The little deaths – loss on social media

bird, dead

How do we navigate the little deaths? The ones which creep behind and stop our breath.

I’m talking of the things we lose, the people, places we wouldn’t choose

under normal circumstances, to part with.

Looking at Twitter the other night, I noticed that a chap I follow hadn’t tweeted for a while. I used to love the quotes he chose, his gentle life-affirming prose. Scrolling down the page it looked as though he hadn’t been online for quite some time.

I tried to find some recent words, not a re-tweet but a post written by him, and this is what came up:

Love my friends. 🙂 Be good to each other. Peace. 🙂

Shall be away for a while in hospital… his previous tweet began. He’d not been well at all.

After this, his account is silent.

What happens when the string of tweets runs dry? Are we to cry, and mourn the passing of a friend we knew only from 140 characters ?

I sometimes ask myself how long it would take to notice the absence of another on social media. And what then? Virtual communities hold not the flesh of real life hellos and hugs and a person’s absence may equally be from boredom, busy-ness as something graver.

I have, for the past two years, been writing a mystery set in Madrid and as I wrote I became interested in loss and how we process grief. What happens when the pain’s pushed down, the masks we wear to hide the shame coat and cover the bewildered frown?

This week, I quit my job. I had been hoping to teach for at least a year in Oman but something came up which shook my confidence in the school. I spoke to the head but the compassion I expected did not materialize. The well of care ran dry. After a few days I did not return.

These little deaths in daily life inhabit the body. They form a kind of coating of our cells. And until we take the time to dwell in their sharp poignancy they grey our waking minds, restrict and bind.

The people of Madrid, at the outset of my novel, are mourning the death of a local celebrity. They hang banners with her initials from their apartment windows, talk of her with a single name, as though they knew her personally.

But grief is as much the mourning of our losses from every day, as the funeral carriage, the thousands at the graveside and their sway.

 

This blogpost is dedicated to TygerBurning, a person I never met but whose tweets illuminated my day. 

If you enjoyed this blog-post, feel free to get in touch via Twitter here . You can follow this blog by going here and clicking on ‘Follow Muscat Tales.’  That way you’ll be notified each time I post. 

 

 

 

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Developing Voice: How a singing teacher coached me into writing

bird

Yesterday I clicked on a Twitter post without reading the intro. I saw ‘Writing’ and ‘Advice’ and thought: This one’s for me. I must have been two paragraphs in when I realised I’d read this writer’s work before.

I glanced at his name and yes, I was reading the Internet’s Chuck Wendig. Instantly recognisable, his style mixes zany metaphors with random phrases. Like some kind of surrealist stand-up, it all feels crazy and at the same time serious and to the point.  If you want to get a sense of Wendig’s work, you can read his writing advice here.

One of the reasons I think his prose is popular is that he has mastered Voice. And Voice is one of those elusive things like Grace or the joy of two drops of rain in Muscat that almost defies description.

One Cambridge winter, before I’d started to sit down regularly to write, I saw an advert for a small adult choir based in one of the colleges. I was excited, a little apprehensive and went to the audition to sing my piece.

My hands fluttered as I battled through my chosen tune, trying to project my voice, only having sung for fun, I felt unsure of what I was doing.

You sang quite nicely,’ said the choir director,  ‘But I could hardly hear you. Work with me and you’ll be fit for the choir in no time.’

For the following few weeks she gave me terrifying private lessons. She taught me like the opera singer that she was, correcting my posture, the shape of my mouth, my pronunciation, stopping the piano and starting again, giving me homeworks of repeated trills which I feared might alienate my housemates forever.

But by the end of the month something had shifted. I didn’t join the choir although I had learnt a few skills, and I didn’t continue with the teacher. What changed is that I no longer felt afraid to sing in front of others.

When I consider written Voice, I think, of this. The willingness to show who you are.

It comes through in the words we choose, how we order sentences, the topics we want to explore, our humour, the rhythm of our prose and like singing, we can only control the sound we make up to a point. Half of it is in the ear of the reader.

Even if I disagree with him and Stephen King about adverbs (another blog post entirely), I think people like to read Chuck Wendig because he is being who he is without apology and that comes through in his Voice.  Becoming acquainted with, practising, and enjoying, one’s own writing Voice fulfills an important function for the reader.

When I lived in Greece, I shared an apartment with a couple. One evening they invited a friend over. I sat with them but my limited Greek made conversation difficult. The friend had a beautiful speaking voice. The kind of voice you can sit and listen to and never get tired, like the rush of bird’s wings when they take off all at once. I kept thinking, I’ll go back to my part of the apartment soon but I kept stalling and it was 1am by the time I retired to my room.

A well-modulated voice is pleasing to the ear. It’s much easier to capture what a person is trying to say when the tone is regular, the diction coherent.

Most writers I speak to have something burning to convey in their work. When I first started writing my novel in 2015, I too had an idea for a story but my message was weak. It’s only as I figured out the themes behind the action -what mattered to me most -that I felt able to start working on a suitable Voice for my novel.

Voice grows as we use it, shedding the fear again and again that how we come across is somehow not okay. Too this, or not enough that.

And it’s vital in allowing us to convey the thing we want to say.

When I think of my favourite novels, Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day, Junot Diaz’s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Disgrace by J.M Coetzee, they are filled with great stories and memorable characters but without a carrying Voice in each of these, I would not have got past page one.

Advice-givers often tell writers to ‘fake it till you make it’; ‘if you haven’t found your own voice, just copy another writer’. Reading widely is undoubtedly a good idea but if we look outside ourselves for who we are, we’re liable to focus so hard on another’s melody we end up writing out of tune.

That evening in Greece, the thing I enjoyed about the way my friend spoke is that it was unique. I had never heard another person sound like this. Speaking from our authentic selves is powerful because it gives everyone else permission to do the same. The writer who is centred in Voice is trusting us with who they are. Without copying or hiding or feigning.

Voice takes practice, reading aloud if that’s your thing, confidence that the energy coming from  inside is more real than what others think about it. This is the paradox, for the closer we get to expressing our truth, the more it resonates with others. And the beautiful thing about writing is that no one needs to hear it till you’re ready.

If we imagine a conversation with someone we know, how do we know when they’re being truthful, genuine, real? What are the ways in which they speak which make us want to listen?  Or ‘read on’? My guess is that the answer to all of these is when our friends or writers or any folk are being most themselves.

If we listen hard enough we will hear this unmistakably in their Voice.

Dear readers, I’m going to be giving this blog a rest for a few weeks while I do an editing job on draft two of my novel. In the meantime, feel free to get in touch via Twitter here , and you can follow this blog by going here and clicking on ‘Follow Muscat Tales.’  That way you’ll be notified when the blog’s up and running again 🙂

Writing and resilience: how can we keep creating (and enjoy it)?

shatti-wild

A pulse of migrating birds is sewing the sky. The day is fresh and clear, trees moving conversationally. I know I should be writing but there are other things to do. Besides, I’m stuck. The last chapter I wrote left no way of moving forward. Can’t I just clean the oven?

For a seated activity, writing carries a lot of challenges. First off there is not writing.

It’s all well and good to say, ‘I’m not inspired, I’ll take a break for an hour or five,’ before you realise you have an imagination with nothing to tether itself to, crowds of words backed up in the brain like traffic on the Sultan Qaboos Road. And, as we know, the thing will not write itself.

But doing the writing is risky too.

You could offend a friend. Or reach for the truth and hit a cliché. Or the time you think up something so spot on, you even make yourself cry. Writing is a risk because it asks you to go inside and take a look around.

The perils of writing were far from my mind at a dance/exercise class I attended a few days ago. The music was loud and Latin, my companions Omani, Zanzibari women in their twenties, all plugged in to the often complicated moves.

But something was different this week. New faces? A different soundtrack? Actually a seven year old girl in the front row, following the routines along with the rest of us. She wore wraparound specs, sneakers she was clearly growing into and her face was a butterfly of unbridled joy. Undaunted by turning up to a class of adult women and joining in, the girl did more than follow the routines. She danced.

What made the class, for her, so simple? And how might it help with my writing challenges?

I could see the activity mattered more to her than the mirror of her peers. She was enjoying the sequences more than she feared any kind of ‘failure’ or embarrassment. Passion as artistic fuel becomes a pot of gold inside, where doing the thing itself is the ultimate reward.

The writer and entrepreneur Joanna Penn describes the early days of her writing as a time when she would frequently ‘self-censor.’ It’s easy to get caught up in worries about words which might offend, but what is lost when we remove the liveliness of our tone? Pairing down our writing to please an invisible critic is like trying to wear someone else’s clothes. I thought of the girl in the exercise class who moved so freely,  was so un-self-conscious. What if as adults we applied this attitude to our creative work?

In Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art he calls the unwillingness to engage with our own writing, Resistance. That feeling of ‘Do I have to?’ can be hard to overcome. Questions I ask myself when I’d suddenly rather be cleaning the oven:

  • What am I avoiding? Is it a difficult scene? Is there a skill I need to learn/information to research before I go back to it? Could I begin somewhere else?
  • How can I support my attention span when I find myself drifting onto Facebook or that holiday website? Rather than telling myself off (which will likely send my creativity into a corner), could I work with the Internet?

A trick that may sound strange but worked for me a few weeks back was: 10 minutes writing, 10 minutes online. Repeat ad infinitum. You’d be surprised how many words you’ll produce when time is limited. And how quickly 10 minutes writing becomes an hour once the idea has taken hold.

  • When I was working on Draft 1 of my novel I used to start the day by reading everything I had written so far before I continued. When your words have reached the thousands it can become quite time consuming so I stopped!

But these days I still look back at the work from the day before. This gets me into the world of the story.I become interested in the place. Care about what’s happening, the characters, their plans and before I know it, I want to add to it. It’s a kind of conscious seduction. The more we see a person, thing or place, the more invested we become. If I can get myself involved in the story’s world, I know the fire will ignite to light the fuel of my commitment.

‘How can I fall in love with what I’m doing?’ is probably the most important question I ask myself each day. It’s the easiest way to ensure I walk to my desk every morning, open the document and stay there till the work is done.

Writers how do you keep yourself writing regularly? Your comments, as always, are welcome below. 

Story-writing, science and the grace of flight

planes

I started writing poems when I was twelve. Messages to myself, which aided, in the end, with adolescence. I would never, I vowed, show a soul and no one asked about them because nobody knew.

At university I saw the scribbled comments of a teacher on a set of poems and felt a rush of hope. He didn’t understand what I wanted to say, he wrote, but they seemed to be ‘about something’.

I didn’t know, then, that the reader sits strapped in and the ‘something you want to say’ is their experience. That writers open up doors inside so the reader may step in and find themselves there too.

I didn’t get this until I met the novelist, Jennifer Clement in Mexico who wrote stories like paintings. Every scene was a frame of colour, of life and I wanted to move inside her book, to live there indefinitely.

I thought it was art. All of it. I thought it spilled out like blood from a wound, that a writer was opening up their soul and that the gold of their literature came directly from the fabric of their cells.

A decade later I don’t think it works like this. I found this out when I started writing a book of my own and saw the blood spilling, the canvass spoiled. For writing is a construction, closer to science or engineering than a kind of formless art.

It has, I think, as much in common with flight as artistic expression.

An aircraft is built to do a job, just as the plot of a novel is (usually) planned to allow a story to be told. The runway allows the machine to gain momentum, like plot points propelling a story forward.

When the airplane reaches cruising height, the story has taken flight and the readers or passengers are there for the long haul. If the thing has been built right it will keep itself propelled until the end. The landing is of course, the ending and readers, like passengers want a good one.

There are functional, physical facts which keep a plane flying. After coming to a standstill with my own novel and reading a lot of writing guides, I discovered that there is a system too in the building of a novel. Points in the plot when certain things should happen, like the flaps of an airplane moving to allow or suppress lift.

The parts a novel needs to fly can be numbered and maintained, that following these rules doesn’t guarantee a brilliant piece of work, just as keeping a plane in good condition will not make for a perfect flight, but it helps get it off the ground.

And in the end, beyond the engineering, a great novel has the elegance of flight, that grace which makes the reader wonder: How did that just happen? Part science part serendipity, something has taken place, something has moved.

What do you think makes a great novel? Writers, what helps you structure? Please feel free to comment below.

Speaking in bombs: Book Review – Song of Gulzarina by Tariq Mehmood

manc

After three years of studying (yeah right) at Manchester Uni I decided to stay on another year. I couldn’t get enough of the Northern drizzle: large gobs of fumey water threatening to turn everything grey. Sometimes the sun would appear and a bright blue would cover the city, lighting up the red brick of the warehouses.

I arrived in 1996 when a bomb planted by the IRA had gutted the central Arndale Centre. Terrorism in England in the twentieth century was all about bins in railway stations, bombs in Wimpy Bars, the targeting of political buildings. Scary yes but somehow in parallel with normal life. Not at its centre.

Manchester is the setting of Tariq Mehmood’s recently published novel, Song Of Gulzarina, an absorbing read which travels between the North west of England and Pakistan along with the main character, Saleem Khan.

The story picks up pace at a mill, in an incident involving unsuitable toilets at Saleem Khan’s workplace. The Pakistani workers request sanitary facilities. The white British manager, Mr Andersen abuses the men:

‘You filthy Paki bastards always sticking together.’ Mr Anderson picked up another pipe and hit Salamat Ali Teka across the face.

This racist violence paves the way for Saleem Khan’s journey through pain, into war, loss and eventual expatriation.

Love features too as Saleem falls for Carol Anderson, the daughter of his boss. One of the most enjoyable parts of this novel is the way the writer has his characters speak. As Carol and Saleem chat, she responds to Saleem by speaking to an invisible onlooker:

‘How did you find out?’

‘How did I find out, he says,’ she said leaning back into the setee.

Her turn of phrase is real and affecting betraying something deeper than its outward flippancy. In fact I was originally drawn to review this book after Tariq Mehmood’s humour showed up on a mutual facebook friend’s page. Mehmood has a gift for pithy – often witty – dialogue switching between registers with pitch perfect precision.

A few years ago I attended a workshop on writing dialogue at the Winchester Writers’ Festival. The take-away was that speech in literature is artificial but you have to make it sound plausible; each character should appear authentic and different (try it – it’s not an easy task!) Tariq Mehmood gives his characters language which is earthy, often coarse and angry and it makes his characters visceral, believable.

The sense of place in Song Of Gulzarina looms large. Not just in Manchester where:

The white pigeon with a black circle around its left eye is now perched on top of one of the toll gates, oblivious to the cold Mancunian wind.

but also in Pakistan where the depth and sensuality of the detail reminded me of Aravind Adiga’s descriptions of Bangalore in The White Tiger:

‘Other than the smoke from the exhaust of a rickshaw, nothing hit us.’

kite

——-SPOILER ALERT——-

The final section of the book – please look away if you don’t want a SPOILER – takes the character of Saleem Khan to a darker place.

If the book begins with racist humiliation, it ends in exile. The distancing of our hero from his own humanity, hell-bent on revenge, his heart closed and life little more than an alcoholic blur.

Ravaged by the losses of his wife, girlfriend, cousin, the disdain of his daughter, Khan’s heartbreak has turned its face upon the world. He plans to avenge his disillusionment on the British ex Prime Minister, Tony Blair who has come to Manchester to speak. Strapped to Khan’s body are enough explosives to take out far more than the former PM.

In this last section, the reader is kept on tenterhooks as Khan wanders around Longsight and Wilmslow Road in this state ready to activate the mobile phone at any moment.

That our protagonist chooses Tony Blair as his target is unsurprising. There is a terrible irony that much of the IRA terrorism mentioned above was curtailed by an agreement in 1998 of which Blair played a significant part. Five years later, the invasion of Iraq and all of its rhetoric served not only an illegal war but a media machine which placed people like Saleem Khan in a cold and terrifying place.

Cast out by a British government acting with unspeakable hypocrisy, it is easy to understand why Fight or Flight became, for some, a way of life.  Add in the United States response in Afghanistan to the 9/11 attacks, and terrorism becomes a very real language. ‘We are here,’ cry the suicide bombers. ‘You thought you could ignore us. But: ‘Look at me. I’m the captain now.’

That Khan’s decision to blow himself up is not associated with his religious beliefs but a quest for social justice is significant. In fact he declares himself an Atheist, his faith has long since died. “Never contend with a man who has nothing to lose.” wrote Baltasar Gracian in the 17th century. Saleem Khan’s self-rejection is so complete, hope so long-gone that he will go to any lengths. His radicalisation has come not from religious rhetoric but from the sense that he has nothing left so nothing will be lost when he kills and dies.

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For this is a novel about alienation, about looking for home and finding only estrangement. From the woman who treats Khan at Manchester Royal Infirmary and comments with horror at the amount of hair on his body to his close white friend who runs away as they watch the events of 9/11 unfold on the telly, Saleem Khan is left without sanctuary.

Mehmood skilfully navigates the nuances of Islam in the West. When Khan’s daughter Aisha is aggressed by men in a passing car, the Muslim youths outside the mosque stand impassively. Khan chastises them:

‘How can you just carry on selling books?’ I ask the bearded youth, pointing a shaking finger. ‘You saw what they did to your sisters.’

The youth replies that all will be taken care of in the Hereafter – a view which ignores traditional Islamic belief (which highlights the importance of balancing both Earthly matters and a spiritual focus on the next life) – and instead of helping his Muslim sister, uses fundamentalist religious rhetoric to do nothing.

Towards the end of the book, Khan remembers seeing a snake as a child and playing with it until he was urgently warned to move away. As he walks, in the present tense, through Rusholme with explosives strapped to his chest, he recalls his mother telling him of how casually he toyed with the serpent. The adults were afraid of the creature because they had experience but the child was safe in his innocence. Nothing had caused him to prejudge it, to antagonise it and the snake did not attack.

Tariq Mehmood has written a powerful tale and his voice in the current political climate is important. Through a strong sense of the spoken word, an under-heard narrative gains momentum. This book is pure entertainment but it is also a cautionary tale. A question embedded in a Song. What happens when people are ignored and suppressed for too long? Where does that energy go? It is the reader’s gain that this particular writer has put his own spark into Song for Gulzarina.

For more information about the book click here

The ink of ideas: is ‘showing up’ enough?

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‘I’m against schedules. Write when you feel excited by the prospect.’ (Rick Moody)

‘Show up, show up, show up, and after a while the muse shows up, too.’ (Isabel Allende)

 

Who are we to believe? Those who make a muse of ‘inspiration’  or the grafters who turn up at the writing desk, rain or shine, like bank clerks to their counters?

Last year when I began work on my novel I joined the write-whether-you-feel-inspired-or-not school of thought, believing that if I waited for inspiration each day, I may never write at all. At least if I ‘showed up’ and didn’t like what I wrote, I could cut it later.

Sometimes ideas need to be caught before they fly off again, as Elizabeth Gilbert describes in this wonderful part of her TED talk: here (Thanks Mari for the reminder).

‘Showing up’ is the commitment necessary to make inspiration real. Without the grounding nature of routine, ideas, in my experience, stay floating, like untethered balloons. Last year, working on my novel occasionally felt dull or really difficult, sometimes both (!) but as long as I still cared enough about my initial idea, it fueled what I wrote each day.

I still subscribe to this routine although – I imagine, like anyone who makes things –   I can only ‘show up’ if I already have an idea, not a plan of the minutiae of everyday writing but a bigger concept which carries the work through. (Short of a big idea, I’ll do something else for a while.)  For when inspiration arrives, it becomes like a flock of birds moving in formation. The job, then, is to get that divine pattern down on paper, typing daily until it’s done (‘show up, show up!’)

Ideas are writing’s ink, its flow, the breath which supports movement. If there is ink in the well, the pen will find a way to keep on writing.

What part do ideas and ‘showing up’ play in your creative life? Please feel free to comment below…