'Coming Home'

Now the Neverendum is over, the right choice made (in my opinion)  I can put my focus and my writing energies elsewhere.

One event I didn’t get round to describing was a community project called ‘Coming Home.’ It was initiated by people from the new University of the Highlands and Islands which has, because of the terrain it serves, a ridiculous number of campuses across the most northern parts of Scotland. As far as I could gather this project was part of the ‘Music in the Community’ course, but I could be wrong about that. Certainly there was plenty of music involved. The writing group, and other local groups, were invited to join in the creation of a multi-media piece to arise out of the work and inspirational input from the members of these groups. All very vague, and it didn’t immediately find takers. The people who did roll along to the early meetings reported back that they were putting together a .... er ... um... thingy. Eventually, after a bit of persuasion, I went along to see what it was all about. 

They had already put in the ground-work with brain-storming sessions. They’d chosen a beautiful poem written by one of our group to open with, a violinist had composed music to follow it, and our script-writer had scripted some dialogue. Happily I had a poem I wrote ages ago called ‘Small Town’ which is a pastiche of a day in the life of the High Street (above which I lived for long enough to feel I was justified in calling myself a part of it.) ‘Quite Early One Morning ’ it isn’t but it did help pull the disparate pieces together and I was very proud to be able to read it in two parts, day and night, for the performances. (First time I have ever had a mike in front of me.) With the help of musical twiddly bits between pieces everyone’s work eventually slotted in seamlessly. We performed it twice with a visual background of film of nearbye beaches, dance, and a comedy sketch set in the weekly Coffee Morning which has become something of an institution in the Town Hall. The same folk turn up, week after week regardless of the cause that is raising money by selling them low-priced coffee and cake and setting up stalls of bric-a-bra home bakes, books, etc. Men and women alike  settle in for a good moan and a blether. 

Most importantly, there was lots of music. The piece opened, was punctuated by and ended with live music from fiddles, guitar and keyboard. 

We did it twice, once in the Tolbooth under the severe, glowering, portraits of town worthies in the Civic Chamber (perhaps not what it’s called but justice was once meted out there and sentences passed. Now the Town Council meets to wrangle over the use of Common Good land and so forth.)

Two days later we took it to Inverness, Eden Court where we performed in the Bishop’s Palace. An alarming number of men in suits were amongst the audience. Not so many suits worn in this part of the world so they are noticeable. The men inside the suits turned out to be the President and notables from the university, and an official from the whisky company who sponsored the project. It went well, was well received and by the end of that run-through I was feeling quite teary. 

At both events there was a reception with wine afterwards, so for two weeks I downed rather a lot of chilled white. Good quality too. We had the whisky company to thank for that. Very nice.

Medea - a supprising sister.

Medea.

 On Thursday last week I went into Inverness to see a live streaming of the last performance of  Medea at the National Theatre. What a thrill! We could even hear the audience in London settling as we sank into our own, extremely comfortable, seats. So exciting to be watching this without all the hassle and expense of actually traveling to London. 

I hadn’t read or seen Medea before although I knew the ghastly story. If it hadn’t been for the exceptional circumstances I doubt I would have wanted to put myself through the horrors of watching a mother decide to murder her own sons in pursuit of revenge. I certainly didn’t expect to have any sympathy with her. Before the performance we heard Helen McCrory say she didn’t think Medea was crazy or psychotic. I listened in disbelief. Half way through her  portrayal of this woman my feelings changed. 

Medea was not what might now be termed a sociopath. She was capable of love and compassion, sensible to the feelings of others, but she was temporarily maddened, unhinged, by an unbearable agony of grief and rage. She had been set calmly aside by a man whose sons she had born, and for whom she had committed dreadful acts - out of love for him. Quite unexpectedly, and rather uncomfortably, her emotion cut into some sludgy personal sewage long side sunken to the bottom of my consciousness but evidently not cleaned out. I realised that what I was feeling was not sympathy but empathy. I understood Medea. I felt what she was feeling.  I remembered once behaving like an animal in pain, lashing out at all around me in some desperate search for relief. 

Later I read the program notes. A psychologist says that the first six moths of marital breakdown are the most dangerous time for the children of that marriage. Killing them in revenge for the pain caused by the separating partner is not unknown.

The closing image of Medea dragging herself off into her terrible future, her own body bowed low, distorted, by the weight of the bodies of her dead sons was something I will never forget.

Life is enriched by poetry and crime.

So, the last entry was about the tangle of threads that is currently my grandson’s path through my personal tapestry. Worrying, but also impressive as I have been able to get glimpses of the fine man he will eventually be.

My own activities have been rich but thankfully less complicated. A neighbouring town has an annual ‘Book and Arts Festival.’ over the last ten years or so it has grown steadily until it is able to attract an impressive number of known writers and artists. I’ve rarely been to any of the events, was once involved to the extent of organising a secondhand bookdealer’s pop-up shop (in the days before pop-up shops were given that name.)  That enterprise was successful (especially for me!) although it disjointed the nose of the local bookshop owner at the time although he specialised in new books. Sigh! We weren’t invited back. 

The bookshop owner has changed and the present incumbent (female) is supportive of any literary project so, although she isn’t a fan of poetry, once a month after regular opening hours she reopens her doors for a poetry group. This group formed the core of a fringe event to the main festival: ‘Bards in the Bookshop.’ 

My good friend and stunning poet, Eileen Carney-Hulme, started the week with a reading last Monday. Mid morning three of us hit Nairn’s best restaurant for coffee and scones. At lunch time we walked up to the bookshop where Eileen did her reading beautifully, then, scooping up a couple more poetry-loving friends we went back to the same watering hole for soup and wine. This pattern was repeated, for me three days in a row, four days for some, until other events took over (the Callander Poetry Weekend for my friends, other things for me). The readings continued until Saturday, the last day of the festival. 

On that last festival day I spent the afternoon listening to three crime writers talking about their craft. The three hour program was accompanied by wine lavishly served out in the intervals. Heaven! The writer’s were Malcolm Mackay (ridiculously young Hebridean author, ridiculously good), Alex Gray, and Ann Cleeves whose ‘Vera’ series I am addicted to and whose latest series set in the Shetlands I also find irresistible. By the end of it I wanted to rush off to form a crime-lovers reading group. 

Growing up, leaving school and how to give your parents grey hair.

The last two or three weeks have been full of events, some very pleasant, some less so. That old saw about life’s rich tapestry has been on my mind. At times the tapestry becomes a tangle of threads and it’s difficult to see the pattern.

So, to start with the worrying bits. The grandson did not get the GCSE results  he had demanded of himself. Not that we, his mother and I, were disappointed, on the contrary. Considering all he has had to cope with over the last six years, any likelihood of him absorbing school subjects was much reduced.  But then came his own ambitions, suddenly announced, (probably as a result of much time spent in A&E for one injury or another.) He wants (wanted) to become a doctor. For that he needed sciences and -  gloom - maths. His grasp of mathematics is about as good as mine, which means he doesn’t have one. The subjects he has a natural aptitude for, like English, Art  and Design, they were dismissed as being ‘no use to him’ and therefore no comfort when he got creditable passes in them. He didn’t do badly in physics and chemistry either but maths, oh dear, oh dear.  

So he declared himself fed up with schooling and determined not to go back to it. He is just sixteen. In Scotland that means he can get married without parental permission and officially leave school. Mother and grandparents held their collective breath in fear. This is the point it can all go horribly wrong. Luckily we are unified in our belief that no good comes of forcing a sixteen year old, especially a stubborn and otherwise sensible one, to do what it doesn’t want to do. The time has come for a little faith in the innate intelligence and good sense of the person he is showing himself to be. Still, it was a nastily worrying moment. 

His next step took our breath away. He fixed himself up with an interview for the Navy. 

He downloaded the necessary forms, filled them in, and persuaded his quaking parent to sign them.  He wants to be a medic - or an engineer..... or...  He was very nearly accepted too. The interviewer was enthusiastic, said he was just the sort of young chap they need. Then he was given some test papers. He passed them all until the b***dy maths.  ‘Come back in six months’ he was told regretfully. ‘If we can see you have been working at your maths  then we’ll see what we can do.’ 

It turns out he has been watching documentaries, youtube clips, researching on the net, about life in the Royal Navy, for two or three years. He knows, as much as he can without the experience, what he is letting himself in for. Sharing fish and chips and a bottle of wine with him last night I was amazed by the details he has picked up.  It still seems ridiculous that this young man who disliked the institutionalised life of school so heartily, would put himself into an organisation that imposes an even stricter discipline and demand for conformity.  

Increasingly, he reminds me of his uncle who was not at all absorbed or engaged by academic subjects as they were taught in school, but once he had a purpose in mind could achieve anything he set his mind to. After years of managing water sports centres he is now on his way to becoming a chartered accountant.

What I do wish schools (governments?) could get over is the emphasis on exams. The school we chose for him was founded by a man with ideals. He saw the importance of developing the whole child, of allowing the full potential of that child to emerge. Nowadays, with league tables and the unnatural emphasis on the certain sort of intelligence that enables people to pass exams, the school has lost its way. At sixteen they are given the impression that a pass or fail will determine the whole of their future. That’s nonsense, but teenagers are intense creatures and take this to heart. It’s dangerous. They learn to define themselves by results and it is hard work to swing the emotional balance, to stop them from writing themselves off as failures.

Writing process

An internet friend sent me a questionnaire to answer for her blog. I don't think she'll mind if I put it here as well. He blog is more read than mine! It was an interesting exercise for me.

What am I working on?

I’ve written an 80,000 word children’s novel pitched for 9 - 12 years about a furry four-armed alien called Yub who, a teenager on his own planet, has a special ability that allows him to travel through space. His planet is dying and all its inhabitants live underground in biospheres built after the Cataclysms (a war) that caused the destruction of the protective atmospheric shield around the planet. Looking for a planet like his own was before the violent changes Yub arrives in the North of Scotland and contacts a teenage boy, Josh, (who is also feeling a bit alien as he is an incomer from the south). With the additional help of another isolated incomer, Leonie, they get Yub’s family and closest friends to Earth and hide them. There are many ups and downs, some humour, and some real-life problems like Leonie’s relationship with her chronically depressed father.

I’ve written it, edited and re-edited, worked on a sequel, and think it is good enough to publish but haven’t enough courage to try sending it to any publishers! My self-confidence comes and goes.

I’m also working on a sort of patchwork novel which gives me a chance to make stories up for the characters that fill my imagination. It’s much more adult but doesn’t yet have a connective ‘voice.’ 

How does my work differ from others in the genre?

That is an extremely difficult question. Quick answer: I’m not sure either of these novels actually differ much from what’s on the market already. Probably because I am older  I will have a more old fashioned approach to writing children’s stories, but I have read a lot and still enjoy teen fiction(Kathy Reich’ ‘Virals’ for instance. ) I love J.K.Rowling’s style and would like to be like her without actually emulating her (if you see what I mean.) What I admire is her talent for spinning a good yarn, for creating characters who are real and walk off the page, for always mixing in touches of humour with drama even when the situation is dire. She has created a world where friendship, loyalty, bravery and good intentions are the most valued qualities. She creates a whole world that children love to lose themselves in. 

In my opinion children need escapism as much as adults and really don’t want ‘real life’ stuff about drugs, getting pregnant, dysfunctional families, or the terrible life of children in war-torn lands, thrust at them constantly. That sort of ‘good for you’ genre reminds me of the books I used to get given as ‘prizes’ at Sunday School, moralising Victorian works like ‘Mary Jones’s Bible.’ They darkened my days - and completely put me off religion I might add!

Why do I write what I do? 

That’s another poser. I’ve written both the children’s story and portions of the adult novel with great enthusiasm and enjoyment. The characters for the latter are composites of people I have met, together with ideas of people I would like to meet, or to be. Their developing psychology amuses me. Probably they are all projections of myself - that’s fine. It’s like being allowed to be multiple-personality-me. I love crime novels so it is shaping into one of those, but I do have to avoid actual police procedures or autopsies because, though I’ve read a lot about both, I don’t want to get into areas that I only half understand. It would distract from the intricacies of the human mind behind the crime and the reactions of the other characters involved one way or another. We shall see.

How does your writing process work?

I used to always be writing something but have never been very good at consistency or discipline. I’m easily distracted by family matters, and daily obligations. It’s been better since I retired properly and I have acres of time to myself - I love that. Once I do hit a hot spot I can write for eight hours a day, coming up for air only for coffee and snacks. I love that. At those times even when I lay down to sleep my mind is busy with the next chapter or event. Then months will go by and I can’t bring myself to add anything or even glance at what I’ve done. During this sort of period I usually write poetry. Recently there have been times when I write nothing. Strangely I think this has come about because I joined a writing group. They are very supportive people and for nearly a year I loved my Tuesday evenings. Then I started to feel full up with other people’s words and my own output dried. I’ve stayed away for two months - it’s coming back.  

So, no words of wisdom here. I’m not a published author, I am an author who has self-published three small collections of folk tales indigenous to this part of the world. I am an author who, if I had had a little more conviction, belief in my self and a proper spine, might have made a name for myself. Not sure that’s going to happen now so perhaps my advice is: perseverance is the key. The ultimate secret!

Pyromania

Inspired by a friend who has stitched poems onto fabric, I have bought myself a pyrography kit and am now looking for suitable slices of wood to burn my (shorter) pieces into. Since it arrived I've realised lots more potential - adding colour and design for instance. What I'm aiming for is something that can hang on the wall, be decorative, but also let the words take centre stage. First I have to get used to using it so - nobody hold their breath. 

Achievements: Few.

Yesterday I took out the trash. Later I fetched in the empty trash can. (SometimesI forget I'm not an American because I watch so many US series on DVD.) 

I also lay in bed comfortably reading a crime novel from cover to cover.  'Broadchurch.' The book of the TV series by Erin Kelly. She's a good writer so although I knew the story it was still an enjoyable, even engrossing, read.

Finally, at 7pm, I did do something creative. I joined a local group putting together a sort of multi-media montage of our town. It was initiated by a ---- um.. er … I'm a little unclear on this …. a student or a professor of the newly formed University of the Highlands and Islands. I came to the group after they had already been through several meetings and found myself enjoying, for once in my life, the feeling of cooperating on something arty, local and possibly of universal interest. There could be similar projects in all small towns and communities to  reflect, give voice to, their pride in their community. 

The idea was that the locals should be the creators and the prof. and student should stand back, helping only when invited, suggesting but not directing. There is lovely original music from violin and saxophone; singing (she wrote her own song and set it to music)  films of dancing on Findhorn beach, a 'coffee-morning' dialogue, (the town is practically famous for its fund-raising weekly coffee-and-cake mornings in the Town Hall), two old boys gurning about the state of the world, and poems by several of the writer's group I belong to, including, I'm proud today, one of mine. 

As I have written virtually nothing for months (in my own defence I have had some health blips) and almost all the feedback I've had from the handful of submissions I've roused myself to make have been: 'Thank you but no thank you', it was nice to have a piece welcomed into the fold and be usefully put to work. 

Probably the very best thing has been the easy feeling of cooperation toward the best result possible in a very short time. No ego-blasts and no prima-donna stuff from any of us - not even me!!

Small Town.

Monday. 

The queue for pensions forms.

On the street, nods and smiles 

make light of life’s dark Sundays.

Glad to be alive and on the go again

women talk cheerily of ailments,

their grandchildren. 

Sometimes of their husbands.

Men, not old, but unemployed,

look for motivation,

buy themselves a pie and a newspaper,

warm themselves with women’s gossip.

Tired mothers lean on buggies,

bite a surreptitious candy bar,

feed their toddlers crisps to get a minutes’ peace whilst they gaze through glass

at flighty shoes and teasing fashions,

dreaming of future days

when they might be themselves again.

At 5pm a lull. A hiatus.

An extinguishing of windows, 

a pulling down of blinds.

Doors locking on another day of retail.

The final ring of tills and card machines.

The reconciliation.

Shopkeepers take change to buy a pizza,

Pity the 8-Till-Late but wonder,

with a curling of the gut,

if they too should open longer.

There falls a calm.

The stage is ready to reset.

Along the night streets

newly broken voices bark obscenities.

In shrill counterpoint reeling girls

harpoon young men with cruel wit

dragging them to shore

thrashing, roaring, yearning to be caught

and held for a few moments

of fumbled bliss.

The pack moves on,

away from the municipal attempt to bring        daylight

 to sanitize the dark, 

in the sure and certain hope that sin cannot survive

street lighting. 

By 3am there is an emptiness,

thin mists congeal, the town brings back its ghosts.

Fishwives with baskets on their backs

walk across the low-tide mud 

to sell the hard-won herrings.

The coalman’s horse stands patient in the shafts,

while at the Tolbooth a stagecoach stops

to let down wey-faced passengers,

sickened by the jolts.

A piper from a later age skirls silently

for weddings and for death.

Under harsh security light the Visitors drift on 

undisturbed by oyster shells that fool 

the scavenging gulls,

turning into polystyrene boxes as they swoop.

Their curdled cries, like wounded cats 

or babes,

wake the men who stagger from their sleep

to drive the wooly-footed monsters through the streets. 

Slaloming round cars they wash away the primitive,

returning the street to quiet sobriety

before its present folk drift in again, 

imprinting their own lives onto its canvas.