Even more exciting news: I'm on the second 'long list'! Thanks very much for all your good wishes and words of encouragement. Now could you please cross your toes too. The final winners will be announced in about a fortnight. If you'd like to see the shorter long list, please click here.
Exciting news: I've been 'longlisted' for this year's HappenStance short story competition. The second 'long list' will be announced in a few days' time, so please keep your fingers crossed that my name will be on it. Click here to see the complete first long list.
On my way to work every day I see the the tall towers and smoke plumes of a distant petrol refinery. Situated several miles away, it's one of the many sights I encounter on my daily drive. Like most of the others, it's just become part of the scenic wallpaper. But on certain days it leaps into my gaze like some apocalyptic vision of our future.
The sun has only just crept above the horizon, and although a few beams of its light are touching the tops of the concrete spires, the overall impression is of darkness. White smoke billows up against the gloom, staining the sky like ink spreading on blotting paper. Thousands of multi-coloured bulbs twinkle and flash on the sides and ceilings of the buildings, turning the area into a grotesque fairground. It looks so much like a scene from BladeRunner that you have to blink to make sure a flying car isn't rushing towards you.
The other day, the meteorological conditions were such that the image made my jaw drop again, but this time the BladeRunner resonance became even stronger, because I suddenly remembered a recent conversation about the possibility of the existence of one, homogeneous global culture. Someone I know is studying globalisation and he stated that all of the world's major problems would be eradicated if we dissolved the differences between various groups of people and decided to adhere to the terms of a clearly defined mono-culture. Putting aside all my quibbles about who would decide the contents of the One Rule Book, what would happen to dissenters and whether I even believe that 'sameness' spells peace and contentment, I wondered whether it would actually be possible for a single, cohesive culture to exist across the span of the entire planet.
We like to think that cultures are wholly human constructs. We tell ourselves that we can tinker with them and make them suit our requirements. But surely many aspects of various world cultures are the result of forces beyond our control. The most obvious one is climate. To use a couple of extreme examples, countless facets of Eskimo culture must be dictated by the cold and Arabic cultures are no doubt influenced by heat and humidity. Then there are genetics. Length of limbs, texture of hair, colour of skin, eye shape. All these must have an impact deeper than the purely cosmetic. And how about geography? I suppose that's partly related to climate, but even if you and I live in two different places which have roughly the same weather, but mine has lakes and yours has forests, then I'd argue that our two cultures are bound to be dissimilar in many ways.
Simple solution: use genetic engineering to make us all look the same, muck up the climate so badly that the whole planet is covered in a single sheet of smog and make all cities identical to each other and let them keep growing until they obliterate every square meter of free land. Does that sound like a plan? Oh, and while you're at it, spare a thought for what you'd do to Mehdi Kazemi. Or would genetic engineering have solved that particular little problem as well?
Someone I know - who gets to be labelled with the letter S in this post - was told last week by an organisation for whom he's worked for over 10 years that his services will no longer be required because he has become a "risk" and a "liability." The news didn't come as a huge surprise because the organisation - let's call it Suits & Co. - recently went through a complete identity shift. It was bought up by a multi-national conglomerate, it got rid of countless employees and, crucially, it went from being a registered charity to being a profit-making enterprise. S was seen very much as belonging to the 'old school', so he knew it wouldn't be long before his expertise and experience would cease to be appreciated. But when the moment actually came, it was still shocking.
Now, I can't reveal anything about who S is and exactly what Suits & Co. do, so you'll have to trust me that his dismissal was unjust. It was executed in the form of a conference call (what else?) in which he was told that his refusal to toe the line meant that he had to be dropped from the team. Some of S's crimes included: being vocal about the fact that other employees were being mistreated by management and insisting that new, untrained staff shouldn't be allowed to carry out certain duties... duties which have a lasting impact on the futures of thousands of people around the world. I kid you not!
S knows exactly what I think of this whole situation and of his role in Suits & Co.'s past successes, so although part of this post's purpose is to say that I'm very sorry about what's happened, that isn't its entire raison d'etre. No, I'm bringing up his story because it made me wonder how often the good things in the world - the selfless acts, the stoic refusals, the open-minded compromises - come from relatively powerless people fighting to maintain some kind of integrity in the face of oppression from those above them. We continue to expect the most powerful figures in our societies to bring about positive changes even though we're so frequently disappointed by them. Maybe we're just barking up the wrong tree. Aren't power and philanthropy mutually exclusive? The former is self-centred, the latter is not.
Then again, isn't it too simplistic to assert that all people in high positions are power crazy and all those who work for the benefit of others have a relatively low status? After all, there are plenty of admirable, conscientious people who - how does the expression go? - have had greatness thrust upon them through no effort of their own. So where does that leave us?
Honest answer: I don't know. I'm often struck by how most things around us represent a balance - at times, an unlikely balance - of potent, conflicting forces. In my work as a teacher, I frequently think about the fine thread that marks the dividing line between classrooms full of biddable kids and a destructive, 2000-strong rabble of hooligans who realise that, really, no-one can actually make them do anything. Most families function on a precarious construction of give and take and smash and break and rebuild. Even the economy - about which I know next to nothing - appears to be the central point of a vast storm of decisions and repercussions and unexpected occurrences. Maybe the situation with Suits & Co. is just another example of the endless struggle between opposed forces. S managed to put up a strong fight in his corner for years, but ultimately, the war was never going to be winnable. I just hope that somewhere in another corner of the world, some Little Person is smiling because of the tear they've made in the silken lining of an expensive jacket.
The end of February looms ever closer and I'm aware that I haven't yet fulfilled my 'minimum of 2 posts a month' quota. Each time I sit down to type something, I realise all my ideas are a response to snippets I've heard about world events and as I'm currently in a self-enforced media blackout, I'd prefer to compose a diary entry which isn't wholly reactionary.
I confess I do feel an inclination to have a moan about problems I’m experiencing with my writing, but I tell myself that’s the last thing anyone would want to read… which is another problem in itself. I can't write a film review, because that would break one of my little blogging rules. Book and music reviews aren't allowed either. YouTube videos are banned too, but then that's not too hard, because I hardly ever watch any myself. So... sorry people, but it's going to have to be more navel-gazing again.
After my recent semi-optimistic report of plot progress and successful character development (please see previous post), I seem to have found my way into Dead End Close again. It’s a familiar place. A well-worn path – bare on both sides apart from the odd, parched shrub – leads to a shed whose thin walls are only just supporting the weight of a roof made of a slab of cracking stone. Inside, all you’ll find is a chair at a desk, on which lie a notebook and a pencil. And then there are the mirrors. Thousands of tiny mirrors lining every inch of the interior walls, the ceiling and the floor. When you sit at the desk, take a deep breath and tell yourself that, yes, today you really WILL achieve SOMETHING, you catch a reflection out of the corner of your eye: a face bearing a mocking smile. The image is caught by another one of the mirrors, then another and another, until the entire room is filled with a splintered picture show of gloating. You have to close your eyes. Hours pass. The page remains blank. You leave the house and try to convince yourself that tomorrow, when you return, things will be different.
Actually, the above isn’t anywhere near an accurate description of how I feel when I try to work on my novel. (In fact, very little that I write turns out to be a faithful expression of the moods, ideas and themes I intend to convey.) Having said that, I suppose one thing it does suggest is the sense that I feel utterly exposed in my writing and that my underlying belief is that everyone’s response to this exposure will be mockery. I’m not fishing for compliments here. Intellectually, I realise that even the few successes I’ve had are more than many people will ever achieve despite years of hard work and dedication. I’ve had lots people make several encouraging comments about my efforts; I figure not all of them were just being polite. But I can’t ever shake off the notion that every paragraph I put together, every character I bring to life, deserves no more than a pat on my head and a gold star in my report card. ‘Juvenile’ is a word I often use to describe my stories. I sincerely feel they have an ‘undergraduate’ quality, that they’re the fruits of a mind that must not be taken seriously because it hasn’t realised that its experiences and views aren’t yet sufficient to be worthy of the time and scrutiny of others. In a nutshell: with every word I write, I hear a voice in my head yelling, "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Maybe that's where part of my problem lies. I confess I do want my work to be taken seriously, but maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should just cast away all consideration of possible readers and have fun with what I do. That seems like an alien concept right now: I hardly ever find writing fun.
Several years ago a friend was trying to lose some weight. After an initial burst of success, her weight loss began to cease. "I know why this is happening," she told me. "It's because I look in the mirror and I see myself shrinking and I'm scared that I'm going to disappear. I'm scared that the current 'ME' will be gone." For some reason, her words keep haunting me at the moment. I don't know exactly how they relate to my current situation, but maybe, on some level, I'm actually frightened by the thought of completing my novel. For years and years I've been the guy who "can't get my book written," the guy with no ideas, the guy who isn't "capable of stringing a story together if it's longer than a few pages." Those lines are beginning to lose some of their truth. I'm several thousand words into my first draft. People who've read the odd chapter have given positive feedback. Crucially, I've worked out the development of my plot. I am on the cusp of becoming the guy "with the draft of a novel under my belt." My perception of myself is going to have to change. And change is almost always petrifying, right?
As I've said before, I'm not ready to give up yet, but I never thought that one of my final obstacles would be the fear that I might actually succeed in doing what I'm trying to do.
Once again, apologies for inflicting such a self-indulgent post on you. Tell you what. Why don't I end by breaking a rule:
I haven't posted a new entry for a while. That's partly because I've been blessed with sufficient inspiration to be able to continue working on the novel. It's also partly because I haven't listened to the radio at all for the last ten days, which - for someone who doesn't really read newspapers and watches almost no television - means that I haven't been keeping track of what's going on in 'the world'. At first I didn't think this would have a significant impact on my diary entries, but I'm beginning to appreciate that much of what I write here is sparked by events reported in the media. Perhaps that's no bad thing. After all, aren't all diaries reactionary? But then why am I bothered by this? Why do I think that writing responses to events around me is a trap which must be avoided?
Mind you, I reserve most of my 'original ideas' - if you'll forgive the portentous tone - for my book. They've been coming at a respectable rate over the last few days. A character who was dead has been revived, but she's now got a terminal illness. A new character has been created, but her sole purpose is to be annoying, which makes me feel rather mean, but there we are: I get to play God in this game. A character who was going to remain wordless has now discovered that he can write letters and find a way of cheating my 'first person only' perspective. Of course, all this means that much of what has been written so far will need to be amended/scrapped/relocated, but no-one ever said that writing a book would be a neat, linear process.
At least things are moving forward, which means that every day takes me one step closer to the square marked 'complete'... although then I'll have to negotiate the journey to the squares marked 'ready to show to other people', 'ready to be read without inducing suicidal thoughts' and the most frightening one of all, 'ready to be sealed in an envelope.'
This week, I don't even seem to be able to muster sufficient words for this diary entry, let alone for my novel. I still haven't recovered from my re-reading of the work in progress. I still question whether there's any point in carrying on. I still shut myself in my room just about every evening and try to fill the empty screen before me as well as I can.
I guess I can't really give up, not just yet. For one thing, I wouldn't know what else to do. I think I've lost the ability to be idle. No bad thing, perhaps. I've just about convinced myself that I AM a writer, by virtue of the fact that I DO write. Now I'm getting obsessed with the question of whether I'm a GOOD writer. I've been tempted to watch Amadeus again. I think that's probably one temptation I should resist. What's that line about the god of mediocrity?
And then there's the UK government's plan to install metal detectors at secondary schools in the hope of reducing knife crimes. One of Home Secretary Jacqui Smith's arguments for this move is that young people shouldn't feel that they must carry knives in order to protect themselves from attacks, so the metal detectors will reassure them that they're in a safe environment. There's a twist somewhere in that logic, but I'm sure I'm too stupid to see it.
I don't come bearing answers. Maybe some schools really have become so difficult that this is the only thing they can do to improve matters. Maybe we need to allow mob rule to take over in the hope that a better status quo will eventually emerge on its own. But however effective or damaging metal detectors may turn out to be, I do think they represent a monumental and tragic failure. But a failure on whose part? Well, that's the key thing, isn't it? I think we're all culpable in one way or another. And maybe the metal detectors will turn out to be just the first of many 'slippery slope' measures until we realise that we all need to take responsibility for how our young people treat each other and us.
A metal detector is a barrier. We seem to keep putting up ones we don't need and taking down ones we really do need. This one is of the variety that creates unhealthy divisions. Perpetuating a corrosive 'us and them' mentality (or, in this case, a 'knife-wielding and knife-less' mentality) isn't going to foster decency between human beings in the long run.
I had similar thoughts when I read this week's Observer Magazine cover story about the factors which can lead to the radicalisation of Muslim men in the UK. It was an article that was as depressing as it was (oddly) reassuring, because it showed again that this is a situation as old as time itself. But it did highlight in no uncertain terms that people cannot be radicalised if they feel they belong to and are needed by the wider society in which they live. They won't want to kill their neighbours and colleagues and fellow citizens if they feel they are at one with them. And if they currently don't feel such kinship, then surely that too represents at least a partial failure on the part of everybody.
Maybe next week a breeze will drive this defeatist odour away. Or maybe all this is just in my head. I've spent the last few days re-reading what I'd hoped would turn out to be several chapters of my novel, chapters which represent months of effort... chapters which are a failure of the most abject, most heart-crushing kind. Slaving away night after night for weeks on end to produce something that makes you question whether you've been wrong all along about what you thought was your raison d'etre would probably be enough to make most people think a foul smell is lingering around every corner, seeping into your room through the gap under your door, with no intention of ever leaving.
Some things never change. Some things never stay the same. Is my task as a writer to find fresh ways of articulating what's been known since the beginning of time?
I watched an extraordinary documentary the other day called The Bridge which tells the stories of several people who decided to end their lives by leaping off San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge. The feeling running through all the interviews with the friends and relatives of the deceased was of an oddly serene, benevolent resignation. I wondered how different the film would have been if it had been made several decades ago. I expect most people would have refused to be interviewed. The shame would've been too much to bear. Attitudes change. Bridges remain favourite haunts of lost souls.
How many of our emotional responses are a result of our enslavement to the time in which we happen to exist? Do we ever experience moments when we truly break out of the constraints which bind us? If we did, would we recognise them? Is it depressing or liberating to consider that centuries ago, Plato and Socrates - as someone mentioned last week - were trying to work out which parts of our personalities come from within us and which ones are imposed upon us?
But I don't feel like being overly po-faced today, so I'm going to allow these musings to culminate in some excerpts from two books the Divine L and I bought for each other as presents last weekend: Don'ts For Wives and Don'ts For Husbands, both by Blanche Ebutt and both originally published in 1913.
If you can't find answers to the questions above then at least you can enjoy learning how we have and haven't changed over the years.
- Don't shout when you are angry. It isn't necessary to let the children or the servants know all about it.
- Don't insist on having gorgonzola or other strong-smelling cheese on the table or the sideboard twice a day when you know the odour makes your wife feel ill. After all, it is a small thing to forgo in comparison with your wife's comfort.
- Don't encourage your wife to be hysterical. You need not be unkind, but you can firmly refuse to pity her.
- Don't begin your married life by expecting too much. If you expect little, you will be saved a good deal of disappointment.
- Don't forget that character is more important than genius. If your wife is a true woman, don't worry about the rest.
- Don't expect to know your husband inside and out within a month of marriage. For a long time you will be making discoveries; file them for future reference.
- Don't refuse to see your husband's jokes. They may be pretty poor ones, but it won't hurt you to smile at them.
- Don't forget to 'feed the brute' well. Much depends on the state of his digestion.
- Don't let your husband wear a violet tie with grass-green socks. If he is unhappily devoid of the colour sense, he must be forcibly restrained.
- Don't expect your husband to be an angel. You would get very tired of him if he were.
How many times do you have to do something before you can call it a tradition?
Yesterday, the Divine L and I repeated the main activity of the 1st of January 2007 by going for a long walk in places where we'd never set foot before. We found the "best dressed street" in our area, although we couldn't work out if the award had been given to its people or its pavements. I suspect it was the latter, because they were grey, which is the current black, right?
We found an old cinema which has now been converted to a mosque. I tried to discern a metaphor in this, but failed.
We noticed that the Catholic cathedral (which was closed, by the way) features along its external walls several gargoyle-like heads of bespectacled bishops. They were pretty spooky. [Pedants note: we had, of course, been to the Catholic cathedral several times before yesterday, but it was en route to unfamiliar areas.]
We discovered that if you want to look at a selection of calendars on sale at the local bookshop, and if these calendars are arranged on a 'spinner' display, and if the spinning action of the aforementioned 'spinner' display causes the calendars to brush past the chair of a woman sitting having a coffee at the cafe located in the aforementioned bookshop, and if you politely ask the woman to move her chair slightly so that you can look at the calendars, and if the woman's companion also asks the woman to move her chair, then the aforementioned woman will huff, proclaim that she was "all comfortable" and not budge an inch!
We also learned - and this was by far the day's most reassuring find - that, according to a large sign posted at the entrance to some Naval building or other, the current "Terrorism Response Rate Level" is "Heightened". This may have been because the CCTV cameras spotted my unshaven mug appearing round the corner.
One bona fide tradition is the compilation of my list of Top 5 Films Of The Year, although I'm going to permit myself to alter the rules slightly and reduce it a Top 3 this time. My cinema attendance was paltry during the last twelve months and I don't think I saw enough movies to warrant a Top 5. So - assuming there's anyone out there who cares - here are the three titles, in the order in which they were seen:
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