Suffering Sophocles

It will be boring, friends said. Why on earth are you spending two days doing that when you could be shopping, sleeping, swimming? But the recent workshop on Antigone’s Sophocles (with Brecht and Jean Anouilh thrown in as supporting artistes) was a true revelation. .

Antigone was the daughter of Oedipus – not a great start because he was a motherf..….well, you know that story. So already from a doomed family, her two brothers then murder one another, Oedipus dies and his brother, Creon, becomes king. One of Antigone’s brothers Polynices has rebelled against the state and is to be left outside for the dogs and vultures to pick over his bones. But Antigone decides to bury him and so the wheels of fate roll on when she is condemned to death. There will be more deaths that follow.

No relevance to today? Family versus state? Idealism? Dying for a cause? Conscience? All those themes, written in 441 B.C, wrapped tight in the most rhythmic, beautifully phrased prose:

‘My plans, my mad fanatic heart, my son, cut off so young…’

Suddenly, I saw the roots of King Lear and many other great works of literature. It was back to the source of things….

So, I have made enquiries about doing a part-time Classics degree. Not more Creative Writing – the route I thought I would take. Perhaps I am very impractical about this and I will end my days as a crusty, dusty and far from lusty would-be academic with whiskers and a snuff habit. I feel intoxicated by the Ancient Greeks – this was a time when skilful language was everything: it was valued, honed and considered an asset. Well, I want to be more skilful, understand the cadences of every sentence, the power of one adverb over another, to move people. (Brecht to be recommended too, for his poetry. Anouilh I found too sentimental.)

It is all in the lap of the Gods whether I get (and can afford – there is always that little sting) a place at the University. I may fall to earth pretty fast but hey, an academic friend of mine said it well:

‘I've found my own classical studies incredibly enriching. Not only have I experienced that amazing sense of connectedness with our vast cultural heritage (something that the educated person once took as given but which has been sadly lost in recent decades) but I've felt like a traveller into other minds. I feel I've rubbed shoulders with people recognisable as coming from the same species as ourselves but very different in other ways. The realisation that thought is words and that words do not correspond across all languages is humbling, liberating, and utterly vital for a writer. I love Ancient Greek because I feel that it is the evolving language of a people developing both their philosophies and the ways of expressing them in tandem. I also feel that I didn't really understand Byron and Shakespeare until I understood their exposure to the Classical tradition.’

So backwards to go forwards, really.

Affirmative Captain

I have been impulsive lately. Spontaneous. Jumping in before the evil analysis paralysis dampens the fun.

YES to the possibility of kicking off a discussion group at a Lit Fest in September. (That’s to network but also to enjoy a day with other writers, agents and publishers. The talented VANESSA GEBBIE will be there, reading her work.)

YES to reading a short story in Brighton. (That’s for my confidence and scares me back into thumb-sucking and nappies)

YES to a classical Greek workshop next week, discussing Sophocles’ The Three Theban Plays, Bertolt Brecht’s Antigone. (That’s purely for my intellect, that should be fed at all times)

Best of all I have said YES to that insistent voice that has asked me for years to turn what I consider to be in a strong idea, into a NOVEL. (That’s for my future.)

Saying YES feels like a ride, a scary one. But even when the news tells is that we will die in poverty or be engulfed in a tsunami/fire/nuclear holocaust – saying yes is just moving forward, ignoring the detractors. It also gives me news to tell people.

I will keep doing it. As long as it is to do with my beloved writing, my family or my friends.

Within reason.

In Awe of Poets

I am not a poet. Even though I have my first poem up on the excellent http://ink-sweat-and-tears.blogharbor.com/ I know this because I find the whole thing so laboured: the economy of words, that slippery sense of rhythm, the rubix cube line breaks. I actually panic when I'm writing it and that is never something I feel with prose. It is not a natural talent or a pleasure, really. But I will keep reading, greatly admiring, analysing and if, for true suffering that will make me a better person, writing a few pieces. Simply because every short story writer should look at it for the vivid sense of the visual, sensual and evocative use of language. You can do so many tricks, test out meanings and dance through magical realism.

Poets, I salute you.

Check out Ink, Sweat and Tears. It is a very fresh and passionate site, that dispenses with that pipe-smoking, pompous, beard-twiddling nonsense (and that is just the women.)

The Joy and Luck Club. For a Limited Time Only.

The sad thing about good moods is that they are ephemeral, like dragonflies. Beautiful nevertheless – to be admired and held fragile in our hands while we deserve them. Today is one of those days, because I feel like a WRITER. This morning I received my proofed manuscript from Penguin for my entry in the THE MAP OF ME anthology. I learnt a great deal, namely not to rush competition entries and slip up on a few grammatical areas. Whoops. However, it is amazing what an excellent proofreader can do – I was extremely impressed. I also learnt that there is a launch party in December and I look forward to meeting the other writers and sharing their own accounts of having a mixed heritage.

I have questions still formulating for writer David Clement Davies. Plus another book review commission from a top notch wildlife magazine, for a really fascinating (but intimidatingly academic) book on the evolution on dogs. Canis Familaris to some of us. Using the Internet as the wonderful long literary arm it is, I emailed the author of the book in Los Angeles with some questions. I remember last year trying to complete a devilish art quiz and being stumped by a question on Rembrandt. Internet again – the most eminent Rembrandt scholar Gary Schwartz – emailed him and had a correspondence, plus a detailed answer to the question. I was absurdly excited by that – because it was so quick and intimate. He was also a jolly and inspirational man – dedicated and passionate about his subject.

So all writing, all singing, all dancing – it feels professional. As if one day, it might actually be a job, rather than a loss- making ‘hobby.’ I also benefit greatly from time spent with my talented colleagues on Vanessa Gebbie’s Fiction Workhouse. I HAVE to write a story every month a least, one that will stand up to my colleagues’ scrutiny. No soft soap, flannel or any other bathroom-related nonsense.

Just writing.

Tomorrow I may be looking at a looped rope dangling from the ceiling and thinking, that looks comfy.

For today, there is a Mary Poppins robin.

A Measurement of Hardness*

This week I had been catching up on those overdue critiques for some writing colleagues, enjoying my zombie flash challenge and the diversity of others' zombie stories, doing some academic reading for a two day workshop I am attending in August…reading, writing….writing, then reading etc. Drowning happily in words and not waving at all.

Except….I then began to feel irritated too – by some writerly spats that were going on – writers are adept at using their erudition as a powerful weapon, to really wound one another. But it has affected me more than I would like to admit…it’s difficult to keep the focus, the mood for words when they are used in that destructive way. It takes some of the pleasure away when I encounter hardness in people. I would like to be harder, a tortoise when it suits, but I still flip over onto my belly and get kicked accidentally, even if none of it is directed at me personally. I’m soft but also a bloody tortoise – I hate conflict, confrontation, fiery attacks. I want to be invisible. So I decided that the writers I love most – Chekhov, Turgenev, the sublime Helen Dunmore, even Hardy with his sentimental fatalism – they are writers with true empathy, kindness, understanding of the human condition. Those are the (famous) writers I aspire to most.

So I shook the irritation aside and tried to be more positive. Was rewarded. As Assistant Editor of Wolf Print, I have been asked to interview David Clement Davies (www.davidclementdavies.com), a fantasy writer who has penned adult and children’s books – some about wolves such as ‘The Sight’ and ‘Fell’ – the former I am already now reading. I must create some imaginative, intelligent questions to send by email that will avoid the huge clichés (Where do you get your ideas? – that always deserves a facetious raspberry, a tongue in irons) but be insightful and useful to profile this shy (handsome – did I mention handsome) and talented writer.

Then doubly rewarded. Also have been asked to write a book review for a prestigious magazine. I will not mention the name of it yet, because it has yet to be confirmed.

Another few steps. Even the earlier unpleasantness should be a toughening up process. None of us can be wilters. Not The Flea. I just have to work harder, be with people who I admire and respect (I am lucky with my friends – very lucky.)

To die may be an awfully big adventure but hey, there’s lots of mileage in living too. All you need is a filter to spit out the negative.

Don’t tell anyone, but I am still soft.


*The MOH scale is used for stones. It was developed in the 1800's and shows the strengths and weaknesses of the stone.

Measurement of Hardness Scale
1. Talc
2. Gypsum
3. Calcite
4. Fluorite
5. Apatite
6. Feldspar
7. Quartz
8. Topaz
9. Corundum
10. Diamond

Ink, Sweat and Tears

It could epitomise The Writer's Life: Ink, Sweat and Tears. But no, this is a funky web magazine and I have had my first poetry acceptance here, for a poem called Renovation. The editor Charles Christian is open, friendly and energetic, exactly the sort of editors more writers deserve to encounter. He sent me a personal acceptance with his comments - if only more editors took the time to do this. Even a rejection with a small comment lifts the spirits. Writers would have work flying out there if they felt a bit more loved and appreciated. It's hard to work in a vacuum. The website is here:.

www. ink-sweat-and-tears.blogharbor.com

I am also shaping up a story for the Mere Literary Festival that closes on July 7th - by the seat of my pants yet again. More fun and less stressful is the zombie-themed writing challenge I am about to pick up, with some colleagues from The Fiction Workhouse. Zombies are fascinating, their history deeply entangled with magic, superstition and cinematic portrayals. I cannot decide yet to be funny, gross or tragic.

There's a lot that can be done with some rotting flesh and a joy of language.

The Man Booker and its Newest Contender

A man called Simon Holliday has submitted a bus timetable for the Man Booker Prize. Timetable in question is the First Bus Number 1 service in Bristol. And why? 'I have been using this service since August last year, ' says Mr Holliday. '....and I can personally attest to this timetable's suitability as a work of fiction, since it bears absolutely no relation to the times and frequencies of the buses' journeys. I conservatively estimate that since August I have wasted about 50 hours of my life that I won't get back, waiting for buses that never turned up.'
(As originally reported in Andrew Taylor's 'Grub Street', a regular column in The Society of Authors' magazine, The Author)

Now that is a bit of nonsense in a rather slow week, when writing has not motivated me enough...I've been lazy/tired, so I must put on a rather large boot and kick myself into action. Short stories to write!

Still, there is time and a need for dreaming too...an ethereal buffer zone that drops plots and characters into place from some sort of ether in which they exist. The great thing about writing is that I am a firm believer in directional daydreaming. This is the only job (don't try it if you a long distance lorry driver) where that is allowed..no, actually essential. I am also rereading Helen Dunmore's The Siege, a tragic, evocative and deeply poetic novel about the Siege of Leningrad.

So I am dreaming for a while. Please do not disturb.