the side of the dish, the crack as it broke open, the yellow yoke plummeting into the centre of the bow. Finally the joy of pouring it over the butter and sugar, watching it liquefy into a gooey mess. I smile at the memory, stirring the flour in. Soon I have two tins ready for the oven.
Ginny would always beg me to lick the bowl afterwards. I can still see her sitting on the step, wooden spoon in hand, cake mix round her lips, grinning from ear to ear. I think about keeping the bowl out for old time's sake, but it would make the kitchen messy. Besides, she's probably too grand for such childhood nonsense now. I take the bowl, rinse it under the tap, tidy up the kitchen and put my feet up until the cakes are ready.
At a quarter to four I take the tins out of the oven. They have risen beautifully. I smear jam on the inside of each cake. The sponge has the perfect consistency, springy, crumbly, it will melt on the tongue. The perfect cake, for the perfect tea with the daughter who has been missing too long. I try not to get too carried away as I put the kettle on and warm the pot. But it's difficult. It's been so long since I've seen her. I can't help wondering what she'll be wearing, whether she's changed her hairstyle, what we'll talk about. The kettle bubbles away feeding my excitement. She'll be here soon.
At four o'clock I listen out for sounds of the car approaching. But the road brings no-one, and all I can hear are the swallows chirping as they swoop overhead. I put the kettle on again. Warm the pot again. I want the tea to be ready as soon as she gets here.
At quarter past four. I touch the top of the cake. It is still warm. Though I suppose it won't really matter if it's cold when she comes. So long as she does come. The kettle has re-boiled four times now. I'd better not boil it again. It's such a waste of electricity.
At half past, I step out onto the lane to see if I can catch sight of her. After I've watched a blue Citroen, a black Ford, and a red Micra go past without stopping, it strikes me that this is pointless: I don't even know what car she drives. The sun has gone in, and I am beginning feeling cold. I return to the house. The cake is cold.
It is nearly five o'clock. I put the sponge in the fridge. Ginny hasn't said she'd be staying for dinner, but she's so late now, she'll need feeding won't she? I'll cook something special and we can have the cake for pudding. I root through the freezer and come across two steaks. Lovely. I'd never have these normally.
Just as I am placing them on a plate, the phone rings.
"Hi Mum."
"Ginny, where are you?"
"Look, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to make it today after all. The conference ran over and I have to get back to town."
"Oh."
"There was no signal at the venue, so I haven't been able to call till now."
"I see."
"You didn't put yourself out did you?"
"No of course not."
"I'll check my diary, find a better time."
"I'll look forward to it." But she has hung up, driving off to her mysterious life in the city, that has no place for me.
I return to the kitchen. I look at the steaks. It's not worth cooking them just for me. I put them back in the freezer. They can wait for that better time, when her diary is clearer and her conference won't over-run. Tonight, as usual, I will prepare supper for one. Omelette, I think. It's easy and I am tired after the days exertions. And perhaps, afterwards, if I can stomach it, I might help myself to a slice of cake.
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