Joanne Harris's Blog, page 3

Today, I was invited to answer questions at an online reading group. I won’t post a link to it here, but there are many like it. This group was discussing a recent piece of award-winning literary fiction, and reactions to it were pretty mixed, and often quite outspoken.

So far, so good. Literature should encourage debate. One of its roles is to make people think. Sometimes, it can be challenging, but one of the things I’ve always loved about the reading group model is how it sometimes forces the reader out of their personal comfort zone, encouraging them to discuss books that they would not otherwise have tried.

This particular group, however, had a different agenda. From what I could tell, it was mostly run by a couple of dominant voices, who, when fellow-readers expressed opinions contrary to their own, were quick to sneer and disparage - on one occasion telling one reader who hadn’t enjoyed the latest Kate Atkinson that she was “too stupid to understand”, and “should probably go back to TWILIGHT.”

Okay. So this isn’t unusual. Read the comments under any Amazon or Goodreads review, and you’ll probably find something similar - someone attacking a reader for expressing an opinion; or pouring scorn on a fandom; or looking down on the “lowbrow” tastes of a fellow-reader. I’m often amused at the way in which certain literary people express their surprise at my own eclectic reading tastes - as if admitting to liking Stephen King, Lee Child or Georgette Heyer were somehow incompatible with my literary and academic credentials.

However, I’m getting increasingly concerned by the number of people who think it’s okay to sneer at people for what they read. It’s not okay to do that any more than it’s okay to exclude other people for what they wear, or what they eat, or what kind of accent they happen to have. Books are universal. They are here for everyone. To pretend superiority over someone because (for instance) you like Kate Atkinson and they like TWILIGHT is to be the worst kind of snob, a literary groupie who wants the world of books to be their own, exclusive yacht club. These people do nothing for the world of books. Instead, they create an atmosphere in which people are afraid to talk about the books they enjoy (or not); in which readers of “serious” books are allowed to look down upon those who read purely for pleasure; in which kids are prevented from reading the books they like in favour of those their parents perceive as “worthy”.

It’s snobbery, pure and simple. A particularly toxic kind of intellectual snobbery, which is, as any fule kno, just a sign of intellectual insecurity. No-one who has nothing to prove feels the need to score cheap shots over other people, and no intelligent person feels the need to show their intelligence by making others feel stupid.

And so, readers’ groups, here are some ideas to consider when you are discussing books. They’re only my suggestions, but if you’d rather not come across as literary sycophants, but instead as independent readers, with complex, individual tastes, you could do worse than bear these in mind.

1. Reading is not a competitive sport. No-one is keeping score of what you liked, or didn’t like.

2. Reading a book is not an indicator of whether or not you approve of the content. You can read Mein Kampf without being a Nazi, or Twilight without being a vampire.

3. Books are like clothes - one size definitely doesn’t fit all, and what suits one person may not suit another.

4. Your not having liked a book doesn’t make it “stupid”; nor does it make the people who did enjoy it stupid.

5. Try not to make the distinction between “serious” books and “non-serious” books. It’s serious if you take it seriously.

6. Everyone has an opinion. That includes you. Express it. The fact that some critic or reviewer thinks a book is high art should not affect what you think of it.

7. It’s okay to enjoy something just because you enjoy it. No-one has the right to make you feel guilty or stupid or inferior for liking something mainstream, or indifferently-written, or mass-market, or popular.

8. Knowing that a book has won prizes, or that the author received a high advance, should have nothing to do with whether you enjoy it or not. Don’t let irrelevant factors dictate your thinking.

9. You can disagree with someone’s opinion on a book without being offensive. They’re not here to be judged by you.

10. Books are food for the mind. Like food, the best diet is a varied one. Some days you’ll feel like steak and chips; at other times you’ll crave Haribo. It’s fine to want both, at different times.

Enjoy.

Christmas. Each year I await it with dread. Bad light; grey weather, the mounting pressure of expectation, the promise of tensions within the family, the garishness of the shop displays, the return of the Phil Spector Christmas Album and the tawdriness of the advertising world, promising us the magic of Christmas in such questionable forms as; plastic toys, frozen prawns, cushions, air freshener, CDs and gardening implements – and all for low, low prices!

And this is all supposed to be fun? The magic of Christmas? Don’t make me laugh. Never has magic been so debased. Never has the gulf between reality and dream been so cruelly exposed. And as someone who prefers a small gathering of friends to a large, formal dinner party, Christmas Day can be a disappointment, too often dominated by the inevitable stress and bickering that comes of bringing together too many family members with too much bottled Christmas cheer…

The truth is, we do these things because we feel we must. And to be obliged to do anything – even something we enjoy – is to take away much of its charm. I like the traditions of Christmas. I like giving presents; I like to cook; I like to see my family and friends. But I also like spontaneity; I like to feel I have a choice. Which is why I find myself, year after year, wishing I could do something else –

Last year, Christmas was cancelled. It wasn’t a deliberate move, but a combination of tight deadlines, bad planning and crises within the family meant that, for the first time in over a decade, nothing was organized that year, and the three of us – my husband Kevin, our daughter Anouchka and I - spent Christmas Day at home, alone. Several well-meaning people commented that it must have been “rather grim”. In fact, it was the best Christmas that I can ever remember.

I had been working hard for the past four months, trying to finish my new book on time. It still wasn’t finished; and I’d been regretting the promise I’d made to my publishers that it would be ready by January. All my energy went into work; I could hardly what it was like to take time out with my family. But I’d promised Anouchka that at least we’d have Christmas Day together, and that this year we’d do whatever she liked.

I just want it to be fun, she said.

Fun? Okay. I can live with that.

I got up early that morning and worked until the others go up. Then I put my laptop away and made cups of tea for everyone. We all sat around the tree – the tree is my favourite part of Christmas – and opened our presents to each other. There weren’t many, but they were well-chosen – besides, I’d rather have a single present that means something to me than something expensive and meaningless, bought in haste, to impress. Then Anouchka made lunch – Mexican enchiladas and a big dish of nachos and cheese, which we ate in front of the TV, like slobs, swigging Coke out of the can, watching Kill Bill on DVD (this is, for some reason, Anouchka’s comfort movie). Then we played table football before going back for Kill Bill 2 - and if all of this sounds very dull and ordinary, then maybe that’s the point. Maybe we should face the possibility that the idea of the ready-made, off-the-peg, one-Christmas-fits-all doesn’t work for everyone, and that sometimes you just have to do it yourself -

We didn’t see anyone that day. We had no expectations. Everything was spontaneous. There wasn’t a single moment of stress. We laughed like crazy all afternoon – though I couldn’t tell you what about. And there was definitely something in the air – call it magic if you like – because that was the happiest Christmas any of us could remember, which makes me think that perhaps, like luck, magic is something we can make for ourselves. It isn’t something you can buy. It doesn’t come as standard. And you don’t need to plan, or to overspend, or to wrack your brains trying to come up with some extraordinary way to celebrate. Because sometimes it’s the little things that bring us the greatest pleasure. That’s why, once again, this year we’ll be making up Christmas as we go along. It may be nothing like last year. It may even be better. And if it’s not, at least we’ll be doing it ourselves – no more off-the-peg Christmasses, but comfort and joy where we find them. And if it’s magic, so much the better. If not, I’ll settle for just having fun.

After the latest piece in the Guardian, (http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014...) in which the journalist holds forth for 2 long paragraphs about Arundhati Roy's looks, before describing her political voice as "shrill," and out-of-keeping with her delicate, large-eyed, youthful appearance, perhaps we need to explore the way in which women's voices are described - and often (sometimes unintentionally) belittled by the media. Looking through a few articles on women writers, I find that the same kind of language seems to pop up time after time, reflecting the same kinds of stereotypes.

Women writers are often described as; "pleasant-voiced" or "softly-spoken." Where they are not softly-spoken, they are usually; "surprisingly brisk/direct/outspoken", implying that briskness, directness or outspokenness is unusual in a woman. This surprise is often linked with appearance; clearly young, pretty women writers aren't expected to speak with any authority or confidence on any subject at all.

Where they have a regional accent, it is generally referred to in a patronizing or infantilizing way. For instance (my personal bugbear), women writers from Yorkshire are frequently described as "Yorkshire lasses", whatever their age. (This doesn't happen to men. Can you imagine Alan Bennett being referred to as a "Yorkshire lad"?)

Where they don't have an accent, their voices are often described as "educated" or "cultured", - as if being educated were surprising - at least, in a woman.

And when their opinions are radical or political in any way, there's that word again; "shrill."

Men's voices are seldom described as "shrill." A shrill voice is a woman's voice, raised inappropriately. The sub-text is that maybe women shouldn't speak up at all - at least on certain issues.

And so, in the name of variety, let's look at some of the many, many words you can use to describe women's voices.

Confident

Strong

Authoritative

Thoughtful

Quiet

Rich

Lilting

Steady

Gentle

Nuanced

Resonant

Deep

Theatrical

Neutral

Accented

Light

And let's forget "surprisingly". To have a broad variety of women's voices is not surprising. What's surprising is that fact that, after so many years, there are still so many people who feel that a woman's voice should somehow reflect the stereotypes wrongly attached to their gender.

These are the rules by which I live - as a writer, and as a human being.

1. Don't write to be a writer. Write because you want to write.

2. Get a proper desk chair. Your back will thank you for it.

3. Writing without reading is like cooking without eating. Do both. Understand both.

4. Some days the dream machine won't work. That doesn't mean it's broken.

5. Bad reviews make excellent cat litter. If necessary, adopt a cat.

6. Don't shit on people on your way up. You may to eat it on the way down.

7. Enjoy what you write. If you don't, who else will?

8. Don't follow trends. Set them.

9. Never forget to thank the people to whom you owe your success. No-one ever gets there alone.

10. There's no such thing as writer's block. There's only Life, reminding you that there's more to living than just writing books.

I’ve been watching some recent debates on Twitter and elsewhere, concerning various artists and their reported actions. And that started me thinking about the nature of art, and of artists, and the increasing difficulty we have in separating the two.

In the days before the internet, artists were generally unknown outside of their inner circle. Nowadays, the nature of modern media is such that we can watch our favourite artists at work; we can read about them in gossip magazines; interact with them on Twitter; follow them when they tweet drunk - all of which gives us a convincing illusion of intimacy with people we have never met, (except perhaps, in a signing queue at a festival, or by chance in the street, or at a party, where we stood for half an hour trying to work up the courage to say hello).

This isn’t to say it’s not possible for artists and their admirers to get to know one another. I’ve met a lot of readers online. Some of them have become friends (and by this I mean real friends, rather than something dictated by Facebook).

But that potent illusion of intimacy remains. The recognition centre of the brain is naturally set up to release endorphins when we look at familiar faces - and in a world in which we often see images of celebrities rather more often than the faces of own own families, the sight of an admired actor, musician, writer or comedian can be a source of pleasurable stimulus.

Basically, we tend to love the people whose work we admire, partly because of our love of their work, and partly because seeing their face tricks our brain into thinking we’re friends.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with this. It’s normal. Everybody experiences this feeling at one time or another, and it feels completely real, even though it can’t be real, because we’ve never actually met the object of our affection. And most of the time, it’s a good thing (although, when taken to extremes, it can lead to stalking and other kinds of unpleasantness). But it still isn’t a relationship, any more than a hatred based on someone’s public image, or the role they play on TV, or their art, is a response to anything real.

There’s a reason the celebrities we love are referred to as idols.

Idols are worshipped uncritically - at least, until they do something wrong, at which point their worshippers are apt to tear their statues down and break them into pieces.

The modern version of this is not so very different. Recently I’ve seen a lot of blogposts from people saying things like this:

"After …………’s behaviour, I don’t think I can ever listen to her music any more."

"I won’t read …………..’s books any more after I found out what he thought about ……….."

"I felt personally betrayed by …………..’s cheating on his wife."

"The characters in ………..’s book disappointed me so much that I can never trust her again."

I’m not denying the feelings and the passion of fans. But these are personal reactions to choices made by someone who doesn’t owe them an explanation - who may not even know they exist. Artists are human, subject to human errors and failings. They are people, and as such, they don’t belong to anyone.

Art, however, is different. Some of it lasts; some disappears. But, unlike its creator, art belongs to everyone, for as long as it endures. That’s why those people who equate the art with the artist are doing art itself a disservice.

I love the paintings of Richard Dadd, even though he killed his father.

I enjoy the stories of Edgar Allan Poe, even though he married his 14-year-old cousin.

My feelings on spousal abuse have not tempered my enjoyment of the novels of Dickens.

Enjoying the poems of Ted Hughes does not entitle me to comment on the details of his relationship with Sylvia Plath.

In the same way, I sometimes agree with Richard Dawkins, even though I often disagree with the way in which he expresses those things.

I like much of Amanda Palmer’s music without always understanding her choices.

I don’t feel “let down” by the fact that these people have failings: I don’t feel that liking their work means that I condone bad behaviour; I don’t think about their lives when I am enjoying their art. That’s because I don’t know them, although I know something about them. We don’t have a relationship. I don’t have to think about their lives when I am enjoying their art.

People, by definition, are limited and imperfect. All people - even those we admire and worship. But art - good art - can transcend these things, just as the ancient temples of the Inca and Maya continue to inspire awe and fascination, even though their worshippers are long gone.

The artist is not his art. Art is far more than the artist. Artists die; fuck up; have bad days; talk bullshit; cut their toenails in bed.

But art lasts forever. It belongs to us all. Love or hate, we are free to experience art in whatever way we choose. And art may speak to us or not, but isn’t finding out half the fun? So:

Enjoy art.

Any art.

Whatever art you want to enjoy.

And don’t let anyone tell you what you should, or shouldn’t like. If it’s out there, it’s yours now. Do with it what you will.

1. RINGU: the original RING. Accept no substitutes.

2. A TALE OF TWO SISTERS. Korean horror at its best; strange; poetic; chilling, and with a fabulous twist in the tail. Don’t eat crisps; you’ll inhale them and choke.

3. THE WISHING STAIRS: More Korean horror: never has a close-up of a single bloodstained ballet shoe hopping down a darkened corridor seemed so damned creepy.

4. NOSFERATU: The original. From the days where film-makers still understood the chilling, eerie simplicity of a shadow of a wall…

5. THE ORPHANAGE: One of Guillermo del Toro’s best. Melancholy; beautiful and riddled with disturbing images.

6. HARD CANDY: Not for the fainthearted. Little Red Riding Hood goes horribly wrong…

7. DARK WATER: No, fool, not the remake. Just don’t watch it if your roof’s leaking.

8. CARRIE. What did we say about remakes? Just think GREASE, with more blood. Oh, and better music.

9. LET THE RIGHT ONE IN. Pure, white, Scandinavian chills. There even was a remake? Puh-leaze.

10. LES DIABOLIQUES. Expunge the sluggish remake from your mind. Catholic guilt; dark water; and a body in a 2 CV. What else could you possibly want?

These are very best pieces of advice ever given to me by other writers.

1. Writing is the easiest part. It’s the author shit that’s hard. (Ian Rankin)

2. Never, ever diet on tour. (Kate Atkinson)

3. Don’t believe anything film people say until you’re at the première, watching the credits roll. (Christopher Fowler)

4. Fuck ‘em. You’re fabulous. (Joolz Denby)

5. You’re never too old to send a fan letter to someone you love, or too much in a hurry to stop for ice cream. (Ray Bradbury)

6. Always check you’ve been paid. If they can screw you over, they will. (Brian Aldiss)

7. There’s no such thing as a large whiskey. (Seamus Heaney)

8. Shy of the Press? Wear a hat. Then, whenever you take it off, nobody will recognize you. (Terry Pratchett)

9. You want to be an explorer? Explore. (Robin Hanbury-Tenison)

10. If you do more exercise, you can drink more wine. (Naomi Alderman)