this is another poem I’ve put on video

16 Oct



juvenilia, pt.2

24 Jul

I remember my music teacher, a certain Mr. Langdon, used to force me to write notes out clearly and painstakingly, in other words, the opposite way I actually used to write music, which was all squiggles and scribbles, much in the way all composers do before they copy their works out neatly or -ahem – get somebody to copy them. I’m not a composer, though I still create the music to most of my videos, but more about that later. There are one or two teenage-early-mid- twenties pieces that I penned that survive to this day, rather to my surprise. I was, so to speak, helping clear out an attic when I came across them. What was this? Violin Sonata in B minor. Songs by Yours Truly.  The first thing I remembered when I looked at them, whether they were good or bad, was the painstaking labour that went into writing even the simplest piece or song.

The first reward of having written legible music was that a good professional Romanian violinist  played the top line of some of my pieces while I played the piano part at a soiree when I was living in London. The second interpretation I heard of my own music was when I asked a pianist who was studying at the Prague Conservatoire to play pieces I had written for piano. She practised them at the Conservatoire and then performed them at a piano playing party to which she was invited. (Since one of my Czech friends had a piano, my Czech friends were not averse to piano-playing parties.)  It was an education listening to your own music being interpreted by someone else, especially if they are in a different league to you in their musicianship. Finally, I can remember a fellow teacher in Poland who had an amazing voice and could read music. She and I went to a practice room in the Bydgoszcz Music Academy wangled for us by someone who used to study there. She sang three of my songs while I accompanied her on the piano. Again, an education.

Which brings me to my present about music and computers. I often wondered how I was going to put music to my videos without infringing copyright. For the lazy amateur (such as myself) music making programmes are a godsend. The principle of using sound loops and mixing them, matching them, tweaking them and putting different tracks above or below the other is an act of creation more like that of  a D.J. The whole process of creating music is really done with your ears. Here you don’t have to play or write music for the instruments and get someone to play them back (but you can, of course add your piano part, or whatever instrument you happen to play). And some of the results, though not highly original, are just what the doctor ordered when it comes to laying a soundtrack for videos.

Now the Polish summer is in full swing.

14 Jun

Though it’s only mid-June, all the charateristics of a Polish summer have started. At the moment, we’re enjoying lovely summery weather, and even lovelier strawberries, fresh from the fields. There have been walks in the centre of Bydgoszcz, past the old town square and on to Mill Island, and I had my first swim of the season, traditionally somewhere in the countryside in the Brda upstream. It was as delicious as those strawberries, though the water was cold. Back in Bydgoszcz, and I’ve had some afternoon-flavoured drinks with my wife and a few friends overlooking the same river in the marina.

We shot the breeze about subjects as far apart as the Greek crisis, to how Mill Island used to be in the days before they gentrified it. There was a patch of river in those days, according to one of my friends, where they used to compete to see who could spot the most condoms floating in the water. Now you wouldn’t even see half a condom, but you do see boats and great views.

I often mention Mill Island because it’s just one example of how this city is reinventing itself without losing the essential character of the place. People often don’t get the point of Bydgoszcz until they see it in the summer. The sunny weather highlights the cobbled central square and Dluga street, the Island and the river and various architectural gems, not to mention the parks, the flowers and the trees.

Juvenilia, part one

8 Feb

Reading through juvenilia is great fun (only for the writer, mind). There are all sorts of forgotten passages, one-liners, descriptions you could ‘lift’ from these old pieces, even pages of prose which you had once thought suited only that piece of writing, but now you can see could fit somewhere else, too. Another thing that looking through juvenilia can bring is a sense of the time and place when you were writing, even if what you were putting down on the page was apparently unrelated to your circumstances or your environment at the time.

For example, I wrote a lot of prose about summer holidays in those days, and a lot of poetry about the time when I lived in London. A lot of it is risible, but at least some of it is worth a re-read; and the little observations that date the juvenilia can give you memories that help if you wish to reproduce that time in your mature prose. For example, there’s a memorable description of my family waiting in a port for a ferry to arrive with someone crucial on it, which I am seriously thinking of using maybe in another context.

There’s a detective story I wrote when I was in my teens which I have mentioned before in this blog, I have not borrowed anything from it since it is preposterous, much in the way that so much of Midsomer Murders TV series is preposterous, but it’s good for me to see early versions of the two strands of writing prose that has started to dominate; the detective fiction/ crime novel with fantastical elements set abroad. No prizes for guessing that my latest attempt in that genre is set in Poland.

Twists in novels

2 Jan

Why isn’t there a twist in this novel:
there’s a couple living in a hovel
and a pinstripe-suited taxman who plays whist,
so why isn’t there a twist?
A tortured priest is having an affair
with the taxman’s P.A.,
swimmers and sunbathers are spread
out all over the beach and the bay
the tourist is in bed with the receptionist
so why, oh why, isn’t there a twist?

(Bad, lazy doggerel by me to try and make a point)
One of the more amusing websites around has a plot generator and a plot twists generator. Following on from what I was saying a couple of days ago, if you really are stuck for inspiration for a plot, then they have some ideas that could come straight out of a Brazilian soap opera and some truly loopy twists (forgive the groan-making pun).

But real life is full of inspiration: the homeless person sitting on the park bench may once have been a computer whizz kid who fell apart and while doing so, so did his life.

Of course, plot isn’t everything, in fact with some people it’s less about plot and more about character. I’m thinking, for example, of Martin Amis’ Money, or, conversely (as far as plots are concerned) Raymond Chandler, whose plots could be so complicated that it didn’t really matter who murdered whom, it was, like the old travel cliche, the journey, not the destination, that mattered and that journey was peopled by unforgettable characters such as Philip Marlowe or the corrupt Bay City policemen.

And there’s revenge, too. You can make horrible characters out of people you actually know and don’t like; they are not going to recognise themselves should they ever get round to reading your book if you’re cunning enough. Someone once challenged me over a pint about the writing cliche, or perhaps aphorism, which is write what you know. The person who challenged this notion tried to cite J.K. Rowling as an example. I pointed out to her that part of the appeal of Harry Potter is not just the fantasy, but it’s also that the characters are real, at least a few of whom were probably based on people she knew.

When writing a novel: where to begin? Or end?

30 Dec

‘The first time he ever flew, he looked out of the window and saw Central Europe passing below him. Polka-squared buildings merged with chockablock blocks and spires which glinted in the sun. Cities and towns meandered between stretches of brown and green fields. Rivers curved, straightened and snaked in the middle of valleys. Wisps of white clouds scudded along, and passed below the wing. He was eight years old, and from that day on he had wanted to be a pilot. He also had an ambition to be a ghost hunter, because his grandmother at teatime used to tell the children ghost stories that she swore were true. Someone, or something, had disturbed her sleep by dragging chains up the steps. Parties took place downstairs when no such function had been arranged. In the haze of conversation and clinking glasses people whispered: ‘we’ve got to escape,’ though Gran never found out from what. Her favourite story was that of a dark figure who leaned over her bed. She had told him to go away, and he had.
When John became an adult, he didn’t fulfill either of his childhood ambitions. He was myopic and so couldn’t be a pilot, and ghost-busting wasn’t a ‘job’, it was something done by priests and spiritualists who believed in that sort of thing. He had a go at staying in a couple of places in East Anglia known to be haunted, but he didn’t see anything, even after he’d groped for his glasses and fumbled them on to his nose. On one occasion, he heard scratching at the door, but when he investigated this evil spirit, it turned out to be the cat. He didn’t believe in ghosts any more.’

O.K., so this is the start of a novel/ story I never wrote – the other paragraphs got caught up in other works, and it’s not exactly a ground-breaking beginning, but it does leave me with the question: how should this continue? Is he
a) going to stay at a haunted Central European hotel and realise that the hotel itself is a ghost?
b) going to fly and find out that the pilot, co-pilot, flight attendants etc. are all ghosts?
c) going to end up on a farm in North East Poland?
d) going to end up being the protagonist in a post-modernist, knowing homage to Alain Robbe-Grillet when everything gradually dissolves into a dream sequence full of unresolved questions and answers?

This is the kind of dilemma that faces writers who just ‘start a project’ without knowing where this is all going to take them. John Irving once said that he started one of his books from the end and worked backwards. Though I can’t pretend I’m a big fan of Irving, I can see the point of what he says. Best selling authors always say how important it is to suck the reader in from the very beginning, because if you haven’t got the reader hooked by p. 10, you’re unlikely to ever get the reader hooked, though of course Malcolm Lowry wasn’t thinking that when he wrote the most over-descriptive opening (Mexico’s Day of the Dead) in his classic book Under the Volcano. As with Irving, I can’t say I like Malcolm Lowry. On the other hand, the quiet and lengthy opening to John Fowles’ The Magus is perfect. It just shows that the opening doesn’t have to be bam-bam-bam. P.D. James also often wrote gentle openings that acted in counterpoint to the murders in her mystery novels.

And how about starting in the middle, (at one of the peaks) and then working your way round that? People often do. You know the scene: a swimming chase through box-jellyfish and shark-infested waters where an angry pearl diver is trying to kill your flawed protagonist because he tried to steal a pearl. Of course all of what led up to this scenario comes in the back story – what he’s doing in this pearl-diving paradise with its attendant dangers.

So, I leave writers with the not at all new, but sobering thought that one of the most difficult things to do is to start a work of fiction. It’s the sigh of someone trying to tell a long story, but not knowing where to begin because it is rather complicated. It’s the sigh of staring at a blank page.

This is one of the poems I talked about in ‘Poetry Weekend’

28 Dec