Chris Ord's Blog, page 4

My rude awakening

My rude awakeningTwenty years ago I was living in India, a country that changed my life. I can’t think of any other place that has opened my eyes to so many new possibilities, experiences and ways of seeing the world. Despite all its beauty and excitement India was a disturbing place, full of contradictions. I saw a country full of pride, energy, ambition, life, but I also witnessed pain, suffering, deprivation, death. India woke me from the comfort of my Western slumber, but it was a rude awakening, an experience I will never forget.We arrived in Delhi at night and slept in the airport. All warnings were to avoid local taxis, as the scamming of tourists was rife. Following a sleepless night we travelled into the urban madness at dawn, jet-lagged and exhausted. The bus was little more than a steel carcass on wheels, creaking and groaning around every corner. Its limitations were of no concern to the driver who took bends at alarming speed. I felt sure the bus would disintegrate at any moment, hurling the menagerie of people, luggage, and livestock onto the dusty roads. I had never seen any vehicle so crammed, as everyone appeared to be carrying the contents of their home with them. Some were.As we raced through the choking streets the city began to stir, bodies emerging from pavements wrapped in flimsy, filthy rags. Bicycles darted in front of us, the riders oblivious to oncoming traffic. Cows wandered across roads and strolled wherever at will, the only time the bus slowed for anything. We pulled to a halt and our bags were thrown on the street, the signal we had arrived. This was somewhere, anywhere, we weren’t sure where, the crazy, frustrating, exhilarating journey had begun.Family and friends thought we were mad. We had given up rewarding teaching jobs, good salaries, and a luxury apartment in Portugal. We were walking away from a relaxed Mediterranean lifestyle, wonderful climate, the stereo, T.V, dishwasher, mobile phone, security, prospects, all mod cons and consumer durables. They failed to realise this was what we feared most. Comfort and conformity were what we were running away from. Once the plan was set we packed boxes, flew home, and filled spare bedrooms with our limited possessions. After a string of injections, emergency dental work and further casual planning we flew East.The question everyone kept asking was - why India? I had often asked myself the same thing and it was at the forefront of my mind as I stood by the roadside gazing in bewilderment at the insane Delhi morning.For many of the backpacker generation India was the destination. It probably still is. Though I have matured now, become domesticated, and wouldn’t know what young travellers crave anymore. Back in the day, India topped the travel list of every post-graduate who planned a year around the world before plunging into the rat-race. It was the ultimate travel cliché, the end of the hippie-trail and the place to really be. India was the country that would ask the most questions and allow you to discover, both the country and yourself. I heard about the road to enlightenment a lot in my twenties and treated it with great scepticism. Yet travel I did, and it was the East that intrigued me most. Finally seduced we found ourselves standing by the roadside that morning waiting for our own epic saga to unfold. Something had drawn me to this bewildering and bewitching part of the world. It would reveal so much more than I ever imagined.The thing people mentioned a lot about India was the poverty. Many asked how we would cope. I knew we wouldn’t need to. We were wealthy foreign tourists, it was the poor that had to deal with destitution. We would just dip in and out again, voyeurs, something to chalk on the list of life experiences. The poverty was something to observe or ignore, and hopefully forget. Except I didn’t ignore it, and nor could I forget. It left a huge impression, so much so I refocused my future career plans, returned to University, renewed my youthful passion to change the world. India really did change my life.Some of the images I witnessed were the most moving and disturbing I have ever seen. Only the callous and cold hearted could fail to be horrified by the sight of a young child lying by a sewer with broken, twisted limbs begging for a few rupees. In many cases the disfigurements are inflicted by the parents. Young beggars generate more pity and revenue this way. This is the economics of poverty on the street. Something many of us have lost sight of as we have scaled Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Only the indifferent could turn their eyes away from haggard old ladies ravaged with leprosy, clinging to life as they thrust their gnarled, crumbling limbs towards you. Only the ignorant could witness the desolate, tarpaulin jungles that litter the edge of the cities populated by the faceless and forgotten, and not be moved to quiet anger and despair. This is poverty on another scale, the kind we have out-sourced to the developing world along with the sweatshops feeding our insatiable desire for cut-price goods. It’s the poverty we pretend doesn’t exist. It does, just somewhere else.I had always known that India was a country with widespread poverty, but I had never imagined what it really meant, how it happened. For me, poverty in the ‘developing world’ was the shocking images of starvation in the famine of 1985 in Ethiopia. Poverty was an abstract, something that happened to others, something I only had to think about once in a while when the charity marathons hit the screens. Those smiling celebrities would persuade me to don the cloak of charity and absolve my guilt for another year. Poverty was isolated, sporadic, something caused by the weather, droughts, earthquakes, natural disasters. People starved because it never rained and they couldn’t grow enough food to eat. I really was that ignorant. I saw poverty as natural, a consequence of mis-fortune, an accident of birth. There but for the grace.It was in India that a young man in his twenties found something shocking about the world, and even more disturbing about himself. India was my rude awakening.There are more poor people in India than any other nation on earth. In a world which heralds the triumph of democracy it is worth considering that the largest democratic nation on earth fails to provide adequate food, water, housing and sanitation for a large proportion of its people. While western travellers waltz through on their fleeting journeys, the world at large is content to ignore the fact that one third of the people in the world’s second most populous nation are living way below the poverty line. There are more poor in India than the entire U.S. population. Poverty is a huge part of India, and perhaps we choose to ignore it because it is easier for us if we do. Many of us ignore poverty everywhere, even on our doorsteps, but it is far easier at a distance.India has no major oil reserves, and despite nuclear capabilities poses little real military threat to the major world powers. It is of strategic importance in a complex geo-political area, and the tensions with neighbouring countries particularly Pakistan make it delicate flashpoint. However, this tension is isolated and contained. India cherishes its independence, and has both a nuclear power and space programme. The government choosing to pump billions into prestige not the poor. It is a country with global political ambitions to match its population and pride. However, both the Indian state and the nations of the west are content to sit back and allow many of its people to starve. At the time of my visit in the 90s despite having half the population of China, India had twice as many poor people and four times as many extremely poor. The Indian economy has grown rapidly since then, the prosperity trickling no further than the smallest percentage at the top. While we speak of the triumph of freedom and democracy around the world, we might consider that the largest democratic nation on earth fails its people in so many ways. The inequality in India is acute and growing. The democratic government is failing the majority off its people.It is important to clarify this notion of poverty, as it is very difficult for us in the rich, industrialised North to envisage its true nature. The poverty which affects most of the world’s poor is chronic and abject. This poverty is most clearly defined in terms of malnutrition, a prolonged, debilitating form of poverty, a slow killer. Lacking anything like the necessary daily nutrition levels, protracted malnutrition weakens its victims making them vulnerable to fatal disease and illness. This is how most of the world’s poor die.The shocking images of charity campaigns are hard for us to comprehend. Yet, they are a reality that does not represent the whole truth. The poverty of famine and disaster is most often direct, dramatic and concentrated in a region or country. Silent poverty, the real killer is far more disparate, insipid, and extreme. Perhaps it would be better for the poor if there were more media grabbing large scale famines or floods. It seems only these shocking instances make a newsworthy story. The grim truth receives far less attention. Malnutrition kills far more people than starvation, however it is less concentrated and occurs day in day out across the poor areas of the world. It is the slow, silent killer, and it is easy for the world to ignore.Poverty is political. People do not die from malnutrition by accident or environment. They die because humanity allows this to happen. Poverty abounds with myth, but it is preventable. Ideas about weather, drought and desert wastelands only mask the truth. People do not die as a result of insufficient food production, they die because they cannot afford to buy food. The problem is access. In the case of India, at least one third of the population suffer from malnutrition, yet it is a country that is self-sufficient in food production. In the 1985 famine India donated substantial quantities of food aid to Ethiopia. A wealthy nation helping the destitute of a poor nation in need while many of its own people starve. Therein lies the contradiction. As with most countries, the right to eat in India is dependent on access and wealth alone.The same is true of the other basic necessities of human existence such as clean water, shelter, health care and education - political and preventable. Statistics on global poverty are shameful and shocking. Half the world’s people are without adequate supplies of safe drinking water, and 80% of all sickness in the world is as a result of this. In addition, half the world live in substandard housing or are totally homeless. One third are malnourished and one in seven are chronically malnourished, in that they are unable to maintain their body weight. Nearly half the world are illiterate and 99% do not have any post-compulsory education.Consider these figures as part of the 7 billion plus people in the world, then the extent of the poverty is staggering. Well over one billion of the people in the world live in abject poverty, without access to basic nutrition or health care. Of these, two-thirds live in the densely populated areas of South Asia, of which India is a major part. The average income per person in India is $1,500 per year. Hundreds of millions of people have incomes far below this figure. Around 60% of the population live on less than $4 per day.In 2016 Oxfam reported that the 62 richest people in the world owned the same combined wealth as half of the world’s poorest. The richest 1% own more than the rest of the world in total. Since 2010, the report said, the wealth of the poorest people has declined by 41% and the wealth of these 62 richest people has gone up to $1.76 trillion. Of these 62 people, four are Indians. India is the second most unequal country in the world with the top one per cent of the population owning nearly 60% of the total wealth.These statistics in themselves are damning enough, yet put in more crude terms they become even more indefensible. Every 10 seconds somewhere in the world a child dies as a result of malnutrition. That’s 360 every hour, over 8,600 every day, 3.2 million every year. That is the equivalent of the population of Seattle. Yet the world produces more than enough food to feed these children and enough income to nourish them, but due to the uneven distribution of wealth and their lack of access to food on the basis of wealth, neither their families nor their states can afford to feed them. These children die as a result of poverty which is caused by man and can be solved by man. Finally, the most morally shameful statistic of all is in the same ten seconds these children die the world spends over $530,000 on military forces. This represents a thousandth of the amount that would save a child’s life.This was my rude awakening. If India is the world’s largest democracy what did its poverty and acute, growing inequality say about the credibility of the liberal democratic experiment and the era of globalisation. Of course, this is not just an Indian problem, it simply highlighted a much wider problem. Poverty and inequality are global, a symptom of globalisation which far from being the path to greater prosperity is a key part of the problem. The promised riches only trickle to some, the smallest minority at the top. Globalisation and liberalisation are failing. The reasons why I will leave for another discussion.2016 has been a year of turmoil and dramatic change. We are entering an era of instability and uncertainty. Many questions are being asked about what went wrong, what is still going wrong, and how we fix it. These crises come in waves, no doubt a sticking plaster will be found, at least until next time. The poorest are being made to pay for the crimes of the rich, and the arrogance and mis-management of the political classes. The poorest with a voice are biting back.The events of the past year drew me back to my travels many years ago. Reflecting back on my time in India I felt we should have seen this coming. Many did, but few listened. India helped me found so much about myself, it answered many questions, but left me with a good many more. One was the most important question of all, the one we don’t ask enough - is this the kind of world we want to live in? I still ask myself the same question twenty years on. I still find myself reaching the same conclusion. I wanted to change the world, I am seeking answers instead. We can be better than this. We have to be.

'David Bowie: The Last Five Years: Review'

Like many of you I watched the Bowie documentary ‘David Bowie: The Last Five Years’ on Saturday night. I had a few tears, as it was everything I wanted it to be, full of fascinating footage, mostly unseen, and insightful interviews with friends and colleagues. The final five years of Bowie’s life were as they should be - private, peaceful and spent in the company of those he loved. Little did we or even he know what was to come. If only we all had the gift of knowing when. The health scare a few years earlier had clearly scared him. The fear and urgency from this boosted an unprecedented creativity which still burned bright and gave us the gift of two albums, his final, and amongst his finest. ‘Blackstar’ in particular is up there with Bowie’s very best work.The programme opened up these years providing a wonderful insight into the development of the albums, as well as the musical Lazarus, a life ambition achieved. We have the benefit of hindsight and know how this story ended. Bowie did not, at least not until the final three months. Even then he fought his death with dignity and defiance. Not even the gods can cheat death. His immortality lies in his work which will never be forgotten and cherished by generations to come. We are the blessed though. We walked the Earth in his time.A theme explored throughout the documentary and Bowie’s career was his ambivalence towards fame. One of his many well-known songs deals with its perils. Bowie made no secret that he disliked many elements of his popularity - the intrusion, the lack of privacy, and the feeling his life and soul were being opened up and picked over by strangers. Yet there had been a strong drive and desire for success from the earliest part of his career in the sixties. Despite a number of false starts Bowie never gave up. Dogged and determined, he never stopped believing that one day people would get it and his career would take off. With Space Oddity it did.There is an apparent contradiction here, one we often perceive with the rich and famous. They seem to crave success, but when it comes they reject it and complain. In gifting them success the public, press, and fans feel there is some entitlement, maybe even a sense of ownership. We have a right to know. That is the price you pay, the deal you struck, now it’s payback. This tension runs through the careers of many and with Bowie it was no exception. He was more famous than most, hence it seemed all the more acute. In his latter years Bowie fought to keep this privacy. The secrecy and silence made the surprise of those last two albums and even greater stroke of genius. Even his death was orchestrated to perfection, a masterstroke in marketing, contradictory to the very end.One of the contributors made a crucial point, I can’t recall who. They stressed that Bowie was never interested in fame itself. What drove him was the need to create, and the resources to follow his dreams. He knew that fame would give him the freedom to explore, despite all he would have to sacrifice, and its many dangers. Just like Major Tom. Bowie wasn’t interested in things, he craved experiences. His was a creative energy desperate to keep moving forward, try new projects, explore different ideas. Bowie was change and reinvention, it was the very core of his creativity. As Dylan once said ‘He not busy being born is busy dying.’ Bowie understood this better than any other artist, and even in his dying he was being born again. For me, this lesson is Bowie’s greatest gift of all.

A Piece of Me

People ask me if ‘Becoming’ is about me. It is and it isn’t. The book is about Gaia, Aran, Freya, and Yann. It’s about their struggle to find themselves, who they are in a harsh and oppressive world. It’s also about the struggle all young people go through, finding who they want to be. The journey which is the most difficult of them all. The one that never ends.Education had a major impact on my life. It was my route to freedom. I grew up in a small coastal village in the North East in the eighties. There weren’t many opportunities for young working class kids. The pits were closing and what little industry there had been was dying. The service economy hadn’t really found its way up north. It was a period of major change and education was my way of taking some control of my life and escaping. Part me didn’t want to leave. I guess I was afraid, and lacked the confidence. I knew I had to though. I had to do something different. My head was where my talent lay, and my teachers managed to unlock it. Some of them saw the potential, despite my best efforts to fight it. I was fortunate enough to do well in my exams despite a lack of effort. I had a second chance and I took it and went to university.Once I’d left university and done a bit of traveling I decided I wanted to give something back, help influence and inspire the lives of others. Education had changed my life, and I thought it had the power to do the same for others. I became a teacher first, travelled the world. When I returned I moved into universities again, taught for a while then moved into policy and research. I wasn’t in education policy long before realising I was too naive. Things weren’t as I imagined or would have liked them to be. Education was all about putting young people into boxes, training them for the needs of UK plc. It wasn’t about finding the talent or creativity of young people, but sifting through to find the obedient ones who were good at maths and English. It was narrow, oppressive. It was failing our kids.I don’t blame the teachers or the heads. They have a lot of responsibility and very little power or real choice. The rhetoric is all about giving them power, but league tables, tests, and Ofsted force them into narrower choices. Policy is about the illusion of power while making headteachers take decisions the government wants. Education is ideological, and in constant change. No-one in the profession wants this. They need stability and the freedom to do their jobs. Teaching is filled with inspiring and creative people. Who would choose to be a teacher unless they wanted to change lives. There are far easier ways of making a living.I believe every child is special. Everyone has a talent and something to offer. It’s the job of education to find that talent, nurture it, help it grow. Each young person has to find their own sense of freedom and best way to contribute to the community and wider society. I tried to write a story about the struggle of being young, of growing up, of ‘Becoming.’ Freedom, rebellion, finding yourself were all themes that preoccupied my teenage years. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. So yes, ‘Becoming’ is a bit about me, but I hope it’s a bit about all of us. For the reader to see some of themselves in a story is the best any writer can hope to achieve.

Review of a fantastic year

I've had a tremendous year and today I reflect on the past twelve months as the guest on Vic Watson's blog. Thanks to all of you for making this year such a success. We live as we dream, alone, but it is others who break the spell and make life magical.Click on the photo to read my review of 2016.

Fred Jones, Pt. 2

I went to see Ben Folds at the Sage last year. I’ve seen him a few times. He’s one of those artists that never disappoints. Not only is he a wonderful songwriter, but he is witty, engaging and performs like he’s having a ball and cares. It’s important for me that an artist appreciates their fans.All Ben Folds gigs are special events, but this one had something extra. He was performing with the Royal Northern Sinfonia orchestra and part of the show was dedicated to a concerto he had written. Ben had never composed a concerto before, but had been approached by someone to write one. There was some reluctance at first, it was a big leap into the unknown, something he’d never thought about doing. It seemed a huge undertaking. However, Ben worked out that if he wrote a certain number of bars of music every day then at the end of the year he would have a concerto of the required length. Ben accepted the commission and I’m glad, the concerto was fantastic. You wonder why he ever doubted himself, but you so often do. Self-doubt is the biggest barrier to creativity.At the time of the concert I was about to leave work and embark on writing my novel. Ben’s approach to composing his concerto was the same I had decided to adopt for my writing. I had a daily target of at least one thousand words and aimed to write between eighty and one hundred thousand for a complete first draft. One hundred days was all it would take to write it. Hearing one of my musical heroes say he had taken the same approach reassured me. Perhaps this was how all creatives worked. Break it down, piece by piece. Don’t be overwhelmed by the long journey, just focus on each stage at a time. I’d never thought of myself as being a creative before, but I wanted to be one. It wasn't just about writing a novel. It was about finding a different kind of purpose, a new me, a deeper happiness.The remainder of the concert was filled with some of his classics, the orchestral backing giving a new dimension to the songs. There was also the delight of seeing Ben write a new song on stage, building it step by step using fragments of melodies suggested by the audience and members of the orchestra. It was stunning to watch this process and exhilarating to be a part of the creation of a new song. It took audience participation to another level. The term genius is too often thrown around, but in my view of the few that deserve the description I’d class Ben Folds as one. It astonishes me that he isn’t better known. Fame is seldom the best indicator of class.The concert had a profound effect on me. They usually do, but this was different. It was a one off, but it also came at a tricky time in my personal life. I was in a transitional moment, one of those major life shifts. I have too many, but they’re usually of my own making so I live with the consequences. ‘He not busy being born is busy dying,’ one of the many great Dylan lines, and the one I had adopted as my mantra for life. Change is good, and it was time for another. I was about to give up my job, and I felt more vulnerable than I wanted to admit.Then Ben played the song. That song. The one I hoped he would play, but part of me wished he hadn’t. The song was ‘Fred Jones, Pt. 2.’ It’s about a man who is retiring from his job of twenty five years. It’s a moving ballad with only a piano backing Ben’s fragile delivery. The lyrics describe Fred’s last day in the office, his feelings of sadness, how things have moved on, and the people have changed. Few of his colleagues know who he is anymore, none seem to care that he is leaving. Fred reminisces about his first days in the job, the sense of excitement we so often feel when we embark on a new career. It’s the time we are still filled with the optimism of youth, and blinded by the endless possibilities.The years roll by and we convince ourselves we matter to the organisation. Without us the place wouldn’t be the same. We are important, an essential part of what makes the company successful. Age brings wisdom and perhaps the realisation that we are important, but never as much as we’d like to think. Yes, the organisation needs us. Without people companies are nothing but ideas, or names. As individuals we bring special skills, drive, our own ideas and personality. Organisations need that. People are their greatest asset. Then the day approaches when we see the end, and realise we are expendable. Replaceable. Whilst we are important, there are others who can and will do what we do, and will fill our roles when we’re no longer needed. The organisation needs people, but it will survive without us.For some that is a slow and creeping journey that leads through to retirement. Perhaps, they leave more fulfilled and content. The pension probably helps. For others the realisation is more immediate and shocking, delivered with the cold brutality of redundancy. In my case it was a bit of both. I’d spent fifteen years in the sector and was leaving by choice, albeit one that was forced to some extent by the dwindling number of funds and options at the Council.Despite my choosing to walk away and take a positive step to try something new the lead in to my departure was tougher than I’d imagined. I became almost invisible, overlooked, humoured. On a personal level I was still respected by my colleagues, but on a professional level I felt under-valued, even worthless. The phone stopped ringing, the emails dried up, the invitations to meetings dwindled. I still had all the knowledge and skills, but had no resources, no power, no influence, no future. I no longer mattered.We define a big part of ourselves through our work. By necessity it can dominate our lives. There are bills to be paid, holidays to save for, things to buy, Christmas is never far off. It’s better to sell your skills in a role you find rewarding and feel valued. Some are lucky enough to find those roles. So often work takes over. Even in those roles of our choosing we become seduced by aspiration, promotions, the drive to succeed, the desire to prove ourselves. In turn, we can sacrifice other things, the most precious of all being time. If only I had more time. As I’ve gotten older I’ve come to know myself better. Self knowledge costs nothing, but is priceless. I have come to realise that time is thing I crave most of all. Time with my wife, Julie, my four boys, my wider family. Time. Before it’s too late and the day comes when we realise we are all Fred Jones.When I got home from the concert I couldn’t sleep so I wrote a poem:His time has comeHe sits and staresRedundant screenAlone a crowded roomSecond hand ticks onwardConducting birth to tombThey carry onRegardlessTruth is no one caresOn the desk a box lies waitingHis life for thirty yearsCareer packed upAnd filed awayMaking way for someone newNever thought it would end like thisNone of us ever doThe gifts, the cardsBest wishesEmpty thoughts all melt like snowAwkward laughs and whispersGuilt they dare not showThirty years beforeThis daySat in that same seatThe joy of his potentialWorld knelt at his feetIn blinkered youthWe all believeOur path the chosen oneThen we come to pack our boxesThe day our time has comeBeware that empty pathwayPromise neverAs it seemsBe busy being born each dayWe are the stuff of dreams

Guest blog from Victoria Watson - Halloween

Victoria Watson copy edited my debut novel 'Becoming.' The book is better thanks to her keen eye and constructive comments. Vic is my guest blogger today and talks about Halloween as an inspirational time for writers and some forthcoming events with her writing group.Funnily enough, Halloween is my busiest time of year. OK, you may think that with a face like this one, I must get plenty of work as a witch but thankfully that’s not why my diary is so full.Funnily enough, Halloween is my busiest time of year. OK, you may think that with a face like this one, I must get plenty of work as a witch but thankfully that’s not why my diary is so full.As a Creative Writing tutor, I run two weekly groups in Newcastle (Mondays, 7-9pm at Quilliam Brothers Teahouse) and Whitley Bay (Thursdays, 4-6pm at Di Meo’s Delaval Ices) and members of my groups – the so-called Elementary Writers – have been giving performances at different events and venues for a few years now.In October 2013, we put on Thrills ‘n’ Chills at the Avalon in Whitley Bay. Members of the group were tasked with creating original horror stories to perform in front of an audience which included writers Zoe Sharp and Rod Glenn. Well, that evening went so well that Wild Wolf Publishing offered to put together an anthology of the poetry and short stories featured at that event. To launch the book, ‘Thrills ‘n’ Chills’, readers performed their works at the historic Lit and Phil to a packed audience.Last summer, I was approached by The Cumberland Arms to produce their Halloween show. The brief was simple: create original gothic horror stories and get dressed up. We were asked to write ghost stories as opposed to graphic horror. Candy skulls and gore were out, old fashioned Victorian gothic was in. The set, designed by the incredibly talented Ian J. Young, was beyond what I could have ever imagined and the lighting added to the atmosphere of the evening. I even got to lay flowers on my own grave! The writers who were involved thrived on the challenge and their original stories and poems got the attention of Wild Wolf Publishing once again. ‘Blood from the Quill’ was released in April this year and, finally, Elementary Writers will officially launch the book at October’s Stanza (Thursday, 20th October at Beldon’s at The Exchange in North Shields).Following our sell-out performance at the Cumberland last year, we were in demand for this Halloween. Our gig at Old Low Light – ‘The Visitation’ (Saturday, 29th October) – was booked in March and we’ve since added ‘After Dark’ at Tynemouth Volunteer Life Brigade to our listings for Saturday, 5th November. Earlier this month, I had someone asking me what we had planned for Halloween 2017!All of this has made me reflect on why Elementary Writers are so popular at this time of year. Sure, we have other gigs throughout the year as a collective and as individuals, but October always seems particularly busy. Many of the writers who attend my workshops like to write sci-fi, horror and fantasy which seem to inspire strong ghost stories. However, even the writers who often write historical fiction or contemporary tales relished the challenge of producing something original to a specific brief. I’m very lucky that the writers who attend my workshops are open-minded and willing to experiment. And many of them really seemed to enjoy the performance element of picking costumes and being onstage.So, whether you’d like to hear ‘Blood from the Quill’ works read aloud or if you’d like to experience original Halloween stories for 2016, get yourself along to one of the performances coming in October and November, I guarantee you won’t be disappointed!Blood from the Quill launch at The Stanza: Thursday, 20th October – Beldons at The Exchange, Howard Street, North Shields. NE30 1SE. Doors open 7pm. £3 on the door.The Visitation at Old Low Light: Saturday, 29th October – Old Low Light, Clifford’s Fort, Fish Quay, North Shields. NE30 1JA. Doors open 7pm. Tickets can be bought through Eventbrite or by emailing admin@oldlowlight.co.ukAfter Dark at Tynemouth Volunteer Life Brigade: Saturday, 5th November – Tynemouth Volunteer Life Brigade Watch House Museum, Spanish Battery, North Shields. NE30 4DD. Doors open 7pm. Email enquiries@tvlb.org to book tickets.Victoria Watson is a copy-editor, writer and Creative Writing tutor. You can find out more about her business, Elementary V Watson at www.elementaryvwatson.com

Writing my first novel - reflections

Once you tell people you are a writer you realise how many others either are, or want to be. I read a recent survey that found writing was by far the most popular vocation people aspired to. It has a glamour and mystique, and everyone has a story. I always encourage people to find their story and have the confidence to tell it. Don't be daunted by the mountain. Writing a novel is best viewed in stages. Completing each stage is an achievement in itself and will spur you to the end. You can do it. Small steps. One word at a time. That is all. Just choose the right ones.Something people ask me a lot is what it is like writing a book and what I have learned from it. Here are a few of my thoughts. I’m sure they will echo with many writers in all stages of their careers. Hopefully, they will reassure and encourage those who are aspiring writers, or those who have hit one of the many barriers we all face. Writing is often a lonely task, but you are never alone. There are others and many willing to help. So here goes:1. Writing is a thrilling and frustrating experience. Every day you get the chance to create your own world, but some days that world is hard to find. Don’t let the hurdles put you off. Overcoming them is part of what makes writing such a rewarding achievement.2. Don’t try to write the next Booker prize or classic novel. I know all writers think they will, but they probably won’t. If you approach writing with your ego you’ll be crippled by the tyranny of the blank page. It isn’t the page that’s being brutal, you are punishing yourself. Free yourself from the staring eyes of others and simply write the best story you can at that moment. What more can anyone ask? As writers we are lucky. We get to create, so rather than tyranny see the endless possibilities.3. Write about something you love. If you do the chances are the passion will show and the reader might just love it all the more because of it.4. Write with a person in mind. I wrote ‘Becoming’ for my eldest son Jake. I wanted to write a story that captures the struggle of growing up, and making the difficult and scary transition into the adult world. I wanted to inspire him to find and do what he loves. Like everyone, I guess I'd like my kids to follow their hearts and realise their dreams. We influence our kids in more ways than we, or they will probably ever know.5. One of the most painful things we all have to learn is being a writer and becoming a published author are two very different worlds. It is a tough industry and there are more writers and books out there than ever. The reader is swamped with choice and so are agents and publishers. However, with the challenges come new opportunities. Do your research. There are more options than ever open to writers these days. There are pros and cons to all routes, but in broad terms the choices in publishing seem to be mainstream and indie.6. Be warned. If you set your heart on the mainstream path you need to learn to cope with rejection. Your submission will be cast aside for many reasons, often not the quality of the work. It is the norm. Don’t take it too personally. Be resilient and keep persevering. Believe in your work and if you get a sense it isn’t good enough then improve. Many great writers have been rejected, including literary classics. Many published authors still are. Take heart from this, or look at the alternatives. The mainstream route is not always the best for everyone. Know yourself.7. There are lots of indie options available these days including independent publishers, online ebooks, and print on demand. Plus the old vanity routes still exist where you pay someone to produce the books for you. A lot of indie routes have advantages. Online options such as Amazon have much better financial returns per book. They allow you to publish books much quicker with the author maintaining full artistic control. The downside is you need to work much harder on marketing. It’s hard to get discovered as an indie writer. You may sacrifice sales for freedom. It’s all about priorities. Independent authors have to wear a lot more hats. You do everything, not just write. There are other options now such as releasing via blogs or serialisation. New opportunities emerge all the time. I know I need to keep up with these developments.8. If we’re honest I think most writers still hope they get signed with a mainstream publisher. We all know the big advance, literary prizes, film deal, and best seller flying off the shelves are the stuff of dreams, but we dream about it anyway. We are writers, and more prone to dreaming. Reality is a lot more sobering. The publisher is shouldering the risk so takes the lion's share of the profits. You are selling the rights to your work to them and in exchange they are investing in you in the hope the book will sell and make them a profit and you an income. Very few writers become rich, only a small number are able to make a decent living. If you want to be rich there are better ways of making a fortune than writing. Most writers do it because they have to, they feel a compulsion to tell their story. They put up with the struggle for the personal reward not the financial. The dream of big advances and prizes can be seductive, but few mainstream writers last beyond a couple of books. The vast majority of mainstream books don’t make a profit and every year agents and publishers have meetings about who they are going to drop. By all means explore the mainstream route, as most of us will. Be realistic though, and don’t be too hard on yourself. Whatever happens keep writing. You may never publish a book, but you can always be a writer. Only you can make that choice.9. Lots of writers are more open to exploring the opportunities that independent publishing offers. There are zealots on either extremes that can make a strong case for both routes. The key is to find the best path for you. I am still open minded in terms of the publishing options. I see advantages and issues with both routes, but it would be good to have as many options as possible open. At this stage I see the independent route as appealing and exciting mostly for the faster timescales and greater creative control. It allows people the chance to read my work, and provides me with an opportunity to learn about the process and understand the best ways to disseminate my books more widely. I love writing, but connecting with new readers and exploring how to reach a wider audience is important too. I want to learn how to be a better writer and author. Maybe I just like to be in control.I have found something I love. Writing is a challenge, but also a joy. Publishing a book is a whole different puzzle, fascinating and frustrating. Being a writer and an author present different issues, but you can find the solution that works for you. Be patient and persistent. I’m about to publish my debut novel ‘Becoming.’ It’s the end of one journey, but a part of what I intend to be a much longer one. I’m proud that I have written a novel. It is an achievement and I have learnt so much along the way. I will take what I’ve learned and use it to help me write and publish more books. I can do it. Small steps. One word at a time. That is all. I just need to choose the right ones.

My great love

Many of you who know me will know that my great love is music. I play the horn and play in the band of the village where I grew up, Newbiggin by the Sea in Northumberland. We're playing in the National Finals in Cheltenham on Saturday 17th September. The fact it is Newbiggin band makes it extra special for me. Newbiggin is where I grew up, where many of my family still live, it holds many special memories, lifelong friends. Like most Newbiggin families we go back generations, and we're all related to everyone else. Newbiggin is one big, dysfunctional family. We argue, we fight, but we all love each other really. At their best the people make you proud. Moments like this are important for a community. They remind us of what unites, of our common heritage. There is no better way to unite than music, and no better music than brass bands.I've been involved in some amazing performances in music. None more so than a brass project in the summer of 2016 with Lucy Pankhurst. It was a collaborative project called 'Reflection Connection' with all the South-East Northumberland brass bands. It culminated in performances at the Miner's Picnic and the Sage, the latter in support of the virtuoso ensemble Mnozil Brass. It was a highlight of my musical career to date, and playing the Sage was a personal ambition.As part of the project a few of us put together digital stories with a local filmaker Alex Henry. Alex runs Curiosity Creative who do lots of visual arts activities. My story is about how I got into brass music and what it means to me. The video is available online by clickinghere. I really enjoyed the experience putting together and telling my short story. I hope you enjoy it.

Reflections on my hero

The first Bowie album I bought was 'Diamond Dogs.' I got it from the local record shop, Oliver's in Ashington. It was just about to close, and they were selling off their remaining stock. The album scared the shit out of me. I'd never heard anything like it, but there was something about the music, something special, strange. Like most of Bowie's stuff it didn't feel of this world. His voice, it was so distinctive. It was the most important album I ever bought.I used to play it to my girlfriends. Few lasted long. I blame Bowie, he scared them off. I painted my bedroom black, put up dark curtains, and would sit on my bed and listen for hours. Many other albums followed. Starving myself of lunch, and saving up my dinner money for each one in turn. It was the early stuff first, the 70s classics, that run of albums that few have matched for consistent brilliance, creativity, and reinvention. I reckon only Stevie Wonder and early Elton John had the same kind of run, but they were different. Bowie always had something more than music. Every one of those 70s Bowie albums was a treasure absorbing hours of my time. He cost me a small fortune, and at least a few exam grades. He repaid me though, gave me so much more, and kept on giving. He still does. No-one else comes close, or ever will. Who could ever replace Bowie?I sometimes try to choose my favourite Bowie album or track. You have the discussion with your mates. It’s what we do. We make lists, create hierarchies of value, influence, and greatness. We try to compare, even with the incomparable. It’s impossible with Bowie. You could pick any number, and I do. It used to be only the 70s stuff, plus ‘Scary Monsters.’ There is the occasional classic single after that. ‘Absolute Beginners’ is up there with his best, and ‘The Buddha of Suburbia.’ I think that is often over-looked. Then he released his last two, the final flourish, fearless in the face of death, the ‘Blackstar.’If I had to single out a track, there is one that I often mention. It’s simply because fewer people have heard it. Bowie left it off ‘Young Americans' despite it being an incredibly powerful and moving song. I think the reason why can be found in the lyrics. They’re naked, open and perhaps reveal more than Bowie wanted. He was plagued with cocaine-fuelled paranoia at the time, had visions of creatures watching him, lived on peppers and milk only.The song is 'Who Can I Be Now?' It’s a gorgeous track, steeped in the Philadelphia sound of the album it never made it onto. The song is about change. the constant theme in Bowie’s work. The title is a question we should all ask ourselves every day, because if we aren't changing, exploring, taking risks, and moving forward we are dying. Bowie understood this better than any other artist. Of all the gifts he has given me, that is the greatest.It's hard to put into words how much David Bowie means to me. Like so many I was devastated when he died. It was a shock, but it was also perfect Bowie, so beautifully orchestrated. Even in death he was a star. They named a constellation after him. How perfect. Billy Bragg has a theory that Bowie held the Universe together, and everything has been collapsing since his death. The world has changed.It was moving to see the tributes, how much he touched people’s lives. Whether you loved his music or not something you love was influenced and shaped by Bowie. I hear and see it in so much of popular music. He changed everything. He was a true creative visionary and though the term genius is often over-used, of the few that deserve the title Bowie is one.How do you deal with that kind of loss, of someone you have never met, but has played such a huge part in your life? Someone who has made you laugh and cry, shaped who you are. I did meet David Bowie once. We were in an arena with a few thousand others, but he sang to me, only me, I'm sure of that. We all are. If life is a gift then so is death. It teaches us that life is precious, shakes us from the mediocre and mundane, it reminds us to live. It helps us reflect on the life of the person we have lost, the special ones even more.I never knew David Bowie the man, what touched me all those years was the music, the wonderful, magical music. It was the characters and personas, the many different faces. I cried a lot when he died, but I got through it. I found a new beginning, an absolute beginning. Now I celebrate everything I love about Bowie, all that he has given me. When most of us die we will crumble to stardust, only the love will remain. People like Bowie leave so much more. They touch our soul, help us find who we are. That is why the artists, the poets, the musicians are the special ones. Everyone dies, but heroes live forever.

Twenty things about me

1. I speak as I find, and have little time for social niceties or small talk.2. My political hero is Gandhi, and musical hero is David Bowie.3. I haven’t eaten meat since 1991, and not drunk alcohol since August 2006.4. I am comfortable in my own company and like to spend time alone.5. I run over one thousand miles a year.6. I am excited by change and meeting new challenges.7. I admire creativity and think we should create more and consume less.8. I believe that the driving force of history is our ability to transform nature.9. I am petrified of rats.10. I adore music and fear a life without it.11. I am a musician, and play several instruments. My favourite and best is the horn, and I play solo horn for my hometown band. We are current North East champions in our section and National Finalists.12. When I was young I played in a band called ‘Smegma.’ People liked us and I would love to do a reunion gig.13. I attend a lot of concerts, usually over twenty every year. Flaming Lips and Lau are my favourite live bands.14. The album I love to listen to most is Hunky Dory by David Bowie.15. I prefer the company of women to men.16. I have no regrets and am proud of what I have achieved, but there is still so much I want to discover.17. I have travelled a lot, visiting over 30 countries, and lived in several including Turkey, Portugal, and India.18. I was once stopped by soldiers on the India/Pakistan border on suspicion of smuggling diamonds. I was innocent and managed to convince the soldiers who let me go.19. I believe my children will change the world.20. I have been with my wife Julie since 1986. I will forever cherish the day we met.