Why I Write

It is hard to be in the world when you have no value; I don’t feel as if I have value; writing gives me value. It is what I am good at, possibly the only thing. It is the only thing that I have ever and always wanted to do. I know it is crazy to think that your job is what defines you but Writer is the answer I want to give to the question, What do you do?

It’s been a long time since I have committed to writing. It might be a lazy excuse – it’s certainly cliched – but life has got in the way. I am married with three children and work full time. The last time I seriously committed to writing, the writing was done after my family had gone to bed. Two months in and it felt like my eyes had slid down my face. Writing couldn’t be contained in those two/three hours of darkness; it took over my thoughts and stopped me from sleeping. It invaded. But it is what I want. I want it to invade until it conquers.

It has been years but I’m ready to do this. I have to do this. These three short paragraphs are the start to me having value.


Review: The Free


The Free

Willy Vlautin

Faber & Faber

Leroy has returned, broken, from fighting in Iraq. In his early twenties and only six months into his deployment, a roadside bomb had destroyed the car he was in. The book opens with him waking in a residential group home back in America and being surprised by the lucidity of his own thoughts.

…for the first time since the explosion, he woke with clarity. Memories flooded into him.

Believing this is just another stage of his psychosis, that his mind is soon to be fogged up again, and possibly overwhelmed by the sudden remembrance of everything, he decides to kill himself. Leroy is panicked but there is no sensationalising of the violence. He steps his way through suicide, gathering what he needs (a picket-fence gate, a shirt sleeve for rope), to get the job done. Freddie works the night shift at the group home and is woken by the noise of Leroy throwing himself down the stairs onto the tethered gate and finds him bleeding out. Pauline is a nurse at the hospital Leroy is taken to. She is kind and good at her job.

The Free follows these three, loosely connected people, all three of them just getting by in their working class lives. We find Freddie is up to his eyeballs in debt. That one of his daughters has needed medical attention and although his wife has taken his children away from him to live with another man, Freddie is left paying off the bills. He works two jobs, a day shift at a paint store as well as the night shift at the home but it’s somehow still not enough. Unable to maintain payments on his home, he feels he has no choice but to store a nursery of marijuana plants in his basement for a friend. This is the first criminal thing he has done in his life and the paranoia eats away at him.  We see that outside of work Pauline has to take care of her father who suffers from mental illness. Pauline has no life of her own. It makes you wonder why she would go into nursing as a trade when that’s all she does outside of work. She also becomes attached to a homeless girl who has been brought into the hospital with abscesses, infected through heroin use. Pauline believes the girl is being abused by two homeless men who turn up at the hospital, stinking and eating the girl’s food. When the girl runs from the hospital, Pauline takes it upon herself to search for and help her. And to escape the pains of his fatal injuries Leroy retreats into his mind, creating and living within a story fashioned from the sci-fi his mother continues to read at his bedside,  where he is on the run from vigilantes senselessly hunting people with ‘the mark’, a green colouring on the skin. Along his escape he sees the horrific violence acted upon those with the mark, obvious reverberations from his own experiences in Iraq. While following his story, we are watching Leroy fight for his life.

All of the lead characters are genuinely good people and the unconditional tenderness that they feel and give to each other is touching. Mora, a waitress at a donut shop, shows her care for Freddie by dropping extra donut holes into his bag while asking how he is. The disregard Pauline has for her own safety when tracking down the homeless girl. Freddie’s reaction on finding Leroy:

Freddie wanted to say something to comfort him, but every time he tried to speak he began to cry.

He’d always liked Leroy. For a man who couldn’t speak, whose brain had been caved in by war, he had personality. He liked Cap’n Crunch and would watch the science fiction channel for days on end. He had never picked a fight or become violent towards the other residents…And there were times…when Leroy would wake him in the middle of the night. He would pull Freddie to the back door and knock on it. Freddie would find the key, unlock it, and they would go outside and look at the stars. Leroy would move around the small lawn like an old man, his head back, staring at the faraway galaxies.

All this recognised about a man who never spoke, by a man swamped in his own personal worries.

An ever-growing list of writers (Roddy Doyle, George Pelecanos, Sarah Hall, Ann Patchett, Mark Billingham, Jane Smiley) are lining up to praise Vlautin and it’s easy to see why. Vlautin is able to make real and evoke so much with simple sentences. The characters live their lives, making ends meet, repeating days that are like all the days that went before but Vlautin is brilliant at revealing the slight adjustments in their days, possibly the same differences in habit that the characters themselves focus on. The time given to each character is balanced perfectly; I never once tired of hearing one person’s story or wanted to race onto the next character’s life. The sci-fi element could have been stronger but in the context of the story, it might be asking too much for a man in dire pain to think up a more interestingly exciting storyline.

Review: Dept. of Speculation


Dept. of Speculation

Jenny Offill


Sasha Weiss in the New Yorker Blog, Page-turner, recently wrote this:

When I wasn’t spying [on what other flight passengers were reading], I was devouring Jenny Offill’s exquisite, slim novel in aphoristic phrases, “Dept. of Speculation,” comforted by the idea that if the plane went down, my last glimpse of this world would be of a pleasing sentence.

She was right. Jenny Offill is concerned with writing at the atomic level. This thin book is a gathering together of vignettes, memories and thoughts, separated by white space on the page, clean, stand-alone paragraphs, all charging together to form a life. And a life is just what the book is about; a woman, very much like the author, in that she has written a first novel to great acclaim and all anyone expects from her is the follow up. It has been ­­­ years since the publication of her debut (15 in real life) but the everyday (work, marriage, children) has got in the way of producing that allusive second book.

The subject matter makes the book sound not particularly novel or even interesting – but that depends on which side of the tired argument about women writers and the domestic that you sit on and which I don’t want to get into here – but it is the format, style, wit and language used that brings this book close to perfect. Take this for instance:

I had this idea in the middle of the night that maybe I could stop working for the almost astronaut and get a job writing fortune cookies instead. I could try to write really American ones. Already I jotted down a few of them.

Objects create happiness.

The animals are pleased to be of use.

Your cities will shine forever.

Death will not touch you.

Or this paragraph:

The weather is theater here. They watch it through the window from their bed.

Dept. of Speculation is simple but it is also packed full. It reads like someone stumbling, dazed, through her life. Not knowing how to feel or the right way to experience life or even why these experiences are happening to her. She tries to find answers through friends and family, from philosophy, in books, and yoga. Quotes and trivia are dropped in between her life. My favourite nugget of information comes when she is observing a neighbour whose husband has left her.

The wife watched her neighbor get fat over the next year. The Germans have a word for that. Kummerspeck. Literally, grief bacon.

Just past the halfway point a secret is uncovered that shocks her into change and suddenly the narration is foisted out of first person and thrown into third, as if the narrator can’t deal with the trauma and has stepped outside of herself. We still know that it is the same character telling us the story but not only does she drop the ‘I’, she becomes ‘the wife’, in the same way that she has been labelling everyone else: the philosopher, the sister, K. And then you start to see that it has not so much been snapshots coming together to form a life, it is a life broken apart into manageable bits, a life fragmenting because she doesn’t know how to cope with it all together.

Review: Annihilaiton



Jeff VanderMeer

4th Estate

Books tend to come in threes now, certainly genre fiction. Annihilation is the first in Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach series but two facts point to why this should be a trilogy: all three parts are mercifully being released this year, taking away any waiting time, and Annihilation needs more. My reading rule is the more compact the better, but I can honestly say that this is the first book I’ve read where I’ve wanted the writer to dig deeper and bring up more.

We follow a research group of four entering the mysterious Area X: a biologist, a psychologist, an anthropologist and a surveyor. None of them are known by their names, they know next to nothing about their teammates’ backgrounds. This is a rule given by the Southern Reach, the overseeing, possibly governmental, secret agency, in the effort to shed all attachments and emotional responses to what might happen. In fact, it leads the characters to trust their group members very little. A fifth member, a linguist, falls out at the last minute. We are told that eleven groups have gone before them. The group are hypnotised in order to cross the border into Area X; when they reach their base camp, they remember nothing of how they got there. So far so sinister. But only a few pages and one day into the expedition and the first team member goes missing. They all have to keep a journal of their findings and experiences, and this is what we have been given, the biologist’s account. In holding the book, we are holding the biologist’s journal. The relative anonymity within the group suits the biologist well. She writes down some of her memories from outside, from before the expedition, and in it we learn she has never been good at connecting with other people.

Inexplicable things happen. A tunnel, that the biologist thinks of as a tower even though it goes underground, seems to be pulsing when everyone else sees stone walls. And one continuous sentence follows this wall down into the depths of the tower, written in what appears to be glowing, living organisms. The hypnotism used on them to cross into Area X is discovered to go deeper too. It becomes apparent that Southern Reach knows more about Area X than they have let on. But just how much more? As the discoveries get more shocking and weird, the biologist opens up and writes down her own true reasons for being in Area X.

The writing has a rhythm and style that lulls you into the story and you’re knee deep in the strangenesses before you realise. I liked that, as things fall apart, the narrator became more emotional, making me invest more the further into the book I went. This may be a shallow claim to make but I believe it makes all the difference; the UK hardback cover design of white spores on shiny charcoal looks very effective. The main acclaim to the book comes in VanderMeer’s ability to bring Area X to life, with its features both identifiable in the real world and yet sinisterly something other. The way the ‘miniature forest,’ of the writing on the wall, ‘swayed, almost imperceptibly, like sea grass in a gentle ocean current’, made me want Hayao Miyazaki to come early out of retirement to translate this into film.

Procrastination: searching through lost time


So I’ve missed my self-imposed deadline of writing one short story a month, and only on the second possible chance to do so. I was even planning on cheating for February, knowing that it offered less time than all the other months. I was going to work over a short story I’d started about a year ago. I didn’t even pull up the file on my laptop. I thought about it. But that’s hardly enough, is it? So why does it take such effort to get me to write, even when it’s the only profession I can see myself enjoying?

There are plenty of excuses I could pull out: work, having kids, other interests, but these would only be excuses. It is true that I can never be caught sitting, doing absolutely nothing. Having an iPhone has taught me that I can’t even wait two minutes in the queue at Starbucks or on the platform for my train without busying myself. I’m almost envious of Tobias Hill, who in a recent profile in the Guardian admits to not having a phone and, so, not being distracted by technology. His ethos is: ‘…the business of the writer is to write.’ Simple and brilliant. I have to sacrifice something and give that freed up time over to writing. Normally, I need quiet and isolation to kick start my brain but maybe I can train myself to, instead of checking emails or Twitter, type out some words of fiction instead.

Megan McArdle recently argued in The Atlantic that writers are the worst procrastinators and that this was because of being high achievers, wanting only to write perfectly or not at all. There’s a tiny bit of this theory I can apply to my own writing but not much; although I can’t be called a high achiever on any scale, I would like my writing to be perfect. This blog, in fact, was supposed to remedy this by being a space for me to rush out my thoughts. On The Flyleaf was about cutting myself some slack, being able to make mistakes, while also getting practice at writing. But I have come to realise that at some point I’m going to make myself vulnerable by posting my short stories here and that thought is terrifying.

I don’t agree with McArdle’s hypothesis and, in fact, see her argument only making sense through eyes of the privileged. She talks of this high achieving that cripples writers stemming from their school days. In my experience, the school system is a very elitist one and those that do well out of it have generally had a leg up thanks to their socioeconomic status. Very few could have climbed up through sheer work and no capital behind them. This remains true later in life too; those writers able to afford the luxury of moving to London have a much higher (and easier) chance of getting involved in publishing. This might all be sounding a little bitter –I hope it doesn’t- but it helps me to see where my own procrastination comes from. If I’m honest with myself, it is in part a twisted version of the above: a completely unmerited sense of entitlement. I see it as my right from an unprivileged background to be handed some luck, a break. I know this is illogical, that I shouldn’t press up my own sweaty writing against other people’s clean successes and that I should work hard to get what I want. But it seeps through my brain in the same way as my fear of heights. It is irrational but nevertheless it is there and stops me from enjoying the view. And, undercutting this, almost at odds with this, I am constantly, quietly asking myself, what have I got to give? What on Earth can I write that people want to read? I’m battling myself. That’s why I find it hard to throw a line down.

Of course, McArdle’s article is about career writers, those writers lucky enough to be paid to meet a deadline. For me, I can only take pleasure in seeing a promise to myself completed. And hope that one day I too can be a Writer. Maybe it’s time to step back and look at my writing in relation to my life rather than my day. I’ve not long tripped into the steeper end of my 30s, so if I’m going to have a writing life, I’d better do something about it soon. The media praise thrown in the direction of an elite young (New Yorker’s 20 under 40, Granta’s Best Young Novelists) shouldn’t make me feel like I’m too late to the game. Stories of the next Samantha Shannons and Zadie Smiths (both of whom have proved they deserve it, by the way) getting huge advances before finishing Oxford should spur me on. And I’m in good company for starting late in comparison: George Eliot was first published at 40 and went on to write one of the undisputed greatest novels of all time, Middlemarch.

Of course, instead of spending time writing out this post, I should have been cracking on with March’s story.

The Short Story Plan


I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. It feels too arbitrary, making life affirming decisions only one time in the year. I feel this to a point where I actually resent getting any decent ideas at the turn of the year. But that’s what’s happened. It was deep into January when I heard about someone learning one poem a month off by heart. I thought I might join him, it sounded like a worthy thing to do, like dedicating my commute time to getting through all of the works of Shakespeare, and it would help me get into poetry, which I’ve mostly ignored in my reading life. But then I realised this would all be pretending: If I’m honest with myself, I’m never going to really appreciate poetry as much as perhaps I should. So why not, instead, do something that means more to me? I’d already been trying to read more, to plough through books rather than pick at them. So I looked towards writing. How about writing one short story a month? It might not produce anything worthwhile but at least I would be building up a habit of writing regularly and by the end of the year I would have amassed a significant chunk of work.
It was reading a Lydia Davis story, Break It Down, which formed an extra edge to the monthly stories. I think of Davis as a cerebral writer but this story, while obviously following one man’s thought process, is full of passion and emotion and body. I have always admired exact writers, writers without fluff, writers like Joan Didion and William Maxwell. And whenever I’ve written, I’ve tried to fashion my writing to the same pattern. But Break It Down made me think, why not try writing a different style each month? It will be an exercise to stretch my writing into different shapes and in different directions.
We’ve just slipped into February and because of having the idea late in January, I haven’t given myself a full month with the first story. Still I am going to stop and pass onto the next one. What I’ve finished up with isn’t completely tailored. It’s rough, with loose ends and not filled out. But I have tested myself. I have written something that needs more plot but is full of feeling without being mawkish or sentimental. It is honest. If I get another monthly story done early I could go back and patch this one up. But I have a story.

Setting Off


So my reading, instead of getting more conservative, settled or narrowed into a particular channel as most things do with age, is widening. Up to only a couple of years ago I limited what I read to exclude pretty much any genre fiction and any non-fiction. I stuck mostly to contemporary American fiction, and while there is much territory to explore within that, I was depriving myself of so much. It was only after taking a deep breath and asking for a list of sci-fi reads on a distant, forgotten corner of the blogosphere – and actually liking some of the choices – that I realised reading, for me, serves many purposes. Before, I was only getting one taste; after, I realised I could wring so much more out of books. Now, sometimes I read purely for entertainment. Sometimes for relaxation. Sometimes I want the book to excite me. Sometimes I want the worldly truth. Sometimes I want writing to exercise my brain. Sometimes I simply thirst just for the right words. Sometimes I want inspiration to fuel my own writing. Very rarely – if ever – have I read to relate. I don’t buy into that whole argument. Drama and strangeness are injected into most writing to give it a jolt of interest so I don’t see how this is possible. On the other hand, it might be pointing towards my own colour on the autism spectrum. Another source for opening up my reading comes from having kids, looking out onto the open, reflective fact that everyone and everything should be well rounded. So this blog will be a space for me to think about writing. A place to hoist up my own writing. And the books I will review will take in everything, with one caveat: If I can’t get into a book, I will cast it aside. So all the books reviewed here must have some force to have swept me through the length of it.