Wednesday, October 01, 2014

Where's the Poetry....?

I've been quite immersed in the poetry world the last few years. I think I decided to step back a little from it, or maybe it just happened. I read a few poems at the St. Ann's Book Fair in June, but that was about my only poetry "gig" this year. The last night I read at, I changed my mind at the last minute and read a short story.

And though I've not consciously stopped going to things I've had quite a busy time, and just haven't caught so much as I usually do. Looking at the list of Next Gen Poets, I'd read 6 or 7, and as the annual prize season comes round, books I really should have taken a look at, like Kei Miller and Liz Berry's which respectively won Forward best collection and best new collection last night, I've not got round to. I missed the very well attended Free Verse Book Fair in London as was travelling back from somewhere the day before.

Part of my disengaging is simply lack of time, but also the group I'd been involved with, North West Poets, after a couple of years of busy activity, has had a bit of a hiatus. Poetry might be there on every supermarket shelf, but if you don't go looking for it, its easy to miss. I realise that I usually buy more poetry collections than I've done this year as well. I think apart from Toby Martinez De La Rivaz's "Terror"  and Mark Burnhope's "Species" I've not picked anything up recently. I had a bit of flurry of subscribing to magazines, but some of those subscriptions have dropped off, or have proven a bit disappointing.

I guess poetry remains a bit of a maze - and after a couple of signature anthologies a few years ago -  things have reverted to type. Carol Ann Duffy is still poet laureate, Simon Armitage is still our best loved poet. John Cooper Clarke and Roger McGough are still national treasures. Poetry Review is as solidly predictable as ever.  I realise there's not one magazine that really does a good job at taking the temperature of contemporary poetry, though I think the Rialto, Oxford Poetry and the Wolf might manage it between them.

And I need to make more of an effort. Guess what, its  National Poetry Day tomorrow. There's a strange but potentially interesting event with Jeffrey Wainwright at Anthony Burgess tomorrow night.  A "poetry inquisition" - well there are some poets I'd like to see face an inquisition, the always erudite Wainwright is thankfully not one of them. (I wonder when words lose their impact - there was recent anger on Facebook about a "First Word War" poetry slam.... yet we can happily appropriate the Spanish Inquisition. We're some way off a Poetry Pogrom I hope, unless you count the last kerfuffle at the Poetry Society.)

Then this Saturday, two poets I do admire, Richard Barrett and visitor to the city Jonty Tiplady are performing at the always enjoyable Peter Barlow's Cigarette.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Why I Record Music

My parents tried to harness my musical ability. On my dad's side of the family there had always been a bit of amateur piano playing, and they always sung along. We had a wheezy little electronic organ; then an acoustic guitar I had problems getting my fingers (or my brain) round; then my sister took up the mantle (a double bass) and was the family's serious musician for a number of years.

Yet I'd always sung along, even when my voice was breaking (sorry, mum), and though painfully shy at anything musical in public, I always liked music, and would spend some of my spare time making up imaginary bands, albums and songs. In truth, I was doing this before I developed my own taste in music. As a thirteen year old it doesn't make a lot of sense why every song's about love, when you're still at least partly interested in dinosaurs, science fiction and football.

When I was 15, I formed a band of sorts with my mates, and we used to make an unholy racket in the living room, commandeering the family organ, and along the way some biscuit tins and a typewriter (it made some nice bell noises.) When I was nearly seventeen I got a proper synthesizer, not unreasonably thinking that if I couldn't read music, I could at least make some interesting noises.

I've been recording music ever since. Because I'm a writer people often assume that I write some lyrics and then try and fit a tune to them, and though this occasionally happens, its mostly the other way round - I record a backing track and try and develop a song over the top of it.

There are probably less people who've heard my music than have read my writing which takes some doing but I give it my all, even if I know that I'm neither a particularly competent singer or musician. What I am good at, I think, is finding new sounds, and turning them into new songs. The act of creation is what it's always been about for me. And whereas you write a story and probably don't ever want to re-read it again for another ten years, when I records some songs, I've a ready made CD to listen to.

So I've been spending this weekend on what by one count (mine) is my 32nd full length album, going back as far as 1984. (There are plenty more than that - if you include side projects and the like - but I've a "canon" and I intend to stick to it.) I hadn't recorded much this year, but in a week's holiday in the summer hooked up my new (but old sounding) Korg Monotribe - a drum machine/sequencer/analogue synth in a box without a keyboard - with my ancient (but timeless sounding) Roland Juno 6 - so that the former could power the arpeggiator on the latter. This was pretty much how I made music and wrote songs for years, a drum beat and a sequence giving you the rudiments of a song without much difficulty. When my drum machine broke a few years ago I found different ways of doing things, but the Juno occasionally got sidelined as a result.

Rather than just record a song or two I found myself recording best part of a new album - which this weekend I've completed, through a few tweaks, and a couple of new songs to replace a couple of earlier tracks that didn't make so much sense now that the album had a shape.

As ever, I'll probably be the main listener - particularly when one track is a 15 minute instrumental electronic jam - (my "band" names is Bonbon Experiment after all) but I can't say anything other than its been an absolute joy to put together. So recording music gives me pleasure in a way that poetry or fiction often doesn't. I think its because its just about the only time I ever "make" something. I was crap at all those handy things you did at school in woodwork, metalwork and home economics, and have never been much good at painting, D.I.Y. or even computer hardware. But what I can do - is take a few slithers of sound and make something lasting from them.

Because I do like to sing as well, and because I can write lyrics, (though its often the hardest part), I guess I have to do something about that side of things as well. I still like coming up with titles - though the best on the new release - "The Marsupial Consumes its Own Weight in Feathers" is, you'll be pleased to know, an instrumental, whilst the title track of "Meet the Relatives" has spawned a cover concept that has seen me hunting charity shops for odd looking "band members." The other songs tend to be about all sorts of stuff of course. There's a bit of nostalgia on this release, and in some ways, my lyrics are also in some kind of "persona" as in the political pop of "Helicopters" which mostly exists so I could use the line "she looked like she’d stepped from a Murakami" (I then had to write a whole song around it so it made some kind of sense.)

I've still not graduated to the guitar (though I did buy one a few years ago in the forlorn hope that I'd have got over my caggy-handedness), but do refresh my set up with a new instrument or effects unit every now and then. The other thing people expect when I say I record electronic music, is that they think I use a computer to do it - here's my own Ludditism, apart from an odd tweak in Audacity, I'm still doing everything offline, pressing "record" and "stop" on a physical recorder (even though its now digital rather than analogue.)  My 8-track can only hold 99 tracks, so I had to run on the "tape" (not that it is tape) to record the last couple of tracks as I'd filled it for the second time since 2007. The job of downloading the master files can wait for another day.

In the mean time - "Meet the Relatives" (BDM 132), by some reckoning my 32nd album, is available to stream and download here.   Now, back to that novel....

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

The Circle by David Eggers

"The Circle" in David Eggers novel of the same name is an unhealthy amalgam of Facebook, Google and Apple with a smidgin of Amazon. It has grown to obliterate previous social media and search rivals, and the genuis triumvirate that run are respectively a Howard Hughes-ish inventor/recluse, a money making business man, and a public facing show man. The employees of the Circle live on a campus (very Google) in San Francisco, and it is the one company that every aspiring graduate wants to work for.

Mae is one such graduate, and in her early twenties she movies from working for the moribund utility company in her hometown (which is near, but not quite Fresno), and follows in the footsteps of Annie, who was her room mate at college and has apparently pulled some strings to get her a job at The Circle, first of all in Customer Experience, a glorified call centre, where the ever optimistic Circlers "zing" or otherwise connect with customers around the world, and ask for instant feedback on how they've done. So now, so SEO, though in these first chapters, as Eggers takes us around Mae's first few weeks in the Circle, there's something a little strained about the world he describes. Unlike Douglas Coupland's "Microserfs" and "JPod" Eggers doesn't seem to have a particularly deep take on this kind of world - and the campus he describes is a strange mix between a 1990s call centre and a Xanadu like fantasy. This not-quite-in-the-future world sees Mae as a willing dupe, a country girl at heart, who bit by bit gets pulled into the all encompassing Circle lifestyle, where not only your work life but your weekends and evenings should ideally be spent with your workmates. She makes several missteps, but is so keen on being a good Circler, and with Annie as her mentor, she apologises each time she fails to give all of herself to the corporate love-in.

Mae's a bit of a blank slate on which Eggers can draw his story. She has a traditional family back at home, but her dad is suffering from M.S., and her one boyfriend from back then, Mercer, has put on weight, makes chandeliers from discarded antlers, and is increasingly an embarassing reminder of her non tech past. That said each visit back home shows us Mae as being a little more than a customer service girl. She goes kayaking on a deserted lake, and sips tea with the old couple who live a life of isolation out on the lake. In a prose more vivid than he uses for the flat modernity of the Circle, Eggers describes a raw world of natural beauty.

Neither does Mae neglect her emotional needs - quickly falling into a dismal sexual pairing with another Circler, who promptly videos her giving him a hand job, and posts it online, oblivious to her complaints, saying that nobody other than him will ever see it amongst all the other videos. Then she meets the mysterious Kaplan and has sex with him in a toilet cubicle. For a while she gets drawn towards this mysterious stranger who neither her nor Annie can find details of within the Circle's comprehensive database.

Bit by bit Mae is given more responsibilities, becoming ever more dependent on the Circle as it rolls out new products and services - such as miniature cameras that can capture everything in perfect detail, or a new chip that can be embedded into children to stop them from being abducted. The benign aims of the Circle see it going wider and wider into an all-seeing-I and the aim of the Circle becomes clear, it must be made complete.

Yet though this is a very believable dystopia, Eggers is much too friendly a writer to over play the dark side. Mae is a willing dupe, a useful fool, and we go along with her as she one by one alienates those from her past, as well as her scepticism about the Circle. Her desire to make up for past lapses see her volunteering to become "transparent", where almost everything in her life is on camera. She quickly becomes a walking Big Brother contestant, everything she sees being seen by her millions of followers. At the same time her parents and Mercer become increasingly exasperated at her for not being "present" as they talk to her, whilst she "zings" her million followers.

In Mae, Eggers has created a very believable carrier for this satire - and the book really comes into its own once Mae, rather than joining some resistance led by Kaplan as the reader initially expects, becomes more and more important to the inner circle. Yet at the same time as Eggers is deft at explaining her dependency on the new media, he occasionally has a deaf ear. When the real world occasionally intrudes - such as a mention of Edward Snowden - it feels forced; and in a few scenes where he tries to create a broad comedy through a long list of Mae's new routine, checking this and that social media, he simply lacks the satirical edge that you'd find in Brett Easton Ellis or David Foster Wallace.

In many ways, the book is much more of a pageturner. Reading his debut memoir "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" I remember how despite the pyrotechnics, "Here's a picture of a stapler...." etc., there seemed to be a more traditional novelist underneath - adept at the mechanics of family, and prone to a not untypical sentimentality. So there's nothing particularly dark here. The sex tape doesn't rear its head again; the old couple on the river are not returned to. When one of the leaders of the Circle brings back three exotic creatures from an underwater trench, Mae is there to film their feeding, and you feel tension for a moment as it looks like the shark will take off the feeders hand, but no, things move on. At first I thought this unwillingness to take such narrative chances was a real weakness in the novel, but as you come into the final third, you realise it is the immersion of Mae in the Circle that is Eggers' intent. The darkness is in how close to our own reality this.

In Huxley's "Brave New World" you could easily read the world of ready sex and soma as being some kind of utopia, bread and circuses to subdue the masses - until he brings it into perspective by the interruption of the outsider; again, a similar technique is there in the subduing of Alex in "A Clockwork Orange." Yet our outsiders here are only seen through Mae's prism as she becomes ever closer to closing the Circle. You stay with her, and rather than shock, feel a certain acceptance at how easily we could fall into totalitarianism.

It's somewhat overlong, as many contemporary future fictions seem to be, and lacks a cutting edge, falling a little between two stools - a day-after-tomorrow extrapolation of where we are now vs. an SF reimagining. Compared with the strangeness of Ben Marcus's "The Flame Alphabet" it feels like a kid's comic strip, yet Eggers' is at his best when detailing the human, and the changes Mae goes through, from a sceptic to the most vociferous exponent of the Circle are deftly handled. As it ends, you feel you've been told a cautionary fable, rather than experienced a nightmare. As I finished the book, I was sat on a Virgin train, and going to the toilet, a disembodied voice follows you in there, and tells you what not to dispose of down the toilet; when I mentioned this on Twitter, one of Virgin's social media team replied to me. We are already some way down the rabbit hole.

Monday, September 22, 2014

On England

I stayed up far too late on Thursday, fascinated by the raw politics of it all. More was to come when I woke the next morning. First, David Cameron's breakfast speech which wiped out all attempts at "No" campaign solidarity and tried to trap Ed Milliband in a bear trap. Cameron, the P.R. guy, is at his best and worst when making snap decisions. The rest of the time he couldn't run a bath, which gives us the messes they have left behind in government, but he's a smart man of the moment. Relieved no doubt as not being the PM who broke up the Union, he promises a federal Britain, and an answer to the West Lothian question, whilst, as ever, not having any answers.

For federalism in Britain is fraught with difficulties given not only out decades of centralisation, but the nature of some of the questions.

Briefly, how could a federal Britain contemplate a European exit? If a referendum takes us out, then regions that voted emphatically to stay in, would be less empowered than now. How does the devolution of powers (and taxing powers) to regions such as Greater Manchester square with more cuts coming down the road, as soon as next March? A Conservative party that abolished Regional Development Agencies (replacing them with many more Employer led Local Economic Partnerships, with supposedly more power, but much less resource) is surely incapable of a regional policy? Yet its attempts at gerrymandering things so that is has more of a say in the North have failed dismally. Our Police Commissioners were elected with tiny turnouts; the system for elected mayors, which gave us a contest in Salford, but not for Greater Manchester, was equally flawed. Never mind their opposition (along with the Labour party) to a cocked up AV campaign.

The only constitutional change we have really seen since 2010 is the fixed term parliament - and it is this on which Cameron has his eye. Railroad Labour into some kind of consensus on a yet to be defined English federalism as a result of the promises made by all three leaders in Scotland only last week, and the distinctions between the parties at the next election might be even more difficult to discern. Certainly the West Lothian question - how can Scottish MPs vote on English matters? - casts a long shadow, though if we had a genuine divvying up of powers, then surely these devolved questions wouldn't come before parliament at all. And since no Tory will ever mention it, I don't see how an unelected second revising chamber, packed with placemen, hereditary Lords and a smattering of Bishops, can be immune from any constitutional upheaval.

Yet if we are to have some federal system, the left (and the left in the North) are yet to come up with a convincing solution. For every call for more decisions to be made in the North, one wonders where the people's voice is in this? It seems inconceivable that the Tories would recreate the metropolitan authorities - in which case have we got a version of what we have now. Can a federal Manchester really have legitimacy without some kind of proportional representation? And where would be the boundaries of this new Mayoral kingdom? Does Wigan, for instance, see itself continuing as one amongst ten?

The much maligned European Union takes money from member states such as the UK (including Scotland) then redistributes it. My salary has been pretty much paid for most of the last fifteen years by aspects of this redistribution. Those Tories and UKIPpers opposed to the EU always talk about the money we spend, not the money we receive back. This redistribution, essentially an attempt to bring the poorer parts of Europe (including in the UK) up to the levels of the average, is surely the only mechanism that could work in the UK - yet again, the "neighbour renewal" monies that Labour redistributed in this way, were cancelled with a penstroke in 2010, whilst specific funding around transport, housing, green energy and growth are subject to competitions between cities and regions. Our X-Factor economy may be good Saturday night viewing, but doesn't do much for Britain in the long run. When London politicians can prioritise new vanity schools in areas without need, ahead of providing places for all, we know we are in the politics of the madhouse.In other words the logic of Union is not "he who pays the piper calls the tune" but a desire to move to a more equal country - where the "shared" services such as defence and foreign policy and EU membership are counterbalanced by a redistribution from the richer areas (and from the richer sections of society) in order to improve on the things that bind us together. Scotland has more land mass and colder winters than the rest of the UK, it should be for the body collective to pay for those conditions as it should be for a rich London to invest in the regeneration of northern cities. (And if thats not the case: then surely the time comes when a "land tax" or something similar extracts value from our rentier culture?)

It is the Labour Party Conference this week, and rather than the Cricket captain's advantage of batting first it feels like going into the crease before the other team has turned up. What Labour need to do is not dance to a Tory agenda, though the monotrack of the media makes this difficult. The logic behind the "Yes" campaign after all, was a dialogue that was ignored by an uninterested London-centric media. I head down to London today for a conference, where I'll be talking about international cooperation between cities, its not a conversation that I want to be sent to the margins.

Coincidentally I just picked up Alasdair Gray's 2000 anthologgy "Book of Prefaces". In his own preface he writes "as a Scottish socialist who thinks home rule a necessary step toward making a humane democracy..." before quoting approvingly Shelley's statement from 1820: "If England were divided into 40 republics, each equal in population and extent to Athens...under insititutions not more perfect than those of Athens, each would produce philosophers and poets equal to those (if we except Shakespeare) have never been surpassed." The logic of the Union in 2014 has changed, it can no longer be an extension of a settlement set out by William the Conqueror and his sons, even if so much of the apparatus of land ownership and top-down political control would be recognisable to an 11th century Lord.

Saturday, September 20, 2014

Autumn Calling

We've had a bit of an Indian summer this last week or so, though having been in Amsterdam and Milan in the last twenty days my sense of things is a little confused. Amsterdam was great as ever, and as our conference was a little out of the centre, I spent most of my time in different parts of the city than I usually see, at least until the Thursday night when I finally made it to Paradiso, the city's legendary night club and venue. Milan was much more of a flying visit, and our meetings were out on a business park thirty minutes from the centre. I got to walk down the main shopping street on the way to dinner one evening however, and it was thronged with the young and beautiful and fashionable as it was Vogue fashion night. (This is becoming a habit, I was in Lisbon when it was as well.)

I might write about the Scottish referendum later. I stayed up until the first results gave the sense that it was going to be a "No" vote - which for all the promises, is the most anti-climatic of things. All those arguments about who funds the BBC, or where RBS will relocate to, or whether Scotland would be allowed into the EU were suddenly unecessary. Other arguments will follow. The biggest shock, of course, was Alex Salmond's resignation. Knowing when to go; that's not something you often get from London politicians.

One of the most interesting bands of the last couple have years have been the scuzzy punk rap duo Sleaford Mods. Since the last band to come from Nottingham were probably Paper Lace, they're something of a revelation - and a word of mouth success. In the current music environment there's no mainstream/alternative dichotomy, in that everything's kind of mainstream - what there are rivulets of independence fed by Bandcamp sites, and word of mouth touring. Like Fat White Family, Sleaford Mods feel utterly unquantifiable, though John Cooper Clarke, the Streets and the Fall have all been mentioned. Which goes nowhere near describing a song like "Donkey" (See above). The band are in their forties, and so was part of their audience, we recognising kindred spirits, but there were quite a lot of younger folks in Club Academy for a tight rollicking 50 minutes last night.

This weekend Rogue Studios is open to the public and if I can I will get along tomorrow - some of the city's best artists are based there. More earnestly, the Labour party conference rocks up in Manchester this weekend - and, post-referendum, so will the media. Expect a few fireworks. I managed to somehow find time to go along to a book launch at the Central Library. Writer Phil Griffin and photographer Jan Chlebik have created a wonderful artefact together bringing together words and pictures from several decades of a changing Manchester.

If any Labour delegates stay around after the conference they'll have plenty of art to see as the Buy Art Fair, Manchester Contemporary and Asian Triennial are all arriving with a kind of coordinated art dance - with previews throughout the city on Thursday and Friday. The following week ANDFestival's "Watch the Skies" weekend takes place at Jodrell Bank.

The week after will see the start of the Manchester Literature Festival which runs throughout October.  With more events than ever this year, its probably a good idea to do some preplanning about which to go to. I'm away for the start of the festival and not sure if I'll get back for the launch of my friend David Gaffney's collaboration with artist Alison Erika Forde "Men Who Like Women Who Smell of Their Jobs."  Its a good month for titles in Manchester as the Castlefield Gallery exhibition, "A Joyous Thing with Maggots at the Centre", offers a first solo show by Hardeep Phardal.

I'm also looking forward to two of my favourite contemporary poets, JontyTiplady and Richard Barrett, who will be performing at Peter Barlow's Cigarette in Manchester a fortnight from now. 

So see you around, I guess. 

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Consider Phlebas by Iain M. Banks

"Consider Phlebas" was Iain Banks' first published SF novel, and the first to feature "the culture", a pan-Galactic civilisation, descended from humanoids, but which has evolved machine intelligence to such a point that the machines have become their "God." Its pure space opera, in that an incomprehensible galactic war is going on between the Culture and the Idirans, and a "changer", (a race of human who can take on the characteristics of others), Bora Horza Gobuchul is fighting on behalf of the Idirans. A classic mercenary he has chosen the Idiran side because they at least are organic creatures, whilst the Culture have evolved so that their society is controlled by machines.

SF is at its best when it can assimilate a wide rang of ideas, and the ideas in "Consider Phlebas" are about what makes a perfect society. Yet the book itself is an adventure story. At a time when his non SF books "The Wasp Factory", "The Bridge" and "Walking on Glass" brim with fantastic imaginings, and believable characters, "Consider Phlebas" feels like a very early work, good fun to write, and even to read, but which gets caught up in its own invented mythologies. The story itself finds Horza on the point of death, before escaping. A series of unusual events see a "Mind" - the Culture's controlling machine intelligences - escape an attack and end on a planet of the dead, where Horza once lived and worked with other Changers, including his lover. These semi-religious planets are almost shrines to a previous culture, indifferent to the great space war happening around them. But before Horza can get there he ends up with another bunch of mercenaries on the nicely named Clear Air Turbulence, a bandit ship led by Kraiklyn, a battle hardened captain, who has little sentiment for the various waifs and strays who crew the ship. After a disastrous raid on what should have been an easy target, the reduced band falls under Horza, who has changed again, to look like Kraiklyn.
Kraiklyn is heading to a game of Damage, a high stakes game of chance taking place in a doomed outer space cluster which is soon to be destroyed by the Culture. Before he gets there Horza finds himself nearly a victim of a group of crazed cannibals. 

At its best there's something Swiftian about these episodes, though Horza is a strange Gulliver. He acts as a bit of a mouthpiece for the book's philosophy, but the book rarely stops for long enough, as Banks goes into describing another strange world or scenario. I liked the Damage game section best of all - though its echoes of Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker novels, and "The Restaurant at the end of the Universe" are an obvious one.

The quest to find the "Mind" seems a somewhat pyrhic one - yet Horza has personal reasons to go there as his old girlfriend is still there. Yet at the same time he has gone to bed with Yalson on the ship. In the meantime a Culture agent, who had been trying to kill Horza at the novel's start gets herself captured by him at the Damage game, and becomes a prisoner, as the crew head down to the planet of the dead.

This final section of the book took me a while to finish. The ancient planet has already been visited by some Idiran's and Horza's allegiances are now no longer so certain. For his old lover is dead, along with the other Changers. The search for the "Mind" feels a little like a shaggy dog story - and in these pages we've got a complex chase through the workings of the old planet, where ancient trains are awakened as Horza still goes looking for the mind, whilst also chasing the remainder of the Idiran soldiers.

There's much of interest in this first SF novel, and the Culture would be the main setting for the majority of his SF novels over the next thirty years, yet I found it a bit of a challenging read. The characters are, like so often is the case in hard SF, hard to visualise or love. The motley crew never comes alive, and you get the feeling they are like the characters in a disaster movie, ready to be picked off one by one. Horza himself is more of a cipher, whose role in the story is rarely heroic. The divide between "man" and "machine" is touched on throughout - a drone who gets annoyed that he is treated as a machine, the warrior Idirans who only really care about death or glory, the impossible intelligence of the Mind, the respect between Horza and the Culture agent - yet the novel is primarily an action novel, and yet the detailed action scenes lack pace. I'm sure I'll come back and read another Culture novel at some point, but after a run of books which I couldn't put down, this older novel was a bit of a disappointment. I got to the end, just as Horza does, but it was a close call.

Bone Clocks, Next Gen Poets and MacGuffins

I've not had time to read or write since coming back from Amsterdam last Friday but been busy one way or another and keeping a north eye on what's going on.

The Booker Prize shortlist was announced and David Mitchell fell off again, with The Bone Clocks. Seems Amazon had expected it to be on there as the price of the hardback had fallen to £8 from £20 which will be cheaper than the paperback when it comes out. I try and buy hardbacks of new fiction if I can, so that was good. I look forward to reading it when I get the chance. The shortlist looks interesting, and it has to be a good thing that that usual Booker staple, the historical novel, is for once absent. Its not that historical novels are intrinsically bad - but its got to be good that there's a contemporary list for once.

It was also the Mercury Prize announcement and amongst the other obscure bands was Kate Tempest, the performance poet. Quite a week for her, as she was also mentioned amongst the Poetry Book Society's 20 Next Generation Poets. There's a nice website you can read them and hear them reading, which is good. There are 2 Salt Poets on the list, including Luke Kennard, (he surely had to be there), and one can only think there would have been a few more had they not stopped publishing single poetry collections recently. Its quite an international list - Mark Waldron, Jane Yeh, Emma Jones, Kei Miller - which indicates that the British poetry scene remains amenable to incomers. There are obvious names missing, and some names here I don't really know, but with Melissa Lee Houghton, Emily Berry, Luke Kennard, Heather Phillipson and others there are plenty I like and read. It seems a wider breadth than the list from ten years ago, reflecting that increased plurality in British poetry. The somewhat odd rules for inclusion mean that some poets have been published too late or too early, others haven't made it past pamphlets yet, and its a "generation" in name only, as the age range crosses five decades.

Yesterday I went to a design workshop for a new digital app being developed by Manchester's ever inventive short story publisher Comma Press. Building on their existing expertise in the area, they've got funding to create a new self publishing platform called the MacGuffin and it will be interesting to see how it develops. Writers, literary professionals and digital types did an intensive morning, before retiring to the pub. Good to meet some new people, and like a new magazine or a new night, the MacGuffin might in itself inspire some particular submissions.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Not a Poet at Present

When I applied to go on the creative writing M.A. at UEA I was interviewed by Andrew Motion. I was applying to write long fiction, but I mentioned that I'd recently had a few poems published, and how much I'd enjoyed Les Murray's Subhuman Redneck Blues. "Yes," he agreed, "but you're being considered here for the fiction course." I agreed. "I'm not sure what I want to write, but I think its long form fiction."

Perhaps this was why I didn't get on the course. Who knows? I was interviewed by the novelist Richard Francis having read a short story of mine, and was on the Manchester M.A. in novel writing instead. One of the draws of the course was that the other tutor was poet-critic-editor Michael Schmidt. "I enjoyed the Sophie Hannah book you just published,"I told Michael, "I bought a copy for a friend." I'm not sure we talked about poetry anymore than that. I was there to write a novel after all. (Both Schmidt and Motion have of course written fiction - the rules are different once you're already published it seems.)

In the early 2000s i co-founded a poetry magazine "Lamport Court" - to which my own contributions (chosen by my co-editors) were a story and a long stream of consciousness extract from a "poem" that would eventually appear in my "poetry" book "Extracts from Levona." (I had to explain - and still have to explain that "Levona" wasn't a girls name, but in fact "a novel" backwards.)

When my collection "Playing Solitaire for Money" was published by Salt in 2010, I decided, reluctantly perhaps, that I should concentrate on poetry, after all, I'd had hardly any fiction published for years. It was important than some poems in that book were recent ones - as otherwise what sort of poet was I? One that didn't write poetry!

A few years ago Parameter magazine - a poetry magazine I'd long admired - published something of mine - but it wasn't a poem or a story, instead a cartoon strip called "Treeville" which was partially (but not entirely) about poets, but contained no poetry. 

Last year I wrote a poem about a washed up writer who could no longer write, but sat at the bar and was always referred to as a poet. The poem didn't quite work and a few months later I realised why - that it was really a short story, which I duly wrote.

Earlier this year I decided to put together the best of the poems I'd written since the Salt book, even though I knew Salt was no longer publishing single poem collections. The group of poets I'd met over the last few years were always putting together interesting projects as well which I'd sometimes contribute to. One of which, "Verse Kraken" the online magazine of hybrid art, I quickly submitted a piece to - it got accepted and only then did I realise, as it consisted of two pictures, with two soundfiles, that it was not even slightly a poem.

So now I've been trying to write some more fiction, having had stories accepted for two or three places recently, and yet I still write the odd poem. There are a dozen or so out there at the moment looking for homes in magazines. Whereas even last year I did quite a few readings, I've only done one  recently, at the St. Ann's book fair. When I read earlier in the year at Paradox I chose to read - at the last minute - a short story, not a poem (even though that's how I was announced!

Well, I've always written poetry, but I'm not a poet at present, though I even managed to write one last week in Amsterdam (and not a word of fiction.) Without a book out, or any readings due, what else can I say? But then again, (see above), I never have been, have I?

Sunday, September 07, 2014

Scottish Independence and Culture

With today's headlines seeing the "Yes" campaign ahead in the polls for Scottish independence for the first time, I wanted to think about what  a "yes" vote might do for culture. Apart from a few threats about how an independent Scotland would "lose" the BBC, I've not seen much on the subject - though I'm sure some have been considering it.

For it strikes me more and more that "culture" is sometimes what defines our togetherness, as well as our separation. The Scottish Commonwealth Games ceremony had more in common with the closing ceremony of the London Olympics than with Danny Boyle's mostly successful re-imagining of the opening ceremony: and music lovers must have been squirming in their seats at Susan Boyle, Rod Stewart and the Proclaimers, all, I hasten to add, artist's with a time and a place in the national (Scottish/UK) conversation, but hardly symbols of an independent future.

This year's Booker prize's belated opening up to Americans means that it is now open to all English language novels, so even if an independent Scotland wasn't in the Commonwealth there would still be eligibility.  Ali Smith is on this year's longlist (shortlist released on Tuesday) and must have a good chance of winning it, if this not year, at some point. Our preeminent novelist has a Scottish name -  Ian McEwan - yet his Englishness is without doubt. Meanwhile, John Burnside, another Scot, won this year's Edge Hill prize for short story collections. British poetry has for some time had an emphasis from the Celtic fringes, with our poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, and the poetry editors at Cape and Picador, Robin Robertson and Don Paterson, also being Scottish. Our most successful novelist J.K. Rowling chooses to live in Edinburgh, the first city to become a UNESCO City of Literature. You could argue that an independent Scotland might have to create some kind of cultural shift, with rather than the best  or most ambitious of their writers heading down on the East Coast Mainline to a London publishing industry which has a strong Scottish flavour, that a new Scotland would see its literary heritage as an increasingly important competitive advantage, as exportable as whiskey.

English literature has more than its fair share of Scots (and Irish, and Welsh) writers under its banner - only susceptible to a murmuring of discontent when the language of those outer provinces strays too close to its roots (London moaned about the dialect heavy James Kelman winning the Booker, but not the more accessible Roddy Doyle.) If Hollywood Scottishness has provided a name for a certain kind of breastbeating patriotism through Mel Gibson's entertaining, if historically dubious, "Braveheart", I suspect that most people in their forties - have a more nuanced idea of Scotland based upon a different set of cultural references, with Clare Grogan, pin up girl of Altered Images and "Gregory's Girl" our favoured Scottish archetype.

It seems to me that Scottish culture flourished remarkably during the mad and bad Thatcher years. The list of Scottish post-punk and new wave bands is not only impressive but would coincide in many places with a list of my favourite bands from anywhere. Altered Images, Primal Scream, Aztec Camera, Orange Juice, Mogwai, Cocteau Twins, Simple Minds, Belle and Sebastian and Jesus and Mary Chain take up a disproportionate part of my record collection. None of which, it has to be said, sound remotely bagpipe-Scottish - which always makes me wonder about the distinction between a culturally backward looking mainstream and a forward thinking youth. Which one will an independent Scotland fall for?

Elvis Presley made his only stop in the UK in Scotland, on a flight back from Germany. Yet rock and roll embedded it quite strongly in the Scottish psyche, as did punk and house music during later periods. I suspect distance from London enables the building of new scenes which may have more time to embed than in other cities. Though the music, television and film businesses, if they have a British presence will still tend to be in the South East, Scotland's publishing houses remain; and its Edinburgh festival and fringe are in combination the only time that the luvvies decamp from the South Bank. Our comic heritage - Beano and Dandy - come from little Dundee, and that history has surely bleached into the number of graphic novel writers and games designers and developers who have come from Scotland.

In these many ways we see that Scotland is culturally both independent and interdependent with London in particular.

In a dependent nation or region whatever attempts there are to create a national cultural conversation - through a "national" theatre or "publishing programme" fall a little flat because of the contradictions of history. That most Welsh of poets, Dylan Thomas, sounds so English in his voice that a contemporary listener can almost feel cheated.

I suspect in a globalised world, Scottish culture may well have started to suffer in the same way as its football; starved of investment, isolated, and possibly seeing the best of its talent leave, but also begin to lose an independent identity. We are a generation or two moved on; where it is the TV talent show the X Factor which soundtracks family Saturday nights. Deep-rooted traditions in church and union club are echoes from older generations.

Yesterday I found myself at the Manchester Spanish festival in Albert Square, following a week in Amsterdam. It helped me stave off the moment of being immersed in being English or British again. Language is part of this of course, but so it cultural context. The Spanish singer's words might have been new to me, but at least one of his tune's was "Loch Lomond" which is about as traditionally Scottish as you can get. I'm not sure where the Scottishness is in "Never Understand" or "I Travel" or "Pearly Dewdrops' Drops" or "Stars of track and field" but I'm sure their uniqueness comes from being in a culture that is looking forward not backwards.

The reality of small countries is that they can thrive - and will thrive - as long as they are not broken on the back of a threatening neighbour (Russia in Ukraine), or in thrall to a stateless global capitalism (Iceland, Ireland) - but that their very smallness means that have to reach out in many ways much more than they did as a region of a bigger country. In other words I can imagine an independent Scotland to become a cultural powerhouse in some ways, attracting artists, writers and musicians from elsewhere in the world, as much by its English language, its hospitable cities and countryside, and its relative proximities and distances - far enough and near enough to  London, but also linked through history and family and culture to the worldwide diaspora of Scots.

On a recent trip to Finland, I attended an exhibition of their most famous export, Tove Janssen, creator of the Moomins; there was both the international familiarity of her creations, but also their somewhat uniquely Finnish strangeness. And she was a Swedish speaker. Culture, in other words, is multi-layered, and our religious, work and community backgrounds inform it as much as our education, tastes and media. The Celtic revival in Ireland was a precursor to Irish independence. I'm not sure I've seen such a similarly unique Scottishness now, yet I think in many ways this is because Scottish culture is such an integral part of British culture, that unpicking where Arthur Conan Doyle's Scottishness ends and Sherlock Holmes' Englishness begins is an impossible task.

A close "No" vote will almost certainly have ramifications, even if not as cataclysmic as a "Yes" vote - yet I think culture may well be more interesting if the latter takes place. London may have time for Edinburgh in ways that it rarely has for Birmingham or Newcastle or Manchester, but if its in a different country, I think the rump of the UK will begin to feel the loss quite quickly. Culture, after all, can be the bit of a country that stays through generations of political impotence; so given political potency via an independent Scotland I imagine a revived cultural confidence.

Britain will be the loser of course, culturally as well as in other ways, yet you have to wonder how we got in this mess? Cameron, Brown and Blair, our last three Prime Ministers, are all Scots by origin or birth, after all. Did their dual identities mean they were oblivious to what was happening - or was their subservience to a hated economic Thatcherism so great as to deafen out other voices? Scotland isn't without its own incompetences of course: Edinburgh that city of architects and engineers had the massive cost overruns of their parliament, the delayed and devalued implementation of their tram system, and of course, the disaster - far from traditional prudence - of Royal Bank of Scotland and Bank of Scotland's financial overreach. Yet I can't help thinking, just as Europe feels a richer tapestry for the interwoven histories and futures of its languages and peoples which are steadfastly strong - whatever UKIP says - in a Eurozone of free movement of people and a usually shared currency, that our own "union" of states, English, Welsh, Irish and Scottish has - though not without difficulties - allowed for an enrichment. Whatever the results in a fortnight - our joint futures are enhanced by our differences, not as in some parts of the world, reduced by them. Culture - that so often misused word - is undoubtedly at the heart of whatever answer we need to start composing.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Ideas and Time

Ideas can take a while to have currency - meaning to be taken seriously as a genuine tender. So ideas have their time; they also have their elasticity - an idea that exists in a theoretical sense can change dramatically (even on its head) in practice, or be used for that purpose. Religious theology sits at one extreme - both in the sense that there is "only one book" and the endless interpretation that theologists extrapolate from that.

A historical perspective is helpful. Surely, we know there were political as well as social and theoretical reasons how Christianity became the official religion of the Roman  Empire, though the ideas itself are sophisticated. One God rather than many; a son who came to earth as man to save us; the idea of "love" replacing "fear" in the lexicon of believers.

You can say that political ideas are often less sophisticated, more prone to corruption - ends justifying means. Ideas, are, I think ticks that attach themselves to the body of our society's wildebeest, at first unnoticed, then symbiotic in some way. The idea of an independent Scotland for instance; or paradoxically a Britain distanced from Europe.

I sit there thinking that we should surely be more European than ever now - not just because of the market opportunity, but because the idea of Europe embodied in the European Union should surely have taken hold now. Not for the last time, I find myself on the wrong side of history. There seems an inevitable pulling away from Europe which is fuelled by a strange right wing Conservatism. It is not the old stagers of the Tory party who are anti-Europe but people my age and younger who joined parliament in 2010 or the one before. Some of this is about power of course: a distinct ruling class that are angry at anything that takes away from their "right to rule". For all Europe's faults, its mandate is a sophisticated one: not one of particular democratic vote (for one side or another), but a sense of the demotic, the agora, the populus. We haven't a constitution like American proclaiming "the pursuit of happiness" as a right; but we have a multi-state organisation based on the idea that equality between the massed citizenship is what matters. The mechanisms to ensure that happens are necessarily weak (and you could argue have been broken by the Frankfurt bankers) but they remain - enshrined in laws such as the social chapter.

Yet in the week that Conservative of around my age skips over to UKIP causing an unecessary election, the tab of which has to be picked up by the taxpayer, who might rather prefer it to be spent on helping those in need, I worry that the ideas of the time are now not mine. I see Europe, and an enlarged Europe, north to even include Russia, south and east into Turkey as a historical opportunity, but no longer a historical inevitability. Why are so many Europeans coming to Britain? (And its not just Romanians and Poles, now its Italians and Spanish.) The economic opportunity; the ubiquity of English; our socially liberal mores; the sclerotic systems of favour in their own countries... yet at the same time that we appreciate the cheap Aldi and Lidl, the wide range of foods in the supermarket, the Danish crime dramas, and Swedish pop music, and beach holidays away from the British summer, we as a nation aer edging away from all ideas of Europe.

And I sit there and wonder "who are these people?" who take the advantages of Europe but have created a bogeyman of it. We have been a European state forever, with a German royal family... and our lands owned by a succession of Norman placemen, leading up to and including our current prime minister. Part of me remembers Christopher Isherwood's "Mr. Norris Changes Trains" and the dark forces moving in the background  that him and his intelligent young friends knew about but couldn't see. Ideas that become of a time require actors to enact them. I cannot for a minute understand how someone - politician, individual, newspaper editor - could have a twenty year or more seething resentment of Europe. Its like the Europe I know is "unseen" as the cities in Mieville's "The City and The city".

We know an idea can have currency. Scottish independence seems to be one that has and doesn't have it. We are unseeing - those of us without a vote - because it `has not been something that has ever really needed us to think of it. We don't resent the Scots, hell we've even made Dr. Who Scottish. Its a like time since Tartan armies broke the Wembley goalposts or even had a side to support that could be a genuine rival to our equally disappointing English side. What's the bit in Trainspotting? "Its nae good blamin it oan the English fir colonising us. Ah don't hate the English. They're just wankers. We are colonised by wankers." 

History seems inevitable in retrospect; at present neither Scotland leaving the Union or Britain leaving the EU seems inevitable; but they both seem possible. The failure of them to happen will be the bigger shock I think - for what then? The split in the Tory party over Europe does seem inevitable at some point - and that must be what is exercising the brains on the far right. A bit like the American Tea Party, ideologues who have misjudged the time will find themselves with a world that they didn't want or expect. Let us hope so.

In art, ideas also have a tendency to find their appropriate time. The cult artist (Velvet Underground for instance) depends on it. The artistic ideas that matter are the ones that both seem right of the time but make the earlier times seem irrelevant. Cliff Richard made little sense once the Beatles came along, Prog Rock seemed indulgent faced with the Ramones and Sex Pistols; once Picasso or Henry Moore had remade how we look at the human form it was hard to go back to a representative version.

Sometimes ideas flounder on the margins for years.  I don't remember hearing the names Rachel Carson or Jane Jacobs during the eighties and early nineties, but their classic books get namechecked all the time nowadays. Yet we have strange countercurrents as well. Green issues seem to have either been mainstreamed, found wanting or ignored by a new generation of consumers. The urban regeneration of our cities continues as the embedded interests in gentrification are able to drown out any other voices.

I've often wondered where my generation went - between the punk rockers and the ravers was there room for us as well? Our endless Western recessions mean that as I approach fifty I don't know what a fifty year old should be like now; what they should look like; what they should feel. The radical who becomes a conservative requires self-interest along the way; my generation struggle with the baby boomers above us taking all the air sometimes.

Its often possible, as a writer, or musician or an artist to wonder what happens between being the outsider firebrand and yesterday's news. We sometimes miss the boat; like a relationship that spirals from heady first date to messy divorce without the steady years or marriage in between.

Life - I suspect - gets in the way, so that ideas we should have been pursuing at an earlier age are left to the ideologues: we then get a skewed version offering us a "choice" that we never asked for and don't need.

Friday, August 22, 2014

I'm "working on my novel"

The artist/provocateur Cory Arcangel recently published a book of "tweets" with Penguin (of all people, do Penguins tweet?) consisting of people's tweets where they are "working on a novel." ) Its one of those ideas, like Michael Landy destroying all his professions or Gormley's fourth plinth piece, which you kind of wish had stayed in one of those infra dig exhibitions of "ideas for art" rather than becoming an artwork in itself. Not that its a bad idea in itself, its just that the idea is so small, and even snide, that the work itself becomes much bigger than the intellectual frame of reference. Since any of the contributors in that book would probably have given a limb to be published in book form by Penguin, their being raw material for a trashing of creative dreams (or ironic commentary on our self-aware status alerts if you prefer) seems a little crass.

And I'm only saying that because of course I'm "working on my novel," though - and not because of Cory Arcangel's admittedly funny piece - I tend to now say I'm writing my "work in progress" or (as a few friends put it on their Facebook status) WIP. "Work in progress" has a long cultural history of course, being the original "name" or at least description for "Ulysses" by James Joyce. I appropriated it for my stream-of-consciousness prose poem sequence "Extracts from Levona (a work in progress)" because I liked that sense of unfinished business, as well as the anonymity it gives you. I have many "novels" which never got past a few pages, and quite a few that limped into 10-20 thousand words, without ever seeing the light of day, so "work in progress" is a good way of keeping your eye on the ball. Arcangel, to be fair, was, I think, interested in the idea of "working on a novel" as being something like the character in Camus's "The Plague" who is sure that his novel will be on the right track, as soon as he nails the first line, and of course, on detailing this regularly to the doctor in the story, dies before he achieves it. (Camus also wrote the "Myth of Sysyphus" so he knows of what he writes.)

Anyway, I've been "working on a novel" for a while now, since the start of the year, actually, where a little short story project I had ended up creating a bit of a template for a longer piece, which coincided with me joining a writing group. I'm nothing if not reliable when I join such endeavours, and rather than flitting from piece to piece, have continued with the "work in progress" whilst at the same time being (a) not entirely sure where I'm going with this and (b) wondering if it has the legs to be another "novel". Anyway, the writing group helped me hone my intentions, give it a title, and, now, eight months on, see me write most of the first half of it. Its kind of looking like it might be a (short) novel after all.

This week, for the first time in ages I've had the time to sit back down with it not as homework for the group but really getting stuck into it - over three or four days I've put together a third of what I've written to date. But how do I know its got "legs"? Well this morning I woke up with the characters speaking to me. Not in a hearing voices sort of way, (though it can come to this), but them jostling in my head for a bit of room. Whatever other plans I had to day went out of the window and I set down to get them down on the page. I've always felt myself even more of a fake calling myself a novelist than a poet, as my previous novels remain steadfastly unpublished, and its been several years since I've finished anything of serious length - yet long fiction has been what I set out to do from when I was about twenty one or so (and probably before then, though it was getting a computer that made me convinced I was able to be in this for the long haul). I've puzzled a little to why I've stopped aiming at novel writing. Most of the excuses have seemed practical - it takes a lot of time, you then have a "thing" that is competing with every other novel in the world for attention - but some have been aesthetic as well. Do I really want to add to the world's slush pile of books? Have I anything particularly special to say, or a particularly good way of saying it? Given that I can answer those questions via a poem or a short story I guess I put novel writing a bit to one side. The "big novel" of my dreams remains a mirage, (or a mountain), yet hearing those voices in my head this morning I remembered what you can do in a novel that no other form of writing can give you. It enables you to expand on character so that your creations do take on histories and futures of their own. Even as I frantically fill in the backstory of character's that a few pages before were mere ciphers, I realise their lives are becoming more than just "scenery" to the novel but are at the heart of it.

There's a peculiar excitement when this happens - and its one I'd temporarily forgotten about - one that the character in "The Plague" never understands, and one I wonder if Cory Arcangel has considered. For its only in the writing of the novel, not the thinking about it, or tweeting about it, or saying you've "got a novel in you" to mates down the pub, that the damn thing actually comes into existence, and whereas Cory's art project was probably just a matter of process once he'd had the initial idea, (and don't get me wrong, I like and appreciate artistic process), the novel has a tendency to defy any sense of over-ordering. Apparently Iris Murdoch used to write 30,000 synopses's before writing the novel itself - which sounds a little like a first draft to me. I have published writer friends who start with order and have to go through chaos before they come out the other side with an order that make sense. For me, I tend to have a big idea, and often a destination, but very little idea about the route or the method to get there. I'd forgotten, it seems, that there are unexpected pleasures along the way. Waking up with your characters doing your work for you, is one of those, and I thought I'd share it.

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Books by Charlie Hill

I read and reviewed Charlie Hill's debut novel "The Space Between Things" a while back. Published through a tiny press, and often chaotically edited, it had enough vim and humour  - as well as a subject matter, the forgotten road protest/dance movements of the early 90s - to make me look forward to what he wrote next.

"Books",  a short, funny novel that has come out from Birmingham's Tindal Street Press, is a much tighter affair than his debut. We are still in the world of a scruffy Birmingham demi monde, but here this backdrop is less what the novel is about. Richard runs a bookshop in a marginal area of the city - picking up trade from the students on the one side and the suburbs on the other. Yet after his girlfriend leaves him for another man and - worse - starts reading "The Da Vinci Code" he decides that he needs to have a midlife crisis and become as bad as he can be: which means drink, drugs and one night stands. Now, although that was pretty much the plot of that debut novel, in "Books" its merely the character design.

For in Richard's world there are two types of books; good ones, that "hit you over the head", and the rest. It is not Dan Brown that is the model for the latter type, but Nick Hornby oddly enough. Gary Sayles (note the surname) has written three protracted-adolescent ladlit novels, but is having an abrupt change into the midlife crisis novel for his fourth "The Grass is Greener." Yet Sayles is like the Jack Vettriano of writing, able to nail the vapidness of modern taste without a smidgin of irony. His books are written for accountants, middle managers and office workers. They see in him their own lives, not savagely ridiculed, but reflected back to them with a smug sense of recognition, and they sell by the bucketload.

Yet the novel begins in an odd place. Richard has gone on holiday on his own, and there in the same hotel is another displaced Brummy, Lauren, a psychology researcher at the university, and keen amateur photographer. Richard is bowled over by her, but in his being "bad" phase, doesn't quite know how to get involved with her. Fate intervenes, as a woman drops dead in the hotel bar, whilst they are both there. This becomes the unexpected connection between them. For Lauren is researching just this kind of sudden inexplicable death, and Dan has a theory... that it is the books that are killing people. For the dead woman had the new Gary Sayles book in manuscript. Sayles is books are not just bad, but potentially lethal, and this latest one is so designed to appeal to its demographic that it inadvertently puts them into a catatonic state from which they can't recover.

This central theme is deftly played with, as they form an unlikely double act. She's as lost as he is, having been driving the car during a crash that killed her boyfriend, whilst his business is almost an anti-business, refusing books he doesn't like, chasing out the wrong kind of customer.  There's a bit of opposites attract about the love story - in that he brings her out of herself, mainly by him annoying her, whilst in Lauren he's found someone worth staying around for. But their growing interest in each other takes place mostly in moments, for each scene of the book is there for a reason.

The structure of the novel does a good job with what could be difficult material. How can you keep the tension up when you know there's a book out there that kills? Richard's in an unique position - as he runs a bookshop - he tries hard to get interest from the press, but his "press contacts" already know of him as a conspiracy nutter, so that doesn't work. Lauren doesn't at first believe his theory, but comes along to it. In a controlled test, he gets to read Sayles' previous novels, to see what affect they have on him. The theory is he's had enough Bukowski etc. to offset the effects - and it seems that maybe its only the new novel that is so toxic that it kills, and only then those who've been made immune by his previous books.

Describing such hokum is probably unnecessary - for in this short, fast, pacy novel you go along with whatever Hill throws at you. When he places us with Gary Sayles - who is beginning to believe his own hype even though his books are surgically rewritten to make them even more appealing to a demographic - there is a darker side to the comedy. A 3rd strand of the novel emerges as well. Two impossibly comic performance artists have decided to make Sayles their next project as they poke and provoke the mainstream. For me, this was the strand of the novel that worked least well. The novel is quite old fashioned in some ways, provincial in the best way - i.e. set in a noticeable place, but whereas the drunken bookshop owner, lonely female academic and megastar novelist all could be archetypes they seem believable, whilst the two performance artists seem drafted in from central casting from a sitcom from 20 years ago. Its all good fun however, and the humour - which I enjoyed in his previous book - is not lost in this more refined setting. In fact, the structural tightness of the novel really helps, as it allows little set piece scenes to drive the plot along as well as being funny. The short chapters and long descriptive chapter titles are in themselves partly satirising the Nick Hornby type of "list" novel.

Comedy perhaps changes less than other genres, and there's quite a few echoes of David Lodge's "Nice Work", a similarly staged love story set in Birmingham. As the publication date of Sayles' novel gets nearer we head to London for the big launch. Sayles has had a new idea - he will leave the people behind and say goodbye by getting someone else to read his work. The performance artists have been posing as his biggest fans. In the mean time, there is something familiar about Sayles' wife that Richard can only just recall. In a flurry of chaos all the plots converge on a brilliantly stage managed final few scenes, where inevitably Richard and Lauren's madcap plans can hardly change the trajectory of publishing history.

What makes "Books" so refreshing is that its a high concept idea that is then deftly played out in an everyday scenario. Although Hill relishes the digs at popular fiction, it is, in some ways a Hornby-like book itself, with a nice old fashioned love story behind all the frippery. Hill is far more interested in the humour than the satire, so though there will be a pang of recognition next time we pick up a Dan Brown or whatever, we never feel that he's laughing at us, but bringing us along for the ride. After all, his "hero" is a total mess despite reading all the right books.

Friday, August 15, 2014

East of England

Usually when I take some time off, I just go for the R&R option, stay local and then half way through my break think I should go somewhere for a day or two. This year I needed to get away and with a friend being free last weekend in Nottingham, I decided the direction I would head in would be the east. You could even say the far east, given I got as far as Cromer. Along the way stayed in Norwich for three nights, and caught up with an old friend in Cambridge.

Nottingham has always been a favourite city - like Manchester but a bit more compact. Unlike Manchester its independent scene seems more integral to the city. The various alley ways off the Lace Market enable small retailers (including the new bookshop Five Leaves) in the heart of the city. The Northern Quarter used to be a little like this, but is now mostly bars and eateries, not a bad thing, but leaving one to wonder where you might set up an independent bookshop in Manchester with sufficiently low rent and high footfall.  In one of the 2nd hand record shops I ummed and ahhed over "Some Time in New York City" by Lennon, with the 2nd album "live" with Frank Zappa and Neil Young's never-on-CD "Journey Through the Past." Both were a bit expensive (and are rare for a reason, neither are particularly good!)so I stuck with Lennon's posthumous "Milk and Honey" and Siouxsie and the Banshees "Hyeana."

On then to the Nottingham Contemporary, a fantastical futuristic new gallery that looks like its landed in the city from another planet. I'm a great fan of architectural contrasts - far better than "faux" assimilation, or the apologetic modern box. Yet inside the gallery disappointed. We seem to retain a real problem in the UK with historical moderrnism, let alone our more contemporary art, and its something I've seen before at the Sage, in Middlesborough, and even to a lesser degree at the very popular Tate Modern. We've built these new spaces to showcase an art that the British have always been slow to embrace. The current shows in Nottingham seemed to exemplify this. Carol Rama's show, part of a touring retrospective, shows an interesting international artist, with links to Dada and surrealism, and an edginess to the work. Yet the works are presented with little commentary, and even titles and dates of composition are kept separate from the works themselves. We are left with a pretty show, but with little comprehension. The dialogue with Danh Võ's installations in the adjoining gallery seemed tenuous at least. Danh Võ seems emblematic of our problem; an avowedly international artist - Vietnamese born, refugee in Denmark, and now based in Mexico City - his work - a mix of found works (photographs etc.) and installations that pre-date his own mid-70s birthdate they would, I think, be politically resonant in Vietnam or even New York, but here they seemed to exist without context. The gallery space, so exciting from the outside swamped the work, the white walls and open glass windows exposing the two installation pieces, rather than enhancing them. Context isn't the only thing in art, but this felt without context, and the work itself didn't seem strong or individual enough to make the difference. Leaving the space, a little disappointed, I noticed that the art books in the shop were pushed back into one corner, whilst gifts and children's stuff dominated the space. It seemed at one with our uncertainty over the role of contemporary art in a civic space - great building, lovely cafe, but what on earth should we put inside it? A room of Rama's work apologised in advance for having work of a sexual nature in it.

Avoiding rainstorms (mostly) as hurricane Bertha spluttered over the UK, I travelled down to Norwich. Its a lovely journey through ever-flatter countryside, passing through small towns on the way. Norwich is one of my favourite cities, far enough from the bustle of London that it doesn't feel like a commuter town, and at the same time with a lively local independence, showcased in the many little record shops and cafes down St. Benedict's road and elsewhere.

But if I was going to be in the east, I wanted to see the sea, and so headed off to Cromer on Monday for the first time. If you wanted a seaside town out of central casting, Cromer would fit the bill.  A steep seafront that leads down to exemplary beaches, wooden groynes and a pleasant pier (off which children were sat crabbing) bringing back memories of other similar places. I sat watching the sea's undulations; it was a luminous green for much of my time there. Walking up past the town I headed towards an old lighthouse which overlooks the Royal Cromer Golf Course, an expensive links at the top of the headland. If this was my Sebaldian journey, it came without any of the baggage that the misanthropic old German had, and instead brought back warm memories of childhood excursions - England at its best.

Heading back into Norwich to meet a friend, it was great to be in such a different landscape, an England that seemed to hark back, old churches, farms and fields, and every now and then a moderrnist jolt: a solar farm glinting in the sun. I didn't in the end get to see much of Norwich's sites, or (an earlier plan) go to Ely Cathedral - the trip a mix of seeing thnngs and stopping for a rest. I made it out to an earlier exemplary gallery, the Sainsbury Centre for the Visual Arts at UEA, here was a fascinating exhibition by John Virtue, a painter who began in the North West, but whose name was new to me. His giant monochromatic seascapes were impressive in every way. Was it that this show resonated with where I had just been, or was it simply more successful art? An accidental find, but a worthwhile one.

My trip east ended in Cambridge, where I slumped with my bags on Parker's Piece watching the world go by before catching up with friends. 

So yesterday saw me heading back to Manchester, seventh train journey in six days, quite a complex itinerary given the idiotic pricing models of Britain's train companies, but at least I only had one short delay. Manchester's trams were looking less reliable as I headed back during rush hour, wanting to get home to then go out again. I was glad I made the effort, as there's an intrigueing book-themed exhibition at Anthony Burgess, around the work of Micheal Butterworth, whose long history intersects with Michael Moorcock, UK Sci-fi, "New Worlds", Savoy books and more. Free to look around, there's also an evening of talks and films a week on Tuesday which is recommended.

As Anthony Burgess Foundation leaps back into life for the autumn, where it will host many events at the literature festival, where its programme is now available - I'll probably do a piece on what I'd recommend later on. Butterworth edits arts journal "Corridor 8" and this home to intrigueing new arts journalism prompts me to remember that the Burgess/Observer arts journalism prize is open to entries for its 3rd year. 

The evening finished at Castlefield Gallery, where as well as linking up this "response" show with Manchester Art Gallery's Ryan Gander exhibition, the zine "Shrieking Violet" celebrated its latest edition and 5th year. Its on sale in the Cornerhouse and Piccadilly Records or online here. My piece on "the secret history of the synthesizer" is included.

So, after a few days being wined and dined by other cities, Manchester did its best to whisper a few sweet nothings in my ear on return. Our relationship will survive a little longer, perhaps, despite the lure of other places!

Monday, August 11, 2014

First Novel by Nicholas Royle

A couple of years ago Nicholas Royle, the Manchester-based novelist (and academic) introduced Nicholas Royle, his namesake, the academic, and now, debut novelist. The idea of the doppelganger is a key one in modernist fiction, but its only one of the tropes that Royle employs in last year’s “First Novel.”

Royle, a creative writing lecturer living in Didsbury, Manchester is writing about Paul Kinder, a creative writing lecturer living in Didsbury. As an actual neighbour of the writer, the veracity of the novel, from named roads, to “The Art of Tea” bookshop, to my friend, the writer Elizabeth Baines who makes several walk-on appearances, I can vouch for. Yet “First Novel” is a hall of mirrors. Kinder is running a course on “First novels” yet his own first novel is not so much hard-to-find as impossible to find. It came out on a small press, was hardly reviewed, hardly sold. When old copies come up Kinder buys them. He lives alone. We suspect his wife has left him with his children (though the truth of this will take a while to emerge). He is obsessed with the local characters round Didsbury village, including Overcoat Man, a man he has seen attacked by a group of young people, some of whom he suspects are in his class.

Yet the novel is fractured and fragmented from the start – this scene doesn’t happen in either this book, or the book Kinder is writing – though it sort of comes through in one of the scenes he asks his class to write.

At the same time one of his students, a talented young girl called Grace is writing a novel that has some power. We get key extracts from the early part of the book. It’s a somewhat traditional, but vivid, tale of an incident in the early 60s in Zanzibar, and that follows the life of the RAF airman Ray whose life was changed by it.  Ray becomes a poet, and has a son Nicholas, who he pretty much abandons – partly out of the tragedy that strikes him, partly as he comes to terms with his own homosexuality during the 60s and 70s.

Kinder is not particularly enjoying his job. He seems to know he is a fraud, and a fellow lecturer comes up to him at one point, as he reads something out at an (actual) Manchester literary life and criticises it for being very like “Fight Club.” It dawns on the reader eventually, that Royle/Kinder has got his excuses in first. It’s a hint if you like that this novel you are reading is somehow the one that Kinder is writing.

Though its not explicit we understand that Kinder is writing a book about the airport. These bits of the book are Ballardian, as he drives out to the airport and watches the planes fly overhead. At a party he meets pilots and air hostesses who all seem to live in Didsbury (which was news to me!) because of its proximity to the airport. When a newcomer speaks to him at these parties, the slightly comical Lewis, it seems that the plane motif has a more serious angle, for Lewis has his own secret, his own tragedy. The flying lore creates a postmodern tone to the novel, as does Kinder’s obsession with both the rooms of writers in a Guardian series, and the spines of books. Kinder collects white spined Picadors and different series of Penguins. These OCD-like traits seem to be part of his hold on reality. Kinder’s first person narrative frequently offers a choose-your-own-adventure trope. After dismantling the Kindle work has bough him he muses “I would be able to put the Kindle back together again, or I won’t.”

That either/or – the two possible paths is both reminiscent of the fatalism of Luke Reinhart’s “The Dice Man” and also the truth facing any writer. The characters have choices, but the writer has to choose.

As the book progresses, we get more of the story Grace is writing, but to confuse things we also get a story that another student Helen writes: where she follows Kinder home, and begins a fascination and flirtation with him.

The novel’s timescales sometimes confuse. We are set in an actual but specific near-present. The tram has yet to arrive in Didsbury, but is coming. We know of his wife, Veronica, but do not see her. They married early and had children too fast – but these reminisces are of an earlier life, in London. When does Kinder’s debut novel fit into this? Lines are blurred. At the same time there are obsessions that are only partially explained. It is Paul Auster-ish world of false trails and possible clues. He is obsessed with the Co-op Pyramid building in Stockport, and goes as far to ask a Co-op bank worker out in the hope of getting to see it.

At the same time Grace’s novel is changing. The somewhat evocative colonial novel, is turning into something that is far more expositional.  Yet though “First Novel” is quite cutting about the type of writing – good, bad and indifferent – that comes on a creative writing course, I don’t think we’re intended to make judgements on this. For the stories in the novel are themselves all versions of truths and it is when these versions begin to mould into each other, as fact and fiction intermingle, that the novel’s dark intent becomes clearer.

There’s a temptation in a novel that is so meta- in some many ways to play at its own game. Surely it’s the Paramount Book Exchange “on Shude Hill” not “in Shude Hill” as it says on the novel’s first page. Is there an indulgence in the naming of some of the books being mentioned? Or is this partly a detective game for book sleuths? Real life plane crashes and a notorious North West murderer make unexpected appearances, blurring still further the fact/fiction line. Siri Hustvedt and Paul Auster have walk on parts, are thanked in the acknowledgements and the former’s debut novel (the Blindfold) which is perhaps not widely known, has an important role to play it seems. There are some nice literary digs – at the middle class writers who all seem to have the same desk; the same highly expensive chair.

But Royle, whose short stories and editing of short stories are what he’s most known for, is not a writer to ever suffer hubris even in a longer work like this. If the many pieces don’t quite fit together seamlessly, they require a considerable scaffolding and the edifice, though it might look like toppling at some points, never quite falls down. There are echoes of a few prevalent themes in contemporary fiction in the novel. Zadie Smith’s essay comparing Joseph O’Neill and Tom McCarthy as two different routes for contemporary fiction always seemed to miss their inherent similarities. “First Novel” has echoes of “Netherland” and “Remainder”, with a protagonist who seems caught in a place from which he can’t escape. The twists at the end are Royle the short fiction writer not so much pulling the strands together (they are simply too twisted and layered for that) as pulling a rabbit or two out of the hat.

Knowing both the writer, and his milieu I guess I’m in on quite a few of the in-jokes, but even if I wasn’t it seems a particularly satisfying and knowing contemporary satire. If it doesn’t quite know whether to take its philosophical points seriously or not, this is at one with the novel’s existential admittance, that it might be all serious, or then again it might not; it might be all true, or then again not.

Tuesday, August 05, 2014

Become a Better Writer

Last year, despite a number of troubles, the art I completed was really good. I recorded an album, quickly and coherently which was as good as anything I'd done since restarting recording in 2007; I wrote fiction  that was strange and to the point; my poetry felt achieved.

This year, because of a number of troubles, the art I've been working on seems tentative and amateurish, even misguided. I've pretty much given up on music after a bit of persistent cough around Christmas, and the few bits I did seem rough and lazy. My poetry has been either entirely absent, or in a few bursts, seems ephemeral, under-thought. I have written quite a bit of fiction, but seem to be unable to grapple with the nuts and bolts of what I'm writing.

What is it that makes us become a better writer? It is, I think, the writing. Write more. Write more often. Take my music; in 2012 I did a silly project where I recorded an E.P. every month - close on 50 songs in all. By the end of the year, I was particularly efficient. That confidence spilled into last year's "Kleptomania" where I took some old unrecorded tunes and made them flesh.

Working on poetry or fiction seems a different matter. If writing is like climbing a hill, its one designed by Escher. I don't think we ever quite know which way is up which one is down.

And writing is also about reading - and exposure to other works. Yet I'm often surprised how some writers seem stuck in a groove of their own practice. You see it most often where writing has a bit of a beat imperative. At some point in literary development, "beat poetry" stopped meaning "Howl" or "Kaddish" with its subtleties and inflexions and became some degradation of this - a visceral shout. Whenever a male writer tells me he never used to read, until he discovered one writer, I know that writer is going to be Bukowski. At the other end of the scale, I picked up a recent poetry magazine off the mat, and opened it up to find, despite a strident editorial, poem after poem that was set in an unchanging, somewhat unchallenging nature.
There are certain writers - popular writers, funny writers, rhyming writers - who never seem to develop beyond their initial schtick. Do they try other things and just realise they're no good at them? I suspect its the other way round: they become good at a thing and stick to it tightly. The guitarist the Edge still plays like he's in his first bar band. Being a member of U2, perhaps it was safer that way. And schtick is not reserved for the populists. A Prynne or an Ashbery may have veered quite a lot during a long writing career, but its often within a familiar trajectory. Yet if we read "The Tennis Court Oath" its the unfamiliar trajectory (as far removed from the plain speaking ironicism of O'Hara for instance as its possible to get) that stays with us. I read later Ashbery with enjoyment, yet I'm rarely astonished. He used to do astonishment.
Maybe I'm talking about different things. Maybe I don't get better either. Maybe I get worse. I certainly know that I can lack the inspiration and the discipline that I once had. I started thinking about unfinished grand projects today. Grand projects are what you have when you're writing isn't yet good enough to simply be. Grand projects are castles built out of air. Unlike in the real world, however, in the imaginative world, those grand projects are at least partially possible. And I think I prefer grand projects than small ones. Chances are if you're a miniaturist writing a love sonnet then that perfect sonnet will still pop up as a libretto in your unlistenable six hour opera.
I guess we only get to see what people show us as well. I went to hear Will Self give an extemporised lecture on "urban psychosis" to go along with the MMU  exhibition of the same name. In retrospect, at least a third of Self's talk was about his observations as he walked from his hotel (on Deansgate) to the venue (on Oxford Road.) Come to think of it, its hardly long enough a walk to be called a "derive". Yet catching myself walking down Whitworth Street the next day I found myself in Will Self world. The observations were attached to a much wider body of learning. Fascinating, fantastic stuff, yet I'm still stuck in the first dozen pages of his Booker shortlisted "Umbrella".  Perhaps we want our writers (our musicians, our artists) to be more like themselves. Its why Lou Reed's "New York" or Bowie's "The Next Day" were returns to form - they were returns to the artist's formalism. Not everyone can be a Bob Dylan. I picked up his 80s album "Infidels" at the weekend and been playing it non stop. Its almost a new wave album (and he jokingly went one better and performed with a new wave band some of the tracks on Letterman). It would have been the first Dylan album I remember coming out - but I was listening to the Cure, Cocteau Twins, Psychic TV  - I had no need for "new" Dylan, even as I still spun "Like a Rolling Stone."
So sometimes creativity is its own reward. I'm not a journalist peering into lives and backstreets looking for an interesting story. (I don't know many journalists, but the ones I do, are inherently curious, whilst not wanting to let you know much about themselves. That's why journalists make bad novelists, or maybe its bad journalists make half-way decent novelists; because the latter's curiousity always stems from the solipsistic impulse.)
Perhaps to become a better writer we have to become a different writer, maybe many times. If this is the case you can perhaps understand why some writers baulk at the effort, stick with what they know, with how they already do it. Yet there's diminishing returns I think, particularly if your canvas is quite narrow in the first instance. Though expanding it can be difficult as well. What to make of Geoffrey Hill's late career prolificness? Has Simon Armitage reverted to earlier modes after the stylistic expansion of "Seeing Stars"?  I for one am glad the new Manic Street Preachers album sounds like early Simple Minds. I suspect they won't make a career of it however.
And I'm writing this blog post late at night, unable to sleep after a tired evening. Something in the air this week has been making me feel unwell. Manchester is a polluted city, in many ways, and sometimes you need more than a face mask to keep it out. The nicest thing someone once said about my writing (and this was years ago) was that "you get better" and (here's the rider) "people don't do that."
I've always taken this to mean that I am not there yet - if "there" is a particular branded place. Yet I am not that person. I think I always write about the same things; but probably its true, in different ways. To get better you sometimes need to get worse. I think competence is overrated (but incompetence needs to be fixed.)
I'll stop now.

Friday, August 01, 2014

A Girl is a Half-formed Thing by Eimear McBride

Though not particularly a plot based novel its impossible to honestly review this without giving some spoilers about the story. There's an uncertainty about what's going to happen that I wouldn't really want to spoil, so read this with caution, but if you think its not your kind of book, hopefully I will convince you otherwise.

Having gone from obscurity to prizewinner "A Girl is a Half-formed Thing", debut novel by Eimear McBride has catapulted the Irish writer into a literary A list. No overnight success - she'd tried unsuccessfully to get it published before revisiting it with the boutique Galley Beggar Press - its been a strange kind of word of mouth success.

Telling the first person, stream of consciousness story of a young girl, whose brother is damaged by a brain tumour, its subject matter is not particularly an easy, or an enticing one. Yet, almost uniquely amongst contemporary fiction it has been lauded not so much for what its about, but the way that its been written. For the book is written entirely in a stream of consciousness,  from when the protagonist is just beginning to be aware of the world, through childhood, and into a confused, stressed adulthood. McBride not only maintains the voice, but gives it credence through the different phases of a person's life.

The voice itself feels heavily accented, with that wonderfully circumlocutory turn of phrase of rural Ireland. Its a tone that's set from the first page, and the cadence quickly establishes itself in your head. Yet its not Molly Bloom (which might be the obvious starting point) or even the comedy Irish of Mrs. Brown; instead, McBride gives us a dauntingly accomplished female consciousness that seems at the same time intimate, and unique. The verbal tics - full stops rather than comments; phrases being cut off before the verb - create a musical lilt that is not only funny, but also stops the flow ever becoming boring. There's a dramatic quality to this (McBride trained in drama), which is why, for a book written in a particular idiom, it rarely sags or becomes boring.

Getting into the book takes a few pages, and in many ways, the childhood, though important, feels a little generic in parts. The brother, several years older than his sister, appears in fragments. For though he has a brain tumour which has made him "slow", his religious mother will never admit there's any problem. The disabled brother comes alive through fragments - like all siblings they argue, but even as she becomes the "older" one, through her intelligence and experience, she is far more than her brother's protector (and even fails to do that in some ways.) Faced with questions at a new school about his scar he stymies conversation (and rumour and bullying) by saying it was a knife fight. When the truth comes out he is pilloried, butt of all jokes, and the younger sister sees this but can do little about it.

As dazzlingly engaging as the writing is, in the early part of the book, I wondered to what I extent it would be enough. For this tale seems one that has been trodden over so many times, especially lately. It's a story about the overhang of Catholic morality and hypocrisy in rural Ireland and the damage it inflicts on different lives in different ways. Their mother cannot admit there is anything wrong with her son, and her husband leaves (to the "I told you so" of her distant family). She is compromised - as one of a large family - by the patriarch, who can only see bad in her, though his own life is one of bullying determinism. These are lives from the fifties dragged into a more modern world. For the children are growing up in the late 70s/early 80s - "Star Wars" and video games have permeated even this highly religious state. Like Colm Toibin's "The Blackwater Lightship" or Anne Enright's "The Gathering" this is another story about a family circumscribed by fate, but almost incapable of escaping from the overhang of their religious upbringing and society.

Yet things are changing, and when the girl grows up, she flees to England to university. I was surprised how firmly established the book was in that early 80s period, a time of naïve, somewhat innocent change, perhaps happening swifter than its characters often knew. Our girl has done all she can to escape the stultifying family, but of course, its the family that won't let her escape: so that when her uncle comes to stay, it is a combination of his insouciance and her awakening teenage emotions that lead to a symbiotic, abusive relationship that will infect every aspect of her young life.

In this context, the book is much more about her, than her off-stage brother. She is the classic convent girl, letting rip with drink and sex, but without the self-worth required to make it what she really wants. Everyone in  the story seems full of self-hatred, but also caught up in a family web that they somehow endure. When she returns to find her mother complaining about her brother's laziness, she tries to intervene, and tells him to try harder; but she has intervened in a pact that her mother won't let her into. There's a complex interplay: her relationship with her brother; his relationship with both her and her mother; and the abusive uncle, and random men who become some kind of escape route for her unhappiness, and the bottled-up feelings of her childhood.

If it was this alone, then once one gets over the sheer depth of loathing in families in contemporary Irish fictions (so redolent of "The Gathering" in particular), there would be little there - the story would seem relentless, a kind of literary misery memoir. But "A Girl is a half-formed thing" is that rare thing, a book that cannot justifiably be paraphrased; its hard (even from the reviews I'd read) to explain the sheer pleasure that McBride gives the reader. Its not just that the narrator is funny, or that her stream-of-consciousness is so vivid, so peculiarly hers; there's something else as well - an innate playfulness and intimacy about this novel that, although its intense, means that its never difficult. For whereas Molly Bloom may have used all the words in Joyce's armoury (and many of his wife's) this narrator is sensual rather than intellectual. We get only imprints of the physical world. There are no phrases about moving from place to place, or drawing scenes. All we have is the flood of feelings and you have to read every word to place yourself in the centre of the novel.

This pleasure continues throughout the book; its perhaps the most sensory experience I've had reading a book since Saramago's "Blindness." In that novel the lack of sight is telegraphed through the prose - and here, McBridge similarly gives us an essence of a person, when that person is deprived of the usual familial love. Brought up by a mother alone; whose own emotional strength is almost all directed to her difficult elder son, the daughter drifts into disaster.  There is an element of the dramatic writer in all of this - you sometimes wish McBride would pull away a bit, allow her character something normal, give her some more air in which to breathe - or even let her meet another human being who isn't going to abuse her - yet the novel clearly has a desire to tell this story entirely through sensory experience. The only longer blocks of prose are verbatim prayers. We are in the strange, unsettling netherworld of Christ's suffering here. I'm reminded, not just because of the sexual abuse, and the manipulative family, of Lars Von Trier's "Breaking the Waves." Like the young woman in that, a religious upbringing has skewed the sense of self.

There have been quite a few articles lately about how disabled people are portrayed in novels. It was the theme of the fiction/non-fiction treatise "Fuckhead" which I recently read; are characters with a disability allowed to be themselves, or is the disability there to be a morality tale, a cipher of some kind, for the able-bodied characters? Even though we see her brother from a distance, he seems to be more achieved than this. He is unable to interact with his sister, or the world, except in what might seem a crass or simplistic way; yet interact he does; and unable to make changes, he accepts something of his life. That his devoted mother, and errant sister are both so distracted by their own share of life's troubles means that we sometimes do see him as the embodiment of Christ, "suffer little children" indeed... yet I think he is much more than that. He is as much a victim of their love, and their inability to let him out into the world, as they are. He brings the world in -  video games, too many sweets. Towards the end of the book something else happens which brings his sister back into his orbit.

These later scenes are protracted, hard to read, sometimes harrowing, and for the reader, emotionally overwhelming; but even here McBride's clear purpose and driven sense of retaining the complexity and veracity of the consciousness with which she is writing mean that we are taken along with it. Language breaks down even further as things get worse; and yet we are also there in her brother's room as the doctors and nurses and well meaning praying friends of her mother come by. Seeing her brother worsen, we are lead through a fracturing of consciousness, matched by the girl's own lack of self preservation. Throwing herself into the one meaningful relationship in her life, that with her elder brother, there's no longer room for lies and equivocation. At its peak I defy anyone not to find tears in their eyes.

It sometimes seems that all contemporary novels are similar: that they rarely use language in such a complete way as McBride does; but also bothat they play to some kind of agreed list of rules, that are about preserving a certain type of literary decorum. This novel goes the opposite way; it twists the reader, refuses to let you off the hook. You are in this girls' head, and will stay there until the last page. At times uncompromising, its never disappointing - the reviews can only begin to give an idea of the payback you get from sticking with it. I've read other overwhelming adventurous one offs over the years - "Fugitive Pieces", "The God Of Small Things" - here the canvas is even smaller, but even as someone who might have felt a little tired of the subject matter, I felt a great sense of connection, and - as a writer - a massive admiration for the bravura shown.