Thursday
Oct292009

Just to prove I've been leaving the house

Even though I haven't written anything about it, I actually have left the house and gone places recently. Went to the very civilised Kalendar cafe in Highgate. Great food, plus this wonderful arrangement of dogs (sadly I think not a permanent fixture).

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And if you're ever invited to a bookshop's birthday party, my advice is to arrive early. I was invited to the 10th anniversary party of Waterstone's Piccadilly the other day, in their very swish 5th floor restaurant. But, the party was 6-8pm and I arrived at 7, which apparently is *not* what the famous authors do. Michael Frayn was just leaving, so I got to dash up to him and say "I really love your work! I really do!" But I had *missed* Zadie Smith and Joanna Trollope. Sob. Also, there was a cake, but they didn't actually... serve it? Perhaps the senior management had decided it was all for them.

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Tuesday
Oct272009

A stolen poem

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I found this poem in the London Library's Summer magazine (I have a pile of magazines, I work through them slowly). I worry about posting the work of writers online without permission - I know Wendy Cope is quite against it - but as Clive James posted it on his own site himself I hope he won't mind too much. And if he does, I'll take it down!

In searching to see if he'd put it online, I found lots of scurrilous articles about James' extra-marital affairs. Of course if these weren't sanctioned by his wife (and some wives do), they are quite reprehensible. And yet this seems to me to be a poem written by a man who likes women. Which is an attractive quality in a man. So often men seem to talk about how much they dislike women and then in the same breath wonder why no woman will go out with them (and the same applies to women who say they dislike men of course). But this is quite the opposite of that.

A Message From the Moon

Clive James

Ming fruit dish, swirling Jackson Pollock tondo

From Wedgwood, just because you’re so much bigger

Than I am, don’t you lord it over me,

The frail outrigger for your fat canoe.

My seas are dead but I control your tides

And stir your women on a monthly basis

To their blood sacrifice. It isn’t you

That liquefies them for their absent lovers,

Churns their insides, puts highlights in their faces

On hot nights where the sun no longer lingers.

With my lost air to breathe they lie bereft,

Touching themselves for hours beneath thin covers

As I lean down to them and pull them open

Like little oceans I can close at will.

You think them satisfied but I know better.

Those men you sent me were too small to feel:

A pin-prick when they came, and when they left

One tiny splash of fire I hardly noticed

While they went home tin heroes. Next time send me

Someone who’s known me since she was a girl.


-- London Library Magazine, Summer 2009

Monday
Oct262009

Among other things I have failed at

Look at this. After all that creative energy on my August project, it's been nearly three weeks since I last posted here. I think the only answer is *another project*. I am brewing ideas. Ca ira.

In the meantime, though, another attempt to turn a spoken-word talk into a post. I spoke a few weeks ago at a Royal Society of Arts event on 'The Glory of Failure'. I've been a member of the RSA for about 18 months now - originally joined to use their library and, as a subsidiary point, to make my father proud. I don't really use the library that often - not enough space for working on one's own computer, but the paternal pride element is stopping me de-joining so I thought I should go along to one or two of their events.

'Glory of Failure' grabbed me as a concept because it seemed so playful, so delightfully English, and so wonderfully undemanding as a topic. In fact, I started my talk by commenting that I wasn't sure whether, at a Symposium On The Glory Of Failure I should try to give a really good talk, or a really bad one...

Many of the other talks had been about learning from failure, and using it to propel oneself toward success. And in some fields I can quite understand this: we had a talk from a representative of the Royal College of Nursing. He spoke very powerfully about how, for him, every failure must be a learning experience, each one must highlight the failures in the system that allowed it to happen, and show how that can be plugged. Because when he and his colleagues fail, people die. Perfectly sensible for him to try to avoid failure at all costs.

However, I think this attitude towards failure is not so helpful when it comes to the arts, to creativity, to my particular thing, writing. In fact, the subject of my talk was, perhaps, now I come to think of it:

ALL WRITING IS FAILURE

Which I proved via the following quotes.

1. "Happiness writes white" - Henry de Montherlant

No one ever wrote fiction who was completely happy. Why would you? Fiction is what you do when your life's miserable, or when you're recollecting past miseries. In fact, as Aristotle said, 'conflict is the essence of drama' - there'd be no fiction if there weren't conflict, unhappiness, distress. You couldn't have an episode of Eastenders where everyone went around feeling very fulfilled, calm and full of love for one another. You simply can't write about perfectly happy people - it's incredibly boring. [Even Julie & Julia spend time being creatively frustrated, even with their lovely marriages.]

Therefore: all fiction writing is a symptom of failure. If one were perfectly happy, one wouldn't need or want to do it.

2. "All writing is rewriting" - Ernest Hemingway

This is the thought that tortures me when I'm hacking away at a first draft. All this, all these gallons of words that I'm expending such energy on flooding onto the page - pretty much all of them will end up trickling away to nothing. I'll have to start again. And then again. And then again. With my new novel, The Lessons, I had to throw out the first *50,000 words* and rewrite them from scratch. It's demoralising. You have to write many many many words to find the good ones. Most of what you write won't end up in the finished book. This is the way with most writers.

Therefore: most sentences that one writes are failures.

3. "A poem is never finished, only abandoned." - Paul Valery

Oh how true this is. I still get ideas for how to improve Disobedience. No one ever feels completely satisfied with the work they've produced. There are always ways to improve it, maybe even to start again and completely redo it. The trouble is: when you first envisage a novel, it's a glittering, delicate, beautiful, perfect thing in your mind. Just an idea, shining and golden. And then you have to drag it into the mire of words - bringing it into the real, so much is lost. The plot becomes a little awkward, the characters who you found so charming begin to grate. The themes which once seemed sublime become trite. Everything that we create fails to come up to our deepest hopes and visions for it.

Therefore: all creations are failures, when compared to the vision that began them.

4. "There is a splinter of ice in the heart of a writer." - Graham Greene

Yes. Sad but true. Writing fiction is a way of escaping real life because, at any moment, at the point that the worst possible thing has happened to you, in the midst of grief, of loss, of misery, of anger, of fear, of bitterness, of hatred, in the middle of all these real emotions, a writer always has a tiny inner voice saying "I must remember how this feels so I can write about it later". It's very useful; it means that you never quite have to feel what you're feeling. There's always a journalistic platform to stand on, one can always be - just a little bit - an observer of one's own life.

Therefore: the writer is to some extent a failed human being.

Should we worry about all of this? Certainly not! Writing wouldn't be 'better' if we eliminated these failures, in fact it would cease to exist at all. This is one thing I know for certain:

the search for perfection kills creativity.

Therefore let us embrace the glory of our creative failures. They are also our creative successes.

Wednesday
Oct072009

Meeting your heroines

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Went to see Julie and Julia this evening, a movie which I rather expected to love since it combines two great passions of mine: writing and cooking (I really must write more about cooking here) and even Mark Lawson on Front Row had to admit that he'd loved it. Written by Nora Ephron, starring Meryl Streep and Stanley Tucci, if it were an acerbic comedy about the breakup of a marriage it'd be an Oscar nomination certainty. As it's only a movie about happiness and joy all I can say is: go and see it at once, and if you know me do not be surprised to receive a copy of the DVD as a gift sometime this year.

One wonderful thing about this movie is that is is about happy marriages. This is so rare a thing to see on TV or film that it seems almost shocking. Furthermore, they are marriages in which both husbands and wives get to have their own independent lives, pursuing their passions and joys, supporting one another...

It made me contemplate the way feminists seem to be described: man-hating, domineering, pursuing careers at the expense of the family (as if there were anything more expensive to a family than a frustrated, bored, depressed mother or wife). The thing is, feminism doesn't mean that a woman wants to be better than their husband or partner. All we want is what's portrayed in this movie: support, love, companionship and some hot lovin' while we both pursue our dreams. Mutual support. Mutual companionship. Mutual hot lovin'. It's not so unattainable, really. People are doing it all the time. As far as one can tell from Julia Child's life story, they have been since the 1940s at least. Maybe even earlier than that! Of course the movie is a fantasy, but at least it's a healthier fantasy than 'some day my prince will come'. When I was working on the Golden Notebook Project last year I wrote that I wished there were more feminists writing about how to make happy, feminist heterosexual relationships: this is just such a work, and I loved it.

I was also fascinated by a thread running through the movie: the nature of heroes and heroines. The 'Julie' of the movie's title is Julie Powell, an office worker, who spent a year cooking her way through the cookery book of TV chef Julia Child. Over the course of the year Child comes to represent something to Powell: a joyfulness, an exuberance, a dedication to life's pleasures, a gutsy, earthy-yet-refined, bright-side-seeking way to live. Child becomes almost a god to her, in the sense of being a member of a pantheon, a spirit or idea to call on in times of need.

Trying not to spoil the movie too much... Powell has a brief contact with the real Child, then in her 90s which of course fails to live up to this idealisation. Well, how could anything live up to the idea she has of Child? There's a lovely scene where Powell and her husband discuss this. It's not the Julia in the world who's important, he says to her, it's the Julia in your head.

It's true of course. Heroes can never live up to what we hope for them to be. They're just people. I've met some of my writing heroes over the past few years and even though the experiences were often wonderful (especially meeting Neil Gaiman, he really is lovely) nothing short of a full telepathic mind-meld could have really expressed the passion of that relationship on my side. Not everyone has heroes - and I suppose I don't really do hero-worship, I don't think my heroes are perfect, I don't want to be just like them or imagine that they could solve all my problems. But I do have people whose work I admire intensely, often because I think that maybe, if I worked very hard, I could get to be a bit like them one day. Heroes become part of us - they seem to meet us just where we are (because of course we have partly invented them) and walk beside us on the journey. They're like a story we tell ourselves about who we are and who we might be. Meeting the real person is often just fine, but... the real person is often actually less important than the idea of them. What a beautiful, subtle, interesting message.

Meryl Streep and Nora Ephron should make a movie together every three years from now till they keel over. They're both wonderful. And if I ever meet them, although I might try to tell them how much they mean to me, I can pretty much accept that they won't understand.

Thursday
Oct012009

Welcome to October and indeed the New Year

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Oof. This part of the year is *full* of Jewish festivals. As full, to steal a Douglas Adams metaphor as a pomegranate is of pips, which is an apposite image because pomegranates are one of the symbols of the season (I think it has to do with fertility). So I am quite busy but in a good way - socializing, a bit of praying/meditating/thinking-about-stuff, making foods... Making the most of the season before winter comes to get us.

For Rosh Hashanah, Jewish New Year which was 19th and 20th September, I attended the Grassroots Jews services. This is a wonderful new venture - services focused on spirituality and community rather than the strict letter of anything. It neatly avoids the whole problem I talked about when I went to the Liberal Synagogue - that liberals can be quite as dogmatic in their beliefs as the Orthodox. My best example of this: in the email that went around giving details of the arrangements for the services, they had *both* of the following:
a) details for people who wanted to bring prayerbooks and food to the venue before the Sabbath started (because Orthdox people don't carry on the Sabbath)
*and*
b) details about parking on the day (Orthodox people don't drive on Sabbath, but non-Orthodox do).
Neither set of arrangements was presented with a slight snigger (how silly these people are) or a note of disapproval (of course the *best* people won't do this...) as it might have been elsewhere. I was very impressed.

Anyway, I delivered a sermon of sorts on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. I began by announcing that it would be an atheist sermon. Or an agnostic one. Perhaps. Maybe. I'm not sure whether it's agnostic or not.

I've written it up into some notes, so you can get the gist - it's hard to write down talks though, they inevitably lose something in the translation. But here's broadly what I said:

1. When I was a child, my parents took me to this 'spiritual' synagogue in London (Yakar), where people seemed more concerned about talking about their relationship to Judaism than about arranging a ladies' guild. And therefore when I was a teenager I thought my parents were crackers and in my early 20s joined a shul with a ladies' gallery and a kiddush rota etc etc. And of course now here I am back in a place much like where I started - a service committed to egalitarianism, to tolerance and to, yes, spirituality.

2. This is a natural development of our relationship with our parents. We start off thinking everything they say is right. And then we go through a stage of thinking everything they say is wrong. And then we reach a place of forgiveness, where we can say "this was right, but this was bullshit". We're grateful for the things they got right, and at first we're angry for the things they got wrong but later we can forgive them.

3. This is the first time I've been in a shul on Rosh Hashanah for eight years.

4. Why? Because eight years ago, I was living in Manhattan. Rosh Hashanah was two days after 9/11. 9/11 was the Tuesday and Rosh Hashanah was the Thursday night. And I stood in that shul, with the stench of death and destruction in my nostrils, and read the prayers about how God is a just God and a righteous God and I thought: fuck this.

5. At that shul my parents used to take me to, the Rabbi Mickey Rosen, of blessed memory used to talk a lot about his spiritual problems. And at the time, as a child, I thought "my god this is boring". Children don't really have spiritual problems. (This got a good laugh, although I'm not sure why...) But with the understanding that some of you might be bored by this, I'm about to talk about my own spiritual problems.

6. There is evil in the world and it is a problem. It is, in fact, the problem of evil. Why would a good, loving, all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful God allow it? If God were truly good and just and merciful surely he would prevent terrible evils like 9/11 and the many daily tragedies that surround us. Some people are satisfied with the answer to the problem of evil that goes "ah well, we can't see the whole picture. God causes plagues and floods but there's a giant tapestry and we only see a small bit of it." I'm not satisfied with this at all. I don't accept that there can ever be a justification for the evil things that happen in the world.

7. So, here's a thought that I've had. Not a solution. A thought. It's based on the therapeutic insight that often we end up giving other people what we need ourselves. Maybe we want to be nurtured, so we end up nurturing others. Maybe we want to be listened to, so we spend a lot of time listening to other people. I was thinking about this as I was contemplating the Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur service, with all of its emphasis on forgiveness. "Forgive us!" we cry to God, and God says "I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you." And it made me think...

8. Perhaps, if you have a spiritual problem like mine, you could try what I'm trying. Perhaps we can try to forgive God.

9. Maybe this is a mature relationship, a two-way relationship. We talk about God as a parent, a father. Maybe like a parent, we can be grateful for some things we've been given but for others... all we can do is try to forgive.

10. Thank you, and Shana Tova

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/canonsnapper/253623561/)

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