For anyone who is interested, I reached my target of reading 100 books this year. That was the John Buchan. I've since read another and have a couple more lined up. My to-be-read pile (a full bookcase) has 134 books on it, so I'm running 16 months behind myself (I blame the LHC).
Flags out!
A post without me whingeing.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Friday, 18 December 2009
Monday, 14 December 2009
Bread and circuses
Well… almost. Plenty of circuses. Very little bread. Make we should all just eat cake?
We went shopping the other day. Not the weekly stock-up-the-larder scrum, but a let’s-go-to-the-big-town-and-see-if-there-any-treats scrum. We needn’t have bothered. It was a scrum (no disappointment there), but treats? It’s the same old stuff with a bit of tinsel (and not much of that in evidence – it gets in the way of commercial greed, I suppose).
What I did come away with was confirmation of something I already knew, but which was thrown into sharp contrast. That is, we now live in a society that celebrates mediocrity and rewards failure. I could go on about bankers here (stop sniggering) and their truly sickening whining about how you have to pay lots of money to get the best. Lots of money was paid. I doubt whether it was the best staff they got. Cos the system came to the point of collapse and I, along with millions of others who had never been in debt, find ourselves saddled with an effective overdraft in the tens of thousands to keep those idle, useless, greedy, grasping, fuckwit tossers in a job in this country. Frankly, I’d rather they all did fuck off elsewhere; but like all the other wealthy wankers who whine about tax and how they’ll leave the country if it goes up a percentage point or two, they never do. Because they know this is Treasure Island for the rich and greedy.
Oh. Look. I did go on about bankers. I could do the same for politicians. Corrupt. Greedy. Criminal. Lazy-arsed bastards who sat on their backside raking in the dosh, handing out tax money to all their in-bred chums who run consultancies and investment banks and then whining when they get caught out with their noses in the swill. The Big Stink in London no longer comes from all the sewage in the Thames. It comes from all the sewage at Westminster (and Hollyrood etc).
I’ll get to the point eventually, but if I don’t let off a little steam about all the corrupt ignoramuses who make everyone else’s life a misery, my head will explode. And that would make such a mess of the computer screen.
So. For my birthday I was treated to a set of DVDs of Buster Keaton’s full length silent movies. Now, this guy was not perfect; but look at the work he created. Monochrome. Silent. Without the benefit of CGI or stunt doubles. Working both sides of the (sometimes hand-cranked) camera. You don’t have to like his work to appreciate the fact that he took pride in it, worked hard at it, and produced some of the most influential films of all time. Technically brilliant and innovative, funny, entertaining, popular, and at times thought provoking. And nearly lost to us (but that’s a whole other story).
When we went on that shopping trip, I had Buster Keaton on my mind. Not specifically him or his films, but the notion of excellence, the idea that in all our endeavours we should [a] try to do the best we can and [b] celebrate what is good and reward what is good. When it comes to the arts, tastes vary. I like Buster Keaton but cannot stand Charlie Chaplin (although I recognise he was talented); but it seems we are not longer allowed even that choice. The gatekeepers and arbiters have themselves become mediocre. This is to do with money.
The ‘arts’ have become an ‘industry’. Industry must, first and foremost these days, make a return for its investors and shareholders. The majority of shareholders in the larger corporations are… other corporations and pension funds. Their primary concern is maximising their own investment. They do not care about the ‘product’; as long as it sells, that’s fine. In order to maximise profits, they insist that the people in charge, the ones with executive powers, are people whose expertise is money. They in turn hire people whose expertise is selling.
All of these people think in the short term. They like to find cash cows and then milk them as hard and as fast as they can before going in search of the next cow. They are incapable of considering long-term strategies and the health of the herd. Consequently, the cows are put in a position of competing one with another. Only those with a high yield survive (for the moment).
Yield, in this case, is not the amount or quality of what they produce. It is what that can be sold for. It is the profit that can be made. Profit means producing and marketing as cheaply as possible (in relation to the income). This means working to a well-known pattern, using techniques that have worked before. These are the dog (to shift the metaphor) that wags the tail. The tail? That is the piece of creative work.
The creative work, if it is to be chosen for publication (or recording, production, etc), must now conform to a pattern laid down not by artistic sensibilities, but by marketing strategies and financial considerations that go beyond the basic notion of making a profit. Bringing in a penny more than you spent on producing something is a profit. But that is not enough. Far from it. It has to make profit for the agent, for the production company, for the distribution company, for the storage company, the transport company, for the investors, for the shareholders – all those people with their finger in the pie; all those people leeching off the endeavour of an individual.
Artists, of whatever type, carry a vast weight on their backs. If the work they produce is too far out of the ordinary, the marketing people don’t know what to do with it. If they haven’t a clue, the piece is fucked.
Writers, artists, musicians, performers, are expected to conform, to produce the equivalent of the cheap plastic toy. Bright, primary colours, attractive on the surface (with a sickly cute factor), yet on close inspection, badly made, even malformed. And thrown away after it fails to deliver any depth.
Here’s a case in point. Some time ago I wrote a short story. It was accepted by a print magazine but for reasons unconnected with sales, the magazine foundered. I dusted the story off recently as I saw another magazine that looked like it might be the right sort of home for the piece. The rejection had nothing to do with the quality of the writing (or if it did the editor didn’t mention that). What seemed to concern them were aspects of the story that were fundamental to its structure, the story it was telling, and the point it was making. Change those and you have a completely different story. Change them and you have a dumbed down version.
One objection to the story was that it contained short passages in a language other than English. Well, yes. The sections of the story are each separated by a verse from a Tibetan Buddhist prayer. There are some fairly obvious clues in the text. The story is set in Tibet. One of the characters, near the beginning, starts to say a prayer. The prayer is relevant to the story, one of themes of which is the destruction of Tibetan culture, hence the preservation of the Tibetan language. Not a particularly subtle point, and in this day and age anyone curious could find the prayer online (as I did) and find a translation. That also was part of the intention – to engage the reader and get them to go beyond the story and think about these things. Too difficult for the readers of that magazine? I doubt it.
Another objection was that the story was short. Well, yes. The story is that length on purpose. It is just the right length to tell the story. There is no padding, no fluff. There is no padding in the lives of Tibetans. Their lives have been stripped bare by Chinese occupation. The story was stripped bare. The information that comes out of Tibet is also sparse. We get brief glimpses before our view is closed off again by censorship and lies. That is what the story does – it uses this form to convey that sense. Too difficult a concept to grasp? Only if you aren’t engaged in making sense of what you read.
Yet another reason given was that the story was fragmented. Well, yes. For the reasons given above, that also was on purpose. It wasn’t because I couldn’t be bothered to pad out a lengthy narrative that gave us all the details and added a sugary message of hope. I am using language and the structure of the story to convey the fragmentation of Tibetan society.
The editor who rejected the story saw what I had done, but didn’t seem to get the idea that it was done on purpose; that a message can be conveyed by the form of a piece of writing as much as by the words themselves. I am showing, not telling.
Perhaps the readers of that magazine prefer to be spoon fed. Perhaps they are intellectual babies who need pap pushed into their minds. I doubt that is the case, but an editor is deciding for them, instead of allowing them the opportunity to engage with the work and find it difficult and wonder why I have used certain techniques.
Like everyone else, I like to read as a form of relaxation; but even then I want that writing to be of good quality (which is why I like Jack Trevor Story’s Sexton Blake novels – fun, entertaining, and well written). But I also like to read challenging stuff; stuff that jams a spanner in the cogs of my brain and makes me re-assemble things in a different order to get it all working again; things that make me think, challenge my preconceptions, get me wondering about why the author did something in a particular way. Because I know that authors sweat over this kind of thing. They don’t just hammer out words… Well, given the content of book shops these days (with notable and worthy exceptions) you’d be forgiven for thinking that that’s exactly what happens.
I was further exercised by some comments made recently by a literary agent. If you are writing fantasy it had better be between 100,000 and 120,000 words or no one is going to be interested. It explains a lot. It raises a hell of a lot more questions. It certainly explains why we have all those bloated fantasy epics that have clearly been padded out from rather thin short stories… It certainly explains why most fantasy is just so fucking dull, endless bloody re-writes of Tolkien; all that faux renaissance fayre tweeness; all those bloody talking dragons; all those texts that read like someone has vomited the contents of their thesaurus across the page.
A book should be the length it needs to be to tell the story. If that is 60,000 or 70,000 words, that should be fine. If it is 250,000 words – great. To dictate the length… Well, who decided that? Who decided that fantasy should be between 100,000 and 120,000? Some marketing nonentity, I would guess; some pillock who can’t tell the difference between quality and quantity. These people shouldn’t be in charge of editorial decisions. And if they are, they should be shown the quality fiction of the past – fantasy novels (or any other genres if it comes to that) all over, done, and dusted in 180 pages. 180 pages with quality writing, exciting stories, not a single ounce of fat; all of it leaving the reader wanting more.
I know writing is a commercial enterprise, but who let the bean counters in? Why are we letting them get away with it? Why are agents acquiescing in this? Why are we celebrating mediocrity? Especially when the big publishers are shedding their mid-list authors. Why aren’t we celebrating them, instead? All those hardworking writers who produced sturdy, competent, and often very good books. Why have they been given the elbow only to be replaced by the drivel that hack ghosts turn out for the ‘celebs’? And even worse (as most ghosts have some skill) why are some celebs given a free hand to write their own books?
Nobody would think of signing me up as a premier league footballer. Is the publishing industry in the hands of such idiots that it cannot see the revolution that is coming. That real writers, the ones who have honed their skills over years, the ones who have written their million apprentice words and can turn their hand to producing well-crafted, lean, interesting books, now have the power to produce their own books. Readers will eventually get tired of the gaudy, badly made toys being thrown in front of them – some of them already are. They will start looking elsewhere and they will find those authors rejected by the publishers because they didn’t fit the mould. They will find them and they will buy directly from them. The authors will be happy. They won’t sell as many books this way, but they won’t have to because they won’t have to pay all those hangers on – all the leeches who contribute nothing to the creative process yet take the lion’s share. Readers will be happy as they will find new, interesting, and out of the ordinary books.
There will still be all the standard genre works along with a flowering of experimental writings. There will still be crap. But at least we will know that the crap isn’t soaking up all the money and squeezing out the good stuff.
See what happens when I don’t come in here for a while. It builds up and then boils over. You’ve heard it all before – especially from me. So next year, when I have fulfilled current contractual obligations, I will be putting my money (if the piggy bank is full) where my large mouth is. Watch this space for news of progress towards the launching of my works of fiction.
Oh yes, and if you know an artist (preferably a monkey as I’ll only be able to pay peanuts) who wants to do some cover artwork, please point them toward me. That way they’ll know just who to avoid when the begging bowl gets put out.
We went shopping the other day. Not the weekly stock-up-the-larder scrum, but a let’s-go-to-the-big-town-and-see-if-there-any-treats scrum. We needn’t have bothered. It was a scrum (no disappointment there), but treats? It’s the same old stuff with a bit of tinsel (and not much of that in evidence – it gets in the way of commercial greed, I suppose).
What I did come away with was confirmation of something I already knew, but which was thrown into sharp contrast. That is, we now live in a society that celebrates mediocrity and rewards failure. I could go on about bankers here (stop sniggering) and their truly sickening whining about how you have to pay lots of money to get the best. Lots of money was paid. I doubt whether it was the best staff they got. Cos the system came to the point of collapse and I, along with millions of others who had never been in debt, find ourselves saddled with an effective overdraft in the tens of thousands to keep those idle, useless, greedy, grasping, fuckwit tossers in a job in this country. Frankly, I’d rather they all did fuck off elsewhere; but like all the other wealthy wankers who whine about tax and how they’ll leave the country if it goes up a percentage point or two, they never do. Because they know this is Treasure Island for the rich and greedy.
Oh. Look. I did go on about bankers. I could do the same for politicians. Corrupt. Greedy. Criminal. Lazy-arsed bastards who sat on their backside raking in the dosh, handing out tax money to all their in-bred chums who run consultancies and investment banks and then whining when they get caught out with their noses in the swill. The Big Stink in London no longer comes from all the sewage in the Thames. It comes from all the sewage at Westminster (and Hollyrood etc).
I’ll get to the point eventually, but if I don’t let off a little steam about all the corrupt ignoramuses who make everyone else’s life a misery, my head will explode. And that would make such a mess of the computer screen.
So. For my birthday I was treated to a set of DVDs of Buster Keaton’s full length silent movies. Now, this guy was not perfect; but look at the work he created. Monochrome. Silent. Without the benefit of CGI or stunt doubles. Working both sides of the (sometimes hand-cranked) camera. You don’t have to like his work to appreciate the fact that he took pride in it, worked hard at it, and produced some of the most influential films of all time. Technically brilliant and innovative, funny, entertaining, popular, and at times thought provoking. And nearly lost to us (but that’s a whole other story).
When we went on that shopping trip, I had Buster Keaton on my mind. Not specifically him or his films, but the notion of excellence, the idea that in all our endeavours we should [a] try to do the best we can and [b] celebrate what is good and reward what is good. When it comes to the arts, tastes vary. I like Buster Keaton but cannot stand Charlie Chaplin (although I recognise he was talented); but it seems we are not longer allowed even that choice. The gatekeepers and arbiters have themselves become mediocre. This is to do with money.
The ‘arts’ have become an ‘industry’. Industry must, first and foremost these days, make a return for its investors and shareholders. The majority of shareholders in the larger corporations are… other corporations and pension funds. Their primary concern is maximising their own investment. They do not care about the ‘product’; as long as it sells, that’s fine. In order to maximise profits, they insist that the people in charge, the ones with executive powers, are people whose expertise is money. They in turn hire people whose expertise is selling.
All of these people think in the short term. They like to find cash cows and then milk them as hard and as fast as they can before going in search of the next cow. They are incapable of considering long-term strategies and the health of the herd. Consequently, the cows are put in a position of competing one with another. Only those with a high yield survive (for the moment).
Yield, in this case, is not the amount or quality of what they produce. It is what that can be sold for. It is the profit that can be made. Profit means producing and marketing as cheaply as possible (in relation to the income). This means working to a well-known pattern, using techniques that have worked before. These are the dog (to shift the metaphor) that wags the tail. The tail? That is the piece of creative work.
The creative work, if it is to be chosen for publication (or recording, production, etc), must now conform to a pattern laid down not by artistic sensibilities, but by marketing strategies and financial considerations that go beyond the basic notion of making a profit. Bringing in a penny more than you spent on producing something is a profit. But that is not enough. Far from it. It has to make profit for the agent, for the production company, for the distribution company, for the storage company, the transport company, for the investors, for the shareholders – all those people with their finger in the pie; all those people leeching off the endeavour of an individual.
Artists, of whatever type, carry a vast weight on their backs. If the work they produce is too far out of the ordinary, the marketing people don’t know what to do with it. If they haven’t a clue, the piece is fucked.
Writers, artists, musicians, performers, are expected to conform, to produce the equivalent of the cheap plastic toy. Bright, primary colours, attractive on the surface (with a sickly cute factor), yet on close inspection, badly made, even malformed. And thrown away after it fails to deliver any depth.
Here’s a case in point. Some time ago I wrote a short story. It was accepted by a print magazine but for reasons unconnected with sales, the magazine foundered. I dusted the story off recently as I saw another magazine that looked like it might be the right sort of home for the piece. The rejection had nothing to do with the quality of the writing (or if it did the editor didn’t mention that). What seemed to concern them were aspects of the story that were fundamental to its structure, the story it was telling, and the point it was making. Change those and you have a completely different story. Change them and you have a dumbed down version.
One objection to the story was that it contained short passages in a language other than English. Well, yes. The sections of the story are each separated by a verse from a Tibetan Buddhist prayer. There are some fairly obvious clues in the text. The story is set in Tibet. One of the characters, near the beginning, starts to say a prayer. The prayer is relevant to the story, one of themes of which is the destruction of Tibetan culture, hence the preservation of the Tibetan language. Not a particularly subtle point, and in this day and age anyone curious could find the prayer online (as I did) and find a translation. That also was part of the intention – to engage the reader and get them to go beyond the story and think about these things. Too difficult for the readers of that magazine? I doubt it.
Another objection was that the story was short. Well, yes. The story is that length on purpose. It is just the right length to tell the story. There is no padding, no fluff. There is no padding in the lives of Tibetans. Their lives have been stripped bare by Chinese occupation. The story was stripped bare. The information that comes out of Tibet is also sparse. We get brief glimpses before our view is closed off again by censorship and lies. That is what the story does – it uses this form to convey that sense. Too difficult a concept to grasp? Only if you aren’t engaged in making sense of what you read.
Yet another reason given was that the story was fragmented. Well, yes. For the reasons given above, that also was on purpose. It wasn’t because I couldn’t be bothered to pad out a lengthy narrative that gave us all the details and added a sugary message of hope. I am using language and the structure of the story to convey the fragmentation of Tibetan society.
The editor who rejected the story saw what I had done, but didn’t seem to get the idea that it was done on purpose; that a message can be conveyed by the form of a piece of writing as much as by the words themselves. I am showing, not telling.
Perhaps the readers of that magazine prefer to be spoon fed. Perhaps they are intellectual babies who need pap pushed into their minds. I doubt that is the case, but an editor is deciding for them, instead of allowing them the opportunity to engage with the work and find it difficult and wonder why I have used certain techniques.
Like everyone else, I like to read as a form of relaxation; but even then I want that writing to be of good quality (which is why I like Jack Trevor Story’s Sexton Blake novels – fun, entertaining, and well written). But I also like to read challenging stuff; stuff that jams a spanner in the cogs of my brain and makes me re-assemble things in a different order to get it all working again; things that make me think, challenge my preconceptions, get me wondering about why the author did something in a particular way. Because I know that authors sweat over this kind of thing. They don’t just hammer out words… Well, given the content of book shops these days (with notable and worthy exceptions) you’d be forgiven for thinking that that’s exactly what happens.
I was further exercised by some comments made recently by a literary agent. If you are writing fantasy it had better be between 100,000 and 120,000 words or no one is going to be interested. It explains a lot. It raises a hell of a lot more questions. It certainly explains why we have all those bloated fantasy epics that have clearly been padded out from rather thin short stories… It certainly explains why most fantasy is just so fucking dull, endless bloody re-writes of Tolkien; all that faux renaissance fayre tweeness; all those bloody talking dragons; all those texts that read like someone has vomited the contents of their thesaurus across the page.
A book should be the length it needs to be to tell the story. If that is 60,000 or 70,000 words, that should be fine. If it is 250,000 words – great. To dictate the length… Well, who decided that? Who decided that fantasy should be between 100,000 and 120,000? Some marketing nonentity, I would guess; some pillock who can’t tell the difference between quality and quantity. These people shouldn’t be in charge of editorial decisions. And if they are, they should be shown the quality fiction of the past – fantasy novels (or any other genres if it comes to that) all over, done, and dusted in 180 pages. 180 pages with quality writing, exciting stories, not a single ounce of fat; all of it leaving the reader wanting more.
I know writing is a commercial enterprise, but who let the bean counters in? Why are we letting them get away with it? Why are agents acquiescing in this? Why are we celebrating mediocrity? Especially when the big publishers are shedding their mid-list authors. Why aren’t we celebrating them, instead? All those hardworking writers who produced sturdy, competent, and often very good books. Why have they been given the elbow only to be replaced by the drivel that hack ghosts turn out for the ‘celebs’? And even worse (as most ghosts have some skill) why are some celebs given a free hand to write their own books?
Nobody would think of signing me up as a premier league footballer. Is the publishing industry in the hands of such idiots that it cannot see the revolution that is coming. That real writers, the ones who have honed their skills over years, the ones who have written their million apprentice words and can turn their hand to producing well-crafted, lean, interesting books, now have the power to produce their own books. Readers will eventually get tired of the gaudy, badly made toys being thrown in front of them – some of them already are. They will start looking elsewhere and they will find those authors rejected by the publishers because they didn’t fit the mould. They will find them and they will buy directly from them. The authors will be happy. They won’t sell as many books this way, but they won’t have to because they won’t have to pay all those hangers on – all the leeches who contribute nothing to the creative process yet take the lion’s share. Readers will be happy as they will find new, interesting, and out of the ordinary books.
There will still be all the standard genre works along with a flowering of experimental writings. There will still be crap. But at least we will know that the crap isn’t soaking up all the money and squeezing out the good stuff.
See what happens when I don’t come in here for a while. It builds up and then boils over. You’ve heard it all before – especially from me. So next year, when I have fulfilled current contractual obligations, I will be putting my money (if the piggy bank is full) where my large mouth is. Watch this space for news of progress towards the launching of my works of fiction.
Oh yes, and if you know an artist (preferably a monkey as I’ll only be able to pay peanuts) who wants to do some cover artwork, please point them toward me. That way they’ll know just who to avoid when the begging bowl gets put out.
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Music
I have probably mentioned this before, but music is very important to me. I listen to it a lot, especially when I'm first drafting. Finding the right stuff to key a mood or emotional atmosphere is very important. It's one reason I have a fondness for instrumental pieces. Lyrics can be distracting, although with songs I know well I can put them in the background, even sing along without it interrupting the flow of my own work (figure that one out for the man who can lose a thread if the door moves or the cat walks in).
It doesn't have to be orchestral, although I do enjoy a full-out symphonic work - Mahler, Beethoven, Sibelius, Rachmaninov... Film music is also good as it is written specifically to accompany pictures and evoke emotional responses. Again, it doesn't matter if I know the film. It can even help, providing a visual texture into which I can tap (Although whether this ever makes it into my writing is another matter).
I also enjoy contemporary instrumental work - Ozric Tentacles, Shpongle, Tangerine Dream, that sort of thing. But other artists and bands can hit the spot. Some (like Rammstein) provide energy and a post-apocalyptic industrial background that informs some of my work (Engel is a perfect example), others are very good at unlocking surreal trains of thought (or derailing ones going in the wrong direction - it's a harsh battlefield in my head, sometimes).
On the whole, music also keeps me emotionally balanced. I can indulge feelings by proxy, saving me those occasional tumbles off the edge into darkness. It doesn't always work, but I know I'm on the mend when I can put the headphones on, turn the volume up, and make my fingers sore typing in rhythm to the music. Like now.
All is not right with the world. But some things are better than they were and where I was recently clinging onto the precipice, I'm now enjoying the view and beginning to write some of it down. Funny things heads.
My love of music was inherited from my mother. It flowered in the late '60s (and has been stuck there ever since, some would say). I was a serial concert goer, travelling all over (and much further than my parents ever knew - but if you wanted great gigs, sometimes you had to get up to London). I cannot remember now how often I saw some bands. Pink Floyd, Nice, Incredible String Band, Free, the Bonzos, Hawkwind, Edgar Broughton, Strawbs, Fairport Convention, Hawkwind, Leonard Cohen, Traffic, High Tide, Third Ear Band, John Mayall and various incarnations of the Bluesbreakers, Colosseum (always better live than on their studio albums, I thought), Family, Van Der Graaf Generator, Roy Harper, Hawkind, some more Roy Harper, Moody Blues, Led Zeppelin, King Crimson, Jethro Tull, Hawkwind (did I mention them?). All of that has provided a soundtrack to both my outer and inner life . I suspect a lot of it (and I know for sure some of it) has found its way into my writing.
Sometimes when I'm reading, I hear music. No. Don't ring for those men in white coats (not just yet). It's always a tune I know, and I often wonder if that or something similar was playing when that sentence or paragraph was drafted.
I know some people find it impossible to work with music playing. I cannot do major editing. That requires the kind of silence you get at two in the morning when the rest of the world is asleep. But for the rest of it, I am grateful such a magic exists.
It doesn't have to be orchestral, although I do enjoy a full-out symphonic work - Mahler, Beethoven, Sibelius, Rachmaninov... Film music is also good as it is written specifically to accompany pictures and evoke emotional responses. Again, it doesn't matter if I know the film. It can even help, providing a visual texture into which I can tap (Although whether this ever makes it into my writing is another matter).
I also enjoy contemporary instrumental work - Ozric Tentacles, Shpongle, Tangerine Dream, that sort of thing. But other artists and bands can hit the spot. Some (like Rammstein) provide energy and a post-apocalyptic industrial background that informs some of my work (Engel is a perfect example), others are very good at unlocking surreal trains of thought (or derailing ones going in the wrong direction - it's a harsh battlefield in my head, sometimes).
On the whole, music also keeps me emotionally balanced. I can indulge feelings by proxy, saving me those occasional tumbles off the edge into darkness. It doesn't always work, but I know I'm on the mend when I can put the headphones on, turn the volume up, and make my fingers sore typing in rhythm to the music. Like now.
All is not right with the world. But some things are better than they were and where I was recently clinging onto the precipice, I'm now enjoying the view and beginning to write some of it down. Funny things heads.
My love of music was inherited from my mother. It flowered in the late '60s (and has been stuck there ever since, some would say). I was a serial concert goer, travelling all over (and much further than my parents ever knew - but if you wanted great gigs, sometimes you had to get up to London). I cannot remember now how often I saw some bands. Pink Floyd, Nice, Incredible String Band, Free, the Bonzos, Hawkwind, Edgar Broughton, Strawbs, Fairport Convention, Hawkwind, Leonard Cohen, Traffic, High Tide, Third Ear Band, John Mayall and various incarnations of the Bluesbreakers, Colosseum (always better live than on their studio albums, I thought), Family, Van Der Graaf Generator, Roy Harper, Hawkind, some more Roy Harper, Moody Blues, Led Zeppelin, King Crimson, Jethro Tull, Hawkwind (did I mention them?). All of that has provided a soundtrack to both my outer and inner life . I suspect a lot of it (and I know for sure some of it) has found its way into my writing.
Sometimes when I'm reading, I hear music. No. Don't ring for those men in white coats (not just yet). It's always a tune I know, and I often wonder if that or something similar was playing when that sentence or paragraph was drafted.
I know some people find it impossible to work with music playing. I cannot do major editing. That requires the kind of silence you get at two in the morning when the rest of the world is asleep. But for the rest of it, I am grateful such a magic exists.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Depression
Writing and depression. Not easy bedfellows, even though artistic endeavour does seem to have some connection with extreme states of mind.
Depression is a dark cloud muddying the waters, all the filth that you hoped was lying undisturbed on the bottom, compacting into immovable layers, gets swirled up by some passing thought or incident. There is no real way of knowing what is going to do it. It’s not always the large things that disturb the detritus. Small things flitting past, inconsequential things that flip their tail and loosen just enough to set of a landslide that gathers speed down some subterranean slope and before you know it vast clouds are swirling up to choke you and the beautiful waters of your existence.
Yet in all that garbage, all that filth, all that choking misery, are the diatomic particles that provide food for the ever hungry imagination. I was swept away recently by just such an upsurge. I live in a fragile world. Poor physical health means I cannot do many of the things I would love to do; cannot be many of the things I would love to be. Like financially independent.
And trying to make something of an artistic talent (well, I think it is a talent) means you are climbing out on a thin branch over a long drop. Magnificent view. Great potential for a world of hurt. Artists are dependent on others. Not for their talent, but if they want to put food on the table, a roof over their heads, and contribute to a decent standard of living for their loved ones, other people have to like and buy their work.
That involves other people. Most of whom don’t give a shit about you, your talent, or your desire to live an unassuming life somewhere warm, dry, and with food in the pantry. These days the situation is more difficult. Not only is publishing largely in the hands of bean counters, but there is an increasing number of people who have grown up thinking books, music, movies, TV, and the like should be free; that the people who create their entertainment shouldn’t actually get paid for the hard work they put in.
At the same time, artists who try to go it alone are looked down on. If you self-publish, it is considered a ‘bad move’. Can’t think why. It’s the ultimate test. Writers are increasingly expected to do all the work. Not just write to the best of their ability, but spend time that could be spent writing another book on marketing, publicity, writing blurbs and press pieces, organising events. All of that out of their ten per cent (sorry, nine per cent, because if they have an agent, they will be taking their cut).
Can you blame a writer for getting tired of this and deciding they will do the lot and take all the proceeds? Easier, of course, if they are already well known and have a fan base. But they sink or swim on their own efforts and do not have to rely on others, especially all those others who don’t give a shit.
Now, I am well aware that there are plenty who do care, who work hard to get good books into the book shops and maximise sales. I’m not sure they’re on the winning side at the moment.
Like banks, publishers have approached the recent financial crisis with that always useful approach of: more of the same! Which is obtuse. I talk to people about books and like me they are hungry for new, good writing. It doesn’t have to be heavy, literary stuff. But all we seem to get from the world of entertainment at the moment is an incestuous mix of celebrity produced/endorsed ‘reality’ (like any of them know what the real world is like). There are good books, films, plays, works of art, and so on. But do we really have to pay the price we are paying to get them? Do we really have to sift through all that garbage to find something nourishing? Maybe we do.
So what has this to do with depression? No idea. I’m trying to write myself out of one at the moment. It isn’t helped by seeing trite garbage paraded and lauded as the next best thing since the last best thing; by successful people forever telling me I can live my dream (it’s only materially successful people who say that, isn’t it); by having to rely on others who really don’t care (because many of them are fighting the same battles as you – whatever happened to good old socialism? how did we let those few greedy bastards get away with it?).
Often, the only way I can do it is by venting the same old arguments and asking the same old questions. Maybe one day I’ll find some answers. If I do, I will share them. I could keep them to myself and get rich on the back of them. But I’m not like that. I’d rather spread the happiness around a bit. Because that’s what I really want. The security that brings happiness. Nothing more. Nothing less. Somewhere warm and dry. Food on the table. Loved ones safe and protected.
OK. That was one step up toward the light. Thank you for indulging me.
Depression is a dark cloud muddying the waters, all the filth that you hoped was lying undisturbed on the bottom, compacting into immovable layers, gets swirled up by some passing thought or incident. There is no real way of knowing what is going to do it. It’s not always the large things that disturb the detritus. Small things flitting past, inconsequential things that flip their tail and loosen just enough to set of a landslide that gathers speed down some subterranean slope and before you know it vast clouds are swirling up to choke you and the beautiful waters of your existence.
Yet in all that garbage, all that filth, all that choking misery, are the diatomic particles that provide food for the ever hungry imagination. I was swept away recently by just such an upsurge. I live in a fragile world. Poor physical health means I cannot do many of the things I would love to do; cannot be many of the things I would love to be. Like financially independent.
And trying to make something of an artistic talent (well, I think it is a talent) means you are climbing out on a thin branch over a long drop. Magnificent view. Great potential for a world of hurt. Artists are dependent on others. Not for their talent, but if they want to put food on the table, a roof over their heads, and contribute to a decent standard of living for their loved ones, other people have to like and buy their work.
That involves other people. Most of whom don’t give a shit about you, your talent, or your desire to live an unassuming life somewhere warm, dry, and with food in the pantry. These days the situation is more difficult. Not only is publishing largely in the hands of bean counters, but there is an increasing number of people who have grown up thinking books, music, movies, TV, and the like should be free; that the people who create their entertainment shouldn’t actually get paid for the hard work they put in.
At the same time, artists who try to go it alone are looked down on. If you self-publish, it is considered a ‘bad move’. Can’t think why. It’s the ultimate test. Writers are increasingly expected to do all the work. Not just write to the best of their ability, but spend time that could be spent writing another book on marketing, publicity, writing blurbs and press pieces, organising events. All of that out of their ten per cent (sorry, nine per cent, because if they have an agent, they will be taking their cut).
Can you blame a writer for getting tired of this and deciding they will do the lot and take all the proceeds? Easier, of course, if they are already well known and have a fan base. But they sink or swim on their own efforts and do not have to rely on others, especially all those others who don’t give a shit.
Now, I am well aware that there are plenty who do care, who work hard to get good books into the book shops and maximise sales. I’m not sure they’re on the winning side at the moment.
Like banks, publishers have approached the recent financial crisis with that always useful approach of: more of the same! Which is obtuse. I talk to people about books and like me they are hungry for new, good writing. It doesn’t have to be heavy, literary stuff. But all we seem to get from the world of entertainment at the moment is an incestuous mix of celebrity produced/endorsed ‘reality’ (like any of them know what the real world is like). There are good books, films, plays, works of art, and so on. But do we really have to pay the price we are paying to get them? Do we really have to sift through all that garbage to find something nourishing? Maybe we do.
So what has this to do with depression? No idea. I’m trying to write myself out of one at the moment. It isn’t helped by seeing trite garbage paraded and lauded as the next best thing since the last best thing; by successful people forever telling me I can live my dream (it’s only materially successful people who say that, isn’t it); by having to rely on others who really don’t care (because many of them are fighting the same battles as you – whatever happened to good old socialism? how did we let those few greedy bastards get away with it?).
Often, the only way I can do it is by venting the same old arguments and asking the same old questions. Maybe one day I’ll find some answers. If I do, I will share them. I could keep them to myself and get rich on the back of them. But I’m not like that. I’d rather spread the happiness around a bit. Because that’s what I really want. The security that brings happiness. Nothing more. Nothing less. Somewhere warm and dry. Food on the table. Loved ones safe and protected.
OK. That was one step up toward the light. Thank you for indulging me.
Monday, 12 October 2009
Reading habits
Well, that’s another short ‘review’ over on grumbooks. And while I was writing it, it struck me that my reading habits go through cycles. Sometimes, as now, I have several books on the go. I read a couple of chapters of one, move on to another, read a bit of that, then pick up yet another book. They are invariably variable. If I have three or more on the go, one will be non-fiction, one a children’s book, and the other something for adults.
I haven’t been reading a great deal of non-fiction recently, and what I have been reading has fallen into the vague category of research. I’m dipping into several tomes of late Anglo-Saxon history at present to refresh my memory (with the possibility of using this as a historical setting for some stories). Prior to that, I had read a lot about the home front during the Second World War. And now I am beginning to bone up on the period between 1955 and 1975.
Fiction… well, most of what I am reading is re-reading, and has been for three or four years now. I read new stuff, but that is mostly from authors I already know. I also try new work, but I have to say I find the vast majority of it that is classed as ‘literary’ to be dull, self-absorbed, and occasionally pompous. Anything exciting, anything that has something insightful to say about life, anything that plays with language, tends to be genre based or arrives in translation.
Perhaps it comes from having read so much, but I often pick up the latest sensation and think, ‘Oh yeah, so and so did that in the ‘50s, or someone else did something similar in the 60s – and they were so much better.’ In large part they were better because they were shorter, punchier, and not afraid to experiment. These days, books feel bloated. And safe. But maybe it’s just me. Perhaps I read too much (gives that two seconds thought and decides the answer is ‘no’).
Other times I can only read one book at a time. Which suggests there may be a larger cycle to my reading and that when I have had my fill of re-reading I will go in search of new stuff (or maybe there will be new stuff out there to suit my taste). I think my real problem is I like books that do something new. Genre, style, subject… But once they establish a trend, the books that follow rarely have the energy and sense of excitement of the ones that take the first steps (even if they are flawed).
That is why it amuses (and saddens) me to see something like ‘slipstream’ cited as a genre. Perhaps it is now. But the whole point of ‘slipstream’ was that it applied to books that had no genre. Now it is defined and people set out to write slipstream books. And they fail. Pretty much like any arts movement that starts with or develops a manifesto. The moment they do that, they kill themselves.
Art, writing, music, theatre – these are dynamic. OK, a finished product is a finished product, but even a piece of writing can, if it hits the spot, continue to evolve in terms of its relevance and interpretation. But that sort of writing (or other art form) does not come from a formula. It may use or subvert a formula, but what gives it a living core is its transcendence of what has gone before.
I’m not saying that books that stick to a formula cannot be and are not well written. Some are. Some are excellent, make you weep that someone is so talented. These are the swans. Their work glides sedately and gracefully along because of all the hard work they have put into it. I admire that. Which is why I admire the risk takers even more. Because they do all that hard work on something that has no easily reached audience because it is new.
Anyway, I’m rambling. Procrastinating as well, as I should be working on something else.
A story.
All the bits are there, but I can’t see, yet, how they fit.
I haven’t been reading a great deal of non-fiction recently, and what I have been reading has fallen into the vague category of research. I’m dipping into several tomes of late Anglo-Saxon history at present to refresh my memory (with the possibility of using this as a historical setting for some stories). Prior to that, I had read a lot about the home front during the Second World War. And now I am beginning to bone up on the period between 1955 and 1975.
Fiction… well, most of what I am reading is re-reading, and has been for three or four years now. I read new stuff, but that is mostly from authors I already know. I also try new work, but I have to say I find the vast majority of it that is classed as ‘literary’ to be dull, self-absorbed, and occasionally pompous. Anything exciting, anything that has something insightful to say about life, anything that plays with language, tends to be genre based or arrives in translation.
Perhaps it comes from having read so much, but I often pick up the latest sensation and think, ‘Oh yeah, so and so did that in the ‘50s, or someone else did something similar in the 60s – and they were so much better.’ In large part they were better because they were shorter, punchier, and not afraid to experiment. These days, books feel bloated. And safe. But maybe it’s just me. Perhaps I read too much (gives that two seconds thought and decides the answer is ‘no’).
Other times I can only read one book at a time. Which suggests there may be a larger cycle to my reading and that when I have had my fill of re-reading I will go in search of new stuff (or maybe there will be new stuff out there to suit my taste). I think my real problem is I like books that do something new. Genre, style, subject… But once they establish a trend, the books that follow rarely have the energy and sense of excitement of the ones that take the first steps (even if they are flawed).
That is why it amuses (and saddens) me to see something like ‘slipstream’ cited as a genre. Perhaps it is now. But the whole point of ‘slipstream’ was that it applied to books that had no genre. Now it is defined and people set out to write slipstream books. And they fail. Pretty much like any arts movement that starts with or develops a manifesto. The moment they do that, they kill themselves.
Art, writing, music, theatre – these are dynamic. OK, a finished product is a finished product, but even a piece of writing can, if it hits the spot, continue to evolve in terms of its relevance and interpretation. But that sort of writing (or other art form) does not come from a formula. It may use or subvert a formula, but what gives it a living core is its transcendence of what has gone before.
I’m not saying that books that stick to a formula cannot be and are not well written. Some are. Some are excellent, make you weep that someone is so talented. These are the swans. Their work glides sedately and gracefully along because of all the hard work they have put into it. I admire that. Which is why I admire the risk takers even more. Because they do all that hard work on something that has no easily reached audience because it is new.
Anyway, I’m rambling. Procrastinating as well, as I should be working on something else.
A story.
All the bits are there, but I can’t see, yet, how they fit.
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