Laurie Graham's Blog, page 32

I was very happy this past weekend to find that two of my granddaughters, too young yet to be reading independently, are such good listeners they can recite their favourite books by heart. I particularly enjoyed joining in with Audrey’s rendition of Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy, although I don’t know that she approved of my doing it with a Kelvinside accent. Two year olds often prefer a vanilla delivery.

Listening is a dying art, especially for children growing up in homes with several TV sets. Watching is an entirely different skill. It’s hard to imagine them rushing to tune in to the radio as my generation did in the Fifties, eager for the next episode of Rosemary Sutcliff’s Eagle of the Ninth. There was no spin-off DVD. You had to imagine the scene for yourself.

On Sunday I was also relieved to find something I agreed with in an otherwise annoyingly religion-lite sermon delivered by an Anglican vicar. He said we’re failing to be story-tellers. We may read to our children and allow them to watch selected movies, but they rarely get to hear an adult telling a story extempore. His point being that in Christ’s time it was the only way stories were told and passed on. On a hillside, on a lake shore, in a crowded Temple courtyard. Okay, sometimes it probably did get a bit garbled  -  Blessed are the Cheesemakers and all that  – but everyone was a listener then.

The vicar said he had a plan, to get volunteers, especially older members of the parish, to go into the local schools and tell their stories.  Not the kind of stories that generate a mini-industry of action figures and lunch boxes. Just plain old Mrs Ledbetter, for instance, talking about when she was a Land Army Girl in World War 2. A laudable idea, I think you’ll agree.

Listening takes practice. If we continue to neglect it our ears may shrink. And you know what’ll happen then?  Our hats will fall over our eyes. Which is not a good look.

I’m currently enduring the unnerving experience of re-reading one of my own books. Not because I’m short of stuff to read. There’s a pile the size of the Matterhorn beside my bed and as fast as I finish one book I seem to buy two more. No, I’m re-reading The Dress Circle for the rather exciting reason that I’ve been asked to adapt it for the stage. A very small stage.

We are not talking Broadway or the Dublin Abbey. We’re talking about a tiny West London venue next year, but listen up. The theatre is booked. The director is on board. In a business notorious for pie crust promises this is real progress. Which is why I’m getting on with writing the script. And that brings me back to my original point. I wrote The Dress Circle fifteen years ago. It’s not a bad book. I’m still quite fond of its characters and there are a couple of lines in it that still strike me as funny. But on the whole it makes me squirm. I can only plead that it was written in haste and edited too leniently.

Put it another way, I hope I’m a better writer now. I think I am.

  I was asked recently what I thought were the ingredients for a best-selling novel and after I’d stopped rolling on the floor, mopped up my tears of laughter and lain in a darkened room for an hour I thought I should try to come up with an answer.

If there is a recipe for best-sellerdom I suspect it calls for eye of newt, toe of frog and other hard-to-find items. It does help to be very very famous before you or your ghost writer write a word. The source of your fame doesn’t matter.  Even if you’re only known for having very large breasts publishers will camp outside your house with sacks of money and refuse to leave until you accept at least six figures. Sometimes the crock   book you’ve written will earn back what it’s cost your publisher but usually it won’t. Like you could care? Because you already got the money.

Then there’s the rest of us. The worker bees. It used to be possible for a writer to make a living wage. These days we’re lucky to get paid anything. Therefore one has to hope for a freak publishing phenomenon. A movie deal can help, or being taken up and enthused over by Richard, Judy, Oprah, or someone famous for having very large breasts. Dying can sometimes help a writer’s career too. Which must be really infuriating, if the deceased is in any position to feel annoyed.

Once a book starts to roll there may come a point where its own momentum carries it to high sales figures. People will buy it because people are buying it. But most novels, even ones that get good reviews, disappear from view. Every writer has her fans, God bless them and long life to them. A best-seller though requires hundred of thousands of fans. It’s just the way the market is nowadays. Either you’re HUGE or you’re clipping coupons.

Am I bitter? No. Perhaps a little envious of any writer who can afford to take a few months off before she needs to work again. I wish I could see any hope of publishers spreading their bounty more evenly. A bit less for the celebrity deals would mean a bit more for everyone else.

As for Fifty Shades, the really frustrating thing is that every publisher is now going to be chasing something similar for their own list. That’s what happens when the accountants run the show. My husband says if that’s the case, I know what I have to do: write a throbbing, tumescent corker. To which I reply that I’m more likely to grow very large breasts. And he says, ‘Sounds good to me.’

I used to think computers lived forever. Well, let me back track a little. I used to believe in Santa Claus and I used to write my stories with a ten colour biro.

Then, eventually, I acquired a typewriter. The first one, a pre-war model, was given to me by my then mother-in-law. The war it was pre was possibly the Boer War. Some years later I was offered a wide-body monster that my husband’s office were ditching in favour of something a bit sleeker. Actually I think they were  worried its weight was causing structural damage to the building.

Did it add any weight to my writing? I don’t think so. The ribbons were a bitch to find too. But I suppose that must have been the machine on which I wrote my first novel. Or perhaps by then I had a thing called a word-processor, which was like a jumped up typewriter with electronic pretentions. I do remember the day my beau, now my husband said, ‘Laurie, get real. You have to buy a computer.’

I bought it on easy terms, and there were some months when the terms didn’t seem so easy. Like all self-employed people I was never sure when the next payday would be. I imagine by the time I’d finished paying for it it was an antique. I’m now on my, what, fourth or fifth computer. And so came the day I discovered that computers die and often without warning. Here one minute, gone the next, and taking with them 80,000 words of your roman a clef. I learned the hard way about backing up.

So right now I’m in a fairly good place. I have a middle-aged PC which is my preferred work tool (though that ten colour biro was fun), I have a recently purchased laptop that still makes me a bit nervous, and I’m generally so backed up it’s almost a medical condition. CDs, memory sticks, and, my latest venture into the wild blue yonder, I save to a cloud.

As my son said, ‘Get you!’

However, yesterday I noticed  that my PC wasn’t her usual self. A bit slow, a bit of a cough. I can’t tell you how relieved I was to find her still breathing this morning. But I think it might be time to wheel her down to Computer Man, get him to give her the once over. Because let’s face it, without her what am I? A jittery, ten-thumbs old scribbler, that’s what. I may have saved to a cloud but as my old Mum used to say you can never be too careful.

 The Russian theme continues, but quite by chance. The slogan on this old Soviet poster says What are you doing to help reduce illiteracy? Join the Reduce Illiteracy Movement!

I’ve been invited to a meeting this coming week. As it happens I have a prior commitment, otherwise I’d sort of feel I should attend but sort of feel I didn’t want to. The purpose of the meeting is to discuss the relationship between the State and its writers. The invitation is loaded with expressions that make me very uncomfortable. ‘The Literature Sector’, for a start. Also ‘A National Strategy.’ 

A sector sounds like something people get herded into, which would make a Literature Sector an oxymoron, writers being essentially unherdable creatures. We’re more like chimpanzees than sheep. It’s a basic qualification for the job. As for National Strategies, well we know they tend to die a-borning. Human nature always gets in the way.

The gist of next week’s meeting is as follows. Writers are one of Ireland’s most valuable natural resources. We bring in money from overseas book sales (though in this house not so as you’d notice) and 55% of tourists polled say the country’s rich literary heritage is the main reason they’re visiting Ireland. I think someone’s been pulling the pollster’s leg. The main reason people come to Ireland is because it’s a beautiful, friendly country. Also there’s Guinness. And whiskey.

Ireland may be a more literate country than most but that’s not saying much. The reason bookshops and libraries are closing and writers are struggling to make a living is that the world has changed. People read less. They’d rather wait for the movie. Please don’t write and tell me that you personally are actually reading more. The very fact that you’re here, reading the blog post of a mid-list novelist, reveals that you are not a member of the herd. I’m grateful to have you. Long life to you. But let’s not pretend this is where most people are at.

It’s not surprising that people prefer to watch television or play a computer game. They’re both easier than reading or talking. Every pub in Dublin has an HD television so there goes the legendary Irish craic. Practically every home has television. What National Strategy could possibly counteract that? Some (very few) parents may decide to raise their children in a TV-free house, take them to the library and give them at least a fighting chance of developing a love of books. I applaud anyone who tries. I concede that the battle may already be lost. 

As for us toilers at the coal face of literature, do we merit some kind of special consideration? The Irish Revenue already gives low-earning writers a tax break. Can we really demand more? Does earning chicken feed really stop people writing? I don’t think so. It takes rigor mortis to stop most writers. Are too few books being published? Probably quite the opposite. And are bursaries and grants good for a writer?  They may help someone survive a thin patch but I suspect they may be habit-forming. Being kept isn’t a desirable situation for anyone. For a writer it might be deadly.

Nearly 500 words and I’m not much nearer to any answers. One thing I do know, the word ‘committee’ brings me out in hives. So perhaps just as well I have Other Business on Monday evening.

It’s fully six days since anybody interviewed me so rather than subjecting you to cold turkey I thought I’d stage a gradual withdrawal from the spotlight and interview myself.

So, Laurie, what keeps you awake at night?

Thanks for asking. Well, the Euro crisis, obviously. Creeping Islam, the decline of literacy, political correctness, my neighbour’s dripping overflow pipe, and this really weird burning sensation I have over my left temple that feels like it might be shingles but isn’t. This week though motion sickness is the main cause of any sleeplessness.

God knows the English language is littered with irregularities and potholes that must make a learner stumble, but in all my years of  learning foreign languages I’ve never felt so defeated as I am by Russian verbs of motion.

Here are the things one must consider before opening one’s mouth. Are you talking about a one-off trip or an habitual event? Is this a simple go-there-never-to-return end-of-story deal or is it part of some bigger multi-destination journey? See what I mean? I’ve booked international flights faster than I can get my head round this.

So there’s a verb for the fact that I go to Galway quite often, but there’s a different verb if I leave for Galway right now and never come back. But who would know? Would the the Verb Police be waiting for me in Athlone? There’s also a verb for if I’ve travelled in the general region of Galway and may do so again. And another one for if I were to be seated behind a steering wheel and say to myself, ’Damned if I won’t drive to Galway this afternoon.’

Okay?

‘But do not use this verb,’ warns my teacher, ‘if you go by rail, air or water.’

As if travel isn’t fraught enough.  

What the rules are about horse-drawn troikas or sleds hauled by dogs I do not know. Time travel? A tricky one. Teleportation machines? Trickier still.  

Homework for this week. Translate the following sentences into Russian.

‘Beam me up, Igor.’

‘I’m afraid Igor beamed me up, again.’ 

‘Up Igor! I said beam me up!’

‘Anyone seen Laurie? Igor’s been beaming her all over like a mad woman’s knitting.’

      I spoke too soon, promising to shut up, go away and get on with the next book. On Saturday 23rd in the UK Independent newspaper’s Books’ section you can catch One Minute with Laurie Graham. And that’s probably quite long enough.

 It’s the result of an interview conducted using the Band Aid Removal technique, i.e. done so fast you don’t have time to think about it. Perhaps it makes the answers more revealing.

Anyway, it was very flattering to be asked. I just hope the published result doesn’t make me sound too much like a woman standing in her kitchen peeling potatoes. Which is what I was.

I suppose I’d better start thinking about music for Desert Island Discs. Just in case.

I’m also Author of the Month at the online All About You bookshop where you can read yet another interview with me, order the book, get the T shirt (just kidding).

Funny though, its being called All About You because actually it’s all about Me, Me, Me.

Had enough? Tough. I’m afraid there’s more shameless self-promotion still to come. If you don’t like it I suggest you check back round about mid-August. By then I’ll be posting normal entries and the world will have gone back to saying ‘Laurie who?’

    I’m contractually obliged to tell you that I’m On the Couch at Quercus Books this week. No deep and costly Freudian analysis. Just a gentle game of verbal ping-pong with my publisher’s Blog Person. I doubt you’ll learn anything about me that you wouldn’t wish to know. Full disclosure, my eye.

Next week: Laurie Graham, Off the Couch & Back in the Dentist’s Chair.

An exciting day for me because today I debut’d as a regular contributor to the History Girls Blog, a fabulous and to me slightly intimidating line-up of historical fictionistas. I mean, they have some Very Serious Writers on their masthead.

Check them out for yourself here

There’s a new blog posted most days and I’ve drawn the 11th of the Month slot, right after my surrogate sister and Venetian comrade in rat- wrangling, Michelle Lovric. Michelle writes more words before breakfast than I manage in a week so she’s going to be some act to follow. I think I’ll have to make brevity my signature thing.

Anyway I’m very thrilled to have been invited and even more thrilled to have navigated behind the scenes of someone else’s website without banjaxing everything.  When I think how I started out on that old Smith-Corona with the E key that always jammed. In the larger scheme of writing practicalities I feel like I’ve achieved a moon landing.

But anyway, back to earth, splash-down and work.