Claire King’s ‘The Night Rainbow’ - an unforgettable read.

I am delighted to welcome the lovely Claire King to the blog today, together with her fabulous, enchanting debut novel, The Night Rainbow, out from Bloomsbury very soon, but shipping already - so if you’ve got it, or are reading it, and want to leave Claire a message - leave it here. 
Claire has just arrived in the UK from France with the family for the launch celebrations, and I am wishing her every joy as her  baby goes off into the world. It's a funny old feeling. I can't get to the party myself, as I'm off on a writing retreat :( - so I'm relying on others to post lots of photos, and make me feel thoroughly jealous.

Now - so often, these bloggy things end up asking the same old same old - so I asked Claire to start the discussion - what would she most want to natter about? 

Claire King: A number of book reviewers who have read The Night Rainbow have told me that they although they loved the book, they are perplexed at how to write a review about it...

VG:( I understand that one, believe you me!)

CK: I also found it hard, when replying to 'What's your book about?' to find ways of answering the question without spoiling the role the reader plays in engaging with the story.

        So, as someone who has read The Night Rainbow: What would you say are the main themes of this book?

VG: Right - my first reaction to that one is this - first and foremost The Night Rainbow is a bloody good story, with wonderful characters, and reading the novel was a unique experience. I had not read anything quite like it before. To talk in terms of ‘what are the main themes of the book’ reduces it to a lesson, a message - and when I was reading, I was so transported I lost any sense of what the writer’s intentions might have been. 

       So with hindsight - and with the caveat that ‘theme-discussion’ should not be taken as an indication that this is anything but a great read - and also in the knowledge that we will all find something different, it is such a rich book, deceptively so - the themes are strong.  Firstly, it explored our sometimes unexpected resilience in the face of difficulties, even at a very young age.  How children can hold great natural wisdom - they may not know how to articulate that wisdom necessarily, but that is no reason not to believe that children are much wiser than they are given credit for. How we all can do much more than we think - I love that! And I’m sure there are other things too - the whole explores the way the parent-child relationship can be turned on its head - even though the children are very young. And the overarching theme, coming to terms with loss, is a classic. Jeez, there is so much there...

CK: Can you say anything about how your own viewpoints and experiences influenced the way you read it?

VG: The chemistry between Pea and Margot is wonderful - for me it started a real reappraisal of how I was when I was a child, my family, my friendships, my relationships with the adults who then surrounded me. It was like meeting myself again, years later through both the girls, if that does not sound daft. I desperately wanted a sister as I was growing up, and never had one. A brother came along when I was three, but that isn’t the same thing, is it? 

          I was a very ‘thinking’ child - so much so that I would be told to stop thinking. I was also a lonely child. At times in The Night Rainbow, I found it almost unbearably poignant therefore, as the girls seek to find their place in a changed world. 

        And as for loss, I watched my mother crying by the Aga when I was two and a half, hiding under the kitchen table - her father had just died. She didn’t know I was there. So I heard all the adult talk - my father trying to comfort her - although he had just lost his father too, so it was a doubly ghastly time for them both. The small girl under the table understood then that everyone must die, that losing someone you love is ghastly, that my mother and father would die, and so would I. I have never forgotten that moment. So, as the book unfolded, the child in me, the child under the table, responded to the book. Does that make sense? I was seeing it all through a child’s eyes.

CK: Do you think the book cover and the trailer give the right message to potential readers about what they can expect?

VG: I think the trailer is a stronger indicator of what the reader will encounter.  It is lovely to hear the book's voice read so wonderfully. Who is reading? That is not to say the book cover is not beautiful, and very intriguing...and yes, once you’ve read the book, you understand the cover more. I’m going to stop there!  

CK: The voice over is the daughter of someone who works at Bloomsbury in London. Her parents are French-Canadian, hence the lovely way she says 'Margot'!

VG: And here is that lovely trailer...enjoy. 

        Now, a question or two from me again... Did the idea come first, or did it unfold as you were writing?

CK: The idea didn't come first, well, not all of it. The novel started off a little like The Mosquito Coast, but more French, with a family who had moved into unfamiliar - and in some ways hostile - territory. But as the story grew the principal character emerged as the oldest girl, and I knew that the story was going to be hers. Then one day, while I was out with my husband, and my two girls - one toddling and one in a pram - in a nearby meadow, the youngest one almost had a terrible accident. Almost. And all I could think was, what if I hadn't been there? After that everything fell into place and I knew the story I wanted to tell. 

VG:  And that leads nicely onto something I’ve been dying to ask...Are the girls based at all on your own two gorgeous daughters?

 CK: Are the girls based on my daughters? Ah it would be tempting to say yes, but it's much more complicated than that. I purposefully made a mood board for The Night Rainbow, with photos of landscapes and houses that are similar but not the same as those where we live. I also chose images of children who didn't look like my own, and I worked with those as guides. Otherwise the temptation to leave fiction and fall into anecdote may have been too great. But the voice of my children is all over the book. My eldest was four years old when I wrote the novel and my youngest two. They would say the most magical and wise things and I wrote them all down. Where I could, I wove them into Margot and Pea. 

Because of their influence, and because I hardly describe the girls at all in the book, I was anxious to see how Margot and Pea would be portrayed on the book cover. When I saw Holly MacDonald's artwork I was quite taken aback. The silhouettes could easily be my girls. A strange and magical bonus. 

VG:  What a magical coincidence. Spooky stuff! But another question - on a serious note: How much did you want the novel to explore notions of non-belonging?

CK: I'd say I was interested in the idea of belonging (rather than non-belonging), in a broad sense of place, people or culture. The cause and effect of it. I noticed when my daughters were very young that they had an innate sense belonging everywhere, a casual intimacy with nature and with people. How we are transformed when that belief is taken from us...

VG: Claire, thank you. It has been a joy nattering for a minute or two about The Night Rainbow. It is going to do so very well - enjoy every minute! 

A little collection of poetry, and some home truths.

I am hugely pleased to have a poetry pamphlet in the pipeline from Pighog Press. Due out in November, this will be my first little poetry collection - and it has the strange but “I like it so I hope you do too” working title of The Half-Life of Fathers.  That is the title of a poem commissioned last year by artist Philip Hartigan for his Dia Del Padre exhibition in Chicago, and it was also given a special mention in the last Essex Poetry competition. I am looking forward to the Pighog reader’s report, then working with my editor, and talking over the cover designs. Fun!

Having said it is a little collection, I’m not sure the world of poetry really allows that word to be used when it isn’t a ‘proper book’ - pamphlets to be distinguished at all times from the proper books, I suppose? However, Pighog refers to the latter as ‘full collections’ so in that vein, I am calling this pamphlet a 'little collection'. As well as a pamphlet. 

The different conventions in this poetry world take some getting used to. No-one told me, for example: If you are mainly to date a prose writer and have an agent, you do not request said agent to approach publishers of poetry, as I did because it seemed natural. Apparently, the publishers do not like it, and the poet is expected to do the contacting themselves.    Why? It would be useful if some published poets/poetry presses could cast light on this one. One would have thought the slush piles are fifty times higher than prose...

Who was to know all this? But anyway - among whatever else was happening,  I did approach Pighog myself because it’s local, their publications are excellent quality, I know a few of their poets, such as the brilliant Clare Best, and am grinning with pleasure to be joining their ranks. It is also a joy to be published in a limited edition of 300 copies. Why? Because there is then no pressure to sell sell sell to keep the book in print...although I will do my bit while it exists, as I have always done. Publishing any book is a partnership.

Another convention in the poetry world mirrors one that the prose world adhered to some years ago,  ie: a record of online publication does not seem to be seen as much cop.  This despite the rigorous editorial skills of someone like Helen Ivory, for example, who edits Ink Sweat and Tears...which makes little sense to me, but there you go. Maybe someone who knows more can explain?  To be taken seriously, you need a record of quality publications in ‘proper’ magazines, to make up a strong CV. (There’s that word again - the poetry world still seems to have a strong backbone of properness - convention.) If they are thinking commercially, I'd have thought so long as you have a following, does it matter where you are read? A poem probably gets far more readings online than it does in a paper publication... no? If they are thinking purely professionally, why does another editor's previous decision to publish you strengthen their own? 

So how does it work if like me, you kept most of your poetry in the depths of your hard drive, as it was something you turned to when prose didn’t fit the feelings welling up, and when written most of it was forgotten as you had no idea what to do with it?  I was not, and am not, part of any poetry communities, so was not learning markets.  Not out of laziness, I hope, more from a belief that I wasn't really a poet. Ah but sometimes, I’d send stuff out, when I  occasionally stumbled across somewhere that looked suitable - and sometimes it would be accepted, and sometimes not, but I had no idea why in either case.  Or, I’d send it to a comp I didn’t mind supporting with a fiver, as with Bridport (funds go to the Arts Centre - my stuff has been shortlisted a couple of times), or the Troubadour (funds go to support a great live event series, my stuff won a prize last year). But it was always hit n miss, no strategy, because all my strategising was going into my prose. And because of that,  I suspect my poetry hasn’t done as well as it might have done, had I worked at it harder. That’s fact. 

I guess the answer to that is, either you play the game by the rules, or you don’t. And there are conventions, so if you want to get anywhere, follow them. And I don’t think it is coincidence that attending some workshops with Pascale Petit and learning, learning about editing in particular, runs alongside doing  a bit better, do you?  

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Bridport Prize blogger in residence...

I am delighted to be The Bridport Prize's first blogger in residence for their lovely new website.
The first  post has gone up - in which I natter about my win in 2007 and what it has meant. http://www.bridportprize.org.uk/blog/turning-points-vanessa-gebbies-blog-her-2007-bridport-prize-win

I will be writing something every couple of weeks for the next few months - so if you have anything you'd like me to address, please do say and I will do my best!

Being a Writer...

What is it like being a writer?

Funny - I’ve been asked that a few times in the last whatever, so I thought I'd better have a think. What ‘is’ it like being a writer?

Actually, there is no difference to not being a writer, except that you write. That sounds trite - but isn’t intended to be. When you aren’t a writer, you think there’s something ‘other-worldly’ and marvellous about those who do - or rather, those who do it so their work gets published, perhaps. I can’t remember wondering what it must be like to write and then stick it all in a box under the bed. That seems unsatisfactory, to me, unfulfilling - but then it’s horses for courses. Some writers must do so, and that’s fine.

So this is what it is like for me, Vanessa Gebbie, to be a writer. And to sort that out, first of all I have to decide what differences there are in me, now, as opposed to before I wrote. I started in late 2002 - so I can pinpoint fairly precisely.

       I am far less gregarious, socially. Much more protective of my space, my time. Less tolerant of small talk, meaningless hours spent discussing things I am not and actually never have been interested in, for the sake of convention.  Maybe becoming a writer means you have a social lobotomy? I reckon so. However, give me a reason to debate the finer points of dialogue, or the grey area in the faultline between poetry and prose, or a chance to fire up other writers and lead a workshop, and I am happy to do so for hours. 

       In some ways nothing has changed - I still find it impossible to concentrate on just one thing at once, always have several projects on the go. The Coward’s Tale, for example, was written at the same time as many of the short stories in Words from a Glass Bubble and Storm Warning, lots of flash fiction and also while I was pulling together the text book, Short Circuit. Now - its fellow, ‘Kit’, is getting written in bursts between other things, including poetry. Maybe ‘Kit’ is less poetic than The Coward? Who knows. Maybe prose and poetry are separating themselves out? 

       That’s just one thing I love about being a writer - the journey is unpredictable. You never know what is round the next corner. This time last year, I was planning what to say when I went to Athens for International Women’s Day at the launch of an anthology in which I had a mad story, thanks to an invitation from the British Council. This year, I am wondering how best to enthuse new writers for the Psychologies Magazine/Bloombsury/Writers’ and Artists’ workshop with Suzy Joinson on 28th Feb. And planning another couple of workshops for new novelists - and an evening in London with Spread the Word, and a retreat for me and Kit in February at Anam Cara. Wondering if I can afford to go on a course later in the year - and looking forward hugely to a month at Gladstone’s Library in September. With events already planned, and me taking a few workshops out to local schools, it will be a marvellous, rich experience. And one that the Other Half can share - Other Halves are welcome to join the writers in residence if they wish, for however long. 

       I love the other writers I’ve got to know, all 99.9% of them are wonderful creative spirits. There have been the odd one or two along the way who are not wonderful at all, but that’s their problem, not mine! 

What, if anything, do I hate about being a writer? Well, for someone who has never taken to exercise (I used to hide behind the coats in the changing room at school... go figure...) sitting down for hours on end does take its toll. There is this condition called Writers’ Bum. It is very catching, and is not helped by the consumption of salt and vinegar crisps instread of eating proper meals. That’s why going to a retreat is sooo good - at the right ones, they take all that off your shoulders, and shop, cook and even clear up...

       Mind you - retreats are expensive, and the other  part of being a writer that I find very tough is the lack of money. Sure, when you get your novel out with a mainstream publisher you get an advance, but it is not big - unless you are very lucky (and brilliant) - and it soon goes. I am married to a guy who retired some years back, and whose pension was hit by the banking  crisis and subsequent recessions. So when payments and expenses for teaching, reading or anthology commissions take ages to come through, it really hurts. That sounds like a whinge - it isn’t meant to - but the worst thing for being creative is worry - it gets in the way big time. But there you go, it’s all part of it. 

       So when the chance comes along to apply for weeks at a retreat where you are fed, watered, have peace n quiet - all for nothing, I jump at it. Hence Hawthornden Castle last year, Gladstone’s Library this. Bless the benefactors of the arts. 

People ask the funniest questions - ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ Answer - Everywhere.  Nowhere. And in between. And they ask the most sensible questions - ‘Do you have a writing routine?’ Answer - No but I should have. 

       Here are some questions I have been asked, and my answers.  

• ‘Do you plot your work in advance?’ - No - except when I do. And when I do, invariably, as soon as I start writing that bit it veers off on its own like a train that hasn’t learned to run on rails.
• ‘Do you have a writing routine?’ - As above, no, but I should have. At home, that is. When I am away at a retreat, I am hugely disciplined. It’s work all morning, then after lunch I go for a walk for at least an hour, read or sleep for an hour when I get back , then work until supper. If I am on my own at Anam Cara, I will work after supper too, in front of the fire. If not on my own, I will be fed up with the walls of my room at that point, and relish the company of others, conversation with a glass of vino, readings, sharing of work, whatever. 
• ‘Why can’t you work at home? Isn’t that just an excuse?’ - Probably. But nobody’s perfect. Tough.
• ‘What do you do if you can’t think of what to write?’ - Read. Write something flashy (as in flash fiction) using a prompt. Make it fit what I’m meant to be doing - it is amazing how that works. 
• ‘How do you know when something is finished?’ - Good question. Maybe it’s a bit like putting on makeup for a special occasion - not that I wear makeup much, but  bit of slap now and again, you know... and then, you take care over each bit - and define, balance, improve - but there comes a point where the improving isn’t actually improving any more. That each ‘little something’ just shouts ‘too much’ - and the tissues come out, the lippy gets wiped.. (Sorry blokes, you’ll just have to imagine. Or experiment.)
• What is the weirdest thing about being a writer? Well, that notion that for some reason writers are special. We are no more special than we were before we were writers. 

Happy to take questions!

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My month as a Hawthornden Fellow

Hawthornden Castle December 2012

Hawthornden Castle

I guess a month cloistered with four other writers in a Scottish castle is not for everyone - but for this writer, it sounded perfect, and I was thrilled when my application was successful. But then, I started looking up this place, this fellowship - to see how other writers had fared, and found... almost nothing. Which, in this age of information overload, is extraordinary. So I am rectifying that. 

and again...

one of the many paths in the grounds

It’s such a brilliant gift, being able to step off the planet for four whole weeks, staying in an extraordinary place, being looked after by a housekeeper, an assistant housekeeper, a cook, the whole experience overseen by an on-site administrator. Acres and acres of tangled, steep, and atmospheric grounds to wander in, a rushing river - the North Esk -whose sound lulls you to sleep each night, no need to so much as think about shopping, cooking - you can even, if you wish, have your bedroom tidied every day. Not that one would, you know - but the thought of it is such a luxury!

So - what is Hawthornden Castle? As it says - a rather unique, solid and sometimes beautiful castle built high on a rock overlooking a bend in the North Esk river, a few miles south of Edinburgh. One of my colleagues described it as something like a safe stone ship for writers, and I can do no better. 
Once, this castle was home to the poet William Drummond (1595 - 1649). In the grounds there is a superb double seat overlooking the river, carved from solid rock - dubbed Drummond's Seat. 

Drummond's Seat

All five writers were collected at Edinburgh Waverley, and driven to the castle by Hamish the administrator - fount of all knowledge, protector of silence, writer of libretti and general good egg. In the car, conversation was light, and undercurrents churned along as we eyed each other up. What is it going to be like having to have dinner with these people every evening for a whole month?

It is such an odd thing - I think we were all bowled over by the surreality of the opportunity, as well as by the generosity of a benefactress of the arts called Drue Heinz who keeps a whole castle just for writers.

My four companions for the month were  a good mix. I count myself hugely lucky - all were terrific company, great conversationalists, great players of Scrabble and Outburst after dinner, and above all, hard workers. I guess one thing about telling adults to be quiet is that many will make their own rules - luckly we didn’t - and I am sure that is the same with every intake. I won't emblazon their identities here.

my study-bedroom

the wonderful spiral staircase to the top floor

Four of us were allocated study-bedrooms on the ‘writers’ floor’ - in the attic - a series of simply furnished, homely rooms on the old servants’ floor, I would guess. Accessed by a stone spiral staircase, every trip up or down was a reminder of the age and the uniqueness of where we were. I soon grew to love my room - its view over the ancient courtyard, the ruins of the original medieval castle, and up to a steep wooded hillside. 

Like all rooms, it had a desk and desklight, but as usual, as in Ireland at Anam Cara, most of my writing got done curled up on the bed. With or without hot water bottle. 

The days ran to their own rhythm, effortlessly. We would meet for breakfast in the ‘hearth room’, a gorgous dining room next to the kitchen, lined with portraits of Scottish heroes. We would eat porridge from old pewter bowls stamped appropriately enough, ‘HMS Hero’. We’d make toast, talk about plans for the day. One or two would go out for a morning walk round the grounds. And on or before 9.30, we’d be back in our rooms, with the hours stretching ahead, and no excuse but to focus, to read, write or revise. 

a gorgeous hall

No - you do not have to work in your room. There are three libraries, including one that is new, large, purpose-built and beautiful. One, built at the end of the castle, has the most wonderful views out over the glen. Another, in the ruins of the medieval castle, is reeking with atmosphere. There is a vast and pretty sitting room,  a Sunday dining room, the hearth room where we had breakfast each day and supper during the week, a hallway where there was sometimes a roaring fire, a summer room, and of course, the grounds - they would be wonderful to work in in warm weather. But this was November and December - and it was chilly. So I stayed put.

Can you go out? Yes, of course. Edinburgh and its delights is only a bus ride away. You can walk in the grounds, go into the local town of Bonnyrigg with its shops, you can walk on the old railway line. I didn’t go to Edinburgh, as my colleagues did at weekends, but worked on.  I went to London instead half way through, to collect a poetry award - but the lack of a proper break soon started to tell, looking back. I felt very stir-crazy despite short walks in the grounds now and again (More again than now - thanks to a dodgy foot - I’d had a small op just before going, which refused to heal , but it did in the end).

So stir-crazy me took a day off in the last week and walked to Rosslyn Chapel. It isn’t far - about 3 or 4 miles, I suppose, but it is a must-see when you are there. They have a jolly nice caff too. I had toasted haggis and sweet potato and mozarella sandwiches...now isnt that interesting?!

The evenings were a good foil to the days of work. A quick snifter of sherry would be followed by supper in the hearth room in the company of Hamish Robinson the administrator. Conversation flowed, as did the wine from Bonnyrigg Co-op. When we had finished, the immortal words would be uttered by Hamish, ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ - which being translated means, ‘Shall we repair to the drawing room?’ So we did, and games of Scrabble were played, or something called Outburst - made in the 1980s, it taxed our memories something chronic when we had to remember parts of a camera before the digital revolution. 

(Oh dear - I can see the equivalent in fifty years time - Name 10 things that are part of a book, era - 2012 -  Paper. pages. print. spine. binding. endpapers. cover. hardback. softback.  illustrations.)

 Four weeks went by incredibly fast. For the first few days it felt like we had a year stretching ahead, and before you knew it, you were over half way, then into the last week, wondering where the time had gone. Without exception, we were amazed at how much work got done. (See end).

I loved every minute. I made four new writing friends, all of whom were just a delight to get to know. I surprised myself with what I wrote, some days. Even on those days I thought ‘nothing is going to work today’, it did, somehow. 

Once you have been a Hawthornden International Fellow, you can not reapply for five years. I’m thinking of changing my name just so I can. 

Huge thanks to Drue Heinz for giving us this extraordinary gift. She is not at the castle when writers are in residence - but her presence permeates the place. Bless her. 

*Work done on next novel - I took 40k of fast scribble done in Ireland earlier in the year.  I edited hard, wrote new stuff hard, spent a lot of time thinking and dreaming. I came away with 70k - some of which I am happy with. And I now know where I am going. I also wrote two poems, one article for Psychologies Magazine (out in February) and started another for The New Writer. 

WINNING THE TROUBADOUR PRIZE - and Other Journeys

Troubadour International Poetry Prize 2012: some of the prizewinners at Troubadour Prize Night on Mon 3rd Dec 2012 (l to r) Gillian Laker, Helen Overell, Gerrie Fellows, Caroline Smith, Richard Douglas Pennant (Cegin Productions), Anne-Marie Fyfe, Bernard O’Donoghue (judge), Betty Thomson, Nicky Arscott, Jane Draycott (judge), Judy Sutherland, Vanessa Gebbie, Judy Brown and Paul Stephenson 

Cue two stressless train journeys from Edinburgh to London and back the following day, to attend and read at the Troubadour Prize event.  I can spend the stressless train journeys working - so I won’t miss too much precious retreat time. I am mid-Hawthornden month... note the repetition of ‘stressless’ there? ‘Let the train take the strain’ - remember that old advertising line? I will have a restful hour at a hotel in London before the event, a relaxing bath. I can change from my travel clothes into something  poetic. Stick make up on, become suitably...er.. 

Actually, it would not ever be entirely stressless. I have never read a poem in public. Oh sure - at the three workshops I’ve attended..first draft stuff. Does that count? But this is like sending an untried violinist to do a solo at the Albert Hall. Or it feels like it. 

I have practiced reading my winning lines, helped by the lovely Andrew Forster  back at the castle... and am trying to run through the rhythms and pauses in my head as I collect my tickets from the machine at Edinburgh Waverley. A  counterpoint of tinny carols doesn’t help. There IS no Christmas at Hawthornden. It is like Narnia. Being out here is surreal.

But machines are efficient, and necessary, and I punch in my ref. number. Click. Buzz. Click. Oh...I reckoned without technology. Oh bring back the quill and dippy ink.  Oh bring back one price for a simple train ticket. 

• Booked from Trainline.com: return tickets to London.  
• Delivered by machine at Edinburgh station: one single ticket. Stamped ‘Single’. 
• Machine says, ‘Get thee to the ticket office,  this is a partial delivery’. 
• 25 minutes to go to my train’s departure.
• I go to the ticket office and queue. Eventually, a dour Scot says, ‘Nothing to do with us. Get thee to Scotrail offices on Platform 14. Tis a Scotrail machine.’ 
• Platform 14 needs a train ticket to access. Dour station employee says, ‘Are you sure you are going to the office? We get a lot of this.’ I check watch. 
• 20 minutes to go. ‘Yes. I need to get on with it.’ Am let through. 
• Scotrail official, putting down coffee, checking screen (this is a hard, hard job): ‘There is no record of your booking.‘ Me: ‘But there must be - look.’ I show him the ‘single’ tickets.  Scotrail: ‘So you’ve got a ticket. What’s the problem?’  Me: ‘But... what about the return? I’ve paid and not got the ticket...’ Scotrail: ‘Not our problem.  If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s The Trainline.com’s.’ He goes back to his coffee. I give up. 
• I need to get back to the concourse. 
• 15 minutes to go. 
• Platform 14 barrier needs a train ticket ... I find another official. ‘Please could you let me out, I’ve just been to the office?’ Official: ‘How do I know. We get a lot of this.’ Me: aaagh. They let me out.
• I reckon the first class lounge might have a phone. They do. Official very helpful, rings Trainline.com on my behalf. 
• 10 minutes to go. 
• Trainline: ‘Our system shows that all tickets have been collected.’  Me: ‘No, I have one stamped ‘single’. No return ticket for tomorrow.’  Trainline: ‘How do I know that?’  Helpful Official takes phone: ‘I can see the ticket. It says ‘Single.’ Hands phone back. Trainline: ‘What does the receipt say?’ Me: ‘Nothing. I do not HAVE a receipt. The machine...’ Trainline: ‘Stay by the phone. I am going to call Scotrail offices,  which are at Edinburgh... Me: I know, I’ve just been there.’ Trainline: ‘I will try. They will print you another ticket, and...’
• Trainline man leaves me on phone, waiting...
• 5 minutes to go.
• 4
• 3...I put phone down, can’t wait. Say thank you to nice official, and run for my train.
• On train: Courtesy of East Coast Trains wifi I now have an email from Trainline.com visible on my laptop showing I have bought and paid for a return. I talk to the guard when he/she comes round. Can they help? 
• Guard: ‘Hmm. It’s not East Coast’s problem. It’s a Scotrail machine.‘ ‘Me: And Scotrail say they have no record. And Trainline say all the tickets have been dispensed. And Edinburgh Station say it is Scotrail’s responsibility.  And Scotrail say...’  ... (Obviously look distraught.) Guard: ‘So everyone’s passing the buck...’  Me: Sniff. Guard: ‘Let me see. I’ll ring East Coast..’ disappears.
• Guard, whose name is Eddie Barr, comes back. He is a delight, lovely, wonderful. I am setting up an Eddie Barr Appreciation Society. East Coast are aware, but there’s not much they can do... but he can try, at least. Eddie checks the email, prints out something that isn’t a ticket, but says what train I’m meant to be on the next day, complete with reservation seat number.  He  then writes a little letter to any interested officials the next day, giving his name, his mobile number, explaining the situation, that East Coast are aware - etc etc. He tells me to get a printout of the email. And to get to Kings Cross tomorrow with his ‘ticket’ and the email - leaving plenty of time for arguments, and ‘keep my fingers crossed’.

Bless Eddie. But I am now a wreck, and there is no way I can work.  Spend journey doing sudoku to try to stop myself worrying about the next day's journey. 

• Until we stop. Before York. And don’t get going again. Some poor sod has jumped in front of a train down the line and there needs to be... and...delays... all trains are being held. My head is full of visions of whoever has this ghastly job sorting this out in the dark. I am hoping someone is looking after the train driver. After half an hour we pull slowly into York, and stop, and wait for an hour and a half. I email Anne-Marie Fyfe at The Troubadour to explain - I can do nothing, but will get there as soon as I can.  Bugger.

OK. I got there. Just as people were taking their seats.  It was packed.  No, I had no bath, no leisurely change of clothes. I had on my warmest unsmart, unpoetic woollies, suggested earlier that day by  Hawthornden's chill, my walking boots. No make up. I sat with the two judges, Jane Draycott and Bernard O’Donoghue, both of whom were terrific. I listened to wonderful, wonderful poems from the runners up.  I read my poem. I was presented with a lovely cheque. Met some more smashing people.  Listened to a great routine from a stand up comedian. Listened to the judges reading their work... unforgettable. Went out afterwards for supper, with said judges,  the sponsor Richard Douglas Pennant of Cegin productions, the organiser, Anne Marie Fyfe. A very charming poet called Paul Stephenson who came second with a poem he’d entered twice before.. now there’s a lesson! 

Fell into bed at just gone midnight. Did not sleep, worrying about the journey back. No proper ticket. An email printout. 

• And no - it did not go smoothly. East Coast office had not kept a record of yesterday’s conversation with Eddie.  They suggested I buy another ticket, and claim my money back from Trainline...and do we think I’d ever have got my money back? Nope. 
• I decided, as Eddie had been so sensible, practical and nice, I would try my luck with the guard on today’s train. 
• To do that, I needed to get to the train.  
• The nice official guarding the barriers at Kings Cross would not let me through. Official: ‘But what if everyone just came with an email and half a ticket signed by someone who says he is a guard...?’  Me: ‘That would be awkward. Why not ring Mr Barr - look, his number's on the note?’ Official:  ‘How do I know that's him? Could be anyone.’ Me: ‘How would I get hold of a blank ticket, half print it, look -  it tallies with this email from Trainline...?’
• Official: ‘I’m letting you through this once. Don’t let this happen again.’

Don’t let this happen again? So the whole thing was MY fault? Oh, I see! And all the tens of thousands spent on customer service courses... 

The guard on the return train was lovely. No problems. 

But you see - that’s LIFE. And Hawthornden Castle Fellowships are a rare and precious gift, to enable you to dispense with LIFE whilst you focus just on your work.  Moral of the tale is, do not leave for a day or two if you are lucky enough to get one. Lovely as it was to win The Troubadour, I should not have gone to London - the universe was telling me that, shouting it as loud as anything. 

PS - I have written to East Coast Trains. Not to complain - it was no one’s fault but some alchemy between Trainline.com and Scotrail machinery. But to commend Eddie Barr - as a jolly helpful, good guy. They are lucky to have him. If it was up to me, he’d be in the Cabinet. 

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Thank you to everyone, organisers, and judges, at The Troubadour International Poetry Prize - who are in no way to blame for the trains and technology (!)

The following prizewinning poems were chosen by judges Jane Draycott and Bernard O’Donoghue who read along with winning poets at our annual prizegiving event at the Troubadour on Monday 3r d December 2012. All the poems can be read on their website http://www.coffeehousepoetry.org/poems:

• First Prize, £2500: ‘Immensi Tremor Oceani’, Vanessa Gebbie, East Sussex
• Second Prize, £500: The Teenage Existential, Paul Stephenson, London
• Third Prize, £250: Explaining the Plot of ‘Blade Runner’ to my Mother who has Alzheimer’s: C.J. Allen, Notts

and, with prizes of £20 each:

• Horse As Accordion, Nicky Arscott, Powys
• A Tale from the Town Maze, Mike Barlow, Lancaster
• East 17th Street or How I Met My Husband, Mara Bergman, Tunbridge Wells
• The Third Umpire, Judy Brown, London
• The Ledge, Miles Cain, York
• Brood, Claudia Daventry, St. Andrews
• The Language of Memory (The Bees), Gerrie Fellows, Glasgow
• Lost, Rebecca Goss, Liverpool
• When Jesus Played the Piano, David H.W. Grubb, Henley-on-Thames
• Woman on a Cliff, Peter Gruffydd, Bristol
• X-Ray Vision, Alex Josephy, London
• Woolpit Child, Gillian Laker, Kent
• October 1962, Shelley McAlister, Yarmouth
• Burning the Clocks, John McCullough, East Sussex
• HazMat, Dawn McGuire, Orinda, California
• A Psalm for the Scaffolders, Kim Moore, Barrow in Furness
• The Mercedes, Helen Overell, Surrey
• The Scarlet Lizard, Caroline Smith, Rickmansworth
• Underworld, Judi Sutherland, Berkshire
• Peter Doig’s Studio, Betty Thomson, Co. Wexford

HAWTHORNDEN CASTLE

Hawthornden Castle

I am here, for four blissful weeks, and there is no internet. How, in that case am I posting this? Ah, I've been let out for a poetry event in London and there is wifi on the train.

Happy writing.