It’s July. It’s hot – even in Scotland. According to the Metro,
that well-respected source of information, Britain could soon be facing a
drought. A hosepipe-banning, bath-sharing drought. While I’m pretty
sure that everyone’s favourite public transport rag is wildly
exaggerating the matter, I can’t help but think that - in relation to my
writing - some pathetic fallacy is going on here.
About a month and a half ago, I promised myself I would complete the
first draft of my novel by 1st July. Considering that the thing is still
mouldering away, neglected and unloved, on my hard drive, I would say
that was a fail.
I could make excuses. I could cite all the hours I have worked recently
(at the Edinburgh Book Festival Box Office, for just one more
afternoon now). I could offer my crazed to-do lists for my forthcoming
teaching stint in New York as proof of my industry (although however I
dress that one up, going to New York always just sounds jammy). I could
wring my hands about all the social, familial, televisual commitments I
have had of late. But really, enough. There are no excuses.
Let us review the recent pledges I have made and their glorious outcomes:
I will finish the first draft of my novel by July – fail.
I will enter the Bridport Prize, as previously mentioned on this blog, this year – fail.
I will enter other short story competitions – fail.
In short - one epic fail.
How to pull myself from this rut? I enjoy writing. I enjoy telling
stories. I sometimes think that I don’t even hate my novel that much,
although those unsettling feelings usually pass. Perhaps New York will
help. Maybe time away, when I’m not supposed to write will, perversely,
make me want to start scribbling again. Or maybe I should take time off
after the summer, lock myself in the flat, and not come out until I’ve
finished the damn thing, even if it means being so poor and wretched
that I’ll eat nothing but Riveta and talk to nobody but the woodlouse
that has taken up in the bathroom.
There is also always the rain dance option. I could choreograph some
sort of inspiration-seeking jig. However, considering the quality of my
bog-standard boozy party dancing, this idea should be filed under ‘Last
Resort.’
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
“We’re off to see the Wizard…”
I am currently experiencing something of an Oz obsession. Not for all
things Australian, you understand, but for somewhere even further away:
the fantasy land of Frank L Baum’s imagination.
I have always rather sniffed at The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Perhaps, having been brought up on a strict diet of Barrie, Carroll, Tolkein et al, I was snobby about the American Baum and his land of Oz. Indeed, I am still of the opinion that the plot – more the book’s than the film’s – is rather holey and not entirely deserving of its literary status. However, on revisiting both book and (superior) film, I have come to the conclusion that there are many aspects to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz that are, well, wonderful.
Wonderful, and useful. A few months ago, I decided that there were rather a lot of nice parallels between Baum’s story and my own burgeoning novel: the importance of home versus whatever’s over the rainbow, a black and white world versus a technicolour one, plus storms and dreams and – most importantly – the idea of a seemingly great man who is not as quite as he appears. It all fits rather well into (the currently titled) Meeting in the Middle. So imagine my joy, on re-watching the film, of finding this little gem:
“The Great Oz has spoken. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”
This is currently the new epitaph to my novel. This and some quotations from Hawthorne’s retelling of the Midas myth – Midas being another famously flawed man. Coming up with potential epitaphs is much more exciting than writing the thing.
(I have also recently seen Wicked in the West End and was very impressed. Aside from a fantastic production, I was very taken by/jealous of the story – what a fantastic idea Maguire had, to put a spin on the Wicked Witch of the West, who – as the musical so rightly points out – didn’t really do anything that wicked, apart from demand back the shoes of her dead squashed sister.)
I have always rather sniffed at The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Perhaps, having been brought up on a strict diet of Barrie, Carroll, Tolkein et al, I was snobby about the American Baum and his land of Oz. Indeed, I am still of the opinion that the plot – more the book’s than the film’s – is rather holey and not entirely deserving of its literary status. However, on revisiting both book and (superior) film, I have come to the conclusion that there are many aspects to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz that are, well, wonderful.
Wonderful, and useful. A few months ago, I decided that there were rather a lot of nice parallels between Baum’s story and my own burgeoning novel: the importance of home versus whatever’s over the rainbow, a black and white world versus a technicolour one, plus storms and dreams and – most importantly – the idea of a seemingly great man who is not as quite as he appears. It all fits rather well into (the currently titled) Meeting in the Middle. So imagine my joy, on re-watching the film, of finding this little gem:
“The Great Oz has spoken. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”
This is currently the new epitaph to my novel. This and some quotations from Hawthorne’s retelling of the Midas myth – Midas being another famously flawed man. Coming up with potential epitaphs is much more exciting than writing the thing.
(I have also recently seen Wicked in the West End and was very impressed. Aside from a fantastic production, I was very taken by/jealous of the story – what a fantastic idea Maguire had, to put a spin on the Wicked Witch of the West, who – as the musical so rightly points out – didn’t really do anything that wicked, apart from demand back the shoes of her dead squashed sister.)
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
A Busy Bee
These are strange times. Partly, because my current job at the
Edinburgh International Science Festival is, well, strange: every day, I
drive around Scotland with another Amanda and we perform a science
show to primary school children over and over again. It’s called Little
Giants. It’s about bees. I’m the beekeeper, the other Amanda’s the
bee.
But that’s not even the really strange part. The oddest thing is that, after getting up at stupid o’clock in the morning to drive to these schools – an experience I find akin to pulling teeth – and after doing this show three times with the energy of a couple of CBeebies presenters who have broken into a Red Bull factory, I have been getting home and writing.
Seriously, why is this? Why am I not able to write a thing after a week of languishing about in pyjamas, but when I’ve spent the day yelling at the lady inside the tomtom and jumping around singing the praises of pollination, suddenly I can get home and bash out 2,000 words of novel.
Why?
But that’s not even the really strange part. The oddest thing is that, after getting up at stupid o’clock in the morning to drive to these schools – an experience I find akin to pulling teeth – and after doing this show three times with the energy of a couple of CBeebies presenters who have broken into a Red Bull factory, I have been getting home and writing.
Seriously, why is this? Why am I not able to write a thing after a week of languishing about in pyjamas, but when I’ve spent the day yelling at the lady inside the tomtom and jumping around singing the praises of pollination, suddenly I can get home and bash out 2,000 words of novel.
Why?
Monday, January 18, 2010
The Bridport Prize
Due to a drunken episode in which my name was googled (not by
me), I have discovered that my small victory in the Bridport Prize 2009
Short Story Competition is now public knowledge. As you can see, I am
one of many, many shortlisted writers, nevertheless it makes me feel
rather warm and fuzzy inside.
Next year, I will try to enter this competition with sparkly new fiction (as opposed to just picking a tired old story at random) and hope I do even better. For now though, I am content just to gaze at my name on the website of this very prestigious prize.
Bridport Prize 2009
Next year, I will try to enter this competition with sparkly new fiction (as opposed to just picking a tired old story at random) and hope I do even better. For now though, I am content just to gaze at my name on the website of this very prestigious prize.
Bridport Prize 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Turning the Page
“I am a writer.”
As of today, this is my mantra. It is also – I suspect – the war cry of a new generation of Scottish writers.
I have just returned from a Literary Conference: Turning the Page was a joint venture by Literature Training and Scottish Book Trust aimed at individuals who have recently completed postgraduate degrees in Creative Writing at Scottish universities.
I was already familiar with both organisations (Literature Training has been my homepage for several months now), yet never having been to any sort of conference before, I was not entirely sure what to expect. But as it turns out, the day was hugely helpful: it was divided into several talks by various writers and members of the writing profession, in which we were encouraged to think about our next steps into the big wide world of writing, in particular the fact that we must now think of ourselves as individual writing businesses – a frightening thought for someone who has only just plucked up the courage to use internet banking.
As well as meeting interesting and dedicated industry professionals with a lot to say on potential pathways I had not even considered, it was a chance to catch up with old colleagues from the MSc, and check up on their progress. Writing is such a solitary occupation, it is quite the event when a load of us are crammed together – especially when free wine is in the offing…
But to return to the affirmation of the beginning: I am a writer. At one point in the day, we were required to put our hands on our hearts and declare that – rather than wanting to be, or trying to be – we were writers. Tongue-in-cheek it might have been, but nevertheless it reflected the shot of confidence the whole day provided. I have a lot more to say, to do, to get my head around, in response to Turning the Page, but for the moment, I think the new mantra’s rather a good start.
As of today, this is my mantra. It is also – I suspect – the war cry of a new generation of Scottish writers.
I have just returned from a Literary Conference: Turning the Page was a joint venture by Literature Training and Scottish Book Trust aimed at individuals who have recently completed postgraduate degrees in Creative Writing at Scottish universities.
I was already familiar with both organisations (Literature Training has been my homepage for several months now), yet never having been to any sort of conference before, I was not entirely sure what to expect. But as it turns out, the day was hugely helpful: it was divided into several talks by various writers and members of the writing profession, in which we were encouraged to think about our next steps into the big wide world of writing, in particular the fact that we must now think of ourselves as individual writing businesses – a frightening thought for someone who has only just plucked up the courage to use internet banking.
As well as meeting interesting and dedicated industry professionals with a lot to say on potential pathways I had not even considered, it was a chance to catch up with old colleagues from the MSc, and check up on their progress. Writing is such a solitary occupation, it is quite the event when a load of us are crammed together – especially when free wine is in the offing…
But to return to the affirmation of the beginning: I am a writer. At one point in the day, we were required to put our hands on our hearts and declare that – rather than wanting to be, or trying to be – we were writers. Tongue-in-cheek it might have been, but nevertheless it reflected the shot of confidence the whole day provided. I have a lot more to say, to do, to get my head around, in response to Turning the Page, but for the moment, I think the new mantra’s rather a good start.
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