Paraxis Library Wall

Check out this beautiful, library-themed edition of Paraxis.

There's artwork, poetry, photography; seven short stories, four essays and a biting editorial explaining why libraries matter.

And they lived unhappily ever after...

I read Caribou Island by David Vann this week. It was a timely read for me, and it came recommended by my friend, short story writer and critic, Ailsa Cox. Vann's prose is so engaging and penetrable that it's tempting to imagine that it is effortless, but there is clearly an art to his artlessness.
I'm trying to plot my novel at the moment and I'm wondering about endings. Short fictions typically resist happy, neat endings (a huge generalization, but I stand by it). Novels seem to me to be a little different; even novels that resist a happy ending require a degree of neatness, otherwise readers may resent their investment in the story.
Caribou Island does not end happily. I don't think I'm giving anything away when I write this - the opening paragraphs should prepare readers for unhappiness. Even so, the shock of the ending was bigger than I had anticipated. But then, as I reflected on it, it occurred to me that of course the novel had to end like that. Now I need to discover the of course of my novel, and some engaging, penetrable and deceptively effortless prose wouldn't go amiss either. 

Notebooks

Get a notebook - That's the first thing I was told to do when I started to study creative writing. I got a nice one - purple, with coloured pages - so nice in fact that I didn't want to spoil it with my half-baked scrawl. Eventually, I got over myself and scribbled all over the thing.

I've been thinking about notebooks while I've been organising ideas for the fiction module I will be teaching this semester. Books run two rows deep on most of the bookcases in my house. A couple of days ago I rediscovered my first notebook behind a stack of short story collections. I spent an enjoyable hour reading through pages and pages of story fragments and ideas. I was surprised to realise just how many of my stories began (and continue to begin) with tiny ideas/impressions/snatches of dialogue from that notebook.

These pages of disorganised scrawl eventually morphed into this story.

Writing is a bit like going to the gym - frequent exercise can improve performance. Virginia Woolf kept a diary and found that spontaneous and casual writing often led her to discover 'diamonds of the dustheap':

'It has a slapdash and vigour and sometimes hits an unexpected bull's eye. But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye is only good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles. Going at such a pace as I do I must make the most direct and instant shots at my object, and thus have to lay hands on words, choose them and shoot them with no more pause than is needed to put my pen in the ink. I believe that during the past year I can trace some increase of ease in my professional writing which I attribute to my casual half hours after tea.' (Woolf, 1953, p.13)

Earlier this month, I went to see my brother in Exeter. While I was visiting, I bought a new notebook because the one I took to America is falling to pieces. I made a couple of contrasting entries in my new notebook while I was in Exeter. One is a very inadequate record of an image of my brother, sitting in an armchair with his back to me, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, crying softly to himself. Another is something my sister said as we drove from my brother's house to hers: 'There's nowhere sadder than a garden centre on Christmas Eve, full of trees that will never fulfill their Christmas destiny.' And later that evening as we unwound, she also gave me a list of rules for the humane consumption of jelly babies. I don't know whether any of these images/words will make it into my fiction, but it's reassuring to have them waiting, like an investment, ready to be withdrawn if I need them.

Good Stuff

I keep promising myself that I will draw a line under short stories; I will stop reading them and no longer allow myself to write them so that I can devote myself to the big thing that begins with an 'n'. But I can't seem to make good on the promise.

While I was on holiday I read four short story collections and a memoir. I've already blogged about Rob Shearman's Everyone's Just So So Special. I also read Alison MacLeod's Fifteen Modern Tales of Attraction, reviewed here and here. The collection is essential reading for the fiction module I will be teaching and I hope to blog about it in more detail in the coming weeks.

I also read Balancing on the Edge of the World by Elizabeth Baines, reviewed here, and Tender by Mark Illis, reviewed here. Both collections were extremely enjoyable and memorable, which is a huge compliment as I've read more than thirty short story collections this year and there's only so much space in my head; the really good stuff is the stuff that sticks.

I met Elizabeth at the Edge Hill Prize award ceremony. I'm always especially curious to read the work of writers I've met in real life - perhaps because even though I know quite a lot of writers, they still seem exotic and mysterious, and reading their work is exciting, in the same way that eavesdropping can be (of course I would *never* eavesdrop). Elizabeth's collection is gorgeous, full of lines that make my heart sing. It is also tremendously varied; every story is skillfully executed and the depictions of childhood are unerring. My favourite stories are the funny and brutal Daniel Smith Disappears off the Face of the Earth and the heartbreaking Compass and Torch.

Tender is a collection of linked short stories. I've read quite a few collections of linked stories and there is often something quite unsatisfying about them; individually they are frequently excellent, but collectively there is often something missing: they feel like a novel with holes. Tender is the best linked collection I've read to date. Illis's writing is humourous, intelligent and full of the lovely details that provoke a smiling, head-nodding response. The stories are successful individually and the threads from each are skillfully worked to also provide collective momentum. My favourite stories are There's a Hole in Everything and The Realm of the Possible.

So so special...

While on holiday I was swept away by Rob Shearman's Everyone's Just So So Special; a furious, frantic, whirlwind of a book. I read the majority of So, So Special in the car during a 3,000 mile journey through and around Utah, Idaho, Wyoming and Montana: a much more interesting way to pass the time than driving in straight lines on cruise control for hours on end (sooo glad I left my driving licence in England).

As I read, I had visions of Rob writing the book, sitting at his desk, typing so quickly that smoke rose from his keyboard while shouting 'You liked the cat story in 'Love Songs for the Shy and Cynical'? Here, have another, even more incredible story about cats...ha-ha-ha' (it's important to imagine the ha-ha-ha part in the voice of The Count from Sesame Street). 'You liked what I did with time and history in the title story of 'Tiny Deaths'? Here, watch me tackle the sweep of two thousand years of history (1AD to 2001) while interspersing it with an hilariously insane narrative... ha-ha-ha.'

There is a real sense that Rob has upped the ante in this collection; cumulatively it is even more surprising, horrifying, disturbing and entertaining than his previous collections, (is this possible? It turns out that the answer is Yes) and individually it contains many brilliant and memorable stories that continue to entertain and quite frankly, bother me (I'm still queasy about/appalled by 'Granny's Grinning').

The stories are linked by a crazy and entertaining historical rant (which may require a magnifying glass to read). It often feels as if the history/timeline and the italicized story which is nestled within it is an elaborate joke (I'm pretty sure that it is), but then a particularly searing observation or unnerving comment will illustrate something about the desire we all have to be remembered, to be special, and the reader is suddenly wrong-footed into contemplation; at times like these it is easy to imagine Rob at his keyboard in creative genius mode, a la Willy Wonka:

'I'm joking,' said Mr Wonka, giggling madly behind his beard. I didn't mean it. Forgive me. I'm so sorry!'

My favourite stories are 'Cold Snap,' a frightening and funny take on Santa (who is quite a scary character if you take the time think about it) 'Restoration,' a beautiful and inventive story about history and memory, 'Without You, I Wouldn't Be Alive' guaranteed to make book lovers' hearts sing, 'Endangered Species,' the aforementioned cat story, and 'Acronyms' which I promise will make you crave a BLT made in exactly the way described (also included are MI5, GPS, AKA and PS).

I haven't done the book justice - it's hard to capture the work of a writer whose stories are 'as light as souffles and nourishing as steak' (Jack Dann) but it's been a pleasure to try.

P.S For people who love Rob's writing, follow his progress here as he writes 100 short stories to accompany the leather-bound issues of So, So Special. 

Edge Hill Short Story Prize 2011 - the winners

Last night the 2011 Edge Hill Short Story Prize was awarded in Blackwell's Charing Cross bookshop.

Graham Mort won the main prize for his collection 'Touch'.



Tom Vowler won the readers' prize for his collection 'The Method and Other Stories'.

Avril Scott won the MA prize for her story 'The Limitless Possibilities of Life'. And Claire Massey's story 'Marionettes' which will be published by Nightjar Press in 2012, was commended by the judges

It was a lovely evening. All of the shortlisted authors were present except for Graham who was teaching writing in Uganda. I met writers Michele Roberts, Polly Samson, Tom Vowler, Elizabeth Baines and Alison MacLeod for the first time. Jeremy Dyson who won the main prize last year announced the 2011 winners, and Helen Simpson was there too, but I didn't get chance to speak to her which may have been a good thing considering how star-struck I was last time I met her.

I also met two of my favourite short story writers again: Adam Marek and Rob Shearman. I was extremely excited to hear that Adam is working on short stories for the rest of 2011 following his Arts Foundation Fellowship and during the course of the evening I somehow managed to separate Rob from a copy of his brand new collection 'Everyone's Just So So Special' (actually, he gave it to me because he is lovely and I grasped it tightly in case he changed his mind). I can't wait to begin reading it.

After the award ceremony I stayed up until the early hours reading the final chapters of my friend Jenn Ashworth's new novel 'Cold Light' (fantastic story-telling and characterization; well worth the tiredness today). This morning I had a look around the British Museum's Treasures of Heaven exhibition which was delightfully macabre and resulted in dozens of scribbled notes on my tube timetable. Before Ailsa Cox and I caught the train back to Southport I bought a huge box of Krispy Kreme donuts which means that my children love me tonight and a couple of other things are also making me smile: I had my PhD admission viva on Thursday and I'm in! I was also successful in my application to be an Associate Creative Writing Tutor at Edge Hill; I start in the autumn.


Photographs of Tom, Avril and Jeremy are from the Edge Hill website.

July stories

I've got a story called 'The Countdown' in the current issue of Mslexia. Guest editor Salley Vickers selected the poetry and prose in this issue and in her introduction she said the following about my story:

‘The countdown’ was the only OCD story I truly liked, maybe because it used a male voice and I think the ability to cross gender is the mark of a real writer. As with ‘Ego, me’ (also a male narrative voice), the author knew her stuff – the mounting parental anxiety of the father-to-be was keenly observed and conveyed, very authentically, the appalling and perpetual torment of irrational fear.

I'm really pleased by Salley's comments, especially as I'm researching a particular strain of OCD for my PhD project (admission viva is on Wednesday 6th) and 'The Countdown' was very much an exercise in practice based research.


I've also got a very short story called 'What it's Like' at The Pygmy Giant which is a great place to read flash fiction: click on the link to select a FREE short story to accompany your mid-morning cup of tea/coffee; you'll be entertained and it's healthier than a biscuit!

Andrew Oldham Publishing: Goggle

Fourteen years of bedtime story telling has left me with an inability to read without also doing the faces, as is evidenced below in a couple of short story extracts on Andrew Oldham Publishing's YouTube channel:





At Gogglepublishing you can also listen to story extracts and poems from Ailsa Cox, Robert Sheppard, Ian Parks, Andrew Oldham and others.

Website and real life

I made a website.

It was surprisingly easy to do. I've put off linking to it because I've been fiddling with the words - I am an endless editor. I can't look at stories once they've been published without feeling the urge to hit the delete key and find a better way to say what I was trying to say.

In recent months I haven't blogged about anything to do with my real life unless it relates to writing in some way. I've been thinking about the way in which fiction often germinates out of real life experience. I've been trying to finish a story called, 'Love: Terms and Conditions' which has left me pondering over the different ways in which parents love their children. I've got four children. I could say that I love them all exactly the same, but it wouldn't be true, and yet I can't quantify the differences: it's not a matter of more or less, it's something else entirely.

As I type this, I'm sitting on a bench in my garden. It's warm and breezy. Cherries and pears are ripening behind me, I can hear baby birds that are nesting somewhere in the roof of my house and in a minute I'm going to get off the bench and help myself to a fist-full of raspberries. What I'm also doing out here in the garden is worrying about son number 3, the brashest, yet most easily bruised of my children.

A True Story about Son Number 3:

Son number 3 didn't say thank you to me in a private interaction at his classroom door last week and was consequently shouted at by his teacher and told to follow me as I left the school premises and apologise. When he caught up with me, his face was stiff with embarrassment and he could hardly open his mouth to get the apology out: I didn't want his apology; I would never buy a thank you with humiliation. This morning, on the way into school, he stopped in his tracks and his face hardened into the same mortified mask: he had forgotten his materials to build an alien. I told him I would go home and get them; and I told his teacher I would go home and get them. But I was forbade from doing it because, 'he must learn his lesson and miss out while everyone else makes theirs and incidentally, wasn't he rude last week when he didn't say thank you?'

I left a deflated and ashamed little boy at school this morning. But never mind, I thought. When he gets home I'll have a break from writing and play football with him in the garden. He adores football and, much to his delight, he has been having a trial at a premiership team's academy. It's not been a  picnic. He has come out of the changing room covered in Lucozade, he has hidden from bigger boys in the toilets and learned that he doesn't have the 'right' boots (horrors), but on the whole, he has loved it. Which is why we bought him a new kit and the 'right' boots on Saturday. And that made the phone call I had this morning to say that he's not quite good enough to continue at the club a little worse.

So here I am, sitting in the garden, trying to think of ways to unbruise son number 3, wondering what to say to him when he gets home from school without either a cereal box alien or an academy place. I know that neither thing really matters, I could give myself a good lecture about perspective and remind myself what's really important. But... it's the small hurts that sting: hurts like Miss Brill's. And it's small hurts that make good stories.

As to this story, here's how it's going to end: the love I feel for son number 3 is an alleviating, witch hazel sort of love. When I pick him up from school, I'll try to pour it on his bruises, if he'll let me. I'll play a bit of football with him, make him something he really likes for tea, and then later, after he's gone to bed, I'll think about the way that fiction often germinates out of real life experience and get typing.

Searching for 'Mud: Stories of Sex and Love'

Since reviewing Michele Roberts' collection 'Mud: Stories of Sex and Love', I've noticed some interesting trends in the searches that are leading people to my blog.

'Mud: Stories of Sex and Love' is a collection of literary short stories, characterized by beautiful language and astonishing descriptions of the countryside: naked wrestling and other activities involving mud do not feature. If you have stumbled across my blog while looking for such entertainment, can I recommend the Edge Hill Prize shortlist instead? I am sure it is much more entertaining than sexy mud, mud sex, sex in the mud and the other unmentionably naughty things you people are looking for.

That is all.