Words Unlimited

Quote of The Week No 6

"Whatever the subject I try to get myself out of the way so that the truth of that subject can come through me into the work. As Brancusi said: It's not difficult to make a work of art. The difficulty lies in being in the right state to do it."

Artist Maggi Hambling

This quote comes from a book, The Aldeburgh Scallop, which charts the making of Hambling's wonderful piece, Scallop, that sits on Aldeburgh beach.

Scallop, a piece of public art enjoyed by thousands, emerged from a very private vision and engagement with the sea.

If you’ve never seen Scallop you can check out my photos of it, here. 

More on the book, here. 

Books on The BBC

 

So many good book programmes on the BBC at the moment

- a useful list of them here.

Cover Story

Ever wondered about the kinds of decisions that go into creating an eye-catching book cover? The kind of cover that makes you want to pick up the book and is also true to the story inside?

This is the hardback edition of Emma Donoghue's Booker shortlisted novel, Room.

This is the paperback edition:

So, what's the big deal?

Read here, the story of how Picador tried out other versions.

You can view the images they rejected. You'll learn a lot about the marketing of books! You can also let Picador know if they got it right.

Book of The Month - January

A tough call to choose one book this month, but that’s the task I’ve set myself, so here goes. I’ve read quite a mix of fiction, poetry and non-fiction in January, but the book I’ve settled on is, Sunset Park, by Paul Auster.

Why?  Because though I finished it three weeks ago I’m still thinking about it, both as a reader and a writer. The characters and the story still linger. So what did happen to Miles Heller? I find myself thinking.

As a writer, and someone who runs workshops, this book reminds me to be careful with the mantra, ‘show don’t tell.’ Auster is a master storyteller. He pulls off that trick of holding the characters at some distance from the reader, while still making you care about what happens to them. You can always ‘hear’ the voice of the narrator – and he sounds a lot like Paul Auster to me – but it’s never off-putting. It’s a voice that mesmerises, a voice you soon trust. And just so you know, he knows what he’s doing, on pages 10/11 two characters are discussing the function of an omniscient narrator, which, for good measure, Auster gives us not only at the start of a paragraph, but in italics. Yet, these touches never feel overly self-conscious, but rather seamlessly embedded in the tale.   

Set in Florida and New York in 2008/9 it’s a post Lehman Brothers/post-9/11 book; it’s also the story of a father and son; of a family damaged by a trauma left unexamined. Contemporary, yes, but it reads like a timeless fable.

A fascinating book, one I’ll re-read.

More on Paul Auster, here.

Cuts & Marketing - Dark Materialists?

Thanks to Jane Cullen in Ludlow for sending me this copy of an impassioned speech, made on 20 January in Oxford, by Philip Pullman, addressing what he calls, 'market fundamentalism' that is threatening public libraries and book publishing. You can download the full text here:

Download Pullman on Libraries&Publishing.

Who's Afraid of T. S. Eliot?

Well quite a lot of people, it seems. Especially if they had a bad experience at school reading, say, The Wasteland. I've just published a piece that explores the common fears and prejudices that keep the so-called 'general' reader away from poetry. You can read it here.

If you're in a book group, reading fiction, biography and general non-fiction, the Poetry Book Society would like to introduce you to the poets on the short list for this Year's T S Eliot Prize, announced yesterday - ten diverse writers ranging across subjects from the Iraq war to surreal tales of urban life and much in between.

You can get a Reading Group discount on all the books, here.

Download sample poems from all 10 poets, here.

Vote for which poet you'd like to win, here.

Andrea Levy At Goldsmiths

Last night Andrea Levy did the first public reading of her new novel, The Long Song. The event was part of the on-going Richard Hoggart Lectures in Literature.

Eagerly awaited after the triumph of Small Island, The Long Song was a book that initially, Levy says, she was reluctant to write.

After finishing Small Island, having explored the lives of those, like her father, who arrived in England on the Windrush, she found herself wondering, "What were my parents doing in the Caribbean in the first place?"

This line of inquiry, lead inevitably, to slavery. Could she face the research?

What set The Long Song going was trying to imagine beyond the horrors of slavery, trying to imagine the "chatter and clatter of people building their lives, families and communities..." Levy wanted to tell a story that would engage the reader.

Last night, with three short extracts, and a bold, embodied reading Levy certainly engaged the Goldsmiths audience.  Narrator July, has a voice and story that makes you sit up and listen.

Levy's gift is not simply finding the story to tell but finding the angle and particular voice to carry the story.  I can still hear July's voice calling me back to come and listen to the rest of her life.

With Levy's unique mix of a searching intelligence, wit, warmth, and patient crafting she has slid between the pages of official records and imagined the story that history didn't tell. July's is a story that needed to be told. The way Levy tells it the world can't help but listen.

She was candid about her writing habits - working in short sections; the first draft done in long hand in the local library. This gets put on the computer then worked up. She writes in the afternoon having dealt with the rest of life in the morning. "I don't trust myself to write more than two hours a day."

Levy's account of how she came to write The Long Song is a story in itself - Click here to read, The Writing of The Long Song by Andrea Levy, and also to hear her read an extract from the book.

No Goldsmiths next week, it's Reading Week. I know what I'll be reading...

Amy Sackville

Amy Sackville graduated from the MA in Creative & Life Writing at Goldsmiths' in 2008. Next week sees the publication of her debut novel, The Still Point.

From today, the book is serialised on Radio 4's Book At Bedtime. The Still Point is a compelling story of, and poetic meditation on, an ill-fated Arctic expedition, and the hidden cracks in relationships and family myth that lurk just beneath the surface.

Here, Amy talks about her fascination with the Arctic - "I seem to incline to wilderness" - not minding about messy first drafts and the importance of reading at breakfast ...

 

 

PJ: The details of Edward's Arctic expedition are so vividly imagined - the goggles, the anorak, the diary entries, food rations, bears, sleeping conditions etc - did you have access to a collection of objects or records of such an expedition?

AS: No, but I spent many hours reading and researching historical accounts and contemporary texts, as well as collecting images of the Arctic. The first book I read was Barry Lopez's Arctic Dreams, which fed into my fascination with the region and my first imaginings of the ice and the light as they change through the seasons. Several incidents in the novel are modified versions of real events lifted from various turn-of-the-century accounts - I restricted my historical reading to that period for the most part, for the sake of accuracy and also to get a sense of the tone for Edward's diary. Nansen's Farthest North, which is cited as an immediate influence on Edward's journey - he sets out to emulate and better Nansen using the same techniques - was essential reading, both for borrowed detail and for his style, wistful and ambitious by turns.

PJ: The Arctic sections are powerful; this feels like 'necessary writing' - what is your relationship to such a landscape?

AS: I regret to say that I have never been there. I am interested in imagined spaces, in mental landscapes. I was drawn to the region, initially, as a space which resists mapping - which shifts and deceives - and the idea of two different responses to that, embodied in the dreams of a couple - a feeling of liberation and awe opposed to frustration and fear. So Simon and Julia's characters, from very early on, were conditioned by those fundamental, opposing frames of mind.     

The only comparable experience I have to draw on is of being in the Alps - a very different landscape, of course, but it certainly helped to have a sense of how snow behaves, how light behaves when reflected by snow and ice.

PJ: Your omniscient narrator is necessary in order to hold in view and move between past and present. How did you settle on that voice?

AS: That voice emerged from a short piece of writing, an experiment with the notion of the omniscient narrator, in which the reader was invited to observe a couple sleeping, at close range. It was when I worked out that the couple in that story were the same as the couple I had been thinking about in relation to the Arctic material that things began to click into place - much of that experimental piece went into the first chapter, including the opening line. As the story developed, the narrator became, as you say, an essential element, allowing me to move between time periods, between perspectives, and also through the empty house; but it was really an instinctive impulse in the first instance. The voice enabled the story, rather than it being a process of working backwards from the material to find a way to tell it.

PJ: Did you ever consider making the narrator a minor character or one of the main characters retrospectively telling the story?

AS: In the workshop [the MA at Goldsmiths] people asked if it might be Edward's ghost. I did hear it as a male voice. It's quite domineering and intrusive at the start but once that's established it phases out and, at times, overlaps with Julia imagining Edward's story. Also, given the historical element of the novel, it made sense to draw on the 19th Century tradition of addressing the reader. Towards the end there are things that the voice doesn't know, the voice admits that there are things that are unknowable. One of the first thoughts when writing the book was the idea of how we know each other, the extent to which its possible to know each other; and the way we tell stories about ourselves and each other. I wanted to find a way to tell the story that addressed that.

PJ: You finished the MA in 2008 - was the novel finished at the end of the course?

AS: I started the novel at the beginning of the course, and it was substantially finished by the end. It takes me a while to get around to writing, but once I do, I write quite quickly; I think I do a lot of the composing in my head. Once I'd worked out two key elements - the circadian structure in the present day on one hand, and Edward and Emily's story, on the other - the details of the plot came easily for the most part. So by the end of the course, all the notes were more or less there, but not necessarily in the right order. The hard part was the structure, and that was what I worked on with my agent and editor for almost another year after the course ended - it took several edits to get it right, to ensure that the balance between past and present was working, and the shifts between them. It was difficult at first to tear the whole thing apart - it was initially in three big sections, and has been cut up and reshuffled into six. But every time I took the plunge and made a massive structural change, I had a feeling of drawing nearer to a pre-existing shape, a rightness that I was trying to discover rather than create. It can never be perfect and perhaps there are other ways I might have done it, but I'm more or less happy with where everything is, now.

PJ: How did it feel to finally realise the project?

AS: I don't remember having a moment when I thought 'it's finished!' I had the last paragraph written quite early on, and when I got to the point of pasting it in, I knew there was so much still to be done on the book that it didn't feel complete. And then it went through so many rounds of editing and proofing that when I came to the last check on the page proofs, it felt quite detached from me. Having said that, I saw an advance copy for the first time this morning, and am still having trouble believing that it exists at all and isn't just an unusually substantial hallucination. It has a map. I'm very pleased with the map. And the design is absolutely beautiful. Portobello have been fantastic throughout the process and I'm delighted with how it's turned out.

PJ: Given your academic studies [MPhil, Modernism, Exeter College, Oxford], obviously key Modernist writers - Joyce, Woolf, Nabakov - are your 'mentors'. How did you make the shift from critical, academic writing to such a fully imagined piece of fiction that is so strikingly your own?

AS: I have never found reading other writers while I am in the process of writing to be an impediment - quite the opposite; I find it invigorating to return to texts that I love. I went back to T.S. Eliot again and again while I was writing, I wanted to work in references in an organic, instinctive way. In some ways my academic training is helpful; I turned to that way of thinking as I read over what I'd written, to clarify broad thematic concerns and realise implicit connections that are not overtly stated (the role of women in the book, and the importance of surrogate feminine relationships, for example). But I also have to put this analytical part of my brain to sleep while in the process of composition. When the book is a finished thing, it goes out into the world to be subject to a hundred different critical and ideological interpretations. If I attempt to anticipate and answer every one of those interpretations while I'm writing, to approach my own work from an academic perspective before it's finished, I'll drive myself mad.

PJ: So, for you, reading is an organic part of the writing process? Can you say a bit more?

AS: I'll sit over breakfast and read for half an hour, an hour, before writing. If I didn't read I'd be alone with what I'm trying to make and I'd lose sight of what the point of that is.  Largely it's a style thing, partly reminding myself why I want to write in the first place. I go back to key passages I've read hundred of times, to remind myself what writing can do.  Also, reading on a daily basis everything feeds in, regardless of whether its directly relevant. It's interesting how those random choices affect what you are working on.

PJ: Life after MA - the framework has gone - what new framework have you constructed for your writing?

AS: I am still in contact with my fellow students from the MA; we meet monthly to exchange and discuss work. This for me is one of the most invaluable things to have come out of the course. Aside from that, I fear I haven't yet found a new, entirely successful framework. Completing The Still Point imposed one - there were deadlines, and specific tasks to be achieved. Now I'm trying to start something new, and to find that rhythm again, the discipline and courage to create from scratch, which is so different from the last editing stages where you're honing what's already there. I have always kept a journal, where I think through what it is I'm trying to achieve, and that is useful. I still use the techniques I learned in your seminars; working in short bursts, creating exploratory fragments which I may or may not use, and remembering not to not beat myself up if I don't get it right first time.

PJ: Has getting published changed the way you see yourself as a writer?

AS: Absolutely. Perhaps it shouldn't, but I'm an insecure soul and I need validation. I'm also quite career-minded, so when I gave up having a full-time job a few years ago to focus on writing, it was a scary decision for me that I can now feel is justified. But I'm also now feeling the pressure to write another one.

PJ: What surprised/delighted/shocked you about the process of getting published and getting the book to readers?

AS: I worked in publishing so the process of actually making a book was quite familiar to me in some ways. My first meeting at Portobello was a rather overwhelming experience - before going in, I think I had sort of been expecting to have to convince them of my worth, so I was somewhat taken aback by their enthusiasm, and by suddenly being the centre of attention.

The idea of strangers reading my work terrifies me. The idea of my family and friends reading my work terrifies me. The idea of critics reading my work terrifies me. I am considering becoming a hermit.

PJ: Are you still working in publishing? How does the day job fit in with the writing?

AS: No. When I worked in publishing it was a small company so I had a hand in everything from commissioning and devising new book projects, sub and copy-editing, proofreading, working with designers, picture research, occasionally contributing bits of text where needed... I learned a lot about how a book is made, but it was hard work. There was no way I could do a job like that and have space left in my head to create something of my own.  Since then I've worked in various part-time temp jobs, mainly doing general administrative stuff, and mainly in the third sector. It keeps me in pocket, means I don't spend all my time alone with myself, and it's something I can leave behind at the end of the day. I also started teaching Creative Writing this year with the Open University, which I'm finding really useful as a way of staying engaged with the processes and techniques of writing; and it's hard to go on at your students about discipline if you don't have any yourself, so it keeps me working. I'm hoping eventually to move into more teaching and leave the temping behind.

PJ: Can you tell us a bit about the new book you are working on? Does it have a title yet?

AS: No title - I didn't have one for The Still Point until very late, when it suddenly seemed blindingly obvious that that was what it should be. So I'm not too worried about that. It's very early days, but I think it will be very different - which is making me a little nervous. It's first person, there's no historical element, it's a much narrower focus. And it's set in Orkney - I have a grant from the Arts Council to go up there for a research trip. I seem to incline to wilderness.

PJ: What are you reading at the moment?

AS: I'm reading Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, which was a Christmas gift - I don't know her other work at all. It's wonderful - a memoir of sorts, drawing on her observations of the natural world and her reading and all sorts of apocrypha and philosophy. Her descriptions are beautiful, accurate, startling - she describes a gibbous moon as being 'softly frayed, like the heel of a sock.' I love that.

PJ: What advice would you give to someone just embarking on a first novel?

AS: I'm not sure I'm qualified to be dispensing advice, but I suppose I would just say, you will get bored and frustrated and you will have stodgy patches and days of self-doubt and despair, but remember what it's like when you find just the word you wanted, when you write a line that sings, and keep going - and remember it's easier to work with something than with nothing.   

A Fresh Start?

All this snow, spread out like a blank page, feels to me like an invitation to write - to start something completely different.

 
At the beginning of the new writing year are you ready to get going on a brand new project - to follow this snowy path and see where it leads?

 

Perhaps you'll take a fresh look at your work-in-progress, get fired up to finally finish your novel or complete your collection of poems.

Returning to my notebook and computer after the wonderful lazy days of Christmas I'm excited by the sight of clean white paper and a bright blank screen. There are doubts too - aren't there always? Starting something new tends to induce a mixture of excitement and apprehension.  

 

The exciting bit is fine. That's when you don't notice the time passing. Not so good is when the doubts creep in, when that fresh white sheet starts to look like slush with so many crossings out: Will this mish mash of scenes ever make a novel? Yeah, great description but is it a poem?

So, you stop. What - giving up so soon? As Jane reminded me recently [see her comment's at the end of the interview with Bronia] Alan Bennett says, "you're only a writer when you're writing." I remember Zadie Smith telling an audience that she says, "I write," rather than, "I'm a writer."

Yes, it's getting the words down that counts.  So, how to dump the doubt get the words flowing again? 

Good Company

Why not take a short break [I know, you're now not writing, but stick with this, you soon will be] and seek the company of a fellow writer? Before Christmas I had a cup of coffee in the company of Paul Auster. After less than half an hour, having listened to what he had to say, I returned eagerly to my desk. Oh, yes, and Zadie Smith bucked me up no end last week.

Really?

I keep the company of writers close to hand in the form of books by writers about writing and their writing lives. 'Writerly comment' as opposed to literary criticism. Insights from the inside of the writing life and the writing process. The gold standard classic for me is A Writer's Diary: being extracts from the Diary of Virginia Woolf, Edited by Leonard Woolf.          

If you had book tokens in your Christmas stocking you might want to spend them on some good company. Here are a few titles I can recommend.

The Gift, by Lewis Hyde. "I tell every writer they must read this book," said Margaret Atwood during a Q & A session at the ICA more years ago than I can remember. It was pre-email, pre-Amazon. I scribbled down author and title but found it was only available in America and gave up. For years the scrap of paper with the details was pinned to my corkboard. In 2006 when Canongate - urged on by Atwood it seems - published the book here I finally bought it. Though written in 1979 its message is more vital today given the way the recession has hit publishing. Hyde shows that there is value in all of the writing you choose to give out and, perhaps, a price to be paid if you hold it back. It's no self-help or 'how to' but a thoughtful book on the implications of choosing, or not choosing to write.

Changing My Mind, by Zadie Smith. Smith, one of many authors who gave a glowing recommendation on the cover of The Gift, has recently published her own collection of essays.  Reading the piece called 'That Crafty Feeling' was how I got to be cheered up by Zadie last week. There's also a wonderful section on the work of the late David Foster Wallace. It includes some inspirational quotes from interviews with him. This book is definitely one for the 'good company' shelf. Smith is intelligent, witty but above all so readable.

Page After Page and Chapter After Chapter, both by Heather Sellers. If you want something a bit more hands-on then try these two titles. Sellers has taught for years on university creative writing programmes in the States. These books are pitched at that market, so you might find yourself, like me, biting your tongue at her use of the word 'sucks' as in, "you think your writing sucks." But get beneath that and these are gems - part memoir, part meditation on the art of writing, part motivational manual. Each short chapter lasts a cup of coffee.

The Paris Review Interviews. These are also published by Canongate and there are now 4 volumes. The interview with Paul Auster that I mentioned is in Vol 4, just out. These include interviews with poets too. They're packed with wonderful insight into some of the most remarkable writing lives of the last fifty years and more.

Writing Poetry: the expert guide, by Fiona Sampson. This is a recent addition to my shelves, published last year. Despite its somewhat grandiose sub-title [well, Sampson is a prolific poet and editor of Poetry Review so we may forgive her] this is a series of thoughtful, intelligent and entirely approachable chapters that speak from the inside of the process of writing poetry. I particularly enjoyed the chapter 'Creative Disobedience' - has your page turned to slush because you are trying to be too polite, too rule-bound in your writing? Another Alan Bennett gem comes to mind: he's talked of wanting be more "vulgar" in his writing instead of "timidly toeing the line."

A cup of coffee, and dip into one of these and you'll soon be back at the keyboard. Or, why not try unpacking the suitcases in the new writing prompt I posted yesterday?

Happy Writing New Year ...