Fran Macilvey

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June 19, 2019

“Bitter Leaves” by Tabatha Stirling

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“Bitter Leaves” by Tabatha Stirling

“Bitter Leaves” is a fascinating account of the maid culture in Singapore that pulls no punches, beautifully written and heartfelt: a worthy companion on my very overloaded bookshelves.

I am usually hesitant to engage with darker narratives, but from its beginning, this novel about the lives of four women held me, and I was very impatient to know what would happen to them, though the details of their lives were so engagingly laid out for examination that I was also reluctant to hurry my way through. This is a book to read slowly.

I find it hard to convey why I find Ms Stirling’s novel so special: colours and shades are lovingly crafted and poignantly expressed. It’s also very clear that Ms Stirling is not simply writing a book: she is recounting experiences she has lived through and witnessed, and is offering a plea for humanity in a flawlessly presented text. The details she invites us to share come from the deepest part of her offering as an author.

All of which is really hard to put into words, though I’ve tried, because this book is such a worthwhile, compassionate read.

At times I wondered how the author managed to keep each character separate from the others without going slightly crazy. Reading their stories, I feel as if I have been awarded privileged access into their complex lives: Details and personal quirks come alive most convincingly, and, even when the characters are less than likeable, I can understand and relate to them.

Occasionally, the voices bleed into each other, but it is remarkable how rarely that happens. I’ve waited for many years to read this book, which I first read in draft on “Authonomy” and it has certainly been worth the wait. One to cherish and re-read often.

Thanks for listening.

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June 17, 2019

Reading real books

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I like electronic readers. They are handy and lightweight and they fit easily into a pocket. I can carry one anywhere and load literally hundreds of books onto it. E-readers are slimline and sensible.

But – there’s always a “but” with that kind of optimistic opening statement, isn’t there? – despite their bulk, I still prefer reading real books. Perhaps some part of me is put off by the way in which electronic text sits flat behind a screen, perhaps it’s the way that the obviously monochrome quality of the delivery leaves me feeling disengaged and somewhat unconvinced, perhaps it’s that real books all feel different – different weights, different sizes, fonts, covers, page thicknesses… Reading a book, I can almost feel it speaking to me, in a way that I find missing with electronic media. Is it that electronic book files are almost too alike, or self-consciously clever? I’m not sure.

In any case, my house is now overflowing with books – and I speak as one who keeps her sentimental attachment to them well under control. Living in a small flat, with a husband who is loath to part with his volumes and a daughter whom I am trying to encourage back into a reading habit, I cannot afford to do otherwise.

I’ve also been helping my mother to sort and deliver many of her books to the local second-hand stores, where they are gratefully received. Mum adores books and sees each of her favourites – and there are many – almost as a personal friend, an intimate acquaintance who has been with her on the journey as she has researched and written a dozen books. While she has done a great deal of her research online, still, she would be appalled if I suggested to her that all the material benefits of real books could be replicated by reading electronically. Indeed, she would scoff, demonstrate my folly, and then perhaps suffer a panic attack at the very notion. So we are, and will be, reading real books for the foreseeable future.

Thanks for listening.  

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June 14, 2019

Times they are changing

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Times they are changing

My daughter is now sixteen years old, a fact which gives me considerable pause. I have spent much time over the last two decades doing things for the family I am blessed to have around me. But have I used that as my excuse to not do things for myself? Probably.

There must be many people in my position, who surround themselves with details and preoccupations that put them at several removes from the concerns and convictions nearest their hearts. So how do we get back to the things we really, really want to do, instead of staying half-heartedly with those things we think we ought to do first?

I am guessing that most of us will wait until our kids have grown up, and we have a lot of time and space, before we sit back and reflect, remembering what we enjoyed doing before parenthood came along. We’ve all heard about the ‘empty nest’ syndrome, which apparently leaves parents bereft without their usual caring role.

With that in mind – I’ve done a lot of intense grieving these last few years and it is hard work – I have been letting my daughter leave me gradually, mourning and celebrating her passages into youth and adulthood in the small rituals with which growing up is sprinkled: the first time she walked to school by herself; the first time she went to town alone on the bus; the first time she was away for the weekend with a school party…

With suitable safeguards and many sage warnings, these small moments when I realised, “She can manage without me, now,” have paved the way for the recognition that I must honour her freedom – and the rest of my life – by now being meaningfully busy with my own projects. That I can do.

Thanks for listening.  

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June 12, 2019

Katherine by Anya Seton

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Katherine by Anya Seton

In April and May hereabouts the weather is usually fine, albeit unpredictable, and we tend to think, “It’s going to be such a wonderful summer…” Then in June it rains, and we think, “What happened?” and wonder how we can fill our summer days.

I can tackle my TBR pile, review books and sort out my shelves; in fact, I must: my mother has several hundred books in a collection which has been whittled down from several thousand, and the only way I know to handle all the books that deserve reading, is to read them.

I am currently immersed in “Katherine” by Anya Seton which is the only book, lately, that has made me cry. I have to read it slowly, which is unusual for me, though the style and form make it difficult to speed-read. Dating from the 1950s, I thought it would be rather staid, but it’s surprisingly frank and engaging and it hits home in ways I scarcely expected it to, when I’m reading it late at night.

I am also loving the adventurous, based-on-true-life love story told well away from the harsh limelight of the Tudors, who look surprisingly spoilt when considering their prolific and adventurous antecedents, the Plantagenets. Though very occasionally, the tale leaks into gushing sentiment, the details with which Ms Seton fleshes out a scanty factual record, are engaging and really help to hold my interest. In my mind’s eye, I can see the wharfs where the Duke and his paramour stand together, I can feel the jolt of the horses they ride, the journeys Katherine undertakes and her splendid isolation in one of the Duke’s many castles.

I like a historical novel. Though “Katherine” is a big read and has taken me many days, yet I think it must rank as one of my favourite historical novels ever. Given the remoteness of the period and the reality that much of what is known about is overshadowed, written about in retrospect and with a rather caustic, politicised hindsight – high-born men simply did not marry their commoner mistresses! – I find myself rooting for John of Gaunt – of course! – and delighted utterly that finally, he and Katherine marry and they both live happily thereafter. Just like a fairy-tale.

I cannot, for the life of me, work out why this novel is not yet a film, nor why Katherine and John do not feature more widely in common myth, like Romeo and Juliet or even Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry the second of England. But that could simply be because I fell in love with the characters.

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June 10, 2019

Getting life into gear

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Getting life into gear

My “to do” list reads like this: housework, swimming, shopping, recycling, visiting my mum, shopping, tidying, answering the door, and getting life into gear. You know, get a grip, get organised, do things.

But… I’m doing them already, and there must come a limit to the number of times, or the speed or the efficiency with which I tackle the jobs in my life. Some things are more fun than others. Visiting Mum, while sometimes worrying, is also enjoyable, interesting, and a good way to remind myself of life priorities, in other words, how lucky I am.

But still, the notion resurfaces occasionally that I could do with being more disciplined about my own work, that, “I need to work harder”. Periodically, I glance at the stats comparing average earnings with mine, and think, “Right! It’s time to get organised…” and I wilt, thinking that surely, hard work alone does not answer that particular ambition.

So perhaps there is something else I could be doing, some different way in which I can frame life challenges that would make achieving things easier. Perhaps I’ve known all along that if I can make enjoyable what I am doing, that is worthwhile in itself. When I am happy, life is already lighter and more interesting, and my life automatically becomes what I want it to be.

More soberly, I begin to perceive that there is a marked difference between pain – which is, I believe, an inevitable part of life, the see saw of change – and what we generally call suffering, which is what happens when we internalise pain, in some ways erecting it into our next great project. Pain of all sorts is both natural and inevitable; our thoughtless conversion of it into what we call suffering might become a bad habit. I know myself, that I can tolerate quite a lot of pain. And so long as I do not rehearse it, hold on to it, I can accept it, feel it and allow it to be until it goes away. I do not also need to say, as I have been in the habit of doing, “Ah me, I am in such pain, life is hard etc etc etc.” Which is a bit like picking myself up from a fall, only to bash my head against a brick wall…

Funny what I think about while waiting at traffic lights.

Thanks for listening.  

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June 7, 2019

Use of idiom in writing

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Idiom: A group of words whose meaning cannot be predicted from the meanings of the constituent words. As for example, “It was raining cats and dogs”.

Creative writing is as much about playing games as anything in life is. We play games with words and meanings. If we are writing sci-fi or fantasy, we may even invent languages for our characters, whole new worlds springing up from our writing. I am delighted with inventive writing, and if I venture thus far, I will try to ensure that my worlds are internally consistent, and that I have given enough information in the back-cloth of the story to make clear the meaning of any particular idioms that I might then deploy in dialogue between the characters.

The use of idiom – throw-away phrases usually found in spoken language that are hard to translate but which carry with them whole worlds of meaning – in novels can be interesting. Because it is so hard to explain, the colour and purpose of idiom is usually demonstrated obliquely, through snatches of dialogue between characters. Words spoken between characters can show their common history and understanding, and will also allow readers to deduce the intention of phrases which, taken literally, appear meaningless.

If I write, “The lady said, was I pulling her leg, and that she would sock it to me if I didn’t mind my manners”, an editor might ask, “Pulling whose leg? Putting the sock on the leg?” “Hang on a sec,” might raise the question, “What is a sec, and why should I hang onto it?” If you write, “Betty’s going to give Bert stick when she catches up with ‘im” you are likely to find that, for an American translation, someone will have prefaced “stick” with an indefinite article.

Our local and accustomed use of idiom, which we feel so entirely comfortable with, is so enmeshed with our use of everyday language, it can be hard to notice when other people find local expressions peculiar and unfathomable. They can be hard to explain; they are never self-explanatory, and when I find myself trying to elucidate, embarrassingly, several more idiomatic phrases always seem to rush ever so helpfully to the rescue, so that conversation becomes a series of short snatches and embarrassing confusion.

But writers want to be understood, I assume; so although I use idiom all the time when I’m speaking with my family and am probably not even aware of doing so, I now try to avoid it in my writing. Written language is no less colourful for that, just different from what we might say to each other socially.  

Thanks for listening.

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June 5, 2019

Writing Honestly

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Writing Honestly

Whether I am drawn to writing self-help, science fiction or fiction, for me, there is nothing more fundamental than writing honestly. Not brutally, but endeavouring always to be clear about my motives and what I am trying to say.

It is through writing honestly that the conviction forms in me that can lead to convincing writing, authentic dialogue, heartfelt emotions. For each genre the disciplines will naturally differ, but without core honesty – which perhaps I could call freedom of expression – I find my writing withers and loses its purpose.

We write for a number of reasons:-

– To learn about something or to gain empathy. This drove me to write my memoir.
– To earn money and make a living: an honest and worthy motive, which helps us to be clear what parts of our material might appeal to others and thus bring commercial success.
– As an outlet for personal or artistic expression. For joy, for hope, writing has its purest justification, one which is often at risk of being downplayed, particularly by writers who are dismissive of what they bring to the writing table.

But whatever our motivation, it seems to me that our writing can only take root and flower if it is an honest reflection of our lives and experiences. Naturally we hope to emulate writers we admire – how else can we refine our own style? – but though imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, flattery, almost by definition, flirts with the truth. I do adore flattery… – I’m sure I’m not alone – but when the chips are down, I find that gently offered truth is more valuable.

Thanks for listening.

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June 3, 2019

Emotional support for writers

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Since all writers borrow from their lives to pen their novels, articles, memoirs and stories, emotional support for writers is essential. Yet the habit which writing breeds of doing things alone and by oneself, can be hard to leave behind.

We write, presumably, because we feel compelled to; and presumably also because some part of us enjoys the process or the sense of achievement from the final product and its outcomes.

Yet perhaps, since reading – so often a precursor to taking up the pen – and writing are silent, we writers may well become accustomed to learning, listening and doing by ourselves, quietly. We may not all begin life as rugged individualists, but I suspect that, in order to write, we may also have to cultivate the art of doing many things tolerably well alone. Words on the page are quiet and perhaps we assume we have to be too?

All of which helps to explain how writers can become isolated. And to excuse the fact that, with all that training in aloneness, it can be very difficult to ask for emotional support. Asking for help isn’t easy, though there is little doubt that having practical and emotional support helps us to stay grounded, relaxed and on top of our workload.

Paradoxically, I’m not sure that I would have managed to write or publish what I have, without the demands made on me by others: I must eat, and yet, when I lived alone I rarely made the effort to eat well. I have to sleep, and there is something in the routines of next day, that encourages me more often to go to bed at a reasonable hour. I know that twenty-four-hour days do not suit me, yet when I live alone, I tend towards exciteable neglect.

I do know, that although it has ultimately saved my life, writing my memoir was a long and very difficult thing to do. Ironically, I wrote it and dreamed about it, and lived through the pain of it alone, because I needed to come out of isolation. I am grateful also to remember, now, that when we need help, we can ask for it, and benefit from precious friendships we make along the way.

Thanks for listening.

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May 30, 2019

Testing my resolve

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There appears to be a belief among authors that of course we enjoy our writing, or else, why would we bother writing anything? And for most writers, that assumption is probably broadly true, though I suspect many of us also have procrastination down to a fine art. But when I began writing, it soon became obvious that doing so was testing my resolve almost to breaking point.

Though memoir reads like fiction, and enjoys elements of fiction, we may not get much enjoyment from writing our life stories.

Interestingly, while writing my memoir, I felt as if I was inhabiting a parallel universe. Writing about something that happened when I was, say, fourteen years old, other forgotten parts of that time would come vividly to mind, prompted, I am sure, by my sojourn with a particular set of recollections. These felt so sharp, as if they happened yesterday, which realisation has given me many occasions to wonder about the nature of time and memory.

Is everything we have ever thought, felt and believed stored in our minds, just awaiting recall; and, like a song learned fifty years ago, never forgotten? Why do our minds work that way, recalling sounds, conversations and scents decades after the event? What a massive repository of experiences our minds turn out to be.

Writing for me started as a compulsion, not at all enjoyable. But it had to be done, both to push against the boundaries of what I thought I knew, and testing my resolve to see how far I could push. Perhaps that was a bit reckless, but it was my version of the physical and emotional risks that we all have to take – the cat climbing the wall may fall to her death, but that doesn’t stop her trying to reach the window above – if we are going to take our personal leaps to the next stage and live life to the fullest.

Thanks for listening.

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May 28, 2019

Taking things for granted

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Is taking things for granted a privilege? Sometimes I think so, yes, of course it is. And in the spirit of taking things for granted, I yearn for the quiet life, untrammelled by pangs of conscience or worry, reading my books, sat warm and comfortable in a peaceful space…with a clear mind and gentle ambitions carrying me through the years.  

Yet, such a vision of privilege and calm makes me restless: to live! Despite all the small obstacles that seem to gather round like spectres on a stormy day – there are always things I have to do, needling me away from what I prefer to be doing – something keeps my head up, and my desire to move, moving: I know I will get where I want to be, if only I keep faith. I will go for walks in the fresh air. I will enjoy swimming and laughing. I will write blog posts, I will finish my books and submit short stories. I will have fun and live a big life. I do.

Reading an account by a Buddhist friend of mine, who first became aware that recounting his life’s misfortunes made him the envy of his Buddhist friends – for to have misfortune thrown at one’s feet is to be given opportunities for that most sought-after gift, spiritual growth – made me realise that in some way, all misfortune can be strengthening: it puts one’s own circumstances into different contexts – I lost my house in a fire, but I and my kids escaped unharmed – or it forces one to choose fully – I’m alive, by some miracle, and I don’t intend to waste another second.

It’s taken many years for me to come to an accommodation with who I am and the challenges I’ve been given: small ones, like being constantly uncomfortable, and bigger ones, like making something meaningful out of life, not just existing. And I still rock between being sharply aware of the many ways in which I am fortunate – is that sharpness forcing me to notice ways in which life can be unfortunate? – and relaxing, trusting that I am allowed to enjoy life fully. As they say, Life is a work in progress, and I think I’m making progress.

Thanks for listening.

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