Posts
My dearest Agatha,
I do hope you are well, and that the London scene continues to amuse.
I’ve just returned from a house party in Devon, don’t you know. I was hoping to see you at Totleigh Barton, we both agree that Ollie and Claire usually hold such spiffing house parties, don’t we? However, I did wonder if you hadn’t heard a rumour, because all was not as it usually is at Totleigh: not the usual hunting and shooting set at all, my dear.
I arrived fashionably late, of course, to find the most rum crowd rattling around under the thatch. Ollie’s set is usually such jolly fun, but these were new to my acquaintance and didn’t seem quite up to the ticket, if you understand my meaning.
And it soon become clear that all was not as it should be at all. I began to hear whisperings in corners and and frankly my dear, just the oddest things happening all the way round. I heard a woman mutter about her twin, whom she apparently pushed through the ice last winter simply because he had been kind enough to play with her as a child. And another, quite pleasant dowager type had, it transpired, murdered her own grandchild! A gentleman left scribbled notes fluttering in the drawing room to the effect of witnessing what could only be described, with the best will in the world, as bloody carnage – heads blown off in every room. One chappie, a schoolmaster would you credit it, told a very rum story about teachers and pupils – certainly not sending young Reginald to that school – it’s Eton or be damned.
There were a few good eggs among the soufflé, as it were. One jolly chap, Simon, did take my concerns a little more seriously. He promised to get the police on the blower…an Inspector Waterloo…but the fellow was not forthcoming. I don’t know if that is because you just can’t trust the police force nowadays…have you noticed how they are becoming frightfully middle class…or because he didn’t actually telephone them at all. He kept telling me I was from Argentina, which is plainly not the case, so who knows?
Things perked up halfway through the house party, when a very decent fellow called Mark arrived, he was a great wit and made me want to polish up my own repartee. But he didn’t stay long, despite the offer to take my own bed, should he need it. In fact he was off pretty sharpish, in the end.
I think the final straw was being asked to ‘lend a hand in the Kitchens’ because it was cook’s day off! Well really. Jolly good job I’d been perusing my Mrs Beeton.
Mind you, I did enjoy the company of one guest, and I do hope we see each other at some do or another. Frances was a delight, far more…shall we say…crystal cut…than the others. I know you would have approved. She finally let me into a little secret…all these very dubious sorts were, apparently crime writers! Have you ever heard such a thing, Agatha? Well, I have news for you. It’s the latest craze. Everyone is scribbling away at some crime novel or other. All you have to do is bang the manuscript off to something called a publishing house and Bingo! The world can read it! Well, I can certainly tell you who I would go about murdering literarily…most of the guests at Ollie’s!
Anyway, I do believe that’s all my news. When are we going to see you again, Aggie? You’ve been shut up in that study of yours for months now, coping with that overload of correspondence. Come and have tea at Claridges with me, my dear. Their new trifle is delicious.
Warmly yours,
Lady Nina Hare.
Wednesday, 9 December 2009
Sunday, 6 December 2009
Writing for Children - a Two Day Workshop
You never know what might happen with a room full of strangers. That’s what I always think before I agree to co-ordinate a writing workshop. I’m alone in the big, white room, with my notes and handouts and the names already up on the board…names of people I’ve never met, usually. Although this time, with my two day Workshop, Writing for Children and Young People, I did know two of the participants – one was a member of my writing group and one was a postal student from the OCA. Then they trickled in from the café below, and instantly there was a buzz in the room and it felt warm and ready for action.
Workshops on writing for children usually move onto very particular rails before long – you can’t fight it. I explained this as soon as everyone was settled and we’d tried to learn each other’s names (me, not very successfully), In the courses I do for children’s writing, there is never much time to include information on the actual process of writing. I do other workshops that cover the nuts and bolts, the ‘how to’ of putting pen to paper. I also do workshops – especially the one coming to the Folk House for the 6th time on the 30th of January – that covers the more ethereal, intuitive sides of writing. But during this two day workshop – in fact all my courses on writing for children – there would be a concentration on two specific things:
On Day Two, we covered ‘plot’. A lot of participants stuck with their new character, and began to develop their story into a plot, while others were encouraged to refresh an idea for a story that they had been ‘hiding in a drawer’ – possibly a drawer in their minds. Some introduced he character they’d invented the previous day to inject some new life into an ‘old’ story.’ We also covered the ‘literate child’ …that darling of the children’s novel, the girl or boy that has actually learnt to read…and has a torch hidden under their pillow.
This workshop had a really lovely bunch of people in it. They all seemed to get on with each other, and were very kind to me. Everyone who came did say they enjoyed it…clearly my methods of interrogation work, if nothing else! I’ve had some excellent feedback since then. It's not often I run a workshop and go away feeling that I've made a new bunch of frineds, but this was one of those times.
If you’re kicking yourself for missing this one, my next workshop at the Bristol Folk House is:
Workshops on writing for children usually move onto very particular rails before long – you can’t fight it. I explained this as soon as everyone was settled and we’d tried to learn each other’s names (me, not very successfully), In the courses I do for children’s writing, there is never much time to include information on the actual process of writing. I do other workshops that cover the nuts and bolts, the ‘how to’ of putting pen to paper. I also do workshops – especially the one coming to the Folk House for the 6th time on the 30th of January – that covers the more ethereal, intuitive sides of writing. But during this two day workshop – in fact all my courses on writing for children – there would be a concentration on two specific things:
- The worldview of the growing child. If you don’t know how children grow, in their minds, as well as their bodies, you won’t engage them as readers. Your writing needs to have this understanding as its linchpin…how children see and experience the world. Your own memories of growing up are perfectly fine as an understanding of the worldview of a child, though, especially if you are setting your book outside the specifics of the 21st Century. So long as you can remember how it felt when you were 3, or 7, or 10 or 14, then you’ll be able to communicate with a child of that age. I am sure I remember, looking back on my childhood, that my thought patterns were not very different to the way I think now, and I’m sure that’s generally true…the children we were grow into the people we are now. That should help you focus on the fact that each young character will have their own personality – be their own person. But underlying that is the fact that they are still amassing experience and life understanding. They’re still learning what it’s like to be here in the world. Meanwhile, as their communicator, you should already have this ‘wisdom of age’ in spades. You can utilize that gap to write for any age group, coalescing what you know with what you remember feeling, to create story and character that can introduce new experiences, comprehensions and encounters without leaving the reader behind.
- The market for children’s literature. This is so specific, that the prospective writer, even at the outset of their desire to write for children, must know how it is structured, or they won’t stand a doggie’s chance. I find that most people who say they want to write for children actually mean the want to be published for children. This is more apposite for the children’s writer than those writing for adults. You can pursue your own path in a novel, or an article, or short story, and it’s possible that someone out there will want to read it, even if you didn’t write it with publication in mind. But if you do this for children, you will be cursed. There are writers who don’t have publication in mind; maybe they want to set down their childhood memoirs or specifically write things for children they know and love; but this group is quite rare, although of course you can attempt to do these things at the same time as thinking about eventual publication. Because of the way children learn to read, and the way their ‘worldview’ changes as they grow, the market for their books has to be set up to accommodate the fact that in less than 15 years of life, the ‘buyer’ moves from not being able to recognise a single word on a page to devouring 706 pages of Harry Potter, even possibly developing a life-long love of Henry James. It is for this reason the market has many twists and turns, and strange catagories that seem to mean things they should not; the difference, for example between story book and picture book; the difference between series books and a series of books.
On Day Two, we covered ‘plot’. A lot of participants stuck with their new character, and began to develop their story into a plot, while others were encouraged to refresh an idea for a story that they had been ‘hiding in a drawer’ – possibly a drawer in their minds. Some introduced he character they’d invented the previous day to inject some new life into an ‘old’ story.’ We also covered the ‘literate child’ …that darling of the children’s novel, the girl or boy that has actually learnt to read…and has a torch hidden under their pillow.
This workshop had a really lovely bunch of people in it. They all seemed to get on with each other, and were very kind to me. Everyone who came did say they enjoyed it…clearly my methods of interrogation work, if nothing else! I’ve had some excellent feedback since then. It's not often I run a workshop and go away feeling that I've made a new bunch of frineds, but this was one of those times.
If you’re kicking yourself for missing this one, my next workshop at the Bristol Folk House is:
DISCOVER YOUR CREATIVE SELF
A ONE DAY WORKSHOP
SATURDAY 30th JANUARY
AT
THE BRISTOL FOLK HOUSE
PARK STREET, BRISTOL
10 am to 4.00pm
· Where does the inspiration to write come from?
· How do stories get into our heads?
· How can we get those creative juices flowing?
Liberate your imagination and banish writer’s block by drawing on techniques such as visualization, meditation, freewriting and dreams
In this workshop we will explore the way writers access their unconscious minds to harvest ideas, talk with their characters, enhance their voice and deepen their understanding of the writing process.
FACILITATED BY NINA MILTON
published, experienced & qualified writer
Telephone 01275 542705; 07962681146 or email ninahare@yahoo.com
or contact the Folk House 0117 926 298; www.bristolfolkhouse.co.uk
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
In the Dublin Museum
In the Dublin Museum,
Among the cornucopia of treasures,
The late Neolithic spear-head,
Honed to perfection,
Carved with utmost care.
Each flint dislodged to form
Lethal edges of symmetrical
Beauty
And a polished point
Bitter as a needle.
When the knapper stood back
To examine his work…
Elegance combined with utility,
Speed combined with precision…
Did he fear the first beads of molten ore
As they ran together and set hard?
Did he long to own the newest feats of engineering –
The golden torc,
The bronze axe –
Or did he lament the passing of this craft
As the relentless pulse of technology move on.
Did he joint with others of his trade
And protest the disappearance of their trade?
When did the last apprentice graduate
In the benign skill of
Knapping flint?
Among the cornucopia of treasures,
The late Neolithic spear-head,
Honed to perfection,
Carved with utmost care.
Each flint dislodged to form
Lethal edges of symmetrical
Beauty
And a polished point
Bitter as a needle.
When the knapper stood back
To examine his work…
Elegance combined with utility,
Speed combined with precision…
Did he fear the first beads of molten ore
As they ran together and set hard?
Did he long to own the newest feats of engineering –
The golden torc,
The bronze axe –
Or did he lament the passing of this craft
As the relentless pulse of technology move on.
Did he joint with others of his trade
And protest the disappearance of their trade?
When did the last apprentice graduate
In the benign skill of
Knapping flint?
Monday, 2 November 2009
the Darkening Year
The clocks slide back into their natural state of being and, almost instantly all the children in my area are witches or ghouls or skeletons, echoing the distant understandings of the way the year turns around itself…from the heat of summer sun, with days stretched out into night, to the darkness and cold of winter. No wonder our thoughts turn to the other side of dark veils, to the recent-departed. No wonder the stair creaks more loudly at this time of year.
Samhuinn. It’s a lovely word (all Irish words are lovely), pronounced ‘sow-in’ as in the pig rather than the work with the needle. We call this Halloween – the eve of All Hallows, but let us not forget that Samhuinn was being celebrated long before the Early Church thought to remember the souls of the dead. It is nigh impossible to know how the Celts…the people of the Iron Age…celebrated this darkening time of year, but enough has filtered through the ancient texts and still-celebrated local festivals, to tell us that – yes like the children of today – they believed it to be a time of witches, ghouls and the time that the recently deceased moved close to a thinning veil which could almost be touched, if not parted. Certainly, even those who have no such belief or understanding know how winter gives you the steady chance, by the long evening fire, to re-examine the deepest recesses of yourself…not an altogether enjoyable process, but an enlightening one.
I’ve celebrated Samhuinn thrice this weekend. The first time – photos to prove it – was safely in the light of day – and what a day, the sun was basking warm and welcomed us across the field as we walked towards the rings of stones called Stanton Drew. Every quarter year we come here, to celebrate the old ‘fire festivals’, the Celtic farming ceremonies of Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn. We hold a public ceremony in the ‘small circle’ (big enough to hold 200 people). In fact, almost 100 participants turned up on Saturday, ready – eager to come together to face the gathering winter darkness
The ritual took several themes. Firstly we processed through the ancient avenue of stones to be halted at the gateway by the guardian of the stones, who always asks us what we are doing here, and if we will respect this ancient monument. Then a circle is formed, peace called in it and power brought to it – East and bright, winter air, South and the toasty warmth of winter fire, West with love and balance in water, North and the cold earth with its bears and badgers slumbering inside.
Then the Dark Mother was called. She came up from the deepest places of the underworld, representative of that ‘mother’ to whom one runs when one has some hurt or sorrow. She asked each person there to allow their greatest pain…the thing that keeps them awake at night…into the stone they’d picked up as they’d passed into the circle. These stones had been brought from the very wild beach of Worm’s Head on the Gower and would return there, carrying their burden, to be washed free of taint of ills. The Dark Mother reminded everyone that when a worry is released in this way, a little space is opened within one…and into that space, that vacuum, it would be possible to allow a little hope to open and glow. The stones were collected up and taken away by the Dark Mother as she passed back into the Underworld, leaving her gift of yew for each person…the tree so symbolic of life, death and rebirth, that it can be found in almost every churchyard. This ritual, lovingly created by the Herald, Ostara, was completed with the taking of bread and apple juice and cider.
When we got home, we didn’t disrobe from our black robes and cloaks, but joined in the ‘trick and treating’ at our door, offering out the usual sweeties to children who by now know that we kind of like to do the Halloween thing properly…
The following evening, I celebrated the same event, but with pagan friends at a private gathering. The themes were similar, but this time we were outside, standing around a massive, sparking fire, in the dark and rainy night. At first, we closed our eyes, going inward, to meet our parents and grandparents, and finally trying to seek out the ancestors we didn’t know…and the ancient ancestors we share, the archetypes that each of us personally associate with. I thought particularly of these early storytellers who first wrote down their tales…Homer, and his like.
We talked about, and demonstrated, the virtues of the family…and the demerits, which many needed to voice. Then we celebrated the wonderful attributes of winter…and its less than lovely points, as balance. We called to the hooded Caleach, crone of winter-time, the hag that brings the worst of weather and climatic changes, to take from us something we can do without or need to rid ourselves, and whirl it away into the fire. For this purpose, we wrote on strips of yew bark. I wrote on mine and placed it into the Caleach’s black-gloved hand, love of money…as I’ve given up my paid job to write full-time, I will need to learn how to draw in those spending-spree horns.
Finally, we opened the North-West gate. This is where the veil of the underworld is to be found…that place where the spirits of the dead hover. Each of us had the opportunity to call those we wished into the circle to join in the party and witness our Eisteddfod (Druids always must have their eisteddfod!), before making absolutely sure that they left the garden at the end.
Now, I’m not sure what form these spirits take…others druids may be very clear on this issue, but I’m not. I don’t think of them as ghosts, or even the souls of the dead. I think more of the way a perfume lingers after its wetness has dried on your skin. The ‘something’ that is left…the memory that will never die, so long as there are those to remember it. But I might be wrong.
The entire week, for me, was filled with friends, old and new. I went to my friend Ana’s house on the Gower (from whence came the stones and the yew) to help celebrate the marriage of our mutual friend Dimitra to her love Dimitris in Athens…they came straight from Greece to Ana’s cottage and thence to Stanton Drew for the Saturday ritual. On Saturday morning, I picked up a couple from Temple Meads, who had just arrived on holiday from Carolina, and wanted to witness a Druid ceremony. I fed my great friend Jonathan and help him fly (BMW broomstick) to Temple Meads late on Sunday night to pick up his wife, my darling Amelia and her son, my fairygodson Taliesin. I caught up with very old friends at the Sunday night celebrations, people I hadn’t seen since 2008.
The darkness has come, but I am prepared for it. The winter may be hard (or just wet…), but I a have a pile of books, note pads and pens, and a goodly fire. Let the Caleach can do her worst – I am ready.
Samhuinn. It’s a lovely word (all Irish words are lovely), pronounced ‘sow-in’ as in the pig rather than the work with the needle. We call this Halloween – the eve of All Hallows, but let us not forget that Samhuinn was being celebrated long before the Early Church thought to remember the souls of the dead. It is nigh impossible to know how the Celts…the people of the Iron Age…celebrated this darkening time of year, but enough has filtered through the ancient texts and still-celebrated local festivals, to tell us that – yes like the children of today – they believed it to be a time of witches, ghouls and the time that the recently deceased moved close to a thinning veil which could almost be touched, if not parted. Certainly, even those who have no such belief or understanding know how winter gives you the steady chance, by the long evening fire, to re-examine the deepest recesses of yourself…not an altogether enjoyable process, but an enlightening one.
I’ve celebrated Samhuinn thrice this weekend. The first time – photos to prove it – was safely in the light of day – and what a day, the sun was basking warm and welcomed us across the field as we walked towards the rings of stones called Stanton Drew. Every quarter year we come here, to celebrate the old ‘fire festivals’, the Celtic farming ceremonies of Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn. We hold a public ceremony in the ‘small circle’ (big enough to hold 200 people). In fact, almost 100 participants turned up on Saturday, ready – eager to come together to face the gathering winter darkness
The ritual took several themes. Firstly we processed through the ancient avenue of stones to be halted at the gateway by the guardian of the stones, who always asks us what we are doing here, and if we will respect this ancient monument. Then a circle is formed, peace called in it and power brought to it – East and bright, winter air, South and the toasty warmth of winter fire, West with love and balance in water, North and the cold earth with its bears and badgers slumbering inside.
Then the Dark Mother was called. She came up from the deepest places of the underworld, representative of that ‘mother’ to whom one runs when one has some hurt or sorrow. She asked each person there to allow their greatest pain…the thing that keeps them awake at night…into the stone they’d picked up as they’d passed into the circle. These stones had been brought from the very wild beach of Worm’s Head on the Gower and would return there, carrying their burden, to be washed free of taint of ills. The Dark Mother reminded everyone that when a worry is released in this way, a little space is opened within one…and into that space, that vacuum, it would be possible to allow a little hope to open and glow. The stones were collected up and taken away by the Dark Mother as she passed back into the Underworld, leaving her gift of yew for each person…the tree so symbolic of life, death and rebirth, that it can be found in almost every churchyard. This ritual, lovingly created by the Herald, Ostara, was completed with the taking of bread and apple juice and cider.
When we got home, we didn’t disrobe from our black robes and cloaks, but joined in the ‘trick and treating’ at our door, offering out the usual sweeties to children who by now know that we kind of like to do the Halloween thing properly…
The following evening, I celebrated the same event, but with pagan friends at a private gathering. The themes were similar, but this time we were outside, standing around a massive, sparking fire, in the dark and rainy night. At first, we closed our eyes, going inward, to meet our parents and grandparents, and finally trying to seek out the ancestors we didn’t know…and the ancient ancestors we share, the archetypes that each of us personally associate with. I thought particularly of these early storytellers who first wrote down their tales…Homer, and his like.
We talked about, and demonstrated, the virtues of the family…and the demerits, which many needed to voice. Then we celebrated the wonderful attributes of winter…and its less than lovely points, as balance. We called to the hooded Caleach, crone of winter-time, the hag that brings the worst of weather and climatic changes, to take from us something we can do without or need to rid ourselves, and whirl it away into the fire. For this purpose, we wrote on strips of yew bark. I wrote on mine and placed it into the Caleach’s black-gloved hand, love of money…as I’ve given up my paid job to write full-time, I will need to learn how to draw in those spending-spree horns.
Finally, we opened the North-West gate. This is where the veil of the underworld is to be found…that place where the spirits of the dead hover. Each of us had the opportunity to call those we wished into the circle to join in the party and witness our Eisteddfod (Druids always must have their eisteddfod!), before making absolutely sure that they left the garden at the end.
Now, I’m not sure what form these spirits take…others druids may be very clear on this issue, but I’m not. I don’t think of them as ghosts, or even the souls of the dead. I think more of the way a perfume lingers after its wetness has dried on your skin. The ‘something’ that is left…the memory that will never die, so long as there are those to remember it. But I might be wrong.
The entire week, for me, was filled with friends, old and new. I went to my friend Ana’s house on the Gower (from whence came the stones and the yew) to help celebrate the marriage of our mutual friend Dimitra to her love Dimitris in Athens…they came straight from Greece to Ana’s cottage and thence to Stanton Drew for the Saturday ritual. On Saturday morning, I picked up a couple from Temple Meads, who had just arrived on holiday from Carolina, and wanted to witness a Druid ceremony. I fed my great friend Jonathan and help him fly (BMW broomstick) to Temple Meads late on Sunday night to pick up his wife, my darling Amelia and her son, my fairygodson Taliesin. I caught up with very old friends at the Sunday night celebrations, people I hadn’t seen since 2008.
The darkness has come, but I am prepared for it. The winter may be hard (or just wet…), but I a have a pile of books, note pads and pens, and a goodly fire. Let the Caleach can do her worst – I am ready.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
A Voice Rising Above Snarls and Mumbles
I was leaving my house (the one I don’t live in), when I noticed a pile of books in the wrong place.
Now I live with Georgie (in the other house), I’m far more susceptible to things out of place. These were offending my eye, but as I moved them, I noticed the one on the top of the pile…Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope.
‘Have you read this?’ I asked my son.
‘Yes, when it first came out.’
‘Is it any good?’
‘Well, let’s put it like this,’ said Joe. ‘He can string a sentence together, which is more than you can say for the previous incumbent. You can borrow it if you want.’
Suddenly, I’m reading non-fiction by the barrowload. I’ve never gone for it before…never enjoyed autobiography, narrative non-fiction, personal essays, very rarely picked up a biography. And I still maintain that you can’t beat a novel if you want your reader to remember what you want to tell them and be moved at the same time. But I’m learning more about American politics from this book than I probably previously cared to know, and at every turn of page, I am both informed and moved.
Obama’s voice takes my breath away…
But the years take have also taken their toll. Some of it was just a function of my getting older, I suppose, for if you are paying attention, each successive year will make you more intimately acquainted with all of your flaws – the blind spots, the recurring habits of thought that may be genetic or may be environmental, but that will almost certainly worsen with time, as surely as the hitch in your walk turns to pain in your hip. In me, one of those flaws had proven to be a chronic restlessness; an inability to appreciate, no matter how well things were going, those blessings that were right there in front of me. It’s a flaw that is endemic to modern life, I think – endemic, too, in the American character – and one that is nowhere more evident than in the field of politics. Whether politics actually encourages the trait or simply attracts those who possess it is unclear. Someone once said that every man is trying to either live up to his father’s expectations or make up for his father’s mistakes and I suppose that may explain my particular malady as well as anything else…
This is a powerful voice…confident, intimate, distinct. It makes me feel, not that I’m reading the words, but that two easy chairs have been pulled close, one for me, one for the writer, and coffee (or maybe in this case bourbon), is served. In my mind, I am engrossed in a conversation. I’m leaning in close, responding with my eyes. I can answer back; take the argument and run with it Non-fiction narrative this absorbing takes you into a new moment, just as fiction does.
In Imaginative Non-fiction, (or whatever the Open College of the Arts will finally call this new course) I emphasize two aspects of writing that can be shared by all creating non-fiction writers. I’m telling students these two aspects will uphold their work and pull it together, because these aspects are at the core of grabbing a reader. The combination of these two skills can get the new writer a contract quicker than almost anything else.
Narrative trajectory (telling a story and taking your reader with you as you do so) underpins the structure and ‘plot’. Voice is, of course, the buzzword on the writers’ street. This give heart and personality to your writing – Obama’s…hitch in your walk…both practically and metaphorically.
Narrative trajectory is all about how you tell your story. Cast your eye over some recently published books. A cross-section will show you just how many stories are out there to be told –subjects of major importance and trivial significance. Subjects rehashed or completely skewed. None of these will be readable unless the story moves in the right direction for its content, allowing the reader to step out onto a sort of boat and sail off into water already charted by the writer. A reader will keep reading if they feel the confidence of the narrator, as pilot of their story. I want the students to understand about knowing the chart of their voyage, and how to keep a steady hand on the tiller. (Sorry –these boating metaphors are probably due to my daughter’s recent success in the Fastnet Race…I prefer to keep my feet on firm terra firma.)
Voice is the balance to a strongly led narrative journey, but it needs a similar quality…confidence…in the writer. I tell my students that their ‘voice’ should be a representation of how their mind works. We all think in an entirely unique way. If a writer can get a strong feeling of ‘thoughts pouring forth’, transferred onto the page, they will lure the reader as successfully as a Siren, because of that intimate connection; the writer saying…here I am, believe in me…
The knack is to be natural, yourself, to have confidence that the way your mind works can interest other people. I try to remember, whenever this sort of audacity threatens to halt the flow of my writing, that people do actually seem to enjoy talking to me, even when I’m sure I’m being quite boring. Okay, not everyone in the world fits that category, but that would be true of even the most popular books of the market…no style attracts every reader. Attracting a small audience is a great beginning.
This sort of approach takes writing courage, although possibly not as much as Obama has shown over the last years. Becoming the USA’s first black president and writing scintillating personal essays…now that is audacious.
And hopeful.
Now I live with Georgie (in the other house), I’m far more susceptible to things out of place. These were offending my eye, but as I moved them, I noticed the one on the top of the pile…Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope.
‘Have you read this?’ I asked my son.
‘Yes, when it first came out.’
‘Is it any good?’
‘Well, let’s put it like this,’ said Joe. ‘He can string a sentence together, which is more than you can say for the previous incumbent. You can borrow it if you want.’
Suddenly, I’m reading non-fiction by the barrowload. I’ve never gone for it before…never enjoyed autobiography, narrative non-fiction, personal essays, very rarely picked up a biography. And I still maintain that you can’t beat a novel if you want your reader to remember what you want to tell them and be moved at the same time. But I’m learning more about American politics from this book than I probably previously cared to know, and at every turn of page, I am both informed and moved.
Obama’s voice takes my breath away…
But the years take have also taken their toll. Some of it was just a function of my getting older, I suppose, for if you are paying attention, each successive year will make you more intimately acquainted with all of your flaws – the blind spots, the recurring habits of thought that may be genetic or may be environmental, but that will almost certainly worsen with time, as surely as the hitch in your walk turns to pain in your hip. In me, one of those flaws had proven to be a chronic restlessness; an inability to appreciate, no matter how well things were going, those blessings that were right there in front of me. It’s a flaw that is endemic to modern life, I think – endemic, too, in the American character – and one that is nowhere more evident than in the field of politics. Whether politics actually encourages the trait or simply attracts those who possess it is unclear. Someone once said that every man is trying to either live up to his father’s expectations or make up for his father’s mistakes and I suppose that may explain my particular malady as well as anything else…
This is a powerful voice…confident, intimate, distinct. It makes me feel, not that I’m reading the words, but that two easy chairs have been pulled close, one for me, one for the writer, and coffee (or maybe in this case bourbon), is served. In my mind, I am engrossed in a conversation. I’m leaning in close, responding with my eyes. I can answer back; take the argument and run with it Non-fiction narrative this absorbing takes you into a new moment, just as fiction does.
In Imaginative Non-fiction, (or whatever the Open College of the Arts will finally call this new course) I emphasize two aspects of writing that can be shared by all creating non-fiction writers. I’m telling students these two aspects will uphold their work and pull it together, because these aspects are at the core of grabbing a reader. The combination of these two skills can get the new writer a contract quicker than almost anything else.
Narrative trajectory (telling a story and taking your reader with you as you do so) underpins the structure and ‘plot’. Voice is, of course, the buzzword on the writers’ street. This give heart and personality to your writing – Obama’s…hitch in your walk…both practically and metaphorically.
Narrative trajectory is all about how you tell your story. Cast your eye over some recently published books. A cross-section will show you just how many stories are out there to be told –subjects of major importance and trivial significance. Subjects rehashed or completely skewed. None of these will be readable unless the story moves in the right direction for its content, allowing the reader to step out onto a sort of boat and sail off into water already charted by the writer. A reader will keep reading if they feel the confidence of the narrator, as pilot of their story. I want the students to understand about knowing the chart of their voyage, and how to keep a steady hand on the tiller. (Sorry –these boating metaphors are probably due to my daughter’s recent success in the Fastnet Race…I prefer to keep my feet on firm terra firma.)
Voice is the balance to a strongly led narrative journey, but it needs a similar quality…confidence…in the writer. I tell my students that their ‘voice’ should be a representation of how their mind works. We all think in an entirely unique way. If a writer can get a strong feeling of ‘thoughts pouring forth’, transferred onto the page, they will lure the reader as successfully as a Siren, because of that intimate connection; the writer saying…here I am, believe in me…
The knack is to be natural, yourself, to have confidence that the way your mind works can interest other people. I try to remember, whenever this sort of audacity threatens to halt the flow of my writing, that people do actually seem to enjoy talking to me, even when I’m sure I’m being quite boring. Okay, not everyone in the world fits that category, but that would be true of even the most popular books of the market…no style attracts every reader. Attracting a small audience is a great beginning.
This sort of approach takes writing courage, although possibly not as much as Obama has shown over the last years. Becoming the USA’s first black president and writing scintillating personal essays…now that is audacious.
And hopeful.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
NEW WORKSHOP FOR WRITERS
WRITING FOR CHILDREN AND YOUNG PEOPLE
TWO FULL DAY WORKSHOPS IN THE CENTRE OF BRISTOL FACILITATED BY
NINA MILTON IN ASSOCIATION WITH THE OPEN COLLEGE OF THE ARTS
Create characters children will love, and storylines they’ll want to read. Develop your story with a published children’s author as your guide.
Thursday 26th November
Friday 27th November 09
10am to 4pm each day
CONTACT NINA DIRECTLY:Email ninahare@yahoo.com tel: 07962781146
to book directly, freephone Dee Whitmore on 0800 7312116
Writing for Children and Young People will consist of…
DAY ONE – Finding your Character
We will start with an in-depth examination of character, and begin to work on a single protagonist through a series of writing exercises.
DAY TWO – Plotting your Story
We will take this work forward into Day Two, where we will explore plot formation and its relationship to the character already developing, building up a single project for each student,
Over the two days, we will also cover:
· Children’s needs and wishes as budding readers and their worldview.
· Market Analysis and reading ages
· Illustrations and the storybook
· Looking at mysteries; build secrets and clues
· We will also cover non-fiction, the educational market, picture books and children’s magazines.
COST £75FOR BOTH WORKSHOPS INCLUSIVE
(£65 FOR OCA STUDENTS)
Saturday, 19 September 2009
City of Derby Short Story Competition
I was delighted to hear that I had been placed in the City of Derby Short Story Competition and invited to attend the prize giving. I can’t wait, because the two judges are women very much in my mind at the moment…the poet Pat Borthwick, who I recently met, and Novelist Sara Maitland, who wrote the original version of the coursework I’m now revising…I-Lines (Imaginative Non-Fiction) I look forward to connecting with both of them. Meanwhile, here is a short excerpt from the story…
THE TOMB-BUILDERS’ TOMBS
You are cheated.
Ishmael swung round. He had barely entered the tomb, and already she was getting at him.
‘Who?’ Ishmael hissed. ‘Who is cheating me?’
There was no one behind him, of course. Just a wall washed in yellow ochre, a sunshine backdrop to the depictions of ancient gods worked with meticulous esteem from nature’s paints and sealed with a still glinting layer of egg white – Osiris, Maat, Ptah and Isis – each in totally unspoiled profile. You never saw the fullness of their faces. They were painted so they could gaze at each other, across the line of the wall. Ishmael knew this was because the Ancient Egyptians hadn’t grasped the concept of perspective, but knowing didn’t stop the secret longing that one day he’d find a tomb painting where the faces looked directly at him.
But here, in the tomb of Sennedjem the tomb builder, Isis was looking right at him. She had not moved her head, but he could tell that her eye was on him, that she was looking at him from above, because he’d just heard her voice. As Ishmael gazed at her image, the goddess curved the single corner of her profiled mouth and smiled.
A shudder moved from his ears to his feet, but he didn’t take his gaze from her. He was pulled into her image as lighting is pulled towards copper.
You are cheated, Ishmael.
A tourist brushed past him and the link was broken. Isis slid into the painting; still, silent, two-dimensional and over 3000 years old.
Ishmael knew her well, knew every line and turn of her image, her history in this place and the story of her origins. He saw it as his job to know her intimately, but now, rigid at the door of the tomb, he wondered if his obsession with the ancient history of his country was sending him mad. Or was it the hours he put in to each of his days? His schoolmates called him ‘plugger’ and ‘teacher-pleaser’, because they considered him too hard-working.
But Isis had called him ‘cheated’. Where had that come from? His own mind?
Ishmael put his hands over his ears. He turned his back on the goddess and stormed from the tomb, up the uneven steps carved millennia ago, past the guards who let him slip through to earn an honest piastre in the first place, into the sudden blaze of light, the heat of Egyptian summer.
No one looked at him. Tombs and temples were filled with unofficial guides, hopeful for a moment’s work. Ishmael sometimes got noticed because he was young and full of enthusiasm, but today was quiet, and everyone was arriving with their own guide. He sat outside and lit a cigarette.
A week or so ago, she’d winked at him. He’d been at full throttle at the time, information spurting from his lips, and the punters, a Japanese couple hardly taller than him, had begun to nod methodically. He’d been describing the tomb goods that had been found here. Discovered in eighteen eighty-six, he was telling them, and nothing missing, not a scarab, you can see it all in the Cairo Museum. At any moment, their hands would go to their pockets, and he would be rewarded. They were close to the door, on their way out, when Ishmael had glanced at Isis and seen her one eyelid move – up and down, just once. He’d stopped dead, his mouth gaping. After a few long seconds, the tourists had disappeared, muttering in their clipped language to each other, and Ishmael’s look of amazement turned to something close to anger. He’d lost a tip. No one’s fault but his own. He could hardly blame a wall painting.
Who was cheating him? He shook his head, blowing smoke in a waving arc. The punters, of course. Tourists were rich, every Egyptian knew that. They brought millions of dollars into this country and handed most of them over to the already rich…the tourist trade, the government. The voice had been his own head, telling him what he already knew. The poor always got the shitty deal.
Ishmael walked down the track a little, so that he could grind out his filter stub a decent distance away from the tomb. He thought about his uncles. They were cheating him, no doubt about that. But Ishmael could never quite put his finger on how. They had offered Ishmael and his two sisters a home when they lost their father. They made sure the girls went off to school just the same as he did. Uncle Alaa paid him a small sum to work in the camel stable after school. And Uncle Mahmoud let him pocket the extra money Ishmael made from haggling with tourists at his market stall. They were being fair. But he did feel cheated, all the same.
Ishmael took a final drag and ground the stub into the white dust of the path.
Below him, toiling up the hill from the houses of the tomb builders, were two women. Faces glowing with heat, one protected by a cheap market scarf of bright pink muslin, the other by a white floppy hat. Both around forty years of age, they carried litre water bottles and wore walking boots lined with woollen socks. With a practiced eye he judged them. Northern European – English speakers. But a rarity, for all that. They were independent travellers, which meant they were probably obsessed with Egypt’s wonders and possibly as poor as river rats – at least within the standards of tourists. None of them were ever as poor as the river rats of Egypt.
Ishmael positioned himself by the side of the path waiting for them to reach him. They were golden punters. They would pay well. Their obsession with all things Egyptian meant that they longed to talk to real Egyptians, and their poverty, in some perverse equation he’d never worked out, meant that they would pay him double, even triple what he usually earned at the tombs. He would not be cheated here.
‘Madams,’ he began, as they neared him. ‘Welcome to Deir El Medina. You will be glad to hear that the tombs of the tomb builders are cool and refreshing inside.’
The older one pulled off her white hat and wiped her face with it. ‘Thank God.’
THE TOMB-BUILDERS’ TOMBS
You are cheated.
Ishmael swung round. He had barely entered the tomb, and already she was getting at him.
‘Who?’ Ishmael hissed. ‘Who is cheating me?’
There was no one behind him, of course. Just a wall washed in yellow ochre, a sunshine backdrop to the depictions of ancient gods worked with meticulous esteem from nature’s paints and sealed with a still glinting layer of egg white – Osiris, Maat, Ptah and Isis – each in totally unspoiled profile. You never saw the fullness of their faces. They were painted so they could gaze at each other, across the line of the wall. Ishmael knew this was because the Ancient Egyptians hadn’t grasped the concept of perspective, but knowing didn’t stop the secret longing that one day he’d find a tomb painting where the faces looked directly at him.
But here, in the tomb of Sennedjem the tomb builder, Isis was looking right at him. She had not moved her head, but he could tell that her eye was on him, that she was looking at him from above, because he’d just heard her voice. As Ishmael gazed at her image, the goddess curved the single corner of her profiled mouth and smiled.
A shudder moved from his ears to his feet, but he didn’t take his gaze from her. He was pulled into her image as lighting is pulled towards copper.
You are cheated, Ishmael.
A tourist brushed past him and the link was broken. Isis slid into the painting; still, silent, two-dimensional and over 3000 years old.
Ishmael knew her well, knew every line and turn of her image, her history in this place and the story of her origins. He saw it as his job to know her intimately, but now, rigid at the door of the tomb, he wondered if his obsession with the ancient history of his country was sending him mad. Or was it the hours he put in to each of his days? His schoolmates called him ‘plugger’ and ‘teacher-pleaser’, because they considered him too hard-working.
But Isis had called him ‘cheated’. Where had that come from? His own mind?
Ishmael put his hands over his ears. He turned his back on the goddess and stormed from the tomb, up the uneven steps carved millennia ago, past the guards who let him slip through to earn an honest piastre in the first place, into the sudden blaze of light, the heat of Egyptian summer.
No one looked at him. Tombs and temples were filled with unofficial guides, hopeful for a moment’s work. Ishmael sometimes got noticed because he was young and full of enthusiasm, but today was quiet, and everyone was arriving with their own guide. He sat outside and lit a cigarette.
A week or so ago, she’d winked at him. He’d been at full throttle at the time, information spurting from his lips, and the punters, a Japanese couple hardly taller than him, had begun to nod methodically. He’d been describing the tomb goods that had been found here. Discovered in eighteen eighty-six, he was telling them, and nothing missing, not a scarab, you can see it all in the Cairo Museum. At any moment, their hands would go to their pockets, and he would be rewarded. They were close to the door, on their way out, when Ishmael had glanced at Isis and seen her one eyelid move – up and down, just once. He’d stopped dead, his mouth gaping. After a few long seconds, the tourists had disappeared, muttering in their clipped language to each other, and Ishmael’s look of amazement turned to something close to anger. He’d lost a tip. No one’s fault but his own. He could hardly blame a wall painting.
Who was cheating him? He shook his head, blowing smoke in a waving arc. The punters, of course. Tourists were rich, every Egyptian knew that. They brought millions of dollars into this country and handed most of them over to the already rich…the tourist trade, the government. The voice had been his own head, telling him what he already knew. The poor always got the shitty deal.
Ishmael walked down the track a little, so that he could grind out his filter stub a decent distance away from the tomb. He thought about his uncles. They were cheating him, no doubt about that. But Ishmael could never quite put his finger on how. They had offered Ishmael and his two sisters a home when they lost their father. They made sure the girls went off to school just the same as he did. Uncle Alaa paid him a small sum to work in the camel stable after school. And Uncle Mahmoud let him pocket the extra money Ishmael made from haggling with tourists at his market stall. They were being fair. But he did feel cheated, all the same.
Ishmael took a final drag and ground the stub into the white dust of the path.
Below him, toiling up the hill from the houses of the tomb builders, were two women. Faces glowing with heat, one protected by a cheap market scarf of bright pink muslin, the other by a white floppy hat. Both around forty years of age, they carried litre water bottles and wore walking boots lined with woollen socks. With a practiced eye he judged them. Northern European – English speakers. But a rarity, for all that. They were independent travellers, which meant they were probably obsessed with Egypt’s wonders and possibly as poor as river rats – at least within the standards of tourists. None of them were ever as poor as the river rats of Egypt.
Ishmael positioned himself by the side of the path waiting for them to reach him. They were golden punters. They would pay well. Their obsession with all things Egyptian meant that they longed to talk to real Egyptians, and their poverty, in some perverse equation he’d never worked out, meant that they would pay him double, even triple what he usually earned at the tombs. He would not be cheated here.
‘Madams,’ he began, as they neared him. ‘Welcome to Deir El Medina. You will be glad to hear that the tombs of the tomb builders are cool and refreshing inside.’
The older one pulled off her white hat and wiped her face with it. ‘Thank God.’
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
