BREAKFAST WITH WENDY COPE or GLADFEST!

BREAKFAST WITH WENDY COPE 

or

GLADFEST!  

Friday 6th - Sunday 8th September 2013

The Gladfest buzz started in the middle of last week, when things began to happen not just behind the scenes, but in front. The arrival of two marquees for the lawns in front of the Library, teams of men to erect them. Tantalising... what was going to happen in those? A gardener hard at work in the shape of Jean, visiting Chaplain, and her intrepid voyage of discovery, uprooting and replanting an overgrown rockery and flowerbed. (I am convinced there is a layer  of metaphor below that last sentence. However, the duties of Writer in Residence should include a period of gardening - for no reason other than this: I discovered in my paltry hour or so helping out, that it is rather brilliant for cracking previously insurmountable problems with the oeuvre.) 

On Friday, the Library doors were flung open in more ways than one, and the invasion of the chairs began. The arrival of a stage borrowed from the primary school. Sound system. Lighting. And if anyone was thinking this was an ‘exclusive’ event in all senses of the word, the frequent signs exhorting visitors not only to queue here, but also to tweet @gladlib and #gladfest,  to facebook, and to instagram  photos and comments soon put an end to that.  (Is ‘to instagram’ a verb? Note to self, look that up.) Other signs that something was about to happen: more trays of glasses than normal in the Gladstone Room, bottles of Hendrick’s gin, slices of cucumber and bowls of ice cubes. The arrival of taxi after taxi, the trundle of suitcases on the path. The beehive-like hum in the kitchen. 

Held breath. Would it go well? The first literary festival at Gladstone’s Library.  

Friday, 6.00 pm. Lift-off, and I can tell you that elderflower goes very nicely with Hendrick’s and tonic. The Hendrick’s is thanks to the presence of the wonderful force that is Damian Barr, and it helped a great welcome party get under way for everyone who wished to come, whether writer or non writer, resident or non-resident, staff member or not. 

       Later, in the Theology Room (Actually, in the Library, for those who don’t know) Damian was interviewed by Peter Frances about his wonderful, funny, poignant memoir, Maggie and Me (Bloomsbury). (Yes, I know that should be ‘and I’. However, the narrator is the boy, growing up in Glasgow in the reign of Thatcher, and this title works stupendously well. That was to curtail any pedantry.) Looking back, this event, warm, generous, interesting, sometimes funny, always thought-provoking, set the tone superbly for the whole weekend. 

By Saturday lunchtime, if anyone didn’t know what bibliotherapy was before, they did now.  Ella Berthoud, resplendent in white coat and stethoscope, bibliotherapist extraordinaire (she might even have invented the word...)  let a packed audience in on a diagnosis session, with Mr Barr acting as patient. How fascinating - an analysis of reading habits going back to childhood, likes and dislikes, and reading ‘ailments’ (oh I have so many of those...) culminating in a prescription - a list of guess what - more novels to read as a cure! But novels that the patient, well-read as he is, had not yet read. Ella, whose terrific book The Novel Cure (Canongate)has just been published to great acclaim, was inundated with requests for her ‘surgery’ sessions over the weekend, and was soon sold out. 

These hallowed corridors were filled with people, young and old(er). The dining room overflowed with people grabbing coffees and snacks between events. Some started to relax in the Gladstone Room with the paper then realised there was something more interesting happening, and rushed out to catch whatever it was - including the poetry slam. 

           Leah Edge and Jeanette Wooden from The Reader Organisation ran ‘Make Friends With A Book!’ for children aged between 6 and 10 twice, such was the demand. And Andrew Tate, Senior Lecturer at Lancaster, had the Theology Room spellbound for his talk on Twenty-First Century Gospels - Jesus in Contemporary Fiction. Pullman, Crace, Alderman, Beard, Toibin... (I loved Jim Crace’s Quarantine. I didn’t love Pullman’s Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ, but there you are. Chacun a son gout.) 

Waterstones had set up a pop-up store, and was doing a roaring trade, by this point. Books were bought. Books were browsed. Books were signed. The marquees were home to craft stalls, to food stalls. 

Sarah Perry’s lecture, Gladstone, Tennyson, Hallam, was a mesmerising exploration of Victorian friendship, and if there wasn’t an audience member who didn’t mourn the loss of such friendships when she had finished, I’d be surprised. Conversations flowed, afterwards, over gin, wine, coffee. Even on facebook!

         Theatre, radio and television script-writer Shelley Silas’s Scriptwriting workshop was a sell-out. Crime writer Martin Edwards and his cast of thespians, acting out a Victorian crime for the audience to hone their skills as detectives, was a hoot. 

          Stella Duffy’s sparkling talk Wearing Many Hats, left us all inspired, moved, fizzing with energy! (Not easy for a lazy chair-loving animal like moi...) Deborah Wynne, Professor of Nineteenth Century Literature at Chester, spoke about the history of Browns of Chester. Performance poet Martin Daws led an interactive poetry workshop for young people. And  Emma Rees, Senior Lecturer in English at Chester - a packed audience hung on her every word as she explored the issue of talking about the female body in Western culture. 

I will have such wonderful memories of this weekend, and am full of gratitude that it took place during my residency. (Yes, I had an event too, but that’s not the point!) It was very special to be able to spend time with other writers here, two of whom had also been writers in residence, and were so delighted to be back ‘home’. Stella Duffy, Sarah Perry. And when people ask, ‘What was your favourite event?’ I won’t be able to answer. 

        People say Gladstone’s Library feeds you, in many many ways, and that is truer than I can explain. Maybe then, a better question is what fed me the most, as well as giving me pure enjoyment?  To which the answer is, Don Cupitt’s event, in conversation with Peter Francis. Sara Perry’s lecture, as it turned out to have a direct bearing on my novel-in-progress. And then, Wendy Cope’s reading, with Lachlan Mackinnon, for different reasons.

So why the silly title, Breakfast with Wendy Cope, which sounds as if it could be a poem by the lady herself? Gladfest was, as I said above, non-exclusive. Open to all. Something of interest for all. And all came. I met such terrific people, had such great natters over snatched coffees. I spent time with writers, published and not yet.  I also spent time with writers who are far far more experienced than I am or will ever be, probably. There is no Green Room, separating the ‘greats’ from the merely ‘good’ and the ‘hoping to be goods’.  At Gladfest, the writers on the stage do not scuttle away after their events, as if they and the rest can not mix, oil and water. 

They mix at Gladfest. It makes quite a good cocktail, actually - Hendrick’s take note. I did have breakfast with Wendy Cope, and I’m not going to tell you what she ate. So there. 

Gladfest was terrific. Congratulations and thanks to everyone who worked so hard to make it so. I am awarding it, and all of you, a medal which looks a little like an exclamation mark. 

GLADFEST !

(This is the text of my third blog post for Gladstone's Library.)

And finally.

I breakfasted with Wendy Cope - 
How ever did I dare?

I dared because right next to her
there was a vacant chair. 

I breakfasted with Wendy Cope 
on toast, and jam, and tea.

I’m wondering now how Wendy coped
when sitting next to me.

DOT DOT DOT...a game of digital consequences...Part II

And here we go - the second para in the terrific Dot dot dot, New Writing South's buzzy brainchild of a crowd sourced  story, kicked off by who else, Peter James. You can hear him read his opening para here: http://www.brightondigitalfestival.co.uk/events/dot-dot-dot/#.UidFi6V4Pu0

and here's the second!

Dot dot dot...II

Right now, Jonas had to hide. 

Vermillion day-glo skin-tight shorts and gold lame vest weren’t Jonas’s usual attire, but this was Brighton Pride, the city’s most colourful event, and where better to hide than in a crowd? 

Even better, a parade. He let himself be hugged, kissed, he even sang. He let himself be swept along the sea front by the mass, closer and closer to the old West Pier, where, he knew, whoever had written him that anon email would be waiting.

Pics from here: http://www.heart.co.uk/sussex/news/local/brighton-hove-pride-2013-here/

and here http://www.visitbrighton.com/your-brighton/gay/brighton-pride

http://brightonscenic.co.uk/tour/

A week learning Welsh at Gladstone's Library

This is the text of my first blog post for Gladstone's Library. 

A week learning Welsh

Not content with a whole month in this lovely place, I decided to have a week here busily engaged in learning Welsh, before my residency officially began. Thus it was that the intrepid Mr Gebbie and I joined eight other would-be Welsh speakers on Monday 25th August for a week packed to busting with lessons, games and exercises.  Our tutor was to be Julie Brake, Senior Lecturer in Welsh at Glyndwr University. The details of the course can be found here: http://www.gladstoneslibrary.org/events/welsh-in-a-week.html

A varied bunch we were too.  At one end of the spectrum were those who knew some Welsh, perhaps those who had spoken Welsh as children, and at the other end, those who had had no exposure to the language at all. Ages ranged from (I’m guessing here...) mid- thirties to mid-eighties. 

I fitted somewhere in the middle on most counts. I have Welsh parents and grandparents, and my elders would often drop into Welsh when I was around - I can’t think why. I was at school in Dolgellau for five years from 13 to 18 - formative years - and every Tuesday, morning assembly was conducted in Welsh. We sang Welsh hymns and recited prayers in Welsh. Trouble was, those who didn’t understand Welsh were never told what the words meant... what a missed trick.  The intrepid Mr Gebbie also has Welsh grandparents. It’s our shared heritage.

Julie Brake is simply a gem of a teacher - focussed, engaging and not unwilling to make us work hard! And all with more than a sprinkling of humour. We were incredibly lucky. This was a very practical experience. Our journey focussed on spoken Welsh, and the grammar behind it for those who wanted to know. We worked together in the tutorials for eight and a half-hours per day, between 9.30 am and 9.00 at night, except for Thursday, when we had a much-needed afternoon off.  Julie took us all from 0 to 60 (metaphorically speaking)  in those five and a half days - we who struggled to say our names on  day one (Vanessa ydw i) were soon happily exploring the mysteries of soft and nasal mutation.  We who knew very little if anything were soon tackling a group translation of the history of St David (Dewi Sant).  We who had struggled to say ‘It’s sunny today’ (Mae hi’n heulog heddiw) on day one soon found ourselves telling each other simple stories, using not just the present tense but past and future. On Day six we introduced ourselves as different characters with amazingly inventive backgrounds. And finally, we were brave enough to ask for the words of both Sospan Fach and the other more beautiful national anthem of Wales, and sing! 

Mr Gebbie and I had such a good week. It was worth every penny, and more. Excellent company, unforgettable surroundings, and everyone had a strong sense of achievement at the end. 

It was a real boon to be here, to find my feet in the place I will be living for the next month. I waved goodbye to Mr Gebbie last Sunday, on his way to Chester railway station and the train back to Sussex, and after he’d gone I padded round Gladstone’s Library feeling excited, not a little daunted, and oddly, rather proprietorial. I wonder what ‘proprietorial’  is, in Welsh?

Next year, I hear they are doing Hebrew...

(I hope the Welsh is correct. If not, blame my retention skills...)

'Year of Night' by Kate Beswick

Kate Beswick

I am delighted to welcome the very talented Kate Beswick to my 'umble blog. I met Kate while working on 'The Coward's Tale' at Anam Cara Writers and Artists' Retreat in Ireland, and we have kept in touch since. But more importantly, in the evenings while we were there, we shared snippets of our work. 

     I know Kate does not believe me, but I was blown away, as the cliche goes, by her reading (well, she is an actress, and so the readings were just perfect) but more importantly, the story - the descriptions,  the characters, the prose - stayed with me. St Petersburg, Paris, not now, but decades ago... so well evoked that all who were listening agreed it was as if we were there, not in West Cork. 

     I now have a copy of that novel, Year of Night. Kate has published it herself, having had so many knock-backs, I am astounded. So, folks, I am rather pleased she is here to talk about the book, what's behind it, and her self-publishing experience. 

I am particularly interested in self-publishing. We all hear such negative reports, about the standard of self-pubbed writing out there. However, if you are disheartened about the lack of standards among self-published books, 'Year of Night' will surely put your heart back where it belongs.

V: First - as always - tell us a little about Year of Night? Do you know where you got the ideas  for this novel from? Tell us a little about your experiences of Russia and of Paris - both so beautifully evoked.

Kate: Life is what happens when you’re making other plans as they say. This can be true of novels as well.        

I was working on a project inspired by ‘Poem Without a Hero’ by Anna Akhmatova. The poem has always haunted me creatively, and in the Anna Akhmatova museum in St Petersburg I have been fascinated by the room devoted to it with  the huge wall mural of portraits.
      I began to research the  period, the Silver Age and after. Most of the people mentioned, I discovered, had emigrated to Europe, most of them to Paris where they struggled to keep their lives and culture alive in the face of poverty, unemployment and ultimately, the Second World War.
The temptation with research is to wander off the main road and stroll through the lanes and byways of the period, admiring the view and squirreling  away souvenir images. Akhmatova,  her friends, their friends and their relatives. Artists,  writers, philosophers, their cousins, their lovers. It  was  like going through the looking glass. Oh, I was definitely going to write this project. Sometime soon. Then I read a short paragraph in a memoir, a description of how the author went with other emigrees to greet Akhmatova’s train when after 25 years she was finally allowed out of Russia. She was not allowed to leave the train until she arrived in London, so when the train stopped in Paris, all the remaining emigrees went to the station and were allowed on the train  for a few minutes to greet her. I think it was at this point that my muse (a word one can only use without blushing on the Internet) suddenly spoke up and said ‘Enough  with the research. Sit down and write something.’ So there I was, with a young girl at a railway station and a period of history that had disappeared.  I started writing.
        I did go on reading - as you can see from the  bibliography! I also spent a lot of time in Paris. I went to every place mentioned in memoirs of the period: every house, cafe, church, cemetery. Some of these places no longer exist, some are changed beyond recognition. Still, I walked from place to place as they did, from Billancourt  (where many ex-officers found employment at Renault) to Monptarnasse, around Auteuil, Clamart, Meudon, Sevres.  I went to small houses, blocks of flats, parks, bookshops, cafes. Nothing was left, there were no memorials. Still, a life began to  take shape. I read poetry, letters, short stories, memoirs. I looked at a lot of photographs. I felt I was living in a parallel dimension. It was very addictive.
       And my girl at the railway station? I went backwards and forwards telling myself stories of her life. The book really evolved as I developed characters and relationships. I was writing about courage and survival with honour in a web of social and political chaos. I have never enjoyed writing anything so much in my life.
       I finished the book. It was  absolutely dreadful. It lumbered along, on third person, filled with information that led nowhere, like a cart with its wheels stuck in the mud. It  even bored me.
But I couldn't give it up. I still believed I had a story to tell  and I couldn’t bury it because it wasn’t dead.There was life in  my notes if not in my novel Then I had the click: the notes were in  first person. I threw out my ‘finished’ draft and started again, first person. The story  suddenly came together, moved forward, spoke fluent fiction. The only thing that was unchanged was the girl in the railway station.  It’s still a story of survival but  I hope it happens on the page, moment by moment, like a good performance.

V: I know the novel has had a history - can you tell us something about that?

Kate: OK The book was written, rewritten  and rewritten and I knew I had done the best I could do. I sent it out. Eighty people rejected it. Strangely, this did not upset me. I believed in  the book and I knew that somewhere there were other people who  would feel the same. I have to say that every writer or serious reader who read the book liked it. Some of them were friends, but a lot of them weren’t and I kept reminding myself of that. People who  read things liked it, people who buy things didn’t.No criticism. The criteria, I learned, are different.While the  book  was being rejected, I began another book, ‘Happy Happy’ a story of a family in 1950‘s Hollywood.       

Then I got ill. Let’s not go there. I wrote nothing for  a year. Then I spent a year slowly getting myself back together. I managed a dreadful story (about getting ill I’m afraid) and one chapter of ‘Happy Happy.’ 

V: People will be very interested in the fact that you have decided to publish this way. What was the thought process?

      Kate: Probably due to Divine Guidance, I went to a Guardian workshop on self publishing. It was in a chic location I couldn’t afford to enter otherwise, there was lots of coffee and baked goods, and the leader was slim,attractive and wore a chic black  trouser suit (these things matter to me.) She smiled a lot, and the atmosphere was generally upbeat. Fueled by caffeine, I saw myself in the part  immediately. I already had a black trouser suit. Done.

V: How have you found the experience?

Kate: Self-Publishing, I discovered is an exciting, empowering  and time consuming experience. It’s great to  be in control but being  in control means you have to know all about everything.  As a careless, ‘creative’ person whose previous experience was far from literary, and who can’ t even type,  I had everything to learn. Proof reading, copy editing, layout, cover design, all of it. There is pressure, there are decisions to be made, there are deadlines.  Things go  wrong, and whatever goes wrong, it’s you, the self-publisher who is responsible. There is a small amount of support, but in truth no one else will  ever care as much as you  do. I worked obsessively to learn how these things are done and  how best to do them so that they accurately reflected the theme and style of the book. Because I hadn’t looked at the book in a long time it was easier in a way: I approached  the manuscript from an objective distance which made the errors stand out. It  was at times very scary. At other times I watched myself in surprise, like a mother whose idiot child suddenly recites a poem nicely on Parents Day. On the whole I thoroughly enjoyed the process of moulding  the product of my imagination into an artifact. The beautiful cover was designed for me by Fiona Bell Currie. 

V: What about publicity and so forth?

Kate: The marketing. Ah, the marketing. I know something about marketing: as an actress,  I was my own product and marketed myself with,  if I may say so, some modest success for most of my working life. I also ran a poetry performance company that toured schools, colleges and festivals, so I knew enough to know  I absolutely  loathe marketing.       Fortunately, in  marketing, unlike other aspects of publishing, one can enlist support. After a false start I found Nathalie, a brilliant PA in Brighton  and an  equally brilliant assistant in  London. I immediately felt comfortable with  both of them ; Deborah (London) is North American and we were on the same  ‘can do’ wave length about getting the word out there. 

V: I read on facebook today that you are personally visiting bookshops. How is that working out?

Kate: We divided London between us and set  out on foot.
It was just like making rounds as an actress, just like pursuing venues with the poetry programmes: I set out  in my black suit with  a copy of the  book(my audition  speech), an information sheet about myself (my CV) and a gracious smile. I offered to  give talks, do ‘author events’ or anything that would help the shop  sell the book.
I was overwhelmed by the response.With only one exception  (you can never win them all) people were friendly, courteous, interested and supportive. Some even suggested shops and libraries I didn’t know about. Every shop I went into agreed to stock the  book. One shop put it in the window.One shop  asked me to come and give a talk.My local newspaper is doing an interview. And the cherry on the sundae: Waterstones Picadilly has agreed to stock the  book with an author event (talk and signing) in November.

V: That's fantastic. Heartwarming. Take heart, writers...

Kate: So what did I get out of all this? Confidence. The knowledge that real faith pays off. A sense of how publishing actually works and what publishers have to take into consideration before they accept a book. These things are good and important  to know. Would I self publish again ? Would I hell. Publishing is hard, demanding work. It’s much harder and less satisfying than actually  writing the book.  Next time, I want the prince to come with the glass slipper in my size. Also I think you do need the assurance that someone beside yourself is willing to invest in  you to prove you have actually reached a standard.  This is not necessarily true, I hasten to add, but I’m  from Hollywood.Now, back  to ‘Happy Happy.’

V: Kate, thank you so much for such brilliant, helpful responses. Lots of good luck with Year of Night. And, of course, with the next!

You can read about the book on the Matador Publishing website, the quality outfit Kate chose to publish her novel, here... http://www.troubador.co.uk/book_info.asp?bookid=2168


 KATE BESWICK was born in Los Angeles. She was educated at Smith College and Middlesex University, where she won the short story prize awarded by Shena MacKay. She was an actress for many years on and off Broadway, the National Theatre, the West End and on television. She won the Litchfield-Time Warner novel prize awarded by the late Dame Beryl Bainbridge. Kate now splits her time between London and County Cork.

Don't panic, Cap'n Mainwaring...

So sayeth the late lovely Clive Dunn OBE.

 "Don't panic, don't panic..."


Read on friend and colleague Nuala Ni Chonchuir's blog just now... and its so perfect, I'm sharing here:.

One of Sarah Waters' Ten Rules for Writing Fiction from The Guardian in 2010, begins thus: 

'Don’t panic. Midway through writing a novel, I have regularly experienced moments of bowel-curdling terror, as I contemplate the drivel on the screen before me and see beyond it, in quick succession, the derisive reviews, the friends’ embarrassment, the failing career, the dwindling income, the repossessed house, the divorce . . .'

Read the rest on Nuala's blog. meanwhile, "Don't panic, Captain Mainwaring! Hang in there!"

In the Beginning - a visit from Calum Kerr

I'm delighted to welcome Calum Kerr to the blog today as part of his tour celebrating the publication of his rather smashing collection,  Lost Property, published by Cinderhouse.

I remember so well when I first met Calum, a writer and teacher whose name has now become synonymous with flash fiction and most importantly, the UK's National Flash Fiction Day... because he started it.
So many congratulations on the latest publication, thoroughly recommended for those who like engaging little stories that leave you wanting more! And look - a story just for you... 'Pluck' is below, as a taster. Off you go, Calum...

Calum Kerr

IN THE BEGINNING

I can tell you the exact date on which I started writing flash-fiction. It was 14^th November 2009.

Actually, that’s a lie. But then again, I’m a fiction writer, you should expect that. I recently came across the first ever stories I wrote and submitted to a magazine. This was in the late 1980s and they came in under 50 words, and were flash-fictions by any current definition. 

So I have obviously been writing flash-fiction for a long time before 2009. However, that was the day on which I first heard the term ‘flash-fiction’ and on which I wrote the first stories which were consciously created to fit within that category.

It was at a conference in Southampton – a gathering of academics, teachers and writers belonging to the National Association of Writers in Education – and it was in a workshop being run by none other than Vanessa Gebbie.

Her session had caught my eye as I read through the programme, at least in part because the term was unfamiliar to me, but also because it was a rare practical session in amongst a lot of papers and presentations. At that point I hadn’t written anything for nearly a year and was eager to find a way back in. This could be it, I thought.

So I went along and I listened to Vanessa talk about this tiny form of story and all the possibilities that it contained. And then we were given an exercise and seven minutes, and told to write a story.

And I did... And when I’d finished it, I read over what I’d done and I was really pleased with it. It worked. At the time I didn’t quite know why it worked, but it did. When Vanessa asked for volunteers to read what they’d done, I raised my hand. 

After I finished reading there was a moment of silence. 

Now, there are silences and there are silences. There is the silence of ‘Oh my god, that was so awful, where do I look, what do I say...’ but thankfully this wasn’t that. It was a moment of respect for the story and of absorption of what had been revealed in around two hundred words, and then it was followed by applause. 

Following on from such a long hiatus, this was a great moment of affirmation. I could still do this thing called writing, it seemed.

Further readings and discussion ensued, and then we were given another exercise. This time it was to respond to the scenario in an already existing flash-fiction, Tania Hershman’s ‘Plaits’. The guidance we were given was ‘your character is sitting in a cinema, the person behind is doing something to his/her hair, what is it and why?’

Again we were given just a small amount of time – eight minutes maybe – and told to write a story. I bent my head and started and then... I stopped. I had reached the middle of the story, my character was trying to find out why the person behind them was doing what they were doing, and I had no idea what the answer was. I gazed around the silent workshop room, letting my brain search for inspiration, and then it came to me and I burst out laughing at the image, disturbing everyone else. But I didn’t care, as they looked up, I was looking down, continuing the story and finishing it off. 

Again, I was pleased with what I’d done, but I decided not to volunteer to read, as I had read my first story and didn’t want to hog the floor. However, once she had gathered a number of other volunteers, Vanessa turned to me with a pointed finger and told me, ‘And we want to hear yours too. We all want to know what you were laughing at.’

And so I read it, and when I reached the point that had struck me as funny, it did the same to everyone else. On that wave of laughter, my career in flash-fiction was born. I had managed, after months of nothing, to write one story which had made people think, and one which had made them laugh. This was something I could do!

What came next – my various writing projects (31 and flash365) and National Flash-Fiction Day – are well documented elsewhere, but that was the moment when I knew that I had found a way to free up my writer’s block and a form which suited my writing and my magpie mind perfectly. 

So, what I think I’m trying to say is, if you want to blame anyone, blame Vanessa.

The two stories which were written in that workshop, after some editing, both ended up being published. And they have both been included in my collection, Lost Property. The first is entitled, ‘Salt’ and the second, reproduced below so you too can see what I was laughing at, was called ‘Pluck’.

PLUCK

“Ow!”

There was a sharp pain as a hair was pulled from my scalp.

I wanted to turn to see what had happened, but the cinema was full and I didn’t want to disturb anyone. I’d already been shushed for my exclamation of pain and surprise and I didn’t want to draw any more attention.

It was only when the seventh hair was pulled from my head that I turned to confront the phantom plucker.

She sat there grinning at me, six of the seven hairs held between the delicate fingers of her left hand. The seventh was still pinched between the thumb and forefinger of her right.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“Filling a mattress.” Her grin widened and she used a crooked little finger to pull a strand of her own long, dark hair away from where it had caught in the corner of her lip. The smile did not touch the seriousness in her dark eyes. She lifted a bag from her lap, placing my hairs inside it with a mass of others: dark, light, grey, red, dyed, long, short, curly, straight. She then stood and with loud "excuse me"s worked her disruptive way down the row and out of the cinema.

I stayed twisted in my seat and watched her go, not turning back until the man on my left tutted. 

Bio:
Calum Kerr is a writer, editor, lecturer and director of National Flash-Fiction Day in the UK. He lives in Southampton with his wife -  the writer, Kath Kerr -  their son and a menagerie of animals. His new collection of flash-fictions, Lost Property, is now available from Amazon at http://www.amazon.co.uk/Lost-Property-Calum-Kerr/dp/095769850X/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372940684&sr=1-4 or direct from the publisher, Cinder House, at: http://cinderhouse.com/product/lost-property-by-calum-kerr/

Tom Vowler's terrific debut novel, 'What Lies Within'.

Is it a whodunnit, is it a psychological drama, is it a fabulously written insightful novel into family dynamics in the face of deeply hidden secrets? Well, I'm just glad I don't have to find any single box for this novel, because 'What Lies Within' is a bit of all of these, and more. I started to read my pre-publication copy before I went on holiday in early May, and got so into it, if that plane had been a train, I'd have missed my stop. 
      It is no surprise to find that 'What Lies Within' is stuffed full of great writing. Tom Vowler is no raw newbie - his collection of short fiction, 'The Method', won the Salt Publishing Scott Prize in 2010 and the Edge Hill Readers' Award the following year. He can tell a mean story, and this novel is based on one from that collection. 

      The novel is written from a female perspective. Now - that may not be unusual, but the perspective here is so authentic that I never lost contact with the character. The bloke wielding the pen never stood between me and his creation waving a red flag. And that is unusual. Usually, there are points at which the mask slips... but here, despite some fairly tough sexual scenes which might trap a lesser writer into flawed characterisation, my belief never wavered. 
I can wholeheartedly recommend this novel. If you enjoy the twists and turns of a clever and never predictable plot, terrific characters playing out their very real dramas against the most evocative setting - Dartmoor in all its looming glory - then this is for you. 

I asked Tom to write something about working with female characters in such depth - and he contributed the following. It's rather interesting, especially if you are of the school that says you have to write literally what you know! 

Over to Tom.

Tom Vowler

I'M A LADY (SOMETIMES): WRITING FROM A FEMALE PERSPECTIVE

At a recent event an audience member asked me about writing from a female perspective (What Lies Within being narrated largely this way). At the time of planning the book, I’d thought it no different to trying to capture any other voice – a child’s, an old man’s, someone from a different culture or era. But, looking back, I think it presented some interesting and unique challenges. 

The first impression someone gets of a book, before any true sense of plot or setting, is the character's or narrator's voice, so it needs to be both compelling and convincing if it’s to accompany the reader for 300 pages. It must set them at ease, be both resonant and consistent, so that, within a chapter or two, a connection has been made, a trust established.

I'd heard of writers who ‘do the opposite sex well’, as if it was some arcane, innate talent, or perhaps even a module on a creative writing course, and I wondered whether I was one of them. The genesis of my fiction tends to come from an event, or at least a concept that fascinates, appals or terrifies me. This could be something seen on the news, or an experience closer to home, which immediately becomes the fulcrum the story turns on. 

There are certain scenes and themes in the novel that, owing to my gender, I literally could not experience, and so much time was spent in conversation with female friends, as well as conducting interviews with a brave woman in the US, trying to tease out the detail I sought – much like researching anything else I suppose. But it soon became clear it was the smaller things, the intricacies and nuances of my female character, that would give me her voice: her use of language, both internal and external; how she regards herself and others; her mannerisms; how she reacts to all the terrible and wonderful things that happen to her. It was an enormous challenge to put myself in her shoes, to inhabit her world, to try to understand the torment she feels. As was describing the sexual scenes from a female point of view. 

Looking back, although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, it feels like a huge gamble (but then writing a novel usually is), the potential for getting it wrong considerable. Yet by the time I was at the point of no return, she was fully formed, living and breathing in my mind, her voice as real as any other I'd written. She accompanied me (or I her?) on vast walks across the uplands of Dartmoor, exploring the beautiful and brooding landscape, where I realised what an important remedy the moor would be for her. 

It’s early days but initial reviews of the novel have expressed incredulity that it was written by a man, which I suppose shows I've done my job. 

Tom Vowler’s debut short story collection, The Method, won the international Scott Prize in 2010 and the Edge Hill Readers’ Award in 2011. Now an associate lecturer at Plymouth University, his debut novel What Lies Within was published in April 2013. Tom is also Assistant Editor for the literary journal Short FICTION. In 2008 he graduated with an MA in Creative Writing and is now studying for a PhD, looking at landscape and trauma in fiction. More at www.tomvowler.co.uk

The launch of Caroline Davies's 'Convoy'

Convoy is published by Cinnamon Press

Monday, 20 May 2013. Ship: HQS Wellington. Estimated time of launch, nineteen hundred hours. Crew, some twenty or so hardy souls. The Captain, poet Caroline Davies, resplendent in a 1940's dress uniform and hair to match, was on board well before, checking that all was ship-shape. The steward, Simon, having responded with all alacrity to orders - 'Move that table. Bring water for the flowers. And water for the reader...' ushered us into the wardroom for pre-launch drinks. But then, he had to sit down when HQS Wellington rocked slightly due to the wake of a passing pleasure craft - 'I'm no sailor. I get seasick.'

How would the captain cope with such dereliction of duty? 'Oh, never mind,' she said, checking she had all the ships logs, the charts, passenger list. Ready to pipe aboard the honoured guests.

Caroline, with HQS Wellington in the background

Caroline's debut poetry collection is no ordinary first collection. You will not find poems here dealing with the usual... no eulogies or elegies to parents, children or lovers. But instead, a carefully researched series of intensely poignant poems based on fact, inspired by her grandfather's experiences in the Malta Convoys in WW11.

I was privileged to be among the crew for the event, and to 'interview' Caroline to provide a framework for her readings. And in case you weren't lucky enough to be on HQS Wellington that night - here is that interview.

V Tell us where the idea for Convoy came from?

C: Didn’t sit down with the intention of writing about Malta and the war. So the first poem I wrote as part of the sequence although it’s not the first poem in the book. It came out of one of Pascale Petit’s poetry workshops at Tate Modern – just across the river from here. It was November 2010 and we’d been looking at a piece of installation art by Ana Mendiata – a Cuban American artist. Pascale would always facilitate the writing by giving you ideas and by sharing poems and we’d read Animal Dress' by Sharon Olds  and ' The World's Entire Wasp Population' by Selima Hill. Neither poem had anything to do with being at sea or being at war and we settled down to write with the brief of using our senses. 
     I wrote a poem called 'Under Fire'. It is set on board a ship which has been under attack There’s been a tremendous bombardment which has left you unable to hear and in front of you is a wounded seaman and it’s 1941 and you are….Under Fire. That was the first poem of what was to become a long project.

(Caroline read 'Under Fire'.) 

V I know that poem came up from old memories, of your grandfather's experiences during WW11. How much did you know at that early stage, about your grandfather’s war?

C: What I knew at the start was sketchy. I knew he’d been involved in the Malta convoys but I didn’t know which ships he’d been on or what was involved in being on a convoy so I was at first base. I did lots of reading, Ian Cameron’s Red Duster, White Ensign, Richard Woodman’s Malta convoys.  At the same time I was studying the final level 3 CW module with the OU which had several assignments which required you to do some research and then write based on the research. 

      I did know a little more about my mother’s experience. She was aged six at the start of the war and her’s is one of the important voices in the book. 

 (Caroline read 'Sirens')

V We’ve heard your mother’s voice - now in contrast - let’s hear your grandfather’s voice? Tell us a bit about this next poem, 'Unprotected Water'.

C: This came out of a conversation with my uncle about his father’s war and is based on a true story of what happened on one occasion, probably the first time when his ship, The Ajax had just berthed in Grand Harbour, Valetta. One of the things I discovered from the research was how fortunate he was in having John Scott as his captain.
   

(Caroline read 'Unprotected Water'.) 

Caroline in The Committee Room on board The Wellington. This is where the readings took place, to a select audience.

V How did you approach the research necessary for this project?  And did you restrict yourself to the accounts of those who had served on the ships, or did you find other interesting sources? 

C: As I’ve mentioned I did a lot of research and a fair amount of reading for many of the poems. There are a number of accounts by RAF pilots who were stationed on Malta in 1941 and 1942, among them Laddie Lucas and Tom Neil. So although I’d set out with the aim of simply writing about the convoys and the experience of the seamen,  I ended up with lots of material about what it was like defending the island from the air which demanded to be turned into poems. 

             However, one of the difficulties with these accounts is that they tend to be restrained  about their feelings – lots of ‘stiff upper lip’ stuff which was how they got through. 

V: Writing about war can  turn into a heavy business. Were there any lighter moments you discovered, to add tonal variation to the mix?  

C: Yes. The Ajax spent three months on Malta from September – Boxing Day 1941. The poem 'Christmas 1941' almost comes directly from the footnotes of one of the maritime histories and is based on a comment by the third officer on The Ajax, Graham Sibly. He said, ‘I have never seen an angrier man than our Number One Greaser, he was literally dancing up and down with rage.’ 

(Caroline read 'Christmas 1941')

V: How did you turn these, and other written accounts into poems? 

C: The accounts of those who served on the ships’ is an interesting phrase because there are very few first hand accounts written by seamen. If there is a book written by a captain of one of the merchant ships on these convoys I have yet to find it! What I did manage to find was IWM interviews and there was a Channel 4 documentary about the last big convoy, Operation Pedestal which includes interviews with a number of seamen. What I did do was put together the historical facts. It was up to me to do the work of imagining how they felt. I found myself seizing upon moments when they let their guard drop.  The poem 'Overseas Posting' is based on a single remark made in an interview by a pilot (I don’t know his name) when asked how he coped with other pilots being killed. ‘I just used to pretend’ he said. This next poem is him, pretending. 

(Caroline read 'Overseas Posting').

V tell us something about Malta itself, and how the island suffered during the war? Do you have any further plans to mine this particular seam in your writing? 

C: By the summer of 1942 the island was absolutely on its knees – they were running out of food, fuel, and ammunition and the authorities are counting down the weeks to the point at which they will have no choice but to surrender to the Axis powers. 

       Things that were never rationed in Britain like bread and flour were rationed on Malta – the bread allowance was 10 ½ ounces per day (flour was unobtainable). There was no olive oil or butter and the fat/lard allowance was 3 ½ ounces per week (1/3 of the ration in Britain). Milk was unobtainable and powered milk was given only to children under seven and pregnant women. Cheese (4 oz in Uk) was 1 ¾ once on Malta. Sugar, jam, sweets were not rationed as they were unobtainable. The authorities set up Victory kitchens which provided one hot meal per day and that was it.  

(Caroline finished by reading from a longer poem, ' Operation Vigorous'. It’s June 1942 and this was her  grandfather's voice again, on his third convoy to Malta, setting out from Alexandria.) 

The queue, and signing books. 

The launch was a very special occasion, and it was wonderful to be there.  Walking back along the Embankment, The Thames at dusk looked rather lovely...

'Convoy' can be purchased direct from Cinnamon Press, or ordered from all good bookshops.

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