Interview with a hostile reader

So, while I was writing The Lessons, I tormented myself by imagining all the horrible things that reviewers would say about it. Sometimes I even wrote down a line or two, just to get them out of my head. And a couple of days ago my friend Robin sent me this, written by Gretchen Rubin of The Happiness Project who apparently does the same thing! Her solution was to conduct an interview with an imaginary hostile reader, the reader who would ask all the most horrible questions, so she could answer them! And this struck me as so brilliant, I have done one for myself. And it was really fun, and beautifully empowering. Bring it on, hostile reader:

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So are you gay, or what?

I can see why you ask but no, I'm not. I'm basically heterosexual. Have occasionally been known to fancy girls but mostly fancy blokes, only ever fallen in love with blokes. I've just broken up with someone, actually, so if you happen to know any interesting/good-looking/articulate/vaguely-feminist-but-not-through-self-loathing men…

Why all the gayness in your novels then?

Well. OK. I have asked myself this too. Because it hasn't come from a conscious thought-process, but has been a subject that I've been drawn to. So I've had to work out why for myself.

So, here's my thought about why: I grew up in a frankly fundamentalist religion. There are many fine things about that religion but it is not a great place when it comes to talking about or experiencing sexual desire, especially as a woman. I had a pretty 1950s (or earlier, maybe 1890s)-style education about desire growing up which was basically: pick a husband based on his good character traits, and don't think about sex until you're engaged, and don't do it till you're married. Which is fine if that's what you want. I have friends for whom it worked very well.

I found it, in that way, quite crushing however. I wanted to be able to fancy men, but felt that with the education I'd had that wasn't even allowed. In a way, my experience of my heterosexual desire was of a 'love that dare not speak its name'. I would never ever want to suggest that my experience was *anything like* the historically appalling experiences which many gay and lesbian men and women have had to go through. But I felt a kinship with the idea of not even being able to experience your own desire without a degree of guilt and fear.

This has all been done before, hasn't it? Oxford glamour, decadence, drugs, sex, tragedy… there's Brideshead Revisited, The Secret History, The Line of Beauty… this novel is pretty derivative.

Well. On the one hand, yes, I did not pick a subject for this book which had never been treated before in fiction. For my first novel I kind of did, but that's because that was the subject which presented itself to me and about which I had something to say. I don't think there's anything much wrong with writing a novel 'in a tradition'. As long as you try to write a good novel, that is. There are a fair few novels out there about the Tudors, but Wolf Hall is still a masterpiece. On the other hand, I hope I did something a bit new with this subject. It addresses my particular concerns, and my particular generation, I hope. So yes, it is a novel with antecedents… I didn't go looking for 'the next Orthodox Jewish lesbians"!

The Catholicism in this book feels tacked-on; like you haven't really got to grips with the religion as you did with Judaism.

You know, in a way I feel that's fair comment although it's a pretty harsh way to put it! But yes, I couldn't claim to know Catholicism as well as I know Judaism. I did a lot of reading, I spoke to a lot of people but… unlike Disobedience, this isn't really a novel *about* the religion - that novel isn't mine to write, really. Even though I had flashes of genuine understanding, I would agree that Catholicism still seems far away from me in a way that Judaism, and even atheism, do not.

Don't you think you've just essentially written the same book twice? The love triangles, the weird controlling relationships, the concerns about sexuality, faith and the tremendous difficulty of overcoming a bad education?

Yeah. I'm very aware of the similarities between the two novels actually (I felt it especially at the end of chapter 11 of Disobedience and the final scene between James and Jess in The Lessons. In a way I hope that this is OK. Novelists I think have emotional veins that they mine. Sometimes the same story worrying away at them over and over throughout their career. Perhaps I've managed to make these stories seem sufficiently different that people won't mind the similar emotional palette.

This is a pretty miserable book, isn't it?

Yes mum, it is. Well. In a way it is. Some sad things happen in it. Having said that. I feel like it's hopeful at the end, actually. And quite a jolly romp at times. What can I say: I think some people are self-destructive, do go through years and sometimes decades of destroying their own lives. It was something I wanted to think about and explore. If, for you, a novel has to be light and cheery the whole way through, this is not the book for you!

Why on earth would anyone want to read a novel about a bunch of over-privileged over-educated youths drinking and taking drugs?

Hey, it's the kind of novel *I* like to read! But there are plenty of novels out there. If books about different kinds of people to this float your boat, go for it. No novel is ever going to please everyone.

If you're asking why *I'm* interested in this subject, the answer I think is that… many of us go through our lives thinking that our problems would be solved if we had a lot of money. We spend our lives chasing money, stressing about money. But I'm interested in exploring what might happen to a person if money were no longer an issue in their life. It's a thought experiment, like imagining human life without sex or religion or food. Take something away, see what happens. I don't think I'm in any way suggesting that what happens is great, or that my over-privileged characters are admirable. Even they don't suggest that.

Why isn't this book as lyrical as Disobedience? The writing doesn't have those loops and swirls to it.

Different subjects demand different writing styles. Disobedience is a novel about personal religious faith, a trembling and fragile subject. And it's a novel about people who live within the bounds of the Old Testament, so a biblical style is appropriate. The Lessons is a novel about students drinking, taking drugs and shagging each other. It felt to me that it needed a more immediate, raw style. But I hope the writing in it is still enjoyable to read.

Why have you written a novel that's so different to Disobedience? Don't you feel that you've stepped out of your area of expertise - Orthodox Judaism - and now you don't have anything original to say?

What can I say except: this was my actual life? Orthodox Judaism and then Oxford. I don't think I'm less entitled to write about Oxford because I didn't grow up Anglo-Saxon Protestant. I don't think my take on that experience is less valid because of that, or indeed less valid because I didn't write a Jewish Oxford novel. There may well be a Jewish Oxford novel to be written, but this is a novel about the mythology of Oxford, the ways in which its beauty and glamour can twist and distort perceptions, emotions, experiences. Also, you know, if George Eliot and Charles Dickens got to write novels about Jews, surely I'm allowed to write novels about people who aren't Jewish!

Taking it and liking it

Over the years since my first novel was published, I've had various friends, and friends of friends, and acquaintances of cousins of friends of friends of friends ask me if I would read their work and give them my 'honest opinion'.

It's flattering to be asked, of course. And I like to try to be helpful, even though reading a manuscript and commenting is *far* more time-consuming than simply reading for pleasure and... if your novel is in a place where it badly needs the editorial eye of someone you vaguely know it's unlikely to be a pleasurable read anyway.

There's loads to be said about how to critique, what to look for when you are critiquing and what stage in your project to show your work to a professional writer your uncle once met in synagogue, but that's not what I'm going to address here. What I'm going to address is: how to respond when someone gives you critique.

It's really simple. You say: "thank you." If you want to be more of a mensch, you say "thank you so much. I realise your time is very valuable and I'm grateful that you've given me the benefit of your opinions. I'll think hard about what you've said." That's it. You can cut-and-paste that if you like.

Here's what you don't do: you don't argue. You don't say "no no no, but you've failed to grasp the significance of the rose dropped into the cake batter on page 35". You don't say "if you'd only read all 800 pages of my book you'd see that the character of Isprahim is eventually redeemed when he grabs the sacred stone from out of the Mire of Neblath and *that's* why he currently only talks in incomprehensible, ungrammatical English."

And the reason you don't argue is not because all professional writers know better than you, that's absolutely not the case. The reason you don't argue is: it's your book. You don't have to take on a word of the advice given to you by the person critiquing. If you disagree with everything that they've said, that's fine. Never show anything to them again. I'll say it again: it's your book. You get to decide what's right and wrong with it. You've asked someone else for their opinion, they've taken time to give it to you, you say thank you and then you can ignore every word they said.

It took me a while to work this out. When I was doing the Creative Writing MA at East Anglia, workshops started off feeling so raw and personal, like someone criticising my child, or my own self. Like someone looking me up and down and going "there's nothing about you I like" or maybe "I disagree with everything you believe in." But slowly I learned... critiques aren't opinions, they're taste. You can't argue with them. Even if you are the next Dickens/Rowling/Shakespeare/Plath not everyone will love your work. You may have shown your book to a reader who wouldn't go for your style even if you were literally the greatest practitioner of it in world history.

What you're looking for is someone who really seems to get what you're trying to do, and when they criticise something you go, internally "shit, I knew that wasn't working, but I hoped I'd got away with it". That is a reader who'll really sharpen your work. When you find one of those you do more than thank them. Buy them flowers, send them cards, offer to make dinner for them in exchange for reading the next three chapters. As for the others, just say 'thank you' and move on.

[BTW. If you have asked me for critique in the past year, please do not start assuming this post is about you. Many people who've asked have been extremely gracious and well-mannered. I've chatted about this to other writers, and we've all had at least one or two rather ungracious responders. If we're still friends, go ahead and assume you weren't one of them. ;-) ]

Not tonight, I have a headache

Today was a migraine day. I've had them all my life and yet the pain remains shocking, every time. Shocking how impossible it is to do anything else, terrifying how easily my whole consciousness closes down to a bright white thumbprint of pain. 

I have a friend who's only ever had one migraine in her life, when she was in her mid-20s. She went A&E, convinced that if she wasn't having a stroke anything this painful must mean she had some hideous infection past the blood-brain barrier at the very least.

That's what's so horrifying too, the pointlessness. At least if you slam your finger in the car door, you can see that damage has been done, that it's good to get constant messages to keep the digit still. If you've got flu, those aches keep you lying in bed where you can heal. A migraine means nothing. I had them when I was two years old. They meant nothing then either. Just simple suffering, caused by no injury or infection, leaving no mark when they're gone. 

The invisibility is also problematic. When I cancel meetings because I have a migraine, I always imagine that the other person might think I'm lying. It's the kind of thing you can say, isn't it? How can anyone check? I was disbelieved a lot as a child with migraine. There's nothing to show. It's the kind of lie a child might tell. 

A kind commenter sent me a message suggesting a diet free from foods containing 'histamine' might help. It was thoughtful of her, but I've already tried every exclusion diet possible. When I was a child my mother thought I might be allergic; for years we carefully noted down what I ate every day, trying to establish a pattern, weeded out likely contenders. It was comforting to think I might have some control, but it didn't really help. As an adult I've eaten all those foods and never got a migraine from them. Sometimes I know the cause: I didn't sleep well, I haven't been exercising enough, I got dehydrated, I was overstressed. And sometimes I just never know. It's like my migraine is a demon, clamped to the back of my neck, waiting to stretch out its long finger and erase a day or two as if they were nothing at all. 

Why am I writing this? Not to elicit sympathy really - these are my migraines, other people have their issues too, many more grievous than mine. I'm writing this out of pure superstition. This was my second migraine in four days. The first one erased Friday afternoon and evening, sending me whimpering to bed at 8pm, waking me up nauseous at midnight. I had a conversation with my migraine today, which is the kind of thing you do when you're in a lot of pain. I said "if I write about you, will you go away?" Half an hour later it was gone. So this is the fulfilment of a promise to the Demon Migraine. Go away, stay away, please no more.

Hendon is a place on earth

So, tomorrow a piece of writing of mine is going to go public in a way that I'm not allowed to talk about. I know, mysterious right? But all will be revealed very soon.

Anyway, it's a piece of writing about Hendon. Which makes me anticipate the inevitable reaction that I'll get from the people of Hendon (which is where I live, where I've lived for the past seven years, where many of my friends live). When Disobedience was published, a lot of Hendon people and indeed a lot of Jewish friends said things to me along the lines of "why do you hate us so much? What have we done? What's wrong with Hendon? It's a wonderful place! Why don't you love us?"

Which, sigh, makes me feel rather like a cliched sitcom husband trying to explain to his wife that the suggestion that she not go to a business meeting in a bikini comes from a place that is the exact opposite of hate. That sometimes you can love a place or a person so much that you wish they'd communicate their wonder better to the world, or wouldn't keep undermining themselves in these stupid, petty ways.

So this evening I thought I would share a story of something that happened to me today which is the best way I know to express the glory of Hendon.

This has not been a great week. It's been very busy, full of meetings, so time's been tight and the one thing I didn't need was for my internet at home to be cut off for almost two days, especially when my gameplan for getting everything done included needing to be online from 10pm when I got home, and all the Starbucks' round here close at nine. Even so it would have been maybe OK if I hadn't woken up this morning with a migraine which felt almost exactly like a cigarette trying to burn its way out from the inside of my skull via my left eye. I have people coming for dinner tomorrow night. I have articles to write and presentations to plan and interviews to do. But all I could do was turn off the lights and close the curtains and lie in bed and wail.

This afternoon, at about 2pm, just before I passed out into a comatose sleep, I finally thought 'no way am I getting all the cooking done for tomorrow night. It's just not going to happen'. So, from my darkened migraine room I called my local butcher. The butcher is Nissim, he is on Brent Street, he and his wife make great chicken soup and wonderful roast potatoes and kugels and salads and just... if you are around these parts, go there. I called up and said "are you delivering this evening?" (I didn't really have to ask, it's Shabbes tomorrow, of course they're delivering) and ordered a bunch of food.

Less than four hours later, a lovely young man, Mr and Mrs Nissim's son, arrived at my door with my chickens and kugels and soups. And he stopped for a chat, that was the thing. He wasn't a supermarket delivery man with a timetable to keep to, he's just a guy and he knows me and knows my family. We chatted about what food I was making, about his family, his wife, what restaurants we like, what recipes are nicest with lamb. Basically he was doing what delivery men always used to do which is: not just to make their job nicer by getting to know people but also to make sure I was OK. I didn't even really notice that he'd stopped to chat with me - it seemed totally normal - but a friend who isn't Jewish was here and was amazed, just amazed, that we'd spent those few minutes on the doorstep, and I remembered why this is so unusual.

There's no delivery charge. There's no minimum order. There's no arbitrary cutoff point. There's no timetable demanding that the guy move on as quickly as possible. If I were an elderly woman ordering one carton of chicken soup a week, they'd still bring it round and chat on the doorstep. They'd notice if I seemed frailer, or confused, or just sad. If I didn't answer they might call someone - a member of my family, or a community representative.

This never used to be so unusual. I remember my grandmother's butcher and grocer and fishmonger and greengrocer coming around every week, stopping for a chat, sharing the gossip and swapping recipes and news. Somehow, in the space of my lifetime, we've mostly lost that sense of urban community, though. Instead of stopping for a chat, we order online and accept deliveries with a terse grunt and a signature. No one says, as the guy said to me tonight 'hey, I don't have change. Just pay when you're in the shop next.' Except in Hendon, and places like it.

People often seem really puzzled that I still live in Hendon. I suppose because I'm a writer they think I should be living somewhere edgier, cooler, or maybe more rural for that Walden vibe. Maybe they imagine that, having written a mildly controversial book, no one in Hendon will talk to me anymore. But it doesn't work like that; I may be a bit of a black sheep, but I'm still part of the flock.

So what can I say? Hendon, I still love you. Whatever you might have heard, you're still a part of me. There's a reason that I write about you as if you were a shtetl: it's because you're the closest thing to a shtetl that still exists. Yes, you may have your narrow-minded side. Yes, you may be conservative and conformist. Yes, those pants do not suit you. But you're still a good place. Now come here and give me a hug.

Living in the 19th century

Cosy day today, despite the horrible blustery weather. Went to a pub I like in Hampstead - arrived about 11.30am when it was fairly deserted, left at 2.30pm when it was getting unpleasantly crowded. I never do this sort of thing without a project but I don't know why: for the price of a cup of hot chocolate I sat for three hours, read, planned, and wrote a letter to a friend in America. Yes, a letter. With notepaper and a fountain pen. Really pleasant and very calming.

It's interesting. When I was a child I had a book (probably still have it somewhere) predicting the future of 'electronic mail', this futuristic idea of what might happen to letters. It still predicted, though, that we'd be writing letters to one another, just sending them electronically. I don't know about you, but I think I don't really write letters much anymore, in email or otherwise. Email is more like a continuous conversation than an edited, pored-over, considered set of thoughts about one's life. Maybe it's the immediacy - being able to send and receive multiple times in a day makes the exchange more conversational. Maybe it's being able to cut and paste and quote from each other's remarks and easily browse back over what's already been said. Maybe it's the lack of formality: instead of finding a time and place to sit down and compose a letter, emails are written at the same computer where we do everything else, where we always feel hurried and frazzled.

In any case, another old-fashioned pleasure I'm rediscovering is that of finding that I'm pretty much ready for bed at 10.30pm. This is so new to me that I'm honestly wondering if I'm actually getting a cold or something. But maybe it's just... getting up early.