Beyond nurturing a few wild – and frankly, totally unrealistic – hopes and dreams, why did I go to the Frankfurt Book Fair this year? I promised, last year, that I would not go again, and have renewed that promise following my visit in 2018. But my mother knows me better… Now, perhaps I should just say, We shall see…
But beyond witnessing the sheer scale of the event, what conceivable reason would I have for bothering? Why not just stay at home, put my feet up and have a well-earned rest?
Firstly, planning to go to Frankfurt, making the effort and paying for it all, I have been forced to take my work seriously, and work hard to present it, effectively and in such a way that someone else might actually enjoy reading it. The focus of having a fair to work towards has been essential, to force me to write, get organised and plan efficiently. Without that discipline, I would probably still be dreaming about finishing Book 1 in my fiction series. As it is, I have finished Book 2 and am now well on the way with Book 3 which I hope to have completed as a full working draft by the time the London Book Fair 2019 rolls around in March. Going to book fairs is, I realise, my work equivalent of a business deadline or a demanding boss, which I need to give my work focus and clarity.
Secondly, I am forced to deal with people in what is in other circumstances a fairly isolated and lonely occupation. I am forced to make myself understood, to ask for what I want and to explain my reasons to doing what I do, to a bunch of otherwise fairly hard-headed individuals. All of which helps to thrash out my real motivations, and to hone my self-belief. Belief is the mother of reality.
Thirdly, there are times when I really need a rest, and if going to Frankfurt will allow me time off to get away from the hamster-wheel of my life – which, I fully admit, it is up to me to make more exciting – then it’s worth doing. I come home and immediately my appreciation for the comforts and companionship of the joys of home also gets a welcome boost. Sometimes a thing is too close to see properly. Perhaps, three days of almost total silence in the midst of a veritable hive of activity – as strange and at times unsettling contradiction – is useful to remind me what matters.
The first thing I did when I arrived at my hotel in Frankfurt – there was no need to stay longer than three nights, and two nights would have been enough – was find out where to eat. The hotel staff told me there was a restaurant ten minutes’ walk away, and they could order from its menu for me – copies of which they produced – and of course, they would be delighted to have it delivered to my room. So I made the most of a bit of down time, surfing the satellite channels on the TV, quietly amused that I can watch UK channels that I can’t get at home. (Too late, I realised that the satellite dish that used to sit against a nearby external wall of our flat was not merely decorative.)
Up early the next morning, I dressed very casually for breakfast – I won’t tell you what I was wearing beneath my cover-all fleece – and found plenty to choose from, even for a near-vegan-who-has-issues-with-sugar like me. Grateful that the odours of a full cooked option of bacon, sausage, eggs etc etc would not cling to my newly washed hair, I ate a modest breakfast, which the following morning I would bulk up a bit more – walking certainly takes energy – and got a taxi to the fair, which I shared by chance with two ‘proper’ businessmen from Saudi. (And no, I did not initiate a discussion with them about the alleged assassination of a Saudi journalist in the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, though, actually, given the nature of book fairs, and the realisation that these forums are bound to raise questions about journalistic freedom and the dangers of the Trump effect, perhaps I should have…)
Arriving soon at the main entrance to the fair, I was very courteously kitted out with a badge (and my baggage was not once checked, for which I am grateful) and immediately swallowed up in the excited realisation that I was wandering in among thousands of people, all intent on their business, while I simply marvelled: at the scale of the organisation – and please, let us here resist any allusions to ‘Germanic efficiency’ – the pleasant venue, and the amazing weather: balmy, warm temperatures, blue skies and lots of room to roam… which I did, for the best part of two-and-a-half days, marvelling at my freedom, beyond impressed by being there.
Here are my top five tips for travel to Frankfurt Buchmesse
1 ~ Check out the cost of accommodation, which is considerably more than you might expect to pay, even taking into account the fall of Sterling against the Euro. Research the market and the expense carefully. Prices are considerably in excess of comparable accommodation in London, for example, considering location, star rating and available restaurants. Really quite startling differentials exist.
2 ~ Book accommodation early. That is, as soon as you know you will be visiting the FBM. There are hotels nearby, but don’t expect any accommodation to be available there: an enquiry for a single room at a well-known budget chain right beside the Halls complex will raise only an incredulous eyebrow or hysterical laughter.
3 ~ Travel light. Take only what you must, and weigh carefully the extra baggage you will carry around. Walking is probably mandatory, and walking distances previously undreamed of is to be anticipated. Especially if you have extra needs or find the moving escalators scary, as I do, and therefore have to rely on customer lifts, which are surprisingly few and far between. The Messe Halle are not particularly accessible for those with additional needs: there are few public lifts, the doors out to the disabled conveniences are so heavy that you require a strong-arm to lever them ajar, and the disabled loos are kept locked…
4 ~ Find a hotel that offers breakfast included in the accommodation price, and eat well. Then splash out on a proper lunch at the Venue – the catering is excellent, and if a tad expensive, so what? It’s a long way to travel to subsist only on a diet of wilted sandwiches, which I do not recommend. Having had a decent lunch, in the evenings I could relax and rest. My vital survival strategy: at every possible opportunity, do nothing, or invite others to help you with bottles of water, delivery of meals from takeaways… It is easy to be thankful, and hotel staff appreciate it, even if we have to communicate with them in scarcely discernible patois which we think is German, and they probably assume is Norwegian.
5 ~ Cash is useful, but simply being in possession of a wodge of Euros – which we have to spend, because the exchange rate is so bad, innit? (not true, actually) – need not blind us to ways to save on costs: share a cab with other delegates, book seats on the hotel’s morning shuttle bus at a fraction of the cost, use the locally available bus transport to take you direct to the airport instead of travelling by taxi to the main railway station and thence by train to the airport… Ask for advice and it will be given, and people are incredibly helpful.
I must be crazy. In the midst of illness, aches and pains and escalating domestic duties which are as unpredictable as they are demanding, I volunteered myself to fly off to Frankfurt – incidentally, when did flying as a means of getting from A to B morph from a guilty pleasure into a mind-numbing trudge? It can’t simply be that I have acclimatised to my husband’s view of the time and exertion that air travel demands, surely? – and immerse myself in the atmosphere of commercial Frankfurt at its busiest.
The Messehalle, a complex of twelve halls and outdoor areas in the centre of Frankfurt that hosts conferences all year round – 226 upcoming, according to its website – is so vast we can probably see it from the moon. Covering four hundred thousand square metres and with ninety conference halls, the ‘ten thousand hotel spaces within walking distance’ are a mere drop in the ocean of what is required to meet the annual demands of the Frankfurt Book Fair. As one of the biggest annual exhibitions – and certainly the biggest bookfair – on the planet, hotel rooms anywhere near the vicinity are fully booked years in advance. Almost the first thing a delegate organiser will do on the way home from the Fair is look for next year’s availability.
So why did I go? In this short series of articles, I’ll be considering why I went to Frankfurt Book Fair 2018; what it is about public spaces thronging with people that so appeals to me, and what I have learned from my experiences of travelling there.
In 2017 the Frankfurt Book Fair attracted 286,500 visitors, and in 2018 visitor numbers were only slightly down, at 285,000: more than I was expecting, given the surprisingly quiet restaurants and absence of crushing queues in the main entrances. Or perhaps I’m merely becoming accustomed to the hubbub, which can have a dizzying effect. With my rucksack on my back, wearing my most comfortable shoes, why on earth would I submit to such a strange and alien form of entertainment?
As a walked downstairs and into the living-room, I felt myself floating. Arthur was waiting peacefully, seated on the sofa with his eyes shut and his long legs stretched out in front of him crossed at the ankles. For a moment, I was unsure what to do. Before I could think about it, I folded my arms over his shoulders and kissed the top of his head briefly, then walked self-consciously around the sofa and sat beside him.
“Thank you.” His words startled me.
“Thank you for what?” I couldn’t help saying.
“For being here and for being so normal.” The words were a surprise, but I didn’t argue. I sat quietly for a few minutes.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked into the silence.
“No… Not really.”
“Anything else?” I waited for the bomb to drop.
“At the moment, I’m just fine and comfortable, thank you.” A pause, and then Arthur sat up, broke into a sudden grin and winked at me, “Got you, didn’t I? Admit it, you were expecting me to say…”
No! No, I wasn’t…”
“But a little?”
“Oh yes,” I sat closer and snuggled into his chest. “More than a little, actually.”
“I can see that in your eyes. You are very honest, you know, easy to read. Thank God. I have had enough of women who say one thing and mean another. You are…” He looked down at me, considering. “Refreshing. That is what you are to me, right now.” He leaned over and kissed me on the top of my head, and that stung me into sitting up. He kissed my mouth before I could look doubtful with it. Softly, ever so quietly, his lips touched mine and we tasted, we fell into the feeling of being together. The smile of our lips just kept us kissing quietly deeper, until my face was drawn with yearning and his eyes were hooded.
I breathed, getting lost in the tingling sensations that were creeping up my spine and along my arms. My body was trembling all over with suppressed longing.
“Yes.” Arthur’s body was answering mine. “It’s been too long.” He broke away and moved his arms from around me. I felt cut loose, cold.
“Pins and needles” he mumbled, and I relaxed again.
“Sorry.” I said.
“Oh, cut it out, woman! There is no need to keep saying sorry. What did you do? Kill the Pope’s dog?” There was real annoyance behind the joke, so I smiled.
“Neither of us has to go to work in the morning…” Arthur kissed me again. “But…” I was beginning to fear that word, “Maybe I should go?”
“Can we just…?” I pulled him back to me and kissed him. I needed to feel that connection again, fearing it might become lost behind the politeness of two strangers who were becoming lovers, unsure of the next steps.
“Yes, of course.” His last words were lost as we embraced. This time there was no mistaking our urgency becoming stronger, more pressing. Our mouths met and then touched cheeks, foreheads, tracing the contours of chins and necks. Arthur’s light touch on my throat traced a line down to my chest, and something inside me exploded. I could feel the warmth in my solar plexus, spreading through my stomach and up to my heart. We were very quiet, focused on meeting, connecting and understanding. To his whispered question, “Shall I go on?” I could only nod and pull him closer.
We kissed, going everywhere, gently exploring. I peeled off my top and trousers but did not want to stay on the sofa. Arthur seemed to understand and was content just to hold me as we kissed each other’s bodies endlessly and held on. “Do you like that?” he would whisper. “Yes, more like that…” Watching his smiles and certainty, I grew bolder. And to my nods, mute with longing, he would smile and oblige me with tender, light touches. I could feel my body bucking, ever so gently beneath his teasing.
“You have been so patient, haven’t you, Marian?”
“Shall we go to bed?” I could not help asking.
“Are you sure? Is Elaine a good sleeper?”
“Yes, always has been.”
“Okay, then. Let’s go.” We tiptoed, carefully avoiding the creaking dip in the middle of the third stair. In the darkness I closed the curtains as Arthur dived beneath the duvet. We spoke little, but as Arthur pulled off his shirt my desire grew until I felt myself floating. Because he was so honest with me, I felt my shyness melting. Beneath the covers we warmed, hugging tightly, high on joy and freedom. The intense pleasure of being held, the joy of sharing skin to skin, melted years of reserve. Quietly, we found ourselves silently sharing our discoveries as the pleasure grew. While Arthur kissed my face, he moved his hands in slow, tender circles over my stomach until I was ablaze with longing.
We moved, and Arthur had his legs on mine, holding down my ankles, as I started to say, “I’m so-” but with an arch smile, he sealed my mouth with a kiss. He knew, my desire was so intense, that he looked deep into my eyes and saw. I felt completely understood. His knowing finally melted my inhibition. I was flooded with desire, and more kept coming, more waves pulsed out and down my body. He moved in and through me and I moved with him. We said little, which made the tension almost unbearable. Arthur was so good at knowing from a look. He wanted me, he needed that, and I felt myself responding without any thought. I surrendered completely to the feeling of being known and loved, until Arthur finally climaxed and joyful with release, I followed with another peak, then another. We both clung, stretched taut and breathing fast, taking gasping breaths. Waiting suspended, the sexual release was met with an emotional one, as we wept for our private losses, and the relief of joining them to discover something new.
Some of our work deadlines – tax submissions, domain name and website renewals – we have little say in. We just pencil them into our diaries, and deal with them as they come up. Others – manuscript completion dates, following up phone-calls – are entirely up to us, so we first have to set these work goals, and then respect them.
Setting a work goal is relatively easy, though sometimes I am a bit too optimistic with my time-frames – ‘Yes, I’ll get that finished by the end of the week’ – but respecting and keeping my own deadlines takes the business ethic to a whole new level.
Authors, by and large, work for themselves, and have no-one else hanging over their shoulders or monitoring their work-rate, telling them how to run their businesses. No-one to chivvy them along, remind… Sure, there are always lots of other things to do, and people telling us what need done – meals to cook, dogs to walk, meters to read…
But if I pencil some work into my diary – reply to so-and-so by a certain date – these days, I do my utmost to respect my earlier decision. Instead of saying, “Well, I’ll just let that go, and do it when I can,” it saves a lot of time and energy to stick with earlier decisions, galvanising me to meet any deadline, and it means that, by and large, I have more time to attend properly to things that crop up at the last minute, instead of rushing madly.
Which might feel a bit tough, and even, on occasion, a bit confusing: which ‘me’ is doing the running. Is it me the worker, me the boss, me the challenger or me the hopeless optimist? And do I have the discipline to stop and have a lunch break, take weekends off, have time with family? It’s all part of the same ethos of self-respect that takes a job seriously (but not too seriously).
And it works! Yesterday, I finished a clean draft of The Seduction of Susan Scott, the second in my fiction series of books. Having the aim to finish it by the end of August, I challenged myself – why not? – to finish it by the end of last week. And while that turned out to be a trifle ambitious, having made that decision, I have found the energy and inspiration I needed to finish, not too far off my target. For which I am thankful.
My third book, Making Miraclesis now complete and published under my imprimatur, Heartwell Publishing. Thanks so much to everyone who has helped make my latest dream come true.
My third book, Making Miracles, brings to a conclusion my various attempts, over the course of fifteen years, to encapsulate in three books – which follow in a loose series – what I have learned in the course of my varied life: how I have moved from profound unhappiness into contentment and have, hopefully, become a more deliberate creator of my own happiness.
Many people can and have managed to find meaning, purpose and happiness throughout their lives without needing to write about it; but I guess that writing has been my means to obtain peace, to learn to live with my frailties and come to terms with them. Writing is one way I have found answers and become a happier, kinder person, more at peace with myself. And perhaps, through what I have written, I can encourage others to think the best of themselves.
Making Miracles is the outcome of a dream diary that I kept over the course of fifteen years. Throughout that time, and as an ongoing process, I have been sent many reassurances and messages which make it increasingly clear to me that guidance – call it what you like; as long as it works, I have no particular attachment to names or concepts – is available all the time, and that we can each make use of our own guidance. Keeping notes or a diary has no particular significance, but makes it easier to remember things and learn from repeating experiences.
What matters, when we are writing? What aspects can an author not do without?
A handful of good ideas is a great start, but there is also the requirement to edit, endlessly read and work through a text, ironing out inconsistencies, tangles and plot holes. But apart from the obvious – and often very trying – aspects of working with words, what other less obvious parts of the craft are necessary?
These are my latest discoveries, always subject to change.
~ the ability to envision ourselves writing regularly for the rest of our lives. Typically, I shun the regularity of a three-hour-a-day habit; or even worse, a five-thousand-word-a-day requirement as ‘shackling my creative flow’. However, I have recently come to appreciate that a regular writing habit offers our characters room to evolve and expand – revealing more of their character traits, their ideas, even their conversational quirks – over time. Since with a regular habit, we take our writing seriously for at least part of every work day – say, Monday to Friday – our work has room and time to expand fully. Given a regular commitment of time and engagement, our writing becomes deeper and more rewarding.
~ the confidence to take writing seriously, so that, even when we are very busy, our writing purpose is honoured for at least some time every day. It might be writing blog posts, or editing a single paragraph of text – or even deciding, after hours of tinkering, that the paragraph in question will have to go – but that kind of self-belief grows wings, and can weather any storm of external busyness.
~ The confidence to finish what we started. No piece of writing, no matter how good, will see the light of day if it remains unfinished. To push past the curse of the soggy middle, to ignore the word-count and push to the finish, no matter how ragged it may be, is, I would say, the single most important part of writing anything – apart from starting, that is. (And actually, finishing is a great deal harder than starting, but don’t tell…)
Speaking as an author who seems to get busier every day, the greatest creative spur I have yet found is the refusal to be beaten; with which the above strategies help me, every day.
What is the value of my time? If I was working in retail, I might perhaps earn £8.50 an hour, though it’s quite a while since I did, so I may have my rates wrong. If I were a typist in an office, a bit more, if I were a junior partner in a legal firm, a bit more still. As an author? Pause for embarrassed silence.
But why? We spend years investing in our books, to say nothing of the cost of producing a product which has all its dots and commas in the right place. That time is valuable, and – as I think I many have mentioned – is not coming back to us.
We can’t really value our worth by the accumulation of our possessions, so what is left to us is the space and hope we call time. Our most precious asset. So, when someone asks me to help with a project, it is worth pausing to check, “How long is this going to take me? Will I enjoy it? Do I get any pleasure out of doing this, any pleasure for its own sake?”
If the answer is no – and I have no perceived choice – just get that ask done quickly and then whizz off out of there asap; and if the answer is no, not one whit, of course not, then I’d be better to find some polite way of saying so and getting back to what I prefer doing.
But conversely, just because we love writing, does that mean we should not expect to get paid for it? Or receive the cover price for a book we have authored – from which we will have deduct the outlays – or to get recognition for the time and effort of carting books around, laying them out so carefully so they don’t get spoiled, signing them and offering them for sale?
In an ideal world, we would all be supported for being creative, but until that time comes, it’s worth pausing to ask ourselves how much we value our time, and whether, if push comes to shove, we are comfortable advocating for ourselves, so that we value what we do. After all, if we can get back some of the value of what we do, that will enable us to keep doing what we value.
I am so busy these days that occasionally, I can’t think straight, move or plan ahead.
So it comes as a pleasant surprise to gradually realise, that being immensely busy is a great spur to my writing. No more excuses, I think, I must prioritise this work of mine, or I shall find endless excuses not to keep up with it. Time and tide wait for no one, man, woman or beast.
And with that realisation comes a fresh determination, a refusal to be beaten that harks back to the earliest days of my youth, recalling that stubborn intransigence which so often counted against me, but which, now, I am grateful for occasionally, to keep me to my business plans and to remember to respect them. My time is really my greatest asset, and I know I shall be unhappy if I let my ideas get away from me, or go back to compromising all the time.
And in the end, compromising fails, because we are not being true to ourselves. As hubby has always said – and in such a way as as I now can totally understand – compromising pleases no-one. A refusal to be beaten is a great motivator, a great spur to strip away everything that does not matter as much as I used to think it did, or to delegate anything that other people can do just as well.
Is it easier, in the end, to allow oneself to be overwhelmed and simply let go of our dreams? Or does it save a lot of heart-ache and regret, to forge ahead with our own plans, and leave aside worrying about the other busyness of life for another time, another place, another person?
The obligations we hold ourselves to, are constantly updating anyway, like computer programmes and all works in progress. Which is a wonderful way of accepting that we too, can set ourselves free any time we wish, to live authentically, free of the fear that by doing what we most choose to do, we are letting other people down. Those who love us will cope, and those who don’t – do they matter so much?
October 29, 2018
Why did I go?
Fran Macilvey Fran's School of Hard Knocks, Path To Publication 4 Comments
Why did I go?
Beyond nurturing a few wild – and frankly, totally unrealistic – hopes and dreams, why did I go to the Frankfurt Book Fair this year? I promised, last year, that I would not go again, and have renewed that promise following my visit in 2018. But my mother knows me better… Now, perhaps I should just say, We shall see…
But beyond witnessing the sheer scale of the event, what conceivable reason would I have for bothering? Why not just stay at home, put my feet up and have a well-earned rest?
Firstly, planning to go to Frankfurt, making the effort and paying for it all, I have been forced to take my work seriously, and work hard to present it, effectively and in such a way that someone else might actually enjoy reading it. The focus of having a fair to work towards has been essential, to force me to write, get organised and plan efficiently. Without that discipline, I would probably still be dreaming about finishing Book 1 in my fiction series. As it is, I have finished Book 2 and am now well on the way with Book 3 which I hope to have completed as a full working draft by the time the London Book Fair 2019 rolls around in March. Going to book fairs is, I realise, my work equivalent of a business deadline or a demanding boss, which I need to give my work focus and clarity.
Secondly, I am forced to deal with people in what is in other circumstances a fairly isolated and lonely occupation. I am forced to make myself understood, to ask for what I want and to explain my reasons to doing what I do, to a bunch of otherwise fairly hard-headed individuals. All of which helps to thrash out my real motivations, and to hone my self-belief. Belief is the mother of reality.
Thirdly, there are times when I really need a rest, and if going to Frankfurt will allow me time off to get away from the hamster-wheel of my life – which, I fully admit, it is up to me to make more exciting – then it’s worth doing. I come home and immediately my appreciation for the comforts and companionship of the joys of home also gets a welcome boost. Sometimes a thing is too close to see properly. Perhaps, three days of almost total silence in the midst of a veritable hive of activity – as strange and at times unsettling contradiction – is useful to remind me what matters.
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