Is writing like sex?

3 03 2009

After yesterday’s question…today I found an answer.

Writing for a living: a joy or a chore?: nine authors give their views | Books | The Guardian

“The joy of writing for a living is that you get to do it all the time. The misery is that you have to, whether you’re in the mood or not. I wouldn’t be the first writer to point out that doing something so deeply personal does become less jolly when you have to keep on at it, day after cash-generating day. To use a not ridiculous analogy: Sex = nice thing. Sex For Cash = probably less fun, perhaps morally uncomfy and psychologically unwise.”

So says AL Kennedy anyway.

For me I can see the analogy.  I lot of what I write is done furtively in my bedroom.  In secret.  When everyone else is out of the house.  I avoid talking to friends about it.  Unless they are writers too I worry they won’t understand.

My contact with publishers is often done through the internet.  I send them seedy examples of my work.  Some ask for a short bio.  Some even want a picture first.

Given that I’m not writing for money.  Not yet.  Not really.  I suppose I don’t have to worry.   That I’m like a prostitute learning her craft? Practicing on the boys at school?  For free?

I’d like to think the publications that are accepting my work so far are a little more upmarket than that.

To be honest..right now I’d be grateful if someone paid me.

I do have a paid piece in the pipeline.  A story has been accepted for publication in a notable and paying literary magazine.  Not many of them about.  And no I can’t say which it is yet.  I’m scared I might jinx it.

But when it does come out… I promise I’ll kiss and tell.

Technorati Tags: , , , , ,

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to Ma.gnoliaAdd to TechnoratiAdd to FurlAdd to Newsvine





Writing Sestinas and Pantoums (and other mathmatical challenges)

22 02 2009

Part of me really enjoys the pressure of a deadline.  It’s too easy sometimes, as writer to find other things to do with your writing time.  I love writing but sometimes when it’s not coming out the way I hope I find myself fixating on “research” or playing online scrabble.

Having assigments to hand in by a certain date keps me on my toes.

For the next one, due 13th March, I have the option of submitting either a 2500 word piece of fiction/biography or 80-100 lines of poety.

I planned on writing prose but after diving into the section on poetry I’m becoming fascinated by some of the forms used.

For example, the Sestina is a highly structured piece of poetry.  For the best explanation see here.

The way it interconnects and seems to repeat itself is clever, and it’s clever because actually, the secret in writing a good one seems to be to find ways to use the identical ending words in new ways.

There are a load of Sestinas on this page

Some are great, some, not so great.

Myfavourite though has to be


How to Build a
Sestina Template
in Microsoft Excel.

BY DANIEL ARI

from McSweeney’s.net

Have a look, it does exactly what it says on the tin!

Given that I’ve already enjoyed trying out the Pantoum (another of our optional taught forms) I’m thinking I may have a go at submitting poetry.

But it’s a big 20 % part of our overall mark

And the tutor is a poet.  I don’t know if this means she’s more likely to “get” what I write or more likely to see my lack of experience.

Technorati Tags: , , , , , , ,

Add to FacebookAdd to DiggAdd to Del.icio.usAdd to StumbleuponAdd to RedditAdd to BlinklistAdd to Ma.gnoliaAdd to TechnoratiAdd to FurlAdd to Newsvine





Exam bleugh!!!!

8 10 2007

So, last week I felt all shiny as I finally reached the end of A215, The Open University Creative Writing course.

It has definitely been one of the most enjoyable OU courses I have ever had the pleasure of studying. Really didn’t feel like work a lot of the time.

Our final mark is made up of our ongoing coursework and an end of term Portfolio, each making up 50%. Your grade therefore is determined by your final mark for both.

I’ve managed to get a good grade for the ongoing coursework and so was keen to get something half decent for my Portfolio.

I think in the end I did okay.

I (tentatively) reckon I will have passed though what grade of pass I’m not so sure. The trouble with artistic pursuits is it’s still relying on the subjectivity of the marker.

We get our results on December 14th so watch this space.

As many of you know I’ve also been studying A207 From Enlightenment to Romanticism

My exam is this coming Thursday.

Mr Puddlejumper says I’ve been like a bear with a sore head all week.

I’ve been wondering about this. I mean I was stressed out a little getting my Portfolio finished and sent out and was starting to think perhaps it’s just the strain of studying two courses at once, especially as they both have quite a heavy workload towards the end. It’s made me question my plan to take on two courses next year.

But as I sat yesterday with my books sprawled all over my bed frantically writing last minute notes it dawned on me. I just haven’t found A207 as enjoyable as the Creative Writing Course.

It’s very “bitty”.

By that I mean it touched on so many disciplines, people and events but never really got stuck into any of them enough for me to properly engage.

As with the Creative Writiing course I’ve had good enough marks in my continuous assessment to get a good pass depending on how I do in the exam.

And you know how it is. An exam has such emotional weight that it’s difficult to think of much else when it’s staring you in the face. My life as I know it has really felt like it has been on hold this past month. I can’t see any further just now. I feel like I’m in limbo.

You know, social plans; housework; figuring out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life!!!!

As for doing any sort of Creative Writing – forget it! I don’t have the brain-space at the moment.

All I know is whether I do well or fail miserably I will be so happy come Thursday night just to have it behind me.





Not blocked just busy

16 07 2007

This is just a quick note to anyone who may still be dropping by and who might wonder where I have been.

Our current topic in A215 is Autobiography. And it’s not as though I’m not writing, quite the opposite in fact. But I find it more emotionally unnerving posting creative writing where I am (quite openenly) the central character.

A bit mad that, given that I’m a blogger but there you go.

I’ve been writing my life as a series of poems, I’ve been re-exploring my childhood in reams of prose, I’ve been collating lots of raw material but…

One of the things I’m finding hardest is the parts of my life that I think would make the most interesting reading are those parts that I was either to drunk or drug addled to remember fully

(and thus would run the risk of sounding like a bad Hunter S Thompson rip-off)

or they’ve invloved me doing things which are immoral or illegal or (in some parts of the world) both!

The other problem is I have so much material (yeah I know, it’s nice to have that sort of problem at least) that I’m unsure yet what I might use for my assignment and I’m not allowed to post it up here until it’s been done and marked.

However, I shall return. I have a short story on the go just now involving a pair of boxing gloves, a man, a woman and the gods of all things. But my inner -and outer- editor is getting more and more uppity and thinks of herself as a professional and so she won’t let me post just any old guff now. Not like at the start of this journey. It may be some time but once it’s polished a bit I’ll stick it up.

That being said, I will in all fairness still post guff, just guff that my inner editor has missed!

I





Breaking the Line

28 05 2007

So there she goes
Again, reckless
Suicidal hedonism,
“What does that button do?”
She asks, but presses on regardless.
Too impatient for a reply.

Cocaine headlights hidden, she drives onwards up the coast road.
Crosses over into
The oncoming carriageway.
Daring
Another car
To come round the corner.

Her life was always like this.
Sometimes it took her,
Hurtling
But sometimes it took her
To places, people, experiences she could
Never have lived without.

Then one night he came screeching
Around the bend…

The vehicles did not collide.
But lightly kissed in passing.
(for at that moment he had been doing exactly the same thing)
She not only survived.
She felt,
She lived.





It’s poetry month

28 05 2007

I’m at the stage on my Creative Writing course where we have started to look at poetry.

I’ve got to admit I’ve struggled with this part. Not because, I don’t enjoy reading or writing poetry. I do.

It’s just the methods taught in the Big Red Book strike me as a little mechanical. Poetry to me had always been more organic than that. And my enjoyment from writing has probably come from the fact that I’ve never felt I was writing poetry for anyone other than myself. And so “who cares” if it was good, or held meaning for others?

Poetry for me was a tool I’d use to figure out my own feelings or express something I couldn’t in any other way.

However, for the sake of continuity and in attempt to try and measure my progress, I will try to post some of my attempts over these next few weeks.





In a lifetime the average person cries 121 pints of tears.

25 04 2007

‘I saw him yesterday. We left the refuge early in the morning. I wanted to get to the post office early like, before the queues started. Myra was bawling in her buggy. She wanted to walk but it was lashing and I didnae want her to end up soaked. There’s little enough chance to get your washing done in that place.

I’d cashed my book for my child benefit and we were just on our way round to the Co-op to get some odds and ends. Anyway. Just as we passed Petrrucci’s I saw him.’

‘And how did that make you feel?’ said the counsellor.

‘Scared. Ye’ ken? My legs felt like they’d turned into pipe cleaners or something. I thought I might just topple right over.’

‘Uh-huh. And did he see you?’

‘Naw. I don’t think so. We ducked into the cafe. With Myra in the buggy and everything. I just scooped her up and asked the guy if we could use the toilets and he said aye so I ran through to the ladies with her and we just hid. Must’ve been in there for twenty minutes like. I don’t know what the guy must’ve thought. Probably thought I was a junkie shooting up or something, we were in there so long.’

The counsellor nodded. ‘And now Helen. What about now?’

Helen looked at her feet for a moment. The sides of her left boot was starting to split from the sole and she wriggled her foot, watching the hole open and close before she said. ‘Angry. I felt angry. Why should he still be able to swan around like he owns the place?

And I’m pissed off at myself too. I wanted to go over there. So much I wanted to say. Not straight away like. My mind went blank. But then we came out and he was gone and I thought shit. I’ve blown it. There was my chance to really tell him. To say -look. Look at this wee girl here. This is what your missing out on…’

The tears came now. She pulled her hands up trying to cover her face. Trying to wipe them away but there were too many of them. ‘I’m sorry’ she kept saying over and over, in between tears and the heaving sobs she wouldn’t quite give into.

The counsellor passed her a tissue. Said nothing. Let her cry.

(400 words)





Same scene different points of view

25 04 2007

Limited Omniscience -

Tony watches his wife Nancy as they get ready to go out. Tonight they will celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

There are clothes all over the bed. Every item of women’s clothing you could imagine. And shoes all
over the floor. Why do women always take so long to get ready?

The cufflinks are irritating and his shirt collar feels too tight. He looks at his wife. She’s trying on one thing after another. When did she put on so much weight? She was a slim girl when they got married. There’s a photo of them on the dressing table and he remembers how devastatingly beautiful she was on their wedding day. That waist. Those pert breasts. He could barely keep his hands off her at the church.

He looks at himself in the mirror. Not too bad for forty-five. Could do with losing a few pounds and the hairline isn’t what it used to be but Nancy still loves him. They’ve had some good times though. Even if she put on twice as much weight he would still want to spend the next twenty five years with her.

Finally it seems she is ready. There’s something different about her tonight that he can’t quite put his finger on. She gives him a twirl.

‘How do I look?’ she asks. Her face is radiant and she is smiling.

Even after all these years he never knows what the correct response is for that question. You tell a woman they look great they either think you are lying or they start to contradict you and you end up spending the rest of the night telling them exactly why they look great. But if you say nothing they think they look ugly. And he’s hungry.

‘You look fine’ he says.

On the way to the restaurant he can’t help but notice she seems very quiet.

Omniscient -

Tom and Nancy are getting ready to go out. Nancy is pouring over the entire contents of her wardrobe. She wants to look her best tonight, of all nights, but is struggling to find something that still fits. It has been a long time since they went for dinner together with it being such a special occasion she wants make sure she looks beautiful. She has already spent a small fortune on a haircut and manicure and hopes Tony will notice the difference.

Tony is uncomfortable in his suit and tie and fiddles self consciously with his cufflinks. He has never understood why women take so long to get ready. He watches his wife as she dresses and wonders how she managed to put on so much weight. He can’t help but compare her to how slim and beautiful she was when they first married. He wonders if he should say something but thinks better of it. He would love her even if she was twice as big again. He checks himself in the mirror and realises he’s not exactly twenty any more either.

Nancy has tried on half her clothes but finally finds an outfit she is satisfied with. She smooths down her skirt and spins around on the spot to show Tony. She hopes he approves.

‘How do I look?’ she asks.

‘You look fine’ he says.

She wonders why this is not what she hoped to hear. He is smiling after all. She’s sure he loves her but in that moment she can’t help but wonder if there something going on with him and his new young secretary.

They leave the house and head for the restaurant where they will celebrate being married for twenty five years.

Objective-

Tony and Nancy McVeigh are in their bedroom getting ready to go out. The bed is covered in what appears to be the entire contents of Nancy’s wardrobe. There are sparkly tops; turquoise blouses; dresses going back a decade or more. A multitude of shoes are sprawled across the floor. Tony is almost ready. He fiddles with his cufflinks and adjusts the collar on his shirt. He looks at his wife as she pulls off one top and struggles to pull on another. Her face looks all of her 44 years as she huffs and squeezes into the too small garment. She sighs; pulls it off again and standing in her bra and skirt ponders over the warbrobe-spewed contents of the bed.

He looks at the roll of fat hanging over the top of her skirt and her breasts sagging in her bra. And then looks at the photograph of them together on the dressing table. The photo is of a young, smiling couple. A nineteen year old Nancy is wearing a full length white dress and the twenty-year old version of himself has his arm tight around her nipped in waistline. He checks his reflection in the mirror; pulling in his stomach as he does so and glances down at his wedding ring.

Finally, she finds the look she was hoping for and with a flourish spins round on the spot. She is holding her breathe and pulling back her shoulders to give him the best view she can.

‘What do you think?’ she says

‘You look fine.’ he says but with a look that implies he means ‘acceptable’ rather than exquisite or elegant.

She looks in the mirror and then looks at the dressing table photo of the bride that she once was.

She sighs and her shoulders fall.

They leave for the restaurant and celebrate being married for twenty five years.

I found this exercise very tricky. I actually started with the objective (neutral fly on the wall) point of view but discovered it was very difficult to convey emotions without resorting to lots of dialogue. And even then it’s harder to get the meaning without getting into someone’s head! The objects in the room took on more significance.

I found omniscient quite tricky too as my brain found it harder to focus on each character. It would be even harder with more than a couple of characters but was useful in that you can give a deeper idea of the emotions of the scene.

My favourite was limited omniscience. It allowed me to speak through Tony and gave him more of a voice, though of course we only get his view of Nancy.





Ramblings in the Desert

13 04 2007

I don’t remember how I got here. The sand dunes stretch as far as the eye can see. The sun is directly above me and bears down heavily. She twinkles off every grain of sand, reflecting her heat into the backs of my eyes.

I want to lie down but I dare not. I heard the vultures soaring above me and I know if I stop they will swoop and feast upon my hot dry eyes. The rest of me they can have but not my eyes.

I stop momentarily and rest my hands on my hips. I look left and then right. I turn and look behind. The glaring sand looks back at me. Which way is forward?

There are no tracks to follow. The horizon all looks the same. As though I am at the very centre of the earth. It appears I am equidistant from everywhere else no matter which course I take. Logic tells me that it doesn’t matter then which way I go. My heart tells me to look up once more. I try but squinting, I notice the sun has shifted and so I follow her west.

I have been walking now for hours. The sun looks back at me. I’m trying to keep up with her but she is too fast. I see her beginning to turn orange and soon she will be red and then…then she’ll be gone. She hurts my skin and takes the last of the moisture from my mouth for herself but still I try to keep up. I fear being left here without her.

The east wind comes and gently blows on the sand. It sends ripples across the dunes. I don’t know how far I have walked but I know I must be a long way away from my starting point. My feet have blisters and the back of my neck burns. I can feel the heat of my own scarlet skin. The breeze is cooling and pushes me ever forward.

The sky is red now and I no longer care. My legs are preparing to pluck up the courage to tell me that they shall not go any further. The black sky waits behind me with his cold hands outstretched, and I know that when he comes the sun will not save me. She fears him too yet escapes him every night.

(400 words)





Snap shot

12 04 2007

Just playing with characters and points of view…

we had a 300 word limit. I ran over at 350.

You know how it is. You’re standing there outside the bar and you’re weighing it up in your head. Should I go in? Can I do this?

Well on Saturday there I was. Dressed up. Looking okay. I’d gone to the barbers that morning and I decided to wear my grey suit. I haven’t worn that since the court case but I wanted to make a good impression. This girl you see. Sarah. Wow. I couldn’t believe it when she agreed to meet up with me. But there was I, thinking maybe a coffee or a bite to eat perhaps. It was her who suggested the Rubberneckers. It was easy for her to find. She said she’d be getting the three o clock train.

Well I dithered about outside for a while. Trying to pluck up the courage really. Obviously I’ve just avoided the places. It’s easiest. But I’d said to my counsellor on Tuesday night and she had told me “Andy, you’re ready for this. You’ve not had a drink in over eighteen months,” and you have to agree I’m a changed man. The accident really gave me the jolt I needed. They could have given me the jail after all.

So there I am. At the door and I took a deep breath and walked through the doors. It was the smell that got me first. That sweet pungent aroma of alcohol and stale old man sweat. The place wasn’t too busy. There was a young couple sitting near the bar, nursing a pint each and a pair of old dears sitting up at the window with what looked like G&T’s.

I got to the bar though and there was a chap, early forties maybe? In fact, he reminded me a lot of myself. He had far away eyes and sitting in front of him was the most beautiful glass of whiskey I had ever seen. For a moment I thought. I could have one. Just one. Just to remember the taste.

But you’d have been proud of me.

I said, “An orange juice please.” Just like that.








Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.