'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...