A Trilogy of Inspiration

I have had three days brain-deep in all things literary. A distraction that came when sadness was weighting me down, for many reasons. I was safe in the company of writers at Litcamp: the fragrant Vanessa Gebbie, the truly lovely Alison, incomparable Sara (of Asalted), gorgeous Kerry……. Litcamp made me feel like a professional, a contender. I was cheered by an ‘excellent’ verdict from Steve of Willesden blog infamy on a short story of mine. My god, I needed that. I needed it all….even the daft and the delusional at the event who made me giggle. Including someone who thought that if their mother told them their book was fab, that was all they need to continue. Ahem.

My head full of books and the infinite possibilities of language, I also attended two days of the Reading Crime Festival – a first for Reading and initiated and run by the borough librarians. It began with a writers’ workshop with Cath Stanicliffe, where my daughter (aged 11) rather surprised a roomful of adults by conjuring up her own method of murder: stuffing snow down someone’s throat. I may have to sleep with one eye open from now on. Bless her gothic soul. The day continued: literary discussions, writers explaining their craft, a talk on the role for coroner….all very juicy. There was very much an old tale repeatedly told by the male (usually bearded) writers: ‘I had a good lunch with an agent/publisher and then later had several films made of my books………’ To the aspiring crime writers there it sounded wonderful, easy. It took Frances Fyfield to be honest and admit that it was ‘Easier in my day…it is hard for people to get published now…it is a different business.’ A friend of mine, after a particularly turgid reading from one of the crime writers, was tempted to ask him if he thought that he would get published nowadays. I stopped her…it was a little too blunt, even if true. Fyfield at least could see beyond her own accomplished world and realise the current market.

There is also a great friendship between some crime writers. Bored, Fyfield rang up Val McDermid one morning to ask her what she was doing. (I love that image) ‘I’m bleaching spoons,’ she was told. Increasingly Fyfield’s honesty was so fresh….she hates the actual discipline of writing and will often resort to mundane displacement activities. Hurrah! Someone else! Someone widely published!

Speaking of the spoon-bleacher, Val McDermid was a delight, in every way. In smiling Scottish brogue, she held a huge room of people like a professional actress. Passion shone from her. Writing was everything. ‘Ah, I saw they called this the ‘Big Author Event,’ she laughed. ‘Why do they not say FAT and be done with it!’ I asked a question at the end about whether the growth of crime fiction may in fact be due to our perceptions of a lawless society. Quick, articulate. clever – she explained how a crime book is a contained and controlled entity, a moral universe. The real criminals out there, she said, were far worse than even our imaginations could muster. Things are not solved, people are not saved. From someone who writes the graphic scenes in the ‘Wire in the Blood’ series, that was a terrifying thought. Afterwards, I dutifully bought her new book and shuffled up for a signing. I gave my full name and she looked at me curiously, with some recognition at the name. The moment seemed right and so I thanked her for choosing my story in Mslexia some time ago, when she judged the submissions. I specified which one. ‘That was a lovely story,’ she smiled. ‘Very moving.’

Very moving. Very moving. I wrote it on my mirror in eyeliner when I got back and in the morning, thought how batty that was of me. Vowed that if I ever become successful I will try and endorse writers still climbing: it means so much.

On the Sunday evening at the final event, Mark Billingham and John Harvey rolled through the doors from the pub. Much banter and silliness, much use of the words ‘Fuck’ and ‘Bollocks’ between the two daft beggars. Mark Billingham read from his new novel and proved that a writer who can read well, tell stories…will be a successful one because he can also do the circuit, entertain. He later slagged off John Banville (‘I hate these up themselves authors…he told me that its perfectly possible to read a book with a dictionary by the side….what!!!!!!!!!!”) Agatha Christie and Jeffrey Archer were also for the chop. The Crime Writers’ Association has black tie award events at £90 a ticket, full of old buffers. ‘But did you know,’ he said, ‘that the Australian equivalent is called the Ned Kelly Awards and they have a stripper.’ It was that kind of blokey nonsense. John Harvey, who was much more drunk and was intellectually freefalling, talked about the Paralympics for no reason, then decided that the first few pages of his new novel wasn’t good enough and ripped it up. Went to read something else and then discovered that he had actually ripped that up instead. All fun and games. The death of the short story…how there was no market....blah blah…came up and John Harvey even admitted that he had to approach a small press to take a recent novella, despite the fact that he has published many books and has a ‘name.’ Billingham praised the short story and everyone bemoaned the fact that they are not supposed to sell.

So many treats at that festival…including a plant forensic scientist who looked as if he were being played by an actor. Tweed and dusty moustache, guffawed in all the wrong places as if he did not mix with people much, lived with his microscope. He once had to collate evidence from a rape case (that was one where he laughed, inappropriately) and the police gave him a dress from the victim. ‘Now if there were evidence to collect, it would not be on a dress.’

He then came up with a great book title for his memoirs:

The Answer Lies in The Knickers.

Going to Ground

I have been in a dark place recently (although not in a cupboard – that would be weird) – for various and serious reasons. I have wanted to skulk, be invisible, be sad. No writing except one bullet fired short story for a local competition in this time, but a lot of thinking. A skip full of brain matter amount of thinking. Already in this dark place, I woke up one morning to discover that one of my cats had disappeared. A neutered tom – a house cat of thirteen years, whose only outdoor pleasure has been to potter in the garden, rest in the warm soil and sleep. I would look at him and feel peace. Now he was gone. No sign. No clues. A frantic campaign of search followed which included exploring the grounds of the local school, discovering a vast allotment full of kindly old men growing beautiful fruit and vegetables. Then as time passed and I became more desperate, I have knocked on doors and even accosted strangers in the street. Tried to spot ‘cat’ people – the old ladies in dressing gowns (one who told me that if anyone had hurt my cat she would break their legs and go to prison for it – which had me crying on her doorstep). Then I approached ‘dog’ people – because at least they had animals, would understand. Discovered the huge and wonderful world that he might have found beyond his doorstep, with crunchy mice, delicate birds and perhaps even an indulgent saucer of food donated by one of those ladies who talk to themselves.

I have been awake every night – my animals are precious to me, very bonded into my psyche. Moriarty – so named after Sherlock Holmes’ nemesis – is so very unlike his name. He is soft in heart, goes limp and heavy when I pick him up and lets me put my face into his fur. That fur has been cried into, ruffled when I’m happy – all those stupid sentimental moments that we all try to hide from our adult counterparts. We are supposed to be grown-ups after all, not children. But with an animal we can indulge the child, the primal, the id if you like – it all depends on whether you embrace Freud or Jung.

What has got my molecules all stirred up, made me feel insecure and lost – is the not knowing that so many people talk about. Losing something, someone – and never knowing their fate. Whether they are in pain or dead – it haunts to an unhealthy degree. Then I did some more deeper searching – navel-gazing if you like, discovered that I have never liked losing anything, losing control of myself or anything around me. But in writing – now here is where I found a strange truth – I can control everything. I am the puppet-master, the leader of lives. I can hold in my hand the fate of my characters – but also know that the encapsulated world is real on the page, but cannot hurt me as much as life can do. I can step out from the page and breathe afterwards. I may feel for the characters I create and similarly, I feel real grief for those I read about in fiction. But I perversely enjoy that feeling – which is why I am fond of the Russians, who can make melancholy sweet and satisfying. It makes me feel alive to feel deeply to care, as I do for my family, friends, animals.

One lost cat. My friend, my writer’s muse. Grief that cannot be understood by everyone but hurts more than anything. It has made me think very very hard. I love unhappy or open-ended endings in books – that palpitating resonance. Here, I need a happy resolution – to believe that the universe is a good one. I have thought about God too – a little – but I am not ready to negotiate with St Anthony for Moriarty’s safe return. Still atheist/agnostic – not sure, but realising that it must give a lot of comfort to some to ‘hand over’ worries.

Last night I was sitting on a bench in the local school with torch, cat food, even a recording of my cat’s sister so that he might hear and respond – my last night because it is a boarding school and I was not allowed to wander around at night when the girls were back – looking at the bats, seeing a fox leaping after prey as if a small trampoline was hiding in the bushes. I was calm.

I hope to be writing soon and also contacting friends and colleagues that I have badly neglected. I do want to stay in the darkness though a little longer, until I feel able to face the scrutiny of light.