Ripperama

I spent an excellent five days in London last week, soaking up the atmosphere of the Whitechapel and Spitalfields areas. It's something I've been meaning to do for a long time, since I was a student there in the late 80's and early 90's. Sadly work and finances have meant it wasn't possible before now.

I've long been fascinated by the Jack the Ripper saga and wanted to spend some time visiting the sights connected to the mystery and its various conspiracy theories. In many ways the east end of London has changed very little over the years. However, there is a lot of new development going on now, which means this could be my last chance to see various places before they are obliterated forever. Sadly, I have already left it too late as one or two areas have already changed radically since my student days. I located some of the Ripper sights back in 1989, but missed others which now no longer exist. Oh what a missed opportunity!!

Although I've always thought of myself as a bit of a Londoner at heart, taking one of the cheesy Ripper guided tourist walks took me to various places that I didn't even know existed, which proved extremely useful. I was able to go back later to visit them on my own and take plenty of photos. Oddly, despite it's bloody history and fearsome reputation I have always felt perfectly safe wandering around the east end, even on my own after dark. The biggest danger is running into huge parties of ripper tourists!

I came home with dozens of photographs and a real eagerness to begin writing. I intend using the setting for a novel which I have had at the back of my mind for some years. I don't want to write directly about the Ripper murders, because that has been done to death in fiction and indeed non-fiction. However, the atmosphere and circumstances of 1888 are just too intriguing to ignore.

Ghosts and Ghoolies

Rather appropriately (given that it was Halloween), I finished my ghost story this weekend. I'm in two minds about the end result. I'm pleased with the style and language, but I think the ending could perhaps have a bit more bite. Having said that, the ending was almost pre-determined because I was retelling a fairly well known type of story. I hope I've managed to keep an element of surprise right up until the last few lines.

It took a little longer than I anticipated to complete as well, considering the brevity of the story. This was because I set out to write in the first person perspective, but mid way through the first draft I found that I just couldn't make it work. Once I changed to the third person it really began to flow. So really my first draft became my second whilst I was writing!

At the moment the story is still called 17 Percent, although this is certain to change. It was a real struggle to work an explanation of the title into the story. I think I've pulled it off, but now I'm unhappy with the title!

I'm hopeless at coming up with titles, which is why I've started picking things out from The Writer's Block. I find that I can't write without a working title so I pick anything, no matter how lame just to get me started. Coming up with titles is probably the area of my writing I would most like to improve. Silly really, because when it comes to publication editors tend to ignore your best efforts and go with their own titles anyway.

Comfort and Rewards

This week I've been splashing out a bit. I've been needing a new chair for my study for some time and decided that I couldn't put it off any longer. My back has been giving me hell for several weeks now and sitting on a creaky twelve year old office chair wasn't helping at all.

The new one is a lovely black leather number with massage functions and a nice high back which supports my head. I'm thrilled to bits with it. Of course it was horribly expensive, but worth it. I've justified the big spend by calling it a reward to myself for completing Terminus.

I've been reading how you should give yourself little treats to persuade the right-hand brain to co-operate. The theory goes something like this, you work for a set period of time, say twenty minutes. Then you treat yourself for an equal amount of time. For example, you might spend twenty minutes reading or watching television.

For bigger projects you might set longer term rewards, as I did with the chair. The idea is that writing becomes easier because your right-hand brain comes to expect a reward each time you complete a piece of work.

Does the theory work? The jury is still out on that one. I have been writing more than usual, but that may just be because I've made a concerted effort. Either way, I am enjoying a marvellous new chair and don't have to feel guilty for buying it!

17 percent

My new project is a retelling of a classic ghost tale. I remember my drama teacher telling the story to the class when I was ten years old. The story has always stuck in my mind, because the ending was so unexpected.

I've decided to update the idea a bit and give it a slightly more adult slant, but I hope that I'll remain true to the spirit of the thing. No pun intended!

17 percent is the working title, and is a reference to the number of Americans who believe they have seen a ghost.

Once again it's a short story. I want to keep it simple and to the point, and hopefully maintain the element of surprise. I'm aiming to tell the story in 1,500-2,000 words. Anything longer would probably stretch the material to breaking point!

Terminus - First Draft

I've completed the first draft of a short story entitled Terminus. Based on my experiences as a train conductor, I would describe it as a psychological horror story. There are possible supernatural overtones, although that is for the reader to decide.

I originally set out to write a story in roughly 4,000 words. The word count was completely arbitrary. It just seemed like a good figure to aim for. In the event the first draft has run to almost 6,000 words, although I'm already thinking of revisions which should cut it to about 5,000 words. I must resist the urge to start tinkering with it for at least a couple of weeks!

I am thinking in terms of a competition entry for this one, rather than submitting it to a magazine. To honest I'm struggling to come up with a suitable market.

Dealing with the Dreaded Block

Over the past eighteen months I've suffered from the most dreadful case of writer's block. Many writers refuse to acknowledge that such a thing exists. They will say that it's just laziness or lack of talent. I say different. I freely admit to being hopelessly lazy. Without a deadline to work to I will do anything almost anything to avoid sitting down to write. At some point however, I do eventually get started.

My recent experience has been different. I simply could not marshall my thoughts. Nothing I wrote seemed at all coherent. I couldn't come up with a single original idea. I thought I was cracking up.

I found myself on a nasty downward spiral. I was desperate to write. I knew that if I could just complete a piece of work, I would be over the hurdle. However, the more desperate I became, the more difficult it became to write. I found that I couldn't write for wanting to write. My writing muscle was paralysed. That sounds crazy, but that is how it felt.

I began reading magazines and books on writing in an attempt to get myself in the right frame of mind. It helped up to a point. Stephen King's On Writing in particular was inspirational. Reading it felt like he was in the room with me, telling me what being a writer should be all about. When I finished reading On Writing I really wanted to get on and write something. I have at least a dozen or more ideas for books that I've been sitting on for a while, but still the juices weren't flowing properly. I couldn't get my ideas down on paper.

I tried all kinds of things. Sitting at my desk with a pen and paper. Trying to write on my laptop. Going out to the woods and trying to write outdoors. Different times of day and night. Nothing worked.

Eventually I decided to go back to basics, and do what all the experts recommend. Just write something every day. It doesn't matter what, or how poor it is. Just write!

I bought The Writer's Block by Jason Rekulak and began just turning to random pages and writing about whatever was on that page. Nothing too complicated, just letting my consciousness wander and getting it all down on paper. The sense of pride (not to mention relief) at seeing a page of my own work was staggering. The quality of my jottings was not that great and a bit unstructured, but at least I was writing. My confidence began to grow.

I was diagnosed with depression a couple of years ago which I now realise has probably been at least part of my problem. The medication I was taking played havoc with my concentration and left me permanently tired and lethargic. The problem hasn't gone away, but with the drugs out of my system and writing at least a few hundred words every day I feel like I am making progress. The quality isn't always fantastic, but I feel like I am working again.

Fertility

The following is an exercise, from a day when I was absolutely determined to write and simply couldn't get to work on my novel. I picked a title at random from The Writer's Block and wrote!

There is no better feeling than getting your hands stuck into a bit of dirt. To plunge in right up to the wrists in good honest soil. Thick, warm, nutrient rich, black humus. To feel the clammy wriggle of the earth worms, or a the prickly scurry of a centipede. Crumbling like fine biscuit crumbs between the fingers, its loamy goodness just itching to spring forth with life in abundance. This is the stuff of life.

When the sun beats down on a hot summer day, kneeling beside the raised vegetable beds of the allotment is a form of therapy unrivalled . Just the slightest hint of a breeze is needed to dry the sweat. Perhaps the low burble of the cricket commentary coming from a wireless on a neighbouring plot. The occasional waft of barbecue smoke to wet the appetite for this evenings feast that lies ahead.

The hazels behind the shed crinkle and shimmy, providing a fluttering stage for the song birds who serenade the garden. Bees whir amongst the lavender. An occasional Red Admiral flashes among the runner beans.

There is a curious satisfaction to be gained from this sort of toil. The firm bite of the spade into the sun baked earth. The pitter patter of the watering can bringing a welcome quenching to new seedlings, struggling toward the light. Crouched for hours teasing tiny stalks of chickweed or labouring to and fro from the water butts induces a dull pleasurable ache in the base of the spine. But it’s good. It’s the pain that stems from worthwhile endeavour.

The crop will be good this year. Ruddy globes of beetroot peek out beneath leafy crowns, like rows of palace guards. In ranks before them are the sturdy private soldiers, the Greyhound cabbages. Full of succulent goodness, scarcely a nibble from their leaves, they have grown to epic proportions. Those well steeped Yorkshire teabags scattered at the roots have paid dividends. There is much to be learned by listening to the old gardeners. They who idle the day away leaning on their prehistoric spades, nicotine stained fingers filling yet another pipe with sweet smelling baccy.

Swedes lie low like snipers, whilst peas and borlotti beans hang suspended, paratroopers destined to never quite reach terra firma. Sweetcorns hang menacingly, like cluster bombs, poised to shed their golden seed payload upon the ground. They will be cut down in their prime, of course. They will be richly decorated with medals of butter and a dusting ofpepper.

Butternut squashes and pumpkins stand aloof and apart. Not for them the tight cluster formation of the garden squadie. They are the heavy field artillery, and ettiquette demands that they be afforded a wide birth.

Most respect though is commanded by the tear gas brigade. The Red Onions. Those fiercesome bulbs that can lay low the strongest of men and have them snivelling like children. Without them the cook’s arsenal is just so much damp powder.

The carrots, those straight backed generals with their crested plumes. Little do they know the folly of this campaign. Tonight their bloated corpses will rest in pieces upon the cold slab of the chopping board.
And the potato? The Home Guard, the Maris Piper, Edward king of spuds? Well, they are tasty, pure and simple. Garnished with a sprinkling of salt and a grating of parsley, they will flesh out many a fine repast this season.

What about the greenhouse they cry? That hallowed temple to fecundity wherein the rosy cherubs reside. Delight of gardeners and cooks alike, the goddess of the garden, the plump rosy tomato luxuriates on a throne of course ensnaring vines. All around, her priapic priests the cucumbers nod their knowing heads in earnest anticipation. They know the time draws near when they will take her to a bed freshly made with crisp sheets of lettuce. Salad days indeed!

At the back, those strapping young footmen the courgettes bide their patient time. For the present they play second fiddle to the priests. But after the young virgin Moneymaker has been sacrificed upon the altar of summers gorging, things will be different. Summer’s royalty will be no more and the staples of the common man will rule. When the autumn revolution comes these proud young marrows will take part in an orgiastic riot of soups, stews and spag bol. And that rotund trollop, the beef tomato will be their mate.

Disappointment

The final entry from The Angriest Man in the Shire" blog.

I seldom venture into Newcastle these days. Today, however, I had a lot of time to waste. I must have walked several miles around the town centre; Eldon Square shopping centre; Newcastle University Campus; the Quayside and across onto the Gateshead side. I visited museums and art galleries, shops, restaurants, markets and back allies. To my surprise it was a vexing experience.

Firstly, there just don’t seem to be any interesting shops. No hidden gems lurking down dark walkways. No antique shops or stylish boutiques. Just the same dull selection of chain stores that you would find on any other high street. Subway, McDonalds, Carphone Warehouse, Starbucks and the like. Where is the imagination? Where are the one offs, the independents, the quirky little arcades that give a city life and vibrancy? Everywhere there are sad vacant stores with their Sanderson and Wetherall boards hanging forlornly outside. Waiting for the an upturn in the economy or the next big international conglomerate to annex them to its bloated empire.

As for culture, that seems to be taking a holiday this week. The Hancock Museum of Natural History? Closed for redevelopment. The Museum Of Antiquities? Closed until it moves into new premises at the Hancock. The Central Library? Closed whilst new premises are being built. The Side Photographic Gallery? Closed whilst a new exhibition is prepared.

The Literary and Philosophical Society’s Library sparked my interest a little. The building itself is everything a proper library should be - towering shelves of books, arranged around galleries, with movable wooden ladders, a proper card indexing system in little wooden drawers and the dewey decimal system displayed at the ends of the isles. Most welcome though was the utter absence of conversation. Just the firm thump of the librarians' stamp and the rustle of newspapers. Oh bliss. How many times have I longed for that silence. That childish expectation of a sharp “Shhh!” from a stern faced librarian wearing horned rim spectacles. That church like sanctity which is so lacking in modern libraries. Modern public libraries are no longer places of study, but “community meeting places”, and they are very much the worse for it.

The Lit Phil experience, however, did not entirely succeed in nourishing my soul. Whilst the building was marvellous, it’s stock of books did not greatly impress me. I had hoped for rare and exotic tomes filled with mystery and magic. Instead I found much the same selection as any other library with the added irritation of an £89 subscription fee to become a member. At least now I know where there is a place I can go to write or study in peace. It is just yards from work as well!

The Laing Art Gallery was open, but I found little solace there. A few of the permanent features I found interesting, but then I have seen them numerous times before. There was an interesting installation entitled “Gone With the Wind” by Claire Morgan. Ten thousand dandelion seeds suspended on fine strands, with a stuffed kittiwake posed as if in flight, forming a vortex through the seeds. Apparently the work represents the individual fighting their way through a crowd. That I quite enjoyed. However, most of the remaining exhibitions were poor - unfathomable works by an obscure Chinese artist and the like. The kind of thing that art galleries are fond of exhibiting, but which you are unlikely to see gracing any sitting room wall.

It was a similar storey at the much vaunted Baltic Gallery of Contemporary Art. Six floors in a vast, empty cavern of a building, of which only two were actually exhibiting anything. The other four were - you guessed - closed whilst the exhibits are changed. The two displays which were available to view were both by obscure Japanese artists. Amateurish and childish. The sort of thing you might see in any six form art students sketch book. The whole place seemed to me to be one vast temple to ego, where vanity triumphs over talent. Instead of feeling inspired and illuminated, I left feeling cheated, and depressed by the cold, soulless experience.

I briefly considered wandering over to the impressive looking Sage music and performing arts centre, but frankly I couldn’t face another disappointment. Still, at least the view from the observation deck of the Baltic was worthwhile. And crossing the Millennium Bridge instils a small measure awe, by virtue of the engineering ingenuity which went into its construction.

Looking out over the vista of Newcastle and Gateshead, I was impressed by the architecture of the place, both old and new. The neo classical grandeur of Dobson and Grainger snuggles up against Victorian splendour, whilst twenty-first century chrome and glass structures tower over all. The luxury apartments that line the riverside reek of opulence, but I wonder who apart from footballers and upmarket prostitutes can afford to live there.

The whole visage is a front. A thin veneer of culture and sophistication. Beneath the surface there is nothing. No heart. No soul. It is all designed to impress by appearance, but there is no substance. There is no community. It’s all just a monument to the spending power of a lost generation.

Newcastle is not all bad. As a place to go for a night of drunken student revelry it is unparalleled, with literally hundreds of pubs and bars, many of them of the new trendy (which is to say overpriced) variety. There is a staggering array of the new style coffee lounges, a la Starbucks. For the discerning man about town there are casinos and “gentlemens clubs” (Unfortunately, not the Garrick or the Carlton. More the Peter Stringfellow variety.)

There are the cinemas. I use that term advisedly. Where once Newcastle was filled with majestic movie palaces, we now have just the Tyneside Cinema, an anachronistic art deco temple to art house cinema, and the truly awful cramped excuse for a multiplex that is The Gate. Meanwhile, the cavernously grand Odeon Cinema on Pilgrim Street slowly decays like everything else that once meant something in this city.

There is a wide range of eateries, with a Greggs the Baker on practically every street corner. Sadly our restaurants leave a little to be desired. There are dozens of pizzeria and tandoori or chinese buffets, but little that is innovative or unusual.

For those whose pallets extend beyond fries and a coke, the choice is a little more limited. There is Malmaison, and I did see a Mongolian diner, which struck me as unusual. Or there is Fujiyamas for those brave enough to seek out a taste of Japan, north east style. We have a long way to go to educate our pallets though. Hell, we think we are cosmopolitan because we’ve got a new Wagamamas and a Waitrose in the city centre.

Perhaps it is just me. Maybe there is something wrong with me. But I don’t think so. I found the city to be dull and lifeless. A drudge and a bore. The husk of a once great place. That shouldn't be. It should be vibrant and inspiring, filled with the whirl and rush of humanity. Perhaps it is the outward sign of a sick and decaying society.

New Article In Pentacle Magazine

The current issue of Pentacle magazine (Issue 24 - Imbolc 2008) contains an article which I wrote last summer, entitled Celtic Reconstructionist Paganism, under my pagan pseudonym of Dafydd Gwyncerunnas

I am particularly pleased to see this article in print, not so much for the quality of the writing, but for the fact that it was ever completed at all. At the time I was suffering from a bad case of depression and struggling to overcome the dreaded writer's block. The depression made it difficult to concentrate and marshall my thoughts, and the block caused me to become more depressed. Viscious circle!

Writing was slow and painful. Every single word was like drawing teeth. The sense of relief when I eventually completed the article was immense. When Pentacle agreed to publish it I was pleased. Now that it's finally in print I am elated!