Thank you Mr Banville. And My Mother Might Thank You too

I was watching a documentary about author John Banville last night. I don’t know much about Banville and have never read any of his books. However, he struck me as such a sincere person—a decent man—who believes writing is art. Well his writing anyway. I liked that.


Anyway, he talked a little about his background and mentioned his mother. He related a story, a memory really, about the time he feels he actually ‘separated’ or turned away from his mother. He was four or five and his mother had just kissed him. He pulled away, and said to her that he didn’t want to be kissed anymore. He said it’s a sad memory, but an important one.

I, too, have a similar memory. Not the same and more a kind of mirror to Banville’s, but here it is anyway. I was ten or eleven and it was time for school. I stood in the kitchen and my mother was combing my hair. I was a tall child and as she combed, I said to my mother, ‘If I get any taller you’ll have to stand on a chair to reach’. She stopped combing and in a testy tone said, ‘I hope by then you can comb your own hair.

At that moment, something shifted inside me. I guess you could say, looking back, that I suddenly realised I had to try to stand on my own two feet from then on. But, at the time, I felt rejected, hurt, confused. Unlike Banville, who chose to separate from his mother, it seemed my mother was separating from me. Of course, a more objective view of the incident might conclude that this was simply the overwrought reaction of a busy mother trying to get three young kids off to school and out of her hair.

Then, as I thought about this story, I suddenly remembered another one concerning my mother. Many years later an older (but not necessarily wiser or more mature) me was in another country and tried to call home after suffering a tremendous emotional upset. I called collect; my mother answered and refused to accept the charges. I literally reeled away from the phone in shock. I really did. Almost fell over. I couldn’t believe it. It truly hurt for a long while. Of course, later I realised (once again objectivity came to the rescue) that she had guessed I would want to speak with my father and he wasn’t there. Trouble is, it took me a while for that realisation to arrive and sink in.

Banville reckons that the artist always has a problematic relationship with his (and I think he does mean his) mother. Old Mr Freud might interject here to remind us that all men have problematical relationships with their mothers. Not sure if I can say if that’s true or not. I don’t know many men intimately, and I know even fewer mothers.

When my mother died about 15 years ago. No, it was 18 years. Time flies doesn’t it? Anyway, when my mother died, I was with her. Stroking her hair and whispering reassuring words into her left ear. When her breathing stopped, I knew—I felt—that she’d gone, her ‘energy’ or life force was no longer there. And I felt nothing. Not numb exactly, more like indifference. Well I was pleased her suffering was over (and she really had suffered), but other than that it was, ‘Oh well, that’s that then’. And you know something? I don’t think I’ve grieved for her. Not yet anyway.

My mother was what people like to call an ‘ordinary’ woman. God, I loathe that expression, but you probably know what I mean. Another expression I loathe is ‘simple person’, but I guess, she was that too. So, here’s another little story that I am not sure is connected, but it is one I feel compelled to relate. One day my mother and youngest sister were visiting my partner and me in our apartment. My mother sat opposite me with my partner beside her. In those younger days I had less sensitivity than I hope I have now, and I shared those stereotyped views of her being a simple woman. I am ashamed to say I thought of her as a bit ‘stupid’ even. It shames me even saying it here. Anyway, I forget the conversation or what my mother actually said, but it was something I disdained. I  smiled at her and winked at my partner.

My mother saw the wink, and instantly I knew that she knew what I was thinking. I was ashamed then, and I am now. Neither she nor I ever mentioned it (we only saw each other rarely anyway), but I’ve never forgotten it or forgiven myself.

As I said, I’m not sure it’s part of this story, but I guess it could be seen as an element of a ‘problematical relationship’ with one’s mother.

I think I owe something to Mr Banville. He’s got me thinking about my mother. He’s got me thinking that perhaps some of the issues I have as an artist just might have to do with my relationship with her. I often feel that a huge part of the artist’s work has to do with grief and its expression, meaning, resolution and all that. Could it even be that some of the block or inhibition, or frustrations I feel as a writer (artist) might just, at least in part, be a result of that lack of grieving for her, the lack of coming to terms with our shared pasts? Maybe. Which means, of course that a coming to terms with that past and finding a way to grieve, might be found in the practise of my art, in letting words do their work. And that would lead to an opening up of my writing, to a greater freedom of expression. A kind of virtuous cycle? Maybe

Anyway, thank you Mr Banville

Let Me Tell You a Story: It's a Good One!

Has anyone seen Walk the Line? It’s a great movie that tells the story (or a version thereof) of the life of Johnny Cash. Yes, I know: not everyone is into country music. This movie, however, is an intriguing insight into the life and work of a troubled artist—an artist who was a genius in this blogger’s humble opinion. Anyway, grab the DVD and you can make up your own mind.

There is a scene in the movie in which Johnny is about ten or so. He’s talking to his brother who is maybe 14. The brother is studying the Christian scriptures (he wants to be a preacher when he grows up, but dies soon after in a horrific accident) and Johnny says, ‘Why you studying so hard?’ His brother looks up from his reading and says,

‘You can’t help nobody if you don’t tell ´em the right stories.’

Yes, I thought when I heard that, you have to tell them the right stories. But, what are the right stories? It’s a good question but, fortunately, there is a simple answer: they are all the right stories. For us writers, visual artists, filmmakers or other tellers of stories, there is only the need t tell the stories, whatever they are, whenever they emerge.

The ‘them’ of poor brother Cash’s reply are those who get to hear/see/feel our stories. They may be the intended audience; they may be people we have, at the time of telling, no idea about. This is especially so for anyone brave enough to post their creative output on the internet. And that’s the joy of it don’t you think? We tell the story (in whatever genre or using whatever medium) and it takes off all by itself, impacting on who knows who, in what ways we can’t say. And where and when it lands? Well it has its own life now: it’s no longer in our control.

I just wrote that ‘all’ stories are the right ones. I don’t mean by that that I think anything goes. I have my moral and ethical standards that dictate what stories I tell (and what stories I choose to hear). Of course we all do don’t we? Having said that, I do not suggest for a second that I can judge what stories you or anyone else should or should not be telling. That’s also up to you. I may not agree with you, nor you with me, but that’s life.

And it’s also true that the stories that ‘help’ people come in all shapes and forms and are about an unlimited variety of subjects. Then there’s the matter of timing. How often have you read something inspirational just when you needed some guidance or advice? Or what about those times when you are feeling a bit low or under the weather and you come across a story that makes you smile or otherwise lifts your spirits? I’ve often been in need of a good cry only to come across a sad movie or story or a moving tale of one kind or another.

So, let’s keep telling stories. They are all the right ones for us to tell. Somewhere, just the other day, I came across another quote (forgive me: I don’t know who said it, or even remember where I found it) that reads:

If there is a way to improve the world, it is by telling a good story.

Now, once upon a time on a dark but not so stormy night ...

PS I saw the movie in Dharamsala India. On a postcard home I wrote a little rhyme about some writing work I was doing on local environmental issues for a local magazine:

He walked the line
did Johnny Cash.
But here in Dalai Lama Land
my words will help reduce trash.

I did say stories come in all shapes and forms didn't I?

    

It's All Politics - But Make it a Small 'p' Please

I just read how one of the, shall we say, more repressive regimes in South East Asia is loosening up a little. Sadly, it seems it’s more of a ‘bread and circuses’ kind of tactic: let the young folks release some of their pent up energies on harmless things like music and dancing and they won’t worry about having no bread (or education, or future, or ...) At least that’s what a commentator in the article says.
      Anyway, there’s a surge in hip-hop places, FM radio stations are booming and there’s an annual festival of underground music, including punk bands. Sounds good on the face of it doesn’t it? Well, maybe it is, maybe it isn’t; time will tell I suppose.
      Along with this seemingly upbeat take on the music scene, the article also told me that there had also been a little loosening up of the restrictions on political discussion. Apparently the government, normally paranoid at the mere mention of politics of any other kind than their own, now tolerates open meetings between intellectuals as well as letting smaller (and I guess less threatening) political parties to exist and meet. This is all okay, they say as long as you don’t start to criticise the government of get involved in any kind of ‘anti government’ activity. Small ‘p’ politics is okay; just stay away from the kind with the big ‘P’.
      You might, by now, be asking what’s this got to do with a writer’s life or how it involves us lucky ones who don’t have to live in that place. Well, in the same issue of the newspaper (to which I subscribe because it came at a huge discount for a set time. Sometimes it's overloading for an obsessive like me who has to read every word of interest) there was a column that asked the question, what is the value of political art?
      This piece was suggesting the possibility that overtly political art, art that tackles political issues that have a capital ‘P’, merely produces a predictable burst of outrage from the already converted. On the other hand I hope, along with the writer of that column, that art that seeks to change government policies that are unjust or art that promotes peace and so on, do have some impact on the decision makers. I do realise, however, that it is most likely a rare occurrence that any piece of art has had such an impact.
     You’re right: I could have taken the time to research this question and come up with (hopefully) some examples (please feel free to enlighten me), but really the main point I wanted to talk about here is that I think all art is political—albeit with a small ‘p’
      If an artist’s work comes from her or his genuine response to their experiences of life, whether from their family history, relationships, membership of a group or culture or any other factor that has helped shape their lives, then that work by definition is political. It says something about life and the living of it. It speaks of the complexity of the human condition.
      The last paragraph of the column really struck me and I would like to quote it in full:

‘The honesty of an experience expressed through song, through image, through film, through theatre or through dance can be the most powerful political message of all.’

Without wanting to get political about it, the writer has left one important phrase out of his otherwise very profound statement: through writing. I know, songs have words, so do films and theatre, but some of us writers write books, stories, poems, tweets, and blogs. You name it. We word workers are into everything!

But I think it’s just nice to remember we are all activists, just by virtue of being writers. It’s a good thought don’t you agree?

I Can Type. Can You? Try it: You'll Like it

We all use keyboards every day. This means we all type in some form or other every day as we interact with our keyboards. And of course this doesn't just apply to the writers (or wannabes) amongst us: even to keep the most basic of blogs, one has to type in the words.
But how many of us can actually type? I mean as in with all fingers, in the right order and without having to watch each finger as it struggles to find the right key. According to some research I read recently, there aren't many computer users who can type in a structured way. Most just peck away, one or two or more fingers at a time, struggling to make the words come out on the screen in a readable way.
And what's worse is that this same research suggests that as time goes by, the number of 'real typists' using computers is set to decline dramatically. Of course there is the argument (used by many to justify their own lack of skill in this area) that it's only a matter of time before speech recognition and keyless computers become the norm.
Well, I'm no tech geek, but I figure it's going to be a while before we reach that wonderful state of affairs. Sad or not, we are going to be using the old QWERTY or some other keyboards for some time to come.
I guess there are many many people who are quite happy using the reach and peck method, or are contented to be using two fingers to type a word every minute. But what of all the others who might want to get the words onto the screen just a little bit quicker?
About 20 years ago (actually it was 24 years now I think about it, but hey who's gonna count?) I decided that I hated my handwriting so much, that I needed to do something about it. Also, times were such that submitting articles and so on to newspapers etc, had to be typed to be taken seriously. Also I was seriously into letter writing (remember letters? That's another cool topic for another day), and nobody I am sure enjoyed getting my scrawled pages. I figured that nice, neat typewritten pages were what my readers deserved.
So I found a night school class at the local high school. Ten weeks I think it was, though it might have been five or six. A couple of hours one night a week of torturous drills and repetitive exercises. I was convinced for most of that course that I would never be able to type accurately, much less with any kind of speed.
Then, on the second last night I think it was, I realised suddenly that I was typing. I was using ten fingers, hitting mostly the right keys, without looking, without even being conscious of the process. I tell you people, it was magic, truly magic.
Since then I have had jobs that I wouldn't have had if I hadn't been able to type; I've progressed from typewriters, to word processors, to desk tops computers, to this machine I love so much: my laptop (which is actually on my lap as I type). My speed had increased so I now type I guess about 60 words per minute with reasonable accuracy (most of the time at least). In summary, I can't imagine not being able to type.
I've often said that learning to type properly was one of the best things I ever did in my life. And, yes, I think it is. Certainly from a work, writing, communication point of view, there is no doubt: being able to type as I do has been a liberation, on a par with learning to drive and having my own car. A miracle? In a sense you could say it is, yes.
As I said, it seemed hard at the time, like I would never get it. But, there I was that night just typing. Just like now, but probably a bit slower.
So, for anyone wanting to improve their ability to communicate; for anyone wanting to be able to get their words and thoughts out as quickly as they come to mind (well I do think faster than I can type, like most people I guess. But it beats doing it with two fingers); for people who just want to be able to interact in a more intuitive way with the amazing technology we have at our disposal, then learning to type is for you!
There are night school and other places that put on typing classes. And there are quite a few online programs, and it seems many of them are free. Of course there is a load of teach yourself typing software you can buy. There are a lot of options.
So, why not? I love that I can type as I do with all my fingers,without looking at the keys (or even the screen if I don't want to or can't for some reason), without thinking about every letter. It is freedom for anyone who uses a keyboard.
I say try it. You won't regret it and you will probably, like me, surprise yourself at how useful, how much fun, how rewarding and satisfying it is to type well...or touch type as we typists call it!
Good Luck

Is Life Too Short for Perfect Writing?

Having heard of an interesting piece of graffiti, I went to see and photograph it just the other day. It is a statement that reads, simply, Life’s too short for perfect writing. Simple on the surface, but it is a deceptive idea, and one that I at least should examine carefully.

The first thing to say is that the statement does not say that life is too short for goodwriting: in my opinion there is no place for any other kind. Here good for me refers to the intention of the writer: not all of us are gifted authors (though some of us can dream!). So, it is the word perfect that gives us trouble here. Of course a thing-whether writing or any other thing- might be perfect by its nature or by the way in which it is able to express its purpose. It is the persuit of perfection (as opposed to the persuit of excellence: the two are not the same) that life is too short for I think.

Perfectionism is a curse! At least it has been for me. Nothing has ever been good enough, mainly because I have never been satisfied with my efforts. Of course being cursed with perfectionism doesn’t only apply to oneself: all people and all things in one’s life are affected and the curse rolls on and on doing its damage and preventing authenticity, full truth and life to express itself.

The other part of this statement worth looking at is Life’s too short. By itslef it is not in dispute: life is what life is; it can be niether too short or too long, it can only be its perfect (you see? here is a use of perfect in a natural and correct context) length. And this is precisely why it is too short for perfect writing that is created via a perfectionist attitude.

Life is for living. There is no meaning to it outside of that which we create during our time of living, and then it is only for the duration of that life (as far as we can know of course). A part of that meaning, for me as for many many other writers, is to write. And it is required of us to make that writing as good (however we define that) as we can. If our writing communicates the intended ideas in a way that our readers can relate to, then it is perfect. There is no need to think about it anymore.

Thank you

PS My partner says that maybe I have taken this graffiti message on board: she says my writing is getting better and better. I am not concious of letting go of my perfectionism, but it is one of those things that lives below the surface and it isn’t always available to scrutiny. Time will tell. By the way, the statement appeared at the bottom of a cafe menu scrawled onto an old iron sheeting fence behind the cafe, near the river near where we live. It, I think, refers to the untidyness of the handwriting on the sign. A sort of apology I guess. Interesting.

PPS This post has been copied from my other blog over at Wordpress. Not that I am being lazy, just that I want to share this post with more of my legions of fans!