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Chicken and Egg

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Easter holidays; no bus trips to college and time to do some serious wordage. One thing I have learnt is you’ve got to have form ( no, not that sort). Think of a garden – it can be colourful, jam-packed with plants but it won’t impress the Yellow Book judges much if the hard landscaping’s all to pot. That’s certainly how I used to garden – and my writing is still a bit that’s good- bung-it-in-and-hope-for-the-best.

One antidote to splurging is looking how other people do it. I had a spot of ironing to do, so I popped on Radio 4 and listened to ‘On Mardle Fen’. I scribbled down notes on the structure in between pressing Gorgeous Hubby’s poplin shirts and the posh tea-towel. There were plenty of mini-dramas including finding the remote restaurant, kitchen disputes and a runaway daughter – but one overarching  familial drama. A big feature that holds it all together, like a wall round a vegetable garden, or a central fountain, definitely creates an effective structure.

An external event can be a good device – the count-down to a wedding, for example or that highlight of East Wittering’s year: the opening of the refurbished Co-op. It doesn’t take too much imagination to realise how many mini-stories are possible with so many people  involved. What about the reporter with the comedy cardboard scissors, the football coach holding the giant cheque, or one of the fitters looking down from the roof? And it wouldn’t have to be limited to the contemporary: think of the excitement of the first supermarkets arriving, or the fuss the Victorians made opening a shop.

But, of course, all these possibilities lead off in different directions. You can follow your protagonist and secondary characters wandering off along all sorts of paths. And where’s your planning, your pre-formed structure then? Back to the venerable Plotter v Pantser debate.

I’m trying Plot-the-Big-Stuff and Wing-the-Details at the moment. It feels like herding cats – or trying to control couch grass.

Any advice?

The road to responsibility

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I’m writing this in Aldea Global Cafe, Tarifa, Spain.

Yesterday, I went riding up towards the mountains through sweet-scented pines and admiring gloriously free-ranging  black pigs destined to be jamon. The turf in March is green and lush, full of flowers and herbs.

It was unsurprising that my horse kept  eating the grass. It bent its head down, I pulled on the reins. I didn’t want to cascade down its neck into the prickly pear bushes.

My lack of control tells you a lot about my experience as a rider, and also gave me to thinking about imposing my will on the animal.

Today, I managed rather better, pre-empting the horse’s move to grab a quick nosh. For a little while, I experienced a satisfying unity between what I wanted to do and what this large creature’s abilities. Lovely.

At a plateau we stood looking over the sea to Morocco. Miggy, the instructress explained about the scars on the noses of  Andalucian horses. These come from the local method of breaking. (Breaking –  what a telling word that is.) She spoke of some of the local men having to have stallions – often before they were ready to handle them – hence the cruelty.

I thought back to Martin Clunes’ ‘Horsepower’ series. I had watched fascinated by  Monty Roberts’ and Jean Francois Pignon’s natural horsemanship. They both used the animals’ natural traits to manipulate their behaviour in a compassionate way. The animals were not stressed, no force was used (other than personality) and yet they did as they were asked.

On the plane over, I watched Kirsty Young presenting ‘ The British at Work’. It gave a salutary reminder of  the  dictatorial management in the postwar era – and how much it was resented. I thought also of how much we hated over-strict teachers, the sort who shouted and threw board-rubbers. They ruled through fear because they hadn’t the skills to persuade.

Nonetheless, I get fed up with the cliché of the leader as always an incompetent bully , as though being in charge inevitably leads to domineering behaviour. As a fictional counterpoint, I like to think of Terry Pratchett’s Baron in ‘I Shall Wear Midnight’. He was a man who gained respect because he asked his people to do what they would do anyway. A not-dissimilar technique is used by my MA tutor Greg Mosse.

As I hope Mubarak has learned, in positions of responsibility there are  better methods than oppression.

Istanbul not Constantinople

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  1. Book your preferred restaurant for a Friday or a Saturday night – even in the low season. The best places serving mehanes (a kind of Turkish tapas) fill up fast.
  2. The Grand Bazaar is big, busy and bewildering: try the smaller Spice Market also known as the Egyptian Bazaar instead.
  3. The Fish Market down by Galata Bridge is fascinating, smells of the sea and is full of free entertainment.
  4. Istiklal Caddesi is long, and full of life. Every evening there is a procession of people; you might see a Balkan band dressed like the Mafia, a political protest or the crowds parting like the Red Sea for the Nostalgic Tram. If it gets too much, seek solace in the fabulous Denizler Kitabevi bookshop. 
  5. Need a healthy pick-me-up? Look out for a Vitamin Centre – fresh fruit juices squeezed on the spot. They seem to be on every thoroughfare of any size. Some markets have men with handcarts who put on quite a performance at it.
  6. Fancy a sticky cake instead? Find Hafiz Mustafa in Sirkeci and try the konefe, halva or one of the  countless other sweet treats whilst looking out past the Orient Express Terminal to the Bosphorus.
  7. If you want to see the Harem in the Topkapi Palace at its best , get there early ( 9 a.m) You need to take a left after you have gone through the Topkapi entrance ( past the Executioners’ Fountain) and get your ticket as soon as you can. Look out for the Valide Sultan’s appartments – especially all you Jason Goodwin fans out there.
  8. A tip from Jason well worth passing on – the Rustem Pasha mosque is small, calm and spiritually refreshing. It sits above Hasırcılar Çarşısı (Strawmat Weavers Market) in Eminönü.
  9. For a taste of Stambouliot  flavours, locate Haci Abdullah on Sakızagacı Caddesi (a side treet off Istiklal in Beyoğlu) or Sumerhan Lokantasi on Büyük Postane Caddesi in Eminönü.
  10. And if your feet are aching after all that, use public transport. The trams are cheap and cheerful – you need a little red jeton( one price for any journey) which you can buy from a  Jetonmatik machine. There is cute little funicular at Tunel and the Metro is good for the airport. The ferries are fun too.

Scents and Sensibility

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It must have been the spring air.

I took a revitalising constitutional around West Dean College grounds today and really noticed the smells.

The first was ‘sheep’. I asssociate this with the North York Moors and the wilder parts of Wales . It makes me dream of wide and lovely spaces with bracing air. Something invigorating.

The second was Sarcococca – an insignificant shrub that you wouldn’t invite to party – but so sour-sweet like sherbet lemons for the nostrils. I was inhaling the refreshing spirit of the early Spring sunshine. Something cheering.

The third was woodsmoke. I could not say if it came from the Oak Hall or the Weald & Downland Open Air Museum, but it took my mind to Beowulf’s mead hall, by way of the smoke-preserved thatch of 10th century  Finns. It tickled my nose with history – and a pang of hunger. I smiled to think of the pervasive reek of kippering near Fortune’s in Whitby. Something homely.

I returned fairly briskly – thinking of other smells as I went past the swiftly-flowing winterbourne. Such a green scent here, lush and damp with growth. A smell of hope. But damp can have another smell: a smell of  rot and despair; of enclosed and festering places. Something disturbing.

The last I will mention is coffee. For me a smell of hard work and enjoyment. Something to do with my writing.

Five things that make me angry

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from MorgueFile

I wrote this thinking of Michael Morpurgo’s splendid indignation in the Richard Dimbleby Lecture on the BBC. I doubt he will mind me re-iterating a few of his points.

So here are some things that make me want to drive the moneylenders out of the temple.

1. Disrespect of our planet

  • plastic bags in tree tops, in turtle’s stomachs – litter anywhere – ‘someone else will clear it up’
  • tampon parts on the beach – the sea doesn’t matter – out of sight, out of mind
  • sofas dumped in woodlands – can’t be bothered to recycle

2. Disrespect of teachers

  • I needed my identity confirmed.
  • The form said my documents could be countersigned by  a variety of professionals including JPs, doctors and estate agents.
  • Teachers were not mentioned – they are lower than estate agents, apparently.

3. Disrespect of others

  • effing and blinding on the bus
  • old ‘dears’ on mobility scooters pushing past teenagers who were minding their own business 
  • people shouting abuse into mobiles

4. Disrespect of opinions

  • adversarial politics where point-scoring matters so no-one listens
  • management where domination matters so no-one listens
  • bureaucracy where creeping up through the system matters and no-one listens

5. Disrespect of children

  • cutting back libraries and school music and school trips and visitors to schools and teachers and books
  • promoting  celebrity culture and junk food and consumerism and promiscuity
  • testing them to distraction so they close up with fear

What really enrages you?

Bloglet

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It was snowing when I walked down the road into the West Dean Estate this morning. I could feel the little pills of white plocking against my coat. I shivered and pulled my hat further down over my ears. I stuck my hands further down inside my pockets and felt the northerly wind pass through my all-too- hastily chosen trousers. 

My back curled protectively around the heat of my heart. I wanted to hold it in. I inspected a puddle by my feet . Was it frozen? I rushed on, feeling my thighs glowing. They would look an attractive shade of day-glo pink, I thought. 

My head was bent down, tucking my scarce warmth beneath my chin. I passed a lovely cottage garden – topiary, beansticks and a green-touched set of windchimes faintly sounding. And there beneath the hedge, snowdrops, diffident among the rough cut grass. And a little farther, a single winter aconite. And farther still, the ghosts of crocuses yet to come danced spindly rounds in the orchard.

Chris Coomber

I thought: I could have just looked  the way I was going. Could have just focused on the job in hand. But what I would have missed.  The snowdrops’ heads dangling on threads, each petal fingerprinted by jack-in-the-green.  The aconite a globe of promised sunshine and the crocus tribe mustering to see off old Winter. 

by Tim Bray

And now at home, I think of my characters. Which of them would see the Jenny Wren tip into the hedge? Which of them would keep their gaze on the grey and haily road? 

by Isfugl

What about you?

Why bother?

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You might well wonder. Why would any sane person face rejection after rejection, hours of work for an income of maybe £5k,  and people asking ‘so what’s your proper job?’ or ‘are you the next JK Rowling?’ One answer, of course, is that children’s writers and illustrators are not sane!

A recent  SCBWI group topic set by Candy Gourlay  was  “Authors and Illustrators in Waiting … How are you coping?‏”  Paul Morton of Hot Frog Graphics came up with an excellent response:

 ‘ keep at it and keep believing’

 I rather thought that could well be a SCBWI motto. It also set me to thinking about optimism in general.

It is hope that that inspires people to make New Year’s resolutions. Although we can be a little dismissive of such clichéd vows, we have to admire and learn from those who do make it through the grotty days of January and February sticking to their promises. The tough nuts who carry on cycling to the gym, the reformed smokers, the impressive slimmers – each deserves our admiration. Indeed, any sort of promise or vow is predicated on hope: I believe it is another reason why we love weddings, and why a baby brings joy.

Sometimes the sheer difficulty of attaining your dream can make hope shrivel. It seems hidden, and keeping going seems more a case of dogged determination than optimism. Tolkien had Aragorn hidden and named Estel  (Hope) as a child. He made the future king of Gondor wander the wilderness for the best part of sixty years. He suffers moments of terrible self -doubt:  “An ill fate is on me this day, and all that I do goes  amiss”  – but his stubborn determination and belief in good over evil end in triumph.

It is also hope that makes campaigners speak up for the things that matter to them:  campaigner Steve Ross and children’s writer Michael Morpurgo bother to call on the government to “stand up” for libraries on Radio 4’s “You and Yours” as part of the show’s debate into library closures.  Why Kate Mosse, Philip Pulman and Alan Gibbons keep banging on about this too – because they have hope. And it was why anti-slavery campaigner Olaudah Equiano wrote:

I hope to have the satisfaction of seeing the renovation of liberty and justice, resting on the British government, to vindicate the honour of our common nature.

Just as well something else other than  the world’s ills came out of Pandora’s Box.

Memento Mori

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I’m writing this in The Drift In Surf Cafe in The Witterings. Two ladies sit in the window corner looking out at the rain discussing the celebrities that have died recently…

            ‘You don’t know when you might be struck down’

            ‘Mmm – you’ve got to make the best of what’s happening now.’

January 2011 seems to be haunted by death – the news and real life seem to be full of it. We heard of Gerry Rafferty and Mick Karn – notable for moments of musical fame that gave pleasure to many – and Pete Postlethwaite who left a remarkable body of work in a relatively short life.

As a children’s writer, it was Dick King-Smith that really caught my attention. So many people tweeted and commented with regret at his passing: parents who loved reading ‘The Hodgeheg’ out loud, children who remember ‘The Queen’s Nose’ with great affection, and my old teacher colleagues who used his life story to enthuse young writers. He was an inspiration for late starters like me too – though sadly I never told him. But I do not grieve for him.

Instead I delight in the lovely books he left behind, ‘Babe’ the popular film inspired by his ‘Sheep Pig’ and the happy memories of so many people. I feel the same about L.M. Boston: she had saved the Manor at Hemingford Grey, brought comfort to pilots in WWII with the wind-up gramophone and entertained, scared and thrilled many children with the ‘Green Knowe’ books. I treasure a letter I have from her written in her 90s. My only sadness is not visiting the Manor while she was alive – the moral is: write to your favourite authors sooner rather than later!

Dick King Smith was an atheist, I learnt, which made me think about all sorts of alternative burials. I am much moved by the effort loving families make to create a special event; including music that really means something, sending the body off with hand-picked mementoes, and well chosen readings. Celebration lives alongside grief.

It’s an odd thing to write – but I like handmade willow coffins and beautifully printed card ones as well as the traditional wooden ones. I like woodland eco burials – and six foot high weeping angels. I enjoy a good graveyard and obituaries are a great read: Radio 4’s Last Word is well worth a listen. It is the sense of lives well lived that matters.

The writers of ‘The Archers’ tapped into that theme with the momentous 60th Anniversary episode: Nigel Pargetter was a character who loved life. Fictional deaths move us when they resonate with our sense of what life is.

As a person of faith, I believe there is more, but that’s no excuse for wasting this one. Carpe Diem works well whatever your beliefs.

Seven Spirits of Advent

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Seven moments to squash my inner Scrooge

  • the Rotary  Club Santa-in-his- sleigh float coming by our house with ridiculously loud and jolly music,  grown men in daft costumes jingling past and my sons in their twenties going out to look
  • a friend’s gift of a white swan’s feather, carefully retrieved from the river, tagged and dedicated to my writer self
  • a beautiful boy in his adoring grandmother’s arms, wide-eyed and serious with delight – he pointed at the Christmas party guests and a model Father Christmas, wanting each named and remembered
  • a shy smile from a gentle giant of a shop assistant when  I gave him a teeny gift of chocolates because his wit and good humour had delighted me all year
  • unabashedly belting out Christmas carols – and people being kind enough to say they enjoyed it
  • the pause of reflective quiet after two lovely opera singers sang Rutter’s Angel Carol at the Beach House
  • the light from the Cathedral pouring colour out onto the snow