creative writing

The Food of Love

You’ll be eager to know how the Ilkley Literature Festival Fringe event went, no doubt, if you read last week’s post about the preparations. It was every bit as wonderful as I’d dared to hope, and then some.

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OneMonkey took loads of photos of us

The sun was warm, the breeze not too strong (though we did have a moment of concern with the pages of music at one point – mostly the clothes pegs and bulldog clips did their job). Past and present members of Ilkley Writers turned up to support us, and a couple of Wharfedale Poets for good measure. Add in the various other friends and family, festival-goers and passers-by and we had an impressively large audience – I did a rough headcount at some point and got to 60, the steward thinks there were 70 (plus 4 dogs) – sitting on benches, standing on the grass and generally having a pleasant Saturday lunchtime.

For those interested in glimpses behind the scenes, here’s a photo of a couple of pages of my script (it happens to be the end of the pop song tribute, Variations on the theme of young love):

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Stage directions are hand-written so I don’t accidentally read them out, and there’s a list of the pieces that come after that and before my next one.

Everyone seemed to enjoy it, several came up afterwards to tell us so. I was still excited hours later, but that might partly be relief that it didn’t rain, nothing blew away, and the audience could hear us OK. Emily and I spent the rest of the day with tunes from each other’s pieces stuck in our heads, and I’ve inspired Keely to dig out some cassettes from her youth. If you’ve been round here a while you’ll know how much music means to me (hence, I suppose, this entire event) so I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself.

The general cry was ‘When can we do it again?’ so plans are already afoot. If any of them involve a recording I’ll point you at it, but in the meantime I’ll leave you with another picture of us and you can either remember what a lovely time we all had, or imagine what it was like to be there.

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Roz York, Emily Devane, and JY Saville in her trusty old biker jacket (Black Sabbath hoodie hidden by music stand)

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Musically accompanied at the fringe

Remember that homage to the 3-minute pop song I told you I was writing, back in July? Well, that and the other pieces by me, Emily Devane and Rosalind York are all ready for our event at the Ilkley Literature Festival fringe this Saturday lunchtime, The Food of Love. Did you spot the mention of live music? That’s the ultra-exciting bit, which meant we went to a rehearsal this week at Karen the violinist’s house, and were blown away by musical interpretation.

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Thanks to Karen’s husband for this photo of Emily, Roz and I hard at work (aka drinking tea, playing with the dog, and listening to the musicians)

When I floated the idea of this event (based on a throwaway remark from Emily, months before the fringe application deadline) I had no idea what kind of musical accompaniment we’d have, but between us we knew a few people who might agree to collaborate so we sent the application in and decided to worry about detail if we got selected.

When we heard we’d been given a slot in the programme, Roz suggested asking Keely Hodgson if she and her cello would like to be involved. We all know her from her Purple Room showcase of local musicians and writers (in fact we all read there in June) and I like the sound of a cello, though I still had no idea what form the musical end would take. Keely invited her violinist friend Karen Vaughan into the mix and I had even less clue what the final performance would sound like.

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Karen and Keely genuinely hard at work (thanks again to Karen’s husband for the photo)

We sent Keely our stories and poems, shuffled into some sort of order, and left her to mull it over and discuss it with Karen. What with holidays, work and other commitments we didn’t manage to get together until ten days before the performance! I was nervous as well as excited when I entered the room but as they played the first few bars for Roz to recite her first poem over, I knew this was going to be fantastic.

Keely has chosen just the right music for each piece, and arranged it for herself and Karen so that it works brilliantly. We spent several hours drinking Karen’s tea, reading and re-reading our pieces aloud, while the two musicians experimented with cutting, repeating, playing in different styles. They now have cues written on their scores, like ‘repeat until Poland’, and of course being a writer I made a note of fabulous questions like: Is Carol waking up in a sweat before or after I come in?

I wrote about the benefits of writing with a partner when Roz and I wrote a radio script together, back in March, and I can highly recommend collaborating with musicians as well. Seeing how someone else interprets your work, and hearing it acquire an extra dimension with a punctuating score is magical. If any of you are within striking distance of Ilkley at 1pm on the 29th of September, come along and share the magic at the bandstand on The Grove. It’s free, open air (fingers crossed for a dry day) and unticketed.

 

Short piece at Visual Verse

I’ve got a story called Air of Belonging at Visual Verse in response to this month’s prompt, you can read it here. It’s less than 500 words long, perfect for a tea break. Because September’s guest editor is Carmen Marcus (I recently reviewed her novel How Saints Die) and because I’ve been banging on about class again anyway, my sci-fi story is kind of informed by the row about working class access to the arts. While still being very much related to the prompt image, which is a woman in ballgown and breathing apparatus, playing a harp. Intrigued? Read everyone else’s response to it as well, as usual it’s sent all the contributing writers off in different directions, which is pretty impressive for such specificity.

The Crows Remember, an illustrated fairytale

At the start of this year the illustrator Bonnie Helen Hawkins (accompanied by a story from novelist Joanne Harris) kicked off her 52 Crows project, in which she vowed to draw a crow every Monday all year, to illustrate a story or poem. This week I was lucky enough to have her choose my story The Crows Remember as the focus of her drawing and man is it good! She’s gone colourful for this one, picking up on the wildflowers I mention and using them to beautiful effect. You can see her gorgeous drawing (and read my story) on her blog. I urge you to go look at all the other wonderful pictures and read everyone else’s stories and poems as well.

The Crows Remember is a sad story, as pretty much everyone who’s read it so far has pointed out, but I was going for fairytale/folktale and there’s often an undercurrent of sadness or something dark at the core of those so I think I found the tone I was looking for. It’s set (though I didn’t specify in the story) in Swaledale, which to me is a mysterious place populated by the shades of my ancestors, and some sheep – all of 30 miles and a couple of dales away from where I live, but when you don’t drive it’s not an easy place to visit. Unless maybe you’re fitter than I am and own a bicycle. I digress…

I hope you enjoy the story. I don’t see how you could fail to be impressed by the drawing. And if you’re anywhere near Bath, I think there are plans for a 52 Crows exhibition next year, keep an eye on Bonnie’s Twitter for details.

Thousand Monkeys, Ten Years

Ten years ago, OneMonkey (not that he was known as that yet) said, “I’ve been reading about these new ‘blogs’, I think you should get one.” Dubious, but having learnt in our nearly ten years together that he was not short of good ideas, I let him show me some. Although, since we didn’t have broadband, he had to take me to the library first. “What will I write about?” I asked. I’ve been trying to figure that out ever since.

Back in 2008 I’d been writing on and off since I was a kid, submitting on and off for ten years or more, but I was just beginning to get the odd success and although it felt a little odd (presumptuous, maybe) I did refer to myself as a writer in that first post. Weirdly, right now I’m feeling like less of a writer than I have in a while – after that eighteen months of dedicated writing time I’m back to the situation of those early posts, not quite fitting writing around a day job (even though these days I work four days a week instead of five), procrastinating too much, blogging when I feel like my time would be better spent writing fiction (see also: procrastinating too much). Not to mention that HMRC recently dealt a blow to my self-image by taking away my status of self-employed writer (it’s great that they’ve made it so you have to earn over £1000 from your self-employedness in a year before you need to suffer their bureaucracy, but many a writer’s fragile ego is about to get a good kicking, I suspect).

I doubt I’d have expected to keep at this blog for so long, if I’d given the matter any thought at all when I began. When I wrote those early posts, OneMonkey and I lived with our cat in a rented house with a small garden; I think OneMonkey was a student again and we’d both recently been unemployed for quite a while. Because we didn’t have broadband, I wrote the posts in a text file (on my desktop computer!) then connected to the internet when it was cheap rate, just long enough to paste the words in and press the publish button. We’ve moved twice since then, ending up about fifteen miles away in our own flat with a bigger garden (sadly no longer with the cat) and I’m still behind the times with my not-always-on wi-fi and my laptop instead of a smartphone and constant connectivity, but it does feel like I’ve made a technological leap forward.

I’ve read nearly 500 books since I started this blog, many of which I’ve reviewed, quite a few of which I’ve been given free of charge for that purpose, in fact (man, would I have been excited at the prospect of that, ten years ago). I’ve been to writing workshops, entered competitions, had stories published, got rejections from more and more impressive places. I’ve written fiction that must number in the hundreds of thousands of words. I’ve become a better writer.

What about in another ten years? Will society have reached the stage of direct neural connection to the internet, and will I have upgraded to a smartphone? Will OneMonkey and I have moved again, about to turn fifty (and celebrate our thirtieth anniversary) in a house with a more manageable garden? Will publishers still be dealing with expensive hardbacks, and will I have got my act together and submitted manuscripts of sufficient quality to enough agents that they might also be dealing with me? Who knows, but I’ll keep writing and, all other things being equal, I’ll keep blogging so you’ll be able to find out here.

A preemptive playlist

Thus far, I’ve got about an hour and a half of the playlist I’m putting together for my fortieth birthday party. So what? Well, I’m not forty for another eighteen months, and I have no plans for a party when I get there.

Thus began the piece I sent to DNA magazine last year for their first issue (it was longlisted, then pipped by another playlist piece, unfortunately). We’re in the 3-month period in question, so I thought I’d share it here. Now read on…

I’ve never been one for parties, even as a student. I went to two eighteenth birthday parties thrown by friends of a friend, and then nothing. No-one in my circle had parties for their twenty-first or thirtieth birthdays, the few who’ve already hit forty haven’t thrown a party for that either. There were no engagement parties, nobody’s hit any milestone wedding anniversaries yet, and the single divorce was not the cause for celebration they’re made out to be in films. We don’t do Christmas or New Year parties, or any-excuse-for-a-barbecue parties in the summer. We did throw a house-warming party once, for two guests, and all four of us spent most of the evening chatting in the kitchen.

Next year in the space of three months my other half will turn forty, we’ll have been together twenty years, and then I’ll turn forty. Surely if ever there was a prompt to have a party, those three months would be it. Plenty to celebrate, lots to look back on, a broad timeframe with which to work. I realised that a couple of years ago, hence I started putting the playlist together. I knew that if I was going to throw only one party in my adult life I had to get the music right and ensure the optimum level of dancing. The only problem is the guests.

I have a crossover of musical taste with some but not all of my friends and close family. About half of them would hate at least half the music. In a way that doesn’t matter because the only potential guests keen on dancing are my parents and their hips will no longer allow it. Which highlights another party problem: is it safe to mix friends and family? My eldest sister didn’t exactly ban family from her fortieth, she just strongly discouraged us. It makes sense, few of us show the same version of ourselves to everyone, and there are anecdotes you probably don’t want your friends recounting in front of your mum. So, friends only?

Even if I figured that one out I’d still have a venue to find. Our flat will hold half a dozen guests comfortably, assuming no-one wants to dance. Then there’s food, drink, timing. The one simple, controllable thing is the playlist. I’ve got another eighteen months to fine-tune it so it’s perfect for the only party I’ll throw in my adult life. Then next year, sometime during those three key months, my other half and I can dance to it alone in our flat.

A Day in the Life, or should it be Paperback Writer?

As an insight into the writer’s life (and maybe into how procrastination works) I thought I’d treat you to a day in the life of a part-time writer. Since starting the new day job in mid-April, I’ve been doing that commuting thing Monday to Thursday, and Fridays have been my writing day. For a variety of reasons, most of them not at all fun, most of my Fridays have in fact been spent on other things but this week I had a genuine all-day chance to sit at a laptop, or with pen poised over a favoured notebook, to write.

Let’s see what I actually did.

I started my day with connections to other people, which seems reasonable enough. I dipped into Twitter for a couple of minutes (it will eat whole hours, if you let it) and spotted a submission opportunity. Then I caught up with the emails I’d been ignoring all week, and identified another couple of submission opportunities from writing newsletters and the like. I also offered my services to an embryonic working class writers’ festival which has been sparked by Natasha Carthew, who I think is Cornish. I remember reading an article she wrote in The Guardian about the lack of (particularly positive) representation of working class families in children’s books.

After a lunchbreak I wrote a few hundred words of the semi-rural fantasy but I was stuck on a scene so I figured I’d do something else for a bit.

So I sat with a notebook and pen and brainstormed an idea for a new story. Partway through this process it suddenly became imperative to know whether that was a Telecaster or a Rickenbacker I could hear at the end of a Swinging Blue Jeans song I was concurrently listening to for research purposes. A quick Google revealed photos showing them using both, so none the wiser I resumed listening and ploughed on. Of course the question now arises, why was I listening to the Swinging Blue Jeans for research? Well, I’m doing an homage to the three-minute pop song for the Ilkley Literature Festival Fringe this September so I went to Billy Fury on Spotify and hit a random Related Artist. I also worked my way through Freddie and the Dreamers and Wayne Fontana. The things I do for art.

Later still, I went to a secondhand and antiquarian book fair (in sweltering heat! Why would I do such an idiotic thing?) and coveted many expensive books on northern industrial history, and dialect. There were half a dozen I would have loved to buy but they ranged in price from £70 to £250; if you’ve paid that much for a book you’d never dare read it in case of finger smudges and tea drips. Or I wouldn’t, anyway. I treat (tret? I never write it down; the dictionary claims the past tense is treated but not in West Yorkshire it isn’t) myself to a 19th century history of Bradford, which of course is important research for a number of stories I haven’t written yet, not to mention the semi-rural fantasy novel I’m writing now, honest.

At least half an hour was lost to me just having a quick flick through the new book when I got it home.

Then I rang my dad to tell him about said book, and coincidentally he’d bought me a book on northern industrial history from a charity shop the day before. Way cheaper than anything at the book fair, naturally. Cue conversation about local history and old books.

After tea it was getting kind of late to do any serious work and the heavy rain was hypnotic, and the storm light made the valley look like an enhanced photograph. But then I made a cup of tea and sat down at the desk with every intention of concerted effort. And wrote a blog post.