Laurie Graham's Blog, page 10

One of my jobs this week was to source an ink pen for a lefthanded granddaughter. It had to be a guaranteed non-leaking model, nothing requiring bottles of ink or messy cartridges, because she’s only eight years old. I did manage to find something suitable but the search brought back some negative memories.

Given that there is no single gene responsible for handedness and given that the global incidence of left-handedness is around 12% of the population, with significantly more males than females, we  have an overload of girlie lefthanders in our family. My granny was a lefter, although she had it beaten out of her by Edwardian teachers. My daughters-in-law are both lefthanded, as are 50 percent of my grandchildren, 75 percent of my granddaughters. And then there’s me.

By the time I was old enough to pick up a pen, the view that left-handedness was a vile aberration had gone out of fashion, but that is not to say I didn’t face difficulties. My manual skills were poor and my handwriting was a horrible, smudged and blobby mess that refused to stay on a horizontal line. At home I was called Awkward Annie. Also Corky and Caggy. I had to teach myself to knit. I had to grow up, wise up and track down a lefthanded potato peeler for myself. I’m still waiting to find someone to teach me to crochet.

My granddaughters should have an easier time of it. Pens and scissors and can openers aren’t hard to find these days. You can buy lefthanded musical instruments too, although most lefthanders don’t bother, particularly if they’re learning a string instrument. To be more naturally dextrous, haha, with your left hand, can be an advantage when it comes to tricky fingering.

Yes, there seems to be a price to pay healthwise: reduced life expectancy, greater susceptibility to cardio-vascular disease, Parkinsonism, Multiple Sclerosis, psychoses and mood disorders. Sitting next to a righthander at dinner can present elbow problems too. You have to think it through. But on the plus side, our brains are less lateralised so we have a better chance of rehabilitation after a non-fatal stroke. We’re apparently also better equipped for something called divergent thinking. Outside the box, off the wall, blue sky, to utter but three expressions beloved of managers. Or, as we lefthanders might say, just regular, creative thinking.

Anyway, I found a pen made by a company called Manuscript. If it’s any good I might place a bulk order.

Likely there are now two questions on your lips. 1. When is Laurie Graham going to get snapped up by a savvy and discerning publisher? and 2. Why is there a picture of a kangaroo on this blog post.

Answers: 1, Dunno.

2, Kangaroos are predominantly southpaws. I have no idea why, but then, neither does anyone else.

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First, to answer queries from kind but fretful readers  –  yes, I’m writing. My latest project is a series, of which I’ve already written Book 1 and am at work on Book 2, but as I am, to date, without a publisher, I’ll say no more for the time being. As soon as I find a new publishing home I will a) announce it on this blog and b) open a bottle of something fizzy. Actually, I might do that in reverse order.

In the meanwhile, not only am I writing, I’m also doing quite a lot of faffing. It’s cheaper than shopping, less fattening than eating and better for the spirits than scrolling through Facebook. This morning’s faff involved finding a way to droop-proof my shamrock buttonhole. I can’t claim so much as a corpuscle of Irish blood but ever since I married a Fitzpatrick I have honoured St Patrick’s Day, and as anyone who has ever worked with shamrock will tell you, it droops at the drop of a leprechaun’s little green hat.  Today I mastered it. A wodge of wet Kleenex around the stems, then tightly bound with green ribbon. Five hours later, still looking good.

I’m way ahead of my usual Easter preparations this year because I’ll be travelling in April. Coloured eggs are usually a Holy Week job but I made mine yesterday. One of these days I’m going to remember that purple shades don’t really work for eggs. Apart from that I’m pretty chuffed with the results. I particularly like the marbled ones,  made with shaving foam and food colouring, FYI. In the field of egg decoration I’ve always bowed to the expertise of my friend Theodora, who dyes hers the traditional Russian way using a broth made from onion skins and fixes leaves and flowers to them before she immerses them in the dye. They come out like this.

When it comes to decorated eggs, she is the business. But now I feel I may have found my own style. Kind of sugared almond hues.

So, shamrock droop sorted. Easter eggs sorted. All I need now is a publisher.

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Friday lunchtime, it was piddling rain and I was sick of the sound of my own breathing so I went to the cinema. There were just three of us in the screening room, possibly the last three people on earth who hadn’t yet seen The Favourite. Or maybe the other two were smitten return viewers, in which case I hope the sound of my gnashing teeth didn’t spoil things for them.

I suppose I should preface this by saying that Olivia Colman deserves all the bouquets she’s received and the cinematography was gorgeous. Now let me sharpen my axe.

I get that this is supposed to be a black comedy (are we allowed to say that anymore?) The trouble, as far as I’m concerned, is that it tried to turn Queen Anne’s life, which was shortish and racked with loss and pain, into a lesbian romp. Lesbian romps are really having a moment. It used to be firm-jawed heroes, melting hetero clinches and soaring resolution music. Now it’s girls rummaging up each other’s farthingales.

First question: where was Mr Queen Anne, Prince George of Denmark? He was certainly still alive at that time and their marriage was, by all accounts, a happy one. But no sign of him. Was he allergic to rabbit fur?

Second question: those rabbits? In pies, yes. Hoppity skipping around the royal bedchamber? I don’t think so. However I’d have liked to be a fly on the wall when that idea was first pitched.

‘They’re like a metaphor for her lost kids.’

‘Great. I’m loving that idea. Metaphors are big right now. Dead babies are such a downer.’

And then there was the script. I realise I have overly sensitive ears but I’ve done a bit of writing myself, including period dialogue so I do have some skin in the criticism game. No-one wants a load of awkward and gratuitous ‘me-thinking’ and ‘prithee-ing’, but to put the word ‘okay’ in the mouth of an early 18th century character? I believe I also heard the sentence, ‘I’m fine.’ I definitely heard the word ‘posh’. See what I mean? I could have been a lot more forgiving about the girlie rummaging and the erasure of Mr Queen if the dialogue hadn’t been such a dog’s dinner.

One final concession. I thought the costumes were somewhat fabulous. The Duchess of Marlborough swaggering around in kick-ass trousers, shotgun erect? Perhaps a lesbian motif too far. But as my old Mum used to say, you can never go wrong with navy blue.

Overall verdict? Not my favourite.

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This is the view from my desk, aka the kitchen table. In the foreground, the rocky shore between Bullock and Coliemore harbours, then the ever-changing waters of Dublin Bay and, on the horizon, Howth Head. Although not today. Today Howth is shrouded in rain and cloud.

‘How inspiring for your writing!’ people say. I’m afraid I have to disappoint them, just as I had to disappoint those who thought that my life in Venice must be a bubbling wellspring of inspiration. My current sea view and my erstwhile view across the rooftops of Dorsoduro  –  pleasurably distracting, not inspiring. I can and do spend hours watching the sea and sky but I do it with my brain coasting out of gear. I never really wrote about Venice because so many writers were already at it. Neither did I see it as a particularly romantic city or a mistily sinister setting. That it exists at all is a miracle and that I was lucky enough to live there was another. And that was enough.

But I should address the topic of inspiration because writers are commonly (and mistakenly) believed to be deluged with the stuff. I believe there are three varieties of inspiration. First, there is the idea that incites a person to type the words ‘Chapter 1’. For me it can take several years for a vague notion to amount to anything and I would categorise the mechanism as more a persistent drip, drip than a blinding flash. ‘Write about me,’ whispers the vague notion. ‘Go on, you know you want to.’ Perhaps the flash moment is when I finally hear the voice with which I feel I can tell the story.

Then there is the type of inspiration that keeps you turning up at the desk day after day, when things are going badly, when your mojo has gone AWOL, when the sun is shining and you really just want to go out to play. I suppose a generous endowment of self-belief helps to fuel inspiration in this instance, plus nice, encouraging emails from kind readers and a quick shuffle through bills that have to be paid.

And finally, there’s the inspiration that unsticks you when you’re stuck or heading into a writing cul-de-sac. For those occasions I find there are certain kinds of mindless activity that help. Untangling string, polishing silver, ironing sheets, going for a walk. Gazing at the sea? Possibly. But I don’t think that’s what people have in mind when they suggest that my view must be inspirational, unleashing torrents of beautiful imagery, letting words take flight. For a poet, perhaps. Me, I’m more likely to be thinking, ‘must buy a new swimming cap’ or ‘how many times is that teenage seagull going to challenge that cormorant for a perch on that rock before he understands the term ‘pecking order’?

All in the daily life of a jobbing novelist. Send me your tangled string.

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I have completed my massive rewrite – the authorial equivalent of knocking down several walls and installing new load-bearing (I pray) beams, and the typescript is now with my agent. The bank manager and I hope this means that the career drought will soon be over.

I’ve been getting plenty of well-intentioned advice during this lean period. Have I, for instance, thought of writing about cats? Always a good selling point, apparently. Well, no. I have nothing against cats but their inscrutability defeats me. Dogs, pigs, horses, even sheep (see below) have all made fleeting appearances in my novels but I have never been tempted to write about a cat.

Another acquaintance asked whether I’d thought of writing romances, with or without sex scenes? Yes, I have thought of it and even tried it many years ago. I discovered how tough it is to write what doesn’t come naturally. If you think you could knock out a Mills & Boon over a weekend, go ahead. And the very best of luck.

Then, have I thought of teaching writing? Ah yes. This is arguably a sensible and lucrative career opening for someone like me. I know people who do it. The problem is, I don’t know how they do it.  No-one ever taught me how to write so the whole business of writing courses is a mystery to me. Furthermore, I’d worry about giving students honest verdicts on their creative efforts. It’s not like algebra, after all, where the answer is right or wrong. One woman’s Jane Austen may be someone else’s Stephanie Meyer. And anyway, I’m a coward.

I never planned to be a writer but no-one told me I couldn’t, whereas they did tell me I couldn’t go to medical school because I wasn’t bright enough. I now realise they probably saved several patients from meeting horrible, iatrogenic ends before I got struck off.  So what else might I have been but now never will?

I’d have loved almost any back-stage job (except lighting, because I don’t like heights) and am very slightly envious of someone I know who’s been working as a dresser on a production of Les Miserables. Replacing lost sequins, confecting ‘prop’ whisky and custard pies, making the 10 minute cast call? I’d have been your woman.

And by way of extreme contrast, I think I might also have made a happy shepherd. Just me, a dog and a flock of Swaledales. Weather doesn’t bother me and neither does solitude.  But then, there’d be the constant worry about foot-and-mouth disease and the overdraft. All things considered, maybe I chose, or rather fell into, an easier career.

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I’ve had apostrophes on my mind. It started with the sight of my new grandson curled up in his onesie like a perfect little apostrophe. Soon after that I read about the word’s etymology  –  funny how you can use a word all your life and never wonder where it came from. Apostrophe has Greek roots: strophein, to turn, apo, away. So, turning away from or omitting a letter. I’m guessing here. And an apostroph, a word now fallen out of use and which spellcheck doesn’t want to allow, meant a digression.

All this led me to reminisce about my husband’s missionary zeal regarding apostrophes. Back in the Nineties he recruited operatives to go out into the field and fearlessly correct apostrophic abuses. Each recruit was given a laminated DTI Punctuation Enforcement Division identity card on a lanyard and a supply of peel-off vinyl apostrophes in various sizes. The last time I checked there was still evidence of this activity on a café window in Cambridge and a street sign in a Wiltshire village. Those apostrophes were good value for money.

Howard also conceived the idea of a Fashion Police Force. Officers appointed to red card anyone wearing cargo pants at half-mast, baseball caps backwards or sideways, images of Che Guevara and various other items that he deemed an offence against civilisation. It never took off. Even back in the day he could see the potential for his foot soldiers to get smacked on the nose or charged with a hate crime. Apostrophe placement provoked no rage or officious interference. Baffled ennui, more like.

It seems particularly cruel that dementia has now robbed him of language. He chats away quite merrily but in a style reminiscent of Stanley Unwin. All I can do is listen, nod, look thoughtful or amused, whichever seems appropriate. And, of course, make sure wee Hamish grows up knowing where the apostrophe goes. Grandpa Howard’s legacy.

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Reading-wise, I have three books on the go at the moment and the one with which I’m making the slowest progress is Yuri Slezkine’s The House of Government. Not because it isn’t a gripping read, but because it’s too damned heavy to read in bed or on the train –  980 pages (excluding appendices) too heavy. I can only read it sitting in a well-lit armchair and sitting in any kind of armchair isn’t something I get much time for. This is a book that could have benefited from an editorial short back and sides but Professor Slezkine is an academic and I imagine he’d have put up a fight if anyone had suggested even a light trim.

I can see there’s a case for 1000 page non-fiction. For novels? No. Samuel Richardson, anyone? I was going to say his publishers should have given his novels the snip but I believe he may have self-published. In which case, Mrs Richardson could have done the world a favour and hidden his ink-well.

My bedtime reading, Robert B. Stinnett’s Day of Deceit,  is a mere 270 pages long but has an additional 100 pages of  notes and charts crucial to understanding the prelude to Pearl Harbor, so quite a lot of to-ing and fro-ing is called for. Still, at least I can lift the book one-handed from my bedside table.

For my regular short train rides it has to be something that can be accommodated in my bag along with the pens, notebook, wallet, lipsticks, iron rations, receipts, balled up tissues and biscuit crumbs. I started reading The Burning of the World by Bela Zambory-Moldovan because it was translated by a friend of a friend. I’ve continued reading it because it is the most chilling personal account of going into WW1 battle that I have ever come across. It has so held me that I nearly missed my stop last Thursday. But, as this is a bit of a nitpicking post, I will just add that since the New York Review of Books had the wit to publish the book, I wish they had gone the extra mile and included maps that can be read without the aid of a helmet lamp and a magnifying glass.

2019 is shaping up to be the year of stronger biceps but ruined eyes.

Going dark now for a couple of weeks. I’m off to London to inspect my new grandson.

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The English language is a rich and wonderful thing. Those of us who have it as our mother tongue hardly know how lucky we are. The Italians, for instance, have to use the same word for a niece, a nephew or a grandchild. I mean, really?

There’s just one area of English where it seems to me we’re a bit lacking and that is blessings. Is it because we don’t like fuss? My old Mum, who was a devout Christian soul, always looked slightly uncomfortable when my husband said Grace before dinner. I could see her thinking, ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure we’re all grateful for the food on our plate but the gravy’s growing cold.’

At 1 am this morning my newest grandson was born  –  a real bonus for me because it’s eight years since we had a baby in the family and I had thought my head count of grandchildren was complete. Anyway, stumped for an English blessing, I knew exactly where to turn: to my daughter-in-law’s Irish heritage. The Irish have a blessing for every occasion. Shearing a sheep, lighting a fire, milking a cow, a cut, a sprain, a new moon and, yes, a new baby.

Here are but two.

A newborn babe brings light to the house, warmth to the hearth and joy to the soul, for wealth is family, and family is wealth.

God grant you many years to live, for sure he must be knowing, the Earth has angels all too few, while Heaven is overflowing.

So welcome, Hamish (a nod to the Scots thread in his ancestry). There will be no work done in this house today. Your granny is way too excited.

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In athletic terms a novelist needs to be a marathon runner. I have known novelists who could produce a first draft in less than two months but they’ve tended to be men enjoying 5 star domestic support. No school or supermarket run for them. No plumber to hang around for.

I’m definitely a distance runner  –  typically a novel takes me nearly a year, from conception through to final edit  – but I occasionally have to sprint. Journalism is a sprinter’s game. If you work in-house you just have to sit there amid the pandemonium of an open plan office and knock it out, on demand. Sometimes it shows. As a freelancer I might have 24 hours to submit copy. A whole weekend would be a luxury. I don’t get asked to do much journalism these days but when the call comes, wonder of wonders, I find, provided the topic is something I have an opinion about, I can do it.

When the spirit moves me I can write an 1800 word newspaper feature in a couple of hours. The same number of words for a novel could easily take me a week. Journalism requires intense focus,  even though you know that your words may never see the light of newsprint. The piece that is urgently required by 10 am tomorrow may well be spiked by lunchtime in order to make room for something more topical. The kill fee stops it from breaking your heart.

But the toughest writing form I ever tried my hand at was short stories. I used to get asked for them quite often. For some writers they are their natural art form. For me they were torture, demanding the creativity of fiction writing with the concision of journalism. To my great relief I no longer get asked. A marathon or a hundred yard dash, fine. For middle-distance writing, please call someone cleverer than me.

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One or two of you noticed that my website was down over Christmas and thought I had perhaps grown tired of life. Thank you for your concern, but nothing so dramatic. My domain name (search me) apparently lapsed on Christmas Eve without a murmur of warning and I was on the road, unable to do anything about it. On my return to Ireland I discovered that I had zero record of my GoDaddy username (search me again) so I was still up the proverbial without a paddle or, more accurately, a domain name. The Marines, aka my webmaster, Steve Bennett and his trusty lieutenant Ken Wiesner, stormed to my rescue  –  thank goodness Americans don’t take two weeks off for Christmas  – and all is now restored. So three cheers for Steve and Ken at Authorbytes and nul points for Laurie Graham’s filing system.

January already. And where am I, book-wise? Well. When I was a kid in post-war England, most houses had a best room, usually called the ‘front room’ which was only ever used in extraordinary circumstances such as a funeral wake or your Dad’s need to take his bike to pieces and carefully lay all its components on an old sheet.

That’s where I am. My next book is disassembled. It is in a hundred pieces and undergoing major structural alterations, lubrication and nut-tightening that will leave it greatly improved. Says my agent and a few other people wiser than me.

I played Cluedo with two of my grandchildren over Christmas. Great fun in spite of, or perhaps because of their cavalier attitude to the rules.  So to describe my current work position in the language of Cluedo, it’s Laurie G, on the floor, with a lot of pages, a pair of scissors and a red pen.

Happy New Year all y’all.

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