Cuckoo!

Yesterday, I heard, of all things, a cuckoo. And just for a moment, it was as if time had reversed: the view of the church; trees newly greened; a tractor in the lane.

It seems we've been forever attempting to capture that essence of pure, pastoral England. Take Edward Thomas' poem Adlestrop, which recalls a journey taken in June, 1914,with its

'Willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry...

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by...'

Pure pastoral. With VE day still fresh in our memory, its worth noting that the days of war were far from idyllic; Kate Atkinson, in her novel Life After Life, conjures a 1940's life of hardship, privation and endurance. Yet for all our knowledge of those dreadful times, we persist in cloaking them in a mist of fond nostalgia.

Why do we yearn for a more simple, pastoral England, caught spellbound 'twixt hedge and field?

Dunno, but I'm on it: back to the church, the trees - and the odd cuckoo.

Inner Thought to External Action.

Writers... talking of crime and violence as we have been in our latest @Thoughttree2 workshops... it's an interesting discussion point: when do you cross the line from private, inner thought to (public) external action? When plotting, it's a significant moment: until this point, we may be allowed to share in thoughts - first person or omniscient narrator permitting. Inaction. But once the character moves to the external there's no undoing it. So the plot is driven forwards; events will roll towards the climax. Action.

It was so for Macbeth, wasn't it? While his thoughts were his alone, he could remain in stasis. But once he shared with his wife - uh oh. She whipped him along until the external drove him.(Did she? Can we/he hand responsibility to her? GCSE students - discuss!)

It's fascinating: consider the moment the woman, who has endured, reaches for the knife and stabs her cruel lover. Did she dare herself to do it? The split second before, it was her own unreal thought. A moment later, we crash into the external. The frighteningly real. Things will never, ever, be the same.

Or the moment the troll presses the 'send' button. Private (unpleasant) thought, now shared, made external. The unreal into the real. Or, if you like, absolute control into loss of control.

As Lady Macbeth would say: What's done cannot be undone.

Indeed! Have a lovely weekend, everyone!

It's the author's skill what does it...

That's my feeling, anyway. If you missed my article in the Hull Daily Mail (5th May), here it is:

I’m a little tired of publishers’ claims that a novel is well written when – sometimes – it clearly isn’t.

When a book is published by one of the ‘Big Six’ publishing houses, an enormous marketing machine rolls: it’s a sensation; you won’t be able to put it down; it’ll stay with you forever.

But all too often, the novel is a disappointment. Three chapters or so into a recent ‘International Bestseller’ and, no matter what the media hype, I couldn’t care less whether the central character lived or died – I just didn’t engage with him. The author hadn’t succeeded in drawing me into the narrative. I felt cheated, because the novel didn’t live up to expectations, and cross, because readers are increasingly being spoon fed opinions about what makes a ‘good read’. Do we need Richard and Judy to tell us? Can’t we make up our own minds?

What’s more, turn the last few pages of your copy of ‘the most thrilling story EVER written’ and, increasingly, you’re likely to find a handy list of questions for you and your fellow reading group members to answer. This reduces what could be a stimulating discussion of author’s intention and aspects of narrative to, at best, what feels like a GCSE English question and answer session. ‘Why do you think the central character kills herself?’ No idea, but this patronising line of questioning makes me want to stick my head in the nearest oven.

We need to return the focus to the writing, because it’s not the characters that make a novel worth reading, it’s the author’s skill. Perhaps it’s my conspiracy theory paranoia surfacing; I can’t help thinking that if we are directed towards character motivation we can’t dwell on the writing skills of the author. But we should, because some incredibly badly written novels are finding their way, on the back of clever marketing, to the top of the fiction charts. How many of those novels end up in the nearest charity shop basket, or propping up the leg of the kitchen table?

Perhaps help will come from the next generation of discerning readers. At A level, students of English are encouraged to develop critical distance and evaluate a novel in terms of author intentions. There is a developing consciousness about writing technique and this is the right pathway to take, for that way lies greater knowledge and understanding of the skills behind writing and their potential impact. Ultimately, readers may feel confident enough to say we don’t need you, Richard and Judy. And be astute enough to tell the Big Six to publish - and be damned.