Recently I read A.L.Kennedy's latest novel,
'The Blue Book'. I chose it partially for research reasons; my next, as-yet-unwritten novel will be based around the idea of psychic therapy, and partially because I enjoyed A.L.'s Guardian columns about her day-to-day life as a writer.
'The Blue Book' didn't disappoint. I'm never quite sure what I'm looking for when I pick up a new book, but I do know that the writing I love the most 'feeds the soul' in some way. Tolstoy is a master of literary soul-food, as are most Russian writers I've read (and one of the many reasons I wanted to learn the language). And so
'The Blue Book', like the best of 'em in my opinion, wasn't a particularly easy read - but it was a deep and beautifully written one. One that when I finished, made me feel as though I'd swam a little bit out of my depth and learned something valuable about human behaviour (all that for about £7.99, which for me marks it out as exceptionally good value as well!)
Out of general interest I had a look at A.L.'s website, on which there is a section entitled 'For Writers'. Nestled in this section is some of the best advice for writers I've ever read, including a wonderful essay called
'Looking at Geese'.
'Looking at Geese', however, is more than just a few pieces of dull, hastily-written advice to
"make a plan and stick to it", it's a reflective, unapologetically detailed reflection of Kennedy's writing-and-performing life. I found it utterly mesmerising. It made me want to replicate it; to dive straight into my
own (marginally less successful!) writing journey. And it'll probably go on for a while, and I'm not a famous or even halfway successful writer so I doubt it'll be of any interest to anybody except me. But I'm going to do it anyway (so
there...)
Older family members have told me that it was my Mum who was responsible for my
"exceptional reading skill" as a small child, due to her immersive encouragement of it. If that was the case then I'm grateful. Well - I am
now. At the time, being good at reading singled me out. Every day we'd have "reading time" in the school library, during which my classmates would get to pick from the entire library-worth of books, whereas I'd have to go on my own to a little table in the corner on which would be three or four 'advanced reading' books. Nobody bothered explaining this to me at the time; for months I just thought I must be a bit backward, or that I was being punished for something. It's typical even of my behaviour now that I didn't ask anyone about it! Instead I'd just come home and scribble all my worries in my little diary. I always did that; it was far easier than actually having to
talk to anyone.
The first book I can ever remember making an impact on me is Enid Blyton's
'Wishing Chair Collection', which I read aged about seven. My Dad had ordered me to go to sleep, so I finished it by torchlight under the covers, and when I woke up the next morning I thought I'd had a dream about reading a really wonderful book; one that had made me laugh and cry and desperate to read all over again. I was disappointed that it had just been a dream. But then I got up, and was elated when I saw the book right there on the floor, ready to be savoured all over again. That was the first time I remember realising that words could have a real
effect. That realisation, even at seven, felt amazingly potent. I decided then that I'd like my own words to have that sort of effect. I read more and more and more; looking up new words I found in the dictionary and making long lists in the backs of my diaries, of the words I liked the sound and construction of, and words I thought 'sounded' all wrong and how I'd improve them.
(Somewhat unsurprisingly, I didn't have many friends!)
But somewhat ironically, if my words ever
did achieve any sort of effect then it embarrassed the absolute hell out of me. Once, my teacher decided to read out a story I'd written in our school assembly. I was so mortified to be 'singled out' that I ran off and cried (what a bloody annoying child I must have been!). Another time my English teacher raced across the school playground to tell me excitedly that a story I'd handed in was the most beautifully descriptive he'd ever read for a child of my age; that he'd re-read it so many times that he could probably recite it back to me. Was I proud? No! A group of my classmates had overheard, and all I wanted was to sink right through the floor.
(I was often embarrassed in maths lessons too, but for completely different reasons...my maths teacher once told my Dad that I had the worst level of mental arithmetic in the entire school).
The only writing I continued to do throughout my teenage years and slightly beyond was in those diaries, although I was constantly coming up with little ideas for stories and novels. I was just too lazy to get them written down properly, I suppose, plus the task always seemed a bit daunting. I was scared of what might happen if I managed to lose myself in my writing, which seemed to me far too easy to make happen. A lot of writers say they can't help
not writing; that it's as natural for them as breathing, but for me it felt like an urge I was constantly doing my absolute best to suppress.
I still read, though. And by now the words I was reading were serving as an education of sorts. As I've said, I rarely actually
talked to people. If I wanted to know anything, I'd go to the library and read about it. The library was a godsend, in those days before the iPod and iPhone had been invented! And I think one of the reasons I want 'soul food' from the books I read now is because books have always been such a lifeline for me, and such a font-of-all-knowledge. I feel a bit short-changed if I read something that's just supposed to be a bit of light entertainment. If I want that I'll watch telly instead.
All the non-writing continued until I reached a 'quarter-life crisis' of sorts, in my mid-twenties. I hated my job; my life seemed to be going nowhere. Nothing
interested me. I decided to make an appointment with a careers coach, who asked me if there was anything I'd always wanted to do...what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without even thinking about it, I said
"writing". I felt I must have sounded completely stupid and deluded, to think I could make a career out of something like that. But the careers coach took me seriously, and suggested that if nothing else, I should join a writers' course of sorts to test my scribblings out; see what I thought. So I did.
Luckily, the course I chose was fun and interesting, with a great teacher. I also made a really good friend from it, so I'm doubly grateful. And it did the job of making me finally realise that, once and for all, I
definitely wanted to write!
But were my words any good? The course yielded mixed reviews. The very first piece I turned in, about a man-turned-woman and entitled
'The First Day' (a title provided by the teacher), was trashed by my course-mates. Somewhat arrogantly, I wasn't quite convinced of its total rubbishness, so I joined a 'writing showcase' website on which I could post all my offerings to my heart's content. It turned out to be an invaluable place to test out a few styles and gain some interesting feedback. One of my stories even got selected for a collection of the site's subjectively-judged "best work". That's the only accolade my writing has ever won so far; ironically and true to form it's also the piece I'm the most embarrassed about having written.
And so now I've got to the point where I've completed three drafts of my first novel, and now I've got to the point at which writing really is the only thing I want to do; the only thing that - pretentiously-sounding-enough - makes me feel completely at one with myself. Slowly I'm worrying less and less about losing myself in writing; in fact I'm beginning to understand that I probably have to, to produce anything really worth reading. And it doesn't matter if I get published or not. Actually I'm lying - it does! - but it won't affect whether I will continue to write or not.
As A.L.Kennedy (to whom I have just written a rather poor tribute!) wrote:
"I am a writer - because I'm made this way"
