Wales now has a national poet - Gwyneth Lewis (see http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/4497491.stm ). In a way, this is only fitting, since the tradition of eisteddfod competitions and Welsh language teaching means that there is much more down-to-earth, anyone-can-do-it attitude that prevails in, say, England, where to say you are a poet is to label yourself immediately as either a teenager, an English student, or a pensioner with time on their hands. Personally, I think the pendulum has swing too far towards the demystification and deskilling of poetry, mainly through the emphasis of poetry as self-expression rather than communication, which means that you can't say a poem is no good because that is an assault on the writer, even if it is no good. Good poetry is supposed to be hard to do!
But aside from that, it goes with the job of public poet to write poems about public events. This rarely results in good work. Gwyneth Lewis' poem on the triumph of the Wales rugby team (scroll down to the bottom of the page to see it) is a case in point. Even though this was an event in which she no doubt shared the euphoria of the best result in a generation, poetically it is er...awkward, possibly because she was wary of appearing "too clever" or "too hard", so she chucked some rhymes in here and there.
Andrew Motion has similar problems as Poet Laureate.
Fundamentally, though, I think that they find it hard to get excited about many of their topics, as indeed any sane person would. Even if you decide you do have to write a poem about an event, you do need the space to decide what to say, which may not be entirely positive and celebratory: see my Millenium poem.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Horrible joke
Three medical students shared a house. Despite all they learned about lung cancer, one remained a heavy smoker, starting every morning with a great fit of coughing, spluttering and gapsing. The others would greet him when he came to breakfast with the warning "One of these days, you're going to cough your guts up!". They reached the part of the course where they started dissection of bodies, and the non-smokers decided to play a trick on the smoker. They got him thoroughly drunk, put him in bed, and then laid out the guts from their cadaver on the floor. The next morning, they heard the usual coughing coming from his room, followed by a deep groan. A few minutes later, he staggered into the kitchen, white as a sheet. "What's up- did you cough your guts up?". "Yes, but that wasn't so bad", he replied shakily, "it was putting them back in".
Self portrait in 30 statements
I've just posted this at the Moontown Cafe poetry forum:
I believe that biography is incidental: knowing what someone has done, where, and when, gives little indication of how they think or feel
I am British (English; I have lived in Wales for 10 years)
I am 43 and married and have three children, aged 12, 8 and 4, two boys, one girl
We have two long-lived goldfish, and a stray cat we feed but don't like because he attacks people at random
I was born in Northern England but grew up in various places in the Midlands and Southwest.
I went to Cambridge University, ostensibly to study Archaeology but spending a lot of time writing etc
I used to write a lot of songs (which still shows up in my poems where I will treat "mine/ time" and "home/alone" as if they rhyme), but gave up when I realised that I couldn’t sing
I still can't
I worked as an archaeologist for 20 years. This involved a lot of technical writing and editing. I spent all my time trying to make the reports clearer and shorter. This has rubbed off on my taste in poetry.
My favourite living poet is Wendy Cope
My favourite dead poet is Philip Larkin, despite his personal faults
I have some time for Eliot and Auden; I have no time for Dylan Thomas
I am now creating a website summarising all the archives in Wales. This also involves making sure text is short and clear
I hate unnatural word order to fit a rhyme
I don't like poems which tell me what colour the flowers are. It's usually padding.
I don't like poems that mystify pointlessly. If I want a puzzle I pick up a crossword.
I believe a poem should be readable in one attempt, even if you then go on thinking about it
I believe writing a poem is a literary act, not unfiltered self-expression. Or at least it should be, if the poet is doing their job.
I like poems that impart hard-won wisdom
I am interested in Greek and Roman mythology and use it in my poems but don't know that much about it
I try to write in very difficult forms and give the appearance of ease
I cut my drafts to pieces to get to a final version
I try to be funny if possible: there are enough serious poems in the world
I have published a handful of poems in very obscure places
I believe most poets find it helpful to be told : "this line doesn't work"
I believe that they find it more helpful to be told "it doesn't work because . . . "
I believe that most helpful of all is "what about this, or that?"
I accept that these beliefs may be wrong
My poetry is on my other blog, Complete and Utter Poetry.
I believe that biography is incidental: knowing what someone has done, where, and when, gives little indication of how they think or feel
I am British (English; I have lived in Wales for 10 years)
I am 43 and married and have three children, aged 12, 8 and 4, two boys, one girl
We have two long-lived goldfish, and a stray cat we feed but don't like because he attacks people at random
I was born in Northern England but grew up in various places in the Midlands and Southwest.
I went to Cambridge University, ostensibly to study Archaeology but spending a lot of time writing etc
I used to write a lot of songs (which still shows up in my poems where I will treat "mine/ time" and "home/alone" as if they rhyme), but gave up when I realised that I couldn’t sing
I still can't
I worked as an archaeologist for 20 years. This involved a lot of technical writing and editing. I spent all my time trying to make the reports clearer and shorter. This has rubbed off on my taste in poetry.
My favourite living poet is Wendy Cope
My favourite dead poet is Philip Larkin, despite his personal faults
I have some time for Eliot and Auden; I have no time for Dylan Thomas
I am now creating a website summarising all the archives in Wales. This also involves making sure text is short and clear
I hate unnatural word order to fit a rhyme
I don't like poems which tell me what colour the flowers are. It's usually padding.
I don't like poems that mystify pointlessly. If I want a puzzle I pick up a crossword.
I believe a poem should be readable in one attempt, even if you then go on thinking about it
I believe writing a poem is a literary act, not unfiltered self-expression. Or at least it should be, if the poet is doing their job.
I like poems that impart hard-won wisdom
I am interested in Greek and Roman mythology and use it in my poems but don't know that much about it
I try to write in very difficult forms and give the appearance of ease
I cut my drafts to pieces to get to a final version
I try to be funny if possible: there are enough serious poems in the world
I have published a handful of poems in very obscure places
I believe most poets find it helpful to be told : "this line doesn't work"
I believe that they find it more helpful to be told "it doesn't work because . . . "
I believe that most helpful of all is "what about this, or that?"
I accept that these beliefs may be wrong
My poetry is on my other blog, Complete and Utter Poetry.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
The ties that bind
When I was at school, I had very little idea of which career to follow, and no great desire to follow any. One thing I knew- I didn't want to work in an office, mainly because I didn't want to have to wear a suit. I ended up in archaeological fieldwork, where that seemed a safe prospect. In the 70s there was still the vestiges of the tradition of ill-dressed eccentric academics and minimally-dressed students. When you know for a certainty that by the end of the day you will be caked with mud, it is hard to care too much about which clothes will be ruined. As digging moved to a year-round activity, the rigours of the climate dictated the wearing of more clothes, but not better clothes. Army surplus clothes were the thing to set off your beard and long hair.
What was hard for outsiders to appreciate was that although an excavation workforce looked like a gang of vagrants, it was a highly-disciplined and highly-trained team carrying out very specialist work. Archaeologists were therefore used to applying a different set of standards to people, almost inverted: the scruffier the better, since this showed how committed you were. And in order to maintain their credibility, the upper parts of the hierarchy continued to dress as if they might have to go down a Roman well at a moment's notice, even if, or perhaps especially if, there was absolutely no likelihood of this happening (because, for example, they were spending a three--month sabbatical doing library research).
In the 1980s, a beneficial side-effect of the dramatic rise in unemployment as monetarism bit was the introduction of employment schemes under the umbrella of local councils, which were seized on by archaeologists as a source of labour and money for work that would not otherwise take place. This led to some head-scratching by the councils, who maintained a strong class distinction in their staff: the diggers worked on site and got muddy (blue collar), but were graduate/professionals (white collar); paid badly (blue) but given a lot of responsibility (white). The council staff (in their ties and suits) and the diggers (in their floppy hats and jumpers) stared at each other in mutual incomprehension and contempt.
The change came in 1990. The introduction of the 'polluter pays' principle to planning led to a shift in funding for archaeological projects to the private sector building companies and developers. Within a matter of months, the razor, once as foreign to archaeologists as wealth, ruled supreme. All across the country, favourite jumpers were consigned to bonfires or dog bedding, as the strange new world of short hair and clean clothes opened out. For the die-hards, it only took a couple of occasions on which their opinions or assistance were dismissed by busy businessmen because they looked like the people who cleaned the site toilets to recommend a change.
And so, despite my original intentions, I ended up working in an office and wearing a suit, along with everyone else. It didn't go too deep, though: ties were only worn when a client meeting was likely.
There was a point in the 90s, when leisureware ruled supreme, when everyone began to talk of the death of the suit-and-tie office uniform. This proved to be just another bit of 90s nonsense. Offices with hierarchies need badges of rank, so short of colour-coded overalls, we're stuck with suits.
What was hard for outsiders to appreciate was that although an excavation workforce looked like a gang of vagrants, it was a highly-disciplined and highly-trained team carrying out very specialist work. Archaeologists were therefore used to applying a different set of standards to people, almost inverted: the scruffier the better, since this showed how committed you were. And in order to maintain their credibility, the upper parts of the hierarchy continued to dress as if they might have to go down a Roman well at a moment's notice, even if, or perhaps especially if, there was absolutely no likelihood of this happening (because, for example, they were spending a three--month sabbatical doing library research).
In the 1980s, a beneficial side-effect of the dramatic rise in unemployment as monetarism bit was the introduction of employment schemes under the umbrella of local councils, which were seized on by archaeologists as a source of labour and money for work that would not otherwise take place. This led to some head-scratching by the councils, who maintained a strong class distinction in their staff: the diggers worked on site and got muddy (blue collar), but were graduate/professionals (white collar); paid badly (blue) but given a lot of responsibility (white). The council staff (in their ties and suits) and the diggers (in their floppy hats and jumpers) stared at each other in mutual incomprehension and contempt.
The change came in 1990. The introduction of the 'polluter pays' principle to planning led to a shift in funding for archaeological projects to the private sector building companies and developers. Within a matter of months, the razor, once as foreign to archaeologists as wealth, ruled supreme. All across the country, favourite jumpers were consigned to bonfires or dog bedding, as the strange new world of short hair and clean clothes opened out. For the die-hards, it only took a couple of occasions on which their opinions or assistance were dismissed by busy businessmen because they looked like the people who cleaned the site toilets to recommend a change.
And so, despite my original intentions, I ended up working in an office and wearing a suit, along with everyone else. It didn't go too deep, though: ties were only worn when a client meeting was likely.
There was a point in the 90s, when leisureware ruled supreme, when everyone began to talk of the death of the suit-and-tie office uniform. This proved to be just another bit of 90s nonsense. Offices with hierarchies need badges of rank, so short of colour-coded overalls, we're stuck with suits.
Life skills
Went to a Voice Skills workshop at the University today. It was quite a strange occasion, since the participants were rather too important to be normally seen lying on the floor blowing raspberries as part of a breathing exercise. The hilarity that ensued was not just, then, from lightheadedness from hyperventilation.
It was odd to be praised for technique: "You're breathing really well" to which I might have replied "I must be a natural - I've been doing it for years!".
It was odd to be praised for technique: "You're breathing really well" to which I might have replied "I must be a natural - I've been doing it for years!".
Friday, April 15, 2005
Manifesto for a new poetry
Over at Monster Sarcasm Rally, sic explains she steered clear of writing poetry because she thought it was sentimental, self-indulgent, concerned with "nice thoughts" and feelings.
Perhaps it usually is, but why don't we re-define it to include the snappy, clever, witty and cruel too.
I've started a new blog to rant along these lines: How to write bad poetry.
Perhaps it usually is, but why don't we re-define it to include the snappy, clever, witty and cruel too.
I've started a new blog to rant along these lines: How to write bad poetry.
Technical update
Blogger's comments are now functioning correctly.
Normal service will resume shortly.
Normal service will resume shortly.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
A forgotten poet
I came across an interesting poet who seems to have dropped belowthe cultural radar since her death in 1914: Adelaide Crapsey. Although she sound's like she's got a made-up name (not that I'm one to talk), she is perfectly real, and included in The Albatross Book of Living Verse, published by Collins in the 1930s (and given as many poems as Wilfred Owen). Her claim for revival is that her use of a new verse-form, the Cinquain (sometimes spelled Quincain). The form is strangely effective in a halting way, a bit like a Samuel Becket speech: it comprises five lines, of 2, 4, 6, 8, and 2 syllables.
These are hers:
Cinquain: Triad
These be
Three silent things:
The falling snow . . . the hour
Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one
Just dead
Cinquain: November night
Listen . . .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisped, break from the trees
And fall.
Cinquain: The warning
Just now,
Out of the strange
Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . .
A white moth flew. Why am I grown
So cold?
She also wrote this:
On seeing weather-beaten trees
Is it as plainly in our living shown,
By slant and twist, which way the wind hath blown?
Cultural values are always relative, but these certainly seemed to jump off the page as I flicked through the anthology.
(Oh, and if you're wondering, this is not a hoax or parody).
Update
Not as forgotten as I thought. There is a strong US tradition of the Cinquain (so spelled) as developed by Crapsey.
Her poetry book Verse is available in full at American Verse Project.
There is a journal called Amaze dedicated to promotion of the Crapsey cinquain.
These are hers:
Cinquain: Triad
These be
Three silent things:
The falling snow . . . the hour
Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one
Just dead
Cinquain: November night
Listen . . .
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisped, break from the trees
And fall.
Cinquain: The warning
Just now,
Out of the strange
Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . .
A white moth flew. Why am I grown
So cold?
She also wrote this:
On seeing weather-beaten trees
Is it as plainly in our living shown,
By slant and twist, which way the wind hath blown?
Cultural values are always relative, but these certainly seemed to jump off the page as I flicked through the anthology.
(Oh, and if you're wondering, this is not a hoax or parody).
Update
Not as forgotten as I thought. There is a strong US tradition of the Cinquain (so spelled) as developed by Crapsey.
Her poetry book Verse is available in full at American Verse Project.
There is a journal called Amaze dedicated to promotion of the Crapsey cinquain.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Saturday, April 09, 2005
The myth of painless cuts
The civil service is an easy target for politicians; it has been said that it is misnamed, since it not civil and does not provide service. But what they are really saying is that is filled with lazy, incompetent or dishonest people. Of course, the same is true of most organisations, and even some parliaments.
It remains true that productivity seems low and absenteeism high. There are some good reasons for this. Traditionally, the civil service has broken down its work into single repetitive tasks, undertaken by individuals given very little freedom of action. In the nature of thingds, many of its operations are either very long-term or completely open-ended. In such circumstances, it is hardly surprising that workers see their work as a never-ending stream of tedium, something that must be got through to get to the tea break, weekend, holiday, or retirement. It may well be the case that a re-energised, re-structured, well-led, motivated service would achieve a lot more, and end up costing a lot less. But such change would take the investment of time and money.
So I was dubious when first Labour and then the Conservatives began to claim that they could reduce staffing and costs by finding efficiency savings, i.e. by reducing resources but keeping the tasking intact. The Labour claims were modest, but the Conservatives' are ambitious and form a critical part of their budgesting, and deserve detailed scrutiny. They are set out in their document Better Public Services, Better Value, available on http://www.conservatives.com/tile.do?dof=policy.listing.page
Page 11 deals with Slimming the payroll (incidentally have you noticed that whenever someone talks about creating a leaner, fitter organisation, it is someone who conspicuous by their oesity and ill-health?).
Their plan is to reduce the public sector payroll by 235,000. 91,000 will in fact still be doing exactly the same jobs, but in hived-off functions which have been moved to the private sector (presumably paid the same, but not appearing as the headline public sector payroll). Another 40,000 will be saved by not recruiting. This freeze will mean that existing staff are re-shuffled, rather than new staff brought in. This is perhaps unfortunate if the long-term goal is to achive the revitalisation of the service I outlined earlier.
What of the other 104,000 reduction? This is the core of the policy. They could have said: "we don't need that many, you're sacked". But they don't. They say there will be no compulsory redundancies. So how can you persuade so many to give up their secure jobs-for-life and enter the volatile ageist private sector? The answer is to offer them money. A lot of money. £5.9 billion of government property will be sold in order to offer the staff a redundancy package averaging £57,000.
Unfortunately, a recognised problem with such schemes is that the wrong people leave: the risk-takes, the imaginative, the energetic. So if the Conservatives think that civil servants now are undynamic, inefficient and demoralised, I wonder what they will be like after they have gone through these changes? I'm not sure those affected would agree that the cuts were painless.
It remains true that productivity seems low and absenteeism high. There are some good reasons for this. Traditionally, the civil service has broken down its work into single repetitive tasks, undertaken by individuals given very little freedom of action. In the nature of thingds, many of its operations are either very long-term or completely open-ended. In such circumstances, it is hardly surprising that workers see their work as a never-ending stream of tedium, something that must be got through to get to the tea break, weekend, holiday, or retirement. It may well be the case that a re-energised, re-structured, well-led, motivated service would achieve a lot more, and end up costing a lot less. But such change would take the investment of time and money.
So I was dubious when first Labour and then the Conservatives began to claim that they could reduce staffing and costs by finding efficiency savings, i.e. by reducing resources but keeping the tasking intact. The Labour claims were modest, but the Conservatives' are ambitious and form a critical part of their budgesting, and deserve detailed scrutiny. They are set out in their document Better Public Services, Better Value, available on http://www.conservatives.com/tile.do?dof=policy.listing.page
Page 11 deals with Slimming the payroll (incidentally have you noticed that whenever someone talks about creating a leaner, fitter organisation, it is someone who conspicuous by their oesity and ill-health?).
Their plan is to reduce the public sector payroll by 235,000. 91,000 will in fact still be doing exactly the same jobs, but in hived-off functions which have been moved to the private sector (presumably paid the same, but not appearing as the headline public sector payroll). Another 40,000 will be saved by not recruiting. This freeze will mean that existing staff are re-shuffled, rather than new staff brought in. This is perhaps unfortunate if the long-term goal is to achive the revitalisation of the service I outlined earlier.
What of the other 104,000 reduction? This is the core of the policy. They could have said: "we don't need that many, you're sacked". But they don't. They say there will be no compulsory redundancies. So how can you persuade so many to give up their secure jobs-for-life and enter the volatile ageist private sector? The answer is to offer them money. A lot of money. £5.9 billion of government property will be sold in order to offer the staff a redundancy package averaging £57,000.
Unfortunately, a recognised problem with such schemes is that the wrong people leave: the risk-takes, the imaginative, the energetic. So if the Conservatives think that civil servants now are undynamic, inefficient and demoralised, I wonder what they will be like after they have gone through these changes? I'm not sure those affected would agree that the cuts were painless.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Unintentional humour
From the Blogger technical support page:
"A problem with the problem page is being fixed and the new recover post feature is offline for a bit while we make some adjustments. "
To be fair, they do realise the humour of the situation. But their motto does seem to be "If it works, break it!".
"A problem with the problem page is being fixed and the new recover post feature is offline for a bit while we make some adjustments. "
To be fair, they do realise the humour of the situation. But their motto does seem to be "If it works, break it!".
Election call
election... politics... policy... manifesto... no, don't go! The trouble with politics is that most of the decisions made by governments aren't really based on certain principles or beliefs, they are pragmatic choices made in the circumstances of the time. So it's not surprising that campaigning becomes a rather arid affair of "he said she said" in which the main aim is to avoid making any major mistakes until the votes are in. Especially as the result is determined by a small number of floating voters in the Midlands; all the other seats are too safe to shift.
So I won't be commenting day-by-day as the Drama Unfolds. But I might say something from time to time if I hear anything interesting (that's a "no" then).
So I won't be commenting day-by-day as the Drama Unfolds. But I might say something from time to time if I hear anything interesting (that's a "no" then).
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Consumerism and the illusion of choice
In the dying days of the John Major government, he became increasingly desperate to come up with populist proposals to cement his 'man of the people' persona. One was the 'cones hotline', so that enraged drivers could phone from their cars (not that they could now) to enquire why a particular bit of motorway was coned off without any visible roadworks. Another was changing the rules on motorway services [for non-UK readers I should explain that these are complexes of petrol stations, restaurants and shops notorious for their high prices and low standards]. There used to be a regulation that meant that they could only occur every 20 miles [or so], because of the traffic hazard of cars leaving and joining. John Major, the people's champion, said "No", and freed the services so that the market would increase competition and improve standards, and he would be known as Saint John by generations of drivers yet unborn.
And so motorway services have indeed flourished, as companies rushed in to share in the monopolistic profits, and built new sites. Unfortunately (and this couldn't possibly have been foreseen), these companies have been bought up into large cartels, so that although there are many more sites, your choice is between two sites owned by the same company, delivering the same standard of service.
This isn't a unique instance, of course. There was a real buzz about the first Starbucks to open. We all trooped along to find out what real coffee tasted like, and to explore the exotically-named variations; and we didn't mind queuing to get our personally-crafted beverage of choice. But once someone had noticed that it was possible to extort large sums of money for poorly-paid staff to churn out the stuff, the next stage was inevitable. The high street is now lined with Coffee this and Cafe that and Kofi the other. And they all serve very hot, very large, very sweet, very strong coffee that you only want 1/3 of, that costs three times a normal drink. Cheers!
And so motorway services have indeed flourished, as companies rushed in to share in the monopolistic profits, and built new sites. Unfortunately (and this couldn't possibly have been foreseen), these companies have been bought up into large cartels, so that although there are many more sites, your choice is between two sites owned by the same company, delivering the same standard of service.
This isn't a unique instance, of course. There was a real buzz about the first Starbucks to open. We all trooped along to find out what real coffee tasted like, and to explore the exotically-named variations; and we didn't mind queuing to get our personally-crafted beverage of choice. But once someone had noticed that it was possible to extort large sums of money for poorly-paid staff to churn out the stuff, the next stage was inevitable. The high street is now lined with Coffee this and Cafe that and Kofi the other. And they all serve very hot, very large, very sweet, very strong coffee that you only want 1/3 of, that costs three times a normal drink. Cheers!
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Martin Amis of Sunnybrook Farm
Although he likes to sound world-weary and deeply cynical, Amis is fundamentally optimistic in what seems a very old-fashioned way. Why? Because he believes that vacuum cleaners can be repaired. And that people can be found to repair them (albeit shoddily). Wake up and smell the coffee! Oh, the coffee machine's been chucked out because it doesn't work anymore.
Can't take this rejection
You get born. You get rejected. You die. Which hurts most? Well, the middle one is the only one you remember, and mull over, and relive, and dream about. No wonder writers and would-be writers obsess about it. But the condition is more general than that. Everyone is rejected in love and work almost all the time: it only takes a few exceptions to make all the difference. But if it's so common, why are we so bad at dealing with it? Some people aren't bothered by it. They say that successful people aren't successful all the time- they just don't dwell on their failures: they learn the lessons and move on.
Hard to do, though, especially with something as personal as writing. While it is possible to shrug off criticism of one's clothes or hairstyle or car as just some fool's view, the same cannot be done about criticism of one's writing. After all, the writing self is the core self, so how can you take someone's placing a low value on it lightly? Especially if you yourself are convinced that it is perfect, or nearly so, or getting there. So although I can shrug off many other rejections, it's the writing rejections that hurt.
There's a website dedicated to Rejection, including postings of people's worst rejection letters. It's not as much fun as its sounds, because rejection letters only really sound terrible to the recipient. Anyone else will pick it up and read out "It says they liked some of it" as if this were any compensation at all for not saying "We'll print this and anything else you ever write and pay you a thousand pounds per word".
There is an interesting debate to be had about styles of rejection. Is it worse to hear nothing for weeks or months, or to hear "no" straight away? Is it worse to get a reply which shows that they never even read your submission, or one which takes the trouble to find fault with every line? Is it worse to get a photocopied rejection slip or a chatty personal note which says the same thing in a different way?
The BBC, which has to cope with thousands of unsolicited submissions (including mine), has addressed this head-on. Their Writer's Room FAQ is quite good, covering such concerns as "Will my idea get stolen?" and "Will they actually read my manuscript?" (to which the refreshingly-honest answer is that they'll read the first 10 pages of anything and read on to the end if they think it's worth it). And their rejection letters are good, too (including mine): they are clear in saying they don't want it, but also make a comment which demonstrates familiarity with its contents.
And there's also something final about it. If the BBC don't want it, no-one will. Get over it. Put it on the shelf (or on your blog), rip off the best bits for future re-use, and move on. Poetry magazines are different. There's always one more to try, one whose editor you know, or whose poetry you think is similar to yours, or at least shares a sensibility. To be fair, many editors are kind. They don't keep you hanging around daydreaming of acceptance - no, they make sure you are disillusioned by return of post. It is a sort of consolation to realise that even biographies of good, famous writers contain lengthy accounts of frustration and rejection; it is sobering to think that actors have it even worse: no matter how many Oscars they've won, they're still on the audition treadmill.
Not all bloggers are would-be writers. But many are; the best are. (Established writers don't bother - they're too busy selling their work, or doing their work). And one of the beauties of blogging is the lack of mediation. I can put anything I want here, without having anyone agreeing that it's good. I don't even have to believe it's good. All I need to believe is that someone lese might appreciate it.. And one of the other beauties of blogging is getting reader's views. The web counter goes up. People come; some stay. Some return. This is validation: much more so than the wearying task of trying to find someone in the world who has: a. heard of the magazine your poem is in; and b. read the relevant issue; and c. read your poem; and d. remembers it. So hi out there, and thanks for reading. And commenting, if you want to.
Hard to do, though, especially with something as personal as writing. While it is possible to shrug off criticism of one's clothes or hairstyle or car as just some fool's view, the same cannot be done about criticism of one's writing. After all, the writing self is the core self, so how can you take someone's placing a low value on it lightly? Especially if you yourself are convinced that it is perfect, or nearly so, or getting there. So although I can shrug off many other rejections, it's the writing rejections that hurt.
There's a website dedicated to Rejection, including postings of people's worst rejection letters. It's not as much fun as its sounds, because rejection letters only really sound terrible to the recipient. Anyone else will pick it up and read out "It says they liked some of it" as if this were any compensation at all for not saying "We'll print this and anything else you ever write and pay you a thousand pounds per word".
There is an interesting debate to be had about styles of rejection. Is it worse to hear nothing for weeks or months, or to hear "no" straight away? Is it worse to get a reply which shows that they never even read your submission, or one which takes the trouble to find fault with every line? Is it worse to get a photocopied rejection slip or a chatty personal note which says the same thing in a different way?
The BBC, which has to cope with thousands of unsolicited submissions (including mine), has addressed this head-on. Their Writer's Room FAQ is quite good, covering such concerns as "Will my idea get stolen?" and "Will they actually read my manuscript?" (to which the refreshingly-honest answer is that they'll read the first 10 pages of anything and read on to the end if they think it's worth it). And their rejection letters are good, too (including mine): they are clear in saying they don't want it, but also make a comment which demonstrates familiarity with its contents.
And there's also something final about it. If the BBC don't want it, no-one will. Get over it. Put it on the shelf (or on your blog), rip off the best bits for future re-use, and move on. Poetry magazines are different. There's always one more to try, one whose editor you know, or whose poetry you think is similar to yours, or at least shares a sensibility. To be fair, many editors are kind. They don't keep you hanging around daydreaming of acceptance - no, they make sure you are disillusioned by return of post. It is a sort of consolation to realise that even biographies of good, famous writers contain lengthy accounts of frustration and rejection; it is sobering to think that actors have it even worse: no matter how many Oscars they've won, they're still on the audition treadmill.
Not all bloggers are would-be writers. But many are; the best are. (Established writers don't bother - they're too busy selling their work, or doing their work). And one of the beauties of blogging is the lack of mediation. I can put anything I want here, without having anyone agreeing that it's good. I don't even have to believe it's good. All I need to believe is that someone lese might appreciate it.. And one of the other beauties of blogging is getting reader's views. The web counter goes up. People come; some stay. Some return. This is validation: much more so than the wearying task of trying to find someone in the world who has: a. heard of the magazine your poem is in; and b. read the relevant issue; and c. read your poem; and d. remembers it. So hi out there, and thanks for reading. And commenting, if you want to.
Writerly concerns
Kingsley Amis was very critical of Tony Powell's habit of including swathes of his life, thinly disguised, into his novel sequence A Dance to the Music of Time, saying "Doesn't he know that novelists are supposed to make stuff up". It must have been strange to have been a friend of Powell, and to know that what you said one year would be there in print the next, along with his commentary on what he thought and what he thought you thought; the same would apply to Galsworthy/Forsyte, Henry Williamson/Chronicles of Ancient Sunlight. It's odd that KA should have been quite so critical, since he is quite autobiographical himself. This is partly style: KA makes things sound like they are drawn from experience, inviting you to believe that they are non-fiction
Even if someone is willing to invent things, they will be interested in things that are close to them. This is partly why there are so many more accounts of the problems that a householder has with cleaning staff that accounts of cleaners' problems with householders. And hence, a lot of books about writers. It may not be pure laziness, though. Writers know about words, and care about words (or at least they ought to). They will therefore wish to have their characters say things or think things using a rich vocabulary; they will also want them to say things about other books and poems. And here comes the issue with credibility.
I started reading a detective novel recently, with a title taken from T S Eliot. Oh, I thought, this writer reads! The detective was soon revealed as a matter-of-fact gruff Northern lad who had left school at 16 but who nevertheless spent his evenings reading Eliot and listening to classical music. Hmm, I thought- no reason why not, but... Then we met the next major character, who had a similar background; in her case, she had retired, and now spent her time reading French poetry and listening to opera. At this point, it lost me, since their cultural activities seemed to reflect the preferences of the writer rather than the characters. Because the reason they have been assigned these attributes is to allow the writer to comment and quote as he wishes.
The problem is that these days the canon has exploded. Rumpole of the Bailey may have existed as someone who stomped around court reciting the great 19th century poems, but what would his modern version recite? Auden? Eliot? Larkin? Lennon/McCartney? The canon used to have (or be given) a moral weight: you ought to know these, even if you don't. Nowadays people pick up what they want, and switch from Jane Austen to Discworld at will. This is good. But it's bad news for writers, because they can no longer assume that an echo of a Shakespeare sonnet, or a pun on a Dickens book title, will be understood by their readers.
Even if someone is willing to invent things, they will be interested in things that are close to them. This is partly why there are so many more accounts of the problems that a householder has with cleaning staff that accounts of cleaners' problems with householders. And hence, a lot of books about writers. It may not be pure laziness, though. Writers know about words, and care about words (or at least they ought to). They will therefore wish to have their characters say things or think things using a rich vocabulary; they will also want them to say things about other books and poems. And here comes the issue with credibility.
I started reading a detective novel recently, with a title taken from T S Eliot. Oh, I thought, this writer reads! The detective was soon revealed as a matter-of-fact gruff Northern lad who had left school at 16 but who nevertheless spent his evenings reading Eliot and listening to classical music. Hmm, I thought- no reason why not, but... Then we met the next major character, who had a similar background; in her case, she had retired, and now spent her time reading French poetry and listening to opera. At this point, it lost me, since their cultural activities seemed to reflect the preferences of the writer rather than the characters. Because the reason they have been assigned these attributes is to allow the writer to comment and quote as he wishes.
The problem is that these days the canon has exploded. Rumpole of the Bailey may have existed as someone who stomped around court reciting the great 19th century poems, but what would his modern version recite? Auden? Eliot? Larkin? Lennon/McCartney? The canon used to have (or be given) a moral weight: you ought to know these, even if you don't. Nowadays people pick up what they want, and switch from Jane Austen to Discworld at will. This is good. But it's bad news for writers, because they can no longer assume that an echo of a Shakespeare sonnet, or a pun on a Dickens book title, will be understood by their readers.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Zen in a traffic jam
The cars do not move
The vans do not move
The trucks do not move
What moves? The mind moves
The vans do not move
The trucks do not move
What moves? The mind moves
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