'This is my truth, tell me yours.'

I don't have the context for the above quote from Aneurin Bevan but I do know that he famously called the Tories 'vermin' so let's suppose it may have been directed at them. That said, it's a polite enough request but not one that is always easy, or desirable, to fulfil.  

Many of us lie. Sometimes for honourable reasons, sometimes less so. There are lies we may tell without even realising we are not dealing in the truth anymore. Particularly when we lie to ourselves. 

For the American writer John Cheever lying (to himself, to others) was a mainstay of his existence. He was an alcoholic and bisexual at a time when homosexual acts were still illegal. There are times, documented in his journals, when he seems at ease with his place in the society that surrounds him; '...I take (his son) Federico swimming and find myself happily a member of the lawful world.' But there are equally times when the conflict that exists between his inner desires and the requirements of the outer world seems oppressively inevitable; 'I spend the night with C... I seem unashamed and yet I feel or apprehend the weight of social strictures, the threat of punishment.' 

Forced to lie about who he was, who he could be and wanted to be, Cheever spent much of his life a deeply troubled man. But, as a writer, it was this need to conceal the truth about himself that, as Geoff Dyer points out in the introduction to his journals, 'worked against (Cheever) being able to plumb the complex depths of his being' and instead hone the 'hard-won craftmanship' of 'fictive resolution' that made him such a supreme master of the short story. It was only in his journals, kept resolutely private until Cheever agreed shortly before he died that they could be published posthumously, that Cheever felt able to '...disguise nothing, conceal nothing...'  

Last night I heard the children's author Candy Gourlay describe the mantra 'Write who you are' as being much more useful to her as a fiction writer than 'write what you know.' In Gourlay's case, this gave her the impetus to use her own experiences in her writing. I, too, have adjusted the more common mantra into 'write about what (or who) you would like to know' as this resonates more strongly with my desire to use the experiences of others to inspire my ideas. 

In Cheever's case, however, writing who he was wasn't an option; not, at least, in his publishing life. In his private life, the work of his journals shows us that writing who he was was no less troubling and traumatic but that it was possible. In the end, it freed him from the demands of narrative structure and, perhaps more importantly, the agony of lying about who he really was. 

The Origins of Woman

It's just another Friday night, the dining table debris framed by shadows of empty wine bottles and there are two conversations in progress. One is about go-carting. No one is sure why. The other is about Fifty Shades of Grey. Again. The conversation started around a pool in Puglia back in August but has returned for round two.  Germaine Greer, Simone de Beauvoir, Ann Summers: they all get a mention. As does grooming, sex toys (sales are up), contracts and empowerment.


At times it all gets rather heated, especially on the subject of empowerment. Fuelled by mid-priced Cava, this concept, in particular, is objected to with a passion; Fifty Shades of Grey is about as empowering as the dishwasher... It doesn't challenge the status quo... Entrenched ideologies relating to gender stereotypes are not reframed in any way... And the sex? The much hyped 'tie me to a replica wagon wheel, press this button and I'll orgasm' notion of female sexual liberation? A mere smokescreen for a traditional narrative of the heterosexual ideal (the lady doth protest - initially - but all she really wants is to get married to a handsome, complex man and have his children - yawn...).

Satisfied, I'm pouring myself another drink. 'But hang on,' (a voice from around the table interrupts to play devil's advocate) 'that's based upon your experience. You may not consider it empowering but you are not every woman.' And it's true. Unlike Chaka Khan, I am prepared to admit that I'm not. None of us are every anything, when it comes down to it. And while it doesn't change my mind, it does remind me to consider the importance of origins upon perception; as both a reader and a writer. My critical voice emerges from the myriad influences and experiences of my life to date, cultural and social ideals that I have been exposed to - both within and beyond my own social, educational and physical sphere. I can't possibly transpose this to the experience of every woman and deign to speak for them, any more than I can expect anyone to speak for me - with authenticity, anyway.

In The Second Sex Simone de Beauvoir said, 'One is not born, but rather becomes a woman.' Yes, she does. Socialisation continues to dictate to us what a woman should be, should think, should aspire to in order that this is what we will 'become'. This is wrong. But, it also serves as context for critical analysis. 

My perspective is informed by the woman that I have become. But it is not the only perspective because I am not the only woman and my society, my process of socialisation (or my subversion of it) is not the only state in which women exist.

The conversation around the table peters out, as they do, but the real full stop comes when we are reminded that the copy of Fifty Shades of Grey that was passed around by the pool in Puglia is no more. It couldn't withstand repeated readings and the pages eventually all fell out. Discarded and forgotten, it was caught by a sudden gust of wind and the pages were scattered to the four corners of the surrounding countryside.

Anyone for a discussion about symbolism?

And the great, one camel, race begins... again!

If this blog had a theme tune it would be Pilot's number one from January 1975 titled (wait for it...) 'January'. What? You mean you haven't heard it? It's a mainstay of the Guilty Pleasures output, performed by a band made up of the leftover bits and bobs from the Bay City Rollers; one of those songs that you're not really supposed to like but could happily hum along to after a few Campari and cokes. 

Anyway, the lyrics include the rather depressing adage, 'January, sick and tired, you've been hanging on me...' Oh dear. So, yes, it could so easily be a theme tune for the post-Christmas blues when all but the most optimistic and energised of us are feeling a little, well, sick and tired. 

However, it is not for that reason that I have chosen it as this blog's theme tune. It's because, looking back, that is when I post on this blog; in January. Yes, the good intentions flow like the outlandish New Year's resolutions in a bar full of drunken strangers at the stroke of midnight but tail off once the treadmill of teaching and writing and teaching and studying and teaching and marking etc etc starts. All good, fun spectator sports but they do take up time and things get pushed down the list of 'things to get around to one day', including keeping a regular blog. 

And then, at this time of the year, I teach a Creative Writing module at the University of Winchester that requires students to keep a blog whilst also following and commenting on the blogs of others. And so, like an inappropriate summer dress that you're only brave enough to wear thousands of miles from home in the company of strangers, the blog gets dusted off and emerges to greet its public for its annual outing as I try to set a good example... This year, however, will be different!

The angle, as ever, is to muse on my writing life. The how's, why's and what the hells of it all. And this year is a big year; not so much for the writer in me but certainly for the researcher in me. I'm embarking upon some epic research for a project that has been in the planning stage for some time now, including my first foray into life story interviewing. And the backdrop to it all includes some serious head scratching on the subject of truth in fiction based upon fact; is it ever possible to tell a 'true' story or does the writer's voice always get in the way? 

Or, as Mark Twain, or Hemingway, or, at least, someone may have once said, 'Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.' 

And on that cliched note (it's okay, as long as you acknowledge it...) I shall leave you with the fabulicious Pilot in all their 1975 rock/pop glory. Look out for how garddarn excited the band are to be attacked by enormous balloons whilst barely maintaining the facade of performing live...

Gok Wan was right - it's all about the confidence!

Virago Press Editor (publishers of, amongst others, Margaret Attwood, Angela Carter, Sarah Waters and Linda Grant) and co-counder of the Orange Prize for Fiction Lennie Goodings visited the University as part of the Winchester Reading Series (expertly organised by MA Programme Leader Carole Burns) last night to talk and answer questions about publishing, writing and everything in between - or, perhaps more appropriately, before and after...


I could rattle off a list of adjectives to describe how engaging, enlightening and just plain helpful it was to hear what she had to say (in fact, I just have) but I think the third year student sitting next to me summed it up best when she said, 'I can't believe I've only just started to come to these events. They're SO useful.' Take heed first and second years and make the most of hearing those working in the 'industry' talk about their experiences and give advice whilst you still can - for free at least!

Credit too, to the (impressively large) audience who asked some really good questions that elicited equally interesting responses. I give credit in this way because it has taken me years to pluck up the courage to ask questions at these types of things for fear of a) asking the dumbest question of the evening or b) repeatedly putting my hand in the air to ask a question only for it not to be seen by the person answering the questions whilst being highly visible to the rest of the room. After all these years, I STILL find that ridiculously cringeworthy... And, yes, it happened to me again last night... :0)

I got to ask my question in the end, however, which leads me to some of the more salient points about fiction publishing to come from Ms Gooding's Q & A:

1) Publishers are looking for fiction written with obvious confidence - mainly because the writer clearly knows what they are writing and where it is all heading.
2) There is no substitute for a really strong sense of 'voice' from the characters. Do you know the characters well enough to write them with vivid authenticity?
3) Avoid the obvious. If a publisher has already has a back catalogue of teen vampire fiction then they are unlikely to be blown away by yet another version of the same thing UNLESS there is something different about it.
4) If you are serious about getting published, get an agent; it is very rare for unsolicited manuscripts to get the attention of a publisher.
5) There is not the expectation that your manuscript will be perfect; that's what the editor is there for, to advise on rewrites etc. But, it should be targeted. That is, know who your audience is and write for them. A publisher needs to feel that there is a market for what you have written. The same goes for agents - do your research before sending your work out to make sure it is within their area of interest/expertise.
6) Get into the habit of being able to express your idea/plot in one sentence ready for pitching it.
7) Don't give up; Goodings responded to a question about the dearth of young novelists in the current market by suggesting that, as writing is a craft that can take years to get right, it is more usual for writers to find success some time after they begin writing seriously.

Phew, no need to fear the literary equivalent of the biological clock just yet then...!

Never let the facts get in the way of a good story...

... It's an adage we've all heard many times, particularly with regard to the world of journalism. It was, therefore, no surprise to see it referenced in print again yesterday. Ben Macintyre, writing in The Times, has had just about enough of film makers taking artistic licence with the 'based on a true story' oeuvre to the point of seriously endangering credibility. As he says of the recent crop of biopics, they have one thing in common; 'the demands of the 'pic' supersede the basic reality of the 'bio'. The search for drama, romance and tragedy, he states, is allowing the facts of these stories to be distorted; Madonna is 'blithely unconcerned' with the reality of the past in WE, Clint Eastwood has produced a film about J Edgar Hoover 'founded on something that probably never happened' and David Cronenberg's A Dangerous Method is based upon an 'educated guess' about Carl Jung's personal life.


But, while any discussion about the role of truth in storytelling must acknowledge the danger of stretching the facts to meet the demands of the audience (fiction can, after all, become fact forever that way) the horrible 'truth' is that those demands are just that; demands. Demands upon the storyteller to produce a narrative that engages by hitting the right marks throughout the arc of, as Macintyre puts it, 'rise, fall and redemption'. 


Macintyre further acknowledges that, when fiction is inspired by fact, the storytellers 'inevitably compress, elide, make up scenes, dialogue and characters' in order to make the story more interesting, more engaging - in much the same way as the author John Cheever admits to exaggerating the facts of his own life to do the same. 


So, is Macintyre right when he says that 'a history story is only truly good when it is also true'? Maybe. However, as fiction writers, we perhaps have more right to that artistic licence than he allows those writing the biopic. It could be that no writing, fictional or not, is ever entirely without elements of biography and, should this be the case, the choice is surely that of the individual writer; tell the story in spite of the truth or let the truth become the story? 


Link to the full article: http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/opinion/columnists/benmacintyre/article3295738.ece

'Who loves ya baby?' - Why the artist is a special thing...

At the moment I am researching the life and music of the Nigerian musician and activist Fela Kuti for a narrative I am developing that is partly set in 1970s Lagos. The narrative has underlying themes relating to political and social emancipation and Kuti, the creator of Afrobeat, used his music as a platform from which to protest against the endemic corruption that was serving to oppress the people of Nigeria and Africa as a whole. 

Fela was well educated and articulate, particularly on the relationship between art and politics:

‘...As an artist, politically, artistically, the whole idea about your environment must be represented in the  music... Art is about what is a happening at a particular time... So, I think, as far as Africa is concerned, music cannot be for enjoyment. It has to be for revolution.’

He wrote music and lyrics that challenged conventional wisdom, corruption and state sponsored brutality; the writer, as an artist, is indeed special.

The song posted here is Zombie (1976) and an example of Fela's passion, talent and credentials as a politically active and revolutionary artist. The 'Zombies' referred to in the lyrics are the Nigerian army - blindly following orders to brutalise and intimidate their own people. It is also just an incredible piece of musicianship.

                                   

'How is it that I became a writer?'

In Negotiating with the Dead,  Margaret Atwood describes the writer inside us by way of a metaphor; the motivation to write is an 'insistent camel' that propels a writer's 'writing life' forward - stubbornly, in search of water or, better still, an oasis of sympathetic editors and enthusiastic publishers... 


Is that how I became a writer? By virtue of a dogged determination to reach the end of a predestined journey towards creative fulfilment? 


Erm, no. 


The truth, as is usually the case, is more prosaic than that. At school I was quiet and studious. I did well in all subjects until (shock horror!) a certain amount of dedication, effort and hard work was required. At this point, and pretty much overnight, I became useless at almost everything: PE - all the gear and no idea; Science - couldn't make head nor tail of the gear and, consequently, even less idea; Languages - resolutely unable to get beyond telling someone my age and asking how to get to the train station; Maths - ???????? 


And so it was that I discovered that entertaining people and telling stories was SO much easier than figuring out the solution to a quadratic equation... And it was that, coupled with the fact that I could be good at English without having to try too hard (well, there was that blip at A Level when I had to explain to my mum that the A I got was for 'Absent' but we won't dwell on that...) that led me to writing. 


Yes - it was being a lazy show off with a short attention span and a predilection for a finely honed sentence that ensured I would fail to excel in anything until fate led me to writing where I could use those traits to their best effect. Not, perhaps, the stuff that inspiring biographies are made of but, nevertheless, the truth. 


So, mes etudiants, this is my truth, tell me yours.*


*To paraphrase the Manic Street Preachers and throw in a bit of French. Proof, were it needed, that I am, indeed, a lazy show off...