Another new week starts soon

A dubious 48 hours this weekend. But I have been busy critiquing work for the online conference. Since I started writing poetry, I find it hard to string together full sentences. This is exacerbated by the frantic emailing I tend to engage in: broken thoughts, quick sends. Anyhow, the intention to improve is always there. Everything I have to say tends towards niceness, and I don't think this is approved of - I get the feeling that what staff want is a bit of blood sport. Curious, how they forget that we still have to see eachother when the conference is over. The fact it's online is really just to make the dept. feel like they're doing something innovative. In all likelihood we'll get together in the pub and talk about it, as we've already done before it started. I doubt it'll get vitriolic and argumentative, requiring us to 'take it to the (online) cafe'! But what do I know? I just think I like these people. I like their writing. I like my own fragile sense of self esteem, please don't crush me - there's always hare coursing if you really must.

From Ty Newydd to the bay

Retreat! Retreat!

So, the writing retreat is over. I didn't write as much as I'd hoped I would. Mainly thought about writing. I also seem to have sold myself on the idea that I could write a novel after all. Well, I was unconvinced but one of the tutors liked the idea and thought it had legs. This was the fatal bellow of gas into the idea. It's now buoyant and tied to me like a helium balloon at the wrist. I am determined not to run with it. Maybe just little bits now and then amongst the poetry and flash. Something to tinker with..... or maybe it'll take over my life. Like new ideas always do.

All in, the week was enjoyable and helpful. Getting to know people better is always good, and time out to indulge yourself in writing is a treat worth accepting. I would like to go again.

I learnt a few interesting things not specific to writing. If you have a scientific background and cannot answer a simple question like 'What's a box?', it may reflect badly on you. Just don't even attempt it. Also, knowing a bit about geology is not the same as knowing a bit about particle physics or the statistical likelihood of a royal flush. Then there is writing with Cabin Fever which is like writing with the Flu. I have reviewed my scraps of paper and firstly they don't amount to much and secondly they don't seem to have been written by me! But this could be a good thing...

Don't go to the seaside if you don't want to write about the seaside again. Simples.

Learn when to socialise and when to write. Trying to do both simultaneously may result in you coming across cold, withdrawn, arrogant and maybe borderline autistic. Never engage in a rocking chair competition before bed or within 12 hours of eating. Likewise, introducing a theory of biscuit ratios should be saved until you've been drunk with these people.

Don't be the only poet in the village. Go write a novel or something. And while you're there be someone else for a change -I find it quite difficult to separate the self from poetry but branching out in to prose allowed for a whole new town of people to emerge from my head. Quite a lot last week, I was a man. How nice.

Rejection - oh, how I will lament

uuurgh rejection again. I know this is the way things go, but really someone needs to write a book on creative writing rejection. In fact I might. It will be structured like this:

The Deflation Period, where you just want to print everything you've written and burn it. If you could be bothered that is. But as it is, you just want to pretend that you never liked writing anyway, it was just killing time and you really have more pressing things to get on with anyway. Like work.

The Post-Denial-Denial Period, convincing yourself that maybe switching writing genres will help. "Maybe I should start writing horror..."

The Alternative Pastime Period, deciding that actually you spend too much time writing anyway and that you've always fancied something a bit different, just not had reason to get round to it, see clay-pigeon shooting or long-distance swimming.

The Rehab Period, it should come sooner but always arrives late in the day when you're on the cusp of lighting the fire, or buying gym membership (the previous stages may come in quick succession).

The Melancholic Poet Period (protracted). Everything is dire. Several denial stages later you concede that it was all a defence and you do like poetry, you like it too much. It's a cruel lover. It's beating you but you want more! So you write-about how melancholy you are. About how life is just one tiresome Lancastrian winter. About the sorrow of the blackbird and your cold black heart. Aside from these crass examples, you may actually find you have written something half decent. Or at least you think so.

The False-Confidence Period. You have re-entered the atmosphere. Breathing poetry again. Someone says you're OK, so you write again, write beyond melancholy. Convincing the cruel lover that you can change, you will be better. Everything is a found poem. Every half-conversation is a story kernel. It's wonderful, it's magic, it's falling in love again....

Then you make the fateful mistake of submitting something. They tell you 'best of luck placing them elsewhere' and like a soggy balloon, seconds after the pinched end is freed and the air has rushed out, you find yourself deflated again, completing the circle, face down on the carpet, drawing in the Hessian!

Flasher

I've decided to take a brief reprieve from poetry and focus instead on flash fiction. At least for a week or two. I've been anxious to get back into prose for a while but keep wriggling out of it and doing a bad job when I sit down to exert myself. But now seems like a good time with the MA residential coming up when we'll be encouraged to write outside our comfort zone. I have this horrible feeling though that if I abandon poetry even temporarily then I might lose the knack - or the poetry muse may abandon me for deserting her first! I wonder whether having a break will be useful - get me thinking differently. I was certainly running out of topics I was interested in writing about in poems. Somehow, flash fiction allows for more tangents and weird connections across ideas. I could be wrong, but I haven't mastered that in a poem yet. I also like conversational style in flash, but not in poems (where I prefer something a bit....tighter...)

The problem I am having is a rush of too many characters all at once. Too many scenarios. Too many half-heard conversations and moments to document. This would never usually be a problem, but with so much work on, I barely have time to get to know any of these characters before my confidence in them deserts me and I put them aside while I get on with something pressing like the mountain of reading for class, or cooking dinner, washing, sleeping!

Litfest Bookcase

I forgot to mention a couple of things yesterday. Firstly, Litfest Bookcase - a lovely new bookcase-shop, selling poetry and local fiction that is harder to find elsewhere. It's wonderful, such a great idea! I went for the launch on Sunday 25th, closing day of Litfest, and I frantically grabbed up things that I was keen to get hold of but have not got round to searching for.

I bought:
1) Annie Clarkson's Winter Hands
2) Chris Killen's The Bird Room
3) The North - recent issue 43, because it was easier than Preston Borders or sending off for it! 4) Ian Seed's Anonymous Intruder

Looking forward to sitting down and reading, as well as finding time to write.

Also reading:
1) Robert Lowell's Collected Poems
2) Robert Frost's essays
3) The White Road and Other Stories by Tania Herschman

Learning a lot. Making lots of notes. Wishing some of those notes were my own work.

Apologies, Considerations, Submissions and Cake

OK, so I haven't been true to my word to blog after every class. I have however, been writing in the journal. Which is something, right? But I should try harder. I have had an up-and-down week, wondering whether to continue with the MA. Mainly because I am the only poet in the group and I have been worried that I will be a bit isolated. I have mulled this over a lot, spoken to people - asking if it's usual for there to be such an imbalance, seeked reassurance that my learning won't suffer. Everyone has said the 'right' things. For now I am reassured. The group is clearly committed to poetry as well as their own prose and I am sure I have a lot to learn from prose writers. Maybe it will make my own prose better. So I will persevere for now.

Went to the Cake launch today, the new literary mag published by students of creative writing at Lancaster Uni. Shame they couldn't turn off the musical plants and the distracting video streaming on the monitor while people were reading. Also, the kids running around screaming. But all in, it was a nice launch and I am really impressed by the quality of the magazine and of the writing. It's well put together and presents a diversity of work from a variety of students and alumni etc. I'll certainly think about submitting to Cake in the future, and I would like to get involved with reviews.

What else, I have submitted some poems today. Back in the saddle after making tweaks and adjustments to some older poems. Scouring for cliches.

An actual poem

Let down

It wasn’t enough that you thought of me
someone who would be your unreachable star,
as if I burned phosphorescent in the front
seat of a car that you don’t drive.
Not right that you should bevel at the edges,
drawn as a person to the ledge, remembering
tea undrunk, bags floating like bodies on a lake,
while you uncoupled your life from reality.
Neither is it true that when the finding happened
the galaxy shattered into porcelain shards
embedding in you a hellish luminescence, as now.
There were elements, periodic moments
But nothing like the quiet miracle of a standing wave.
To want a beautiful person to light up a room
transforming dead space into a trophy box,
you wouldn’t accept the nights without mornings
mourning’s without recoveries.
No understanding life of those in the wilderness;
uncoloured paint in a tin, hued on opening.

Copywrite R. Allen 2009

Five things I really must do.

1. Start submitting work again. I haven't submitted anything since Flax, tell a lie, I got a lovely rejection from Magma, great feedback and encouragment to try again soon- but other than that I wound down. I've been in a reading phase rather than a writing phase. This is only useful for so long. I think to be a writer then 50% should be about writing. Not 5%. But I could be wrong.

2. Stop writing down good lines and losing them in the wash. literally. Back of a tissue in my jeans pocket is not a good place for storage. Neither is on my phone in the drafts folder. or on the pen drive that keeps crashing. I bought a journal for a reason (See above - new journal and note book as well as pen that was a lovely gift. Writing with a fountain pen is very 1993 Old Skool for me. I love it. Slows me down in a good way).

3. Start learning something from the authors I like. Be more dissecting. Start being influenced. To be able to say 'it just made me feel nice' isn't good enough.

4. Go to Litfest and not sit at home being closeted.

5. Get some exposure on my blog. And do this by writing something interesting that shows some sign of progress. Feeds back to No. 1 Thing I Must Do

In honour of national poetry day...

...I am going to throw myself out there and choose my favourite poets of the last year. I haven't been writing for all that long, so the authors I have read have all been making a real impact on my learning curve.

1) Carol Ann Duffy - a predictable choice I suppose, but when I saw her read in the summer just after she had become the Laureate I felt really inspired to keep writing, and her poems just came alive as she read them out. She didn't read them with bells on and a huge fanfare, just read them fairly dryly - and this reassured me that it doesn't always have to be a theatre production. She also signed my poetry notebook which I thought was fab. Oh and my first poem was published on her daughter's birthday apparently. Who knew.

2) C K Williams - one stanza of one poem really made an impact on me (see earlier blog post). He was recommended as a poet that uses the long line and reading him made me feel more at home.

3) Paul Farley - he writes about geology. Enough said.

4) Laura Webb - a poet who just popped up for me in the last week or two. I have only read two of her poems (one in The Rialto and the other online from a competition win) but they have made me want to quit writing, as I feel it's unlikely I'll ever write as well! She seems to have acheived what I set out wanting to write just over a year ago. Now my mission is to track her down and find out more.

Week One Campus MA

Today was the first seminar for the campus MA. I've decided to blog after each session and I am part-time so this will be every tuesday. This could become overkill because I am already writing it into a journal, and various notebooks. Perhaps by writing about it in a variety of places, something new will come out each time. Nice thought.

Paul F. started us off by reading and discussing prose poems. What are they? what makes them both prose and a poem? Do they work?

The main conclusion was that they were all on a sliding scale and some of the group favoured those at the prose end, while others favoured those at the poem end. I like the lyrical and surreal poem end of the spectrum. As it moves towards prose, I start to see it morph quickly into flash fiction. I am more comfortable with the notions of poems, prose that is poetic and flash fiction. I haven't got a well honed ability to decipher poems that are pretty much prose. I wouldn't say I am black and white, but I like transparency. Sometimes i think I have written a prose poem based only on the fact that it was clearly nothing else. But then I read someone really good at it, and I can see where the form came from. After having a bit of a discussion about what worked and what didn't, we moved on to a discussion about the huge amount of work written from photos. This was an interesting exercise. Nothing radical and unthought of, but nevertheless it prepared us for writing our own prose poem based on a randomly assigned photo.

Most of us received Victorian sepia photos of ladies and gents, while a couple of us had more modern photos: a herding family with reindeer, and a man with a fish and a lemon. I found it really hard to be inspired by my photo of a blank looking woman (I wish I had taken a photo of it for uploading here) just looking into the distance. No expression. No background. No date. I actually would have preferred the man with the salmon. But alas, we were given half an hour to write a prose poem and then read it out to the class. Herein lies the point of this blog. It was a bit scary. We had barely learnt each others names (no cheesy ice-breakers or sticky badges) but just had to reveal our inability straight out! We all gave the obligatory intro statement about how 'mine is crap, really!' and 'i never do this sort of thing' but eventually got down to the business of sharing. This was my offering.

The blur is not from the capturing, the blur was there in you, softening your edges as a chalk over the years, till you were merely a soft-focus of heart and hair and eyes in an empty chair. You weren't the prettiest, but the last light of us reflected in the cubes of your eye - as you watched the leylandii inch away to the sky, over my shoulder, silently through the back. Those pinched needles straining to overshadow it all. The roots creeping easy round your ankles. Mary, your sepia hair was gold to me, my evergreen.

I was worrying about exposing myself as a vulnerable and pathetic writer, fearing the silent judgement of others, but really I think everyone was way too busy thinking the same thing of themselves to be worried about my nervously read botch job. It's not easy to write on demand, let alone share it on demand a few minutes later, but we all did it and I couldn't really tell you now about anyone's, other than they were all fine. There were no howlers. I can only say that it was a lesson in growing a thick skin quick, if not to protect you from others, but to protect you from yourself.

A little video showing the songwriting skills of others

Here is a wee song by the esteemed Karl Percival that's a bit sad, like everything he writes. This was recorded at a recent social and therefore is a bit 'unprocessed' i.e. excuse the interference, passing bodies, half-hearted band accompaniment. The lyrics of Karl's songs are awesome. Rich, lyrical and thought provoking. He writes them, composes the music and performs them. Watch this space for more.

Do you need to have lived it to write it?

This is the premise of the most recent post on the Magma blog. I was pleased to read the comments coming in on this topic because I have been wondering myself whether you can achieve true authenticity in writing if you haven't had the experience yourself. I left this comment:

Increasingly I find myself writing about things beyond my experience. I was suspicious of trying but found that actually, it is possible when you embed yourself in imagination. I think if you can conjure a strong empathy for people and situation then you are capable of writing authentically. I also research details to add to the authenticity. A little bit of real detail goes a long way. I can read anything if the voice is authentic. Sometimes the story/experience may well be true but I disengage because the voice lacks a humanity and therefore falls short of real authenticity. But of course this is just personal taste.

You can also draw on similar experience or emotion to write about something you haven’t experienced. e.g. death of a parent to write about death of a friend. Experience is often on a sliding scale and no one is surely so fully removed from anything in this day and age of embedded journalism and an invasive media, that they can’t find a way to the truth of a subject without having been at the very crux of the experience.

When it came to it, I realised I had made up my mind, and you can write what you haven't lived. I was interested to read the other comments posted so far, including one about attracting criticism. I think this is an inevitable part of the writing process, and can only help improve the writing. If you're not accurate with your detail then it's only right it should be pointed out. Hopefully from that point you can improve. Criticism will come either way. Besides would writing not eventually become stale if you don't strive to reach beyond the limits of your own imagination?

Tarn

I wanted to take the opportunity of a long walk in the Lake District last weekend to get some inspiration for new writing, that I can use for the first MA workshop. I have been mulling over what my strengths and weaknesses are in writing, and it's scared me off of using old work in front of a group of strangers who don't know me or anything about my interests. But then I don't want to play it safe either.

So I wanted to aim for something that was representative of my writing style and of my academic background. Poetry about geology can get a bit tired, but I thought I would give it a punt, perhaps thinking that I may have a right to this topic after spending years studying it. What I ended up with was not a geology poem at all, just a poem about a body of water in transition. I may well use this for the first seminar.

C G Jelly Friskers: One Year On

We first met at a creative writing evening class one year ago. All of us beginners. Now, one year on we've formed our own group (out-growing the evening class), had work published, produced lots of poems, 2 and a half novels (approximately) and most importantly, had our first big social!

We have changed our venues a couple of times (Carnforth High School, RSPB Leighton Moss) but now seem to be settled on The Silverdale Hotel. We meet every two weeks and take it in turns to lead the group with different writing exercises, assignment of 'homework' and generally keeping order.

One year on we decided it would be nice to celebrate our year together - agreeing that the chances of meeting a group where everyone gets on so well and has such different styles with lots to offer, was too good to just go unmarked! On the day we had lots of food and read a selection of our favourite writing (things we were proudest of or showed the most progress) and we also listened to Karl's excellent songwriting/playing/singing skills! We also wrote ghost stories for the evening.

All in all it was a brilliant day and a really good opportunity to think back, and forward about where writing will take us next. We're now thinking of putting together our own anthology and thinking more seriously about getting our writing out there in its various forms.

Copyright 2009 Ruth Allen

I like lilies. I oft find them on my camera. This one was from a garden in Jo'burg. Nothing more to say about it really.

Bookworming and return to the blogosphere

It's been about 6 weeks since I've posted anything. I feel rather bad for this. But I've been out and about the world which has been lovely and I'm hoping that in due course all the new sights and sounds will seep out into something a bit creative. I start the MA in a month. I can't believe it and starting to panic as I haven't written anything for ages. The last things were two melancholy poems about fleeting moments and old age. But I have some ideas from trips to Gozo, South Africa and maybe even Bruges.

Whilst I haven't been writing I have been doing a lot of reading on my travels. I thought I would put a sentence of two about each book here. All fiction. So these are them:

Blackmoor by Edward Hogan - really original, bleak book about life in a northern mining town and an Albino woman! The authors voice is very original and sparse and I loved it! Nothing else like it. I imagined the whole story in the colours of the front cover.

What I Was by Meg Rosoff - I always love these transition books because they're poignant for adults and teens. Simply written. Evocative. Authentic voice of a teenage boy and first love. Quick read but Rosoff always leaves you with something resonant.

The Road Home by Rose Tremain - Much celebrated author but I feel her language is a bit decorative for me. A little too much unnecessary detail. But nevertheless, I persevered and was not disappointed. Lost sympathy with the protagonist about 3/4's through but it needed to have an edge to avoid cliche. Worth a read for an interesting view on economic migrant life in the UK.

The Northern Clemency by Philip Hensher - Really long family saga about two families in the north. Lots of characters appear, disappear and reappear but it's not confusing. It's a bit plodding and could be 200 pages shorter but I got quite involved with the twists and turns of the characters lives. I disliked most of them by the end, but some I grew to love. Another tale of families in the north from the 70's onwards. Buy it in paperback.

The Behaviour of Moths by Poppy Adams - I liked the idea of this but the writing felt a bit amateur. But it is a debut novel so understandable. Some bits were awkwardly written and cliched and the false narrator was somewhat reminiscent of Notes on a Scandal but not quite as tight. The moth story underpinning it got a bit tedious in places. But on the whole a fairly quick read and not bad. But not the best of the bunch either.

One Day by David Nicholls - This book is very Tony Parsons. And I just loved it from the first page. About two people, one day, every year for twenty years. By the end I was crying my eyes out. For 5 chapters (equating to 5 years) . I rarely cry at books or films (usually only Secret Millionaire on C4) but I was just so absorbed in this book. I read it in about 9 hours solidly. Couldn't put it down. Lost a day's holiday but it was amazing. Happy, sad, poignant and well observed. I was vying for both characters. read it now!

Now I am having a break from fiction and reading a spot of non-f. On the go are: The State of Africa by Martin Meredith (a potted history of the 50 years since countries on the mega continent got their independence), Mugabe by Martin Meredith (a look at Robert Mugabe's rise to power) and Barack Obama's The Audacity of Hope. Light.

Manchester Books

I originally had other plans for this weekend, but I decided to go to Manchester and check out the book market at St Ann's Square. This was the 3rd year of it's running and I expected big things given the excited write-up on Lit Northwest and the Manchester Libraries website.

I was disappointed. In turned out that of the 16-ish stalls, about 8 were to do with books. The others were mainly food stalls and a tent selling prints. This was a bit of an anti climax. I had expected more. But this would have been ok, had I not been totally overwhelmed by one particular lady on one particular stall. I am not going to name names, but I was really given the hard sell by the editor of a journal who insisted on not letting me have what I wanted, but selling me her own personal volume of work and reading to me. This made me feel awkward for several reasons. Firstly, I had to give it/her my full attention and I wasn't that keen on the poem but then felt the need to gush to her about it for the following long minutes. Secondly, she was openly saying that if I wanted to submit to her journal I should feel obliged to buy her work. Ok, this was said with a smile on her face but she was thrusting the book in one hand and pulling the tenner out of my other. I walked away feeling slightly cheated and I am sure her book will sit on my shelf unread for a long while.

This being said, Interzone were interesting to speak to even though I don't read sci-fi or fantasy, and I did get one of the library's book bags. So not all was lost.

Sealord

Copyright 2009 Ruth Allen

I saw this unfortunate creature in Robin Hood's Bay - North Yorkshire. Retrieved from the water's edge by a zealous basset hound. Then abandoned.

Writing has been hard these last couple of weeks since Flax. I have had a rejection from one publication but they gave me really great feedback and said the poems just felt a bit 'prose-like' for that particular issue. The editor also said that they had over 2000 submissions and so I am grateful that I got such a helpful and positive email wishing me luck for future submissions.

What I am working on getting now is a shot of inspiration. Going back to the coast helped and I have a few ideas. I was particularly taken by a boat named 'Sealord'. In the mean time I am reading Paul Farley's The Boy From The Chemist is Here To See You.

Freewriting on the train: curing a fear of public transport

The green green green and curved roofs under the rain.
Tree spectators huddle like commuters on a platform.
Endless corrugation, divided land, foxgloves near girders.
Red bricks keep the land, patched and strangled.
Cow parsley slip through railings and the smell through air vents in tunnels.
Yarrow Mill, a redundant burner and Wedgewood blue silos -
bolts as large as babies heads, a caravan of Fleetwood's, an infirmary.
The wall hurls insults, like displaying peacocks, but I'm unconvinced.
Browning trees close to the line, pushing large daisies and ferns.
Enclaves of buttercups and rape, and still the foxgloves.
Billboard my life, resurrect it for all to see.
Swans abandoned in thought, haphazard on the stilled canal.
Green Zone, Blue Zone, Purple Zone, Pink Zone.
Always pink, the modern pinstripe and ties. That bind.
Windows with dream catchers and toys stacked up.
trees leaning away and haystacks precariously balance.
Bridges cross the motorway into fields - hard cored rainbows that end no where.
Weight Limit 32 Tonnes, chasing cars and ever the foxgloves in pink flashes.
Sheep camouflage in the dirty cream summer grass.
Cars in their crematorium, and truck heads nod in paddocks.
Plastic forcing tunnels, corrugated ends, the flat that returns to ridges.