I have to admit that I am a little unsettled as
I sit down to write today’s blog.
Usually three thoughts go through my head, as I wait to build up a good
head of steam on my Massey Ferguson belt driven computer, no Clancy, not booze,
boobs and babes. First off I try to
recall enough events, in chronological order, that when cobbled together will
make a wee story. Second off I need to
produce fifteen hundred words and finally I need to plant a couple of smile
explosions throughout the piece. So
thankfully this ancient computer does the word count for me, which I have to
admit is so much better than the old pen and paper days of counting every word
you write, as they say, by hand, even though this contraption counts in
furlongs. It’s seventeen words to the
furlong as you asked. So you hit the
publish button and pray that someone will like it, and then you hope someone will
leave a comment that suggests they enjoyed it or found it funny. Normally this will be Ken Clare, but after a
while you begin to wonder about the fellows sanity.
But this morning when I fired up the old
machine there was a comment from Brad Fonseca http://bradfonseca.wordpress.com/2014/02/01/setting-a-writing-schedule-with-a-busy-schedule/
. I most certainly did not expect to see
someone write, “It is one of the more moving pieces of prose I have read in a
while.” He even referred to me as “an
entertaining writer.” And you can’t ask for better than that. But what do I do now, for creative writing, I
mean real creative writing and writing a daily blog are two very different types
of writing. Creative writing has hard
and fast rules that must be observed, although I have to admit that occasionally
I break them. The blog is written in a
more ‘conversational’ way. It’s, or at
least should be, easy going, chewing gum for the mind that releases the odd
smile. So thank you very much Brad for
your kind observations, it’s nice to learn that you think I am ‘entertaining’
and will strive to continue to do so. I
just wanted to point out that there were two very distinct forms of writing in
the previous blog, Kate, the short story, is pure creative writing, and the
blog, well; that’s just me and my steam driven computer trying to make you
smile.
As for the rest of you, sort yourselves out and
I shall return to my days at Lumb Bank.
And yes, I will write louder, as Peter Browne over there on his bombing
range in Saudi Arabia has requested, as it’s difficult to read with all the big
bangs going off! We had entered a
serious section of the writing course now.
There were three important events taking place, well four, if you count
the other one. First off we had to
produce a course magazine, which was part Arvon tradition but also formed a
keepsake for ourselves. There was the
end of course party, which although had been planned to contain the basic component
of loads of drink, also contained a performance element where we each had to write
something entertaining. The third event
was a special guest visitor who would be spending the day, and evening, with
us. All we knew was that it was someone important
from the world of media.
The other event, the fourth one was where we
would each spend some time with both facilitators and discuss our work. Apart from the work they would have seen us
produce while at Lumb Bank, they would also have been given at the start of the
course, a file of work from each of us that they would have read through and formed
some sort of opinion. This for me was
the crucial part of the course. This is where
the professional writer could offer to introduce you to their literary agent;
this would be the stepping stone that would carry you from apprentice, or novice
writer, to the elevated status of professional writer. It was something that I knew I had no control
over and I can tell you I was worried.
For the end of course party I was writing a
ditty, I shall not call it a poem for I would not wish to insult the world of
poetry. It had four line verses,
alternate lines rhymed; it was a ditty, with each stanza referring to an individual
member of the course and the two facilitators. The sun was out and most people were lounging
about on the huge grass veranda but I was content to sit in the cool of the
library with all my friends. To think
that within a few days a magazine with my work in it, under my name, would be
sitting on a shelf next to Seamus Heaney was far too exciting. Shields and one of the girls came in to the
library with an electronic typewriter intending to work on a piece they had
planned for the end of course party. I
went to have some lunch and met our special guest who had just arrived.
It was a BBC television producer. I made him a cup of coffee and brought him
out to the veranda where the rest of the course assembled. We had a question and answer session lying in
the strong sunshine, which I have to admit was quite informative. Then, as the questions began to die away, he
asked us what we were working on, outside of Lumb Bank. Most participants were quite vague but I was
actually planning a series of three novels and I loved talking about my project
as it helped me think and plan it out.
He asked me to talk about my project and I leapt at the chance. Not in my usual sense of listening to myself
and sorting out kinks in the story, but to gauge the response of fellow writers
and poets and of course the two facilitators and television producer.
I wanted to contribute to the peace process in Northern
Ireland. I wanted to highlight and show
that there was no difference between a Protestant and a Catholic, I wanted to highlight
the stupidity of the situation but I knew that a heavy and detailed historical
novel would not cut the mustard. I
needed to be historically accurate but I knew that to reach the maximum audience
it would have to be funny. I had
already spent a good few days wandering around graveyards in and near the town
of Drogheda in the Republic of Ireland and had collected various names and
dates from the gravestones. By using
real people in my story I had hoped to debunk the naysayers and critics or at
least put a decent swerve in the story before they could start dismissing it.
There would be two main characters, one, a Protestant
would have moved through the ranks of the masonic lodge and was now a member of
its top secret society. My police mates
were a great help pointing me in the right direction for research on the
Masonic lodges. As for the Catholic he
too would have come up through the ranks of Opus Dei but would now be a member
of a secret society. The story
surrounding these two men would begin at the Battle of the Boyne and their
relatives who were there, following the family line throughout history to the
present day. Both men, through their
secret societies, would be dedicated to acts of good and kindness, yet because
of their tribal upbringing in Northern Ireland would be bitterly opposed to
each other. Until I would bring them
together and show how alike they really were.
It was quite an undertaking, although so interesting
that even though at the time I had no idea I was to become the King of Ireland,
I was still trying to think of ways to bring peace to that troubled part of my
Kingdom. The television producer was
creeping closer to me and began to ask specific questions about the period it
was set in and the locations. I couldn’t
believe the fellow was so interested in my story until he handed me his business
card and told me to contact him when I had finished the books, as it was the
sort of project he would love to make for television. All I had to do was finish the manuscripts
and he would make sure the project would happen.
I was excited to say the least, I knew I could physically
write one book but was I capable of writing three? I couldn’t see my luck holding out much longer. So I was a little excited and confused when I
was invited to go and spend some time with Carol Anne Duffy and John Barton Harvey. It was late afternoon; Carol and John were
seated on a garden bench at the far end of the veranda. I lay on the grass before them and waited for
their opinion on my work. I knew that I
needed John Barton Harvey to support me but I knew it was something that probably
wouldn’t happen. He said that he thought
my writing was very good but I needed to concentrate more on style, get more
experience. As he spoke all I could think
of was that he would make a very good air trafficker, he was a bullshitter of
the highest order.
I made an appointment to give myself a real
good telling off later on as if I had not criticised his writing I may have
been in with a sporting chance. John finished
his critique of my work and handed over to Carol Anne Duffy. I knew that I wasn’t in with a chance; I truly
did respect Carol Anne and the way she approached language and used words so
precisely. She really was a master of
the craft and had opened my eyes to poetry and the way that language can be
both beautiful and meaningful. Carol had
read most of my file and asked about certain specifics in various stories. She then asked about the television producer
and how interested he was in my project.
But it was at this point that I shall never forget the look on John
Barton Harvey’s face. Carol Anne Duffy,
the next Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom, handed me a piece of paper. “Here are the contact details for my literary
agent. I shall be telling her that she should
represent you. Give me a few days so that
I can contact her and set the ball in motion, give her a call in about a week.”
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