Wednesday, 2 September 2009

If I Never....


This is the debut novel by Gary William Murning, and it's a corker! Price and George are friends, if you can call it that. George bullies Price in every imaginable way, and Price well... Price just takes it. He takes everything George throws at him, including punches. Why? And why does he continue doing so when warned that he's in danger, when love beckons, and when things begin to spiral down into a world of kidnap, murder and crime? Why can't Price just walk away, and live happily ever after? To find out, you'll have to read Gary's book and you can read the first chapter here for free. But the thing about 'If I Never' is... it just gets better. Don't get me wrong; chapter one is good. But the novel builds an inexorable momentum as the pages keep on turning faster until you reach a stage towards the end when you have to consciously slow down in order not to finish the book too soon. Published by Legend Press, an indie publisher with an eclectic list, this is sure to be a winner. On the surface it's a rattling good yarn, fast paced and well-written. But one finds so many thought-provoking layers of hidden meaning that - in spite of knowing the ending - it's a book that will repay further reading. And that's a pleasure I'm about to take. If you'll excuse me...

Thursday, 23 July 2009

Beside the seaside...

Is everywhere in the UK now officially seaside? Or have the seagulls suddenly evolved into landgulls? They've always been partial to following the plough, I know. But years ago their constant squawking call was something you had to, well, go to the seaside to hear. My grandparents, to be precise, in Scarborough. And now, my parents. But not me. I don't live near the sea. I'd like to. We've a river and it's tidal. But I'm getting all the sound-effects without the scenery, and it's annoying me - especially at three o'clock in the morning.

Perhaps gulls are just ahead of the game. Maybe they're getting used to their new home. After all, if this comes true then we we'll all, wherever we live, be near the sea...


Tuesday, 23 June 2009

Daddy

A person you can talk to
When you're feeling low,
It's nice to know you always
Have somewhere to go.

A daddy is a soulmate,
Who holds your hands in his palms,
And then he love and cradles you
In his big, safe arms.

A daddy would do anything,
If you asked him to,
And I want you to love me Daddy,
That's all I ask of you.

Sally Atkinson, aged 11

Monday, 8 June 2009

Twenty20 Vision

It's cricket, Jim, but not as we know it. In fact, Twenty20 is cricket in the same way that pantomime is theatre. In other words, it takes place on a cricket pitch and involves bats and balls and stumps and runs and umpires and the rest, but there the similarities end. Ever see this on the Thursday of the Lord's Test, for instance?


No, thought not. But there was this a-plenty at the Oval on Saturday (along with rain - inevitably - and warm beer at exorbitant prices). There was also crowd noise - lots of it. The last cricket match I went to was at Scarborough, involving Yorkshire. The only noise - apart from the incessant wailing of the seagulls - was that of bat on ball, or hand and hand and the occasional cry of 'shot!'. Here there was a cheering, cheer-leading, thumping music playing, yahoo-ing cacophony. It's no wonder Australia were 15-3 at one stage. They probably couldn't believe their ears. And their performance didn't silence the Aussie spectators, either. If anything, the noise level rose as it became more obvious that West Indies were systematically destroying the world's best team. Along with at least one ball, a pavilion window and probably a bus, along the Vauxhall Road. Chris Gayle can certainly hit a six. I wonder when he qualifies for England?

Thursday, 14 May 2009

The true cost of democracy

At the risk of sounding like Stephen Fry (and becoming an instant blog-o-sphere pariah) might I point out that not everything about the scandal over MP's expenses is bad news. I've just had a very tasty bacon sandwich; earlier, I enjoyed a mug of tea. Oh, and there was last night's supper, and this morning's shopping; blogging (and the cost of the lap-top on which I blog), the house I'm blogging in, the electricity necessary for blogging, the cost of the broadband connection in order to post these musings... oh, the list is endless. And, until this week, I hadn't realised how vital they all are to the smooth running of the democractic process. I shall be submitting my claim - retrospectively, of course - asap. After all, the bugger's couldn't do without the voters, could they?

Wednesday, 8 April 2009

Owl

Is my favourite. Who flies
like a nothing through the night,
who-whoing. Is a feather
duster in leafy corners ring-a-rosy-ing
boles of mice. Twice

you hear him call. Who
is he looking for? You hear
him hoovering over the floor
of the wood. O would you be gold
rings in the driving skull

if you could? Hooded and
vulnerable by the winter suns
owl looks. Is the grain of bark
in the dark. Round beaks are at
work in the pellety nest,
working. Owl is an eye
in the barn. For a hole
in the trunk owl’s blood
is to blame. Black talons in the
petrified fur! Cold walnut hands
on the case of the brain! In the reign
of the chicken owl comes like
a god. Is a goad in
the rain to the pink eyes,
dripping. For a meal in the day

flew, killed, on the moor. Six
mouths are the seed of his
arc in the season. Torn meat
from the sky. Owl lives
by the claws of his brain. On the branch

in the sever of the hand’s
twigs owl is a backward look.
Flown wind in the skin. Fine
Rain in the bones. Owl breaks
Like the day. Am an owl, am an owl.
George MacBeth (1932-1992)

Monday, 30 March 2009

Untangling the Roots

Someone once asked how much modern fiction I enjoyed. The answer was, very little. I’m a fan of Ian McEwan, I like some Faulks (but not Engleby) and enjoy Julian Barnes. But modern fiction can be rather inward-looking, and I although I admire the stylists (like John Banville, for example) I’m always on the look-out for ‘ideas’ books. To find a novel in which style and substance co-exist – and do so happily – is rare. But ‘Tangled Roots’ is just such a book, and as Sue Guiney’s cyber-book tour stops off here today, I thought I’d ask her all about it.

So first, the style. Sue Guiney’s prose is highly-polished. Words are placed with great care and attention paid (as you would expect from a musician) to the cadences of sentences. The result is poetic and slightly hypnotic, and I was interested to find out whether Sue deliberately conceives her work in this way.

“I do believe,” she said “that all writing should all be poetry in a way. I write and read a great deal of poetry and my first published works were poems rather than prose. I tend to write with my ears, so to speak, and I am always aware of the cadence, rhythm and euphony of a sentence.”

And how much effort does that take?

“I revise A LOT, going over every sentence many, many times, reading it out loud and labouring over individual words and phrases. If anything though, I do sometimes get lost staring at the bark of the trees and forget about the surrounding forest. So I guess I would have to say the relationship between what is first written and the "final" product is the difference between a smooth stone found on the beach, and that same stone polished and worked into a necklace.”

For anyone who hasn’t read the book (and I can’t recommend it highly enough) two first-person narratives interweave to tell the story of John – a cosmologist – and his mother, Grace. I wondered how important it was for John to be a physicist and how much research Sue had had to do.

“John was always a cosmologist to me. I see him as a man who, because of childhood events and pain, moved away from his mother - or at least he tried to. Rationally he did. But his emotional ties were too deep, too "tangled", and in many ways he is very much like Grace. So although he rejected her forays into spirituality and religion, he is still drawn to the same questions - who are we? How did we come to be here? How are we connected? But he approached those questions through rational thought, math (as opposed to his mother's use of words and language to tell her stories), and so became a physicist. I never had any formal training, but I've always had a layman's fascination with it. And I do believe physics is just an alternate way of asking these big questions. I did a great deal of reading in physics as I researched the book, and everything I read led me to the same conclusion. The idea of quantum entanglement or entangled particles which John often refers to is actually a scientific expression of the idea that everything is connected to everything else and you can really only understand something in terms of how it relates to something else. Grace came to understand this concept in her chapter about seeing a fox during her walk in the woods. And so really, all of this dances around the question of whether there really is one knowable reality. And I guess that's one of the biggest questions I tried to address in the book.”


Now before you get the wrong idea, I should point out that quantum theory isn’t the only metaphor for Sue’s investigation of appearance and reality. Popular culture features too, from The Doors to Mel Brooks. Sue says, “I'm a HUGE Mel Brooks fan and the quote about being ‘wet and hysterical’ is one my sister and I have teased each other with forever. Rock n roll is just as important, and The Doors are often in my head, punctuating my life. Music in general is central to who I am and I still play the violin. But for some reason, it remains separate from my writing. I can't listen to anything at all when I write. But I am longing to write about music sometime, and I'm playing around with a concept for novel 3 centred around music. I have to finish novel 2 first though.”

Tangled Roots is an immensely satisfying read. It’s out in paperback from today and deserves to do really well. And as I’m adding Sue to the select list of living authors I enjoy, I hope the wait for novels two and three won’t be a long one.

Monday, 23 March 2009

Tragedy

The sad news of Nicholas Hughes' suicide will not receive the coverage devoted to Jade Goody's premature death. I doubt the Prime Minister will express his sorrow at the news. In fact, I doubt he'll even notice. But the son of the late Poet Laureate, brother of the artist, poet and columnist Frieda and - of course - child of Sylvia Plath is in some ways more deserving of our sympathy. The story of his mother's suicide, of her sealing up the children's bedroom before turning on the gas, of her leaving milk and biscuits for when Nicholas and Frieda woke, is sad enough. But the subsequent suicide of Ossia and Shura Wevill, the public vilification of his father by misinformed outsiders, his father's death to cancer and now the suicide of Nicholas Hughes himself raise the story to the level of a Greek Tragedy. Ted Hughes was a giant of 20th century literature. Sylvia Plath, both through her writings and iconic feminist status, became a legend. And yet, in the midst of such powerful human drama was a father trying desperately to shield his son and daughter from the pain; a man subsequently revealed in his letters as a deeply caring individual desperate to lift his children from the mire of tragedy and controversy that engulfed the family.

Nicholas Hughes inherited a deep love of the natural world from his father. He made it his living, working in Alaska and becoming both a successful environmentalist and academic. As his sister has said today, he deserves to be remembered for that. But inevitably there will be speculation. Was the depression he was suffering linked to events earlier in his life?

It's ironic that the news of Nicholas Hughes' death should coincide with Childline revealing figures showing that the number of young people suffering suicidal tendencies has quadrupled. Next Sunday, Young Minds, the charity aimed specifically at supporting young people with mental health issues (and who receive support from the proceeds of my novel Writing Therapy) are broadcasting an appeal on Radio Four. You can find details here. Surely the case for everyone of whatever age receiving support from organisations like this is overwhelming? Mental health provision in this country can be a somewhat hit-and-miss affair, and people cope with life in many different ways. But the great tragedy of most suicides is that delay of merely twenty minutes can be sufficient to make someone change their mind. Shame that seems not to have been the case for Nicholas Hughes.

Thursday, 5 March 2009

ITV RIP

Oh dear. News yesterday of 600 job cuts and a loss of £2.7bn last year doesn't make happy reading. Advertising revenue is in free-fall, competition has quadrupled, audience share declined and now they're going to close the Kirkstall Road TV studios in Leeds, home of Yorkshire Television, Countdown, Emmerdale Farm, Farmhouse Kitchen (hands up if you remember Dorothy Sleightholme) Indoor League ("I'll see thee!" - not if I see thee first, Mr Truman) Rising Damp and Joker's Wild, Follyfoot, The Flockton Flyer, and not forgetting 321. When it was opened, Kirkstall Road was the first purpose-built colour television production centre in Europe. A sad end.

Personally, I think ITV has been in free-fall since 27th October 2002 when all those lovely, local stations with their quaint on-screen idents were abolished, to be replaced with ITV1. And how long now before that's replaced by ITV-none. For those of a nostalgic disposition, you can vote for your favourite ITV regional ident of yesteryear on the side-bar. Get voting while there's still time.

Thursday, 12 February 2009

Yours free - a giveaway!

Zaftig to Aspie, the memoir by the writer, blogger and Queen of the caption-competition Denyse Kirkby is a remarkable book. You can read a full review of it here. And I have a signed copy to give away to one lucky reader who e-mails me direct. The only condition is that you review it yourself, and publish the review both on your own blog and on Amazon. And if you enjoy the book as much as I did, that's going to be a veritable labour of love!

Monday, 26 January 2009

Order! Order!

I rather hastily volunteered to be the subject of Expat Mum's interrogation-game last week (Imagine Bruce Forsyth as Commandant of Guantanamo) and she's kindly e-mailed me her questions. They're very good - probing, thoughtful, intelligent and shrewd. You'd like them; really you would!
Here are my answers:
1. One to two hours, on average. I write something every day, even if it's just my diary;

2. Discovering the UK, a school textbook for Wayland;

3. The fact I don't miss work at all;

4. This was a deliberate ploy to ensure Sally is our unpaid nanny;

5. I think you must mean Sarah!

A 'Dotterel's Delight' goes to the first one to correctly post the questions!

Oh, and the game stupulates that you can invite others to participate, so if you'd like me to stick my beak in, do please drop the Dot an e-mail.

Monday, 19 January 2009

A Voyage Round John Mortimer

So, now I've never met John Mortimer either. Having watched 'Voyage Round my Father' at the age of 11 or 12 and had his book Clinging to the Wreckage as my thirteenth birthday present (what other newly-minted teenager would have done that?) and loved them both, not only did I not become a barrister (though people told me that I should) but neither did I do something so great I might have been on the same guest list as him, and might have at the very least been in the self-same room as him. Of course, the old toad has his faults - the women, the champagne breakfasts. (Actually, they're not faults at all, come to think of it.) But now another great figure from my lifetime lives no more.

Its been the same all along. I was at Hull University when Philip Larkin died. I could have talked to him, too, many times. I remember walking past him on the so-called 'Great White Way' (oh, lore!) looking into those mischievous eyes and thinking to myself - perhaps I ought to stop and tell him how much I enjoyed The Whitsun Weddings? The old curmudgeon would have either smiled and tottered on his way to the staff bar thinking 'what a tit' or else berate me for being so presumptuous as to breathe the same air he did. And so ignoring him was all that I could do, my only option. And I've ignored celebrities ever since. Not that either Sir John Mortimer or the nearly-poet laureate were what you'd call celebrities, in the Channel Four sense. They'd never have had them on Big Brother! If they had (notwithstanding practical difficulties such as reincarnation) I might have watched it. Now it's too late. Never mind. I hope God's ready for an argument or two.