Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, 15 September 2015
Pages: Protest Against the axeing of A Level Creative Wri...
Pages: Protest Against the axeing of A Level Creative Wri...: As you may be aware, a (political) decision has been made to cut the Creative Writing A Level that many people worked so hard to see introdu...
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
A Line A Day Keeps... Me Busy
Last year, I started a 'diary a day' thing. It was essentially an exercise in writing fitness, but I also had other hopes, such as examining/enhancing the way I look at and process the world. Anyway, whatever the results, I'm glad I did it, but this year I've been on a different 'adventure': a line a day. Already that's not accurate, because actually it's a sentence a day, but 'line a day' trips off the tongue a little easier, and in general I'm into that whole 'brevity' thing, man.
So, what's the thinking behind this? I wanted to move from writing lots about each day, to writing just a little. The idea was to 'become more poetic' - to be hygienic in my expression, but stronger in spirit. I wanted pith, humour, drama, formal inventiveness [as is always the wish], rhythm, music, soul... so many things, and so much, all inside a singular sentence. And, sure, I've bent 'the rules' a wee bit, vis-a-vis grammar, utilising ellipses, dashes, kerazy kommas and line breaks to cram in a lot, but I think I've already managed most of my original aims. Making long sentences isn't what I wanted the project to be about, originally, but it's fine that that's krept in [sorry, I'll stop using ks instead of cs now]. I still get days where I want to be 'plot focused' and record as much of what happened as I can, but then there are times where the 'more poetic' instincts lead me to express my summary in a natural breath, rather than mechanically ground out.
Another hope of this project was that it would take less time each day, therefore allowing me to crack on with other creative works [you may remember me wondering if the full diary a day doofer was sapping my time and energy each day so that my production of, say, poetry suffered]. Well, my production in that respect is still not really where I want it to be, although I have got a few new drafts to work on. I guess I can pretty definitively say how much work I do's got nothing to do with my little forays into life recording.
It has occasionally been the case that even this diddy-diary was 'too much' for me to do. I think, at my lowest point, I've let eight or nine days go by without writing anything. If I remember rightly, I was quite depressed at that point, but I got out of it at least. Other than that, at most it's been two days, and not very often at that. I've only managed to confuse myself once with respect to 'what day I'm on' [in my notebook, each sentence is literally just numbered. In hindsight, it would have been much more pragmatic [though 'less poetic' imho] to date them, so there would be no doubt, but then I guess I assumed my discipline would have been perfect for such a seemingly easy task], but I can at least say that, so far, my discipline has been better than last time. Would be a bad job if it wasn't, like, but I digress... I don't really want to dissect how/why I've not managed to diligently do every day as targeted, but I will say that life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.
Another way in which this year's project is the same as the last is in what I might do with the resulting mess. After seeing Richard Barrett's collaboration with himself [not a euphemism] at an Edge Hill symposium, I was really intrigued by 'processing' one's diaries, reforming, regurgitating, repurposing and examining what remains. My hope with this, as you can imagine if you're familiar with certain language poets [or prose poetry?], is to turn it into a poem. In fact, in many ways it already is, always was and was always going to be a poem. I like the idea of it completing itself, maybe as twelve individual poems or a twelve-stanza 'mini-epic', or even something between the two. I can already imagine it being published, and where, but that'll obviously depend on the quality of the material I end up with etc. Watch this space...
But more on what's different. Of course, I don't get that hand-numbing marathon sensation that I used to. That was quite something, burning through, what was it, eight sides? Did I get up to sixteen once? Writing that much in one sitting was, as I say, somewhat wearying. And it was interesting mentally, because you got into a flow state - always nice - but one that was less dependent on outright creativity. Sure, memory in general is a creative process, but with the memories often being less than a day old, I didn't really need to stretch the truth to fit the day-sized gap. It made the flow feel a bit more... tranquil, I suppose, than with fiction, say.
With this 'line a day', however, memory plays a different process. I have two main sentence types - the one I write at the end of the day that I have just come up with on the spot, or one that I've formed and drafted in my head, either earlier on in the day, or just before I've picked up my pen. The latter is often less of a 'did x, y and z' type report, and more of a sweeping sentence. Especially if I've come up with this relatively early, the process of memory is more about remembering the words, rather than the experiences - so that's a strange kind of inversion that's interesting to note. Speaking of notes, I believe I note that this project slots into my life easier than the last, doesn't get in the way, and also makes me feel like I'm appreciating my awareness of what's going on in life without having to obsess over every little detail and, in doing so, be blocked from enjoying things as they happen. The contemplative processes of the two activities is radically different and - apologies if I'm overusing this word and/or its concept - this year I feel it's 'more poetic'
Speaking of 'more poetic', next year I think I'll do a haiku a day, just like Neil Schiller's done. That's actually a pretty decent challenge, I'd imagine. Haiku[s] are tough to get right at the best of times, so doing them in bulk could be worse [or the practice could improve your skills?], but I'd allow myself more editing freedom than I have done these past couple of years, so that'd be cool. But hey, let's not get ahead of ourselves...
Last thing to say is that I feel there's less to analyse about my journey this year. I think the reason is as simple as I'm writing less, the process is less arduous... there's just not that meat that there was last year for my masticating molars to malform. Or maybe I 'got it out my system' last time [lol]. Either way, good for you guys 'cause I won't be boring you with loads of posts on the topic. Although this one has built into an overly-long post. Sorry about that...
So, what's the thinking behind this? I wanted to move from writing lots about each day, to writing just a little. The idea was to 'become more poetic' - to be hygienic in my expression, but stronger in spirit. I wanted pith, humour, drama, formal inventiveness [as is always the wish], rhythm, music, soul... so many things, and so much, all inside a singular sentence. And, sure, I've bent 'the rules' a wee bit, vis-a-vis grammar, utilising ellipses, dashes, kerazy kommas and line breaks to cram in a lot, but I think I've already managed most of my original aims. Making long sentences isn't what I wanted the project to be about, originally, but it's fine that that's krept in [sorry, I'll stop using ks instead of cs now]. I still get days where I want to be 'plot focused' and record as much of what happened as I can, but then there are times where the 'more poetic' instincts lead me to express my summary in a natural breath, rather than mechanically ground out.
Another hope of this project was that it would take less time each day, therefore allowing me to crack on with other creative works [you may remember me wondering if the full diary a day doofer was sapping my time and energy each day so that my production of, say, poetry suffered]. Well, my production in that respect is still not really where I want it to be, although I have got a few new drafts to work on. I guess I can pretty definitively say how much work I do's got nothing to do with my little forays into life recording.
It has occasionally been the case that even this diddy-diary was 'too much' for me to do. I think, at my lowest point, I've let eight or nine days go by without writing anything. If I remember rightly, I was quite depressed at that point, but I got out of it at least. Other than that, at most it's been two days, and not very often at that. I've only managed to confuse myself once with respect to 'what day I'm on' [in my notebook, each sentence is literally just numbered. In hindsight, it would have been much more pragmatic [though 'less poetic' imho] to date them, so there would be no doubt, but then I guess I assumed my discipline would have been perfect for such a seemingly easy task], but I can at least say that, so far, my discipline has been better than last time. Would be a bad job if it wasn't, like, but I digress... I don't really want to dissect how/why I've not managed to diligently do every day as targeted, but I will say that life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.
Another way in which this year's project is the same as the last is in what I might do with the resulting mess. After seeing Richard Barrett's collaboration with himself [not a euphemism] at an Edge Hill symposium, I was really intrigued by 'processing' one's diaries, reforming, regurgitating, repurposing and examining what remains. My hope with this, as you can imagine if you're familiar with certain language poets [or prose poetry?], is to turn it into a poem. In fact, in many ways it already is, always was and was always going to be a poem. I like the idea of it completing itself, maybe as twelve individual poems or a twelve-stanza 'mini-epic', or even something between the two. I can already imagine it being published, and where, but that'll obviously depend on the quality of the material I end up with etc. Watch this space...
But more on what's different. Of course, I don't get that hand-numbing marathon sensation that I used to. That was quite something, burning through, what was it, eight sides? Did I get up to sixteen once? Writing that much in one sitting was, as I say, somewhat wearying. And it was interesting mentally, because you got into a flow state - always nice - but one that was less dependent on outright creativity. Sure, memory in general is a creative process, but with the memories often being less than a day old, I didn't really need to stretch the truth to fit the day-sized gap. It made the flow feel a bit more... tranquil, I suppose, than with fiction, say.
With this 'line a day', however, memory plays a different process. I have two main sentence types - the one I write at the end of the day that I have just come up with on the spot, or one that I've formed and drafted in my head, either earlier on in the day, or just before I've picked up my pen. The latter is often less of a 'did x, y and z' type report, and more of a sweeping sentence. Especially if I've come up with this relatively early, the process of memory is more about remembering the words, rather than the experiences - so that's a strange kind of inversion that's interesting to note. Speaking of notes, I believe I note that this project slots into my life easier than the last, doesn't get in the way, and also makes me feel like I'm appreciating my awareness of what's going on in life without having to obsess over every little detail and, in doing so, be blocked from enjoying things as they happen. The contemplative processes of the two activities is radically different and - apologies if I'm overusing this word and/or its concept - this year I feel it's 'more poetic'
Speaking of 'more poetic', next year I think I'll do a haiku a day, just like Neil Schiller's done. That's actually a pretty decent challenge, I'd imagine. Haiku[s] are tough to get right at the best of times, so doing them in bulk could be worse [or the practice could improve your skills?], but I'd allow myself more editing freedom than I have done these past couple of years, so that'd be cool. But hey, let's not get ahead of ourselves...
Last thing to say is that I feel there's less to analyse about my journey this year. I think the reason is as simple as I'm writing less, the process is less arduous... there's just not that meat that there was last year for my masticating molars to malform. Or maybe I 'got it out my system' last time [lol]. Either way, good for you guys 'cause I won't be boring you with loads of posts on the topic. Although this one has built into an overly-long post. Sorry about that...
Thursday, 18 September 2014
Continuing On From
[dated 17.6.2014, minus minor revisions]
I'm sure you're all ravenous for more analysis of my journal journey. THIS was my last post on the matter.
I'm now past the two-hundred and fifty page mark, though the paper i'm writing on now has fewer lines than the pages in the original pad (admit it, you love this kind of enthralling and entirely necessary detail...) so that's not as impressive as it may sound (heavy stress on the 'may'). My discipline is definitely getting better. I think the longest i've gone without writing up is probably three or four days (if work, drunkenness/hangover or total lethargy has stepped in) which isn't too bad, especially when you consider the three-week period i let slip last time...
Again i'd like to iterate that i feel this habit has increased my prolific-ness. Although, thinking about it, that's a pretty ill-evidenced statement - i'm only concentrating on the positive evidence... But take, for example, a new novel i started. I had a few days where my discipline was great - writing bits of it on consecutive days rather than sporadically. That being said, there are many days, i suppose, where the journal is all i write. So perhaps i'm not writing more fiction, for example, but at least you can say that i'm writing more in general.
One of the things i've noticed about my development as i'm writing is greater awareness of structure. What i mean is, there have been times where the process of recollection was so laboured that my brain was focused solely on the act of writing. Now, however, i increasingly find myself so at ease with the tasks of remembering and writing, that my brain can add the task of structuring into the mix. In 'real terms', this means setting things up to create more drama (i.e. "i'll get to x later") and stuff. Plus there's the increased playfulness with the narrative voice, inviting more concerns over authenticity and madness of the narrator, so that's nice.
It's akin to things i've felt in fiction before. It used to be the case that i could only focus on the writing, and my thoughts progressed ponderously, but with more and more practise it became the case that i could think forward and backward through the story and come up with spanners for the works, etc, as i was in the act of scribbling it down.
You may ask the question; is the journal actually hindering production of other pieces? I don't think so. I think that's a question of overall attitude, not a directly blameable thing. There have been other projects and whatnot - they may not be all steaming ahead, but slow and steady may win the race (i bloody hope so anyway...). I'm keeping going every now and again with the HashtagBeer reviews, though i've let the dust settle on Blogtastic lately (it's been nearly three weeks since i last posted. That's rare, even for me), i've been trying hard with my university assignment Ontolangue (poetry), trying to keep reading plenty (A Clockwork Orange, Chess and some Mansfield stories) and whatnot. Overall effort is good, i guess. I'm not satisfied with it, but not too disappointed.
The main problem for me at the moment is, of course, the World Cup. I'm not trying to excuse myself, i realise this is a choice i'm making, but i'm basically watching six hours of football a day, which makes writing time harder to come by. What a great spectacle though, especially that Nederlands game. I wouldn't be surprised to see a Nederlands v Germany final.
Anyways, i'm not really talking about the journal anymore am i? What else is there to say? Just that i'll keep on going, i suppose. You can see i'm always trying to be aware of what's going on in terms of my writing and other life events. I hope that's going to prove to be recipe for success, as opposed to a recipe for faecal cake. Believe me, they don't taste as nice as they sound...
I'm sure you're all ravenous for more analysis of my journal journey. THIS was my last post on the matter.
I'm now past the two-hundred and fifty page mark, though the paper i'm writing on now has fewer lines than the pages in the original pad (admit it, you love this kind of enthralling and entirely necessary detail...) so that's not as impressive as it may sound (heavy stress on the 'may'). My discipline is definitely getting better. I think the longest i've gone without writing up is probably three or four days (if work, drunkenness/hangover or total lethargy has stepped in) which isn't too bad, especially when you consider the three-week period i let slip last time...
Again i'd like to iterate that i feel this habit has increased my prolific-ness. Although, thinking about it, that's a pretty ill-evidenced statement - i'm only concentrating on the positive evidence... But take, for example, a new novel i started. I had a few days where my discipline was great - writing bits of it on consecutive days rather than sporadically. That being said, there are many days, i suppose, where the journal is all i write. So perhaps i'm not writing more fiction, for example, but at least you can say that i'm writing more in general.
One of the things i've noticed about my development as i'm writing is greater awareness of structure. What i mean is, there have been times where the process of recollection was so laboured that my brain was focused solely on the act of writing. Now, however, i increasingly find myself so at ease with the tasks of remembering and writing, that my brain can add the task of structuring into the mix. In 'real terms', this means setting things up to create more drama (i.e. "i'll get to x later") and stuff. Plus there's the increased playfulness with the narrative voice, inviting more concerns over authenticity and madness of the narrator, so that's nice.
It's akin to things i've felt in fiction before. It used to be the case that i could only focus on the writing, and my thoughts progressed ponderously, but with more and more practise it became the case that i could think forward and backward through the story and come up with spanners for the works, etc, as i was in the act of scribbling it down.
You may ask the question; is the journal actually hindering production of other pieces? I don't think so. I think that's a question of overall attitude, not a directly blameable thing. There have been other projects and whatnot - they may not be all steaming ahead, but slow and steady may win the race (i bloody hope so anyway...). I'm keeping going every now and again with the HashtagBeer reviews, though i've let the dust settle on Blogtastic lately (it's been nearly three weeks since i last posted. That's rare, even for me), i've been trying hard with my university assignment Ontolangue (poetry), trying to keep reading plenty (A Clockwork Orange, Chess and some Mansfield stories) and whatnot. Overall effort is good, i guess. I'm not satisfied with it, but not too disappointed.
The main problem for me at the moment is, of course, the World Cup. I'm not trying to excuse myself, i realise this is a choice i'm making, but i'm basically watching six hours of football a day, which makes writing time harder to come by. What a great spectacle though, especially that Nederlands game. I wouldn't be surprised to see a Nederlands v Germany final.
Anyways, i'm not really talking about the journal anymore am i? What else is there to say? Just that i'll keep on going, i suppose. You can see i'm always trying to be aware of what's going on in terms of my writing and other life events. I hope that's going to prove to be recipe for success, as opposed to a recipe for faecal cake. Believe me, they don't taste as nice as they sound...
Wednesday, 10 September 2014
An End
Today I handed in my MA dissertation ('manuscript' as it is better known in Creative Writing...). It represents not only the culmination of many years of work and thought, but also probably the final university assignment I'll ever hand in. I love education and 'the' educational process, but for me a PhD represents going on to teach, so, aside from the money argument, I don't think a PhD is for me. Plus, if you're wondering, though I love the idea of teaching, I'm not responsible enough. Or talented enough, lol.
I've written before about how certain times of year, representing for us Western further-educationeers beginnings and endings of major cyclical significance, bring to mind past memories as well as future hopes and anxieties. Well this time, as I handed in my collection of poetry titled 'Ontolangue', I didn't really feel the heaviness of the situation. I mean, sure, there was the anxiety of the fact that I've handed in a big part of my life and I don't think it's of a great standard, but for the future that I can be in control of, there's nothing. There's just 'freedom'.
Aside from the household/personal issues I'm dealing with, and searching for a job, I have a degree of freedom that's unparalleled since before I started my MA two years ago. Back then, I surprised myself how professional I was, reading regularly and writing often. I'm keen to get back to this 'open plan' living. I have to catch up on my diary project (that I intentionally suspended while Ontolangue was finished), but am looking forward to my 'itty bitty poetry', my sci-fi fiction and, y'know, all the stuff that pops up when you think you're in control.
Socially this means a lot of meeting up with friends (so beware! If I know where you live I'll be paying you a visit), watching all the footy I can and hopefully re-going to readings, especially Storm and Golden Sky, which I was enjoying before certain shits hit certain fans.
Hey, the future's pretty bright. Let's look forward!
Peace and love,
Martin x
[Dated 1.9.2014]
I've written before about how certain times of year, representing for us Western further-educationeers beginnings and endings of major cyclical significance, bring to mind past memories as well as future hopes and anxieties. Well this time, as I handed in my collection of poetry titled 'Ontolangue', I didn't really feel the heaviness of the situation. I mean, sure, there was the anxiety of the fact that I've handed in a big part of my life and I don't think it's of a great standard, but for the future that I can be in control of, there's nothing. There's just 'freedom'.
Aside from the household/personal issues I'm dealing with, and searching for a job, I have a degree of freedom that's unparalleled since before I started my MA two years ago. Back then, I surprised myself how professional I was, reading regularly and writing often. I'm keen to get back to this 'open plan' living. I have to catch up on my diary project (that I intentionally suspended while Ontolangue was finished), but am looking forward to my 'itty bitty poetry', my sci-fi fiction and, y'know, all the stuff that pops up when you think you're in control.
Socially this means a lot of meeting up with friends (so beware! If I know where you live I'll be paying you a visit), watching all the footy I can and hopefully re-going to readings, especially Storm and Golden Sky, which I was enjoying before certain shits hit certain fans.
Hey, the future's pretty bright. Let's look forward!
Peace and love,
Martin x
[Dated 1.9.2014]
Friday, 14 February 2014
Thoughts on t'Other Night
T'other night i went to a reading at Edge Hill - on the bill were Jenny Barrett and Michael Stewart.
I'll be quite honest, i'd not really read any of Stewart's work before. The main reason i was looking forward to going was to see Jenny read her Edge Hill Short Story Prize-winning entry 'The Last Day at Woolworths'. I've had to wait quite a long time to hear it (all relative, of course) but i can tell you it was even better than i thought - and i can vouch for the high quality of her other pieces.
This story was a well-balanced mix of humour, linguistic playfulness, intriguing characters, terminal pathos and more. We got a handout too. I don't think mentioning that it's a crossword will ruin the story at all. It's always nice when things are given a more literal extra dimension, especially when the original thing is already so vivid.
And as for Michael Stewart, well he was also fantastic. He read from his debut novel 'King of Crows' in the first half. I wouldn't have described the subject matter, 'a sort of coming of age story with a boy obsessed with ornithology', as 'my type of thing', but after his reading i can say the book is definitely my type of thing. The strangeness of it all is utterly compelling, from the descriptions of things and characters, right down to his presentation of language. In one of the scenes he read out, there were three teens taking ket in a stolen car. That makes it sound pretty grim, but he described trying to talk while under the influence as pushing heavy words up a hill - i think that's genius. The wittiness was phenomenal, the dialogue by turns so 'real' and yet so surreal. Truly compelling stuff.
The second half was purely Stewart, i.e. his new novel that's coming out. It's always exciting when an author trusts you with a work that is not yet out there, like Nicholas Royle did recently (still yet to write that one up!). The level of research that Mr Stewart put into the wrting was phenomenal. It's hard to apprecitate how much hard work may go into even a rough draft, but Mr Stewart is clearly not shy of a challenge and pulls it off well.
Then Q 'n' As. I'm not going to go into them all, just the most important one. I was going to ask it myself, but the fantastic Miss Bourton beat me to it (she asked in a much more concise way than i would have anyway LOL); basically, since Mr Stewart is so successful across many genres (plays, poetry, prose et cetera), how does he do it? He said that whatever the genre, writing is about character and story. Also he said he was interested in people, and really there's not much else to write about. Great answer, very pure.
All rounded off nicely by buying his book of poetry, Couples, which he signed (and i don't just ask anyone to sign my books ya know). Groovy!
Peace and love (and don't forget to check out Edge Hill's events page for things to go see).
I'll be quite honest, i'd not really read any of Stewart's work before. The main reason i was looking forward to going was to see Jenny read her Edge Hill Short Story Prize-winning entry 'The Last Day at Woolworths'. I've had to wait quite a long time to hear it (all relative, of course) but i can tell you it was even better than i thought - and i can vouch for the high quality of her other pieces.
This story was a well-balanced mix of humour, linguistic playfulness, intriguing characters, terminal pathos and more. We got a handout too. I don't think mentioning that it's a crossword will ruin the story at all. It's always nice when things are given a more literal extra dimension, especially when the original thing is already so vivid.
And as for Michael Stewart, well he was also fantastic. He read from his debut novel 'King of Crows' in the first half. I wouldn't have described the subject matter, 'a sort of coming of age story with a boy obsessed with ornithology', as 'my type of thing', but after his reading i can say the book is definitely my type of thing. The strangeness of it all is utterly compelling, from the descriptions of things and characters, right down to his presentation of language. In one of the scenes he read out, there were three teens taking ket in a stolen car. That makes it sound pretty grim, but he described trying to talk while under the influence as pushing heavy words up a hill - i think that's genius. The wittiness was phenomenal, the dialogue by turns so 'real' and yet so surreal. Truly compelling stuff.
The second half was purely Stewart, i.e. his new novel that's coming out. It's always exciting when an author trusts you with a work that is not yet out there, like Nicholas Royle did recently (still yet to write that one up!). The level of research that Mr Stewart put into the wrting was phenomenal. It's hard to apprecitate how much hard work may go into even a rough draft, but Mr Stewart is clearly not shy of a challenge and pulls it off well.
Then Q 'n' As. I'm not going to go into them all, just the most important one. I was going to ask it myself, but the fantastic Miss Bourton beat me to it (she asked in a much more concise way than i would have anyway LOL); basically, since Mr Stewart is so successful across many genres (plays, poetry, prose et cetera), how does he do it? He said that whatever the genre, writing is about character and story. Also he said he was interested in people, and really there's not much else to write about. Great answer, very pure.
All rounded off nicely by buying his book of poetry, Couples, which he signed (and i don't just ask anyone to sign my books ya know). Groovy!
Peace and love (and don't forget to check out Edge Hill's events page for things to go see).
Saturday, 18 January 2014
More Books
I really shouldn't be buying more books at the minute, what with not actually earning any money at the mo, but it's hard to resist. I was out in Lancaster to buy a book for a friend, wandering down some of the quaint alleys and by soot-blackened, teetery buildings. Neither of the two Waterstones had what I was after, so I thought I'd have a look in a couple of charity shops. What with there being a university close by, it's a decent place to find some Literature (and literature) amongst the Maeve Binchy and Tom Clancy. Plus buying them 'for a good cause' makes me feel less bad about spending money I shouldn't.
The Salvation Army has helped those close to me, it's an extremely worthwhile cause. In there I found:
Next I popped to Oxfam. Up there on Penny Street (so close to and yet so far from a wonderful Beatles reference), this is a shop that just sells books, CDs, DVDs and vinyl. No clothes or bric-a-brac. Heaven. It's even in proper sections, so you can head straight for the Literature one. In there I found:
The Salvation Army has helped those close to me, it's an extremely worthwhile cause. In there I found:
- Romeo and Juliet - Bill Shakespeare (Cambridge School Edition)
- A Concise Chinese - English Dictionary For Lovers - Xiaolu Guo
Next I popped to Oxfam. Up there on Penny Street (so close to and yet so far from a wonderful Beatles reference), this is a shop that just sells books, CDs, DVDs and vinyl. No clothes or bric-a-brac. Heaven. It's even in proper sections, so you can head straight for the Literature one. In there I found:
- Let Them Call it Jazz - Jean Rhys
- The Writing School Guide to Writing the Short Story - Roy Lomax
- The Grass is Singing - Doris Lessing
- Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
- No Plot? No Problem!: A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days - Chris Baty
Tuesday, 26 November 2013
Goodbye AdSense!
There have been questions relating to the integrity of a writer who lets his blog be used by others to advertise products and services.
Lately the question of why I'm writing has had some answers. For example, I get very concerned about how many page views I have, it sometimes borders on obsession. I think this is unhealthy - one doesn't write to have everybody read one's work. One writes to reach somebody a lot of the time, yes, but an obsession over statistics and magnitude is not cool. I'd rather let go of the quantitative nightmares and focus on the qualitative dream. Keep writing, worry whether it's any good or not, hope it reaches 'the right people' (usually receptive and thoughtful folk), but forget about how many.
Getting rid of AdSense, which has earned me just over three pounds (which I can't claim because it's under the threshold of sixty), is a way of keeping the blog about what it should be (and probably never has been!
) - quality. Letting go of as many numbers as possible is a way of getting rid of as many distractions as I can.
We can only hope that the blog improves because of this...
Thanks to DS for the motivation.
Monday, 28 October 2013
Ghostories
Had a wicked time last Friday at Edge Hill's ghost story night.
I loved the celebratory air, which for me had more of an emphasis on student endeavour than it did on 'scariness' or Hallowe'eny things. The majority of the readers were students, and although the works of the individuals were admirable, what really took my breath away (apart from the dry ice atmosphere) was the amazing diversity of the evening as a whole. The range of concepts and themes was wide and stimulating, and this is all from not (yet) established writers.
I listened to narratives about a strangling scarf, a regretful affair, a palpable loss, vengeful memories, supernatural sexual predators and more besides. Sex and death wrought into original and compelling products. Groovy.
It wasn't all about the students' pieces, though, and the night was rounded off with readings from two classics: Oscar Wilde's 'The Canterville Ghost' and Susan Hill's The Woman in Black. Both were read wonderfully, allowing Wilde's hilarious wit to shine and ramping up Hill's already-high drama nicely.
It was a great night not just for trying to learn for myself as a writer, but also to learn as human beings that there is such talent, so many diverse and energising possibilities out there for us all. In short, it made me hopeful.
Not bad considering it's coming up to Christmas...
I loved the celebratory air, which for me had more of an emphasis on student endeavour than it did on 'scariness' or Hallowe'eny things. The majority of the readers were students, and although the works of the individuals were admirable, what really took my breath away (apart from the dry ice atmosphere) was the amazing diversity of the evening as a whole. The range of concepts and themes was wide and stimulating, and this is all from not (yet) established writers.
I listened to narratives about a strangling scarf, a regretful affair, a palpable loss, vengeful memories, supernatural sexual predators and more besides. Sex and death wrought into original and compelling products. Groovy.
It wasn't all about the students' pieces, though, and the night was rounded off with readings from two classics: Oscar Wilde's 'The Canterville Ghost' and Susan Hill's The Woman in Black. Both were read wonderfully, allowing Wilde's hilarious wit to shine and ramping up Hill's already-high drama nicely.
It was a great night not just for trying to learn for myself as a writer, but also to learn as human beings that there is such talent, so many diverse and energising possibilities out there for us all. In short, it made me hopeful.
Not bad considering it's coming up to Christmas...
Thursday, 10 October 2013
Back on the Wagon
The Creative Writing wagon that is!
Oh yes, we dropped off some of the grizzled, tobacco-spitting prospectors months ago, and brought in some fresh, energetic greenhorns. The wagons rolled through Scifi valley tonight, discussing The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness. A surprisingly good book, an expectedly awesome discourse and the traveling companions were just the best (including the new driver).
It feels great to be back on the road. I promised myself to try harder than ever before on this final leg of my MA drive. I lost a wheel early on, but by God I can't (hopefully won't) let that screw things up. I may have had to stop to fix my vehicle, but now I'm back I'm going to spur on my horses 'til I get farther than I could ever have imagined possible.
Feeling the wind dry the sweat on your forehead is like an angel's kiss.
I am blessed.
Oh yes, we dropped off some of the grizzled, tobacco-spitting prospectors months ago, and brought in some fresh, energetic greenhorns. The wagons rolled through Scifi valley tonight, discussing The Knife of Never Letting Go by Patrick Ness. A surprisingly good book, an expectedly awesome discourse and the traveling companions were just the best (including the new driver).
It feels great to be back on the road. I promised myself to try harder than ever before on this final leg of my MA drive. I lost a wheel early on, but by God I can't (hopefully won't) let that screw things up. I may have had to stop to fix my vehicle, but now I'm back I'm going to spur on my horses 'til I get farther than I could ever have imagined possible.
Feeling the wind dry the sweat on your forehead is like an angel's kiss.
I am blessed.
Thursday, 5 September 2013
On the Probable Futility of Keeping Your Self out of Your Writing Picure
This is unappealing to me. And not because of some lame 'privacy violation'. What bothers me is the focus it takes away from the work itself, either in the sense that people would rather read something else about you, as opposed to from you, or in the sense that such information can bend and warp meaning in your work. At a recent wine tasting (no, I'm not a Tory, I was working), a customer expressed her disappointment at the prices of the wines being listed on the sheet. This extra context, for her, meant that she couldn't enjoy the wines for their intrinsic merits, and instead could only make relative judgements such as 'it's not worth the money', for example. It's not a big leap from that to writing, I feel. I want my work to be 'waterproof', to stand fully alone and be (hopefully) enjoyed for what it is, rather than let it leak in 'real' bits of my life that will obscure its inherent message.
As usual, though, there are many problems here, some of which I have hypocritically blundered through in my post here. The first one is all the detail I've already revealed about myself (that I work at wine tasting, for example). I could have taken it out, but not only is that 'how the post came to be', it also sets up a (rather poor) 'joke' about Tory poshness. So it stays. Even at the risk of revealing certain political allegiances... The second problem comes in terminology - what did I mean by "'real' bits of my life"? I was literally meaning 'true revelations', rather than the fake ones I sometimes put in for humour/other effect. But does the way I phrased that not suggest that the act of writing inherently involves putting bits of your life in? I'd say so. As David Shield says in Reality Hunger, "...all writing is autobiography: everything... including criticism and fiction, writes you as you write it" which puts it nicely. And even if it is a made up life, is the author not living it on some imaginative level? Maybe I'm getting too metaphysical here, but I do want to stress the difficulties of writing and not revealing things in your life - that's where most inspiration comes from right? Think Plath's Bell Jar, Larkin's High Windows or Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata', as a pitifully small sample.
What are the options anyway? I've thought about deleting profile pages (or maybe inventing deceptive ones) and, in the unlikely event I'm ever published again, keeping my author profile as 'Martin Palmer is'. This might come across as arrogant and, to prospective employers/collaborators, unprofessional, but that's a personal sacrifice made for the work. I remember someone saying to me about my profile in Edge Hill's Question Mark vol 2, "You've not said a lot about yourself, look at everyone else's!" Well, I think perhaps I put too much ("Martin is a third year student of English and Creative Writing. Predominantly a scriptwriter, he also enjoys creating fiction, poetry and life writing."). So yeah, there's either abstaining from, or messing with, the profile. The former will make you mysterious and not-quite-there, but the latter, whilst meaning you'd have to perform a little on the level of a clown/jester, still runs the risk of tainting your work. And the things people read into it would be stranger, so I don't think that's an efficient strategy, as amusing as it might have been to list my occupation as 'Moonraker' or some such... thing... I don't know.
Another option could be the pen name, but my initial knee-jerk reaction to that is that it's my work, I want my name on it (complete with fist-banging-table motion). There's also an increased administerial duty here which, being a lazy sod, doesn't appeal. The benefits, though, would include a fresh biographical start. I wouldn't want to invent a new one, like Ern Malley or Rene Van Valckenborch because I wouldn't be writing as a new persona. I'd still be me, but no-one would know and therefore the work would stand or fall on its own worth, as opposed to some contextual consideration. Worth looking into for future projects... Need to come up with a better name than Nitram Remlap though...
Really, this is not the best medium to be judging myself on in terms of biographical detail. It's a blog, and this post is a personal essay - of sorts - and thus more susceptible to me 'being in it'. Also, it's not 'art' or literature, so the motivation for me to keep myself out isn't there as it would be in, say, a poem. In general, though, is there any point in trying to cover our tracks and make art 'self-sufficient', i.e. free from its creator/s? Sure, when we're still alive and our energies are more mercurial, there's less 'call' for biographical scrutiny. We are still in the act of writing, not just about inspirations from life and things we understand, but also writing in order to find meaning or revelation. After death, though, the call increases. People either miss the artist on a personal level or, maybe, the work becomes popular and/or the subject of research (i.e. by Literary academics). And these biographers know everything about everyone, no matter how far in the past the evidence is (could give any example here... Coleridge, there you go).
These days a biographer could dredge up all kinds of stuff from our ever-increasingly self-documented lifestyles, from how often you've complained about the sniffles to every single TV programme you've ever claimed to watch. So what's the point in trying to be nobody? There's a tome of biography hanging around all our necks with no lock on it. As soon as we're dead and the bounds of our life have set, you can be boiled down easily. If you tried a pen-name it will be cracked and then you're not just over-contextualized, but over-contextualized as the person who tried to avoid being contextualized, i.e. a failure. So this post has all been a load of rubbish then... It's unavoidable, really, to be tied to your work and run the risk of people using your life as a key to unlock (possibly spurious) 'hidden messages'.
Having just finished Elfriede Jelinek's Her Not All Her, I've found some possible ways to progress, though: master your own myth. Reto Sorg's afterword to this book is a very stimulating few pages, and here I muse upon't. Sorg is guilty of the 'boiling down' I mentioned in the last paragraph when she says of Robert Walser (who the play 'is about') that he was, "...a naive genius who used his writing to reveal his existential position, whose career fell apart almost before it got started, who entered an insane asylum despite being sane, and who gave up his passion in order to live out the remainder of his life silenced as a writer..." Seems almost abrupt, non? She balances this out with an interesting thought on the topic of legacy; that, "...Walser himself contributed to the Walser myth." He did this, Sorg argues, by maintaining a, "...stoic view of his own life as a writer... as one who turns his everyday personal life into his subject." This, along with making "the context and act of writing into his theme..." produces an "overlap between the real person and the fictional character" which "becomes the vanishing point of his work." To sum up, "he invented himself in the act of writing and at the same time made himself disappear." So the ways to move forward are to either 'manipulate the myth' or give up altogether. After all, if you produce nothing, then it can never be ruined by context.
But that's never gonna happen!
Bye for now folks (and apologies for this being such a long post. Please share any thoughts you have, or even just tell me that you made it to the end and I'll congratulate you).
Wednesday, 28 August 2013
Al Alvarez - The Writer's Voice
It was perfectly complementary to a number of titles I've read for my university course, whilst giving a fresh, dynamic and also further-reaching account of literary issues that are close to my heart. It was like a small cog in a machine, deceptive because of its size, but actually the thing that ties so much of the rest of the workings together. For example, Alvarez' talk about the relationship between physicality ('muscular processes') and mental exercise brought up a number of parallels with Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Similarly, the schism between public projection of an artist and the actual writer is one of many things that Margaret Atwood covers in Negotiating With the Dead: A Writer on Writing that Alvarez also writes about. None of the material is reproduced, however, it is all fresh and stimulating. Further to my comparison with Atwood, I felt a similar sense of positively-affirming revelation after completing both books, but Alvarez' was much shorter. Being short isn't the be all and end all, of course, I'm merely saying that his succinct style packed a hell of a wallop, but if you have the time to check out Negotiating With the Dead too, I think they could go hand in hand as ways of understanding who you are as a writer and where you want to go next.
There were so many things to take away from reading Alvarez. The first - and perhaps the most 'pertinent', given the book's title - is that the writer's voice is the most important thing. One can hone craft, read widely and take all the mind-expanding substances one wants, but ultimately voice is something that can't be bought, ingested, learned or consciously changed, yet it is the difference between hitting home with your audience and simply putting words down on a page (I think the way I've put it implies that even 'review-type material' can have an energetic and touching quality with a compelling voice. I think that's spot on). My only real problem with this text is that in the first section ('Finding a Voice'), Alvarez makes a distinction between 'voice' and 'style' and then seems to fail to keep the two distinct (at least for someone of my intelligence to easily discern).
Other wisdom conveyed is that this voice can't be rushed (exactly what I need to be hearing right now), it can become powerful late on in life when youthful exuberance (ha!) has long since faded. There are so many 'lessons' I'd love to share, but I want you to read the book rather than read this. Plus one of the founding tenets of this blog is to 'keep it short', and I'm already off track there... So the last thought I'll say I took from The Writer's Voice is the disruptive (if not destructive) influence of the study of (English) Literature on literary production. I've been a keen literary student (if not a gifted one) and had, until reading this book, thought that Literature could help me write, learning, as it were, from heroes of the written word. I realise how false this is, not in the least part due to how context and the evils of biography overtake the text in primary importance. 'x was addicted to drugs, so now this poem is all about addiction,' is an overly-reductive (hey, I'm not getting paid to go into detail here haha) but fairly-true thought that may go through a Literature student's mind that will 'unlock' certain 'meanings' from a piece of writing, but also lock up and obfuscate the true power of creation that is unfolding between their eyes. This looks like a good place to shamelessly link you to Billy Collins' 'Introduction to Poetry'. But yeah, there's so much more to take from this, give it a go.
Now a bit of arse-licking: Alvarez is covering a massive swathe of time, from Classical culture all the way up to the Beat generation. Despite being a prominent critic in his own right, he covers the WRITING side of things consistently. In his considered approach, there is no deviation or afterthought. Instead he covers social, political, historical and cultural detail with an almost abrupt style, getting across strongly his voice and hygienic prowess by not wasting a single word or engaging in an ounce of circumlocution (that's my job). Clinical is a fairly good word - though it risks connotationally excluding the warmth and 'engagingness' he exudes - because he reminds me of a doctor I recently spoke to. He was such a friendly chap, it seemed like I was talking to a mate I've known for years. He talked about medical issues that were beginning to get beyond me, but then rephrased them in a more accessible way so that I fully understood. The only difference between he and Mr Alvarez is that the latter was not present to actually ask, "Did you get that?" I'm sure he would do, though, given the chance.
With that, I shall stop myself from going on even further. All I want to convey to you is how important this book is in terms of drilling right to heart of the matter of not just why writing can be important but how. It's far from a 'how to' guide, but the sensible ones amongst you will be stirred like a hot coffee and feel those granules of instant coffee within you dissolve, making the beverage of yourself stronger and more resolute. It's a day's reading, if that, so get it and make the time to absorb it. Comment back, maybe, tell me what you thought.
Peace out, and remember that no matter how down you feel, tomorrow is a new day and the limitless possibilities that abound around us
must contain some positive outcomes.
Saturday, 20 April 2013
Manifest Exhibiton
Just wanted to tell y'all to get going to the Manifest exhibition, if you can. It's a showcase of collaborative pieces between poet Robert Sheppard and artist Pete Clarke.
I took a while before last Monday's MA session to take a look around the fifteen pieces (and the TV screen) that make up the collection, and I think 'impressive' is certainly top on my list of descriptives. The text-on-collage ranges from really striking boldly-coloured redblack pows in your face ('Tangled Scree, 2012'), to subtler pastel colours where the text submerges under some of the paint ('Invisible Cities, 2009').
Rarely on the page would you ever get such a diverse range of ways to try and read a text, let alone appreciate its correlation to other visual stimulus. I found myself wondering if I was reading image and regarding word and asking myself 'if I was reading it the right way' etc. In that way it was great art, surprisingly interactive in that sense. I appreciated it both from the perspective of a student of postmodernism (process on show) but also as someone who just likes engaging in new and exciting things.
It's on until April 26th, so there's still plenty of time to check it out. It's a great opportunity, not something you see often.
All relevant details about the event can be found on the first link, but also included are links to the collabortators' websites.
Peace out.
I took a while before last Monday's MA session to take a look around the fifteen pieces (and the TV screen) that make up the collection, and I think 'impressive' is certainly top on my list of descriptives. The text-on-collage ranges from really striking boldly-coloured redblack pows in your face ('Tangled Scree, 2012'), to subtler pastel colours where the text submerges under some of the paint ('Invisible Cities, 2009').
Rarely on the page would you ever get such a diverse range of ways to try and read a text, let alone appreciate its correlation to other visual stimulus. I found myself wondering if I was reading image and regarding word and asking myself 'if I was reading it the right way' etc. In that way it was great art, surprisingly interactive in that sense. I appreciated it both from the perspective of a student of postmodernism (process on show) but also as someone who just likes engaging in new and exciting things.
It's on until April 26th, so there's still plenty of time to check it out. It's a great opportunity, not something you see often.
All relevant details about the event can be found on the first link, but also included are links to the collabortators' websites.
Peace out.
Friday, 5 April 2013
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
Friday, 22 March 2013
Langwidge Pt. 3
Here's parts uno and dos for your delectatory delight. This part is going to deal with Sapir-Whorfy stuff, a subject I'm 'not a hundred per cent on', to use the parlance of our times, but I'm going to talk about anyway. You're all bright enough to do your own research if anything grabs you anyway... Yeah one thing I forgot to mention in part two (which, incidentally, would have ended it on a rather positive and hopeful note) is that I want to learn Italian and Dutch, and if possible polish up my existing MFLs. That didn't sound so positive out of context... Oh well you can go back and read the other posts if you want.
Onwards!
So what is this Sapir-Whorf hypothesis and what's it got to do with my mini series on languages and translation? The hypothesis: the way we talk reflects the way we see the world (put very simply). The ramifications being, in a way, that there's no real expression we can make that hasn't been conditioned by social (and psychological?) factors. Ergo, 'pure translation' is going to be futile. If one could translate a piece into another language 'perfectly' then those two countries would be the same. And therefore have the same language. Does that make sense? Anyway, I'm not saying translation is useless, I'm just saying that the differences between translations should be celebrated in their own right.
On the whole business of 'variations'... Everything's just a variation of something else isn't it? Information goes into the brain, is mangled up by our thought processes, then reformed onto the page. The poems a Spanish person might write about a sunset (yeah, I know...) will be different to the poems a Finnish person would, and that's for a reason. So I dunno, either go back in time and be born in another country, then read the original, or be happy with the translation which will be a richly diverse and worthwhile production.
Now the usual bit: "So I'm not confident about anything anymore, I'm not sure what I'm doing or where I'm going boohoo wahwah." I'm not good enough. I don't know things. I've not done anything. I'm not even sure of the English language anymore, what's it all about? It's time to start rebuilding my life. Maybe. Pass the bricks I guess...
Erm, well I should say thanks to Miriam Meyerhoff for Introducing Sociolinguistics and maybe you should check out The Poetry Foundation, which has some lovely things about linguistics and poetry. Ron Siliman's blog has a great many resources in this vein also, such as videos of Noam Chomsky and Lera Boroditsky.
I think that's it. Sorry it was so awful. You can go now. Bye.
Onwards!
So what is this Sapir-Whorf hypothesis and what's it got to do with my mini series on languages and translation? The hypothesis: the way we talk reflects the way we see the world (put very simply). The ramifications being, in a way, that there's no real expression we can make that hasn't been conditioned by social (and psychological?) factors. Ergo, 'pure translation' is going to be futile. If one could translate a piece into another language 'perfectly' then those two countries would be the same. And therefore have the same language. Does that make sense? Anyway, I'm not saying translation is useless, I'm just saying that the differences between translations should be celebrated in their own right.
On the whole business of 'variations'... Everything's just a variation of something else isn't it? Information goes into the brain, is mangled up by our thought processes, then reformed onto the page. The poems a Spanish person might write about a sunset (yeah, I know...) will be different to the poems a Finnish person would, and that's for a reason. So I dunno, either go back in time and be born in another country, then read the original, or be happy with the translation which will be a richly diverse and worthwhile production.
Now the usual bit: "So I'm not confident about anything anymore, I'm not sure what I'm doing or where I'm going boohoo wahwah." I'm not good enough. I don't know things. I've not done anything. I'm not even sure of the English language anymore, what's it all about? It's time to start rebuilding my life. Maybe. Pass the bricks I guess...
Erm, well I should say thanks to Miriam Meyerhoff for Introducing Sociolinguistics and maybe you should check out The Poetry Foundation, which has some lovely things about linguistics and poetry. Ron Siliman's blog has a great many resources in this vein also, such as videos of Noam Chomsky and Lera Boroditsky.
I think that's it. Sorry it was so awful. You can go now. Bye.
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
Langwidge Pt. 2
This part's a bit more melancholic and also doesn't come with an apology. In the first part I was talking about literary translations and some of the problems surrounding the process (that I can see, anyway. Maybe you don't have any problems with anything... good for you). What I really wanted to talk about was stuff like the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis (which I'm trying to get clued-up on) and also talk about my language experiences (mainly an excuse to brag about decent GCSE grades :P ). So now that I've ruined all possible suspense, let's get cracking (don't worry, it won't take forever. Besides, there's always that little 'x' you could click in the... oh wait... no I already did that joke in the previous portion...).
Basically what I'm dealing with is a sense of mourning for my ability to speak different languages. I've had two years of Latin, two years of Spanish and five of French (since seven, five and five years respectively). Since then, my proficiency (if I can claim it so highly) has somewhat dwindled. I try and make up for it by using convoluted English words in everyday situations (I can't comment on how well that's going...), but it's not the same. I knew quite a lot about French, like how to speak in many tenses, talk about complex ideas (such as 'frogmen' - hommes grenouilles for those of you who are interested) and, much more importantly, I started to get a bit of confidence in being able to speak it. Where's all that now?
I chose not to do language at A Level. I'm not sure why. I chose subjects (like Physics) because I was interested in them, and wanted to get to know them better. But what I wish I'd have been told to look ahead to what I'd like to do with my life, rather than just what I'd like to do with the next couple of years. Physics, for me, has not only been 'too hard' but also had basically no impact on my life. Now all my French syntactical knowledge has withered, and alls I got is useless lexis (such as the word for 'frogmen' - oh wait, I gone done that one already).
French was mandatory where I went to school from year one, but at GCSE we had to pick another (German, Spanish, Latin or Greek). I went for Spanish, as it's similar to Latin, but never took it that seriously. It was a lesson I had to go to, a qualification to get, and I didn't put as much effort in as with French. Now all I can think is, 'why did you waste that opportunity'?
At Edge Hill, my BA in English and Creative Writing involved language modules. They were richly varied, with elements of history, sociology and more, but in a sense there was too much variety and over the course of one module there wasn't enough depth in some ways (obviously they weren't designed to help you learn a language, but personally I felt a little directionless with all the slightly disparate elements that we looked at). Anyway, my point is that, again, I have a few nice nuggets of linguistic information, and I'm still interested in languages, but for the purposes of translation it wasn't so helpful (again, I'd like to stress that it was never meant to be helpful in such a way, and it WAS useful for many other things).
Now I'm in this place of desolation. I'd say it's a desert, but deserts can be beautiful. Things have withered and died and there's no turning back. It reminds me very much of Sujata Bhatt's 'Search For My Tongue' apart from the 'mother tongue' is not the 'problem', it's the other tongues (would they be called 'father tongues'? Surely not... sorry, I digress!). The tension that arises from not having a proper frame of reference for the mother tongue is the problem. How can I understand more than the (relatively) narrow sphere of English-speaking cultures without being FLUENT in another language? I've been getting very into American writers (Vonnegut, Bukowski, Kerouac) and yet what use is that for cultural diversification? Sure a lot of them are influenced by Eastern philosophies, but there's that voice at the back of my mind: if they've not communicated the original culture sufficiently then they are practically worthless. I wonder where I got that from?
Never mind, this isn't a blame game. This is a discussion (albeit one-sided :P ). Still not got onto Sapir-Whorf. Maybe next time. Thanks if you've stuck around haha.
Goodnight. [Part 3]
Basically what I'm dealing with is a sense of mourning for my ability to speak different languages. I've had two years of Latin, two years of Spanish and five of French (since seven, five and five years respectively). Since then, my proficiency (if I can claim it so highly) has somewhat dwindled. I try and make up for it by using convoluted English words in everyday situations (I can't comment on how well that's going...), but it's not the same. I knew quite a lot about French, like how to speak in many tenses, talk about complex ideas (such as 'frogmen' - hommes grenouilles for those of you who are interested) and, much more importantly, I started to get a bit of confidence in being able to speak it. Where's all that now?
I chose not to do language at A Level. I'm not sure why. I chose subjects (like Physics) because I was interested in them, and wanted to get to know them better. But what I wish I'd have been told to look ahead to what I'd like to do with my life, rather than just what I'd like to do with the next couple of years. Physics, for me, has not only been 'too hard' but also had basically no impact on my life. Now all my French syntactical knowledge has withered, and alls I got is useless lexis (such as the word for 'frogmen' - oh wait, I gone done that one already).
French was mandatory where I went to school from year one, but at GCSE we had to pick another (German, Spanish, Latin or Greek). I went for Spanish, as it's similar to Latin, but never took it that seriously. It was a lesson I had to go to, a qualification to get, and I didn't put as much effort in as with French. Now all I can think is, 'why did you waste that opportunity'?
At Edge Hill, my BA in English and Creative Writing involved language modules. They were richly varied, with elements of history, sociology and more, but in a sense there was too much variety and over the course of one module there wasn't enough depth in some ways (obviously they weren't designed to help you learn a language, but personally I felt a little directionless with all the slightly disparate elements that we looked at). Anyway, my point is that, again, I have a few nice nuggets of linguistic information, and I'm still interested in languages, but for the purposes of translation it wasn't so helpful (again, I'd like to stress that it was never meant to be helpful in such a way, and it WAS useful for many other things).
Now I'm in this place of desolation. I'd say it's a desert, but deserts can be beautiful. Things have withered and died and there's no turning back. It reminds me very much of Sujata Bhatt's 'Search For My Tongue' apart from the 'mother tongue' is not the 'problem', it's the other tongues (would they be called 'father tongues'? Surely not... sorry, I digress!). The tension that arises from not having a proper frame of reference for the mother tongue is the problem. How can I understand more than the (relatively) narrow sphere of English-speaking cultures without being FLUENT in another language? I've been getting very into American writers (Vonnegut, Bukowski, Kerouac) and yet what use is that for cultural diversification? Sure a lot of them are influenced by Eastern philosophies, but there's that voice at the back of my mind: if they've not communicated the original culture sufficiently then they are practically worthless. I wonder where I got that from?
Never mind, this isn't a blame game. This is a discussion (albeit one-sided :P ). Still not got onto Sapir-Whorf. Maybe next time. Thanks if you've stuck around haha.
Goodnight. [Part 3]
Tuesday, 19 March 2013
Langwidge Pt. 1
More uncertainty (sorry. I'm genuinely, really, truly sorry but you can always just click that 'x' in the top right corner if it gets too much). Us folks on the MA have just been looking at literary translations (into different languages, rather than different genres - which I did on part of my BA incidentally), and yeah it's a very thought-provoking endeavour. The questions, tensions and problems that arise are truly chewy considerations. For example, with poetry one of the big choices you have to make is whether to keep the rhyme scheme (obviously assuming there is one). Think about it: poems that rhyme already have their nature skewed into a kind of 'taut' form, so in translation the poem is further pulled and stretched semantically just for the 'benefit' of same-sounding sentence ends. But hey, you might want that.
I found it almost... unnerving (perhaps not the right word, but I work with what I'm given) that we were talking about what amounted to a responsibility to keep the original essence of the piece intact and no-one seemed upset by it. To me it's obvious that such a perfection is impossible. The phonemes all change (so it sounds very different), the shape of the poem is easily changed, the precise meanings of individual words change (imagine translating into a language whose conceptual mapping of colours is entirely different to ones own) and so on... I think the degree of similarity is kind of irrelevant. The translation's worth as a poem on its own merit is really the only thing that should matter. Then (healthy) discussion about why certain decisions were made can arise. At the end of the day, someone else could try and translate the same piece themselves. There just is no 'right answer', and surely that's the big message? It's as liberating as it is scary, that's a message we can all dance to (ANALOGY AGREEMENT ALERT).
We also talked about 'versions' which are apparently what happens when a writer translates something 'however they want' (I won't go into why that sounds to me like a meaningless thing to say). Basically, these poems have 'very little sense of the original' and were looked down upon in no uncertain terms when we discussed them. But why? Just like memory is a creative process, surely translation cannot fail to be also. At the very least, a translator should read the original they are working on, but after that, how can we be so sure about what's right and wrong? Art is (in an overly-basic and inexhaustive description) a reforming of sense perceptions that the brain has digested, so why not read the original and then, once that experience is in the mind, rewrite whatever you think. Does it make you 'correct' if you slave over every single word and letter? Every artist has to make decisions about what they're working on and the idea is that they know why they made them and can thus defend them. That's the essence, not simply 'I wanted to make it the same'. Strive for perfection if you want (it doesn't matter that you'll fail), but also what you feel is right should not be criticised solely on the grounds of not being like someone else's opinion of perfection.
I've not even got onto the main 'meat' of what I wanted to write about: language itself. I'll be talking about tongues in the next part, hope to see you there. [Part 2]
I found it almost... unnerving (perhaps not the right word, but I work with what I'm given) that we were talking about what amounted to a responsibility to keep the original essence of the piece intact and no-one seemed upset by it. To me it's obvious that such a perfection is impossible. The phonemes all change (so it sounds very different), the shape of the poem is easily changed, the precise meanings of individual words change (imagine translating into a language whose conceptual mapping of colours is entirely different to ones own) and so on... I think the degree of similarity is kind of irrelevant. The translation's worth as a poem on its own merit is really the only thing that should matter. Then (healthy) discussion about why certain decisions were made can arise. At the end of the day, someone else could try and translate the same piece themselves. There just is no 'right answer', and surely that's the big message? It's as liberating as it is scary, that's a message we can all dance to (ANALOGY AGREEMENT ALERT).
We also talked about 'versions' which are apparently what happens when a writer translates something 'however they want' (I won't go into why that sounds to me like a meaningless thing to say). Basically, these poems have 'very little sense of the original' and were looked down upon in no uncertain terms when we discussed them. But why? Just like memory is a creative process, surely translation cannot fail to be also. At the very least, a translator should read the original they are working on, but after that, how can we be so sure about what's right and wrong? Art is (in an overly-basic and inexhaustive description) a reforming of sense perceptions that the brain has digested, so why not read the original and then, once that experience is in the mind, rewrite whatever you think. Does it make you 'correct' if you slave over every single word and letter? Every artist has to make decisions about what they're working on and the idea is that they know why they made them and can thus defend them. That's the essence, not simply 'I wanted to make it the same'. Strive for perfection if you want (it doesn't matter that you'll fail), but also what you feel is right should not be criticised solely on the grounds of not being like someone else's opinion of perfection.
I've not even got onto the main 'meat' of what I wanted to write about: language itself. I'll be talking about tongues in the next part, hope to see you there. [Part 2]
Friday, 8 February 2013
Me Me Me
As I've said before, I feel like my writing stamina has improved since my relatively long blog-a-day stint last month. My impetus to write, however, seems to obey its own rules. One day I feel like I've got nothing, am never going to have anything and should give up the idea of being a writer, then the next day I write a couple of bits of fiction and some other none fiction. The day after may be more of an ideas day than a writing one. Today it has been reasonably hard.
I think forcing yourself to do things when you don't want to is pretty easy. In terms of writing anyway... In terms of my diet, it's far too easy to over-eat and most of the time, love or money wouldn't be enough to get me out on a jog, for example. But anyway, when writing, I've taken the message that it's okay to write shit, as long as you're writing (ta Chris Beckett), and I don't feel writer's block when working on a new piece.
HERE IS THE MOAN: I'm still so annoyed at myself that I can't finish things. Can't or won't, I don't really know (hmm, seems like we could've done with another contraction in that sentence...). I'd say of all the ideas I've ever had, I've probably started a third of them? Maybe a bit more. Then of that third, I've probably finished... blimey... I can't decide if it's more like a fifth or a tenth... Well, at best, of the overall number I finish around a thirtieth of all the ideas I have. I don't think that's a reliable figure at all, but I'm trying. It's terrible though - I drive my writing snowplow into the avalanche, make a decent dent, and then just stop. Later on, start work on another avalanche, make decent headway again then stop. A year later, so many first drafts have been started then just been ignored...
Part of this is due to confidence. I tell myself some things aren't worth further work, when maybe they are. Also, I get so excited about new projects, so older ones just naturally fall by the wayside. It's stupid though, I'm being all 'high and mighty' about writing more, but it's like making a meal. Sure it's great if you make loads of different dishes, but if you don't finish them then you've really wasted a lot of (good?) stuff. Bah, I dunno, I'm just not in a great mood... Again taking some advice from Chris, he says stories can have a long gestation period (twenty years, in the case of one of his), so maybe I shouldn't worry so much. It's hard to take good advice to heart, though, when negative emotion soaks in easier than red wine on a white carpet.
It could all be part of my process. Maybe it's part of yours? Since there are no definite yeses here, however, if you don't mind I'll just assume the worst and go drink and cry and whoan into the wind.
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
Unrelated to Samuel
I felt his points were particularly powerful as they addressed the professional writer and the 'real writer'. That is to say, the professional one is the one the public sees, and his message on the professional side was that one has to be proactive. Even if you don't like people (who, me?), you have to accept that you can't shut yourself away in your garrett and thrive. You have to network, to make a nuissance of yourself and to GET OUT THERE basically.
To the 'real' writer (I wish I'd not chosen that way of saying it, it creates so many obvious problems of semantics...), he said be prepared to write shit. I don't think he swore. Embrace writing, don't worry that not everything is your best and, indeed, accept that some things are beyond salvation. Keep going though, and you'll find those golden nuggets in time. Now these are all simple messages for writers. You'll have heard them all many times before. What me and my MA chum were saying, though, was that the way they say it makes it seem new and refreshing each time. It's like a collage of similar messages making a pretty pastel picture of meaning. Also, for his part, Mr Beckett is a very warm and humble man. He read from Dark Eden which sounds fantastic, it's definitely going on the wishlist.
As I said, though, Chris wasn't the only writer I saw. Obviously there were Edge Hill tutors (it's always nice to see Ailsa Cox at events, she always does a lovely job compering), but also Carys Bray. I took a chance to ask her a few questions off the cuff. I'm ashamed that I spent so much time blathering on about what I was up to when she asked, a bit embarrassing but that's my fault. I asked her what life was like after being published, and it seems the world has kept turning for her. She laughed that it sounded depressing, but I don't know, maybe it's quite the opposite. Anyways, her book Sweet Home is on my wishlist and for some reason I haven't bought it yet. There is, should we say, a slight issue with last month's pay from work, when that gets resolved I PROMISE I will buy her book, I've been looking forward to it for ages. I'll even put off buying my bongos.
Right you can tell this post hasn't been edited. Perhaps it's not the most fitting tribute to Chris' live appearance, as he was actually very eloquent. I think it's fair to say, even by my usual standards, that this has been stilted, awkward and generally like a politician's apology... Still, I said I'd do it. Next one will be better... Please come back!
Tuesday, 29 January 2013
Just Like That
Things are better. The power of communion really is amazing. The generator has whirred back to life. The lights are back on. The clocks have started moving forward again. They stutter slightly, sure, but pothing's nerfect right?
Things haven't been resolved, but then what ever is? Do I know more about writing? No. Do I know more about myself? No. Am I a writer? I'm still not sure, but I am still writing. Also I'm thinking about future projects, feeling that excitement again. Next stop: getting cracking (hopefully).
This has been a response to Not Sure Anymore. Things have changed. As it often does, the Morecambe winds have cleansed the bad thoughts away. The only problem now is that the sea's anger seems somehow related to those lads messing around with the vending machine at Preston train station.
I'm not normal...
Things haven't been resolved, but then what ever is? Do I know more about writing? No. Do I know more about myself? No. Am I a writer? I'm still not sure, but I am still writing. Also I'm thinking about future projects, feeling that excitement again. Next stop: getting cracking (hopefully).
This has been a response to Not Sure Anymore. Things have changed. As it often does, the Morecambe winds have cleansed the bad thoughts away. The only problem now is that the sea's anger seems somehow related to those lads messing around with the vending machine at Preston train station.
I'm not normal...
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