Small Talk

Believe it or not I quite like small talk. At the school with the Moms, or with the opera people at shows and parties, I quite enjoy the inconsequential chatter with which we try and fill the micro-longeurs between this and that. I'm not saying I'm any good at it. And it's not entirely stress-free either. Especially with people I don't really know, it can feel like a determined act of transmutation, grasping the wordless nothing that we have to say to each other and spinning it into a conversation about nothing instead. But then I like it because of the inconsequentiality. It is possible to talk freely because I am saying precisely nothing.

So, speaking the other day to someone I've met only a few times, I was not in the least uninterested, despite being heavily disinterested. At least I was until they started talking about me.

"Oh yes," they said. "Someone was saying about the November book writing thing. What a wonderful idea! I can't wait to read yours!"

With these words, my coffee turned to cold, slimy dread in my throat. Read my story? I don't think so! If the prospect of writing 50,000 wasn't daunting, then the idea that they might have to be 50,000 readable or interesting words certainly is. In fact given the parameters of the competition (an average of 1667 words a day for 30 days) I'd be amazed if I produced anything which made any sense whatsoever. What it will be, hopefully, is extant, possessing a beginning, middle and end. This is the lowly state of my ambitions.

Like my small talk, the story I'm going to write came out of nothing. One morning, about a week before I found out about NaNoWriMo, I woke up having literally dreamed a book. It was a very strange feeling. I often remember my dreams and they are regularly vivid, albeit normally fragmented and surreal. This dream was oddly organised and comprehensive, filling like a thick and hearty soup, and it stuck with me long enough for me to scribble down a summary. It was all there, unfolding in order, protagonists, antagonists, imagery, conflict and something that certainly would have done as an ending if I wasn't worried that it might need a bit more. As I mulled it over I even realised that there was a crude allegory to it: the damn dream even had subtext.

But that makes me nervous: if it ends up being a story 'about something' then it stops being small talk. The more consciously I think about it, the more contrived it feels and I realise that I only want to write the story because I have so little investment in it. By writing the dream story I have deniability. I am insulated from some of the responsibility for it if it turns out to be rubbish whilst still being able to take all the credit if it is actually, you know, good. Hopefully I can write freely enough that I can take a dream, the most insubstantial nothing, an unconscious notion, and spin it into the comparatively solid nothing of a story, even one that is not to be read.

As for the person I was chatting to who scared me so, I don't think they'll be disappointed if they don't get to read it. It was just small talk so, in a nice way, I take great comfort from the fact that they weren't really interested at all.

581 words. Hmmm.

NaNoWriMo - WTF?

One of the things I don't write about is writing. And one of the reasons I don't write about writing is that I don't feel I do enough writing to write about. There are other reasons too, not least of which is my assumption that writing is a solitary pursuit, something to be done in private with the curtains drawn. When people ask how the writing is going or, hell, even what it is that I am working on, I feel embarrassed and unworthy of their interest. Compared even with the average Brit I am allergic to the notion of self-publicity; here in America, I might as well be a ghost.

Anyway, it is slowly dawning on me that I may have got a lot of this wrong. If I am lacking in confidence, it may have something to do with the fact that I am only asking for my own opinion on what I have written. Hopefully. And it may also be the case that talking about writing, writing about writing, and (gasp!) socialising with writers might be beneficial. I'm queasy having typed that - stay strong Michael.

So what has brought me to this? Well, mainly it's the fact that I've been (re)writing the same story for four or five years and I'm no closer to understanding where it is I need to go with it next. And going round and round with it is making me like it less and less. That's a heavy hat to doff at passers by.

Luckily that's just the dull side of a coin that also has a very shiny side. One point of light is my incredible friend Chris has, through hard work and natural brilliance, had several books published since he began writing full-time a few years ago. His success shows what can be achieved and, whilst I am happy for him, I am also grateful to him for setting such an example.

Another sunbeam struck earlier this year when Chris, my just-as-incredible friend Jamie and I were able to work together and entered a short story into a competition, only to be selected as one the winners. Our (excellent) story will be published early in 2011 (I think - still not taking to the self-promotion) but I didn't enjoy the winning as much as the process of collaboration. Sharing the words and ideas was wonderful and perhaps it was this that made me appreciate that it doesn't all have to happen in my head.

And then here in Houston I have my friend Caroline who is also writing hard, albeit in a more organised fashion than me. Now that school has started back up, we are both shot of our children during the day and we've started meeting up to write, not together, but at the same time. It's extremely helpful, applying just the minimum pressure, enough to make us sit down and do some work, even if we're not in the mood. Even better, it's fun too.

Because Caroline is organised (she may dispute that, but in relation to me she is) she recently spotted another competition.Something with the unlikely name of NaNoWriMo. This is National Novel Writing Month which, despite my initial cynicism, seems to be an utterly altruistic exercise. The idea is that you sign up to write 50,000 words between during the month of November. From scratch - it's not supposed to be something you have been working on previously. The thinking is to promote unfettered creative writing: have an idea and just write it without worrying about revising, editing or questioning it. By setting aside one month to do it, the participants set themselves an intensive challenge. I suppose the organisers are providing a false deadline for people who endlessly mull over the thought of writing a book without ever achieving it. People like me, in other words.

There's no cost and no prize. At the end of the month you submit your novel and they validate the word count. Then they delete it. The books are never read. But what you do next with what you have written is up to you.

Last year, 165,000 people took part from all over the world and 30,000 ended up writing 50,000 words or more. This year 57,000 people have signed up with little over a fortnight to go, but the writing itself is only part of it. It also serves as a way to get writers together, both online and in the Real World, to support each other, to socialise and to swap ideas. There are, amazingly, 1772 in Houston alone and Caroline and I are two of them, which is both very exciting and ever so slightly scary.

So there you go, I'm going to write a story from scratch. I'm telling you because I'm worried that I might not manage it but also because I'm going to try to be more open about my writing.

If nothing else, it should be something to write about.

1998 and All That

When writing the history of things, beginnings are nearly always murky, confused and badly documented. But eventually the historian can latch upon a key first date, an anchor that can be relied upon as a sign that things had irrevocably changed.

Today is the anniversary of such a date. On this day, the 14th of October, an historic and fateful encounter took place near Hastings in Sussex. The year was 1998.

No, for once I am not talking about the history of England, but personal history. For whilst my relationship with my then wife-to-be was already a few months old and had already had its fair share of Athelstans and Canutes, it was the day we accidentally spent at the site of the Battle of Hastings that I now look back on as a key moment.

I say accidentally because it was pure coincidence, or serendipity if you will, that took us there on that particular day. At a loose end with spare time together during what was then an uncertain and somewhat loose association with each other, we found ourselves driving around Sussex in an October fog looking for something to do. One of us, I forget who, mentioned Hastings as being nearby and it turned out that neither of us had visited the famous battle site. And then, as one, we both remembered the date of the battle and we turned to each other and said in unison, "but hang on that's today!"

To demonstrate the same knowledge simultaneously to each other was a thrilling moment of connection for a pair of nerdy show-offs such as us and after that we had a wonderful time. Being a drizzly Wednesday, we all but had the battlefield to ourselves which made it beautifully empty and evocative. After stomping around we eventually came to a large stone slab that had been laid to mark the spot where Harold II was supposedly killed. Totally spurious of course, but someone had left a bunch of yellow flowers there, the only bright colour amongst the mist and the October afternoon shadows.

As I get older, memories become increasingly blurry and I am appalled at how often people remind me of things that I have utterly forgotten. But I don't think I will ever forget those flowers, or that day together with the wonderful woman who is now my wife.

Nor will I ever forget that everything we have here - our lives in America, our marriage and, of course, our children - are all as a result of what happened at Battle on the 14th of October.

Oooh, Blogging.

Why am I not writing? Or, specifically, why am I not blogging more? Why not flood these pages with all the little details and incidents of my life?

Well, largely because I don't do very much and my life is currently luxuriously easy and therefore devoid of interest. I can't really bring myself to describe how lovely the weather is or how much improving reading I have undertaken. It is not, I am not, blog-worthy.

But there have been things that I have nearly written. I drafted something about the Chilean Miners' rescue for example, and I was temporarily inspired by the death of Dame Joan Sutherland and by the US school systems' notions of patriotism - but no postings will come, I promise. Why not? Because I dursn't. I have a deep-seated horror at the thought of causing offence and little confidence that a clumsy rant (inevitably directed, largely, at people I love and admire) could be justified.

In an email to a friend recently I was very rude about the extreme right-wing of American politics (the Republican party they're called). "You should blog that," he said. I don't think I could. In private conversation I will often overstep the mark, especially amongst friends. But this is a public forum: I am basically standing in my garden and shouting things at passers-by. In itself, such activity might be enough to alarm those within ear-shot; I'm not going to compound the sin by being interesting.

Obligatory Chilean Miners Post

I was, of course, delighted by the rescue of the Chilean Miners yesterday. I was inspired by the way that different individuals, organisations and governments had focussed their talents, resources and determination in order to accomplish a moving humanitarian mission. It was great, a triumph of engineering and resolve over adversity.

I feel that I have to state this for the record because I might have appeared slightly curmudgeonly yesterday. Whilst I was glad of the rescue I didn't seem to feel quite so emotional as others, but anything less than full-heartedness seemed to be an inappropriate reaction. Partly, I have become cynically dubious of any event which seems to be so perfectly suited to 24-hour rolling news coverage, as this was. Partly, I was wary of the massed collective response: Twitter, Facebook, emails - not to mention Real Life People - everyone seemed to be overcome. I seemed only to be merely happy and this seemed to be deemed an insufficient response.

What was actually happening was a re-enactment of the most profound kind of human drama, perhaps the oldest story, redolent with primal imagery. Descent into and escape from an underworld is a cornerstone of many early myths, some of which date back to the earliest European societies whose rites of passage, like modern shamanic practices, achieved re-birth by ascending from the depths.

In 'A Short History of Myth', Karen Armstrong discusses the role of caves such as Altimira or Lascaux in Paleolithic spirituality.

These grottoes were probably the first temples or cathedrals. There has been a lengthy academic discussion of the meaning of these caves [...] but certainly they set the scene for a profound meeting between men and the godlike, archetypal animals that adorn the cavern walls and ceilings. Pilgrims had to crawl through dank and dangerous underground tunnels [...], burrowing ever more deeply into the heart of darkness until they finally came face to face with the painted beasts. 

Armstrong also emphasises the role such places played in initiation rites.

Initiation ceremonies were central to the religion of the ancient world [...]. Like the journey of the shaman, this is a process of death and rebirth: the boy has to die to childhood and enter the world of adult responsibilities. Initiates are buried in the ground, or in a tomb; they are told they are about to be devoured by a monster, or killed by a spirit. [...] The experience is so intense and traumatic that an initiate is changed forever.

The link with surviving shamanic practices provides this thought (here Armstrong includes a shaman's words quoted from 'The Power of Myth' (New York, 1988) by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers):

Like the dangerous expedition of the hunter, the shaman's quest is a confrontation with death. When he returns to his community his soul is still absent form his body.and has to be retrieved by colleagues who 'take hold of your head and blow about the sides of your face. This is how you manage to be alive again. Friends, if they don't do that to you, you die... you just die and you are dead.'

These brave men have descended into the utter darkness and confronted their mortality. They have passed through death and have risen, miraculously, from their underground tombs. But although reborn, they are not yet fully alive. As they return to the world, it is the job of their families and friends to hold them and to breathe life back into them. Their journey back from death has not yet ended.