 |
|
..was the
title of a 2005 exhibition in the Ormeau
Baths Gallery, Belfast.
visitors
were encouraged to respond...
walls are barriers if you want out
fences are barriers if
you want in
words are barriers if you won’t hear
pictures are barriers if you won’t see
|
Every picture tells a story, writers tell a different story
Monday, 29 October 2012
I don't write much poetry, but...
Sunday, 28 October 2012
Slipping Again...
Slipping again .... still not writing, it's just not working at the moment. Had writer's block before but not for this length of time. I've written nothing original since last year, apart from one very short, bad story. All I'm reading at the moment is the newspapers so right now I can't even review a book. I'm damned if I'm going to review the Guardian!
However I've decided it's better to post something I wrote before than to post nothing, so a few original, if old things will follow in a day/week or two.
However I've decided it's better to post something I wrote before than to post nothing, so a few original, if old things will follow in a day/week or two.
Tuesday, 23 October 2012
“Lady Macbeth” a novel by Susan Fraser King - Reading Habits
I’ve been asked to write a treatment for a play about Lady
Macbeth and read this novel in the hope of understanding more about this
misrepresented Scottish Queen.
The novel begins with action, as a nine year old girl is
nearly kidnapped on a trail near the Castle of Elgin, by her father’s enemies. The
girl is Lady Gruadh ingean Bodhe, mac Cineadh, mac Dubh (daughter of Bodhe, son
of Kenneth, son of Duff) and these names of her ancestry are crucial to the
plot because they detail her royal bloodline.
The girl is dragged from her pony and though she is saved by
the bravery of others she puts up a fight and stabs her assailant with a brooch
torn from his cloak. Her brother is killed in the skirmish so she is the last
bearer of the lineage. Gruadh keeps the
brooch as a talisman and this day’s events indelibly mark her character and
her future.
Six years later she is married to the middle-aged Mormaeur
(Earl) of Moray, before he is killed in a skirmish with Macbeth, who has been
sent to do the job by his uncle King Malcolm. Macbeth forces marriage with Gruadh, as is his
right under Celtic law, but afterwards treats her with respect and treats her baby
son Lulach as his own. King Malcolm is
succeeded by his son, the warlike Duncan, who stirs up trouble with the Scots’
enemies, until Macbeth kills him in battle.
Macbeth then becomes King of the Scots and Gruadh his Queen.
Throughout, Gruadh is depicted as a kind-hearted woman who
has many friends; she is also intelligent, ambitious and strong-willed. She lives in ruthless times and has to stand on
her own feet; learning to fight and accompanying her husband into battle. She has
second sight, though this gift is not strong enough to enable her to always
shape her destiny. A misinterpreted
dream, combined with her grief at losing a baby makes her plead for the life of
Duncan’s young son, Malcolm Canmore, an act of mercy which eventually proves
her undoing.
Whilst I struggled in places, the novel is compellingly written
and certainly exceeded my expectations. It’s
convincingly researched, with details of Celtic life and genealogy on every
page and this may be why I struggled, it sometimes slows the storytelling down. Detailing historical research to this extent might
be more in keeping if this was a biography, though as the author points out,
there are so few records of the real Lady Macbeth that a biography would
necessarily be thinner than the 340 pages of this provocative novel.
Lady Macbeth the novel certainly dilutes the stain of
villainy and evil which cloaks Lady Macbeth and her husband in Shakespeare’s
play; whether it will guide me in my search for a hook on which to hang my own play
remains to be seen.
* http://www.susanfraserking.com/
* http://www.susanfraserking.com/
Sunday, 21 October 2012
Writing Habits: 'Becoming a Writer' by Dorothea Brande
Although I love to watch films and TV, listen to music, go the the theatre and read widely, I do find it hard to write with other people's words still in my head. A bit of space is necessary between the activities for my own words to arrive.
Picking up Dorothea Brande's book, 'Becoming a Writer' which I haven't looked at for years, I opened it randomly at page 133 and under the heading Wordless Recreation, her words were;
If you want to stimulate yourself into writing, amuse yourself in a wordless way. Instead of going to a theater, hear a symphony orchestra, or go by yourself to a museum; go alone for long walks, or ride by yourself on a bus top.
I realised that she's absolutely right. When I do any of these things they do very often stimulate my writing, even although this is not the reason I'm doing them. Ok I don't go to listen to symphony orchestras. My tastes in classical music are limited and there's always one thing on a concert programme I know and like and a whole lot of things I'd find boring. My musical tastes are more in folk, rock and blues music and I acknowledge that their lyrics can interfere with my own creativity.
On the other hand I find visiting museums and galleries by myself hugely exciting. I can look at exactly what I like and spend an hour on the minutiae of one exhibit if I want to, without boring my husband to death or having to follow kids to the toilet/cafe/shop every five minutes. And going on journeys alone, on foot, train, bus, car or plane takes me into other worlds, where my imagination is freed.
Dorothea Brande's book is full of great insights like this. When it was first recommended to me I nearly didn't bother to read it, as it was written so long ago. I felt she couldn't possibly tell me anything relevant to my generation and my writing. She'd never even seen a computer, for heavens' sake! But I did read it and from her wise and totally unpretentious words I realised that I had already become a writer and she also showed me how to carry on being a writer.
So, have you given up on all those starry-eyed, pseudo-spiritual books on writing which appear everywhere? Are you even more fed up with the 'How to Write a Best-Seller in Six Days/Six Chapters/Six Websites' genre, then I can recommend going back to basics with Dorothea Brande. It doesn't matter what you are trying to write: fiction, poetry, journalism, scripts, memoir or even academic theses. She can help remind you of how the process of writing works in your own mind. She really can!
Picking up Dorothea Brande's book, 'Becoming a Writer' which I haven't looked at for years, I opened it randomly at page 133 and under the heading Wordless Recreation, her words were;
If you want to stimulate yourself into writing, amuse yourself in a wordless way. Instead of going to a theater, hear a symphony orchestra, or go by yourself to a museum; go alone for long walks, or ride by yourself on a bus top.
I realised that she's absolutely right. When I do any of these things they do very often stimulate my writing, even although this is not the reason I'm doing them. Ok I don't go to listen to symphony orchestras. My tastes in classical music are limited and there's always one thing on a concert programme I know and like and a whole lot of things I'd find boring. My musical tastes are more in folk, rock and blues music and I acknowledge that their lyrics can interfere with my own creativity.
On the other hand I find visiting museums and galleries by myself hugely exciting. I can look at exactly what I like and spend an hour on the minutiae of one exhibit if I want to, without boring my husband to death or having to follow kids to the toilet/cafe/shop every five minutes. And going on journeys alone, on foot, train, bus, car or plane takes me into other worlds, where my imagination is freed.
Dorothea Brande's book is full of great insights like this. When it was first recommended to me I nearly didn't bother to read it, as it was written so long ago. I felt she couldn't possibly tell me anything relevant to my generation and my writing. She'd never even seen a computer, for heavens' sake! But I did read it and from her wise and totally unpretentious words I realised that I had already become a writer and she also showed me how to carry on being a writer.
So, have you given up on all those starry-eyed, pseudo-spiritual books on writing which appear everywhere? Are you even more fed up with the 'How to Write a Best-Seller in Six Days/Six Chapters/Six Websites' genre, then I can recommend going back to basics with Dorothea Brande. It doesn't matter what you are trying to write: fiction, poetry, journalism, scripts, memoir or even academic theses. She can help remind you of how the process of writing works in your own mind. She really can!
Friday, 19 October 2012
Novel extract: The Other Elephant
This is a short extract from my novel, The Other Elephant :-
He’s walked right up the Edgware Road, trying to find this address. The small grocery shop at the top of the terrace is closed, dilapidated metal shutters heavily padlocked. The carcass of a Ford Cortina stands on bricks, rain pours from the wheel arches and into an oil-skummed pool that covers half the width of the road. A train squeals and judders past, right behind the cramped little terrace. Once the train’s gone, he can hear water fizzing from the broken down-pipe at the corner of the house. He’s pissed in better streets.
He wasn’t welcome elsewhere. Now it’s dark and this is his last chance. Twelve Belmont Grove, Maida Vale is a very fine sounding address, only it’s really just part of the arse-end of Kilburn, that’s why he’s taken so long finding it. The rain soaked rucksack drags his shoulders down, only his guitar is dry. He’s got to get out of this freezing rain. Since Rotterdam he’s had two hours kip, his clothes have been wet for thirty-six hours, his stomach’s been empty longer. The Guilders he nicked only just paid for the ferry, but he’s got past hunger, all he wants is a smoke. And to be warm.
He’s been wondering how to greet her, rehearsed so many opening lines. Make her laugh, that’s the way in with chicks, right? Why should she be any different? He knocks. As the door opens, an unfamiliar face is a shock. He knows she’s the wrong one. He mumbles his opening line.
‘What?’ She shouts, but doesn’t seem to be addressing him. Just somebody.
‘Can I see Mairi?’
‘Why?’ He doesn’t blame her for being suspicious. This area’s probably full of derelicts.
‘I knew her years back,’ he says.
‘So you’ll know the rest of her name, then.’
He shakes himself out, into the reality of this situation; the concrete of her stare. Not sure he can handle it, but he’s got to make an impression, somehow. At the moment she’s a wall, just bouncing him back. Make ‘em laugh, right?
‘I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition.’ But this chick doesn’t laugh. ‘Her name’s Mairi Shona Maguire,’ he says.
She stares at him silently, still concrete, still a wall.
‘So who are you, then?’ She asks, eventually.
‘Joe,’ he says.
‘Just Joe?’
He nods.
‘Wait there, just Joe.’ She slams the door.
He presses numb fingers onto the chill of the frosted glass, but she’s gone. To his white fingertips the glass feels warm. There are faint sounds, muffled by the barrier. He tries to drum on it but his fingers won’t co-ordinate. At last a figure appears. The door catch clicks back twice before opening. A pale face framed by a dark halo of chaotic hair peers around the door. This is the right one, but she’s still a shock. It’s ten years since he last saw her. He trawls up his line.
‘Jonathan Joseph Maguire at your service, ma’am.’
He bows, unskilfully, from his stiff waist. The rain that has accumulated in the polythene which he has so lovingly wrapped around his guitar tips over his head and neck. As he straightens, the icy water pours down inside his jacket. Cold as he is, it still makes him shudder out loud, ‘Oh Shit! Shit!’ He meets her eyes for a second. She has stuffed her knuckles into her mouth, is she laughing?
‘Hi, Mairi.’ Not much of a greeting after so many years, but it’s all he can manage just now. ‘Can I come in, please? I’m bloody freezin’.’
She backs away slowly down the narrow hallway, leaving the door ajar. She calls out, ‘Gina, Gina!’ But her eyes seem fixed in a stare, directed at him. This could be an invitation to come in, he’s too cold to wait for any more.
*
Comments welcome...
He’s walked right up the Edgware Road, trying to find this address. The small grocery shop at the top of the terrace is closed, dilapidated metal shutters heavily padlocked. The carcass of a Ford Cortina stands on bricks, rain pours from the wheel arches and into an oil-skummed pool that covers half the width of the road. A train squeals and judders past, right behind the cramped little terrace. Once the train’s gone, he can hear water fizzing from the broken down-pipe at the corner of the house. He’s pissed in better streets.
He wasn’t welcome elsewhere. Now it’s dark and this is his last chance. Twelve Belmont Grove, Maida Vale is a very fine sounding address, only it’s really just part of the arse-end of Kilburn, that’s why he’s taken so long finding it. The rain soaked rucksack drags his shoulders down, only his guitar is dry. He’s got to get out of this freezing rain. Since Rotterdam he’s had two hours kip, his clothes have been wet for thirty-six hours, his stomach’s been empty longer. The Guilders he nicked only just paid for the ferry, but he’s got past hunger, all he wants is a smoke. And to be warm.
He’s been wondering how to greet her, rehearsed so many opening lines. Make her laugh, that’s the way in with chicks, right? Why should she be any different? He knocks. As the door opens, an unfamiliar face is a shock. He knows she’s the wrong one. He mumbles his opening line.
‘What?’ She shouts, but doesn’t seem to be addressing him. Just somebody.
‘Can I see Mairi?’
‘Why?’ He doesn’t blame her for being suspicious. This area’s probably full of derelicts.
‘I knew her years back,’ he says.
‘So you’ll know the rest of her name, then.’
He shakes himself out, into the reality of this situation; the concrete of her stare. Not sure he can handle it, but he’s got to make an impression, somehow. At the moment she’s a wall, just bouncing him back. Make ‘em laugh, right?
‘I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition.’ But this chick doesn’t laugh. ‘Her name’s Mairi Shona Maguire,’ he says.
She stares at him silently, still concrete, still a wall.
‘So who are you, then?’ She asks, eventually.
‘Joe,’ he says.
‘Just Joe?’
He nods.
‘Wait there, just Joe.’ She slams the door.
He presses numb fingers onto the chill of the frosted glass, but she’s gone. To his white fingertips the glass feels warm. There are faint sounds, muffled by the barrier. He tries to drum on it but his fingers won’t co-ordinate. At last a figure appears. The door catch clicks back twice before opening. A pale face framed by a dark halo of chaotic hair peers around the door. This is the right one, but she’s still a shock. It’s ten years since he last saw her. He trawls up his line.
‘Jonathan Joseph Maguire at your service, ma’am.’
He bows, unskilfully, from his stiff waist. The rain that has accumulated in the polythene which he has so lovingly wrapped around his guitar tips over his head and neck. As he straightens, the icy water pours down inside his jacket. Cold as he is, it still makes him shudder out loud, ‘Oh Shit! Shit!’ He meets her eyes for a second. She has stuffed her knuckles into her mouth, is she laughing?
‘Hi, Mairi.’ Not much of a greeting after so many years, but it’s all he can manage just now. ‘Can I come in, please? I’m bloody freezin’.’
She backs away slowly down the narrow hallway, leaving the door ajar. She calls out, ‘Gina, Gina!’ But her eyes seem fixed in a stare, directed at him. This could be an invitation to come in, he’s too cold to wait for any more.
*
Comments welcome...
Thursday, 18 October 2012
Reading Habits: Passenger by Billy Cowie
I'm reading a lot at the moment. I used to be able to read up two novels a day - when I had not much else to do, obviously. Don't want to try that much right now, but a novel every two or three days is feasible. Having started yesterday with one review I may as well review some more, although I don't suppose I'll bother if they aren't worth the effort. This one is:
Passenger by Billie Cowie, published in 2008
Milan is a musician, a violinist in a orchestra. His new relationship with flautist Karen becomes diverted by a passenger, who lives inside him. The extraordinary existence of his conjoined twin is entirely new to Milan. He names her Roma, begins to communicate with her through music and realises she is a sentient and intelligent human being, not just a medical curiosity. The press and the medical professions are fascinated and Milan is tempted to bow to their fascination and to disregard his and Roma's real needs.
The story wastes no words, the writer's musical knowledge enhances without becoming intrusive. Passenger is well written and sympathetic whilst managing to steer well clear of the maudlin. The tragic end is unexpectedly abrupt and moving.
Billie Cowie is an installation artist, choreographer and theatre writer. This accomplished foray into fiction writing is his only published novel so far.
Passenger by Billie Cowie, published in 2008
Milan is a musician, a violinist in a orchestra. His new relationship with flautist Karen becomes diverted by a passenger, who lives inside him. The extraordinary existence of his conjoined twin is entirely new to Milan. He names her Roma, begins to communicate with her through music and realises she is a sentient and intelligent human being, not just a medical curiosity. The press and the medical professions are fascinated and Milan is tempted to bow to their fascination and to disregard his and Roma's real needs.
The story wastes no words, the writer's musical knowledge enhances without becoming intrusive. Passenger is well written and sympathetic whilst managing to steer well clear of the maudlin. The tragic end is unexpectedly abrupt and moving.
Billie Cowie is an installation artist, choreographer and theatre writer. This accomplished foray into fiction writing is his only published novel so far.
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
Another Tour de France Doping Scandal! 'Bad to the Bone,' a novel by James Waddington
Reading Habits.
I just wrote a short review for Amazon:
"Bad to the Bone, a novel by James Waddington:
The news about the controversy over several times Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong makes this seem a good time to review James Waddington's rather extraordinary novel about professional cycling. The story races tumultuously through an imagined Tour de France race with its own peculiar doping scandal. The author is a cyclist and one feels he understands somewhat of what he speaks. The twists and turns of race and story are comic, dark and bizarre. Well worth a read even for non-cyclists! "
Lets see if Amazon publish it. I can definitely recommend the book, anyway.
I just wrote a short review for Amazon:
"Bad to the Bone, a novel by James Waddington:
The news about the controversy over several times Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong makes this seem a good time to review James Waddington's rather extraordinary novel about professional cycling. The story races tumultuously through an imagined Tour de France race with its own peculiar doping scandal. The author is a cyclist and one feels he understands somewhat of what he speaks. The twists and turns of race and story are comic, dark and bizarre. Well worth a read even for non-cyclists! "
Lets see if Amazon publish it. I can definitely recommend the book, anyway.
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