[part of a series about the mechanics of writing fiction]
Will Self recently railed aghainst the classification of the roman a clef as fiction: he said that it should be treated as disguised memoir. I don't really see the point of writing about real people and events and lightly amending names. The drearily literal 'novel' in which everything is researched is a blight of modern times, of course. Don't the writers see that their job is to make stuff up?
Readers of course do like to try to search a text for patches where the writer is simply recounting their own experience unaltered (hence the problem with writing about sex); taken to an extreme this means that it becomes impossible for a writer to describe extreme opinions or actions without being suspected.
My view is that the real world is too dreary to merit inclusion in fiction. As Martin Amis said of his father's books, people spend too much time drinking tea. As a result, there isn't a superfluous adjective applied in my stories: the one thing the reader can be certain of is that a closely-described physical setting or person is completely fictional; the telling details are there to convince.
Having said that, there is a residual validity to the point that questions that interest writers imply something about their thoughts. I may or may not have a negative view of the role of the modern landed gentry in society (on balance yes, but mildly, would be my answer), but I'm intrigued enough by the issue to deal with at at some length in Change and Decay. But having such an interest is not the same thing as having a manifesto or a coherent body of thought around a topic.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Exchange mechanism
[A science fiction story]
I
My office pod was in darkness, lit only by the vidscreen on the wall. I was arguing dejectedly with my boyfriend.
"I'm sorry, Cal: I won't be able to meet up tonight."
He frowned. "Oh come on, Lori, you can't work all the time, and I won't be planetside again for a week."
I explained that I had a research paper to finish, to be sent to Earth in the next transmission window. Eventually he gave in, sulkily blanking the screen.
I had got used to the prevarications of a a series of boyfriends who would drag out our vidchats interminably on the offchance of catching a glimpse of my roommate Kristin walking around in the background. Although I'd tell them at the earliest opportunity that they were wasting their time (Kristin was 100% lezz), that didn't stop them looking. And although I'm not lezz at all, I can see that she ticks all the right boxes for them. Unlike me. So it made me mad, having to compete for attention with someone who wasn't even interested.
I closed down the vidscreen and brought up my text on the viewplate. I was stuck. "The economics of choice" was my topic. I was trying to develop a macroeconomic model of rational consumer choice which allowed for the fact that individuals in the population made decisions on exchange value and price based on partial information about the overall market. If I could resolve it, it would be a major advance in the field, but the mathematics was proving intractable.
Kristin walked in a few minutes later; too late for Cal! I wondered sometimes if she did it on purpose, to cause trouble in my relationships, but why would she do that?
"How's it going?" she asked, "Still stuck?"
"Yeah, I'm afraid so."
"You know who could help? Professor Sandra Bloch - she's a genius. I've seen her at parties; she's even hit on me a few times. No chance; she's too old and ugly for me."
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Tolerance wasn't Kristin's strongpoint.
"But whatever she looks like, her mind's a whiz- the most-published author in the whole uni, maybe the whole planet. She's co-written papers on everything from architecture to zoology; her main subject's psychology and neurology, though."
II
A little later, I had successfully navigated the virtual directory to locate Bloch's contact details. When she appeared on the vidscreen she seemed unsurprised but unenthusiastic at being called up by a mere research student; she looked me up and down before lapsing into disinterest. Only the mention of Kristin's name stayed her hand as she reached for the off button.
"How can I help?" she demanded.
I breathlessly explained the basics of my research and the difficulty I had encountered. She considered briefly, then nodded.
"You've probably not heard of my work with thought transfer? I have developed a sort of hypnosis which opens the subject's mind, and allows me to telepathically explore it. Often I can see solutions that the subject already has stored, deep in their subconcious, to which they have no access. I can raise them into the rational realm in a form ready to be communicated to the world. You see, great ideas are, in general, simple: most complexity is sheer noise. So you see, I can try this with you now, if you wish- engender the trance state and resolve the problem."
I had no wish to be hurried into volunteering, and stalled. "Are there any side effects?"
She waved her hand. "None at all, nothing. A temporary period of amnesia following the trance."
I nodded my consent, and followed her instructions, sitting in front of the vidscreen; my breathing slowed as I fell into a trance and then complete unconciousness.
III
I awoke with lifted spirits; I lay in bed, opening my eyes to see the pod ceiling. A rush of nested formulae ran through my mind, their interlinking creating the solution I had sought. The text of the paper arranged itself neatly in my head. Of course, I'd credit Sandra as joint author. It seemed the least I could do.
I licked my lips; they seemed puffy and slightly bruised. I felt a weight on my shoulder shift. I looked across to see Kristin's body next to mine, skin to skin. She yawned contentedly, then stretched to bring her face close to my ear.
"Wow," she whispered.
I lay completely still, working things out.
Sandra must have ...
Kristin must have ...
I must have ...
So everyone had got what they wanted.
I
My office pod was in darkness, lit only by the vidscreen on the wall. I was arguing dejectedly with my boyfriend.
"I'm sorry, Cal: I won't be able to meet up tonight."
He frowned. "Oh come on, Lori, you can't work all the time, and I won't be planetside again for a week."
I explained that I had a research paper to finish, to be sent to Earth in the next transmission window. Eventually he gave in, sulkily blanking the screen.
I had got used to the prevarications of a a series of boyfriends who would drag out our vidchats interminably on the offchance of catching a glimpse of my roommate Kristin walking around in the background. Although I'd tell them at the earliest opportunity that they were wasting their time (Kristin was 100% lezz), that didn't stop them looking. And although I'm not lezz at all, I can see that she ticks all the right boxes for them. Unlike me. So it made me mad, having to compete for attention with someone who wasn't even interested.
I closed down the vidscreen and brought up my text on the viewplate. I was stuck. "The economics of choice" was my topic. I was trying to develop a macroeconomic model of rational consumer choice which allowed for the fact that individuals in the population made decisions on exchange value and price based on partial information about the overall market. If I could resolve it, it would be a major advance in the field, but the mathematics was proving intractable.
Kristin walked in a few minutes later; too late for Cal! I wondered sometimes if she did it on purpose, to cause trouble in my relationships, but why would she do that?
"How's it going?" she asked, "Still stuck?"
"Yeah, I'm afraid so."
"You know who could help? Professor Sandra Bloch - she's a genius. I've seen her at parties; she's even hit on me a few times. No chance; she's too old and ugly for me."
She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Tolerance wasn't Kristin's strongpoint.
"But whatever she looks like, her mind's a whiz- the most-published author in the whole uni, maybe the whole planet. She's co-written papers on everything from architecture to zoology; her main subject's psychology and neurology, though."
II
A little later, I had successfully navigated the virtual directory to locate Bloch's contact details. When she appeared on the vidscreen she seemed unsurprised but unenthusiastic at being called up by a mere research student; she looked me up and down before lapsing into disinterest. Only the mention of Kristin's name stayed her hand as she reached for the off button.
"How can I help?" she demanded.
I breathlessly explained the basics of my research and the difficulty I had encountered. She considered briefly, then nodded.
"You've probably not heard of my work with thought transfer? I have developed a sort of hypnosis which opens the subject's mind, and allows me to telepathically explore it. Often I can see solutions that the subject already has stored, deep in their subconcious, to which they have no access. I can raise them into the rational realm in a form ready to be communicated to the world. You see, great ideas are, in general, simple: most complexity is sheer noise. So you see, I can try this with you now, if you wish- engender the trance state and resolve the problem."
I had no wish to be hurried into volunteering, and stalled. "Are there any side effects?"
She waved her hand. "None at all, nothing. A temporary period of amnesia following the trance."
I nodded my consent, and followed her instructions, sitting in front of the vidscreen; my breathing slowed as I fell into a trance and then complete unconciousness.
III
I awoke with lifted spirits; I lay in bed, opening my eyes to see the pod ceiling. A rush of nested formulae ran through my mind, their interlinking creating the solution I had sought. The text of the paper arranged itself neatly in my head. Of course, I'd credit Sandra as joint author. It seemed the least I could do.
I licked my lips; they seemed puffy and slightly bruised. I felt a weight on my shoulder shift. I looked across to see Kristin's body next to mine, skin to skin. She yawned contentedly, then stretched to bring her face close to my ear.
"Wow," she whispered.
I lay completely still, working things out.
Sandra must have ...
Kristin must have ...
I must have ...
So everyone had got what they wanted.
Allowed lists (comedy script)
I was talking to my wife* yesterday about allowed lists. You know- the lists of celebrities you're allowed to sleep with, should the chance occur, without any question. For a lot men, it's easy: their Allowed List is a Girls Aloud list. I'm a bit more sophisticated than that. I haven't really given it much thought, but my list would be: Kate Bush, then maybe Katherine Heigl, in fact any of the women off Grey's Anatomy, or better, all of the women off Grey's Anatomy ... sorry, just drifted off there. Anyway, the point is, it doesn't matter who's on my list, because it's not going to happen. It's not worth even thinking about. No, it isn't.
But all people, it seems, have these lists. And celebrities are people too, in a way. You can imagine Guy Ritchie asking Madonna one day who's on her list, and she says "Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Chris Martin". Next awards ceremony she goes to, she has the night of her life.
* My pretend wife, that is. My real wife has ticked the 'no publicity' box.
But all people, it seems, have these lists. And celebrities are people too, in a way. You can imagine Guy Ritchie asking Madonna one day who's on her list, and she says "Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Chris Martin". Next awards ceremony she goes to, she has the night of her life.
* My pretend wife, that is. My real wife has ticked the 'no publicity' box.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Good writing and bad sex
It has become a habit of lazy book reviewers to throw in a statement that some of the writing in the work under discussion would be a candidate for the Literary Review's Bad Sex In Literature award. What they often mean is that it is badly written from start to finish, including the sex bit, which isn't the same thing. But I'm not sure whether the criticism is entirely justified: there are good reasons why writing about is hard [hur hur hur] - difficult; unintentional humour is one of them.
More generally, though, there is the question of credibility. Novelists can tell me any sort of nonsense about the workings of the Moscow underground system or the administrative records of a police investigation and I will believe them as long as it sound as if they know hwat they are talking about. I've been told that Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a completely unreliable guide to motorcycle maintenance. But if someone is writing about an area of which I have experience, I can check whether they are not just plausible but authentic. So a different level of scrutiny is applied.
There is a problem here for the writer writing for the naive reader: it will be assumed that any experience described realistically must be real. Kingsley Amis admits to abandoning a novel with a first-person gay narrator because he didn't want his readers to speculate about the extent to which it was true. This seems a bit bizarre: one assumes that Thomas Harris is not suspected of being, or even wanting to be, a cannibal.
Then there is the question of language. Preferred terminology for body parts depends on the writer's (and reader's) age, gender, nationality, class, sexual orientation etc; use of what seems natural for the writer may have an adverse impact on some of his or her readers. For example, Martin Amis' reputation a a misogynist writer incapable of creating a convincing female character may be partly derived for his preference for terminology which is typically male (it is also partly derived from his inability to create convincing female characters: it is notable that the two most fully realised, Nicola Six in London Fields and Mike Hoolihan in Night Train, are cop-outs because Amis explicitly says that they are 'male' psychologically).
And there is the wider question of the extent to which one wishes to be seen to be writing pornography. Somewhat bizarrely, 40 years after the Chatterley trial, using Lawrence's terms in literature would be seen as rude if no longer shocking. To retreat into medical terminology runs the risk of making the act of love sound as exciting as a computer program. Since sex is 90% imagination and 10% friction [source unknown], most of the time writing is about the quality of the activity as it is experienced, and is as much about emotion and attitude as it is about mechanics. This is I think why so much writing about sex is flagged as being bad, in the sense of pretentious or over-ambitious. Even clever writers like Nick Hornby these days steer clear of anything hinting at high style: simple words in simple order are the norm. Purple prose is something of an endangered species in modern literature (with good reason, of course).
There is a danger, though, that being overcritical of the attempts to address the subject will lead to the easily-swayed from avoiding it altogether, leaving us with a mechanical prudishness at the core of fiction. Sex is important as a way of revealing character and a way of communicating mood, and on the whole writers should be encouraged to attempt its description, even if some are bound to fail.
More generally, though, there is the question of credibility. Novelists can tell me any sort of nonsense about the workings of the Moscow underground system or the administrative records of a police investigation and I will believe them as long as it sound as if they know hwat they are talking about. I've been told that Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance is a completely unreliable guide to motorcycle maintenance. But if someone is writing about an area of which I have experience, I can check whether they are not just plausible but authentic. So a different level of scrutiny is applied.
There is a problem here for the writer writing for the naive reader: it will be assumed that any experience described realistically must be real. Kingsley Amis admits to abandoning a novel with a first-person gay narrator because he didn't want his readers to speculate about the extent to which it was true. This seems a bit bizarre: one assumes that Thomas Harris is not suspected of being, or even wanting to be, a cannibal.
Then there is the question of language. Preferred terminology for body parts depends on the writer's (and reader's) age, gender, nationality, class, sexual orientation etc; use of what seems natural for the writer may have an adverse impact on some of his or her readers. For example, Martin Amis' reputation a a misogynist writer incapable of creating a convincing female character may be partly derived for his preference for terminology which is typically male (it is also partly derived from his inability to create convincing female characters: it is notable that the two most fully realised, Nicola Six in London Fields and Mike Hoolihan in Night Train, are cop-outs because Amis explicitly says that they are 'male' psychologically).
And there is the wider question of the extent to which one wishes to be seen to be writing pornography. Somewhat bizarrely, 40 years after the Chatterley trial, using Lawrence's terms in literature would be seen as rude if no longer shocking. To retreat into medical terminology runs the risk of making the act of love sound as exciting as a computer program. Since sex is 90% imagination and 10% friction [source unknown], most of the time writing is about the quality of the activity as it is experienced, and is as much about emotion and attitude as it is about mechanics. This is I think why so much writing about sex is flagged as being bad, in the sense of pretentious or over-ambitious. Even clever writers like Nick Hornby these days steer clear of anything hinting at high style: simple words in simple order are the norm. Purple prose is something of an endangered species in modern literature (with good reason, of course).
There is a danger, though, that being overcritical of the attempts to address the subject will lead to the easily-swayed from avoiding it altogether, leaving us with a mechanical prudishness at the core of fiction. Sex is important as a way of revealing character and a way of communicating mood, and on the whole writers should be encouraged to attempt its description, even if some are bound to fail.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
End of the road for Sandi Thom
"Did you know that Sandi Thom is working at Abbey Road with Will Young, Michelle McManus and David Sneddon?"
"Are they recording?"
"No, they're the night shift at St John's Wood MacDonalds."
I have been following the story of Sandi Thom with, perhaps, more interest than it deserves, especially since I have no strong views on her music. It happened to be one of those news stories, like the WMD dodgy dossier, where it was obvious at the time that the media had been fed a line. At the time, those unfamiliar with the Web might believe that electronic word of mouth might increase nightly webcast audiences from zero to 40,000 in three weeks, but nobody else did. In the rush of skepticism that followed, many were left believing that the whole webcast thing was a stunt and that she had been signed to RCA/Sony beforehand, which isn't true (or at least is specifically denied by those who would be in a position to know).
It seems that the sands of time are running out on her career. The follow-up album charted for a single week, the single for two, despite media and personal appearances, interviews and advertising on YouTube. Any day now, RCA will surely pull the plug. It remains baffling that of the 300,000 people who were happy to buy the first album, only 1% wanted to buy the second (whatever its merits): she just seems to be one of those people who can sell large numbers of records without inspiring loyalty or affection from the purchasers. It looks as if "Punk rocker" will suffer the same fate as the Diana version of "Candle in the wind" as a record people are reluctant to admit having bought.
"Are they recording?"
"No, they're the night shift at St John's Wood MacDonalds."
I have been following the story of Sandi Thom with, perhaps, more interest than it deserves, especially since I have no strong views on her music. It happened to be one of those news stories, like the WMD dodgy dossier, where it was obvious at the time that the media had been fed a line. At the time, those unfamiliar with the Web might believe that electronic word of mouth might increase nightly webcast audiences from zero to 40,000 in three weeks, but nobody else did. In the rush of skepticism that followed, many were left believing that the whole webcast thing was a stunt and that she had been signed to RCA/Sony beforehand, which isn't true (or at least is specifically denied by those who would be in a position to know).
It seems that the sands of time are running out on her career. The follow-up album charted for a single week, the single for two, despite media and personal appearances, interviews and advertising on YouTube. Any day now, RCA will surely pull the plug. It remains baffling that of the 300,000 people who were happy to buy the first album, only 1% wanted to buy the second (whatever its merits): she just seems to be one of those people who can sell large numbers of records without inspiring loyalty or affection from the purchasers. It looks as if "Punk rocker" will suffer the same fate as the Diana version of "Candle in the wind" as a record people are reluctant to admit having bought.
Tory boy
David Cameron's policy on addressing the rise in the number of obese people is to tell them to help themselves. No David, that's not going to work: they're doing that already.
The Times Online have, alas, retitled their version of the story after spotting the potential for misunderstanding.
The Times Online have, alas, retitled their version of the story after spotting the potential for misunderstanding.
The commodification of exercise
see more pwn and owned pictures
Of course, it is possible that the gym is being a responsible business and catering for its users who want to work out but cannot cope easily with climbing stairs (people needing physio, for example). But it doesn't look as if the people on the way in are in that category. One of the triumphs of modern culture is the packaging of exercise as a consumer activity that involves clothes, a venue, and money: you are offered the chance to effectively buy, or, perhaps, more accurately, rent, fitness at a rate of so much per hour. It is a triumph, because it works. I can remember thiking how handy it was that the gym is so close to work. It took a while to spot the flaw in the thinking. In how many lifts in how many office blocks around the world is someone saying at this moment as they step in "I won't get a chance to work out today".
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Three stories about shoes
As part of a leadership course I took part in a narrative leadership / corporate storytelling session where we were asked to tell a series of three stories about our shoes. (It made sense at the time).
The first story was factual, and mine was mundane, restricted to the explanation that I was wearing trainers rather than shoes because I was expecting to walk a fair distance, and then that the trainers were a cheap and generic brand because unlike my children I didn't care which make they are.
The second story was supposed to include a fictional element; mine turned out to be wholly fictional: although my trainers looked like a pair, I said, they were in fact the remaining halves of two pairs. My speciality in sports was doing marathons the hard way, that is, by hopping, and so I was always wearing out one shoe faster than the other. In order to ensure that my muscle development was kept symmetrical, I always alternated which leg I used for each marathon, so the next one would be my left leg.
The third story was supposed to be fantastic; mine was just a bit strange. Once upon a time I was getting ready for a job interview, when I realised that my shoes were too tatty, and I rushed into the shoe shop on the way to the office. I looked at the black shoes and the brown shoes but none of them looked smart enough to impress. I had resigned myself to wearing my old shoes when I noticed the rack of trainers, and decided I might as well buy some. When I got to the interview, the panel was composed of three men wearing suits and ties. I was surprised to see that they were all wearing trainers. I got the job.
I think what's interesting about this exercise (talking for a minute with no preparation) is that is demonstrates how commonplace and instinctive storymaking is: you often hear self-described creative types going on about the search for inspiration and the dullness of normal life, but the truth is that ideas are plentiful: it is time to document them that is short.
The first story was factual, and mine was mundane, restricted to the explanation that I was wearing trainers rather than shoes because I was expecting to walk a fair distance, and then that the trainers were a cheap and generic brand because unlike my children I didn't care which make they are.
The second story was supposed to include a fictional element; mine turned out to be wholly fictional: although my trainers looked like a pair, I said, they were in fact the remaining halves of two pairs. My speciality in sports was doing marathons the hard way, that is, by hopping, and so I was always wearing out one shoe faster than the other. In order to ensure that my muscle development was kept symmetrical, I always alternated which leg I used for each marathon, so the next one would be my left leg.
The third story was supposed to be fantastic; mine was just a bit strange. Once upon a time I was getting ready for a job interview, when I realised that my shoes were too tatty, and I rushed into the shoe shop on the way to the office. I looked at the black shoes and the brown shoes but none of them looked smart enough to impress. I had resigned myself to wearing my old shoes when I noticed the rack of trainers, and decided I might as well buy some. When I got to the interview, the panel was composed of three men wearing suits and ties. I was surprised to see that they were all wearing trainers. I got the job.
I think what's interesting about this exercise (talking for a minute with no preparation) is that is demonstrates how commonplace and instinctive storymaking is: you often hear self-described creative types going on about the search for inspiration and the dullness of normal life, but the truth is that ideas are plentiful: it is time to document them that is short.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
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