Wee, Teeny Bravery

My current soon-to-be-turfed work has multiple perspectives, so it’s no surprise I’ve been thinking a lot about the writer’s voice. 

One of my characters is Irish.  Predictably, I’ve given him my husband’s speech pattern.  It’s like putting on the Butler’s still warm jacket.  More than that, it’s practicing a skill I don’t do naturally (speak Hiberno-English), a wonderfully engrossing challenge. 

Another character is American, from a region near my own.  I sit back in his verbal rocking chair and become Uncle Remus.  Here is where, in the guise of a gay male military surgeon, I speak openly about dark things.  I am a brave sheep in wolf’s clothing.  My bravery comes from no one knowing what is true and what is not. 

This isn’t real bravery, no powerful earth woman standing with her arm raised, calling down the power of the Furies.  It’s wee, teeny bravery.  But, the only reason this wee teeny bravery exists is because someone asked me to write about myself.  And I did.  And I got a surprise.  The surprise was that I wasn’t brave at all, so wee, teeny bravery is a step forward.

http://booksbywomen.org/a-purple-crayon/

About this character actor I admire.  (Come, come.  The Appalachian mind must travel in curves, never straight lines.)  There’s a British actor who transforms himself so completely for his roles – voice, appearance, walk – part of my enjoyment is to see if he’s in there under the wigs and makeup.  However, when I’ve seen him as a narrator in documentaries, he comes across as uncomfortable in his own skin, as if he doesn’t know who he is without a role.  It’s amazing (and painful) to watch. 

He’s a good actor, you say?  He is.  Then what’s the problem?

For the incurably introverted (myself, perhaps?), the role or the character’s voice protects the interior world, the place where creativity comes from.  Why mess with that?  No great moral reason, I can see.  I just like a challenge, because by stretching my skill past what comes naturally to me, I improve that skill.  Except the times when I fail hilariously, of course.

In this first wee, teeny bravery, I’ve learned something.  First, I’ve learned to honour my own experiences.  I am the only person who’s had them.  We all share certain experiences, this is true, but I had those experiences in my body with my emotions reacting to and my thoughts being shaped by them.  Therefore, my experience is unique.

The next thing I’ve learned is that there’s liberation to this bravery.  It’s like being forced to use your right hand when you’re a natural southpaw, then picking up the pen in your left hand.  That’s more than being a better writer; for me, when I’m writing as the gay male military surgeon, I feel like I’ve moved close to my reader and quietly shared a very good secret.  I feel closer to you.

And so far when I spread my unique experience on the table, the people who see my wares go, wow . . .  I mean honestly, when I see your wares, I go, wow . . . what made me think you wouldn’t do the same?  That wow moment is a gift.  My experiences are a gift to you.  If someone doesn’t graciously accept them – and that’s bound to happen – that doesn’t have to be about either of us.  It just is.

The biggest thing I’ve taken from this is that the act of being asked to speak is THE most important thing that can happen to a writer.  We pitch and we submit and we work in our closets in the hope that someone will notice our incurably introverted selves.  It all changes when someone says to me, will you write . . .

It’s one thing we have no control over.  I would love to say, Will you write, and validate your wares, but me asking you to write is one step away from Granny doing it. 

Qaisra Shahraz (The Holy Woman, Revolt, Typhoon) recently suggested that writers participate in virtual writing communities, not just through RTs and shares, but with our comments.  Give our voices to other writers to let them know their work is being read.    

It’s great advice and I pass it on to you.  Will you write, will you comment, will you speak to other writers?  I request 140 characters of your wares.  Will you write . . .

Mad Farmers & Chocolate Pudding

Big Nose starts his walk.

So let me tell you about the Mad Farmer. Yesterday, when walking the Big Nose, we took the same path as always, but on the way up the slope in the second meadow, Big Nose got all excited. A long white leg had come through the hedge to touch him.  This long white leg was attached to a beautiful Brittany spaniel who was attached to a shouty man on a quad bike.  Mad Farmer.

Apparently Big Nose and I were on the wrong side of the field.  Rather than do a circumference of the field, we should have walked to the stile, turned and walked back.  The path isn’t marked in that way and to be honest, I didn’t consult any maps, just village advice when I started taking this walk.  In general, I’m quite open to correcting my mistakes if you’re respectful of my ignorance.

Mad Farmer began our relationship by screaming at me, soon followed by his female companion screaming also.  Someone who goes from zero to sixty in a fraction of a second, well he’s already made his mind up that I’m no good.  Worse, I couldn't see either of them through the bushes.  So I ignored them, walked up the wrong side of the field, quad bike and shouty couple on the other side of the hedge until I crossed the stile and went home.  I felt bad about their treatment of me for the rest of the day.

Big nose off the path.

I took that bad-feeling energy and wrote Mad Farmer into a scene in a humourous way, a little joke about what’s really a nasty piece of work.  That didn’t make the bad feeling go away, but it did do something productive with it.  And this morning, Mad Farmer & Co are another funny story.

Coincidentally, I’m at that point when a long term piece is being turfed out into the world.  There’s a whole lot of feelings balled up in that, but the icky one is, what happens if this doesn’t go anywhere?  What do I do next?  Is it time to give this all up?

The Butler said the most amazing thing to me.  You keep writing.  Isn’t he the perfect writer’s spouse?  Truly.  But his advice is perhaps the hardest in the world to follow.  Being a writer sometimes feels like swimming through chocolate pudding.  It’s a really big sacrifice to swim and not eat the pudding, cuz I love my chocolate.  By this I mean, the time I spend writing is time away from all the other wonders in life, with perhaps not all the gratification a lot of other jobs provide. 

I get discouraged, even with a Butler.  That discouragement more than anything else – poverty, colicky babies, a deluge of rejections coming through the mail slot – that will kill your writing.

The view

Earlier this week, I met a villager whom I’d only spoken to at a New Year’s Eve party.  She’s dog sitting and wanted to compare notes.  She knew I worked from home because I’m rather visible in my Writing Closet, but she didn’t know what I did.  I said, I’m a writer.  I saw it in her brain, the churning Do I Know You question.  That usually doesn’t turn out well.  So then I said, Not a very successful one.  I do it because it’s what I want to do.

Part of me said, what are you apologising for?  I don’t apologise for my gardening efforts or my knitting efforts or the fact my outfits never match.  But, I’m glad I said it because a really neat thing happened next.  All the muscles in the woman’s face opened up and she smiled.  She made some comment which said, that’s really wonderful that you’re doing what you want to do with your life.

It’s really wonderful and brave that you’re writing.  If this is the only sentence of this blog you remember, then keep it close.  Just that sentence.  Because it’s true. 

Long distance swimmers have people in boats to protect them from drowning, people shouting from the shore that yes indeed they will make it.  And if they get attacked by jellyfish, they get medical care.  Writers, some days all we have are Mad Farmers on the other side of the hedgerow screaming abuse.  The people on the shore tell us to get a real job.  The ones in the boats laugh at us.  When we get stung by rejections, no first aid.  Just those looks which say, you should’ve stayed out of the water.

The goal.

Think of the hardest thing you’ve ever done or had to endure.  Not something small.  The BIG one.  Think of that right now.  Think of the strength it took you to get through that.  You’re pretty remarkable, aren’t you?  You are.  That quality alone is something you should share.  And you do that most effectively through your writing.

Don’t let them stop you from writing, those Mad Farmers of the world.  Write.  Write.  Write.  And keep writing.

The Run-Away Writer

I’ve been running away from home to write for a long time.  In the beginning, I organised group weekends.  Other people on retreat make it hard to retreat into writing.  I also see ads for professionally run escapes to striking locations with workshops and gourmet food.  These sound like holidays for people who dabble or want to meet published writers.  They’re probably fun, but not my cigar.

Inside my retreat

This week, I’m AWOL, and have decided to give my best tips on taking a final draft retreat.  A bit practical from me, but it’s Friday the 13^th so the unexpected is expected.  Just a note that research or creative retreats differ enough in environmental needs that today, it’s all about what works for the final blowout get-every-word-in-place draft.

WHY

I write from home, have cleaners come in, don’t do the cooking.  Why would I have to leave home to write?  To pare down distractions and focus my efforts.  The dryer beeps, the glads need cut, Big Nose wants petted, the post’s been delivered.  All those little daily events take my attention.  Once a week I go to the Lit & Phil, a private library in Newcastle, to escape those things.  A final draft takes days of straight concentration, and that happens best outside my daily life. 

WHERE

I’ve had some fine people let me house sit, the perfect arrangement, especially if you can’t afford to rent.  This depends on friends with a congenial space that are buggering off when you need to retreat.  My experiences with house sitting have been positive, so the only caveat I can offer is pets.  I leave home to get away from the enticements of the Big Nose Dog and his feline cohorts; I wouldn’t want to pet sit as well.  People who come to my house to write often say the animals are part of the plus.  That, and the Butler’s cooking.

So house sitting, unless that’s your job, not so easy to get.  Mostly, I do self catering.  Do you choose some place inspirational, with an exciting night life?  For the final draft, I give that a big NO!  You need your butt on your chair.  If outside is too interesting, you won’t be inside.  Pretty outsides are for when you’re creating and researching, not when you polish.

Know your creature comfort needs.  You may think a yurt in some forest would be great.  For my final draft retreat, I prefer a double bed, climate control, a table where I can work, wi-fi, a cooking area.  I love a nice, deep bath, or at the very least, a power shower.  Shere Garcia-Rangel (Alliterati) says every writer needs a window.  You’ll need electric lights to extend your working day.  To avoid screen glare, I find lamps are best, preferably ones that are adjustable.

Most places won’t have an office set up.  Think about what you need to sit in a kitchen chair all day.  A stool for your feet or cushions for your rump.  DON’T BE AFRAID TO ASK and do it in advance.  In all my years doing this, I’ve only had one crap host.  The rest wanted me to enjoy my stay.

My current rental is close to home, so almost no travel time and outdoor temptations can be delayed until the Butler picks me up.  More often, I choose a place I’ve always meant to visit but haven’t, interesting but not irresistibly interesting.  An exception to the dull factor is if it’s the place you’re writing about.  Then it’s like a reference book, being able to walk out the door to check details. 

Leave them at home.

WHAT TO TAKE

Writers differ in what they need.  As my hands age, I’m more dependent on the keyboard, but I still do edits on the hard copy.  I take my laptop and printer, external backup, a few reams of paper, pens of various colours, highlighters, reference books, a camera, and my phone.  Don’t forget things like wrist supports, eye glasses and typing stands (to hold the pages you’re typing from). 

I also bring something to read at night and never read it.  It acts as a writer’s teddy bear, I suppose.

You don’t need many clothes.  You’ll be indoors, butt on chair, remember?  My usual method of culling is, what fits in the suitcase?  When I'm running away by train, I use a large suitcase for the printer and paper, plus a backpack for the laptop.  All clothing, books and toiletries have to fit around those essentials.  Socks, underwear, sweaters, are the first things to pack; I wear my heaviest jumper or shirt on the trip.  Ask if there’s laundry facilities.

If you’re not driving, pre-order groceries.  Remember, what’s left, you have to cart home or toss, so this is not the time to try new recipes or stock up.  Bring your normal three meals/day plus snacks.  You’re not as active – your butt is . . . where? – you probably won’t eat as much as you do at home.  Ask your host what things are provided – tea, milk, sugar, salt, etc. – to save bringing them.

BRING TREATS.  You deserve them.

Since I don’t cook, I bring pre-prepared meals, but to be honest, the Butler’s too good a cook for me to enjoy ready-made.  Next time, he's catering.  If you’re driving or have an insulated bag, make extra servings during the weeks before you go, freeze them to take with you.  A lot healthier and tastier than Tesco’s finest.

ALWAYS HAVE EXTRA TOILET ROLL.  Some places will start you on one roll and then you’re on your own.  The week that I go through only one roll, I’ll sign up for dialysis.  Don’t get caught out.

Lastly, don’t forget your food weirdity.  I’m an American living in the UK.  I’ve only had one rental (really lovely in Berwick-upon-Tweed) that had an acceptable coffee maker and coffee.  My current rental has tiny sachets of Nescafe which to any civilised person are an affront to God.  Because it’s so close to home, the Butler brought my coffee maker over on Day One.  Check it out before you come.  You want to reduce discomfort, so your focus can be on writing.

Retreat writing station

WHAT’S MY SCHEDULE?

This may surprise you, but I let my body determine my schedule.  I get up when I get up.  I write and eat and exercise according to my body’s signals.  I go to bed when my brain gets tired. 

Saying that, on a typical run-away week, I do two rewrites on a novel length manuscript.  I don’t have fixed daily quotas, but I know how much work and time I have left.  My creative flow seems to have an internal way of handling that.  You may have to be more structured.

HEALTH

Writing isn’t a healthy activity.  If you’re young, you’ve probably not noticed that yet, but it really isn’t.  This is why having pillows and stools is important.  Make sure you pack all the medications you need to cope, in addition to any you normally take, including supplements.  Most rentals have a first aid kit.

Be aware of your natural rhythms.  Have strategies for times when you slump.  When I’m at home, I quit writing at 5:00pm unless I have a deadline, then I quit at 9:00pm in order to remind my family I’m still alive.  Because my writing brain is used to that regular cease fire at home, I have a glass of wine in the evening when I’m away, to keep up my sugar levels and keep me writing.  (This may have the opposite effect on you.)

I also have a lull mid-afternoon, so usually go for a walk.  My first day here, I met a woman with several bearded collies on my walk, learned their canine family tree, lamented the one who just died, got advice for buying a puppy.  I next met a man who gave me the history of his house, then took me to see the goats.  After that, I met a woman spinning wool in her front garden who’s offered to check out a fleece I have at home.  I enjoyed all those encounters - it's what writers do, isn't it? - but I’m on retreat and that was my first day; I’ve not gone on any walks since.  The weather has been obligingly helpful about that.

To walk or not to walk . . .

However, movement is essential on a marathon writing week (fortnight, month).  I’ve done Tai Chi every day instead of walking.  I use a DVD, so I don’t cheat and skip forms.  (Know your weaknesses.)  Exercise is an antidote to most slumps, so find what works for you.

DON’T FORGET TO EAT.  One of the problems with letting my body set the schedule, is I skip meals.  HYPOGLYCEMIA IS NOT YOUR FRIEND.  Bring healthy snacks and keep a bowl on your table.

DON’T FORGET YOU’VE PUT SOMETHING IN THE OVEN.  Having the fire department called is embarrassing and puts a dent your writing time.

PEOPLE

We love them, especially new people.  NEW PEOPLE ARE NOT YOUR FRIENDS, if you’re in the final drafts.  Creating?  Researching?  Great.  Wordsmithing?  They’re time thieves. 

The people who have self catering rentals usually have great interpersonal skills.  Hospitality is their livelihood.  A lot of them will be generous with their time, offer to take you around, fix meals for you, buy you a drink at the pub. 

Be judicious.  Ten minutes talking about their garden or a trip to the grocery store won’t break your writing regime, and may establish a base for continued retreats.  Drinks or dinner say you’re on holiday, not there to write.  If they know in advance I’m here to work, most people respect it. 

Phone home.

LONELINESS

The Butler and I usually talk on the phone every night, but here, there’s no service, so we’ve relied on social media.  This is inefficient for him, because I keep the social media turned off while I write, and tempting for me, because I’ve checked it more often than usual this week.  SOCIAL MEDIA IS ALSO NOT YOUR FRIEND although it’s delightful in so many ways, I do have to admit . . .

You will be lonely, if you spend your retreat the way I’ve outlined.  Be realistic with yourself.  This isn’t boot camp.  Get a people fix if you need it.  Go for a walk if cabin fever sets in.  Spend time on Twitter to connect with semi-reality.  You have to be in an okay space emotionally, to do the work. Just don't let any of these things become your primary occupation.  Butt on chair.

DON’T FORGET TO BATHE.  At least before you go home.  Your family will thank you.

Love With A Hook

Thirty years ago today, I became a first time mother.  If I had a different type of child, I’d write about how easy he is to love, brag about his wonderful talents, his remarkable bravery, toss a few of his quirks into the salad to make it real, end on a soppy note.  The thing is, today is his day; a blog like that would make him squirm with embarrassment.  My blog about his graduation DID make him squirm.  Instead, we’re going to a sushi bar with friends and hopefully laugh ourselves silly.  We may even get a puppy if we’re lucky.  (Seriously!)

Red letter days remind me about good and bad aspects of family, which I suppose is true for anyone who didn’t grow up on Little House on the Prairie.  My work in trauma has tested and, in some ways, broken the illusions our culture puts forward as absolute truth about family.  Sometimes, this causes me to make decisions about people in my private life. 

My son says I’m judgemental.  I say I’m experienced.  It’s difficult to know in advance which is correct, because while I am more experienced than my son, that experience is skewed.  I’ve lifted too many rocks and seen what lived underneath.  That’s made me a big believer in the power of memories.  We create a memory, it stays.  If it’s a bad memory, it harms.  So I think we need to be somewhat selective, not give everyone the benefit of the doubt.

In real life, that’s a wonderfully fine tight rope that needs assessed all the time.  These are real lives I interact with, reject or accept, so there are real life consequences for my choices, to both myself and other people.  In writing, however, I worked under the misconception that no holds were barred. 

Years ago, I wrote a fictional story about a woman who suffered domestic abuse.  An editor rejected it with the note that they only published stories about strong women.  I wondered if by ‘strong’ she meant not-real.  In my world, any woman in a relationship, gay or straight, could be a victim of domestic abuse, not just the ‘weak’ ones.

In my current manuscript, a father’s children collude with his narcissist ex-wife to cause him social and fiscal harm.  His children do what is called, ‘identifying with the aggressor’ (the mother).  In kidnap and POW situations, we know it as Stockholm Syndrome.  My character feels forced to cut off contact with his children or go down in flames.  A male reader told me that a parental relationship isn’t equal, and a father should always be there for his children.  He said the father’s decision made him unlikeable and as a reader, he couldn’t invest in the man’s story. 

These are the myths about families that keep intra-familial harm in business. 

A long time ago, a counselling supervisor referred to a client’s parenting style as ‘love with a hook in it’.  Think about that.  Not false love.  Not abuse.  Love with a hook in it.  The child is loved but with a painful consequence.  Not every dysfunctional family lives in the Bates motel. 

In one of Neil Gaiman’s talks at the Edinburgh Book Festival, someone asked him if Ocean at the End of the Lane were for adults or children.  Gaiman said children can deal with violence and other scary things.  They live in the same world we do and see a lot more than we think they do.  But what he didn’t think children should have to handle is Ocean’s conclusion that some evil things are too big to conquer without a price, and as such, classified the book as fiction for adults.

We need more fiction for adults.  Go write it.

Happy Birthday, El Punko!  Thanks for coming to live me all those long years ago!  You rock.

Home from Edinburgh*

The Butler (my husband, not the movie) planned to spend August covering his colleagues’ holidays rather than take one himself.  Fine with me, as I had a novel that needed attention.  However.  I didn’t do the responsible thing when one evening he said, ‘I have a few days off.  Let’s go to the Edinburgh Book Festival.’

The process of novel writing is a strange game of what-if.

Neil Gaiman 22/08/13

We took the afternoon train that rides the east coast, one of my favourite trips.  A friend met us on Princes Street, took us to Charlotte Square which had been transformed into a secret village.  There were no passport checks, but we definitely had crossed the border into Somewhere Else.

If you ignore your inside voice, you ignore it at your peril.

                                                                        Mark Billingham 23/08/13

Once inside, there was settledness to the place.  Not the spiritual tranquillity of a religious building, not an ivory tower concept or romantic notion, but the still hum of a thousand intellects invoking the imagination. 

 

It’s the journalist's business to write about politics.  The writer must write about more important things.  What is important in life is of the world without words.  The writer translates and is above the level of politics.

                                                                        Mikhail Shishkin 23/08/13

They weren’t all well behaved intellects.  Children raced and screamed and had tantrums.  Staff had to pick up litter.  These people got drunk, one woman shouting, ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck photography,’ and sent the Festival photo team skeedaddling.  

We’re inured to violence.  Fiction gets over the issue fatigue, a sneaky bastard that comes at you from the side.

Lauren Beukes 23/08/13

A thick Scottish accent bellowed at us to get in the queue.  Book signings ran like conveyor belts watched over by security.  Inside all of that, though, something felt different.

I imagine Ian Rankin walks around Edinburgh to find a car park to stuff a body.  Kind of like the Easter Bunny.

Margaret Atwood 24/08/13

Our second day there, everyone abandoned me for their sessions.  I grabbed an ice cream and a deck chair, sat down with my manuscript.  Next to me gathered a multi-generational family.  A set of middle-aged grandparents, several thirty-something parents. 

Sometimes people are undone by success.

Stephen Grosz 24/08/13

The grandfather carried a baby, talked to it, explained what the rest of the family were doing.  Nothing significant about this bunch until the other children returned. 

The true inspiration for the writer is the bank manager.

Andrew Grieg 24/08/13

Kids young enough to speed across the square with their picture books were greeted like lionesses who’d returned with food for the pride.  Adults squatted to hear the stories even if the child went through the book backwards. 

I love challenge.  At least I say that to myself before it’s started.  Halfway through, I say, this is the most terrible challenge!

                                    Antonia Fraser 25/08/13

And when the excitement calmed down, ice cream for everyone.  My kind of family, I can tell you.  They know what it takes to raise a kid.  Ice cream and books.

I feel this is an audience full of women laughing and men, not.

Naomi Alderman 25/08/13

El Punko later tweeted, Can we live here?  That’s how I felt, as though I’d found the lost tribe of my native people.  Nothing tangibly different on the outside, but on the inside – if we could do DNA tests on the soul, you’d find something a bit peculiar.

If you want a virtual reality experience that takes you out of reality, read a novel.

                                    Valerie Martin 25/08/13

Between sessions, we sat in deck chairs and read or wrote.  Some of us fell asleep.  We ran into old friends, met new ones, shared writing opportunities, lusted over book after book after book.  Bought way too many.  Ate some of the best cake I’ve ever had.

Zombies are not good on skates.

                                    Margaret Atwood 25/08/13

Sometimes I felt overwhelmed by the intelligence on the panel, both writers and moderators.  Sometimes I felt I’d underachieved.  Sometimes I felt enthused about my craft, couldn’t wait to get back to the deck chair and write write write.  After some ice cream, of course.

Burke and Hare had their good side.

                                    Ian Rankin 26/08/13

At one of Margaret Atwood’s sessions, a man asked her what to do with all the stories in your head, if you weren’t a writer.  She said something close to: Anybody who can write things down is a writer.  Then it’s up to you to become a better writer.  (Take that, all you people who belittle writers who aren’t yet Margaret Atwood.)  

My feeling about her is she’s the perfect corporate wife.  (Lady MacBeth) 

                                    Margaret Atwood 26/08/13

Which is who El Punko wants to be when he grows up.  At first I was surprised he didn’t want to be Neil Gaiman, but then I realised Neil Gaiman hasn’t grown up yet, which is really quite lovely.  I think becoming Margaret Atwood is an admirable goal, even without the writing bit.

A book can be as many books as it can be.

                                    Valerie Martin 26/08/13

My experience of the festival, though obviously limited, was that it lacked the usual hierarchy.  This is a craft and everyone there loved it; some of us in the creation but all of us in the appreciation of it.  So while there was a yurt where the writers could hide, they also sat with their families in deck chairs, stood in line for talks, bought ice cream from the stand without being mobbed. 

Adults have no attention span.  They give up and go away long before you’re finished.  (Having stories read to you.)

                                    Neil Gaiman 26/08/13

That ethos, perhaps, of egalitarianism, reinforced in me the need for writers (and all creatives) to support each other in an honest but positive fashion.  That includes supporting yourself as well, despite people who don’t believe you have something to say.  If Ian Rankin and Mary Talbot and Val MacDermid don’t mind walking among the rest of us, then feck the begrudgers and walk here as well.

We were just talking about Jane Austen’s underwear.

                                    Margaret Atwood 24/08/13

*All writer quotes are as close to what was said as possible.

The Perils of Pillage

My mother is a master quilter.  She has the ability to see, in a collection of fabrics, the intricate wee triangles and squares that will create a balance of colour and motion.  The art of quilting originated from necessity – the absence of a large fabric met by joining small scraps of old clothing. 

Many writers create in the same way, but it isn’t the rag bag that they pillage their bits of colour and texture from.

Most writers I know have an incredible capacity for information.  The whole ‘write what you know’ is set aside for write what speaks to you.  History, art, music, all the behavioural sciences, and just plain old people, we dive into them with the ability to hold our breath for minutes, hours, days if need be to absorb what it takes to feed the desire to know.

In my early days as a pillager, I often confused this subject immersion as a more lasting interest and, as a result, have (to list the less embarrassing escapades) learned to play piano, trombone, tambourine, recorder, penny whistle, guitar, bodhrán, banjo, Scottish pipes, and fiddle.  I’ll pause here to say, I’m not a musical person, so by the time I’d created a main character who played uillean pipes, I’d learned to research the experience with a pen, not pipes.

Here’s where peril begins to happen.  A book or craft or musical instrument, no matter how deep a relationship we form with it, does not respond in kind.  A person is quite different altogether.  There’s a sort of ethics to pillaging from a person.  For instance, regardless how kickass their metaphors are, how powerful their stories, I wouldn’t take one from a client.  The dynamics in that type of relationship make asking an unfair thing. 

Those ethics shouldn’t apply only to a therapeutic relationship, though.  To take a friend’s stories without asking is worse than stealing their cutlery when they’ve invited you over for dinner.  Taking another writer’s metaphor or theme or story is a capital crime.  And most of us know that. 

Unfortunately, there are no ethics in the treatment of writers, and that’s where the peril of pillaging lurks.  There is a type of person out there who can do a real mind fuck on you and you never see it coming. 

A little psych lesson.  The act of creation for a writer, all this pillaging and plunder I’ve been rabbiting on about, it has something to do with ego boundaries.  Ours tend to be semi-permeable.  We can empathise til the cows come home.  Normal people see that for what it is.  A few may think we care more for them than we do, which isn’t to say we don’t care about them. 

But when Neil Gaiman looks up from a book he’s signing, smiles sincerely to a teenage boy who absolutely loves Ocean at the End of the Lane, then says something nice to his mother because the boy’s too star stuck to speak, Gaiman is being empathetic and kind, and probably doesn’t remember the boy five minutes later.

And on some level, the boy knows that.  He’ll show Gaiman’s dedication to his friends, tell them how genuine and real Gaiman is.  Now think about Gaiman’s behaviour.  It only has meaning, it only has power in the context of a famous person taking fifteen seconds to acknowledge a teenager.  If I who am standing behind that teen in the queue smiled at him sincerely, he’d move closer to his mother and break all eye contact.

So we've established normal, at least for us.  Let's go to abnormal.  Hopefully you’re still with me, because here’s where it gets dicey.  This pillaging that you do in order to write, you probably don’t turn it off.  An old guy on the bus strikes up a conversation and if you’re in the mood, you carry your end, ask more questions than answer, learn all sorts of things about him and walk away having given nothing of yourself.

BUT

Sometimes, that casual conversation turns into coffee, turns into swapping books, turns into friendship.  Sometimes this person is a bit emotional.  Sometimes you have to be the more understanding person.  Sometimes, if you have a bad day and decide to go caving, as I call taking a break from social interaction, this person calls the police after six hours.  Or your mother.  All your friends. 

And that seems cute.  You feel bad for making that person worry.

But these cute, idiosyncratic moments multiply.  The friendship becomes care-taking becomes hard work.  You think this person’s going through a bad time, it’ll blow over.  Life’s hard.  You’ve been there.  You’ve plundered stories from other lives that have been there.  This person’s your really good friend.  You have so much history together.

And then one day, this person attacks you.  And continues to attack you but won’t let you respond.  Then blocks all access to him, tells your friends what a shit you are, takes some of them with him.  You’re left with the confusion of what-the-hell-did-I-do and the ugliness spilled over all the memories you share with this person.

What’s that all about?

Well, some people out there are really badly damaged.  Their ego boundaries aren’t just permeable; they’re goddam shaky.  They need someone else’s boundaries to hold the amoeba of themselves.  Your interest in this person, your intense, flattering interest means something very different than friendship to them.  Because their ego boundaries have never been properly put into place, your wit and verbal skills, vast information base, creative spark, all the good things that you’ve spent a lifetime building, those now belong to him.

Which is why, if you go caving, they freak out and call the Mounties.  And, when life gets stressful, if you fail to sooth them the way a mother soothes a baby, they will attack and vilify you.

This sort of thing could happen to anyone, not just writers.  It’s why we have stalking laws.  It’s a core of domestic abuse and bunny boiling.  But I think, perhaps wrongly, that because writers have this huge initial investment in new people – we’re curious as hell, ask questions, work to understand because it’s how we create – we don’t see the forest for the trees sometimes. 

The danger of all this is the memory it leaves you with, the learning that life is dangerous and you’re not able to see it coming.  If it happens more than once, then you think you obviously ask for it.  You’re the person who’s not a very good friend and you don’t even know why.  That type of damage done is pretty hard to recover from.  It is, indeed, perilous.

These people are hard to spot initially because when you’re good to them, you’re very, very good.  It seems like a genuine friendship.  Your best defence is your current social circle. 

Listen to what your tried and true friends tell you about the new friends you make.  Look at the new friend's other relationships – are they bizarre?  Are they secretive about normal things?  Think about the stories they tell you, the believability of them.  Real life isn’t lived in dramatic arcs.

Most of all, be aware that your propensity to pillage distorts the boundaries.  Don’t be overly forgiving in the beginning – forgiveness is earned, not a free pass you give to someone who interests you.  Walk away from anyone who wants exclusivity to your time and friendship, who tries to interfere with your established friendships or hobbies or most especially, your caving time.

Writers aren’t formed in quite the same way as non-writers.  Pillage to your heart's content, make new friends, but always, always, always take care of yourself.

The Seriousness of Magic

Mount Grace

This weekend, the Butler and I went to an open air production of Sense and Sensibility set on the grounds of Mount Grace Priory, a National Heritage site.  Mount Grace itself can be seen across the fields on some of Big Nose Dog’s walks; the names of two houses in our village boast of a priory view, now obliterated by mature trees.  

Places like Mount Grace call on us to create magic, I think.  If you’re not sure what I mean, could you walk through these grounds and not imagine what went on there?  That’s our innate ability to be in our minds where our bodies are not.  That has to be magic, does it not?

Butler & Sis in front of chapel

The site’s history that I know, starts with a fourteenth century Carthusian charterhouse that survived only a little over 140 years of religious contemplation.  Then Henry VIII sent Mount Grace on its travels through various owners to the Lowthian-Bell family who gave us Gertrude Bell. 

There’s a woman whose life makes the jaw drop.  Up in the manor's attic, you can see where someone recorded the children’s heights, look at old family photos and listen to staff talk about Gertrude; you won’t be thinking about monks and a fat old profligate wanting a son, although all those things happened here.

Magic.  Imagine putting on open air theatre in such a place.

The Hamper

The Butler packed a picnic for the masses, although there were only we two.  We stowed canvas chairs and hamper and rug into Little Car, had to park in the overflow area, so many people had come, and a few of those on foot.  We claimed a space on a little rise at the back, across from the old Carthusian guest house.

The audience included people from the Point to Point set who brought fold-away tables covered with fabric cloths, dressed in their Dubarry boots and wool jackets and stockman riding coats, although the group to our right put an eighteenth century spin on the dress code.  Here were the considered-successful of the community, some, like the Butler, with serious day jobs, yet the desire for fun, for magic, it sizzled through the audience with childhood intensity. 

The group next to us

Neil Gaiman writes in his latest book that none of us are adults, rather children inside adult bodies.  Those of us who openly admit our need to create, to imagine and pretend well into adulthood, we’re the ones who put on the period dress, pack two desserts inside the hamper (well, four, if you count the Betty's cakes and how could you not), drink champagne from children's cups.

Humans ache for opportunities to create, whether it’s decorating the house, writing a play, sitting at a National Heritage site to watch an open air performance that helps us imagine another life in another time.  It’s a fine line, though, for those of us who are driven to create.  More is asked of us, perhaps unfairly so.

Because we have the temerity to put our creations on show, we cannot purely create with the abandon of children, nor even stop at thinking about grammar and structure, the indelible dramatic arc.  More important than bringing forth the myths inside us, we’re told the world now wants us to count Twitter followers, blog hits, Likes and RTs.  It’s the high school game of popularity taken to a fiscal level.  Be in, rather than be creative.

For some of you, the two are the same.  For me, it’s hard work.  There’s many a good intentioned person who’s crossed my path to utter several Don’ts about what I write or how I write or even that I write.  

I thank whatever deity who hangs around me, that none of those naysayers actually live in my house, because it becomes harder and harder as I read a blog about self publishing or how to utilise social media, for me to keep the fun in what I’m doing.  If those horrid little voices lived inside the Writing Closet, I’d probably set fire to the  thing and start taking copious doses of Valium.

I don’t want my myths or voice to be critiqued into someone else’s idea of what I  should say. 

The open air performance itself could be hailed as good-enough theatre, an assessment that might disappoint some to hear.  But for me, it was a great success because it was great fun.  Nature graced us with a soft rain during the second half, as well as a serious owl fight somewhere on the hillside; bats kept flitting close to the stage and nary an eighteenth century lady flinched. 

When the play ended, we gathered up our things by torchlight, I stopped between the manor and the chapel just to look, and it impacted me viscerally, what it would've been like to step out the back door at night as a child and see the Priory’s ruins. 

‘How magical it must’ve been,’ I told the Butler.

And it’s that magic that I struggle to hold onto.