I've always been fascinated by advertising. So much so that, in 1983, I even put together my own three-hour video collection of adverts.
Sadly, it didn't survive the dampness of the front room in our old house (mould 'r' us) but I still have fond memories of watching the video avidly, in chunks, while the rest of the family gave me a wide berth.
It's a bit of a dark art - what to show and what not to show. Much like writing. The golden rule, it seems to me, is that you only tell people what you want them to know. Or, to translate that into corporate speak: "Perception is everything and strategy is everything else."
Recently, a 'top ads of the decade' TV programme crowned a Hovis advert as the winner. Even a coeliac would have to admit that the ad was superbly crafted, depicting a scrap of a lad fetching the family loaf and running through 120 years of British history. Cutting through different streets, he encountered the First World War soldier boys, the Suffragettes, the burned out buildings of the Blitz, a VE party and the jubilation of a 1966 England word cup victory. So far so inspirational.
It doesn't detract from the ad any but I did proffer a wry smile when I learned that only between 25% and 50% of British wheat is used by the brand, with the remainder being imported from Canada. In the interest of balance, I should point out that Hovis is moving to 100% British grown wheat from 2010.
Returning to the writing theme, most of us are familiar with the joys of CV writing. What to include, what to omit and which keywords to employ, all conveying a combination of superhero, Swiss Army Knife and human dynamo. For writers, the focus has to be on the writing and what you want them to know.
My current CV covers articles, comedy and fiction. More recently, with some copy writing under my belt and some additional training, I realise that I need to be more client specific. A business may not find my achievements in comedy encouraging if they are looking for new training material or in-house literature. In short, a writer, just like any other business, has to respond to the needs of the marketplace and to meet those needs.
Artists have patrons - or malnutrition; writers, with few exceptions, have a business to run.
Who's writing the story?
There comes a point when you're writing a novel, if you're lucky, when the characters start to wander off in different directions. Different, that is, from the paths you've carefully laid out for them using your Plotter-matic 5000 (or A4 pages taped together). This has happened to me in three books now and always at a stage where the characters are sufficiently well established to know their own minds.
I well recall attending a writing class; back in my youth when I had hair, optimism and aspirations (they all left on the same bus). One opinionated soul there declared with certainty that characters are only projections of the author and any notion of a book writing itself was just absurd. Maybe that's true for him but me and my characters laugh at him now, together.
So, is it a good sign? The characters becoming independent, not the laughter. Well, it adds another dimension and creates choices, leading to unexpected consequences that can impact the plot hugely.
In Covenant, my magical fantasy, two characters almost have sex and this leads to a revelation that became one of the core subplots. Whatever it did for the reader, this scene told me something I didn't know but needed to.
In Standpoint, a twisty turny thriller, my lead character Thomas Bladen told me about a past I didn't know he had - certainly not one I'd ever written for him. Later on, he spoke to other characters in situations I hadn't imagined and wrote the ending for himself. He also told me from the off that he was from North Yorkshire (I'd never been) and about his father. It was like meeting a new friend.
In Line of Sight, the sequel thriller still in the first draft, I'm 87,000 words in and one character has told me she's related to someone else. I was flummoxed and thought about ignoring her at first but it makes sense. Even if it does mean some rewriting to accommodate and resolve the plot line.
The point to this, I think, is that when we set up plausible, well-rounded characters, their choices and behaviour become independent of our well-orchestrated scheme of a book. It's often a revelation for the author which means there's a good chance it will delight or confound the reader too; and that can only be a good thing.
However, arguing with a lead character while driving, when he tells you where the book will end and how many weapons he needs, is optional. Still when he told me that he wanted a helicopter - and where to get it - to finish the book, he clearly understood it better than I had.
I well recall attending a writing class; back in my youth when I had hair, optimism and aspirations (they all left on the same bus). One opinionated soul there declared with certainty that characters are only projections of the author and any notion of a book writing itself was just absurd. Maybe that's true for him but me and my characters laugh at him now, together.
So, is it a good sign? The characters becoming independent, not the laughter. Well, it adds another dimension and creates choices, leading to unexpected consequences that can impact the plot hugely.
In Covenant, my magical fantasy, two characters almost have sex and this leads to a revelation that became one of the core subplots. Whatever it did for the reader, this scene told me something I didn't know but needed to.
In Standpoint, a twisty turny thriller, my lead character Thomas Bladen told me about a past I didn't know he had - certainly not one I'd ever written for him. Later on, he spoke to other characters in situations I hadn't imagined and wrote the ending for himself. He also told me from the off that he was from North Yorkshire (I'd never been) and about his father. It was like meeting a new friend.
In Line of Sight, the sequel thriller still in the first draft, I'm 87,000 words in and one character has told me she's related to someone else. I was flummoxed and thought about ignoring her at first but it makes sense. Even if it does mean some rewriting to accommodate and resolve the plot line.
The point to this, I think, is that when we set up plausible, well-rounded characters, their choices and behaviour become independent of our well-orchestrated scheme of a book. It's often a revelation for the author which means there's a good chance it will delight or confound the reader too; and that can only be a good thing.
However, arguing with a lead character while driving, when he tells you where the book will end and how many weapons he needs, is optional. Still when he told me that he wanted a helicopter - and where to get it - to finish the book, he clearly understood it better than I had.
My brief life as a culture jammer
The first time I walked past the billboard, I could see its potential. It stood there, bold as brass and as proud as a full ashtray, sharing its jocular message with the world. I wasn’t laughing though but I soon thought of a way to change that.
I’d have to move quickly, because advertising posters seemed to have short life spans. (I know, darkly ironic for tobacco advertising.) And I’d need to plan carefully. I was as subtle as a kick up the arse - in a lift holding just two people. The billboard was at the end of our road so I nipped down there with a ruler and measured the height of the lettering. Then I dug around in the plastic box under the stairs – the one with all the tools that I can’t use properly – and found the masking tape.
The idea was both simple and largely pointless. I wanted to tape over the original tagline, mask up my own then take a photograph. After that, I’d remove my work and nip back home for a celebratory cup of peppermint tea, like a good little liberal activist.
I spent an evening wasting a felt-tipped pen to colour in the letters, got everything ready and prepared myself for the assault. Next morning, somewhere between 05.30 and 06.30, I tiptoed into the street, a scroll under one arm and a camera in my other hand. I remember there was a breeze in the air but that wasn’t why I was shivering.
Two cars drove past, which I hadn’t expected, so I leaned casually against the wall, staring off into the distance. No one stopped; no one cared. Then it was just me, standing there, blood pulsing in my brain.
The lettering stuck where it was supposed to – that was the easy part. Now I had to stand in the road and take a reasonable picture without attracting the attention of passing vehicles. There were a couple of false starts, and an unexpected commuter who seemed to appear out of nowhere, gazing at me intently as I pretended to cross over and search my pockets. I must have looked like a very amateurish car thief.
Then a moment of stillness descended and I finished the job, hurriedly removing the evidence afterwards and slinking away back up my street. I was jubilant, like a kid completing a dare, just for the hell of it.
Later, I walked into work as usual, past the poster which was none the worse for my shenanigans. And as I looked up at it, I smiled. Not quite adbusters material but a very British effort.
Armistice
I don't know of anyone who doesn't observe the two-minute silence on Armistice Day. Whatever our views of the business of war, military engagements overseas or the economics of investment in defence, we pause and reflect on the fallen. The last survivors of WW1 have passed on now, but those affected by that conflict - and all those that have followed - are still with us.
A year or so ago, Anne and I (she's the brains of the relationship) took a short trip to Bruges, in Belgium. It's a marvellous medieval city which was spared the devastation of WW2 bombing; a gem of a place where development has been kept to a minimum.
While out there, we visited Ypres in a daytrip, including Tyne Cot Cemetery, Hill 62 and Ypres itself. All most of us know about WW1 is poppies, a few old songs that make little sense and the fourth series of Blackadder. Fifty-four nations were involved in the 'Great War', many regiments from fledgling countries keen to demonstrate their new national identity. A global generation slaughtered or scarred and, in the whole bloody process, the foundations laid for the Second World War. At all those places we saw, people paused and reflected there too.
It's easy to get caught up in our modern lives with rising mortgages, shit jobs and unfulfilled childhoods / adolescences / adulthoods. But here's my cure. Take a trip to Tyne Cot Cemetery and gaze in wide-eyed despair at row upon row of identical headstones, reflecting the bright sun like bleached bones in a field. And look at the columns of names that fill the walls: like the graffiti of the lost. I promise you, it brings a different sense of perspective. No answers, just an opportunity to pause and reflect.
It would be a fitting tribute indeed if Armistice Day became a focus for peace. But until that day, the very least we can do is make more time to pause and reflect.
And while we're strolling in shades of grey ambiguity, have a read of this famous poem by Rudyard Kipling. It's as relevant today as it's ever been:
https://www.kiplingsociety.co.uk/poem/poems_tommy.htm
Derek
Thompson
I wrote it my way...
For anyone who has ever submitted a manuscript by post and then waited in vain.
(With apologies to Frank Sinatra.)
And now, the post is here;
And so I face the mail uncertain.
That jiffy bag is mine,
I want to hide behind the curtain.
I sent a full typescript,
I edited, not in a shy way.
And still, I have to say,
I wrote it my way.
Rejects, I’ve had a few,
But then again, which writer hasn’t?
I did what I had to do,
And ploughed on through, it wasn’t pleasant
I planned each chapter well;
My characters along the byway.
But still, I have to say,
I wrote it my way.
Yes, there are some, I’m sure it’s true.
They got their book deals, from who they knew.
A relative who’s in the trade,
One dinner guest and they are made.
But that’s not me, and so you see,
I wrote it my way.
I’ve tried, I’ve done rewrites;
I’ve started new and different projects.
My bottom drawer is full,
Attempted all different subjects.
To think I wrote all that;
And may I say - not in a sly way,
No, oh no not me,
I wrote it my way.
For what is a scribe, what have they got?
If not their dreams, genre and plot?
Create the words they love so well.
Or sometimes crap, in case it sells.
I read the note, lump in my throat,
I wrote it my way.
My lost contract
To any would-be novelist, the sight of a book – your book – on the shelf is surely the Holy Grail of writing. And, like any true grail quest, the path is fraught with challenges, monsters and dead-ends. Here are two of my tales.
My novel Covenant is an unusual beast, a genre crossover that I’ve called Magical Fantasy Fiction. It draws on researched mythic symbolism and mysticism; not your general sword and sorcery epic.
So you can imagine my delight, after years in the wilderness, when a British publisher expressed an interest from my initial approach. After friendly emails they invited me to submit the complete manuscript – a first for me. Even better, they phoned me at home and quizzed me for half an hour about the structure and meanings within my work. It was going so well that I felt sure the 12-week evaluation period would fly by.
Then, like buses, another opportunity came along – a delayed response from an American e-publisher I had all but given up on. They asked to see the whole book too. Lightning had struck twice and I wasn’t in wellies. Positive feedback ensued and, when I’d been advised I was under consideration, I asked for and received a sample contract.
Meantime, in the British camp, my 12 weeks passed without a response. I left a polite telephone message and waited. No response. A week went by. I sent a polite email and ticked off the days. Silence. I then sent a recorded letter indicating that I’d had a favourable interest from another publisher and wondered if, now at week 15, they’d come to any decision. At the very least I’d appreciate an update. All I got back was a sense of disquiet.
Keen to draw a line under the experience I emailed them again and, reminding them that I’d heard nothing in over 15 weeks and asked for my MS back. An email informed me it was with their editorial office and would be returned to me forthwith – this email made it to my inbox in under 24 hours. I never received an explanation and even with the assistance of the Society of Authors, I could not penetrate the castle.
But hey, there’s still Plan B, right? While waiting for the British publisher to get off the pot, I’d sent the sample US contract to the Society of Authors (I’d recently become a member). A wise investment. So, when the hallowed contract offer did come in, I already had amendments and clause deletions ready to discuss. The editor explained that she was also an author with the firm and she’d made changes to her contract, through the company lawyer, without incident. So, picture the scene; I’m looking at a 3 year e-book deal, for my original 160,000 MS split into two books, with hardcopy publication to follow. My first full vision of the grail!
I emailed the editor back and ask for the lawyer’s email address. No response. A day or so later I email again, explaining that I can’t find the lawyer’s details on the website and asking if she could refer on my comments and changes. Still no response. Now I’m starting to get a little paranoid. A day or so later I email for a third time, asking if I need to airmail my changes over. It’s as quiet as a foam covered pin factory.
A couple of days on from there I receive an email from the executive editor, apologising for contacting me this way and for the news that follows. My editor had died unexpectedly from a heart attack a few days before. Dreadful news from all angles.
I’m sure you’re ahead of me now. As my contract wasn’t signed and as the only person in the company to see and approve my work is now deceased, I have no contractual relationship with the company. Regrettably I now need to resubmit my novel so that two new editors can evaluate it and make a decision. Oh yeah, and it will probably take several weeks. Fortunately it’s submission by email so that part’s quickly taken care of. I tell myself it’s a minor setback and prepare to bed in for a month or three. My luck starts to change. I get a response in less than three weeks. But my new luck quickly runs out.
The two new editors do not enjoy Covenant at all (they’re forced by the executive editor to write an explanation). Consequently the contract offer is now null and void. Almost unbelievably I’m invited to submit something new in the future and the exec apologises once more, assuring me it’s not the quality experience they aim to give writers.
And so, like Bors and Percival, I do not attain the grail; I just get enough of a sniff to be able to go home and talk about it. Perhaps it’s all for the best, under the circumstances. In the first case, I did some research on the British firm and I couldn’t find a single book that they’ve published under their own imprint. And in the second case, with the American e-publisher, working with editors who do not appreciate my work doesn’t not sound like a match made in heaven. Imagine all the edits!
So I end my grail quest empty handed; older, wiser and frankly rather jaded. I’m sure not all publishers are charlatans, bullshitters and fantasists. I have to believe that as I set off in search of new publisher. In case you’re wondering, I did research the US company and yes, my editor was real and, tragically, she did die. And, if I’m being really honest - and not a little selfish - a little bit of me died with her.
What sort of writer are you?
Newspaper and magazine questionnaires are always popular (as distinct from surveys, which aren't). If there's one thing we like to know about, it's ourselves.
Writers, whether they are aspiring or published, tend to define themselves by their output. It's useful from the writer's perspective because it reinforces the way we see ourselves – a little like a brand – and it cuts to the chase. But at best it's a limitation and at worst a lie.
For example, many writers don't know or accept that they are novelists until they've completed their first novel. For some strange reason, we associate definition with external achievement.
On a recent Arvon Foundation comedy writing course, 16 of us were thrown together and given individual and collaborative exercises. Playwrights, poets, songwriters, novelists and stand-up writers all pitched in, drawing on their experience to create something new. If we’d stayed resolutely within our existing borders, we would all have missed out. As the saying goes: ‘If you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always got.’
Even the title of novelist raises as many questions as it answers. Which genre of novel? What age group and market? And the dreaded: ‘So, do you have an agent / publisher then?’ Any writers reading this will already have inserted an appropriately sneery / competitive / eager / dismissive tone to that particular line of inquiry.
I remember showing my fantasy novel, Covenant, to a good friend of mine, in one of its many incarnations. He later told me that he thought the idea of me writing a novel was a little like a clown trying to write Shakespeare, and that I’d be better sticking to what I'm best at. Leaving aside the fact that he never actually read the novel – he merely discussed it with someone else who had – what was his logic? To quote myself (hey, it’s my blog): ‘If you always play to your strengths, they’re the only ones you’ll ever have.’
My writing CV states that I write articles, comedy and fiction. Although arguably, anyone who’s ever written a CV has written some fiction. In practice that means: articles for a newspaper, some magazines and the web; slogans and captions; topical and situational gags, sketches, monologues and parody songs; a clutch of humorous Little Books; As Above So Below magazine; a fantasy novel; a thriller and a half (that’s not boasting – I’m halfway through the sequel); a couple of children’s books; and around a dozen short stories, of various lengths. I should add that not all of that work is published or performed but quite a bit of it is, and the rest I’m working on.
My point is that fish swim, trees photosynthesise and writers write. When we limit ourselves by definition or genre, we are closing ourselves off from new possibilities. However…it’s important for us to know what kind of writers we are. That is, I think, quite distinct from the types of writing that we do. In my case, I am not a literary writer. I have friends who are poetic and lyrical in their prose; I am not one of them and I’m comfortable with that. I’ve tried it and it reads false on the page.
Unless we know - and can come to terms with - the kind of writers we are, we don’t have a foundation to work from. But once we fully inhabit our own skins, warts and all, we can create our own personal blend of imagination, insight and magic.
Writers, whether they are aspiring or published, tend to define themselves by their output. It's useful from the writer's perspective because it reinforces the way we see ourselves – a little like a brand – and it cuts to the chase. But at best it's a limitation and at worst a lie.
For example, many writers don't know or accept that they are novelists until they've completed their first novel. For some strange reason, we associate definition with external achievement.
On a recent Arvon Foundation comedy writing course, 16 of us were thrown together and given individual and collaborative exercises. Playwrights, poets, songwriters, novelists and stand-up writers all pitched in, drawing on their experience to create something new. If we’d stayed resolutely within our existing borders, we would all have missed out. As the saying goes: ‘If you do what you’ve always done, you’ll get what you’ve always got.’
Even the title of novelist raises as many questions as it answers. Which genre of novel? What age group and market? And the dreaded: ‘So, do you have an agent / publisher then?’ Any writers reading this will already have inserted an appropriately sneery / competitive / eager / dismissive tone to that particular line of inquiry.
I remember showing my fantasy novel, Covenant, to a good friend of mine, in one of its many incarnations. He later told me that he thought the idea of me writing a novel was a little like a clown trying to write Shakespeare, and that I’d be better sticking to what I'm best at. Leaving aside the fact that he never actually read the novel – he merely discussed it with someone else who had – what was his logic? To quote myself (hey, it’s my blog): ‘If you always play to your strengths, they’re the only ones you’ll ever have.’
My writing CV states that I write articles, comedy and fiction. Although arguably, anyone who’s ever written a CV has written some fiction. In practice that means: articles for a newspaper, some magazines and the web; slogans and captions; topical and situational gags, sketches, monologues and parody songs; a clutch of humorous Little Books; As Above So Below magazine; a fantasy novel; a thriller and a half (that’s not boasting – I’m halfway through the sequel); a couple of children’s books; and around a dozen short stories, of various lengths. I should add that not all of that work is published or performed but quite a bit of it is, and the rest I’m working on.
My point is that fish swim, trees photosynthesise and writers write. When we limit ourselves by definition or genre, we are closing ourselves off from new possibilities. However…it’s important for us to know what kind of writers we are. That is, I think, quite distinct from the types of writing that we do. In my case, I am not a literary writer. I have friends who are poetic and lyrical in their prose; I am not one of them and I’m comfortable with that. I’ve tried it and it reads false on the page.
Unless we know - and can come to terms with - the kind of writers we are, we don’t have a foundation to work from. But once we fully inhabit our own skins, warts and all, we can create our own personal blend of imagination, insight and magic.
“A miss,” bawled Wanda.
I once received some junk mail informing me that I'd had been selected at random (subject to status) to attend an exclusive Fab Holiday Homeshare Presentation, in the Centre of London. Enticed by the embossed possibility of a £1,000 prize in cash, I rang up and confirmed my appointment. I even convinced a friend of mine to tag along as a temporary fiancée - the best kind to have.
Duly assembled on the day, each couple was assigned their individual sales guide and we were all whipped into a gentle frenzy by a slideshow and a cheering session. They were simpler times.
Later, segregated from all other couples and any contact with the outside world, we got down to the finer details with our personal guide - the meek and unassuming Wanda. After a minute of polite conversation, Wanda had ascertained our financial circumstances and confirmed that we qualified for the deal of a lifetime. She'd also mentioned her struggle to bring up her young son on her own, purely on the proceeds of her commission.
Without warning, she stuck an arm in the air, like a swimmer in distress, and Pete swaggered over - with the speed and banter of an East End barrow boy (with a tie).
Supervisor Pete was as smooth an operator as ever Sade sang about. He hemmed us in with four irrefutable concepts, like a distortion of the Four Great Noble Truths. If we liked it, could afford it, understood it, and could use it then there was no reason not to write out a cheque immediately.
It was fiendishly brilliant psychology. If we didn't like it there must be something wrong with us, unlike the rest of the cheering hordes. If we couldn't afford it then what the flip were we doing there in the first place. If we couldn't understand it then we must be stupid. And if we couldn't use a fabulous, virtually no-strings-attached holiday home for the same two-weeks every year until the end of time then God help us.
Pete made it clear that any negative response would brand us second-class citizens of the worst kind. i.e. people who weren’t buying.
"Of course," he added tellingly at the end of his victory speech. "If the answer to all four questions is 'yes' and you’re still not interested, then Wanda hasn't been doing her job properly."
Wanda, you will not be surprised to learn, turned suddenly fish-eyed and cast her gaze rehearsedly downward. I even checked the floor for glass beads, in case she’d been crying.
Now we were really up a gum tree: the pressure was on. I wondered how the other couples were doing and if it was too late to tunnel into another cubicle and form an escape committee. All thoughts of 'I hope we don't end up with the Queen Anne cruet set' evaporated as we locked wits against the wily Pete and his affordable special-price-today-only repayment scheme.
For a while, it looked like I’d be seeing in the next twenty New Years in the same holiday block in Portugal. Or a similar standard alternative destination, subject to availability and transfer charges.
Then my silent prayer to St. Jude* was answered. In a sudden burst of inspiration, I started chatting to Pete as if we were chums.
"So Pete, have you got a new car?"
My logic being, if he had then he must be loaded and if he hadn't then timeshare sales couldn't be that successful.
Caught off guard, he snarled at me, "Yeah, newish; why?"
"And tell me," I questioned him like a strutting TV lawyer, "Did you go down to the showroom with a pocketful of money or did you take a brochure away to think about it?”
The metaphorical penny dropped; the only kind he'd be getting from us.
"I’ve ’ad enough," he surrendered, which is the timeshare equivalent of: 'It's a fair cop guv.' Then he stormed off muttering in a loud voice: "You’re obviously only here for your free gift."
As opposed to a charm demonstration perhaps?
I hope it won't come as a shock when I tell you that the £1000 top prize in the draw eluded me. My blue vinyl suitcases did nicely though, thank you. And besides, it was a small reward beside the real prize - a one-day sales psychology seminar, courtesy of Fab Holiday Homeshare.
I believe the company is no longer in business.
* St. Jude is the Patron Saint of lost causes.
Remembering Kitty and Fred
I received a letter in the post today, from a stranger.
It was from the niece of a neighbour, from London where I grew up. The letter informed me that Kitty had passed away at the end of June and a family service had been held. Barely 30 written words but enough to form a bridge across the last 40 years.
My brother and I would alternate, as adults, sending Kitty and Fred some Christmas gifts and a card. We always received a present each in return, sometimes with a short, handwritten note. I didn't know Kitty well and even when Fred died I didn't feel it right to express anything beyond condolences and flowers. Somehow, I always felt there was something prim and proper about them but I think I still saw them through a child's eyes.
Kitty and Fred never had children of their own. But they were always generous to us, buying toys and taking an interest in what we were doing. David and I weren't really close with them though, which makes their generosity all the more touching.
Latterly, Kitty and I said more in our letters; updates about the present from me and comments about the past from her, about how much London life had changed. It occurred to me only recently that Kitty was the last person who would remember the local shops as I knew them.
Mr Thomas, running the fruit and veg shop with his son and daughter - the scent of apples always lingering in the air, along with soil from the sacks of spuds spilling across the concrete floor. The way that, years later, when every shop tried to sell everything, they would wrap up a single toilet roll in newspaper for you to carry home. And Lil's, on an opposite corner, selling sliced meats, bread and breakfast cereal. Even then, those shops seemed so small. Especially Mr & Mrs Pitman's sweetshop - where jars of sticky boiled sweets crammed the shelves, just out of reach, like a children's purgatory.
If I make that walk of old in my memory, I reach the High Road where Pete ran the other fruit and veg shop. Where his labrador Sam would sleep all day, unimpressed when Pete picked up an apple and twisted it in half. Further along, Bob's Wavy Line store - probably one of the first convenience franchises. Bob used to reach for the top shelves with his pincer on a stick, like a 1970s Doctor Who monster. The advertising 'Go to work on an egg' still proudly displayed on the wall, and Bob resplendent in his white coat.
There was Chappel's too, the newsagent a door or two away; the only place you could buy newspapers back then, and fireworks. Past the baker's was a sub post office, the one where I used to save my milk-round money for my holidays. In a savings book I kept for decades - the total frozen at £5.11 since 1978. On the opposite side of the High Road was a hardware shop. Buckets and pans and mops, stacked outside and in, as if in a hurry. There were parafin heaters on sale and the thick scent of polish in the air.
Kitty knew all those places, all those faces now lost to time. It's a world I visit occasionally in dreams, a shadowy half-remembrance of travelling on routemaster buses, of going to the library to look at picture books and stumbling around Coronation Gardens with mum, David and the dog.
It's a realm of bright sunshine and smiles, of pleasure in small things. I still have a Lesney's matchbox car which came from Kitty and Fred. It's an heirloom of sorts from my brother - an ambulance.
I wish I'd spoken to Kitty more, about her memories, about the East London of my childhood. But I didn't. L. P. Hartley opened his novel 'The Go-Between' with: "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."
It was from the niece of a neighbour, from London where I grew up. The letter informed me that Kitty had passed away at the end of June and a family service had been held. Barely 30 written words but enough to form a bridge across the last 40 years.
My brother and I would alternate, as adults, sending Kitty and Fred some Christmas gifts and a card. We always received a present each in return, sometimes with a short, handwritten note. I didn't know Kitty well and even when Fred died I didn't feel it right to express anything beyond condolences and flowers. Somehow, I always felt there was something prim and proper about them but I think I still saw them through a child's eyes.
Kitty and Fred never had children of their own. But they were always generous to us, buying toys and taking an interest in what we were doing. David and I weren't really close with them though, which makes their generosity all the more touching.
Latterly, Kitty and I said more in our letters; updates about the present from me and comments about the past from her, about how much London life had changed. It occurred to me only recently that Kitty was the last person who would remember the local shops as I knew them.
Mr Thomas, running the fruit and veg shop with his son and daughter - the scent of apples always lingering in the air, along with soil from the sacks of spuds spilling across the concrete floor. The way that, years later, when every shop tried to sell everything, they would wrap up a single toilet roll in newspaper for you to carry home. And Lil's, on an opposite corner, selling sliced meats, bread and breakfast cereal. Even then, those shops seemed so small. Especially Mr & Mrs Pitman's sweetshop - where jars of sticky boiled sweets crammed the shelves, just out of reach, like a children's purgatory.
If I make that walk of old in my memory, I reach the High Road where Pete ran the other fruit and veg shop. Where his labrador Sam would sleep all day, unimpressed when Pete picked up an apple and twisted it in half. Further along, Bob's Wavy Line store - probably one of the first convenience franchises. Bob used to reach for the top shelves with his pincer on a stick, like a 1970s Doctor Who monster. The advertising 'Go to work on an egg' still proudly displayed on the wall, and Bob resplendent in his white coat.
There was Chappel's too, the newsagent a door or two away; the only place you could buy newspapers back then, and fireworks. Past the baker's was a sub post office, the one where I used to save my milk-round money for my holidays. In a savings book I kept for decades - the total frozen at £5.11 since 1978. On the opposite side of the High Road was a hardware shop. Buckets and pans and mops, stacked outside and in, as if in a hurry. There were parafin heaters on sale and the thick scent of polish in the air.
Kitty knew all those places, all those faces now lost to time. It's a world I visit occasionally in dreams, a shadowy half-remembrance of travelling on routemaster buses, of going to the library to look at picture books and stumbling around Coronation Gardens with mum, David and the dog.
It's a realm of bright sunshine and smiles, of pleasure in small things. I still have a Lesney's matchbox car which came from Kitty and Fred. It's an heirloom of sorts from my brother - an ambulance.
I wish I'd spoken to Kitty more, about her memories, about the East London of my childhood. But I didn't. L. P. Hartley opened his novel 'The Go-Between' with: "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there."
Not only is it true, but I've now lost my tour guide.
When writers make it personal
In March 2008, I crossed a line. My commissioned feature, Last of the Line - an intimate piece about my relationship with my late brother, David, and reflections on life without him - was published in The Guardian.
I'd pitched the original idea six months earlier, but a combination of moving editors and the email Bermuda Triangle added to the delay. It was an interesting process, start to finish. Part of you feels like you are selling off the family silver at best, or whoring your soul at worst. Another part of you feels as if the world will judge you.
However, I wanted to tell some of David's story and the amazing way he dealt with the cancer that claimed him. The ambitious writer in me also wanted to produce something intensely personal and yet meaningful to ther people. To see whether I could translate my experience so that a nameless reader might understand it and feel it. In short, to see whether I could cut it as a 'proper' writer.
Unsurprisingly, it was a challenging piece to write, to accurately portray David's character and our interactions without overdramatising or diminishing them. I carefully prepared the ground with friends and family who knew him well. People were generally supportive although there was some unexpected fallout much later on.
What made it all worthwhile was a letter I received from a newspaper reader, about the sudden death of his own brother, unlike the nine years I had to get used to being without David. When I read that letter it was a sobering moment, to realise both the power of the written word and its ability to bridge the gap between strangers. This is what real writing is about - not fame or fortune or books on shelves - connecting with people. Although it has to be said that it paid well.
Writing that piece changed how I write fiction. I'm less afraid now to draw directly on personal experiences or incorporare aspects of a person or memory. I don't know if it makes my writing any more powerful but I feel liberated as a writer.
Here's a link to the feature:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2008/mar/15/familyandrelationships.family1
Objectively, it's an okay piece. A little hammy, here and there, and I still cringe at the ending. In my defence, I wrote to their requirements and I wasn't afforded an edit - the first time the new editor contacted me was very close to publication.
Today would have been David's birthday, and without doubt he would have hating me writing this. It won't shock you to know that I can live with that. Here's to you David.
Comedy writing is a serious business
The first rule of comedy is that there are no rules. Watch TV - or better yet, live performance - and you'll soon see that one man's meat is another woman's bullshit. A lovely image, I'm sure you'll agree. For every 'just discovered' genius there are a 1,000,001 pond life scrabbling about for the odd morsel. I say that with some fondness, rarely coming up for air as I do. I'm no expert but here's my two penn'orth.
If you're not already on the telly, radio or premium comedy circuit, you might be tempted to put something on the web for free, just to be discovered. Unless your idea is innovative and sharp, I suggest you fight that temptation, like the urge to fart on a full stomach. Trust me, it'll probably end in tears and / or laundry. If your concept is good enough, approach a production company.
There are also non-commisioned niches - I've had a few gags on radio, some material for live performance, a little bit for stand-up and an unrepeatable badge sold in the USA. I've also attempted three sitcom scripts, a humorous advertising campaign for sexual health and approached several sketch shows on radio and TV. More about those some other time, in my list of heroic failures.
Comedy is really sexy. If you can get an 'in' to anything, burrow deep and hang on for dear life (that wasn't the sexual health material, by the way). Any contacts you make should be cultivated and maintained. I once emailed a producer of a Channel 5 sketch show on spec and that's how I eventually got some paid gags on radio. The old adage about 'who you know' holds true.
It also helps to establish a writing voice. My own brand of comedy writing tends to fall into three distinct categories: 1) Wordplay, 2) Coarseness and 3) Cynicism. And sometimes I try to combine them.
A wise soul (Bill Hicks, I think) said that comedy is about finding similarities between things that were different and differences between things that were the same. I think comedy is also a theatre of cruelty. Even when someone isn't the butt of the joke directly, the audience is seduced by the notion that we know what's coming or that we're smart enough to see an association or veiled reference. It's also been suggested that comedy is tragedy + time. Tell that to the man crushed by a grandfather clock.
Derek
And now a quick promo for a couple of ebooks.
Man Up!
The Little Read Book of Project Management
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