Conkershoes and Sandy.

I try and rest from writing the novel on Sundays , writing anything really. But I found myself supping on one of those weird Sunday afternoon cocktails of existential bleakness washed down with a guilt and anxiety mixer. I couldn't justify not writing ( nothing on telly on a Sunday afternoon is there.)


So I wrote the first instalment in a collection of children's stories about a couple of characters I've had bouncing around my head for a while, called Conkershoes and Sandy. Conkershoes is Billy Conks who has been dumped at his eccentric Grandma's big house by the sea for the summer. With no other kids to play with and rubbish weather he starts reading the books on pirates and explorers that fill the shelves of his bed room. Eventually the rain clears, he looks to the bay and spy's a small pirate ship bobbing in the surf. From it jumps a boy who makes his way up the beach and knocks on Conkershoe's window. Dressed like a pirate; the boy has an eye patch, a hat with three points and a cutlass hanging from his belt. He introduces himself as Sandy and he has made it his job to pick up messages in bottles that people have thrown into the ocean for help. Then he invites Conkershoes to come with him on his magic ship and join him in his next adventure.


Having never written a kids story before it was a task I started with a little trepidation. What 's the tone of the piece going top be? Do I have to impart some kind of message to the kids? How weird can I get? These questions acted like some sticky coagulant seizing my arm up, I was unable to put pen to paper.
I thought back to my favorite kids shows and realized that logic and and causality seemed very slight considerations where the Clangers were involved. I needed to get on with the story and just let things happen. Leave reality at the door and let the subconscious take over. Gradually I felt my arm loosened and as soon as the nib touched the paper it didn't leave it for at least an hour. When it did I'd finish the story.
It was a joy to leave the murky underworld of drugs and violence for a while. it was like a holiday. In my head I'd been stuck in Birmingham in the winter of 1999 for the last year. That isn't a good place for anyone to be in for that period of time.
So, if the credit crunch it biting down big time on ya soul and you can't afford a holiday, grab a pen, some paper and take a trip into your subconscious. Its cheap, the journey is pretty short and the destination is constantly changing so you won't ever get bored. Bon Voyage!

Earthquake!

Most people know of the book "The Corrections" by Jonathan Franzen. It's that book , you know , huge , thick thing, everyone was talking about 'cause the author was mouthing off about Oprah Winfrey using it as her book club choice . The Hoo hah surrounding it brought him riches and baubles aplenty and plonked "The Corrections " in line as another contender for the "Great American Novel".

Well ,he wrote a couple of novels before that; "The Twenty Seventh City" and "Strong Motion".
Strong Motion is a particular favour of mine. For a few reasons-

I had written the first three chapters of my novel and come to a grinding holt. I couldn't see where the hell the story was going. Which meant that I didn't know my lead character enough. So I pushed the keyboard away and banged my head on the desk in frustration. This had happened before whilst forming the idea for the book, the cold steel door came slamming down in front of my inspiration, so I turned to my book case. I wanted to hear a voice that I could recognise, that would say "See, it can be done like this. Look and its good!" But non of them coo-ed that warm reassurance into my shell-like. So...I brought a load of books from Amazon on the cheap , new-ish authors and titles , classics and crime fiction ( a genre I'd never read).

When I started reading "Strong Motion" I almost gave a sigh of relief. In his story about a Seismologist and a Radio ham discovering an ecological cover up, Franzen had showed me that you can have great characters , psychological insight, good dialogue, experimentation (one chapter begins being narrated by a raccoon) and have a cracking plot.

What made it work was Franzen's confidence as a writer. I believed nearly every word (its not a master piece by any standards) and admired his ambition. It does ramble in places and I 'm sure he meant it to, but despite these little glitches I finished it with a smile on my face and experienced the feeling that great art can inspire when it touches you; you are not always alone.