Year: 2014

I am writing a book.

I enjoy writing fiction, some of you may have read the bits and bobs I’ve posted here in the past, but I’ve no real idea if it’s rubbish or not. I’ve read some of it and it seems ok to me, although every time I re-read them I can’t help but think of ways to tighten up the language and make things flow better.

It’s one thing writing short blog posts though, quite another to write a book. What the hell do I know about writing a book? In an effort to answer that question I once bought a book called “How to write your first novel”. I should probably read it at some point. In saying that, I’ve a sense that a book needs characters and that they will develop and be discovered by the reader over the course of the story. I know a book needs a plot, a reason that binds all the strands of the book together. I know a book needs motifs, tone, and attitude. Beyond that, I don’t know how to write a book.

I enjoy writing fiction even though I’ve not managed to distance it from myself, to push it away to become a story that anyone can relate to. Instead anything I write is still to close to being me and I know that will constrain the characters. I don’t want to lose my voice completely but I still read what I write and hear ‘me’, not the voices of the people I’m writing.

I’ve been writing the book for some time. I may never finish it, others may never read it, but now and then I take a notion and write some more. On a given day I’ll read all the pieces together and rework them again. And again. And again. Each edit changing the voice, the direction, the pace.

I am writing a book.

I know what type of book I don’t want it to be and which traps I don’t want to fall into, just as I know what type of book I hope it might be, and unbounded expectations of how it might be received. I pause and daydream of life as a writer. Away from the 9 to 5, free to indulge myself, I imagine what I’ll learn about writing, about myself. Perhaps my book will be made into a movie!

Moments later reality floods in and I realise that whilst I am writing a book, I’ve never done it before and so I’ve no frame of reference to tell if it’s any good or not. I may be writing the worst book in the world but then, that’s not really the point.

I am writing a book that will never published. I am aware of this but unmoved by the fact.

I am writing a book for myself. It is not my story but merely an outlet, a way to give myself some direction and focus. It’s an act of distraction, of meditation and contemplation. A way of getting outside of me for a short space of time.

I am writing a book.

I figure if I say it often enough it might actually work out that way.

I am writing a book.

Wandering around the city centre, earphones in, observing life with a soundtrack.

Apple sandwiches on soft white bread (with just a sprinkle of sugar).

Running away from a soaking wet golden retriever before she shakes herself dry.

Long train journeys.

Hiking up hills, across moors, a fresh breeze in my face, a warm flask of hot chocolate in my rucksack.

My Dad bring home ice cream from Gallone’s (Italian made, milk ice cream with raspberry sauce).

Cold early mornings on the river, water rushing round my legs, the quiet zip of the rod and line.

The building excitement of an eagerly anticipated movie.

Freewheeling down a long long road, feet off the pedals, close to flying.

A crescent of honeydew melon leaving juice slick on my cheeks.

The deep silence at 5am.

Exploring new places, lost in my own thoughts.

Lying on the grass, watching clouds scroll lazily across the sky.

Many many years ago, a good friend loaned me a book of comics. It was a compilation of a daily cartoon strip about a young boy called Calvin and his pet (toy) tiger Hobbes. He assured me it was worth a read and he was right.

I started re-reading them last night (perfect bathroom reading material) and have been reminded of why they resonated so much with me back then, and how they still do so today.

Whimsy. Silliness. Pathos.

As a cartoon strip, the key aim is to provide a level of humour. Early on Calvin & Hobbes was built around subtle word play and it hit my ‘comedy’ sweet spot, but over the years as the readership started to get a sense of who Calvin was, it started to take on a wonderful twist.

Firstly there are the recurring characters and moments; the long running gag where Hobbes ambushes Calvin when he comes home from school, Susie Perkins being treated hideously by Calvin, the endless grotesque snowmen, Hobbes’ hunt for tuna.

We were also introduced to the imagination of a small boy, something I could easily associate with given the age gap between my sister and I (for my first 8 years I was an ‘only’ child); Calvin as film noir detective Tracer Bullet, the intergalactic adventurer Spaceman Spiff and the be-caped hero that is Stupendous Man!.

I still daydream from time to time, taking myself out of the drudgery that adulthood can be and off on various flights of fancy, although these days they tend to be more

And then to the whimsy, my favourite moments where the cartoon steps outside of itself to offer a view of the world that at times is sad, at times poignant and usually played out simply. A wonderful mix of visuals and words to convey a simple message, played out with the wonder and awe that a small boy still has.

These latter strips are the ones that stick with me and I as slowly reshape my life, simplifying, reducing negativity and noise as best I can, they continue to resonate.

It’s funny how quickly we forget the sense of awe we had as children, it’s something I’ve been aware of for a while and I do try and see something beautiful (if not awe inspiring) every day in an effort to retain some external view that isn’t about me or my life; I’m very prone to being introspective too quickly (I give you this blog as a perfect example!).

The child-like sense of the wonder of ‘other’, delivered through the keen eye of Calvin’s creator Bill Watterson, is what rings true. A view of the world free of pessimism, with a healthy dose of skepticism, and no small amount of sarcasm seems to match why own. Or at least the one I try and maintain.

It’s what keeps me coming back to these wonderful comic strips. Whimsy. Silliness. Pathos. Not a bad way to lead a life.

Further reading:

• http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calvin_and_Hobbes
• http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Watterson
• http://www.dearmrwatterson.com/store/
• http://bookriot.com/2012/02/06/sixteen-things-calvin-and-hobbes-said-better-than-anyone-else/
• http://bookriot.com/2012/07/16/sixteen-more-things-calvin-and-hobbes-said-better-than-anyone-else/

I’m a huge fan of Elbow. Partly for the melodies they weave and the sounds they create, but mostly because of the lyrics which are in turn funny, acidic, bold, soaring, and achingly beautiful. Guy Garvey is my favourite poet.

Their songs, whether of sorrow, elated joy, or poignant recognition often strike a chord and I find myself moved far more strongly than I am with other bands. I don’t know if it’s because I’m of a similar age as the band and so the timely reflections on family and friends seem to ring truer than others, I don’t know if it’s a combination of the music and the moment, but at every single gig I’ve been at (seven and counting) there have always been tears (including one great big sobbing mess of a moment thanks to Scattered Black & Whites).

Of course a lot of this is down to my own emotional disposition – I’m quite happy to confirm that I cry at movies – and the attachments I assign to some songs, but that still requires there to be some form of lyrical hook on which I can hang my emotional baggage and Elbow provide those exquisitely well.

I’ve written before about the small group of people I care about the most who form the core part of my life; my family, my partners and my closest friends. I’m consider myself very lucky that my life is (mostly) full of rich partnerships and laughter. Focusing on reducing the negative influences and letting go of things I can’t control have definitely helped, but the basis of my happiness can be found in those relationships.

Count your age by friends, not years. Count your life by smiles, not tears.

And I do, or at least I try.

The importance I place on these aspects of my life are not something I’m fully aware of, so embedded are they, but it’s when a line in a song rings true that it pushes it all, sometimes overwhelmingly, back into my consciousness.

Oh, long before
You and I were born
Others beat these benches with their empty cups
To the night and the stars
​To be here, and now, and who we are

Another sunrise with my sad captains
​With who I choose to lose my mind
​And if it’s true we only come this way but once
​What a perfect waste of time

Those moments with friends, family, loved ones, spent doing nothing much of note are some of my favourites. The odd memories that spring to mind may be formed around an event, but it’s not the R.E.M. gig at Loch Lomond we talk about, but the inflatable sofa we inherited on our way back to a friend’s house and how long it lasted (months).

I guess this all fits in with my wish to simplify my life, removing negativity and noise as best I can to allow me to focus on the now so that I  have more chances to experience those delicious little moments that make me happy.