seaside diaries

Attempting two literary endeavours at once ought to suit my divided self, but in reality proves increasingly difficult.  I'm trying to work on my paper whilst at the same time seem to be starting on a novella, the inspiration for which came from a lecture I attended at Hay.  And although the subject matter for each is similar, trying to spread my creative thought processes between the two is difficult to say the least.

I have just finished re-reading The Yellow Wallpaper and have gone straight from there into Herland, which is a different type of work altogether.  Wallpaper is a very brief of a woman's descent into some form of madness, probably based on PG's own experience.  Herland is her rant against the male establishment that brings the madness about.  I'm fortunate to have an acquaintance in Portland, Oregon, home of Powells giant bookstore, who is bringing me PG's autobiogrpahy, her published loveletters and her work on Women and Economics.  The latter is not a creative work - far from it, but will be an interesting insight into PG's thought processes.  it will be interesting to compare an academic work with her fiction writing.  The difference between the personally based Wallpaper and the less so Herland is already quite striking.

For me, the personal creative writing is easier in that it flows much more rapidly from my brain, but at the same time is far, far more emotionally demanding.  The paper takes more structured thought, a different kind of creativity, perhaps a different side of the brain?

PG = Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

I'm not normally a viewer...

honest, but this morning I switched on to find an excellent programme on the way the Modernist movement revolutionised the writing of the novel.  The programme focussed primarily on Ulysses, showing how Joyce turned the 'rules' of writing on their head and so ushered in a new form of artistic freedom for writers the world over.  Also prominent was Virginia Woolf, whose stream of consciousness technique took perspectives in characterisation and description into a whole new realm, by breaking down the rigid structures that had previously held expression of thought and insight in a straitjacket.

I used to think that I would like to write like Woolf and for some time tried to ape her style.  But aping it was indeed - I could not shoe horn myself into another writer's mindset and I was kidding myself if I thought I should even try.  These days, if anything, I like the short, sharp phrase and prefer the acute sentence over the meandering passage.

I suppose it takes a while to find one's own style - a bit like clothes, we follow fashion while we're growing up, but as we mature we gain the self confidence to become individuals and even more, idiosyncratic.

I sometimes wonder if, now, there can be any great new advances or developments in style or technique - a bit like music, where all the chord combinations have been found tried and tested.  I used to want to be 'the next big thing' in Literature (note the capital L) but having not yet managed to produce much more than a long short story, I can see the foolhardiness of my naive ways.  Now, I'll just settle for getting something down on paper, hopefully sooner rather than later.

....it's off to Hay we go....

Along with all the other Guardian readers with literary pretensions/aspirations, last week I made my pilgrimage to the annual festival at Hay on Wye. 

First on my personal bill was Deborah Moggach, novelist and screenplay writer, most recently known for the latest version of Pride & Prejudice. 

Never before have I seen an ego so rampant.  Ms Moggach clearly needs a harsh dose of reality to enable her to grasp the fact that a) she is not wonderful just because she has met 'call me Steven' Spielberg, b) she is lazy - just looking at books of work by Dutch artists and surfing the net does NOT constitute real research in the same way that simply 'imagining oneself' in a call centre is NOT the same as actually taking the trouble to visit one, c) some of us do not/will not/have never found Jane Austen too 'clotted' and d) she is not anywhere near the real thing, just a pale, piss poor imitation. 

Enough words wasted there already.

Prof Terry Eagleton on The Meaning of Life was bound to please.  He was witty, entertaining, open to ideas (!) and generally fantastic.  But then, he's a Marxist philosopher, so I'm bound to approve.

Danny Abse was equally self effacing and also very enjoyable.  He was being interviewed by the lovely Gwyneth Lewis, herself a talented poet, and also read from his autobiographical novel 'Ash on a Young Man's Sleeve' as well as from his collected works.  His poetry has a softly lilting lyrical style, very emotional and very easy to hear, making him able to handle sensitive subjects in a very evocative manner.

Finally David Crystal, linguistics expert, but too much of a showman for my liking.  He seemed set on performing rather than informing and although entertaining, his talk lacked any depth or substance.  A shame.

I suppose a fifty percent success rate isn't bad and tickets are so cheap it's hard not to see even the poorest speaker as value for money, so I guess I'll be off to Hay again next year, but I can't help but wonder if Hay hasn't now got too big for it's patterned welly boots and has lost sight of its literary roots in the process.  Fortunately an antidote appears in the form of the Ledbury Poetry Festival next month.  Pure poetry; no pomp and no puff.

...depression as a creative space. For a long time now I’ve been searching for a research subject and I think this is it. I’ve always resented the fact that I had to leave academic life without gaining a doctorate – largely because of a lack of funding and a total lack of support from my husband. Now, while I still can’t afford the luxury of full time academic study I can worm my way back into the system by preparing and presenting a paper which may, if I’m incredibly lucky, may be picked up by a university who’d like me to expand on it more. Arriving at the subject has taken a while, but I have been helped by a close friend who also has the professional credentials to supervise my activity and the academic contacts to get it noticed.

Who knows, I might make ‘Doctor Nessa’ yet…

The essence of the paper will be to explore the freedom which depression allows in terms of setting the author free from the constraints of expected behaviour, accepted styles, conventional presentation. It’s almost too obvious to be focussing on Plath and Woolf, so I’m also intending to include Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Katherine Mansfield, Charlotte Mew and Stevie Smith.

What I’m hoping is that I will be able to draw upon my personal experience of depression, my work as a creative writer, my background in psychotherapy and my academic grounding to make this a worthwhile, presentable effort.

They didn’t really think about the river when they built the new marina.  They forgot the fact that for years, it had swept through the harbour like a faithful maid who comes, every day, to ‘do’ and make good.  Instead they bustled her aside, pushing her under the car park so that on days when the tide was very high, she could be heard coming up from the manholes under the cars, muttering and cussing at her undeserved fate.

But she has had the last laugh; now, the shiny yachts and fulsome cruisers sit on banks of grey, greasy mud that leaves a brown rim round the bowl every time the tide goes out.  Launching is difficult.  Keels stain a persistent grey, and gruesome green algae has taken hold.  A rust red dredger blots the seascape and fills each day with a dull engine throb as it tries to scrape the bottom clean. 

Over the harbour wall, where the rejected river runs free, seagulls and oyster catchers enjoy the bounty the wash through brings.  Pebbles shine in the sun and children paddles in the cool clear water.

Except on angry days when, full of rich Somerset soil made loose by rain, the old river runs red.

“I’m on the bus.”

She says,

as if to remind, reassure, remember

her existence.

Or perhaps to say:

I’m here.

On this bus,

At this time.

Should something go wrong,

This bus,

at this time,

in this place,

look for me.

 

Out, through the smeary, sweat-stale windows

I look and see

pedestrian humanity passing by.

Conditioned to commute,

but not to commune;

faceless, nameless, huddling home

safe and sound to those who

wait and watch and wait again

 

Streetlights now.

The smoggy glow

casts doubts and shadows

in every corner.

 

Chill evening breeze she pulls

her coat hugging close.

Time to get off.

It’s the end of the line.

 

 

 

 

It has been horrendous in Watchet today. As the bank holiday approaches all the holiday homes and B&Bs are filling up fast, and hateful caravans are pouring down our unsuited roads and grinding traffic to a standstill. The Esplanade is thronging with families and extended families, all of whom seem to have at least one dog, more often two.

Taking out His Nibs has become a nightmare as he feels he must bark at the top of his voice at all dogs, to the point where the excursion becomes a continuous cacophony and he reaches hysteria. His swimming pool has been taken over by crab fishers, as has the harbour - there are no havens here for a dog who'd rather swim than walk.

We know, of course, that soon it will all be over for another year and the town will nestle into itself and prepare for winter. As an area whose income chiefly derives from tourism, we must welcome our visitors as best we can and make hay while the sun shines, so to speak.

Soon all that will be left of them will be the litter, the 'sold out' signs in ice cream shops and a few old fashioned postcards, abandoned in the racks, year after year. Hopefully for the shopkeepers, however, for the hotel managers, and for those who work all hours in the bed and breakfasts, they also leave enough in the coffers to fuel us all for the long cold spell, when the only souls hardy enough to venture through are the fossil hunters and the fishermen, big on interest, but always short on spending money.