Well I've hit my 30K a month target for three consecutive months now and I've had a subbing binge to beat all subbing binges (I had too much good stuff just sitting on my PC) and now I'm going to have 14-15 days of reading, reading reading.
I have to read my own five novels cos I'm planning a new run-ot for Caz Flood
Cuckoo
Vulture
Kingfisher
Razorbill
A Wild Justice
I bought the rights back on these a while back so you won't find them in the shops, but I have paperback copies of C, V & K and hardbacks of RZ & AWJ...
Also taking
Three plays by Brecht and a book of his writings on drama;
The Paris Review Interviews Vol 1;
Strong Words: Modern Poets on Modern Poetry;
The Man Who Went Into the West (Biography of R S Thomas)
Sophie Scholl & the White Rose (about resistance to the Nazis)
and a TS Eliot Biog
of course all the above is bollocks to make me look intellectual
Really I'm just taking a carrier bag full of chick-lit and a few womags
Alex
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
Bridport Prize. A Tip!
Enter NOW
Don't leave it to the last minute.
Get 1-2 stories in this week (better chance of a good read) and then maybe send a 3rd or 4th in 10-14 days time.
Use the pull of the biggest-best prize for less-piublished writers to make yourself write something fresh
BUT DON'T LEAVE IT UNTIL JUNE 28
Don't leave it to the last minute.
Get 1-2 stories in this week (better chance of a good read) and then maybe send a 3rd or 4th in 10-14 days time.
Use the pull of the biggest-best prize for less-piublished writers to make yourself write something fresh
BUT DON'T LEAVE IT UNTIL JUNE 28
ANON anon anon anon
I mentioned "anon" yesterday.
I've stated from the outset that I'll delete anons, that if people want to debate, and not merely be nasty for the sake of it, I'm delighted to debate my take on writing, creative-writing, the teaching of creatiive writing, the Boot Camp ethos and so on.
My writing stands up. My teaching stand up.
I'm proud of the achievements of Boot Campers and ex Boot Campers. Another exBCer won a very nice national prize yesterday.
So healthy debate is fine. I love it.
But the vast majority of "Anons" have a reason to remain anonymous. They are cowardly, destructive and are not interested in debate. They are interested in wars and carnage.
Anyone can apply to be part of this blog and post to it. But then we have a name and if they become destructive I can remove them. In Boot Camp we simply will not have flames. We talk craft impersonally, objectively and we do not tolerate anyone or anything who does not believe in that.
If they want vitirol there are places where that can be got for 10p a pound. If they want recipes and cuddles and gargantuan praise for getting a flash into an appalling zine run by someone on the same list, there are plenty of places like that too.
But HERE? This is MY territory.
Any unbiased reader can see our results, read the articles, flashes, shorts, hear about the prizes. No anonymous tosser is going to mess with that.
I recently set the board to moderated comments because I was spending too much time deleting idiots. Yesterday I mentioned that since then there had not been a single anonymous comment.
Today there was one from "Zoe" saying only that one of the anonymous comments (unspecified) was hers (or his). Perhaps that comment was an innocent one, but how would I know? And was "Zoe" traceable? Nope.
EDIT
I have now heard by email.
Alex
I've stated from the outset that I'll delete anons, that if people want to debate, and not merely be nasty for the sake of it, I'm delighted to debate my take on writing, creative-writing, the teaching of creatiive writing, the Boot Camp ethos and so on.
My writing stands up. My teaching stand up.
I'm proud of the achievements of Boot Campers and ex Boot Campers. Another exBCer won a very nice national prize yesterday.
So healthy debate is fine. I love it.
But the vast majority of "Anons" have a reason to remain anonymous. They are cowardly, destructive and are not interested in debate. They are interested in wars and carnage.
Anyone can apply to be part of this blog and post to it. But then we have a name and if they become destructive I can remove them. In Boot Camp we simply will not have flames. We talk craft impersonally, objectively and we do not tolerate anyone or anything who does not believe in that.
If they want vitirol there are places where that can be got for 10p a pound. If they want recipes and cuddles and gargantuan praise for getting a flash into an appalling zine run by someone on the same list, there are plenty of places like that too.
But HERE? This is MY territory.
Any unbiased reader can see our results, read the articles, flashes, shorts, hear about the prizes. No anonymous tosser is going to mess with that.
I recently set the board to moderated comments because I was spending too much time deleting idiots. Yesterday I mentioned that since then there had not been a single anonymous comment.
Today there was one from "Zoe" saying only that one of the anonymous comments (unspecified) was hers (or his). Perhaps that comment was an innocent one, but how would I know? And was "Zoe" traceable? Nope.
EDIT
I have now heard by email.
Alex
The Devil Works For BT
No school run today (he thinks Hooray!) so instead a BT engineer calls...
Did this happen to Shakespeare?
Nedder Mine. Another flash completed.
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
05,185 Words May 18 (Long Article)
00.449 Words May 19 (Flash)
00,000 Words May 20 (Satisfied Rest Day!)
02,150 Words May 21 (Story)
01,216 Words May 22 (Flash)
34,300 Words Total 12,300 Words ahead of schedule
04,300 Words beyond monthly target
I need to be ahead because I know I have a very difficult five weeks coming up. Really I should call it a target of 6) by the end of June, 25,700 to go (but that would make me miserable).
Did this happen to Shakespeare?
Nedder Mine. Another flash completed.
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
05,185 Words May 18 (Long Article)
00.449 Words May 19 (Flash)
00,000 Words May 20 (Satisfied Rest Day!)
02,150 Words May 21 (Story)
01,216 Words May 22 (Flash)
34,300 Words Total 12,300 Words ahead of schedule
04,300 Words beyond monthly target
I need to be ahead because I know I have a very difficult five weeks coming up. Really I should call it a target of 6) by the end of June, 25,700 to go (but that would make me miserable).
Tuesday's Prompts
A bunch of horsemen asked his name
A catastrophic kiss
A drum taps
A week without a moon
All catches alight
and again by the Saturday boat.
and boarding in rooms.
and I have calculated that absolutely nothing would be saved
as it may become very difficult and precarious
At present I am particularly concerned
by sub-letting the flat (furnished)
For the heart to be loveless
for the Wednesday boat
from America to England.
I am sick for want of sleep
I have ordered a night off stars
I shall write this letter now
I should like, if it were possible,
I think if you can spare the money.
I was never bewitched in adolescence
I wrote to ask you last week
In the field two horses
In view of the present circumstances
It would be a safeguard,
Kick up the fire, let the flames break loose
Let the wheel spin out
to have a year's rent now,
Let us kiss, then
over possible interruption of the mails.
See a girl dragged by the wrists
Supposing that we ran short
The blood unfurls itself
to send any communication
The details of his own defeat and murder
The moon is full tonight
The rent has got to be paid, anyhow
This miracle of glass
whether you could send six months rent.
A catastrophic kiss
A drum taps
A week without a moon
All catches alight
and again by the Saturday boat.
and boarding in rooms.
and I have calculated that absolutely nothing would be saved
as it may become very difficult and precarious
At present I am particularly concerned
by sub-letting the flat (furnished)
For the heart to be loveless
for the Wednesday boat
from America to England.
I am sick for want of sleep
I have ordered a night off stars
I shall write this letter now
I should like, if it were possible,
I think if you can spare the money.
I was never bewitched in adolescence
I wrote to ask you last week
In the field two horses
In view of the present circumstances
It would be a safeguard,
Kick up the fire, let the flames break loose
Let the wheel spin out
to have a year's rent now,
Let us kiss, then
over possible interruption of the mails.
See a girl dragged by the wrists
Supposing that we ran short
The blood unfurls itself
to send any communication
The details of his own defeat and murder
The moon is full tonight
The rent has got to be paid, anyhow
This miracle of glass
whether you could send six months rent.
Monday, 21 May 2007
Friday's primaries Roundup
7 stories, one withdrawn early (4 crits)
6 stories required 48 crits.
51 crits received by 23:00 Monday (one hour to go)
182 Discussion posts (26 posts per story average)
6 stories required 48 crits.
51 crits received by 23:00 Monday (one hour to go)
182 Discussion posts (26 posts per story average)
Whatever Happened to Anon?
I miss anon.
Strange how, when we insist on a traceable email address, or moderation, anon disappears.
Why is that, I wonder?
Cowardice?
Lack of credentials?
Asylum has cut web access?
Hmmm.
alx
Strange how, when we insist on a traceable email address, or moderation, anon disappears.
Why is that, I wonder?
Cowardice?
Lack of credentials?
Asylum has cut web access?
Hmmm.
alx
Truth?
I was looking for something else and stumbled on this.
I make no great claims for it.
I'm not a poet and I am still trying to understand how a poem works. But this one I like.
Truth
Tell me the truth about sex, Jackie,
Tell me
the truth
about sex, tell me Jackie, the truth
about me, and sex, about me and sex
Jackie, the truth.
You've told me facts,
you've done it all,
most;
three in a bed, you, another girl, a guy,
you, two guys,
but tell me the truth about sex, Jackie,
not facts.
I can't tell you truths,
I know no truths
I think it's true, I know
but what I know are facts
my mistakes are always one at a time.
I can talk about truths and think
about true things
(not including being true)
to you
but truths from me, they're facts
and it's the truth I need
so tell me the truth about sex, Jackie.
I make no great claims for it.
I'm not a poet and I am still trying to understand how a poem works. But this one I like.
Truth
Tell me the truth about sex, Jackie,
Tell me
the truth
about sex, tell me Jackie, the truth
about me, and sex, about me and sex
Jackie, the truth.
You've told me facts,
you've done it all,
most;
three in a bed, you, another girl, a guy,
you, two guys,
but tell me the truth about sex, Jackie,
not facts.
I can't tell you truths,
I know no truths
I think it's true, I know
but what I know are facts
my mistakes are always one at a time.
I can talk about truths and think
about true things
(not including being true)
to you
but truths from me, they're facts
and it's the truth I need
so tell me the truth about sex, Jackie.
Over the Borders
Interesting exercise this morning.
I'm having to read some Brecht, so I thought I'd drop off at Borders after the school run, take a browse.
But I arrived at 08:40 with twenty minutes to wait. I had my lap-top with me, and the morning prompts printed out so I started a story. Borders opened 18 minutes later. I went in, found a few bits and pieces on Brcht, bought them, the went upstairs to Starbucks, got a latte and then continued.
I finished the story (2150 words) went downstairs again, asking about a book I'd heard about on the radio (no joy) then went out to the car in time for the ten o'clock news.
So I wrote for pretty much exactly an hour, no email pings, now web, and managed 2,150 words. That's a short novel in a working week! Food for thought?
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
05,185 Words May 18 (Long Article)
00.449 Words May 19 (Flash)
00,000 Words May 20 (Satisfied Rest Day!)
02,150 Words May 21 (Story)
33,084 Words Total 12,084 Words ahead of schedule
03,084 Words beyond monthly target
PS, it might be argued that these are just words (ie crap) and will not sell. Time will prove that not to be the case.
Just remember this list and we shall see.
Consciousness
Rules?
Adjectives & Modifiers
Fucking Adverbs
More Stats on Openers
Under the Ribs
Mining Love
Mandolin
Her Red Dress
This is My Daughter
A Brother Hanged (not the actual title)
Broken Shadow
The Road Below
Formerly Known as Prince
As She Walked Home
Brighton, December
John Mole
Drowned (not the actual title)
Before the Closure
Evan's Leaving
Breadknife
Economics
Things
Am I Ready Yet?
School Dinners
SHIPS
A Moorhen
The Early Retirment of (not the actual title)
Museum (not the actual title)
The Wall (not the actual title)
Sliding (not the actual title)
Where I haven't given the actual title it's because the exact title would give away the identity of the writer in a comp (or in Boot Camp). I expect to place at least 80% of the above.
I'm having to read some Brecht, so I thought I'd drop off at Borders after the school run, take a browse.
But I arrived at 08:40 with twenty minutes to wait. I had my lap-top with me, and the morning prompts printed out so I started a story. Borders opened 18 minutes later. I went in, found a few bits and pieces on Brcht, bought them, the went upstairs to Starbucks, got a latte and then continued.
I finished the story (2150 words) went downstairs again, asking about a book I'd heard about on the radio (no joy) then went out to the car in time for the ten o'clock news.
So I wrote for pretty much exactly an hour, no email pings, now web, and managed 2,150 words. That's a short novel in a working week! Food for thought?
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
05,185 Words May 18 (Long Article)
00.449 Words May 19 (Flash)
00,000 Words May 20 (Satisfied Rest Day!)
02,150 Words May 21 (Story)
33,084 Words Total 12,084 Words ahead of schedule
03,084 Words beyond monthly target
PS, it might be argued that these are just words (ie crap) and will not sell. Time will prove that not to be the case.
Just remember this list and we shall see.
Consciousness
Rules?
Adjectives & Modifiers
Fucking Adverbs
More Stats on Openers
Under the Ribs
Mining Love
Mandolin
Her Red Dress
This is My Daughter
A Brother Hanged (not the actual title)
Broken Shadow
The Road Below
Formerly Known as Prince
As She Walked Home
Brighton, December
John Mole
Drowned (not the actual title)
Before the Closure
Evan's Leaving
Breadknife
Economics
Things
Am I Ready Yet?
School Dinners
SHIPS
A Moorhen
The Early Retirment of (not the actual title)
Museum (not the actual title)
The Wall (not the actual title)
Sliding (not the actual title)
Where I haven't given the actual title it's because the exact title would give away the identity of the writer in a comp (or in Boot Camp). I expect to place at least 80% of the above.
Monday 21st Flash Prompts
Of skies and scarecrows, haystacks hares and pheasants
Slithering
And the widening river's presence
A glove, unnoticed, on a floor
And residents from raw estates
Dark suit, white collar
Electric mixers, toasters, washers, driers
The curative qualities of nothingness
From the window, a strip of an allotment
A Fiddler in the Street, a Man With a Guitar
His clothes hang on the back of the door
Home is so sad.
He liked a lot of gravy
I sometimes walk my alligator, around the park, it's always empty
This is how it ends, sliding quietly
The Cemetery Song
There is never, quite, nothing
The words escape the book, fly like bees
Devoutly Drenched and Thinking of Jesus
I was late getting away
Slithering
And the widening river's presence
A glove, unnoticed, on a floor
And residents from raw estates
Dark suit, white collar
Electric mixers, toasters, washers, driers
The curative qualities of nothingness
From the window, a strip of an allotment
A Fiddler in the Street, a Man With a Guitar
His clothes hang on the back of the door
Home is so sad.
He liked a lot of gravy
I sometimes walk my alligator, around the park, it's always empty
This is how it ends, sliding quietly
The Cemetery Song
There is never, quite, nothing
The words escape the book, fly like bees
Devoutly Drenched and Thinking of Jesus
I was late getting away
Sunday, 20 May 2007
Sunday Prompts
"What on earth..?" Sister Irene looked up when she heard cheery whistling and heavy footseps on a metal ladder.
The English couple had checked out of the room that morning, so Anna was due to give it a thorough clean and change the linen.
The squeaking infiltrated my dreams and, when I opened my eyes and glanced at the bedroom clock, I saw it was four a.m.
There as no one who could quite match up to our mother. She was tall and blonde and wore polja-dot dresses with full-circle skirts.Carol McClatchie lifted the lid on her tub of face cream then let out a scream. A fly lay writihing on its back, legs flailing in the air.
"Hi there. D'you mind if I put my piano outside your shop?"
There were dog hairs on the cheese. I smile as I remember.
Penny dug her spoon into her desert, watching as chocolate cream oozed over a delicious mixture of nuts and sponge, and thought that she'd never felt less like eating chocolate in her life.
As Pam turned onto the M11 she forced herself to concentrate on the drive ahead.
She skips in front of me, carefree, happy, just as a five year old should be.
Peggie bit her lip in irritation as Sam leaned forward to turn up the sound of the television.
Matthew knew something was wrong as soon as he walked into the kitchen. Usually there were signs of activity - music playing, a pot simmering on e stove, the table laid for supper.
Sarah regretted slamming the front door as soon as she was through it, but she knew she couldn't go back. An ultimatum was an ultimatum, after all.
Jamie lay beneath the plum tree and watched Sally through half-closed eyes.
Valentine's Day will soon be over, thought Maria. It had always been her dream to run a successful restaurant and, by the looks of things, her dream was coming true, right before her eyes.
I can do this. I know I can. So why does that insistent little voice in my head keep nagging away at me?
I don't think of myself as old at all, but it's funny how time catches up with you, so that you find yourself saying, "When I was a girl," in an ironic way and the twenty-somethings you work with nod seriously, instead of smiling at the joke.
At half past nine on Monday morning, Jack gathered up the Sunday papers and headed for the potting shed. He loved Mondays.
===============================
Openings from Woman's Weekly Fiction Special Issue 50 (£1:75) which I thoroughly recommend you all go out and buy
The English couple had checked out of the room that morning, so Anna was due to give it a thorough clean and change the linen.
The squeaking infiltrated my dreams and, when I opened my eyes and glanced at the bedroom clock, I saw it was four a.m.
There as no one who could quite match up to our mother. She was tall and blonde and wore polja-dot dresses with full-circle skirts.Carol McClatchie lifted the lid on her tub of face cream then let out a scream. A fly lay writihing on its back, legs flailing in the air.
"Hi there. D'you mind if I put my piano outside your shop?"
There were dog hairs on the cheese. I smile as I remember.
Penny dug her spoon into her desert, watching as chocolate cream oozed over a delicious mixture of nuts and sponge, and thought that she'd never felt less like eating chocolate in her life.
As Pam turned onto the M11 she forced herself to concentrate on the drive ahead.
She skips in front of me, carefree, happy, just as a five year old should be.
Peggie bit her lip in irritation as Sam leaned forward to turn up the sound of the television.
Matthew knew something was wrong as soon as he walked into the kitchen. Usually there were signs of activity - music playing, a pot simmering on e stove, the table laid for supper.
Sarah regretted slamming the front door as soon as she was through it, but she knew she couldn't go back. An ultimatum was an ultimatum, after all.
Jamie lay beneath the plum tree and watched Sally through half-closed eyes.
Valentine's Day will soon be over, thought Maria. It had always been her dream to run a successful restaurant and, by the looks of things, her dream was coming true, right before her eyes.
I can do this. I know I can. So why does that insistent little voice in my head keep nagging away at me?
I don't think of myself as old at all, but it's funny how time catches up with you, so that you find yourself saying, "When I was a girl," in an ironic way and the twenty-somethings you work with nod seriously, instead of smiling at the joke.
At half past nine on Monday morning, Jack gathered up the Sunday papers and headed for the potting shed. He loved Mondays.
===============================
Openings from Woman's Weekly Fiction Special Issue 50 (£1:75) which I thoroughly recommend you all go out and buy
Primaries Update
10 AM Sunday (36 Hours)
007 Storieswere originally posted
002 Stories cleared from Primaries
005 Stories to be cleared
039 Critiques
124 Critique-Posts and two HOT threads!
007 Storieswere originally posted
002 Stories cleared from Primaries
005 Stories to be cleared
039 Critiques
124 Critique-Posts and two HOT threads!
Saturday, 19 May 2007
Not Stopped Yet!
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
05,185 Words May 18 (Long Article)
00.449 Words May 19 (Flash)
30,934 Words Total 11,934 Words ahead of schedule
00,934 Words beyond monthly target
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
05,185 Words May 18 (Long Article)
00.449 Words May 19 (Flash)
30,934 Words Total 11,934 Words ahead of schedule
00,934 Words beyond monthly target
Shovelling
I was watching as my father shovelled snow, watching my mother as she, in turn watched him, her face, the cruellest lips, blue in their tightness, the eyes fixed, but he would do it.
I saw them, beleaguered, padlocked, married. Saw them up through the weight of infliction, their horrendous mutual flagellation, such good Catholics, together until a death did them asunder. By Father Maloney's Glass Eye, or she would swing!
My father shovels snow and would shovel snow forever. I think about the shovelling, think that the third oldest profession is shovelling shit.
For we do never covet. Not my neighbour's wife, not her breasts, not her warm tongue, for Thine is and this fucking isn't, and though shalt shovel.
I try to imagine her, that neighbour. She does not even bother to undress properly, they do not, instead released in a glory of wanting, human rather than machine they rage into each other but it is pure love. They seem so pleased with themselves over there. He is shovelling but I am hard with the thrill of my father's pleasure when he stops, brings a hand to his head, collapses. And I notice the pause in my mother, the satisfaction, before, the wife, she reacts: "Your father!" A heart attack. It was the first gift he ever gave her.
Afterwards, after the hole dug through the frozen earth, after the dark fell and there was never, I left. I walked in the cold, a filthy cold, found a café and sat with a cup of hot soup, steam on the windows, a faint smell of rancid margarine somewhere.
Behind the counter, she was pretty, working for her father. Her name-tag said Juliet and when I spoke to her she laughed and mentioned balconies, but no Romeo. I must have said something for she said, "Julie's on the balcony, Romeo's gone clubbing," but I understood her smile. She did not know it, but she was thinking of shovels.
My mother, widow, will design isolated beaches for men to lie in the sun for fifteen minutes, fully-dressed in city suits and bowlers. As a special concession they may put down their umbrellas and close their eyes.
The husband negotiates love routines with a wielded Black & Decker. Inside he is a primitive but he has forgotten that some trees echo of forests, and the silent valleys ache with ancients walking. They walk in him.
Here a husband puts up shelves, but there he cracks, hisses, spins and jumps, drills into a skull. Now I am cold again. I sit on this ledge, people who were me pass underneath. Julie is on her balcony waiting. I am not coming.
449 Words
I saw them, beleaguered, padlocked, married. Saw them up through the weight of infliction, their horrendous mutual flagellation, such good Catholics, together until a death did them asunder. By Father Maloney's Glass Eye, or she would swing!
My father shovels snow and would shovel snow forever. I think about the shovelling, think that the third oldest profession is shovelling shit.
For we do never covet. Not my neighbour's wife, not her breasts, not her warm tongue, for Thine is and this fucking isn't, and though shalt shovel.
I try to imagine her, that neighbour. She does not even bother to undress properly, they do not, instead released in a glory of wanting, human rather than machine they rage into each other but it is pure love. They seem so pleased with themselves over there. He is shovelling but I am hard with the thrill of my father's pleasure when he stops, brings a hand to his head, collapses. And I notice the pause in my mother, the satisfaction, before, the wife, she reacts: "Your father!" A heart attack. It was the first gift he ever gave her.
Afterwards, after the hole dug through the frozen earth, after the dark fell and there was never, I left. I walked in the cold, a filthy cold, found a café and sat with a cup of hot soup, steam on the windows, a faint smell of rancid margarine somewhere.
Behind the counter, she was pretty, working for her father. Her name-tag said Juliet and when I spoke to her she laughed and mentioned balconies, but no Romeo. I must have said something for she said, "Julie's on the balcony, Romeo's gone clubbing," but I understood her smile. She did not know it, but she was thinking of shovels.
My mother, widow, will design isolated beaches for men to lie in the sun for fifteen minutes, fully-dressed in city suits and bowlers. As a special concession they may put down their umbrellas and close their eyes.
The husband negotiates love routines with a wielded Black & Decker. Inside he is a primitive but he has forgotten that some trees echo of forests, and the silent valleys ache with ancients walking. They walk in him.
Here a husband puts up shelves, but there he cracks, hisses, spins and jumps, drills into a skull. Now I am cold again. I sit on this ledge, people who were me pass underneath. Julie is on her balcony waiting. I am not coming.
449 Words
Saturday Morning Prompts
And then the dark fell and there was never
It was the first gift he ever gave her
She does not even bother to undress properly
They seem so pleased with themselves over there
Bovvercraft
My neighbour's wife, her breasts, her warm tongue
Some trees echo of forests
Valleys ache with ancients walking
The suit beach, better than nudists
A cup of hot soup, oxtail, tomato, steam on the windows
I sit on this ledge, people who were me pass underneath
Beleaguer, padlocked, married
Julie's on the balcony, Romeo's gone clubbing
The third oldest profession is shovelling shit
Love routines with a Black & Decker
Me and my hoods
Now he hisses, spins and jumps
Father Maloney's Glass eye
I was watching as my father shovelled snow
It was the first gift he ever gave her
She does not even bother to undress properly
They seem so pleased with themselves over there
Bovvercraft
My neighbour's wife, her breasts, her warm tongue
Some trees echo of forests
Valleys ache with ancients walking
The suit beach, better than nudists
A cup of hot soup, oxtail, tomato, steam on the windows
I sit on this ledge, people who were me pass underneath
Beleaguer, padlocked, married
Julie's on the balcony, Romeo's gone clubbing
The third oldest profession is shovelling shit
Love routines with a Black & Decker
Me and my hoods
Now he hisses, spins and jumps
Father Maloney's Glass eye
I was watching as my father shovelled snow
Five More Hits!
Four articles accepted for The Internet Writers Journal
One third place for Fleur, Charnwood Arts
23 hits in 19 days in May
Taking total to 87 Hits for the Year, $3,433
One third place for Fleur, Charnwood Arts
23 hits in 19 days in May
Taking total to 87 Hits for the Year, $3,433
This Weekend's Primary Stories
Seven in, by 10PM Friday two cleared already
The others 3-3-2-2-1 crits each (12 Hours)
The others 3-3-2-2-1 crits each (12 Hours)
Friday, 18 May 2007
Monthly Target Achieved
I wanted to hit my word-count targets by Wednesday 23rd...
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
05,185 Words May 18 (Long Article)
30,485 Words Total 12,485 Words ahead of schedule
00,485 Words beyond monthly target
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
05,185 Words May 18 (Long Article)
30,485 Words Total 12,485 Words ahead of schedule
00,485 Words beyond monthly target
Turned Out a Nice Day!
A little hit for me (always welcome) and $25 but followed by two more reported hits and another $25
Our tiny band of hard-workers have had 18 hits in May, an average of 1 per day
83 for the year $3,393 in payments.
MAY
065 RVJ HR'd at JBWB
066 Joel in Shimmer
067 Cally HR'd in Twisted Tongue Comp
068 Joel at Smokebox
069 MJH places at Thieves Jargon
070 Jason Jackson in Leaf Anthology (1)
071 Jason Jackson in Leaf Anthology (2)
072 Claire in Secret Attic
073 Alex Poem in Poetry Monthly, June
074 Caroline wins Blaenau Gwent ($170)
075 Lexie poem in Poetry Monthly June
076 Alex's Tomatoes in Espresso Fiction ($30)
077 Alex's Zombies in Espresso Fiction ($30)
078 Cally story at Word Riot
079 Caroline in June Poetry Monthly
080 DMW gets a story int June Flashquake ($25)
081 Caroline had HR at JBWB Spring (overlooked)
082 Soccer, Cake for RVJ in Flashquake ($25)
Our tiny band of hard-workers have had 18 hits in May, an average of 1 per day
83 for the year $3,393 in payments.
MAY
065 RVJ HR'd at JBWB
066 Joel in Shimmer
067 Cally HR'd in Twisted Tongue Comp
068 Joel at Smokebox
069 MJH places at Thieves Jargon
070 Jason Jackson in Leaf Anthology (1)
071 Jason Jackson in Leaf Anthology (2)
072 Claire in Secret Attic
073 Alex Poem in Poetry Monthly, June
074 Caroline wins Blaenau Gwent ($170)
075 Lexie poem in Poetry Monthly June
076 Alex's Tomatoes in Espresso Fiction ($30)
077 Alex's Zombies in Espresso Fiction ($30)
078 Cally story at Word Riot
079 Caroline in June Poetry Monthly
080 DMW gets a story int June Flashquake ($25)
081 Caroline had HR at JBWB Spring (overlooked)
082 Soccer, Cake for RVJ in Flashquake ($25)
Boot Camp Publications 2007
Three more (Word Riot and two in the H E Bates Anthology)
takes us to 41 for the year
Interesting that the print proportion is much much higher
Thus year to date
21 Web
20 Print
takes us to 41 for the year
Interesting that the print proportion is much much higher
Thus year to date
21 Web
20 Print
Thursday, 17 May 2007
20:30
Too Many Dead Poets, Not Enough Wine
Prunes
I am as silent as a sign
Chalk
When I woke up, my house was in a cloud
The Fanny-Fart Symphony
Sometimes I think I see you
Once I saw a golden retriever that looked at me sadly. I thought, you?
Major Minor and his Aide Corporal Punishment
Snow, slowly rising, whispering
I love her like an old coat
The sky is late today, grieving
When I grow up I would like to be alive
No wonder he left the kitchen drawer ajar
Look at me now mother, your awkward lump
First rehearse the easy things
Prunes
I am as silent as a sign
Chalk
When I woke up, my house was in a cloud
The Fanny-Fart Symphony
Sometimes I think I see you
Once I saw a golden retriever that looked at me sadly. I thought, you?
Major Minor and his Aide Corporal Punishment
Snow, slowly rising, whispering
I love her like an old coat
The sky is late today, grieving
When I grow up I would like to be alive
No wonder he left the kitchen drawer ajar
Look at me now mother, your awkward lump
First rehearse the easy things
Three Flash Sessions Tonight. JHere's Number One
Pairs in Black & White
A potato
Dark, and the lights are out in all the houses
Walter
We will know where they are by the absence of trees
Sand
Rain washed over her body in the empty street
Message to the dying
For comfort on bad nights, a map of Middle England
I am not scared of scissors
in a bright hospital you offered your death to me
Something about hay, and summer
I am pushing stones
Marriage is a black pot on a stove
I can balance like this for hours, and whistle
Don't get struck by lightning
A potato
Dark, and the lights are out in all the houses
Walter
We will know where they are by the absence of trees
Sand
Rain washed over her body in the empty street
Message to the dying
For comfort on bad nights, a map of Middle England
I am not scared of scissors
in a bright hospital you offered your death to me
Something about hay, and summer
I am pushing stones
Marriage is a black pot on a stove
I can balance like this for hours, and whistle
Don't get struck by lightning
How do I get there from here?
Each morning the tyranny of the blank screen assaults me anew. I imagined it would get easier to write, the more of it I did, but the opposite seems true. And then I read that a woman who has produced a hundred and sixteen novels and twelve thousand short story collections has to ‘relearn’ how to write every single day. This is terrifying news. If it’s this hard now, after just a couple of years, what chance do I have after ten, twenty years? How can I avoid being anything more (and probably a lot less) than a sentient jelly?
There are some techniques I use to slap my muse to life each day, sometimes a strong coffee will do it, other times a certain song, loud on my headphones. Occasionally it’s a poem or short story, but often, as soon as I start to read something, the thought of trying to produce something myself flaps out of the window and away up the hill.
I have tried writing on a series of topics over several days, in order to have something guaranteed to write about the next day. The most successful of these was my ‘country’ series where I wrote down everything I knew about particular countries, whether because I had visited them, or because I had never been there and wanted to find out what I could make up. My ‘food’ series was not bad (the crayfish entry was memorable); my ‘building’ series, however, was largely a waste of time. I discovered I know next to nothing about architectural features. But in every case I found myself ground down after a while, it felt too much like routine.
I have tried writing a novel (without having an idea for a novel); I've tried daily flashes; I've tried John Gardner’s writing exercises; I've tried automatic writing; I even went through a phase of forcing myself to think of an opening sentence in the time it took me to brush my teeth, with predictable consequences which my dentist was delighted about – still I’m here, today, unable to think of a single goddam thing to write about, filling my notebooks with yet more what-shall-I-write-about-today verbiage. Garbage. Verbigarbage.
Every single day I go through this vaguely psychotic process. Part of the problem is, I have no idea what I’m working towards. There are no signs of progress, no one saying, you’re on the right track, just keep going like that and you’ll get there.
In any case I’ve decided today: enough is enough. Once and for all, I am going to find a foolproof way to get myself into writing mode each morning, some technique to wake up the writer part of me long enough to produce something, even – especially – when I’m not in the mood to write. No more ‘what shall I write today?’ entries in my notebook.
This might have to be quite drastic. It doesn’t matter. Desperate times and all that. There must be some infallible way to access that weird floaty mood I’m in after a strong coffee or a pint of beer, or after reading something striking or hearing some good music, that mood when I can actually write and not care about what I’m writing.
The trouble is (more analysis! shut up already!) I’m a slightly different person each morning so I don’t know what is going to inspire me that day. I have witnessed this phenomenon in my five-month-old daughter, who by all accounts has pretty similar days and nights – naps and meals at certain times, the same songs, the same books and stories, the same toys – and yet one morning she'll wake up with the joys of the season running through her veins, and the next will be as grumpy as a February afternoon on a disused pier in Norway. As Jonathan Franzen put it:
"He had good days and bad days. It was as if when he lay in bed for a night certain humors pooled in the right or wrong places, like marinade around a flank steak, and in the morning his nerve endings either had enough of what they needed or did not; as if his mental clarity might depend on something as simple as whether he’s lain on his side or on his back the night before, or as if, more disturbingly, he were a damaged transistor radio which after a vigorous shaking might function loud and clear or spew nothing but static laced with unconnected phrases, the odd strain of music."
That sounds about right. As if, not only will a piece of art move one person and leave another completely cold, but also, a piece of art may move a person on one day, and leave that same person completely cold on another. Which suggests that we are different people every day. This is doing terrible things to my sense of identity. Maybe I should change my name each morning? It makes me think of that most absurd and meaningless of questions, where are you from? Somerset, I say. As if that tells them anything at all. What a random fact to know about a person. Where am I from? I’ll tell you where I’m from: a slightly fitful night where I dreamed of canoeing to the North Pole in hiking gear with my Dad and then I woke up with pins and needles in my left foot. Hey, come back here, I was talking to you, you in the hat and the striped scarf, running up that hill, little stick man you are, little Irish stick man it sounds like, I’m going to run after you to find out where the hell you hide at night, breaking my radio, sowing my dreams with images of walking boots - you can leap over that 1000-mile-wide ravine if you like but you can’t hide forever, you little leprechaun stickman with electricity hair, I’m going to catch hold of you and tie you up in my office and feed you prawns until you squeal your secrets...
Right then. How the hell did I get here from there?
There are some techniques I use to slap my muse to life each day, sometimes a strong coffee will do it, other times a certain song, loud on my headphones. Occasionally it’s a poem or short story, but often, as soon as I start to read something, the thought of trying to produce something myself flaps out of the window and away up the hill.
I have tried writing on a series of topics over several days, in order to have something guaranteed to write about the next day. The most successful of these was my ‘country’ series where I wrote down everything I knew about particular countries, whether because I had visited them, or because I had never been there and wanted to find out what I could make up. My ‘food’ series was not bad (the crayfish entry was memorable); my ‘building’ series, however, was largely a waste of time. I discovered I know next to nothing about architectural features. But in every case I found myself ground down after a while, it felt too much like routine.
I have tried writing a novel (without having an idea for a novel); I've tried daily flashes; I've tried John Gardner’s writing exercises; I've tried automatic writing; I even went through a phase of forcing myself to think of an opening sentence in the time it took me to brush my teeth, with predictable consequences which my dentist was delighted about – still I’m here, today, unable to think of a single goddam thing to write about, filling my notebooks with yet more what-shall-I-write-about-today verbiage. Garbage. Verbigarbage.
Every single day I go through this vaguely psychotic process. Part of the problem is, I have no idea what I’m working towards. There are no signs of progress, no one saying, you’re on the right track, just keep going like that and you’ll get there.
In any case I’ve decided today: enough is enough. Once and for all, I am going to find a foolproof way to get myself into writing mode each morning, some technique to wake up the writer part of me long enough to produce something, even – especially – when I’m not in the mood to write. No more ‘what shall I write today?’ entries in my notebook.
This might have to be quite drastic. It doesn’t matter. Desperate times and all that. There must be some infallible way to access that weird floaty mood I’m in after a strong coffee or a pint of beer, or after reading something striking or hearing some good music, that mood when I can actually write and not care about what I’m writing.
The trouble is (more analysis! shut up already!) I’m a slightly different person each morning so I don’t know what is going to inspire me that day. I have witnessed this phenomenon in my five-month-old daughter, who by all accounts has pretty similar days and nights – naps and meals at certain times, the same songs, the same books and stories, the same toys – and yet one morning she'll wake up with the joys of the season running through her veins, and the next will be as grumpy as a February afternoon on a disused pier in Norway. As Jonathan Franzen put it:
"He had good days and bad days. It was as if when he lay in bed for a night certain humors pooled in the right or wrong places, like marinade around a flank steak, and in the morning his nerve endings either had enough of what they needed or did not; as if his mental clarity might depend on something as simple as whether he’s lain on his side or on his back the night before, or as if, more disturbingly, he were a damaged transistor radio which after a vigorous shaking might function loud and clear or spew nothing but static laced with unconnected phrases, the odd strain of music."
That sounds about right. As if, not only will a piece of art move one person and leave another completely cold, but also, a piece of art may move a person on one day, and leave that same person completely cold on another. Which suggests that we are different people every day. This is doing terrible things to my sense of identity. Maybe I should change my name each morning? It makes me think of that most absurd and meaningless of questions, where are you from? Somerset, I say. As if that tells them anything at all. What a random fact to know about a person. Where am I from? I’ll tell you where I’m from: a slightly fitful night where I dreamed of canoeing to the North Pole in hiking gear with my Dad and then I woke up with pins and needles in my left foot. Hey, come back here, I was talking to you, you in the hat and the striped scarf, running up that hill, little stick man you are, little Irish stick man it sounds like, I’m going to run after you to find out where the hell you hide at night, breaking my radio, sowing my dreams with images of walking boots - you can leap over that 1000-mile-wide ravine if you like but you can’t hide forever, you little leprechaun stickman with electricity hair, I’m going to catch hold of you and tie you up in my office and feed you prawns until you squeal your secrets...
Right then. How the hell did I get here from there?
Another Brilliant Day
I must be due a slump but I'm grabbing this while I can!
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
25,300 Words Total 8,300 Words ahead of schedule
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
02,410 Words May 17 (Story, Poems) 13:09
25,300 Words Total 8,300 Words ahead of schedule
Thursday Prompts
It started near the primary school
I said to the Mrs, "That's bloody odd."
I have bought an iceberg
The policewoman who told me you had died was very pretty
One of my children asked me who I was
In a past life I was a boring fucker
When making love to a chicken you have to watch out for eggs
My chess board has all black squares, yours white
A Page Four Girl
This having to pay to die, what if you're broke?
I buy ladies' earrings and throw odd ones in corners, knickers under the bed
King in the Land of the Last Biscuit
I SHOT THE FUCKING DOVE OF PEACE
Eleven bar blues
Jeffrey Archer's Hooker? I ad 'er…
Three soft-boiled eggs? The last one's always hard.
Wife-Printed Toilet-Paper
Moi, the Unthinking Man's crumpet
Jerry Mander, Builder
I said to the Mrs, "That's bloody odd."
I have bought an iceberg
The policewoman who told me you had died was very pretty
One of my children asked me who I was
In a past life I was a boring fucker
When making love to a chicken you have to watch out for eggs
My chess board has all black squares, yours white
A Page Four Girl
This having to pay to die, what if you're broke?
I buy ladies' earrings and throw odd ones in corners, knickers under the bed
King in the Land of the Last Biscuit
I SHOT THE FUCKING DOVE OF PEACE
Eleven bar blues
Jeffrey Archer's Hooker? I ad 'er…
Three soft-boiled eggs? The last one's always hard.
Wife-Printed Toilet-Paper
Moi, the Unthinking Man's crumpet
Jerry Mander, Builder
Wednesday, 16 May 2007
Woooooo Hooooo!
a 5,000 word Day!
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
22,890 Words Total 6,890 Words ahead of schedule
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
05,000 Words May 16 (Long Story and Article)
22,890 Words Total 6,890 Words ahead of schedule
Something Different
There are about eighty prompts for me to post tonight (for up to four sessions).
Here's the idea
BEFORE YOU LOOK AT THE PROMPTS
Choose 3/4/5 numbers between 1 and 164.
Do this 1-2-3-4 times depending on how many sessions you are going to do.
Cut and paste ALL the prompts to a Word file and then select Format-Document-Layout and Line Number-Continuous (not per page) so all the lines now have a number.
Now read ALL the prompts but you must use one of your selected numbers (and others as you fancy)
Spend at least five minutes "living with" the prompts. read them top to bottom, bottom to top, paly around, combine etc
REMEMBER THE ABOVE. DO IT BEFORE YOU LOOK AT THE PROMPTS
A black dog
A drizzle glazes the museum entrance
A surprised wreck, a sad sinking
And when each man has given up chasing flies
Angel A
At the end of this sentence, rain will begin
Ballistics
Bless This House, brass
Can it be right to give what I give?
Chestnuts on a shovel
Cold Iron Rail
Days of Wine & Roses
Each family will pay one thousand dollars
Faint photographs, lives history
Five Old men
For a second I looked back into the city, down through the smoke.
Go From Me
Granted, you are dying, but
He – for there could be no doubt about his sex
He gives his daughter shells
He sat on a cold bench, trying to be younger
He was quietly American, not so much a pig
Her voice had the gutturals of machine-guns
His body was as thin as a reflection
Hotel Unthinking
I am a snake, slowly shedding my life
I am burned black by a million sins and sun
I am not me. I do not close this door
I found my pity, beneath some books
I heard them marching the leaf-wet roads of my head
I lift my heavy heart up
I reads once that all revolutions start small
I thought once, how he had sung of the sweet years
I was smoking my pipe
If I lay here dead?
If you were here, wishing, lying on these sheets
In those first years
It is spring, moonless night in the small town
It's possible that Hell is a suburb of Cairo
Oh my love. Yes. Here we sit.
One day I awoke, a yellow star grown on my breast
Orlando
Passing by my wife's car
President George Brown
Punctually at six o'clock the sun set with a last yellow flash behind the Blue
Mountains.
She never gave a lock of hair away
She was as beautiful as stone in the sunrise
Silk, umbrellas, avarice beyond
Smelling Almond Polish
Something primal
Tanner Hop
The Bella Archipelago
The big guy wasn't any of my business
The biggest TV in the World
The clouds lifted slowly from the ridge of the mountains and the dawn rim appeared.
The fierce full moon
The letter came just before noon, special delivery.
The maid brings me a lamp
The Malpases had moved in the day before
The melancholy of Sunday
The Merrimac River, broad and placid flows down to it.
The priest, barely glancing at the two penitents
The Problem With Jack Harvey
Then all the nations
There was a black car following.
This fucking driver is getting on my tits.
Three Ducks in the hallway
To begin at the beginning
Town & City
Trees air-brushed, leaves added
Video night last Monday.
We are only ever one step from the gutter
We were sitting in a room at the Berglund.
When the heart creaks like cottage-wood
Where are your monuments, battles, martyrs?
Winter branches
With two double bourbons in him, he sat in the final departures lounge at Miami
Airport and thought about life and death.
I have been in love twice. I have married four times. I do not know how to make these things coincide
I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighbourhoods
The naked man who lay splashed out on his face beside the swimming pool might have been dead.
Here's the idea
BEFORE YOU LOOK AT THE PROMPTS
Choose 3/4/5 numbers between 1 and 164.
Do this 1-2-3-4 times depending on how many sessions you are going to do.
Cut and paste ALL the prompts to a Word file and then select Format-Document-Layout and Line Number-Continuous (not per page) so all the lines now have a number.
Now read ALL the prompts but you must use one of your selected numbers (and others as you fancy)
Spend at least five minutes "living with" the prompts. read them top to bottom, bottom to top, paly around, combine etc
REMEMBER THE ABOVE. DO IT BEFORE YOU LOOK AT THE PROMPTS
A black dog
A drizzle glazes the museum entrance
A surprised wreck, a sad sinking
And when each man has given up chasing flies
Angel A
At the end of this sentence, rain will begin
Ballistics
Bless This House, brass
Can it be right to give what I give?
Chestnuts on a shovel
Cold Iron Rail
Days of Wine & Roses
Each family will pay one thousand dollars
Faint photographs, lives history
Five Old men
For a second I looked back into the city, down through the smoke.
Go From Me
Granted, you are dying, but
He – for there could be no doubt about his sex
He gives his daughter shells
He sat on a cold bench, trying to be younger
He was quietly American, not so much a pig
Her voice had the gutturals of machine-guns
His body was as thin as a reflection
Hotel Unthinking
I am a snake, slowly shedding my life
I am burned black by a million sins and sun
I am not me. I do not close this door
I found my pity, beneath some books
I heard them marching the leaf-wet roads of my head
I lift my heavy heart up
I reads once that all revolutions start small
I thought once, how he had sung of the sweet years
I was smoking my pipe
If I lay here dead?
If you were here, wishing, lying on these sheets
In those first years
It is spring, moonless night in the small town
It's possible that Hell is a suburb of Cairo
Oh my love. Yes. Here we sit.
One day I awoke, a yellow star grown on my breast
Orlando
Passing by my wife's car
President George Brown
Punctually at six o'clock the sun set with a last yellow flash behind the Blue
Mountains.
She never gave a lock of hair away
She was as beautiful as stone in the sunrise
Silk, umbrellas, avarice beyond
Smelling Almond Polish
Something primal
Tanner Hop
The Bella Archipelago
The big guy wasn't any of my business
The biggest TV in the World
The clouds lifted slowly from the ridge of the mountains and the dawn rim appeared.
The fierce full moon
The letter came just before noon, special delivery.
The maid brings me a lamp
The Malpases had moved in the day before
The melancholy of Sunday
The Merrimac River, broad and placid flows down to it.
The priest, barely glancing at the two penitents
The Problem With Jack Harvey
Then all the nations
There was a black car following.
This fucking driver is getting on my tits.
Three Ducks in the hallway
To begin at the beginning
Town & City
Trees air-brushed, leaves added
Video night last Monday.
We are only ever one step from the gutter
We were sitting in a room at the Berglund.
When the heart creaks like cottage-wood
Where are your monuments, battles, martyrs?
Winter branches
With two double bourbons in him, he sat in the final departures lounge at Miami
Airport and thought about life and death.
I have been in love twice. I have married four times. I do not know how to make these things coincide
I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighbourhoods
The naked man who lay splashed out on his face beside the swimming pool might have been dead.
Under the Ribs
I read an easy-to-read "small" poet-published poem in Boot Camp this morning and posted a reply. It's OK but if this was a story it would be TMAWIA . It's one totally accessible, instant, obvious observation and question. I mean how long does it make us think? We have it and have forgotten it in five seconds.
But then I realised that there are many stories where something like this happens. (It's slightly longer-timed in the story but that's a word-count thing more than anything else.)
They get in, get out, and barely create dust. A week later you cannot remember the plot, theme, character, but more importantly, the emotions, the weight, the smell have disappeared.
But my reaction to the poem is whispering something to me, something like my "napalm" idea but not quite the same.
This: when you want to convey into the reader a certain set of emotions, it is not only the semantic content you have to think about, but the musicality, tone, pace, pacing etc. Part of the reader is hypnotised.
Some musics stick, get under, start to burn, some just bounce off.
Worse (and this is only a partly-formed idea right now) some use a cheap trick to get, not under the skin at all, but into some cheap hotel in the head where all the responses are well-known and we are too lazy to walk out in the rain, get wet, risk getting mugged, because across the street is a place that's alive-alive-alive and the Devil drops in on Thursdays.
What I will say next, may or may not be connected to my thoughts above (but that's the point really, should all connections always be the perfectly crisp, neatly-packaged ones that don't unhinge us?)
Yesterday, scouring second-hand bookshops for biographical stuff on T S Eliot (and when I quote him I might be able to show how some lines go straight up under the ribs) I picked up, for a throw-away pound, the stories of Sean O'Faolain. In the foreword to his collection he says:
"I must, if only in my defence, tell the reader of this volume that it opens with three stories from my first collection, Midsummer Night Madness and that although I have chosen them because I like them very much they contain things that make me smile today – and yet I have been unwilling to rewrite them. I should like to explain why.
They belong to a period, my twenties. They are very "romantic" as their weighted style shows. I should have to change my nature if I were to [rewrite and] change the style, which is full of romantic words, such as dawn, dew, onwards, youth, world, adamant or dusk; of metaphors and abstractions; of personalisations and sensations which belong to the author rather than to the characters.
They also contain many of those romantic words "and" and "but", which are words that are part of the attempt to carry on and expand the effect after the sense has been given. Writers who put down the essential thing, without any cocoon about it, do not need those "ands" and "buts". The thing is given and there it lies; whereas the writer who luxuriates goes on with the echoes of his first image or idea.
His emotions and thoughts dilate, the style dilates with them, and in the end he is trying to write a kind of verbal music to convey feelings that the mere sense of the words cannot give. He is chasing the inexpressible. He is interested mainly in his own devouring daemon. He is, as I was in my twenties, drowned in himself.
French writers, on the other hand, often spoil their stories by adding too much analysis in their obsessive pursuit of clarity at all costs.
Hemingway is the real man. He writes short sentences because with his genius for seizing on the essential he can also seize on the simple image to convey what he wants to say. If we sometimes think that he is saying something obvious that may well be because only a man of genius can see and say what, once he has seen and said it, we flatter him by thinking of as obvious."
***
I'm not sure if I needed to drift into discussing Hemingway but it seemed polite to allow Mr O'Faolain to finish his page! From here on I'm on unsteady ground, trying to write an article while at the same time, trying, for myself, to articulate what I'm feeling. I'm well aware that I could write the article, "discover" and then edit it to death until it actually looks like I'm expert and always was. In fact I was expert before I was born.
This is a complex thing. It's to do with many things and they are not all concrete; language, pace, pacing, the removal of the author, obliqueness, appeal to memory and myth, allusion, language again, tone, voice, the colour of words, rhythm (as emphases, rise and fall, musicality, tone) all these things can combine to direct the story "underneath and inside."
We have all heard the person who cannot tell a joke well. It's not the joke, it's the way yer tell 'em. So we know the delivery is part of the meaning.
A good poet is a good poet, a great slam-poet is a performer. Many poets and writers cannot read their own work well, some are brilliant speakers and enrich the poem beyond what we can see on the page. I think it was Eliot who on hearing Yeats read a poem said to fully understand them, to completely feel, you needed to be Irish, speak as an Irishman, know and feel Ireland's history. I've probably made that up, but I don't care.
If I write, "Married and not even pregnant, there's posh for you!" that is so Welsh I can see red shirts at The Arms Park, miners clopping home along black streets, wives with arms folded standing in doorways. For all I know that might have originated in London's East End, or in Newcastle or might have been invented on the stage, but my reality is I hear it from my mother's mouth and the voice, the lilt, the wry commentary open up all my Welshness, the different sensibilities of a South Walian and alter my experience.
This is even wilder, crazier, when I remind myself my mother was Irish!
I think most writers understand the nature of the woman's magazine story, the "womag" story. As an email correspondent wrote; "They are trilling, shallow, meaningless. They avoid the uncomfortable core of human existence and even when "an issue" is raised it is dealt with in a blink of an eye, simplistic, no ripples, no complexity, no doubt."
Now look at the phrasings of some womag stories.
Things were different for Jimmy at Grandma and Grandpa's house.
It all started when a job came up at the local school.
I finally found a recipe I could understand.
She was worried that he wasn't settling in to school as he should.
"This looks like a nice little pub," said Fred.
What is missing here? Why do we instantly know that the piece will be lightweight, that nothing will hurt? Note how the words are from the first 300-400 words of the average vocabulary, the phrases are simplistic and/or clichés, that nothing remotely surprises or challenges. Nothing gets "fired off by connection" here, there's no sense of place, no colour in the expression. It's ersatz, terribly bland.
Could this ever get under the skin and move someone? Ummmm…
We just know the moment we look at lines like these that nothing of importance could ever follow. It's mindless. Trivial.
I'm trying to explore the idea that when we watch TV, or see a film, or read a book, or read a short-story or a poem we either open up in a real, slightly-dangerous, exposed way (inside us there are many mansions) or we simply deal with the piece like that cheap hotel. We know all the tricks, every push-button, chuck it here, oh right, got that.
The cheap hotel has been tarted up lately. Next to the womag ballroom, and The Mills & Boon Lounge there's the chick-lit bar. What matters here in the land of no challenges, the place where the biggest surprise you'll get is that oh-so-recognisable twist at the end is that everything is safe and you will never have to think.
Clichés and stereotypes, stock characters, stock scenes, obvious dilemmas stand in the doorway of the cheap hotel. You don't even need to go all the way in! At least there's Horlicks and Seroxat, pillows...
Am I wickedly cruel to include chick-lit with womag? After all there's no questioning the writers show more skill, greater variety. Yeah, maybe. I could vomit reading some womag stuff and the best of chicklit isn't that bad. We rarely get "scared Johnny" on his first day at school who turns out to be the headmaster!
To be fair my correspondent did say Chick-Lit was Layer 2, but she also said: Sex and Shopping and nothing else. It's mechanical, obvious and clichés door-to-door.
But I'm not here to give you that. The content is not really my point (well it is but we are talking about delivery.) Again it's the mechanical nature, the fact that you can cut and paste language from different authors and it's seamless, almost impossible to spot. Though I'll admit this fiction at its worse is better than womag (and at it's rare best shouldn't be lumped in the chicklit bucket at all) the vast majority of it still abounds with stock phrasing and the language never surprises. It's de-languaged to the point of banality, triviality. Even if there is a decent story somewhere in there, the story stands alone, set aside from the delivery. The delivery is THE STANDARD delivery for "all chick-lit. The language doesn't matter.
We get more of the obvious lines, lines that do almost nothing, lines that are "chat" writing, stuff we hear in the office. She beamed. "You're a love." "While I washed the dishes." "She raised her eyebrows but said nothing." "Dave went to the back door for a cigarette." "I've had ironing up to my eyeballs." "I ached to phone him."
Are there "OK" stories? Sometimes. But everything, or almost everything is so superficial. "Upset" is throwing myself on the bed and beating the pillow and screaming bastard. And of course it's just upset, not grieving or suicidal, or frightened, or really worried. Do you think she's already read the last few pages and she knows Prince Harry is there?
My problem with all this sort of fiction is its glibness, its triviality, it's quick-fix nature (but that's not the point) and the fact that the language also gives off the boy-band, girl-band, washing-up advert level of language. There's no variety, no charm, no individualism in the diction. The next word is always the obvious word and probably a cliché.
In poetry too we start out with (though I shouldn't say "poetry") the verses inside birthday cards and then the glib dum-dee-dum awful rhymed stuff we see in certain quarters. We can dismiss that but above this level there are published poems such as the one that triggered this article where they're "OK" but are simplistic, relying on a neat closing couplet (the equivalent of a twist-ending) say, a neat expression for loneliness but the journey there is nothing more than thinking, OK, but your point is? And then we get the point and go, Oh, yeah, I suppose…
But if I read Eliot:
Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
I feel things, all the foggy things ever, all the smoky things, all my Decembers, everything. Something here reaches into me straight away.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled
Sure I see the obvious, remember dads and Granddads on Barry Island beach, blokes with knotted hankies on their heads (do they still do that now?) and all those Barry or Porthcawl outings, sand and fish and chips, but I also feel an ache, some old bloke, just feeling it savouring the experience of age.
The difference is these lines are three-dimensional, they can contain as many meaning as we want them to.
The winter evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways
Same thing. I love the language, the difference, the surprise in the words but what they illustrate isn't singular, it sets off thoughts, links, memories
It isn't "cheap-and-cheerful" writing I despise, it's its homogeneity, the way "writers" prostitute themselves, fall into line, go with the flow and take out every last vestige of originality of thought just to be published.
This is from a novel-in-progress called The Bella Archipelago. The guys have invented a writing machine:
Maybe this gets close to what I see as the problem.
We were half-way through our second tumbler when I asked Jeremy what could IMARITA do with other texts. Could it work on stuff already in print? How would it deal with his namesake's work, for instance?
"What d'you have?" Jeremy said, so I leaned over, closed my eyes, did a lucky dip off my bookcase, and came up with Germinal.
"Try Zola," I said. "I'll read it out to you."
Jeremy grinned and began typing.
On a pitch-black, starless night, a solitary man was trudging along the main road from Marchiennes to Monstsou, ten kilometres of cobblestones running straight as a die across the bare plain between fields of beet. He could not even make out the black ground in front of him, and it was only the feel of the march wind blowing in great gusts like a storm at sea, but icy cold from sweeping over miles of marshes and bare earth, that gave him a sensation of limitless, flat horizons. There was not a single tree to darken the sky, and the cobbled high road ran on with the straightness of a jetty through the swirling sea of black shadows.
Good old Emil! I'd forgotten the miserable bugger. At the end of that first paragraph I thought maybe I'd read him again.
"What setting?" Jeremy asked.
"What's the range?" I asked back.
"You can have straight-through, no changes, and there are twenty down-grades from there. The first ten take us down to zero, then we have minus settings."
"Try five," I said.
Push. Brzzt, phmmmm.
It was pitch-black as the man walked alone along the road to Monstsou, The icy wind blew across the beet fields and the
stranger bowed his head low towards the cobblestones at his feet.
I could live with that. It wasn't Zola any more, but not criminal.
"Try two?"
Brzzt, phmmmm.
It was a dark and stormy night.
"Minus two?"
There he was out in the dark and miles from town. He couldn't see his hand in front of his face! Oh boy, he'd done it this time!
"Minus Five?"
It was dark and windy as Johnny walked to town. "Oh, what a fool I was!" he thought ruefully. He should have listened to Jenny. "Look before you leap, John Watkins!" she had warned him forebodingly.
For now I'll have to rest my case, But I'm only warming up.
But then I realised that there are many stories where something like this happens. (It's slightly longer-timed in the story but that's a word-count thing more than anything else.)
They get in, get out, and barely create dust. A week later you cannot remember the plot, theme, character, but more importantly, the emotions, the weight, the smell have disappeared.
But my reaction to the poem is whispering something to me, something like my "napalm" idea but not quite the same.
This: when you want to convey into the reader a certain set of emotions, it is not only the semantic content you have to think about, but the musicality, tone, pace, pacing etc. Part of the reader is hypnotised.
Some musics stick, get under, start to burn, some just bounce off.
Worse (and this is only a partly-formed idea right now) some use a cheap trick to get, not under the skin at all, but into some cheap hotel in the head where all the responses are well-known and we are too lazy to walk out in the rain, get wet, risk getting mugged, because across the street is a place that's alive-alive-alive and the Devil drops in on Thursdays.
What I will say next, may or may not be connected to my thoughts above (but that's the point really, should all connections always be the perfectly crisp, neatly-packaged ones that don't unhinge us?)
Yesterday, scouring second-hand bookshops for biographical stuff on T S Eliot (and when I quote him I might be able to show how some lines go straight up under the ribs) I picked up, for a throw-away pound, the stories of Sean O'Faolain. In the foreword to his collection he says:
"I must, if only in my defence, tell the reader of this volume that it opens with three stories from my first collection, Midsummer Night Madness and that although I have chosen them because I like them very much they contain things that make me smile today – and yet I have been unwilling to rewrite them. I should like to explain why.
They belong to a period, my twenties. They are very "romantic" as their weighted style shows. I should have to change my nature if I were to [rewrite and] change the style, which is full of romantic words, such as dawn, dew, onwards, youth, world, adamant or dusk; of metaphors and abstractions; of personalisations and sensations which belong to the author rather than to the characters.
They also contain many of those romantic words "and" and "but", which are words that are part of the attempt to carry on and expand the effect after the sense has been given. Writers who put down the essential thing, without any cocoon about it, do not need those "ands" and "buts". The thing is given and there it lies; whereas the writer who luxuriates goes on with the echoes of his first image or idea.
His emotions and thoughts dilate, the style dilates with them, and in the end he is trying to write a kind of verbal music to convey feelings that the mere sense of the words cannot give. He is chasing the inexpressible. He is interested mainly in his own devouring daemon. He is, as I was in my twenties, drowned in himself.
French writers, on the other hand, often spoil their stories by adding too much analysis in their obsessive pursuit of clarity at all costs.
Hemingway is the real man. He writes short sentences because with his genius for seizing on the essential he can also seize on the simple image to convey what he wants to say. If we sometimes think that he is saying something obvious that may well be because only a man of genius can see and say what, once he has seen and said it, we flatter him by thinking of as obvious."
***
I'm not sure if I needed to drift into discussing Hemingway but it seemed polite to allow Mr O'Faolain to finish his page! From here on I'm on unsteady ground, trying to write an article while at the same time, trying, for myself, to articulate what I'm feeling. I'm well aware that I could write the article, "discover" and then edit it to death until it actually looks like I'm expert and always was. In fact I was expert before I was born.
This is a complex thing. It's to do with many things and they are not all concrete; language, pace, pacing, the removal of the author, obliqueness, appeal to memory and myth, allusion, language again, tone, voice, the colour of words, rhythm (as emphases, rise and fall, musicality, tone) all these things can combine to direct the story "underneath and inside."
We have all heard the person who cannot tell a joke well. It's not the joke, it's the way yer tell 'em. So we know the delivery is part of the meaning.
A good poet is a good poet, a great slam-poet is a performer. Many poets and writers cannot read their own work well, some are brilliant speakers and enrich the poem beyond what we can see on the page. I think it was Eliot who on hearing Yeats read a poem said to fully understand them, to completely feel, you needed to be Irish, speak as an Irishman, know and feel Ireland's history. I've probably made that up, but I don't care.
If I write, "Married and not even pregnant, there's posh for you!" that is so Welsh I can see red shirts at The Arms Park, miners clopping home along black streets, wives with arms folded standing in doorways. For all I know that might have originated in London's East End, or in Newcastle or might have been invented on the stage, but my reality is I hear it from my mother's mouth and the voice, the lilt, the wry commentary open up all my Welshness, the different sensibilities of a South Walian and alter my experience.
This is even wilder, crazier, when I remind myself my mother was Irish!
I think most writers understand the nature of the woman's magazine story, the "womag" story. As an email correspondent wrote; "They are trilling, shallow, meaningless. They avoid the uncomfortable core of human existence and even when "an issue" is raised it is dealt with in a blink of an eye, simplistic, no ripples, no complexity, no doubt."
Now look at the phrasings of some womag stories.
Things were different for Jimmy at Grandma and Grandpa's house.
It all started when a job came up at the local school.
I finally found a recipe I could understand.
She was worried that he wasn't settling in to school as he should.
"This looks like a nice little pub," said Fred.
What is missing here? Why do we instantly know that the piece will be lightweight, that nothing will hurt? Note how the words are from the first 300-400 words of the average vocabulary, the phrases are simplistic and/or clichés, that nothing remotely surprises or challenges. Nothing gets "fired off by connection" here, there's no sense of place, no colour in the expression. It's ersatz, terribly bland.
Could this ever get under the skin and move someone? Ummmm…
We just know the moment we look at lines like these that nothing of importance could ever follow. It's mindless. Trivial.
I'm trying to explore the idea that when we watch TV, or see a film, or read a book, or read a short-story or a poem we either open up in a real, slightly-dangerous, exposed way (inside us there are many mansions) or we simply deal with the piece like that cheap hotel. We know all the tricks, every push-button, chuck it here, oh right, got that.
The cheap hotel has been tarted up lately. Next to the womag ballroom, and The Mills & Boon Lounge there's the chick-lit bar. What matters here in the land of no challenges, the place where the biggest surprise you'll get is that oh-so-recognisable twist at the end is that everything is safe and you will never have to think.
Clichés and stereotypes, stock characters, stock scenes, obvious dilemmas stand in the doorway of the cheap hotel. You don't even need to go all the way in! At least there's Horlicks and Seroxat, pillows...
Am I wickedly cruel to include chick-lit with womag? After all there's no questioning the writers show more skill, greater variety. Yeah, maybe. I could vomit reading some womag stuff and the best of chicklit isn't that bad. We rarely get "scared Johnny" on his first day at school who turns out to be the headmaster!
To be fair my correspondent did say Chick-Lit was Layer 2, but she also said: Sex and Shopping and nothing else. It's mechanical, obvious and clichés door-to-door.
But I'm not here to give you that. The content is not really my point (well it is but we are talking about delivery.) Again it's the mechanical nature, the fact that you can cut and paste language from different authors and it's seamless, almost impossible to spot. Though I'll admit this fiction at its worse is better than womag (and at it's rare best shouldn't be lumped in the chicklit bucket at all) the vast majority of it still abounds with stock phrasing and the language never surprises. It's de-languaged to the point of banality, triviality. Even if there is a decent story somewhere in there, the story stands alone, set aside from the delivery. The delivery is THE STANDARD delivery for "all chick-lit. The language doesn't matter.
We get more of the obvious lines, lines that do almost nothing, lines that are "chat" writing, stuff we hear in the office. She beamed. "You're a love." "While I washed the dishes." "She raised her eyebrows but said nothing." "Dave went to the back door for a cigarette." "I've had ironing up to my eyeballs." "I ached to phone him."
Are there "OK" stories? Sometimes. But everything, or almost everything is so superficial. "Upset" is throwing myself on the bed and beating the pillow and screaming bastard. And of course it's just upset, not grieving or suicidal, or frightened, or really worried. Do you think she's already read the last few pages and she knows Prince Harry is there?
My problem with all this sort of fiction is its glibness, its triviality, it's quick-fix nature (but that's not the point) and the fact that the language also gives off the boy-band, girl-band, washing-up advert level of language. There's no variety, no charm, no individualism in the diction. The next word is always the obvious word and probably a cliché.
In poetry too we start out with (though I shouldn't say "poetry") the verses inside birthday cards and then the glib dum-dee-dum awful rhymed stuff we see in certain quarters. We can dismiss that but above this level there are published poems such as the one that triggered this article where they're "OK" but are simplistic, relying on a neat closing couplet (the equivalent of a twist-ending) say, a neat expression for loneliness but the journey there is nothing more than thinking, OK, but your point is? And then we get the point and go, Oh, yeah, I suppose…
But if I read Eliot:
Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
I feel things, all the foggy things ever, all the smoky things, all my Decembers, everything. Something here reaches into me straight away.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled
Sure I see the obvious, remember dads and Granddads on Barry Island beach, blokes with knotted hankies on their heads (do they still do that now?) and all those Barry or Porthcawl outings, sand and fish and chips, but I also feel an ache, some old bloke, just feeling it savouring the experience of age.
The difference is these lines are three-dimensional, they can contain as many meaning as we want them to.
The winter evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways
Same thing. I love the language, the difference, the surprise in the words but what they illustrate isn't singular, it sets off thoughts, links, memories
It isn't "cheap-and-cheerful" writing I despise, it's its homogeneity, the way "writers" prostitute themselves, fall into line, go with the flow and take out every last vestige of originality of thought just to be published.
This is from a novel-in-progress called The Bella Archipelago. The guys have invented a writing machine:
Maybe this gets close to what I see as the problem.
We were half-way through our second tumbler when I asked Jeremy what could IMARITA do with other texts. Could it work on stuff already in print? How would it deal with his namesake's work, for instance?
"What d'you have?" Jeremy said, so I leaned over, closed my eyes, did a lucky dip off my bookcase, and came up with Germinal.
"Try Zola," I said. "I'll read it out to you."
Jeremy grinned and began typing.
On a pitch-black, starless night, a solitary man was trudging along the main road from Marchiennes to Monstsou, ten kilometres of cobblestones running straight as a die across the bare plain between fields of beet. He could not even make out the black ground in front of him, and it was only the feel of the march wind blowing in great gusts like a storm at sea, but icy cold from sweeping over miles of marshes and bare earth, that gave him a sensation of limitless, flat horizons. There was not a single tree to darken the sky, and the cobbled high road ran on with the straightness of a jetty through the swirling sea of black shadows.
Good old Emil! I'd forgotten the miserable bugger. At the end of that first paragraph I thought maybe I'd read him again.
"What setting?" Jeremy asked.
"What's the range?" I asked back.
"You can have straight-through, no changes, and there are twenty down-grades from there. The first ten take us down to zero, then we have minus settings."
"Try five," I said.
Push. Brzzt, phmmmm.
It was pitch-black as the man walked alone along the road to Monstsou, The icy wind blew across the beet fields and the
stranger bowed his head low towards the cobblestones at his feet.
I could live with that. It wasn't Zola any more, but not criminal.
"Try two?"
Brzzt, phmmmm.
It was a dark and stormy night.
"Minus two?"
There he was out in the dark and miles from town. He couldn't see his hand in front of his face! Oh boy, he'd done it this time!
"Minus Five?"
It was dark and windy as Johnny walked to town. "Oh, what a fool I was!" he thought ruefully. He should have listened to Jenny. "Look before you leap, John Watkins!" she had warned him forebodingly.
For now I'll have to rest my case, But I'm only warming up.
Testing! Testing!
Email this morning
Is your blog down, or is there something wrong with my server?
Maybe the Society for the Preservation of Dialogue Openers has
campaigned to get you taken off air.
NOT YET IT AIN"T!
Is your blog down, or is there something wrong with my server?
Maybe the Society for the Preservation of Dialogue Openers has
campaigned to get you taken off air.
NOT YET IT AIN"T!
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
and these, another BCer
Turning Right
Why God still uses a slide-rule
Broken Skin
May Contain Nuts
Stop that Painful Craving
Digging into the apple with my thumbs
The Panic Room
Yesterday is a different country
Tears Dry on their Own
How Not to Lose your Identity
In the land where nothing happens twice
The interview's not till after lunch
With sadness there is something to rub against
Why God still uses a slide-rule
Broken Skin
May Contain Nuts
Stop that Painful Craving
Digging into the apple with my thumbs
The Panic Room
Yesterday is a different country
Tears Dry on their Own
How Not to Lose your Identity
In the land where nothing happens twice
The interview's not till after lunch
With sadness there is something to rub against
20:10 Second Set of prompts
No convictions, that's my one major fault
O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
On a late bruised-looking roadside weed, a butterfly
Part of the problem in this house is hormones.
People talk nonsense and I put them straight
So by the winter of 1911 there were no more than nine
So here it is, the walled-up door
So the holiday proceeds, a series of snapshots
Some said he must glower at his mistress
Spindly in a heat-haze, almost out of sight
That would be my worst nightmare.
The autumn, when the convicts took their leave
The June moors whispered and rustled their cloaks
The milk and the post arrive with a baby
There were beech trees there, three of them
They sit as far apart as you can in a small compartment
They walk too far, out in the sticking mud
Those bastards in their mansions
Though she'd only a dove's flitting of a family herself
What's on, my dear Ellie Menterry?
When did I ever see you wear a hat?
When I was twelve I fell and broke my elbow.
Winters or springs, summers or harvest, bristling or sunning
with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed
Women had little guts, except for one or two
Yes, but what about the spiders?
You are near again and have been there
your man is long gone, and I have loitered
O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
On a late bruised-looking roadside weed, a butterfly
Part of the problem in this house is hormones.
People talk nonsense and I put them straight
So by the winter of 1911 there were no more than nine
So here it is, the walled-up door
So the holiday proceeds, a series of snapshots
Some said he must glower at his mistress
Spindly in a heat-haze, almost out of sight
That would be my worst nightmare.
The autumn, when the convicts took their leave
The June moors whispered and rustled their cloaks
The milk and the post arrive with a baby
There were beech trees there, three of them
They sit as far apart as you can in a small compartment
They walk too far, out in the sticking mud
Those bastards in their mansions
Though she'd only a dove's flitting of a family herself
What's on, my dear Ellie Menterry?
When did I ever see you wear a hat?
When I was twelve I fell and broke my elbow.
Winters or springs, summers or harvest, bristling or sunning
with just a toothbrush and the good earth for a bed
Women had little guts, except for one or two
Yes, but what about the spiders?
You are near again and have been there
your man is long gone, and I have loitered
Lack of Moral Fibre
In Boot Camp there's a good heavy debate going on about whether we have themes and use characters to express those themes (OR) have characters who create themes (and a few other methods)
This has people there talking about stories which seem to not have themes or have messy themes or contradictory themes
And then they are talking about consciousness of theme creating stilted writing orr "essays"
We're discussing all these things and I've just posted this story to use an as illustration of various points.
Did the author set out to prove some theme?
Is that what you feel? ie: is it an essay?
Or is it an exploration? Does it HAVE a theme?
(punctuation is deliberate)
LACK OF MORAL FIBRE
north africa 1943
Bridie something happened today and I want to tell you. well write it on a letter and stick it in the tin the one for letters that I dont want to get sensored I mean. but tell you anyway. if anything happens and they send you a fellah's tin.
Bridie I carnt say where I am exact even tho Im not going to send this off. If something happened and the Jerrys got hold of my tin they might be able to work out where weve been. careless talk cost lives. Id like to send this off but theres no point as the sensor would scrub harf of evrything off and whats left wouldnt make any sense.
I keep thinking how big you must be now with the baby. I really wish I could be there when it comes. I really dont want to be here. I want to be with you and I want to be there for the baby when it comes. the doctor rekkoned in the middle of August dint he and its August now. you might of all ready had it and I dont no if its a boy or a girl.
they might charge me with lack of moral fibre Bridie. Im not some big brave lug but Im not yellow neither and LMF means your yellow and not up to being a fighting man. Well Im not up to being a fighting man but that doesnt mean Im yellow. I can fight to look after you or the baby or for the farm but standing out in the desert all alone on your own ecept for scorpions and ghurkas creeping around thats different theres no point.
sometimes when I manage it and I think of you and see your face O Bridie it hurts. we only had 48 hrs and the one night in the Barry hotel thats all. its not enough for two people to love each other properly. I was scared achully when we were getting married. I had lack of moral fibre then all right. but I never new that it could be so wonderful tho Bridie or that first time youd fall and Id be in north africa when you got big and the baby came.
still.
I carnt say anything about my job but you no what it is roughly. well yesterday we had a shot up Hurricane down in no mans land and they sent out a jeep and brought the pilot in but someone had to go out and guard the plane. corporal hill picked me and they took me out and left me with a 303 and five rounds plus one up the spout. me and six bullets looking after a shot up Hurry it was stupid. it was very hot in the afternoon and I thought Id get fried. then it was evening and then it got dark and then it got colder and colder and I thought I was going to freeze.
this moral fibre stuff is all mixed up Bridie. one of my tin letters says about when we first got machine-gunned by fock wolf 190s. I run out in front of the Hurrys and started popping off at the Jerrys and corporal hill grabbed me and pulled my gun away. he said stop trying to be a hero jonesy you carnt hit a flaming 190 with a lee enfield. Then I dived under the Hurry and Corporal Hill grabbed me and made me run away from the planes. he said Jerry wasnt after us he was after the planes. we couldun do nothing about Jerry. leave shooting at planes to the regiment aa boys.
then once we got ourselfs into a scrape in a little ayrab town on a 12 hour pass and jockey harris fell out with some huge squaddie who was giving him a pasting. I said come on mate pick on someone your own size. I was bigger than jockey but this squaddie was like a tree comparing to me and corporal hill whacked him with a bottle. we legged it. after I said corp hitting a bloke with a bottle is dirty and he laughed and said alls fair in love and war and I had a screw loose if I really wanted to fight a goliath. I said I didnt want to fight no goliaths but someone had to help out jockey. he jest shook his head.
I do have guts Bridie. when I first met up with you in Swansea those roughnecks were pulling your dress. Well Bridie I was very scared then but being scared isnt the same as being yellow its just common sens isnt it.
I knew if they took me on that was that. but they didnt which is just as well. I dont know what Id of done ecept I wouldnt of run away. a man cant.
Bridie if youv all ready had a baby and its a girl I hope you called it Mary Bridget like we said. wen I close my eyes I can still see you - still feel how special it was in the Barry hotel and how we - you know - the first time. It wasnt a surprise to me that you got in the family way the first time. I remember all the stars and the sound of the waves when we walked up on the cliffs that night and I remember how we held each other and how all I wanted was for us to get the war over and have about twenty kids and make a go of the farm.
thats it I think Bridie. im a farmer not a fighting man. it says we can make swords into ploughs. thats what I want to do plough. A man can avoid scraps. its not big to win scraps even tho wen I was younger I did get into the odd one. I think a man has to keep hisself to hisself and look after his wife and his baby. thats whats right I think.
I wish I could be with you.
it got very cold in the desert but I could of managed that but it was the dark Bridie. the dark moves when its really dark did you know that. and the worst bit is that the Hurry was hot and then when it got to be night it started to cool and make noises. I tried to do all sorts of things to take my mind off being scared but it just got worst. by the middle of the night I was jumping out of my skin evry time the engine did a clunk or a click.
Not only that Bride but there were ghurkas out there. even tho their ours their evil little buggers. they got brown faces and big white smiles and in the day their funny little blokes but at night they go out in no mans land and they have these cookris in their mouths and you don't hear them or see them, if your standing up they feel your bootlaces. Jerry ties his different. the wrong way and clop your heads off jest like that. if your lying down they can tell if your Jerry from your uniform shoulders. If their wrong clop again.
Well I kept thinking what if they feel my boots and the laces are wrong clop. or what if they feel my shoulders and their wrong. clop. And theres a snake called the shoelace snake here Bridie. it eats your laces and in the morning you go to do up your boots and zip thats it your dead.
And anyway I couldn't do anything to save this Hurry if I wanted to. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere with six bullets. If Jerry wanted the plane hed need a low-loader and eight men. If one or two Jerrys turned up they couldn't pinch a whole plane could they and if about eight came well I wouldnt have enough bullets even if I shot like davy crockett.
so I went back to camp.
but Bridie all the way back I was thinking about you that maybe this was lack of moral fibre and I wasnt all the man youd hoped Id be and that maybe if our baby was a boy you wouldnt want to call him Ron after his dad. Iv got to admit I nearly went back when I thought this Bridie. sometimes when a chap does something that looks brave its because not doing it is more scary than doing it. I mean like when the two roughs were pulling your dress I was very scared but even more scared of not helping. I wouldnt be able to look in the mirror if I didn't help.
but really I couldn't look after the Hurry. Maybe if one ayrab came along on a camel I could shout who goes there and frighten him off but what would an ayrab on a camel want with a bloody big plane anyway.
it was a long way back to camp Bridie. I kept thinking what happens if I miss the road and get lost theirll never find me. the road was near to the sea and when the moon came up I could hear the sea and see the waves and they were silver where they turned over. It made me think of the sea on our wedding night tho the shine then was in your face not the waves.
well I got back and I went to look for corporal hill. I swung my lee enfield off my shoulder and I said corp I walked in. well corp his face was a picture and he said walked in from where and I said walked in from where the shot up Hurry is and he said oh shit (pardon my french).
corporal hill told me buzz off to my tent and get washed up get some breakfast and come back about eleven. Thats why I think its lack of moral fibre Im up on. Its getting that time all ready Bridie so Im writing this letter and putting it in the tin in case. Theres a war on. LMF is serious. they can put you away for quite a while for LMF. even shoot you if they want to. I carnt believe theirll shoot me. all I did was walk back to camp but it doesnt mean the thought doesnt cross your mind.
they keep telling us that all this fighting across north africa and I spose eventually all the way up italy getting machine gunned by 190s and standing out in the dark guarding shot up Hurrys is the same as looking after our loved ones on the farm. They keep telling us its about freedom and not standing for Jerrys shennanigans give an inch he takes a mile.
well I dont know Bridie. Seems to me that I could have stayed on the farm and built it up and kept out of the war and been with you. and when Mary or Ron had come we could think about another one or two to start with. seems to me thats man enough for anyone and fighting a couple of roughnecks or some squaddie is best avoided and serves no purpose.
I know that I shot at the 109s but that was like I got carried away. I know I would have had a crack at that big squaddie but that was only because he was too big for Jockey. them cases I can explain but standing in the cold in the middle of the night next to a shot up Hurry with snakes and scorpions and ghurkas after your laces not when you cant do anything if Jerry comes after the plane anyway that doesnt make any sense and if thats lack of moral fibre then its lack of moral fibre.
1,999 words
This has people there talking about stories which seem to not have themes or have messy themes or contradictory themes
And then they are talking about consciousness of theme creating stilted writing orr "essays"
We're discussing all these things and I've just posted this story to use an as illustration of various points.
Did the author set out to prove some theme?
Is that what you feel? ie: is it an essay?
Or is it an exploration? Does it HAVE a theme?
(punctuation is deliberate)
LACK OF MORAL FIBRE
north africa 1943
Bridie something happened today and I want to tell you. well write it on a letter and stick it in the tin the one for letters that I dont want to get sensored I mean. but tell you anyway. if anything happens and they send you a fellah's tin.
Bridie I carnt say where I am exact even tho Im not going to send this off. If something happened and the Jerrys got hold of my tin they might be able to work out where weve been. careless talk cost lives. Id like to send this off but theres no point as the sensor would scrub harf of evrything off and whats left wouldnt make any sense.
I keep thinking how big you must be now with the baby. I really wish I could be there when it comes. I really dont want to be here. I want to be with you and I want to be there for the baby when it comes. the doctor rekkoned in the middle of August dint he and its August now. you might of all ready had it and I dont no if its a boy or a girl.
they might charge me with lack of moral fibre Bridie. Im not some big brave lug but Im not yellow neither and LMF means your yellow and not up to being a fighting man. Well Im not up to being a fighting man but that doesnt mean Im yellow. I can fight to look after you or the baby or for the farm but standing out in the desert all alone on your own ecept for scorpions and ghurkas creeping around thats different theres no point.
sometimes when I manage it and I think of you and see your face O Bridie it hurts. we only had 48 hrs and the one night in the Barry hotel thats all. its not enough for two people to love each other properly. I was scared achully when we were getting married. I had lack of moral fibre then all right. but I never new that it could be so wonderful tho Bridie or that first time youd fall and Id be in north africa when you got big and the baby came.
still.
I carnt say anything about my job but you no what it is roughly. well yesterday we had a shot up Hurricane down in no mans land and they sent out a jeep and brought the pilot in but someone had to go out and guard the plane. corporal hill picked me and they took me out and left me with a 303 and five rounds plus one up the spout. me and six bullets looking after a shot up Hurry it was stupid. it was very hot in the afternoon and I thought Id get fried. then it was evening and then it got dark and then it got colder and colder and I thought I was going to freeze.
this moral fibre stuff is all mixed up Bridie. one of my tin letters says about when we first got machine-gunned by fock wolf 190s. I run out in front of the Hurrys and started popping off at the Jerrys and corporal hill grabbed me and pulled my gun away. he said stop trying to be a hero jonesy you carnt hit a flaming 190 with a lee enfield. Then I dived under the Hurry and Corporal Hill grabbed me and made me run away from the planes. he said Jerry wasnt after us he was after the planes. we couldun do nothing about Jerry. leave shooting at planes to the regiment aa boys.
then once we got ourselfs into a scrape in a little ayrab town on a 12 hour pass and jockey harris fell out with some huge squaddie who was giving him a pasting. I said come on mate pick on someone your own size. I was bigger than jockey but this squaddie was like a tree comparing to me and corporal hill whacked him with a bottle. we legged it. after I said corp hitting a bloke with a bottle is dirty and he laughed and said alls fair in love and war and I had a screw loose if I really wanted to fight a goliath. I said I didnt want to fight no goliaths but someone had to help out jockey. he jest shook his head.
I do have guts Bridie. when I first met up with you in Swansea those roughnecks were pulling your dress. Well Bridie I was very scared then but being scared isnt the same as being yellow its just common sens isnt it.
I knew if they took me on that was that. but they didnt which is just as well. I dont know what Id of done ecept I wouldnt of run away. a man cant.
Bridie if youv all ready had a baby and its a girl I hope you called it Mary Bridget like we said. wen I close my eyes I can still see you - still feel how special it was in the Barry hotel and how we - you know - the first time. It wasnt a surprise to me that you got in the family way the first time. I remember all the stars and the sound of the waves when we walked up on the cliffs that night and I remember how we held each other and how all I wanted was for us to get the war over and have about twenty kids and make a go of the farm.
thats it I think Bridie. im a farmer not a fighting man. it says we can make swords into ploughs. thats what I want to do plough. A man can avoid scraps. its not big to win scraps even tho wen I was younger I did get into the odd one. I think a man has to keep hisself to hisself and look after his wife and his baby. thats whats right I think.
I wish I could be with you.
it got very cold in the desert but I could of managed that but it was the dark Bridie. the dark moves when its really dark did you know that. and the worst bit is that the Hurry was hot and then when it got to be night it started to cool and make noises. I tried to do all sorts of things to take my mind off being scared but it just got worst. by the middle of the night I was jumping out of my skin evry time the engine did a clunk or a click.
Not only that Bride but there were ghurkas out there. even tho their ours their evil little buggers. they got brown faces and big white smiles and in the day their funny little blokes but at night they go out in no mans land and they have these cookris in their mouths and you don't hear them or see them, if your standing up they feel your bootlaces. Jerry ties his different. the wrong way and clop your heads off jest like that. if your lying down they can tell if your Jerry from your uniform shoulders. If their wrong clop again.
Well I kept thinking what if they feel my boots and the laces are wrong clop. or what if they feel my shoulders and their wrong. clop. And theres a snake called the shoelace snake here Bridie. it eats your laces and in the morning you go to do up your boots and zip thats it your dead.
And anyway I couldn't do anything to save this Hurry if I wanted to. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere with six bullets. If Jerry wanted the plane hed need a low-loader and eight men. If one or two Jerrys turned up they couldn't pinch a whole plane could they and if about eight came well I wouldnt have enough bullets even if I shot like davy crockett.
so I went back to camp.
but Bridie all the way back I was thinking about you that maybe this was lack of moral fibre and I wasnt all the man youd hoped Id be and that maybe if our baby was a boy you wouldnt want to call him Ron after his dad. Iv got to admit I nearly went back when I thought this Bridie. sometimes when a chap does something that looks brave its because not doing it is more scary than doing it. I mean like when the two roughs were pulling your dress I was very scared but even more scared of not helping. I wouldnt be able to look in the mirror if I didn't help.
but really I couldn't look after the Hurry. Maybe if one ayrab came along on a camel I could shout who goes there and frighten him off but what would an ayrab on a camel want with a bloody big plane anyway.
it was a long way back to camp Bridie. I kept thinking what happens if I miss the road and get lost theirll never find me. the road was near to the sea and when the moon came up I could hear the sea and see the waves and they were silver where they turned over. It made me think of the sea on our wedding night tho the shine then was in your face not the waves.
well I got back and I went to look for corporal hill. I swung my lee enfield off my shoulder and I said corp I walked in. well corp his face was a picture and he said walked in from where and I said walked in from where the shot up Hurry is and he said oh shit (pardon my french).
corporal hill told me buzz off to my tent and get washed up get some breakfast and come back about eleven. Thats why I think its lack of moral fibre Im up on. Its getting that time all ready Bridie so Im writing this letter and putting it in the tin in case. Theres a war on. LMF is serious. they can put you away for quite a while for LMF. even shoot you if they want to. I carnt believe theirll shoot me. all I did was walk back to camp but it doesnt mean the thought doesnt cross your mind.
they keep telling us that all this fighting across north africa and I spose eventually all the way up italy getting machine gunned by 190s and standing out in the dark guarding shot up Hurrys is the same as looking after our loved ones on the farm. They keep telling us its about freedom and not standing for Jerrys shennanigans give an inch he takes a mile.
well I dont know Bridie. Seems to me that I could have stayed on the farm and built it up and kept out of the war and been with you. and when Mary or Ron had come we could think about another one or two to start with. seems to me thats man enough for anyone and fighting a couple of roughnecks or some squaddie is best avoided and serves no purpose.
I know that I shot at the 109s but that was like I got carried away. I know I would have had a crack at that big squaddie but that was only because he was too big for Jockey. them cases I can explain but standing in the cold in the middle of the night next to a shot up Hurry with snakes and scorpions and ghurkas after your laces not when you cant do anything if Jerry comes after the plane anyway that doesnt make any sense and if thats lack of moral fibre then its lack of moral fibre.
1,999 words
First of Three Flash Sessions
6-8-10 Tonight
The miracle of glass
Zebra
She pauses at a picture
How does the book open?
Cloud shadow
Are you prepared for what the night will bring?
Pie
The game is finished, he plays his ace
In the field, two horses
Climbing the hill within the deafening wind
I'm not a slag
Instructions, under plain brown covers
It was me who found the sausages next day
Variations on the Dead
Maybe father would have done better to keep a civil tongue in his head
Milk Wood
My dear, my skeleton will set like biscuit overnight
Anchor
Never let it be said that when things are looking their grimmest, they can't get worse.
God is on YouTube
Possibly, possibly
To some new ambush, another mistake
The miracle of glass
Zebra
She pauses at a picture
How does the book open?
Cloud shadow
Are you prepared for what the night will bring?
Pie
The game is finished, he plays his ace
In the field, two horses
Climbing the hill within the deafening wind
I'm not a slag
Instructions, under plain brown covers
It was me who found the sausages next day
Variations on the Dead
Maybe father would have done better to keep a civil tongue in his head
Milk Wood
My dear, my skeleton will set like biscuit overnight
Anchor
Never let it be said that when things are looking their grimmest, they can't get worse.
God is on YouTube
Possibly, possibly
To some new ambush, another mistake
The Road Below the Window
An airless dusk before thunder, a man running. I am putting in my eye-drops. The radio is playing downstairs in the kitchen. I think I can smell pear-drops. For one second I am in a glass-jarred sweetshop, then that gap in history closes, like a cloud closes on a ladderlight of sun.
I hear more running, no boots yet. I blink, stand up and go to the window, carefully, to the side, and look out through dirty lace.
The storm swells up, electric, heavy. The afternoon, buzzes, hisses like bees in an animal skull stumbled against on a cliff-walk.
The clocks say eight, the light says winter. This is still summer but the sense of weight in my country, the dark foreboding, is like a bad smell, something rotten behind a wall, something waiting to burst.
How did we come here, to these unexpected latitudes? When we saw the first fires, the uniforms, the rallies, why were we so excited? Could we not see how far we had been moved from the rivers of our childhood, from those days when life revolved around a penny, pear-drops, chocolate?
So much that was good, so much removed. The light in the eyes of fathers on Sunday afternoons when the trams were stopped and we scurried out along the tracks as if finding freedom for the first time, fathers, mothers, always in their best, children with polished shoes, those, high, light voices.
Now I hear the first car and the heavier braking of a truck. And now the boots. They manage to clatter in step. Perversely the clop and rush on the cobbles is rich and alive. I would call it musical, exciting, if it were not such a tragedy.
My eyes have settled. I go down the stairs, making little noise. It is important, these days, to be invisible. I am standing in the stone-flagged kitchen, the black kettle is swelling with heat on the stove, when I hear the single shot. There is something about the singleness, its isolation that I know it has struck down its target.
I am sad, but I do not know who has been shot. It is a routine death and I must drink my coffee and eat a little rye bread.
This house was once so full, so dizzy with noise, the clamour of the nest. My son, so booming, so important and the girls darting, finishing nothing, their voices like strings tuning before a symphony.
Helen had her lover. They met in cafes. She was always early. She said once that she feared not dying, but she feared that one day tomorrow simply would not come. Father, am I wrong she said? I could not answer. So she went to her young man early, because if she was late then she had missed some time with him and it was gone forever.
I am thinking of you now Ruth. How you cannot be is beyond me, but you are not, I have to say it, you are not. I am sorry I did such a bad job, that Karl is lost, Helen, little Ruth, Anna. They are travelling, I am sure.
Helen, I am reading Dante again. It is a wicked poem. It sidles up to me. Who said, the poem reads the man? It reads me, me, the man who waited patiently for answers, the man who was polite until it was too late, the man who obeyed orders, who was law-abiding until the loathsome stench rose up and could not be ignored.
Before he said his last goodbye and warned me to stop writing, Karl came home just one more time. He was healthy, vigorous, tall and muscular, and if the uniform had been one in which I was proud to see him, he looked every bit the grand soldier. He spoke of how he was now exalted, free, yet not an inch of him was free.
Helen, of course, married that young man. She could not risk the endless night. They were married in a place called Windug, but then like so many others, they went away.
I looked down from the window earlier. I saw only the dull cobbles waiting for an onrush of rain, then I heard running. We run, we run, but where to?
Before you went away, you would make me look down, look out on the hungry. You called it the famine road, and you would give away our bread. But then you died, your quiet, routine, small death. I was given a half-day off work.
I know my country was sweet, once. It was sweet. I remember those walks, the tinkling shops, the chocolate, the pear-drops. In winter, the mountains, the clear waters, snowdrops, Edelweiss.
Was I really one of those who welcomed them? Was I? We were sweet, wholesome, a steady ship. Did I help bring in this heavy, filthy, sea? Or ship sank routinely while the bands played and we were much smaller than we imagined. When a sugar-ship sinks, is the sea made sweet? No, the sea corrupts, the rest is lost.
Look down you said once, this was once a famine road. Look down, see, my love, the hungry and you sent me to the pantry for food. I opened the pantry door and a river of filth flowed out.
I hear more running, no boots yet. I blink, stand up and go to the window, carefully, to the side, and look out through dirty lace.
The storm swells up, electric, heavy. The afternoon, buzzes, hisses like bees in an animal skull stumbled against on a cliff-walk.
The clocks say eight, the light says winter. This is still summer but the sense of weight in my country, the dark foreboding, is like a bad smell, something rotten behind a wall, something waiting to burst.
How did we come here, to these unexpected latitudes? When we saw the first fires, the uniforms, the rallies, why were we so excited? Could we not see how far we had been moved from the rivers of our childhood, from those days when life revolved around a penny, pear-drops, chocolate?
So much that was good, so much removed. The light in the eyes of fathers on Sunday afternoons when the trams were stopped and we scurried out along the tracks as if finding freedom for the first time, fathers, mothers, always in their best, children with polished shoes, those, high, light voices.
Now I hear the first car and the heavier braking of a truck. And now the boots. They manage to clatter in step. Perversely the clop and rush on the cobbles is rich and alive. I would call it musical, exciting, if it were not such a tragedy.
My eyes have settled. I go down the stairs, making little noise. It is important, these days, to be invisible. I am standing in the stone-flagged kitchen, the black kettle is swelling with heat on the stove, when I hear the single shot. There is something about the singleness, its isolation that I know it has struck down its target.
I am sad, but I do not know who has been shot. It is a routine death and I must drink my coffee and eat a little rye bread.
This house was once so full, so dizzy with noise, the clamour of the nest. My son, so booming, so important and the girls darting, finishing nothing, their voices like strings tuning before a symphony.
Helen had her lover. They met in cafes. She was always early. She said once that she feared not dying, but she feared that one day tomorrow simply would not come. Father, am I wrong she said? I could not answer. So she went to her young man early, because if she was late then she had missed some time with him and it was gone forever.
I am thinking of you now Ruth. How you cannot be is beyond me, but you are not, I have to say it, you are not. I am sorry I did such a bad job, that Karl is lost, Helen, little Ruth, Anna. They are travelling, I am sure.
Helen, I am reading Dante again. It is a wicked poem. It sidles up to me. Who said, the poem reads the man? It reads me, me, the man who waited patiently for answers, the man who was polite until it was too late, the man who obeyed orders, who was law-abiding until the loathsome stench rose up and could not be ignored.
Before he said his last goodbye and warned me to stop writing, Karl came home just one more time. He was healthy, vigorous, tall and muscular, and if the uniform had been one in which I was proud to see him, he looked every bit the grand soldier. He spoke of how he was now exalted, free, yet not an inch of him was free.
Helen, of course, married that young man. She could not risk the endless night. They were married in a place called Windug, but then like so many others, they went away.
I looked down from the window earlier. I saw only the dull cobbles waiting for an onrush of rain, then I heard running. We run, we run, but where to?
Before you went away, you would make me look down, look out on the hungry. You called it the famine road, and you would give away our bread. But then you died, your quiet, routine, small death. I was given a half-day off work.
I know my country was sweet, once. It was sweet. I remember those walks, the tinkling shops, the chocolate, the pear-drops. In winter, the mountains, the clear waters, snowdrops, Edelweiss.
Was I really one of those who welcomed them? Was I? We were sweet, wholesome, a steady ship. Did I help bring in this heavy, filthy, sea? Or ship sank routinely while the bands played and we were much smaller than we imagined. When a sugar-ship sinks, is the sea made sweet? No, the sea corrupts, the rest is lost.
Look down you said once, this was once a famine road. Look down, see, my love, the hungry and you sent me to the pantry for food. I opened the pantry door and a river of filth flowed out.
Duracell...
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
17,890 Words Total 2,890 Words ahead of schedule
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
00,890 Words May 15 (Flash)
17,890 Words Total 2,890 Words ahead of schedule
07:30 Prompts on Tuesday
When you see a list of prompts and are thinking, "Is there a story here?" don't just read quickly thorugh and think, "Huh?"
Instead live in the prompts. Read them all, let them interact, then read them again, savour the comparisons and contrasts, read from the bottom upwards, read out loud, stare at lines that "hum" for you.
I'm sincere in believing that everybody can get a story from a list of 10-20 prompts if they just allow them in.
And don't think prompts only lead to small, inconsequential stories. treat them with respect, allow them inside your head (and heart) and they are as powerful, possibly MORE powerful, than life itself.
Why MORE powerful?
Because they shake the tree, they come at you, disturb, fire up the unexpected connections. They reach the unconscious and start to ring bells, open doors, slam them, run around. But you have to open your legs.
PROMPTS
An airless dusk before thunder, a man running
Eye-drops
White bees hiss in the coral skull
Snow-drops
The radio is playing downstairs in the kitchen
Pear-drops
A gap in history closes, like a cloud
Chocolate-drops
Far from a childhood of rivers
Drips
We came to unexpected latitudes
Pangs
The Duke of Common Interest
Pong
There is no such thing as a routine death
Ching!
When a sugar-ship sinks, is the sea sweet?
Alchemy
I am standing in the stone-flagged kitchen
Infamy
On a Sunday afternoon after the trams used to run
Jewel
They met in cafes. She was always early
Tevez
Look down you said, this was once a famine road
Tommy Cooper's Fez
The clock say eight, the light says winter
Reading Dante
The clamour of the nest
The poem reads the man
I opened the pantry door and a river flowed out
Why girls aren't
Not an inch of him was free
Pariah
They were married in a place called Crinkle
Lolly
The mourners at the divorce
Instead live in the prompts. Read them all, let them interact, then read them again, savour the comparisons and contrasts, read from the bottom upwards, read out loud, stare at lines that "hum" for you.
I'm sincere in believing that everybody can get a story from a list of 10-20 prompts if they just allow them in.
And don't think prompts only lead to small, inconsequential stories. treat them with respect, allow them inside your head (and heart) and they are as powerful, possibly MORE powerful, than life itself.
Why MORE powerful?
Because they shake the tree, they come at you, disturb, fire up the unexpected connections. They reach the unconscious and start to ring bells, open doors, slam them, run around. But you have to open your legs.
PROMPTS
An airless dusk before thunder, a man running
Eye-drops
White bees hiss in the coral skull
Snow-drops
The radio is playing downstairs in the kitchen
Pear-drops
A gap in history closes, like a cloud
Chocolate-drops
Far from a childhood of rivers
Drips
We came to unexpected latitudes
Pangs
The Duke of Common Interest
Pong
There is no such thing as a routine death
Ching!
When a sugar-ship sinks, is the sea sweet?
Alchemy
I am standing in the stone-flagged kitchen
Infamy
On a Sunday afternoon after the trams used to run
Jewel
They met in cafes. She was always early
Tevez
Look down you said, this was once a famine road
Tommy Cooper's Fez
The clock say eight, the light says winter
Reading Dante
The clamour of the nest
The poem reads the man
I opened the pantry door and a river flowed out
Why girls aren't
Not an inch of him was free
Pariah
They were married in a place called Crinkle
Lolly
The mourners at the divorce
Monday, 14 May 2007
Another Successful Primary Story Session
11 Stories in for 10PM Friday
ALL CRITIQUED AT LEAST 8 TIMES BY 23:30 MONDAY
Crits/Posts
10-55
09-21
09-13
08-15
08-14
08-14
08-13
08-13
08-12
08-11
08-11
092 Critques
192 Total Thread Posts
and now they all think avbout writing one for THIS Friday
ALL CRITIQUED AT LEAST 8 TIMES BY 23:30 MONDAY
Crits/Posts
10-55
09-21
09-13
08-15
08-14
08-14
08-13
08-13
08-12
08-11
08-11
092 Critques
192 Total Thread Posts
and now they all think avbout writing one for THIS Friday
21:50 Prompts
All over town, cracks in pavements, patios, walls
and behind ran another that stopped now and then
And there's the smudge glimmered through many a week
Andy and Tony were two dafties
Behind the spreading butter comes the knife
Bollocks
CRISP
Depends on my mood, really
Do you want to come round on Saturday?
EXT-erminate!
For he wasn't well-liked by them that set themselves up as gentry
gave him a bit of a shake and asked "Who's pro-German?"
He toyed with a naked razor
He was fumbling between my legs.
he was head over heeels in debt and dammit if you couldn't wonder
he wouldn't do anything against God's will, would father
he'd started that three years before and wasn't through with it yet
Her they come, books, skin, lattes
I didn't know it would hurt like that.
I know things are going to be different from now on.
I was more upset when he didn't dance with me.
I wasn't that fussed though.
I'd shoot myself first.
If I move my mouth, it's mostly to smile
Ignite the flares, connect the phones, wind all the clocks...
I'm dreaming of that work "Man seated reading"
and behind ran another that stopped now and then
And there's the smudge glimmered through many a week
Andy and Tony were two dafties
Behind the spreading butter comes the knife
Bollocks
CRISP
Depends on my mood, really
Do you want to come round on Saturday?
EXT-erminate!
For he wasn't well-liked by them that set themselves up as gentry
gave him a bit of a shake and asked "Who's pro-German?"
He toyed with a naked razor
He was fumbling between my legs.
he was head over heeels in debt and dammit if you couldn't wonder
he wouldn't do anything against God's will, would father
he'd started that three years before and wasn't through with it yet
Her they come, books, skin, lattes
I didn't know it would hurt like that.
I know things are going to be different from now on.
I was more upset when he didn't dance with me.
I wasn't that fussed though.
I'd shoot myself first.
If I move my mouth, it's mostly to smile
Ignite the flares, connect the phones, wind all the clocks...
I'm dreaming of that work "Man seated reading"
Good Start to the Week
Seven BC Hits and the words are flowing too
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
17,000 Words Total 3,000 Words ahead of schedule
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
01,900 Words May 14 (Article & Flash)
17,000 Words Total 3,000 Words ahead of schedule
20:10 Prompts
These, and you may use the previous lot
An old lady writes me
Girls faces dim with time
Now an apprentice washes his cheeks
The grey horse, death
At this town's rotted edges
White rain, wind, and paper sails
No parent knew
That tree under various lights
Merely to name some is prose
An old lady writes me
Girls faces dim with time
Now an apprentice washes his cheeks
The grey horse, death
At this town's rotted edges
White rain, wind, and paper sails
No parent knew
That tree under various lights
Merely to name some is prose
18:34 Flash Prompts
I came upon a child of God, he was walking along the road
The cop slumps alertly on his motorbike
I spit out stale gum
Wanda, when are you going to wear your hair down?
The dark circles of sleepless nights
Like the wind outside, roaring, pausing
Gentleman, which of these three vegetables most represents your sad wife?
After all day scrambling below the peaks
A plane turns on its elegant silver heel, dives
She stares at the number over the door
You do not do, you do not do
We lie on my mother's bed, smoking
I woke early, staring at a tree
Nothing would rest there, nothing would sleep
The sawmill foreman blows a whistle, saws stop
To dream of baboons, periwinkles, sky
Turning and turning
The cop slumps alertly on his motorbike
I spit out stale gum
Wanda, when are you going to wear your hair down?
The dark circles of sleepless nights
Like the wind outside, roaring, pausing
Gentleman, which of these three vegetables most represents your sad wife?
After all day scrambling below the peaks
A plane turns on its elegant silver heel, dives
She stares at the number over the door
You do not do, you do not do
We lie on my mother's bed, smoking
I woke early, staring at a tree
Nothing would rest there, nothing would sleep
The sawmill foreman blows a whistle, saws stop
To dream of baboons, periwinkles, sky
Turning and turning
Flashes Tonight?
There may be three sets of prompts tonight
18:30
20:00
22:15
if there's some BC interest...
alx
18:30
20:00
22:15
if there's some BC interest...
alx
Maybe Smokelong's Editors...
I looked at four issues of Smokelong
The latest issues, 16-15-14 and Issue 3
29-01
20-00
24-01
20-00
93-02
93 stories, just 2 openers
But then I thought this. When a magazine starts it's less well known. The first issue you can contact mates and everything but then the next, well, you are reliant on what is submitted.
It would therefore not be unreasonable to expect a hisgher percentage of D-Os in issues 1 & 2
What was the result when I looked?
35 stories, 4 DOs = 11.42% (when the magazine is scratching for stories)
95 stories, 2 DOs = 2.1% (when the magazine is strongly supported)
or to phrase it another way, when submissions are less/weaker Dialogue Openers were 5.5 times more likely to occur
Alex
PS Lump those sis issues together (less representative) and you get a DO incidence of 4.67%, precisely one story in 23.
Yup, no doubt about it, them there DO's sure is prevalent.
The latest issues, 16-15-14 and Issue 3
29-01
20-00
24-01
20-00
93-02
93 stories, just 2 openers
But then I thought this. When a magazine starts it's less well known. The first issue you can contact mates and everything but then the next, well, you are reliant on what is submitted.
It would therefore not be unreasonable to expect a hisgher percentage of D-Os in issues 1 & 2
What was the result when I looked?
35 stories, 4 DOs = 11.42% (when the magazine is scratching for stories)
95 stories, 2 DOs = 2.1% (when the magazine is strongly supported)
or to phrase it another way, when submissions are less/weaker Dialogue Openers were 5.5 times more likely to occur
Alex
PS Lump those sis issues together (less representative) and you get a DO incidence of 4.67%, precisely one story in 23.
Yup, no doubt about it, them there DO's sure is prevalent.
More Evidence
My reference to Cadenza was challenged as meaningless because a recent edito and the current editor/assistant editor had, in the past, been in Boot Camp.
"Therefore" the data was invalid because they had been 'brainwashed' by me.
Now hang on a minute, those three people, John Ravenscroft, Zoe King, Vanessa Gebbie have been very, very successful while in BC and since they left. John left about SIX YEARS ago, Zoe about 4, Vanessa 2.
But IF they "only write one way" because I brainwashed them (some might say "taught") how come they have been so successful?
These anonymous hecklers are hilarious. If I claim credit for Boot Camp I'm "living off the backs of the writers' success.. it's down the THEM, not me".
But if they make a mistake, THAT is down to me.
So, let's say for the argument, that Cadenza's results "don't count".
What about the Bridport Prize? Do i control that too? What about Best American Short Stories? Do I have a finger in THAT pie also? Did I run the Ian St James Awards?
Get the poiont? These very sad anonymous posters have to think of a different "excuse" each time data is posted.
Here's some more
The Alsop Review
Now the editor of that has never been near Boot Camp, never been taught by me or engaged me in any other way other than the odd email.
If you go to The Alsop Review and Click on THE WRITERS there are 15-20 short-story writers and novelsists. You can view exactly 120 pieces. SEVEN are Dialogue Openers.
5.8%
The statistic stands up yet again.
No try, say "Skipe" or "Long Story Short" and the percentage will probably rise.
Work out why.
"Therefore" the data was invalid because they had been 'brainwashed' by me.
Now hang on a minute, those three people, John Ravenscroft, Zoe King, Vanessa Gebbie have been very, very successful while in BC and since they left. John left about SIX YEARS ago, Zoe about 4, Vanessa 2.
But IF they "only write one way" because I brainwashed them (some might say "taught") how come they have been so successful?
These anonymous hecklers are hilarious. If I claim credit for Boot Camp I'm "living off the backs of the writers' success.. it's down the THEM, not me".
But if they make a mistake, THAT is down to me.
So, let's say for the argument, that Cadenza's results "don't count".
What about the Bridport Prize? Do i control that too? What about Best American Short Stories? Do I have a finger in THAT pie also? Did I run the Ian St James Awards?
Get the poiont? These very sad anonymous posters have to think of a different "excuse" each time data is posted.
Here's some more
The Alsop Review
Now the editor of that has never been near Boot Camp, never been taught by me or engaged me in any other way other than the odd email.
If you go to The Alsop Review and Click on THE WRITERS there are 15-20 short-story writers and novelsists. You can view exactly 120 pieces. SEVEN are Dialogue Openers.
5.8%
The statistic stands up yet again.
No try, say "Skipe" or "Long Story Short" and the percentage will probably rise.
Work out why.
Three Years, One Dialogue Opener
Specially for my anonymous viewers
I just looked at Cadenza's last six competitions (3 years)
So how many Dialogue openers made the prizes in three years?
ONE
Cadenza 16 (Two competitions)
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
NO 1st
NO 2nd
Yes 3rd
Cadenza 15
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
Cadenza 14
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
Cadenza 13
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
Cadenza 12
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
Just ONE out of 18, a story that managed third place
I just looked at Cadenza's last six competitions (3 years)
So how many Dialogue openers made the prizes in three years?
ONE
Cadenza 16 (Two competitions)
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
NO 1st
NO 2nd
Yes 3rd
Cadenza 15
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
Cadenza 14
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
Cadenza 13
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
Cadenza 12
NO 1st
NO 2nd
NO 3rd
Just ONE out of 18, a story that managed third place
One Hun-Dred and TWENTY!
Not "One Hun-dred and EIGHTY!"
(yet) but it's just been pointed out to me that Caroline's First Prize this weekend takes us to 120 Firsts overall
(yet) but it's just been pointed out to me that Caroline's First Prize this weekend takes us to 120 Firsts overall
Three More Hits Today after Four Yesterday
Two paying acceptances at Espresso Fiction and CALLY! has an acceptance at Word Riot
Seven hits and a first prize in 24 Hours!!
That's 77 Hits this year, four First prizes and $3,393 in payments
PRIZE LIST ($3,054 won)
FIRSTS
001 Fleur wins $2,000 Guardian/Virgin Trains Prize
002 TomC wins Mary Gornall ($150)
003 TomC wins Grace Dieu Writers ($400)
004 Caroline wins Blaenau Gwent ($170)
SECONDS - Runner-Up
001 DaveP RUNNER-UP in Biscuit. WINS Digital Voice Recorder ($84)
002 Cally runner-up in Cotswold Prize ($50)
003 Jenny Jackson $100 second at JBWB
THIRDS
001 Lexie 3rd in Grace Dieu ($100)
FINALS
001 Colin named shortlist at Happenstance
002 Lexie Highly Commended at Cafe Writers
003 Cally HC at JBWB
004 Caroline HR runner-up at Flashquake
005 BCer shortlisted (results TBA) at Philip Good
006 Cally shortlisted in Biscuit
007 ColU shortlisted in Biscuit
008 Joel shortlisted at Tonto
009 RVJ shortlisted at Earlyworks (1)
010 RVJ shortlisted at Earlyworks (2)
011 RVJ HR'd at JBWB
012 Cally HR'd at Twisted Tongue
Seven hits and a first prize in 24 Hours!!
That's 77 Hits this year, four First prizes and $3,393 in payments
PRIZE LIST ($3,054 won)
FIRSTS
001 Fleur wins $2,000 Guardian/Virgin Trains Prize
002 TomC wins Mary Gornall ($150)
003 TomC wins Grace Dieu Writers ($400)
004 Caroline wins Blaenau Gwent ($170)
SECONDS - Runner-Up
001 DaveP RUNNER-UP in Biscuit. WINS Digital Voice Recorder ($84)
002 Cally runner-up in Cotswold Prize ($50)
003 Jenny Jackson $100 second at JBWB
THIRDS
001 Lexie 3rd in Grace Dieu ($100)
FINALS
001 Colin named shortlist at Happenstance
002 Lexie Highly Commended at Cafe Writers
003 Cally HC at JBWB
004 Caroline HR runner-up at Flashquake
005 BCer shortlisted (results TBA) at Philip Good
006 Cally shortlisted in Biscuit
007 ColU shortlisted in Biscuit
008 Joel shortlisted at Tonto
009 RVJ shortlisted at Earlyworks (1)
010 RVJ shortlisted at Earlyworks (2)
011 RVJ HR'd at JBWB
012 Cally HR'd at Twisted Tongue
Further Proof that Dialogue Openers are a Bad Idea
I have unearthed a whole batch of statistics about dialogue openers and their prevelance. It's important to note that some teachers of light popular fiction and womag fiction state that it is a good thing to open with dialogue "because it's immediately interesting, engaging, intimate" and that at least one "teacher" states that "more than half" of such stories begin with dialogue.
Here are the results of a survey I did in 2005/2006
I looked at 2,467 Stories
1.98% Nobel Prize Winners
2.50% OHenry Prize Winners
2.94% Best American New Voices
2.96% Best American Short Stories
3.78% Selected Famous Writers
6.62% All Famous Writers Surveyed
7.09% Ian St James Finalists (but only 1% in Prizes)
8.79% Bridport Finalists (but only 1% in Prizes)
5.44% OVERALL:
2,467 Stories.
2,333 Did NOT open with dialogue
Just 134 stories opened with dialogue
Many of these are competition entries. That is beginner and intermediate writers, NOT the best, most experienced writers.
The OHenry's in Detail
020 18 02 10 OHenry Prize 1997
020 20 00 00 OHenry Prize 1998
020 20 00 00 OHenry Prize 1999
020 20 00 00 OHenry Prize 2001
020 19 01 05 OHenry Prize 2002
020 20 00 00 OHenry Prize 2005
120 117 003 2.5% OVERALL
The high percentage found for "all famous writers surveyed" really surprised me, so I looked again.
Four writers seriously skewed the figures.
Two of those writers are dead (ie they wrote a long time ago, and one, living, is in his eighties, ie much of his work is over 50 years old). Take out just four writers from a very long list and the percentage drops to 3.78%
I open a copy of "You've Got to Read This" a selection of stories chosen by writers are good examples of short-stories. 33 Stories NO dialogue-openers.
In one debate on this, a respondent remarked saying that "dialogue openers appeared in The Ian St James Awards, the New Writer and The Bridport Prize."
Well, first, OF COURSE THEY DO, because this is a lower standard of writing. It's beginner-intermediate writing!!
What we should expect (if I am right) is this.
The highest percentage of dialogue-openers will be in the batch of stories that don't make the long-list.
The long-list will have a much lower percentage of dialogue openers.
The short-list an even lower percentage, the prizes, lower still, and the WINNERS the lowest percentage of all.
I have no proof or firm figures of "also-rans" but I know from experience that the really bad stories I have judged OFTEN (20-50%) contain dialogue openers.
But I managed to get complete data on all the anthologized Ian St James stories (effectively the short-list) and the 1-2-3 prizes, and the winners.
Here is what I found.
The columns are Stories/NO Dialogue/Dialogue/ Percentage
ST-ND-DO-%
012 09 03 25 Ian St James 1989
012 12 00 00 Ian St James 1990
012 11 01 08 Ian St James 1991
012 12 00 00 Ian St James 1992
016 16 00 00 Ian St James 1993
016 14 02 13 Ian St James 1994
027 24 03 11 Ian St James 1995
020 20 00 00 Ian St James 1996-7
127 118 009 7% OVERALL
7% is where I'd expect it, but now...
Let's look at the top three and winners.
Was the story opened with dialogue?
1989 AT THE STROKE OF TWELVE (HarperCollins)
NO 1st David Rose
NO 2nd Judy Forshaw
NO 3rd Belinda Raine
1990 SUCCESS STRIKES TWELVE (HarperCollins)
NO 1st Annie Hedley
NO 2nd William Walker
NO 3rd Louise Doughty
1991 MIDNIGHT OIL (HarperCollins)
NO 1st Faith Addis
NO 2nd Alan Dunn
NO 3rd Stephanie Ellyne
1992 BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS (HarperCollins)
NO 1st Jeremy Cain
NO 2nd= Francesca Clementis
NO 2nd= Peter Naylor
1993 FLYING HIGH (HarperCollins)
Shorter Category
NO 1st Kate Atkinson
NO 2nd Juliet McCarthy
NO 3rd James Maguire
Longer Category
NO 1st Philip Sealy
NO 2nd Hilary Waters
NO 3rd Min Dinning
1994 BROUGHT TO BOOK (HarperCollins)
Shorter Category
NO 1st Anna McGrail
NO 2nd Alison Armstrong
NO 3rd A S Penne
Longer Category
NO 1st Joshua Davidson
NO 2nd Mike McCormack
NO 3rd= Sue Camarados
NO 3rd= Bronia Kita
1995 PLEASURE VESSELS (Angela Royal Publishing)
Shorter Category
NO 1st Dick Bayne
Yes 2nd Hwee Hwee Tan
NO 3rd Bead Roberts
Longer Category
NO 1st= Kristina Amadeus
NO 1st= Maria Caruso
NO 3rd Nick Kelly
1996/7 PULSE FICTION (Angela Royal Publishing)
1996
NO 1st Josephine Corcoran Algebra
NO 2nd Indira Debah Black Water Crossing
NO 3rd Carrie Worrall Gathering
1997
NO 1st Michel Faber Some Rain Must Fall
NO 2nd Kevin Doyle Do You Like Oranges?
NO 3rd David Evans Dead Man's Shoes
How strong must the statistics be for people?
Of 36 awarded prizes, just ONE prize (second) began with dialogue!!
Again the quality-prediction holds.
A decent comp, 7% of the finalists overall are dialogue openers (because the entrants are not yet fully-fledged, regularly published writers) but THE WINNERS? It falls to just that single second place (2.8%)
So like it or not, dialogue openers are (generally) NOT associated with good authorship, have never won an ISJ Award, haven't won a Bridport that I've a record of.
The lower you go in quality the more often you see dialogue openers. That suggest that beginners and poor writers think dialogue openers are good and experienced quality writers have abandoned them.
Now maybe this isn't a rule, or a law, but I would advise all writers to avoid dialogue openers wherever possible because there is ALWAYS an equal or better way to open (most usually better), because judges do not like them, because editors aren't crazy about them, because they are assoicated with low-end beginning writing.
If the above isn't almost categorical proof that what would be?
Here are the results of a survey I did in 2005/2006
I looked at 2,467 Stories
1.98% Nobel Prize Winners
2.50% OHenry Prize Winners
2.94% Best American New Voices
2.96% Best American Short Stories
3.78% Selected Famous Writers
6.62% All Famous Writers Surveyed
7.09% Ian St James Finalists (but only 1% in Prizes)
8.79% Bridport Finalists (but only 1% in Prizes)
5.44% OVERALL:
2,467 Stories.
2,333 Did NOT open with dialogue
Just 134 stories opened with dialogue
Many of these are competition entries. That is beginner and intermediate writers, NOT the best, most experienced writers.
The OHenry's in Detail
020 18 02 10 OHenry Prize 1997
020 20 00 00 OHenry Prize 1998
020 20 00 00 OHenry Prize 1999
020 20 00 00 OHenry Prize 2001
020 19 01 05 OHenry Prize 2002
020 20 00 00 OHenry Prize 2005
120 117 003 2.5% OVERALL
The high percentage found for "all famous writers surveyed" really surprised me, so I looked again.
Four writers seriously skewed the figures.
Two of those writers are dead (ie they wrote a long time ago, and one, living, is in his eighties, ie much of his work is over 50 years old). Take out just four writers from a very long list and the percentage drops to 3.78%
I open a copy of "You've Got to Read This" a selection of stories chosen by writers are good examples of short-stories. 33 Stories NO dialogue-openers.
In one debate on this, a respondent remarked saying that "dialogue openers appeared in The Ian St James Awards, the New Writer and The Bridport Prize."
Well, first, OF COURSE THEY DO, because this is a lower standard of writing. It's beginner-intermediate writing!!
What we should expect (if I am right) is this.
The highest percentage of dialogue-openers will be in the batch of stories that don't make the long-list.
The long-list will have a much lower percentage of dialogue openers.
The short-list an even lower percentage, the prizes, lower still, and the WINNERS the lowest percentage of all.
I have no proof or firm figures of "also-rans" but I know from experience that the really bad stories I have judged OFTEN (20-50%) contain dialogue openers.
But I managed to get complete data on all the anthologized Ian St James stories (effectively the short-list) and the 1-2-3 prizes, and the winners.
Here is what I found.
The columns are Stories/NO Dialogue/Dialogue/ Percentage
ST-ND-DO-%
012 09 03 25 Ian St James 1989
012 12 00 00 Ian St James 1990
012 11 01 08 Ian St James 1991
012 12 00 00 Ian St James 1992
016 16 00 00 Ian St James 1993
016 14 02 13 Ian St James 1994
027 24 03 11 Ian St James 1995
020 20 00 00 Ian St James 1996-7
127 118 009 7% OVERALL
7% is where I'd expect it, but now...
Let's look at the top three and winners.
Was the story opened with dialogue?
1989 AT THE STROKE OF TWELVE (HarperCollins)
NO 1st David Rose
NO 2nd Judy Forshaw
NO 3rd Belinda Raine
1990 SUCCESS STRIKES TWELVE (HarperCollins)
NO 1st Annie Hedley
NO 2nd William Walker
NO 3rd Louise Doughty
1991 MIDNIGHT OIL (HarperCollins)
NO 1st Faith Addis
NO 2nd Alan Dunn
NO 3rd Stephanie Ellyne
1992 BLOOD, SWEAT & TEARS (HarperCollins)
NO 1st Jeremy Cain
NO 2nd= Francesca Clementis
NO 2nd= Peter Naylor
1993 FLYING HIGH (HarperCollins)
Shorter Category
NO 1st Kate Atkinson
NO 2nd Juliet McCarthy
NO 3rd James Maguire
Longer Category
NO 1st Philip Sealy
NO 2nd Hilary Waters
NO 3rd Min Dinning
1994 BROUGHT TO BOOK (HarperCollins)
Shorter Category
NO 1st Anna McGrail
NO 2nd Alison Armstrong
NO 3rd A S Penne
Longer Category
NO 1st Joshua Davidson
NO 2nd Mike McCormack
NO 3rd= Sue Camarados
NO 3rd= Bronia Kita
1995 PLEASURE VESSELS (Angela Royal Publishing)
Shorter Category
NO 1st Dick Bayne
Yes 2nd Hwee Hwee Tan
NO 3rd Bead Roberts
Longer Category
NO 1st= Kristina Amadeus
NO 1st= Maria Caruso
NO 3rd Nick Kelly
1996/7 PULSE FICTION (Angela Royal Publishing)
1996
NO 1st Josephine Corcoran Algebra
NO 2nd Indira Debah Black Water Crossing
NO 3rd Carrie Worrall Gathering
1997
NO 1st Michel Faber Some Rain Must Fall
NO 2nd Kevin Doyle Do You Like Oranges?
NO 3rd David Evans Dead Man's Shoes
How strong must the statistics be for people?
Of 36 awarded prizes, just ONE prize (second) began with dialogue!!
Again the quality-prediction holds.
A decent comp, 7% of the finalists overall are dialogue openers (because the entrants are not yet fully-fledged, regularly published writers) but THE WINNERS? It falls to just that single second place (2.8%)
So like it or not, dialogue openers are (generally) NOT associated with good authorship, have never won an ISJ Award, haven't won a Bridport that I've a record of.
The lower you go in quality the more often you see dialogue openers. That suggest that beginners and poor writers think dialogue openers are good and experienced quality writers have abandoned them.
Now maybe this isn't a rule, or a law, but I would advise all writers to avoid dialogue openers wherever possible because there is ALWAYS an equal or better way to open (most usually better), because judges do not like them, because editors aren't crazy about them, because they are assoicated with low-end beginning writing.
If the above isn't almost categorical proof that what would be?
Another First Prize!!
Two different poetry hits today and then a third with Nightwriter informing us she has won the Blaenau Gwent Compeition. Not sure if that's for a poem or a short-story.
Sick, but Ticking Over
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
15,100 Words Total 2,100 Words ahead of schedule
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
01,583 Words May 13 (Article)
15,100 Words Total 2,100 Words ahead of schedule
Sunday, 13 May 2007
Crit Count
10 AM Sunday
11 stories
65 of 88 req crits done,
an average of 6 crits per story between midnight Friday and 10 AM Sunday
UPDATE
at Midnight Sunday, 82 crits in, 4 stories cleared.
11 stories
65 of 88 req crits done,
an average of 6 crits per story between midnight Friday and 10 AM Sunday
UPDATE
at Midnight Sunday, 82 crits in, 4 stories cleared.
More on D-Os
I mentioned I'd surveyed over 1.00 stories. In fact it was nearer 2,00. I was sent an old snippet from East of the Web which began as follows... (The other posts were in a thread which could be deleted by its owner so I wanted one which couldn't)
I've cut away various items of junk and tidied this up to be read her, added some points.
Here it is, but note first it doesn't BAN dialogue openers.
It's not a RULE.
What it says is 99.99% of the time it's INFERIOR writing and the easiest way for a writer to improve is to mentally "ban" their own use of them.
Here we go
I would say to ALL beginning writers and to ALL intermediate writers, and essentially all writers
There is hardly ever a valid reason for opening with dialogue and 99% of the time there is a better way of opening the story.
Dialogue openers become more common as you move DOWNWARD from Nobel-Winners, and World Class (where they are very rare indeed), through quality fiction such as Best American Short Stories, decent published fiction, and then finalists of competitions (but rarely, if ever, the WINNERS). It's only when we reach NON-finalists, low-end magazines, ezines and the reject pile to we find many dialogue openers.
Excluding womag stories, only 1 in 20 half-decent published stories have dialogue openings. IMO almost all of these stories can be improved by making them NOT open with dialogue.
Because the approximate 5-6% is FACT (including womag stories) (and I have surveyed 2,000 short stories to check the data) and because virtually all editors I have every conversed with outside the womags associate dialogue openers with beginners, you are taking a high risk for very low possible reward. You're story may well be rejected line one, or so prejudiced against that it's fighting an uphill battle.
I can see NO great benefit in the dialogue opener.
Where people say it increases intimacy I say it DECREASES it (and I can prove it).
Where they say it's a great tease, a lead-in, a hook, I say it has become a clichéd opening that is associated with poor writers in general.
I believe CONTEXT enhances dialogue 99.99% of the time and all, repeat ALL dialogue openers can be at least equaled with added context, setting, or other literary devices.
I doubt there are ten dialogue openers that HAD to be dialogue for the story to work.
I conclude that beginners and intermediate writers (and probably all writers should avoid dialogue openers except in cases such as "all-speech stories", "camp or deliberately affected stories" or stories where the dialogue opener, rather than leave the reader vague and wondering, "pegs" the story. For example,
"Is your poetry difficult?" the countess asked.
Does LOADS. We know who spoke and we know the spoken-to person is a poet.
That kind of dialogue opener is NOT like the woffly barely attributed dialogue we get with some stories, (such as the Kate Atkinson openings in the other thread) where we eventually have to explain what's happening."
I'm aware of the kind of responses I'm likely to get. But think on this. READ some dialogue openers and just see if you can't improve on them by adding context etc.
I had to search over 1800 stories to find 100 published dialogue-openers, but you should note that many of these openers were not the hanging, dangling, what-the? dialogue openers some others have been posting.
In some cases they have been instantly explained, very often in line one:
"That's not a good idea, son," the sheriff said quietly, staring at the barrel of my gun.
This is one kind of dialogue opener which I don't particularly recommend but in actuality we have almost the whole situation so it's a lot better than:
"That's not a good idea, son."
"I think it is."
"Well, it isn't, son."
"Don't call me son."
"Son, I'll call you what I damn well like..."
He stood there, defying me, despite the .45 I had pointed at him. So it was true what they said about Sheriff Iron-balls McLintock
BLETCH!
This was a summary of my position posted years ago at East of the Web. One of the first responses was from a serious newbie stating, " Hemingway opened some of his short stories with dialogue. Do you consider these to be examples at the top end, dialogue openers that work because the author is at the top of the tree and can do so better than most, or do you believe you could show how his dialogue openings could be improved upon?"
Note this? A correspondent turns immediately to counter-examples (fine, that's "appeal to higher source" but did the correspondent bother to count how many times the first thing in a Hemingway story was the quote mark?"
Hemingway did id TWICE in 65 published stories and novels. One of those instances was a near "all-dialogue" story and also one of his earliest pieces. But remember, here is an example of an author quoted in SUPPORT of D-O's and he used them just THREE PER CENT OF THE TIME.
Why not look at this the other way?
Hemingway, a very famous writer, a Nobel Prize Winner (1954) did NOT use dialogue openers in 97% of his writings. His stories were more than 32 times as likely to be NON-Dialogue-Opener as dialogue opening. Orwell did it never.
Can a story open with dialogue and be successful? Yes.
Could that story be (at worst) equaled non-dialogue? YES.
Could the story often be improved by making it NOT a dialogue opener? Answer, almost always, every time, yes, 99%, etc.
Remind me again why dialogue openers are rarely, if ever a good idea?
Because they rarely give proper context and are thus like big-bang openings. After the initial "intrigue" the author has to pause to explain, give context, often to show the gender of the speaker.
Is that the only reason?
No, 99% of editors, outside the cheap-and-cheerful womag market associate dialogue-openers with inexperienced writers. That is, as soon as they see a dialogue opener they think "beginner rubbish!"
I think it's worth pointing out that there are many types of dialogue openers (whether good or bad, whatever the eminence of the writer).
Let's look at John Updike's story "The Bulgarian Poetess". The first thing to remember is Updike is famous, he is given latitude. If he sends his story to the New Yorker (if his AGENT sends…) the editor will NOT first see " he will see JOHN UPDIKE.
Second, look at the title. It isn't "The Dinner Party" it's "The Bulgarian Poetess". This gives a very large amount of context. It's 99% certain this is about a Bulgarian Poetess, will involve "difference" and probably involve poetry or intellectual discourse. Thus, whatever comes next, we are 80% of the way to understanding the context (UNLIKE many, many DO's)
One of the so-called dialogue openers from Hemingway was that to The Snows of Kilimanjaro.
Here it was, quoted:
The Snows of Kilimanjaro
"The marvellous thing is that it's painless," he said. "That's how you know when it starts."
"Is it really?"
"Absolutely. I'm awfully sorry about the odour though. That must bother you."
"Don't! Please don't."
"Look at them," he said. "Now is it sight or scent that brings them like that?"
The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked out past the shade onto the glare of the plain there were three of the big birds squatted obscenely, while in the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick moving shadows as they passed.
This is a story about a man with a broken leg, just about to get gangrene and die. I LOVE Hemingway and like this story but looking at it, there's no great magic or advantage in Hemingway dicking around here. We don't really know he's talking to a woman until half-way down the page and there's a she said.
Well, again FIRSTLY, was it a dialogue opener? Answer NO.
You see, immediately after the title came this:
Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet high and it is said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Masai Ngaje Ngai, the House of God. Close to the Western summit there is a dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was doing at that altitude.
LOOK! We have place, setting, probable weather, at least one character (the leopard) and another (God) plus an air of mystery (why was the leopard there) plus an omniscient author, a certain tone. We know that we have something spiritual to follow. And THAT is cited as a dialogue opener!
Why? Probably because the info above is italicized and appears like an epigram "before the real story"
IMO this is easy to improve. yeah, yeah, I know, "improve on Hemingway?" but if someone can explain some literary brilliance in this obscurity, fire away.
I would keep the same title, the epigram, but why not now :
The Snows of Kilimanjaro
The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked out past the shade onto the glare of the plain there were three vultures squatted obscenely, while in the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick moving shadows as they passed.
"Look at them," he said. "Now is it sight or scent that brings them like that?"
"Don't! Please don't," she said.
"The marvelous thing, is that it's painless," he said. "That's how you know when it starts."
"Is it really?"
"Absolutely. I'm awfully sorry about the odour though. That must bother you."
I've cut away various items of junk and tidied this up to be read her, added some points.
Here it is, but note first it doesn't BAN dialogue openers.
It's not a RULE.
What it says is 99.99% of the time it's INFERIOR writing and the easiest way for a writer to improve is to mentally "ban" their own use of them.
Here we go
I would say to ALL beginning writers and to ALL intermediate writers, and essentially all writers
There is hardly ever a valid reason for opening with dialogue and 99% of the time there is a better way of opening the story.
Dialogue openers become more common as you move DOWNWARD from Nobel-Winners, and World Class (where they are very rare indeed), through quality fiction such as Best American Short Stories, decent published fiction, and then finalists of competitions (but rarely, if ever, the WINNERS). It's only when we reach NON-finalists, low-end magazines, ezines and the reject pile to we find many dialogue openers.
Excluding womag stories, only 1 in 20 half-decent published stories have dialogue openings. IMO almost all of these stories can be improved by making them NOT open with dialogue.
Because the approximate 5-6% is FACT (including womag stories) (and I have surveyed 2,000 short stories to check the data) and because virtually all editors I have every conversed with outside the womags associate dialogue openers with beginners, you are taking a high risk for very low possible reward. You're story may well be rejected line one, or so prejudiced against that it's fighting an uphill battle.
I can see NO great benefit in the dialogue opener.
Where people say it increases intimacy I say it DECREASES it (and I can prove it).
Where they say it's a great tease, a lead-in, a hook, I say it has become a clichéd opening that is associated with poor writers in general.
I believe CONTEXT enhances dialogue 99.99% of the time and all, repeat ALL dialogue openers can be at least equaled with added context, setting, or other literary devices.
I doubt there are ten dialogue openers that HAD to be dialogue for the story to work.
I conclude that beginners and intermediate writers (and probably all writers should avoid dialogue openers except in cases such as "all-speech stories", "camp or deliberately affected stories" or stories where the dialogue opener, rather than leave the reader vague and wondering, "pegs" the story. For example,
"Is your poetry difficult?" the countess asked.
Does LOADS. We know who spoke and we know the spoken-to person is a poet.
That kind of dialogue opener is NOT like the woffly barely attributed dialogue we get with some stories, (such as the Kate Atkinson openings in the other thread) where we eventually have to explain what's happening."
I'm aware of the kind of responses I'm likely to get. But think on this. READ some dialogue openers and just see if you can't improve on them by adding context etc.
I had to search over 1800 stories to find 100 published dialogue-openers, but you should note that many of these openers were not the hanging, dangling, what-the? dialogue openers some others have been posting.
In some cases they have been instantly explained, very often in line one:
"That's not a good idea, son," the sheriff said quietly, staring at the barrel of my gun.
This is one kind of dialogue opener which I don't particularly recommend but in actuality we have almost the whole situation so it's a lot better than:
"That's not a good idea, son."
"I think it is."
"Well, it isn't, son."
"Don't call me son."
"Son, I'll call you what I damn well like..."
He stood there, defying me, despite the .45 I had pointed at him. So it was true what they said about Sheriff Iron-balls McLintock
BLETCH!
This was a summary of my position posted years ago at East of the Web. One of the first responses was from a serious newbie stating, " Hemingway opened some of his short stories with dialogue. Do you consider these to be examples at the top end, dialogue openers that work because the author is at the top of the tree and can do so better than most, or do you believe you could show how his dialogue openings could be improved upon?"
Note this? A correspondent turns immediately to counter-examples (fine, that's "appeal to higher source" but did the correspondent bother to count how many times the first thing in a Hemingway story was the quote mark?"
Hemingway did id TWICE in 65 published stories and novels. One of those instances was a near "all-dialogue" story and also one of his earliest pieces. But remember, here is an example of an author quoted in SUPPORT of D-O's and he used them just THREE PER CENT OF THE TIME.
Why not look at this the other way?
Hemingway, a very famous writer, a Nobel Prize Winner (1954) did NOT use dialogue openers in 97% of his writings. His stories were more than 32 times as likely to be NON-Dialogue-Opener as dialogue opening. Orwell did it never.
Can a story open with dialogue and be successful? Yes.
Could that story be (at worst) equaled non-dialogue? YES.
Could the story often be improved by making it NOT a dialogue opener? Answer, almost always, every time, yes, 99%, etc.
Remind me again why dialogue openers are rarely, if ever a good idea?
Because they rarely give proper context and are thus like big-bang openings. After the initial "intrigue" the author has to pause to explain, give context, often to show the gender of the speaker.
Is that the only reason?
No, 99% of editors, outside the cheap-and-cheerful womag market associate dialogue-openers with inexperienced writers. That is, as soon as they see a dialogue opener they think "beginner rubbish!"
I think it's worth pointing out that there are many types of dialogue openers (whether good or bad, whatever the eminence of the writer).
Let's look at John Updike's story "The Bulgarian Poetess". The first thing to remember is Updike is famous, he is given latitude. If he sends his story to the New Yorker (if his AGENT sends…) the editor will NOT first see " he will see JOHN UPDIKE.
Second, look at the title. It isn't "The Dinner Party" it's "The Bulgarian Poetess". This gives a very large amount of context. It's 99% certain this is about a Bulgarian Poetess, will involve "difference" and probably involve poetry or intellectual discourse. Thus, whatever comes next, we are 80% of the way to understanding the context (UNLIKE many, many DO's)
One of the so-called dialogue openers from Hemingway was that to The Snows of Kilimanjaro.
Here it was, quoted:
The Snows of Kilimanjaro
"The marvellous thing is that it's painless," he said. "That's how you know when it starts."
"Is it really?"
"Absolutely. I'm awfully sorry about the odour though. That must bother you."
"Don't! Please don't."
"Look at them," he said. "Now is it sight or scent that brings them like that?"
The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked out past the shade onto the glare of the plain there were three of the big birds squatted obscenely, while in the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick moving shadows as they passed.
This is a story about a man with a broken leg, just about to get gangrene and die. I LOVE Hemingway and like this story but looking at it, there's no great magic or advantage in Hemingway dicking around here. We don't really know he's talking to a woman until half-way down the page and there's a she said.
Well, again FIRSTLY, was it a dialogue opener? Answer NO.
You see, immediately after the title came this:
Kilimanjaro is a snow-covered mountain 19,710 feet high and it is said to be the highest mountain in Africa. Its western summit is called the Masai Ngaje Ngai, the House of God. Close to the Western summit there is a dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was doing at that altitude.
LOOK! We have place, setting, probable weather, at least one character (the leopard) and another (God) plus an air of mystery (why was the leopard there) plus an omniscient author, a certain tone. We know that we have something spiritual to follow. And THAT is cited as a dialogue opener!
Why? Probably because the info above is italicized and appears like an epigram "before the real story"
IMO this is easy to improve. yeah, yeah, I know, "improve on Hemingway?" but if someone can explain some literary brilliance in this obscurity, fire away.
I would keep the same title, the epigram, but why not now :
The Snows of Kilimanjaro
The cot the man lay on was in the wide shade of a mimosa tree and as he looked out past the shade onto the glare of the plain there were three vultures squatted obscenely, while in the sky a dozen more sailed, making quick moving shadows as they passed.
"Look at them," he said. "Now is it sight or scent that brings them like that?"
"Don't! Please don't," she said.
"The marvelous thing, is that it's painless," he said. "That's how you know when it starts."
"Is it really?"
"Absolutely. I'm awfully sorry about the odour though. That must bother you."
Saturday, 12 May 2007
Dialogue Openers (Yours) Are Good for... ME
I mentioned earlier how people who don't understand why there may be "rules" to writing (and there are and they are easy to prove) will stretch to find examples of those rules being broken by published authors.
Recently one was mentioned, by Doris Lessing (2000) "Ben in the World".
Well done the D-O spotter! Of course Doris was 81 when that book was published and had published 45 or so before that, her first novel being published a mere HALF CENTURY before "Ben".
Now I don't have access to all of Doris' output, but what if that's the ONLY book she opened with dialogue? That would say (of course) that you can open a story or a novel with dialogue, but in the case of this one very famous writer it is extremely rare.
I don't KNOW, by the way.
But I have 65 Hemingway starts and only 2 (3%) start with dialogue. He doesn't bother with adverbs and adjectives, either!
If only he had used dialogue openers. He might have won the Nobel Prize.
Oh, hang on, he did!
Never mind, let's try Orwell: The Complete Novels. Six. No dialogue openers.
How about Jane Austen? None of the novels she's famous for open with dialogue, but there IS ONE. See, absolute proof that great writers use dialogue to open stories and novels. Can you name the novel? Try "Edgar & Emma". Big hit that one, opened with dialogue, though. Seventeen novels and shorter works, ONE D-O.
Let's look at the Best Short Stories of the Twentieth Century
There are 85. TWO have dialogue openers
163/006
That's 3.6%
Last time I surveyed about a thousand stories I got 4% I think.
So keep opening your stories and novels with dialogue, folks.
It leaves more room for the writers to succeed.
Recently one was mentioned, by Doris Lessing (2000) "Ben in the World".
Well done the D-O spotter! Of course Doris was 81 when that book was published and had published 45 or so before that, her first novel being published a mere HALF CENTURY before "Ben".
Now I don't have access to all of Doris' output, but what if that's the ONLY book she opened with dialogue? That would say (of course) that you can open a story or a novel with dialogue, but in the case of this one very famous writer it is extremely rare.
I don't KNOW, by the way.
But I have 65 Hemingway starts and only 2 (3%) start with dialogue. He doesn't bother with adverbs and adjectives, either!
If only he had used dialogue openers. He might have won the Nobel Prize.
Oh, hang on, he did!
Never mind, let's try Orwell: The Complete Novels. Six. No dialogue openers.
How about Jane Austen? None of the novels she's famous for open with dialogue, but there IS ONE. See, absolute proof that great writers use dialogue to open stories and novels. Can you name the novel? Try "Edgar & Emma". Big hit that one, opened with dialogue, though. Seventeen novels and shorter works, ONE D-O.
Let's look at the Best Short Stories of the Twentieth Century
There are 85. TWO have dialogue openers
163/006
That's 3.6%
Last time I surveyed about a thousand stories I got 4% I think.
So keep opening your stories and novels with dialogue, folks.
It leaves more room for the writers to succeed.
Some Bad Days, But...
Had a couple of sickies and had a 2,000 word essay to write for OU
(Midnight to 02:45 so woke up even sicker!)
But managed an article and have to add a short poem, so...
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
13,517 Words Total 1,517 Words ahead of schedule
(Midnight to 02:45 so woke up even sicker!)
But managed an article and have to add a short poem, so...
01,375 Words May 01 Tuesday
01,023 Words May 02 Wednesday (Flash & Poem)
01,157 Words May 03 Thursday (Long Poem etc)
01,052 Words May 04 Friday
01,000 Words May 04 Friday (EDIT, article drafted 15:49)
00,600 Words May 05-06 (Two Poems)
02,621 Words May 08 (Article)
00,738 Words May 08 (Flash)
00,988 Words May 09 (Flash)
01,227 Words May 10 (Story)
01,736 Words May 12 (Article and Poem)
13,517 Words Total 1,517 Words ahead of schedule
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