Easy, get down off the boat’s slippery gangplank, only have to raise my right foot a bit higher and be careful in the rain. There we are, now, ready to start the climb up the stone steps to the island. Done this sort of thing a million times before, but usually alone, so that I can get the angle right, the exact tip needed. If I don’t quite make it first time with the foot-lift, I can have another go, while others behind me surge amicably past making friendly, reassuring noises.
Not this time. Thinking to be polite, and needing a bit of help with balance, I solicit the help of the friendly bloke clad in the regulation fluorescent jacket, on hand to offer assistance. Believing it needful, he pulls me forward, as if I am like a child and he can hoist me up. Except that, at this new angle, lifting right foot high enough to reach the step becomes impossible. I fall before I get started, and am heaved upright by two or three very willing persons. For me, an ageing, gentrified lady of fifty, the whole experience is exasperatingly familiar.
I hope you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell? Thank you, I am fine, and don’t feel in the least put out that I was effectively pulled off my feet and then raised up like a heavy lump. Being a heavy lump is scarcely a consolation, and if I let it, it could become the latest abject humiliation. Instead, I let the whole thing slide off me and disappear. Result! I have another blog post in the bag.
Except, – Oh God!- there are no handrails on either of the stairways up to the old and dignified room that remains intact amidst the general, geriatric ruination of this castle. So I stumble up and around the spiral staircase doing the landlubbers equivalent of the doggy paddle. Then all of a sudden, as if he knew exactly what I would like the most, a lovely young man appears at my side and offers, “Here, you can lean on me” and we proceed together, happily upright, me moved more than I care to admit. In the general mishmash of emotions bubbling away, it would take only a little something to start me crying. Oh, God, that is lovely music, where is my hankie? There are times when I just want someone to lean on.
Going down is the familiar story in reverse and even less dignified, filled with eddies of fear and uncertainty, while I work out what to do with my elbow crutch – it is dangerous, inflexible and in the way, so eventually I throw it down the stairs ahead of me, just to be rid of it – and then the rest is easier.
Writing autobiographical material is a bit of a tricksy business. We are rather beholden to tell something of the truth, though heaven knows that can be rather difficult, both to discover and to articulate. Entertainment value also supposes that we have to write something interesting, kinda, avoiding narcissism and voyeurism on the way. And, I suppose, we run the risk of offending whomever we mention in passing, if our portrayals are unkind, thoughtless or incorrect.
Writing “Trapped” is, by far, the most difficult thing I have done: relentlessly exorcising demons, re-examining every facet of life as I have lived it and understood it, and taking responsibility for many parts where I could have done better, been more kind, generous and especially, more aware of what others had to tolerate. Writing has allowed me to offer an apology, of sorts, and to meet and make up with friends and family, before it was too late. I am so glad I took that chance. I am so glad.
With hindsight, I also suspect that one reason I started writing was to demonstrate that, clearly, the world is very much kinder to me than I have hitherto been to myself. In that sense, there has never been anything to worry about. If only because publication brings friends and readers who are constantly generous, loving, thoughtful and supportive, writing has already worked wonders. I have harboured many fears – and I am sure many writers do – some of which we commit to paper, read through and then launch on an unsuspecting public amidst a sea of doubt. We fear the clamour of disapproval. Waiting fearfully for the backlash….blessed approval or silence answers.
Constantly seeking reassurance, perhaps writers habitually focus on critiques which are muted or less than stellar. We receive fulsome and genuine praise from all quarters, yet the comment we focus on is the lone voice which ‘damns with faint praise’. Many of us do this, I am sure, and I have decided to stop. Focussing too much on the critical critic is perverse, ridiculous, and completely ignores the truth that all opinions are valuable, and some have benefits that I will never notice or understand. I let it be, and write when I can.
Will bookshelves one day be consigned to museums? Written out of our furnishing requirements as interesting curios from past times, and gazed at wonderingly by precocious five year olds, the way that children now peer at old telephones and record players? There is a section in the National Museum of Scotland devoted to lifestyle icons of recent history. I’m sure I have used some of these venerable machines. Perhaps, given my age, I should just climb in and join the exhibits….
Kindles are great. But will we all be using them, all the time, in ten years? Will there be any need for shelving for books, when my kindle offers several free dictionaries as part of the start-up incentive built in with every new purchase of an e-reader?
Will house-builders have an even better excuse for building homes in miniature? (“Ye don’t need shelf space no more, love, so we can just put the standard king-size up against the wall here, like that”)
My guess is that we will always need books, and there may come a time when we are immensely grateful for the old back numbers that we now overlook, with their modest orange and white covers, and their restrained delvings into human suffering. As has been suggested in many post-apocalyptic narratives, we may need to tear out the pages to use for personal grooming or for fire-lighting; or, when the power runs out, we may actually start reading them again.
Our current technical infrastructure relies on power, generated mostly from non-renewable resources. Plastic, metal, wood, paper and water….all finite. ‘Real’ books have the potential to last for hundreds of years, and can pass through countless pairs of hands. Electronic media, in contrast, are ephemeral, here one day and deleted the next.
On Wednesday morning, I received some wonderful news.
The Review of Arts, Literature, Philosophy and the Humanities – RALPH Mag – (not to be confused with a lads’ magazine featuring busty ladies on the covers) published a full and extremely complimentary review of ‘Trapped’ in their latest edition (number 251, midsummer 2014). The Editor found my email address and emailed to let me know.
This was a lead that my publicist at Skyhorse found, as she has been quietly going about her business on our collective behalves.
I am humbled and gobsmacked in equal measure. Yes, I know, a speech of gratitude would not normally include the word gobsmacked, but no other word comes close to expressing my gobsmacked-ness. I am delighted that they not only reviewed ‘Trapped’ so favourably, but gave it a major slot, and published an excerpt. A hat-trick! A truly humbling realisation.
I spent most of the day attempting to log on to the RALPH.org webpages, without success, but have now learned that material from a particular address can often be found in Google’s cached memory so that, if you can’t access the page, you can discover its content by clicking on the small green arrow pointing down, which is listed in the Google results page. The word ‘cached’ comes up, which then shows the content, even if the page or website is off-line. A very handy thing to have learned.
Finding and pursuing leads is an odd business, rather like being on a bobbing boat, or at a funfair. Up one minute, down the next, as reviews, articles, ratings, comments and missed chances catch us unexpectedly. When lovely things happen, it feels awesome. When something doesn’t work out, if a lead fizzles out or hoped-for results don’t materialise , we can learn something from that process, even if it might be, how not to rise to indifference, how retrieve information from the web or accept that the time may not be right.
Meantime, the latest good news gives my optimism wings!
Today I am delighted to introduce Frances Kay, a writer and children’s playwright. I first met up with Frances (‘Fan’) on a lively on-line writers’ forum. Apparently, she agreed to read my own book after noticing that I had included the word “sossidges” in a comment to a mutual friend. We swapped reads, and since then, have kept in touch. Fan’s writing is very strong, eerily atmospheric and convincing, threaded through with sardonic wit and humour. Fan’s first book, MICKA was published in 2010 by Picador and won 100% positive reviews from The Guardian, The Times and the Financial Times, as well as being featured on BBC radio 4’s programme ‘A Good Read’. Her second novel, DOLLYWAGGLERS, has recently been published by Tenebris Books.
Welcome, Frances. Can you tell me a little about what inspired you to write the ‘Dollywagglers’?
A long time love of dystopian literature, ever since I read ‘1984’ when I was fifteen. Orwell was my idol – a principled, disillusioned man with a love of England and the English language. I was especially taken with Orwell ‘s uncompromising vision of a nightmare future when I learned that he was fatally ill with TB as he wrote it, and died soon after it was published.
I wanted to express my disappointment, my anger and my love for England in this story, which I could only do from an exile’s perspective (I was living in Ireland when I wrote it), and when I was diagnosed in 2012 with an inoperable tumour, I felt reckless and emboldened to write my truth, even if it is hard to read. Parts of it were hard to write.
Any tips for developing a writing habit? Do you write every day or do you prefer to write when you are in the mood?
For a person who makes their living from writing, I’m a very bad example! I either need a commissioning theatre company breathing down my neck, or I have to wake up at seven and feel the desperate urge to get to my computer. I write in bursts, in a trance state. Of course, editing and improving can be done less breathlessly!
You call DOLLYWAGGLERS a dystopia, filled with refreshing anger and dark, bitter humour. What attracts you to writing dark fiction?
We all have a shadow side that needs to come out and play. I write plays for children and young people, and they deserve hope and optimism, but when I write for adults, I can let loose my darker self – and she has a field day. I also enjoy reading this kind of fiction, if it is well written. I’m thinking now of books like Helen Dunmore’s ‘A Spell in Winter’ – she’s a terrific writer.
What was the publishing process like for you?
Two publishers so far, and they could not have been more different. Picador is an imprint of Macmillan, and being accepted by this huge concern with its glamorous reputation was such an honour, I was ready to say yes to anything. They have a publicity and sales machine, so the process of getting my book ready for publication involved me saying yes to a cover I didn’t like, that I felt did not reflect the story within. After MICKA was published, I felt rather neglected. The next book by Picador followed mine a week later, and it was Emma Donohue’s ‘Room’. The excitement around that book and the Booker shortlisting, reinforced my feeling of being suddenly orphaned. No one from my publishers came to the launch event I set up, and I had to suggest to Picador they enter my book for the McKitterick Prize [it was the runner up].
Tenebris Books is another kettle of fish entirely. DOLLYWAGGLERS is the first one of this new imprint of Grimbold Books to be published, and they went to huge efforts to help me launch it with a splash. They asked for my input with the cover, and Ken Dawson, their designer, transformed a photo I gave them of two seedy puppets on Southwold beach into a sleazy, brooding cover that exactly captures the spirit of the book – I love it. They also provided champagne for the launch in London, and Zoe Harris, my editor, flew over with her husband from Norway, and made a fabulous speech at our launch. All the production team was there. I felt so loved! Even more importantly, Zoe and Sammy [of Grimbold Books] love the book with a passion, and our editing was done painlessly and collaboratively. They even paid an advance – and that is a rare thing, these days. I hope they will publish my next book.
And your future plans?
My life expectancy, though uncertain, is, I am assured, at least ten years. If I can publish another three novels, I will feel completely fulfilled. I want to leave something my children and grandchildren can read when they are older; I’ll still be a presence in their lives. I’m working on a sequel to DOLLYWAGGLERS; I felt there was a lot more story to explore. And I’m still writing plays for young people. Plenty more ideas in my head!
Thanks for inviting me on your blog, Fran. I’ll be happy to have you as a guest on mine, as I love your book ‘Trapped’, which has a wonderfully poignant, evocative cover.
Thank you too, Frances. It has been such a pleasure to host you today. I hope all your publishing dreams come true.
It is tempting, isn’t it, to make the most of opportunities? I have just been reading in my new copy of Mslexia about ‘how to write a bestseller’ and reflecting that writing it may be achievable: the challenge is selling it. We learn how to make the most of opportunities that come our way.
I have a good friend, who has supported me and my writing for many years. In a busy schedule, this writer manages to find time to encourage and share insights which have nourished my self-belief. I also like to think that we have a lot in common, which is a precious discovery and one that, quite frankly, has helped to keep me sane. As it happens, this writer has occasional contact with a famous writer. My friend tells me that the writer does not do book reviews, because if s/he did, s/he would never get any work done. Now it just so happens that I could, if I really wanted, find a way to link to this writer via another, rather tenuous contact. If I was feeling opportunistic, I might approach them. Should I? The thought flits through my head, like a taunt, and I dismiss it, quickly. No, I should not. I would simply annoy the writer, alienate my friend and stack up a whole pile of bad karma to get through. Urgghh!
To put a positive spin on this – a trick I find so helpful – if I am meant to walk a particular path, I hold to the thought that God will make it possible. I truly believe that. In fact, I notice opportunities alighting before me all the time. It becomes my job to see the chances that are for me and have the courage to pick them up. That becomes a proper, grown up challenge, which arrives without the whiff of betrayal and loss. Thank goodness.
From Wikimedia Commons – A Burrowing Owl – Athene Cunicularia – near Goianiagoias, Brazil – Fourth placed finalist in the Picture of the Year Competition, 2013
This is meant to be a faintly amusing post. Unlike the last ‘Lopsided’ though it hobbles along on much the same theme.
I have started journeying to the Commonwealth Pool – rebranded “The Commie” since I last used to go regularly – an Olympic-sized space, ideal for floating, stretching and generally larking about. At last I can swim in peace, without feeling in the way, without needing to excuse those who do not yet have the nautical equivalent of a driver’s licence. Learning to drive has taught me all about navigating aquatically, but lots of other swimmers don’t seem to think about this need, so in smaller pools, there is much battling for position, and many apologies. Here, in this vast space, there is room for everyone.
The “Commie” is two metres deep, and there are warning signs on the tiles: No non or weak swimmers beyond this point. What is a non? I wonder, flippantly. Getting in, therefore, suggests I am on my own, entering swirling eddies, deeps with danger. But there are places to hang at the side, ledges to rest the feet. It is fun, though I am sure that in a moment, I will discover a catch (apart from the underwater cameras). At the end of the swim, here it comes – getting out is harder than it used to be, when I happily lifted myself out at the side with my arms. These steps are deep, and the height I can lift a foot on any morning tends to vary, depending on several factors. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to the relative virtues of whichever foot or hand to use. Nowadays a chronically sore left shoulder, sore left hip, a sore right knee and a sore right foot give me pause: Once of each, blithely layering themselves over my ease, in their own, special way. That’s okay, but to have to stop so that I may weigh up which pain or lopsided jolt I would prefer is occasionally disconcerting.
There is bad news that depresses – this isn’t it! – and there is bad news that makes me do something. If I have to go swimming to keep myself moving, to keep warm and flexible, I will do that most willingly. I wish I could persuade my daughter to share my enthusiasm. Maybe today….it is a lovely day. Have a great weekend, and thanks for following, reading, commenting and enjoying.
I am a reader, so I’m always asking, to buy or not to buy books? Unfortunately, the supply of lovely books is limitless, unlike my current bank balance, (though I live in hope!) I read books all the time, everywhere. It is part of what I do for work, and in my precious leisure time. I find as I get older, that my eyes – or rather, my left eye – gets tired more easily; and I crave the comfort of a good soft seat, so reading a PDF file at the home computer screen is not ideal. In any case, I associate that posture with being ‘at work’ so that reading begins to lose its comfortable aspect, and occasionally feels like a chore. The last thing I need is another job to do.
It was a dream last week that finally persuaded me to buy a kindle. Despite my reservations – and the fact that e-books have no second hand value….I had a snapshot dream of waiting to turn right, in my car, but having to wait for a gap in the traffic, as other cars drove seamlessly past, getting on with their lives.
Cars are my body-life metaphor. So there I was, waiting to turn right and head for home, while other cars sped past. ….Okay, so, maybe it is time to join the e-crowd and get connected. No longer excluded from books only available electronically, now able to join in with e-book promotions and discussions on-line about the latest group read, I can fetch down all these books I have been meaning to peruse from the internet and join the discussion. That in itself is good enough cause to celebrate.
Seeing a poster advertising a local writing group, I emailed and I suggested myself as a guest speaker. Last night, I had been wondering if I should pop over to an earlier meeting to suss out the territory, hoping to make sure I know where I’m going and what I might expect. Solely with a view to making sure I don’t end up flat on my face or in the wrong place, you see.
This morning, I suspected that my motives might be misconstrued by the regulars. Might they conclude that I am looking for kudos or searching for compliments? It is possible. The last thing I want to do is to get in their way or cause any embarrassment.
I’m no more of an exhibitionist than the next writer is. But somewhere along the way I have had to take on a bit of reinvention, adapt. Shy wallflower with artistic dreams transmogrifies into marketing, networking and sales novice with a few tips up her sleeve. It may help that I am old – well, oldish – and I’ve had a life. I have reached the age where these silly adverts “are you fifty plus and looking for a way to reassure your loved ones when you die?” will very soon apply to me, and I reflect, “Well, I may be approaching that particular doorway, and I may well have already passed through most of the usual doors one expects to, but, really, I haven’t lived much, yet. Can we put off the appointment with the funeral directors for a couple of decades, please? Making the most of it, I hope to keep going.
I hope I’m one of these souls who are euphemistically referred to as “late starters” and that, when Life does finally start, I have a body which is still fit enough to enjoy finishing what I’ve started. Getting all the ducks in the row at the same time is a bit touch and go. But I am determined to do my best and the omens are very good. So here we go.
Sending off all my pet hates, sealing up my worries, discarding my concerns takes great discipline. You would think I could just get on and do it – hop out of the cage and be done with all this negativity stuff, but it doesn’t seem to work like that.
Bad news and habitual difficulties have a habit of clinging on, a bit like the smell of mouldy old clothes – and there is a prize there for anyone who can spot the pun. Actually, this is one of my favourites, sent to me in a dream many years ago. I need to get rid of my bad habits, my old hang-ups. It would be good if I could just discard them for ever. Or box and send them off to the sorting office in the sky. Slap on a stamp and send them away, so that they cannot contaminate, and maybe so that someone else might fix them.
Old messages are part of an old record, with deep grooves, so it takes a while to notice how deeply buried are the old, tired repeats: “I can’t manage…I have to do everything alone….” Out-of-date litanies these may be, but still, they spool round, and on bad days, in tense times, can spill out and threaten to soil the new growth.
Maybe that thought of ‘trying to quit’ doesn’t work so well, because the universe prefers positive formulae. How about, “I am consistently fortunate. Good fortune is all around me, all the time.” I find myself warming more easily to positive words. I find them easier to wrap around me like a cosy blanket. It feels more welcome to embrace the good news than shun the bad: when we try to shun the bad, we have to remember what the bad is, which defeats the purpose of trying to shun it. I think I will stick with the positive stuff. Much easier to work with, and eventually, the hope is that the good news will smooth over the old stuff and allow the positive to flow more easily.
‘Living mindfully’ is a phrase I used to hear a lot. I think it means, remembering not to slip, to go back to the old, deep tracks that are so easy to tumble into. Patterns of defeatism, failure and self-hatred are seductive often because they have been our companions for such a long time and their voices are familiar: which is why discipline is so useful. The refusal to go back there, to slip away un-noticed into the strange comforts of familiar brutalities must be a conscious decision. That conscious choice takes determination and a lot of patience. But the first step, as always, is to decide.
August 11, 2014
Abject humiliation
Fran Macilvey acceptance, allowing, choices, communication, compromises, fatigue, learning, letting go, politeness cerebral palsy, Fran Macilvey, Fran's School of Hard Knocks 6 Comments
Easy, get down off the boat’s slippery gangplank, only have to raise my right foot a bit higher and be careful in the rain. There we are, now, ready to start the climb up the stone steps to the island. Done this sort of thing a million times before, but usually alone, so that I can get the angle right, the exact tip needed. If I don’t quite make it first time with the foot-lift, I can have another go, while others behind me surge amicably past making friendly, reassuring noises.
Not this time. Thinking to be polite, and needing a bit of help with balance, I solicit the help of the friendly bloke clad in the regulation fluorescent jacket, on hand to offer assistance. Believing it needful, he pulls me forward, as if I am like a child and he can hoist me up. Except that, at this new angle, lifting right foot high enough to reach the step becomes impossible. I fall before I get started, and am heaved upright by two or three very willing persons. For me, an ageing, gentrified lady of fifty, the whole experience is exasperatingly familiar.
I hope you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell? Thank you, I am fine, and don’t feel in the least put out that I was effectively pulled off my feet and then raised up like a heavy lump. Being a heavy lump is scarcely a consolation, and if I let it, it could become the latest abject humiliation. Instead, I let the whole thing slide off me and disappear. Result! I have another blog post in the bag.
Except, – Oh God!- there are no handrails on either of the stairways up to the old and dignified room that remains intact amidst the general, geriatric ruination of this castle. So I stumble up and around the spiral staircase doing the landlubbers equivalent of the doggy paddle. Then all of a sudden, as if he knew exactly what I would like the most, a lovely young man appears at my side and offers, “Here, you can lean on me” and we proceed together, happily upright, me moved more than I care to admit. In the general mishmash of emotions bubbling away, it would take only a little something to start me crying. Oh, God, that is lovely music, where is my hankie? There are times when I just want someone to lean on.
Going down is the familiar story in reverse and even less dignified, filled with eddies of fear and uncertainty, while I work out what to do with my elbow crutch – it is dangerous, inflexible and in the way, so eventually I throw it down the stairs ahead of me, just to be rid of it – and then the rest is easier.
Is this yours? asks another helpful lady.
Yes, it is mine. Would you like it?
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