Roundup

Some stuff I've done lately.

A podcast: http://www.nextbook.org/audio/podcast_feature401.mp3
Which I have finally persuaded myself to listen to all the way through, while being slightly amazed at how an American twang creeps into my voice when I'm talking to Americans.

Two articles for the Guardian: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/story/0,,1844196,00.html
and
http://www.guardian.co.uk/medicine/story/0,,1851040,00.html

Part of the first was, in my mind at least, a response to an article about Harry Potter academia which enraged me (http://books.guardian.co.uk/departments/childrenandteens/story/0,,1838086,00.html). What I object to in this article is not only the lack of engagement with the academic side (and I agree that some of it is tosh, and interesting things could have been said about this) but the female self-loathing which oozes from it. The way the writer refers to herself and other women as "girly swots", as if any academia done by women couldn't possibly be serious. Honestly, we have enough to contend with without calling each other demeaning names. None of these people are "girly swots" - they are brilliant women. Whether or not you find their disciplines convincing is quite another matter. Harrumph.

Seriously now

I've heard of teaser ads, but a teaser review seems a bit ridiculous. Apparently, there's some massive error on the third-to-last page of my book. I've read and re-read it, but to no avail. Anyone who's read the book have any ideas? Is it really bad form to contact the reviewer to ask to be put out of my misery? (Preferably not with the revolver in the locked room.)

"He'll only spend it on drink"

Spent an inordinate amount of time on the tube today staring at a poster for the Killing with Kindness campaign. The general idea is to persuade people not to give money to the homeless, because "you may be helping them buy drugs that could kill them", but instead give the money to charities which work with the homeless. I don't know what I think about this. On one hand, I can see the point. Firstly, homelessness charities do amazing work and deserve to receive large quantities of our money. Secondly, homeless people are often in such a state of emotional distress that giving them money might be like putting a bottle into the hand of an alcoholic friend who's just broken up with his girlfriend and lost his job. It might be what he wants, but he's in no state to judge.

On the other hand. Well. For one thing it seems to me an encouragement to inhumanity. Living in a big city like London, it's all too easy to start ignoring other people's requests for help, to shut down and stop seeing the dirty, bundled-up people begging at Tube stations as people at all. And yes, it would be better if we were as open with one another as children and if, seeing someone in pain, we were to kneel down and talk to them, ask them about their lives and how we could help. But most of us are too afraid, so the exchange of a pound coin or two stands in for it. It's a way of saying: I see you, I know you're there. This is more about the soul of the giver than the receiver. Who are we if, when we see someone asking us for something we could easily provide, we always walk on?

And the other thing is how patronising this campaign seems to me. I understand, I really do, that the people who made it are trying to do good, and certainly do more good on a daily basis than I manage in about 10 years. But maybe it's for this reason that they might not understand how easily the campaign fits in with most people's prejudices about the homeless. That middle England statement "don't give him money. He'll only spend it on drink." Honestly, if you gave me money, I might spend it on sweeties, alcohol, Playstation games and other things that probably aren't good for me and of which you might not approve. We all do things that are bad for us. I very much doubt that not giving homeless people money will stop them from taking drugs - and I believe it's just possible that there are other ways to get that money which we might find even more unpalatable. As far as I can see, this campaign will probably reinforce the impression many people have that the homeless are scum, that they deserve to be looked down on, that they have no control over their actions and are therefore both stupid and dangerous. But maybe I'm wrong. I hope so.

Something which certainly does not reinforce prejudice about the homeless is Alexander Masters' brilliant book Stuart: a life backwards. I've been meaning to mention it here for weeks because it's the best thing I've read this year, it's intelligent and funny, moving and wise and full of opinion-altering insight. Despite being about the life of a homeless man, it is strangely not depressing at all, but simply clear sighted. This is a book that ought to be on school reading-lists and handed out for free to commuters. Perhaps it could be serialised on tube posters too, to counteract the unpleasant aftertaste of Killing with Kindness.

The unspeakable horror of the literary life, and other slight exaggerations

I have a favourite book about writing. It is not helpful on the process of getting yourself writing (for that read Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way), nor is it instructive on the writing "magic", where to find that spark of inspiration (for that, go to the sublime Becoming a writer by Dorothea Brande). No, this is simply a book which tells the truth about what it's like to be a writer. No one in the UK has heard of it, which has made it a wonderful gift for writers, my editor and my agent. But I'm going to let the cat out of the bag now. Go and read Edward Gorey's The Unstrung Harp or, Mr Earbrass Writes a Novel and understand what it is to be a writer.

It's only a little book, each page illustrated. I have so many favourite moments, it's hard to pick one. For a long time, I consoled myself by staring at the page where Mr Earbrass rashly skims his early chapters and "now sees The Unstrung Harp for what it is. Dreadful, dreadful, DREADFUL. He must be mad to go on enduring the unexquisite agony of writing when it all turns out drivel. Mad. Why did n't he become a spy? How does one become one?" Having spent several years of my life in that state, (so far) this page has been a wonderful comfort.

But, now I'm published, I'm moving a little through the book. In fact, I've just been at a literary festival in the Lake District talking, with two other first novelists about what it's like to be one.

(for reference,a picture of a bit of Keswick, which was cold and beautiful)

So, I thought this event, highlights of which included having my hand kissed by Denis Healey, having breakfast with Penelope Lively and sharing a cab with Barbara Ehrenreich (who, even though it was early in the morning, responded calmly to my rather over-energetic declarations about how wonderful her books are) might mean that I'd moved on to the "literary dinner" portion of The Unstrung Harp. At this literary dinner, Gorey tells us, "The talk deals with disappointing sales, inadequate publicity, worse than inadequate royalties, idiotic or criminal reviews, others' declining talent, and the unspeakable horror of the literary life."

Conversation at our dinner table mostly didn't deal with these topics, I'm sad to say. No literary feuds to report, no bitching about publishers. But over the course of the event, there was a little talk about reviews. We discussed, in particular, how a single bad line in an otherwise wonderful review resonates a hundred times louder than any line of praise - which I've certainly found myself. I wonder if this is because writers are more insecure than other people? Or would anyone feel this, if their performance reviews from their jobs were published in the press? It does have a positive effect, though, at least for me. Once I've got over the initial shock of someone producing any criticism of my book, I've found it's made me work harder and to greater effect. There's something freeing about criticism - it allows you to try new things instead of sticking to the same old ones in search of the same dog-bone of praise. So, while the horror might be unspeakable, I haven't found it utterly pointless.

Woman's Hour and the human experience of the transcendental

Yesterday was my first ever experience of doing radio. It was live, to 2.7m listeners (they told me this after the fact, which was a blessing) on Woman's Hour. It's here, but I haven't listened to it yet - I fear that if I do I'll be hyper-critical of my own performance and it'll put me off when I do public things in the future. I'll listen to it one day, but not right now.

So, Woman's Hour. I listen to it all the time and, in my mind I realise that I'd imagined Jenni Murray et al sitting in one of those radio studios you see on the TV. Clinically white, a large desk perhaps with some papers on it, maybe a kitchen off to one side for when they cook recipes on the radio, certainly some indication that This Was Woman's Hour. I think now that I was also imagining something like the Blue Peter studio - discreet shelves of memorabilia from past items, a poster of the Book of the Week, a shrine to Sue MacGregor garlanded with flowers. But no. Completely wrong.

I arrived early at the BBC - about quarter to nine - and found myself sitting in the waiting area next to Sir Peter Hall. Actually, I didn't know he was Sir Peter Hall at first. I found myself staring at his face thinking: "your name is Sir Peter something and you direct things, I know it, I know it. What are they? Plays? Films? Operas?" It was only when he muttered his name to the receptionist that I put it together. I suppose, at least I know a Sir Peter when I see one.

After a wait, I was ushered down into the basement, where several charming blonde "BAs" introduced themselves as either Claire or Sophie and offered me tea. I did wonder why they were telling me what degree they had but I discover it means "Broadcasting Assistant". I quite like it though. Maybe I'll start introducing myself as "Hi, I'm Naomi, good to meet you, I'm an MA."

The basement was, well, not glamorous. In fact, the whole place had rather a sixth-form common room air - sofas built for sturdiness; kettle, teabags and polystyrene cups in one corner; slightly stained carpet. And Radio 4 playing in the background. Which did not immediately impress itself upon me.

I had to record a couple of pieces from my novel for the programme, just two short sections they'd chosen already. This was pretty straightforward - I've already done a few recordings and I like reading. They put me into the studio which, again, was a surprise. A large room, mostly empty, brown stain on the carpet, slightly ripped green baize table in the centre with four different coloured microphones on it and an enormous ticking clock counting every second. I read each piece through twice and we were done. And then all there was to do was wait.

I had been nervous beforehand, just thinking about live radio. What would happen if I dried? Or forgot what I was going to say? Or said fuck by accident? But "nerves" doesn't adequately describe what I felt as the minutes ticked by before I was called, though. The first thing was that I heard my own voice coming out of the Radio 4 speaker on the wall. Me. Reading. The thing I'd just recorded half an hour earlier. Preceded by an announcement of the time, and followed by Jenni Murray giving a rundown of "today's Woman's Hour". On the radio. Which I would have been listening to in my house, if I hadn't been there, about to be. On the radio. Finally, I had understood. All snide thoughts about polystyrene cups and stained carpets slipped away. Live Radio was all that remained.

I am pretty convinced that I wasn't actually present in my body for most of the next fifteen minutes. I continued to speak to my publicist and the producer, to do useful things like take a drink of water, to chat to the other women waiting on the sturdy sofas. But behind it all there was a little voice in my head screaming "I can't do this. I can't remember anything about myself. I'm not sure I even exist. Oh look, here I am floating up toward the ceiling. Look at those ceiling tiles, how interesting that they have ceiling tiles and not paint, I wonder if it's because of the complicated sound equipment in the studio, why am I thinking about this, why aren't I thinking about my book, who am I again?"

And then, like all out-of-body experiences, I was ushered into the presence of God. Someone took my elbow and opened a door in front of me, pulled a seat forward and there I was. Sitting in front of a microphone, opposite Jenni Murray. I tell you, I had never before that moment realised that Jenni Murray is a goddess. She is. In older, more sensible days, she would have been worshipped with offerings of corn and oil and interesting-looking shells. She exudes warm, motherly professionalism. She makes all things calm and right. Looking at Jenni Murray I knew that everything was going to be OK. I still couldn't remember who I was, but that was OK. Jenni Murray would remind me. I didn't think I would be able to speak, but that was OK. Jenni Murray would cause my lips to open.

And she asked me a question, and there was a green light before my eyes.

The next thing I remember was standing outside the door of the studio watching one of the production engineers close it incredibly slowly, so as not to make any noise while some nice women were talking about the human rights situation in Libya. I literally have no memory of what the goddess asked me, or what I replied. But that's how it is with the gods. We mortals can't complain if our minds aren't strong enough to contain the experience.

There were other things yesterday: an interview with Reuters and a discussion at Jewish Book Week. But nothing was quite so overwhelming as 7 minutes in the presence of Jenni Murray.