Alex George's Blog, page 17

Interview on "We Do Write"

I was recently contacted by Dorothy Dreyer, who runs the always interesting blog, We Do Write, which has great features about books generally and the publishing process in particular, and lots of interviews with writers.  Dorothy wanted to ask me a few questions for the blog, and of course I was delighted to answer them.  You can read the whole thing here.  There were some unusual questions – I have never been asked which super power I would choose before.  (Cue much late-night pondering.  Flight or invisibility?  Oh, the existential angst that ensued.)  Anyway, it was great fun to do and I'm grateful to Dorothy for the opportunity.

And to save anyone else the trouble of writing in to point out the mistake, I know that my character strangled chickens with her bare hands, not her bear hands.  I tried to pass this mistake off as being allied to the Second Amendment (if you have a right to bear arms, why not to bear hands, too?) but don't think anyone's buyin'.

Alphabet Efficiency

I love this.

Originally found here.

What Are You Thankful For?

[This is an older post that seemed appropriate to revisit today.  I finished my six-month rewrite of the manuscript yesterday and sent it back to my publisher in New York.  I think (and hope) that it is a much better book than it was six months ago.  I am certainly thankful for that.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.]

Hallam made a card for us yesterday.  This is what it said, creative spelling and all:

"I am thankful for:

Mom and Dad, school, home, your job, life!, Fred and Squirrel, Mendy and Michelle [his teachers!], Grandma and Grandpa, my friends, your cooking, books, clothes, your love, your persinality, fun, food, caring."

It's a pretty fabulous list.  I especially like the exclamation mark after life!

But something, or someone, is missing.  My parents are not on it.

It's not Hallam's fault, of course.  We live in America; they live in England.  He only sees them once or twice a year.  I know he loves them as much as his Grandma and Grandpa.  But his innocent omission made me sad.  I've written in this blog about different US/UK perspectives about things, but that's all just fluff.  When you choose to move your life half the way across the world, this is what matters.

When I told my parents that we were going to move to America, they were (or appeared to be) pretty stoical about it.  After all, they knew the territory: my mother moved to England from New Zealand to marry my father.  I told them that on aggregate they would end up spending more time with us, as visits would be for weeks, not afternoons.  It turns out that I was right about this, but as my mother says, it's not the same.  And she's right.  We can't visit on a whim, just for an afternoon.  We go for months, and months, and months, without seeing each other.  They are not getting the chance to watch their grandchildren grow up, the way grandparents should.

Now, we have it lucky compared to what they went through a generation earlier.  When my mother traveled to England, she came on a boat.  (Sorry, Mum.)  People wrote letters that took weeks to arrive.  A three minute telephone call cost a week's salary.  We're very fortunate that we can afford to fly across the Atlantic every year.  I only spent time with my grandparents twice that I can remember, when I was five and seven.  I did not know them, except through my mother's stories (which were many, thankfully.)

In contrast, I speak with my Mum and Dad at length every week.  We email; we do facebook and can post photos instantly; sometimes we do iChat and send videos.  (Sometimes they even read this blog.)  So we keep in touch, better than we ever could have before.  And I'm thankful for that.

But it's not the same.

Writer's Toy

This is my new writer's toy.  I believe it's called a "lapdesk".  It's a desk that sits on your lap.

Hence, "lapdesk."

Stop me if I'm going too quickly for you.

Look.  It even has its very own light.  All mod cons, you see.

My wife bought this for me yesterday.  Now, rather than sitting at my desk all day, I can lounge around the house, editing my manuscript with my trusty blue biro wherever I please.  I don't know that this will cause a sudden surge in productivity, to be honest.  But it's awfully nice.

Polishing, or some heavier equivalent, continues apace.  I should be finished in a couple of weeks.  Then the big question is: what on earth am I supposed to do with myself once I've sent the manuscript back to New York?

Polish, Schmolish

After a busy weekend, I'm just over half-way through my final polish of the manuscript before sending it back to my editor and publisher.  Things have been going smoothly enough, but occasionally I get a page like this one:

That's not a polish, that's industrial cleaning.

Snip, Snip

No, this is not a post about books, or writing.

This is a post (actually an edited re-post) about something entirely different.  And personal.

Ahem.  You may want to look away now.  So, fair warning having been issued…

… the nurse was awfully nice.  She asked me what I did, how long had I been in the States for, did I like Missouri, all the usual stuff.  I lay back and did my best to answer naturally, but it was a little difficult to concentrate, because further down the bed my testicles were on public display, sitting primly on a carefully positioned towel and apparently unconnected to the rest of me.  I tried not to think about them, and instead gazed anxiously at my left wrist.  A small funnel had been inserted into my vein into which the anesthetic would go.  The nurse told me it was like drinking four margaritas in quick succession.  I have never drunk four margaritas in quick succession (I don't think) but I was worried that it wouldn't be enough, given what was going to happen next.

It was V-day.

I love my children.  They are my life.  We have a boy and a girl; la choix du roi, as the French say.  They are both utterly beautiful and funny and kind.  And, praise be, healthy.  Every day my wife and I look at them and pinch ourselves and wonder what we've done to be so lucky.  But we didn't want any more, either.  Best to quit while you're ahead, and all that.  Why roll those dice again?  Besides, we had no wish to go back to diapers and sleepless nights.

But when Christina suggested that I get a vasectomy I found myself resisting the idea.  It was the permanence of the solution that bothered me.  I would be calling it quits, and even though I didn't want any more children, the prospect made me deeply sad.  Perhaps I was struggling against some atavistic male urge to procreate, reluctant to sign off on my contribution to the human gene pool.  But I think it was actually simpler than that: being a father has been the most rewarding and wonderful thing ever to have happened to me.  Rationally I knew it made sense; emotionally I just didn't want to close off the possibility of ever doing it again.

I stalled for as long as I could.  Christina waited patiently for me to work it all out, and in the end I relented.  Discreet enquiries were made, an appointment scheduled.  There was some delay before they could fit me in.  Vasectomies were terribly in that season.

On my way to the hospital, I stopped in at a shop that sold cycling equipment.  I had been warned that I would need some tight cycling shorts after the operation to keep everything neatly tucked up and out of harm's way – without them I would be (I was assured by friends who had already gone through all this) howling with pain.  I prowled the racks of spandex, wondering what on earth I was looking for.  Finally a shop assistant approached me and asked whether I was looking for something in particular.  I cocked what I hoped looked like an amused eyebrow and explained that I was having a "procedure" later that day and that I would need to wear something tight.  He nodded at once, completely unsurprised.  (I guess I didn't look much like a serious cyclist.)  Apparently they sell loads of the things every week to men like me.

I then spent a surreal few minutes popping in and out of the changing room, trying on different sizes of shorts.  A new problem had presented itself: exactly how tight was tight enough?  In the end I went for the tightest I could squeeze into – two pairs, actually – and drove on to the hospital with my kinky spandex pants.  (Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd write.)

So, back to the Operating Room.  The doctor was late.  My conversation with the nurse was meandering along nicely.  Finally the phone rang.  The doctor was on his way.  The nurse plunged the syringe and the anesthetic slipped into my bloodstream, and a few moments later the doctor arrived in the room.  He wished me a good afternoon.  That's about the last thing I remember.  I don't know where that nurse goes for her margaritas, but it sounds like my kind of place.

Some time later I woke up in a wheelchair, as high as a kite.  There were so many drugs whizzing around inside me that I couldn't feel a thing.  Christina drove me home and I spent the rest of the afternoon zonked out in bed.  I moved about very gingerly for the next few days, chugging painkillers and grateful for my spandex pants, which I wore 24/7.  (I knew better than to complain too much about the discomfort.  When it came to the whole baby thing, I knew which of us had suffered more.)

For a while there was a vague sense of regret about all the children I wasn't going to have any more, but it didn't last long.  Time heals most things.  After all, it's not as if having two children to adore isn't enough.  And it helps that they are who they are:

Human Nature

It's been a while since I've done a post about jazz treatment of pop songs.  I hope this will prove worth the wait – it's possibly my favorite one yet.

Vijay Iyer is one of the most exciting and accomplished jazz pianists to have come along in years.  His latest album, Solo, is already at the very top of my "Best of 2010″ jazz albums.  It is a thoughtful, deeply beautiful record.  Look.  Even the cover art is wonderful:

As ever, Iyer draws from a wide musical palette in his song selections.  About half the tunes are his own compositions – thoroughly satisfying, richly crafted affairs that reward close listening.  Then there's a Monk piece, a couple of Ellington tunes, and a standard.  Oh, and a Michael Jackson number.  Really.

"Human Nature" was one of the slightly less humungous tracks on Thriller.  I hadn't heard it for a while when I popped Iyer's CD into my stereo.  The pianist pulls off a brilliant trick – the tune is immediately recognizable, and yet a wholly different beast.

Listen how, before the melody begins, he take one of the song's minor motifs and polishes it to a beautiful, burnished perfection.  Iyer plays the tune itself pretty straight (for a jazz musician.)  He thoughtfully shifts the pulse of the music, but never wholly unshackles himself from the melody.  This creates a delicious tension – I am always waiting for him to take flight, and it never quite happens.  That's not to say that this version is bland in the slightest.  I like the dark-hued tonality that dominates the middle part of the tune – hear his left hand rumble towards the bottom of the instrument's register.

Do yourself a favor, and have a listen.  It's wonderful.  Oh, and leave a comment and let me know what you think.  Is this your kind of thing?

The Promise of an Empty Page

As I approach the end of the re-write for the Book With No Name, I find myself thinking more and more about my next effort.

While the manuscript for the new novel was out in the real world, looking for a home, I had several months to flesh out my thoughts for the next one.  The original kernel of the idea has been knocking around in my head for some years, but I've been unsure what to do with it.  I slowly winkled out various elements of plot, characters and theme.  Some parts of the story are clear in my mind, but other elements remain hopelessly out of focus.  It's been refreshing to have hardly thought about it for the past six months, and I'm hoping that the subconscious fermenting of ideas has continued while I've been working on the old text.  With a bit of luck, after this hiatus some of the hazier bits will suddenly ping into focus.  Well, I can hope, can't I?

I love this part of the process, before I have set a single word down on paper.  I know Hemingway was allegedly terrified of the proverbial blank page, but I relish not having begun.  Part of the allure for me (optimist that I am) is the glittering promise of what might be to come.  Right now, before a word has been written, anything could happen.  I haven't written myself into any knotty plot holes.  My characters are yet to jump on to my back and weigh me down.  This, I think as I scribble down ideas in my notebook, could be it.

Writers are burdened by the same dreams as everyone else.  Perhaps we are even more afflicted than others, since when it's just you and the words in your head, there's nobody else you blame (although we might try.)  Every time I begin a new book, I have to hope that it will be the best thing I've ever written.  Otherwise, why would I bother?  Writing, like life, should be an on-going education.  I'm looking forward to learning some more.

A Place to Write

When it comes to writing, I am a creature of habit.

I need my routine; equally important, for me anyway, is where I write.  I know people who can dash off stuff in trains, waiting rooms, and especially in coffee shops.  This always baffles me.  Perhaps I'm just too nosy, or feckless, but I am unable to concentrate on what I'm supposed to be doing if there are strangers wondering about, going about their own business.  There's always something more interesting to look at or listen to.  My productivity, never exactly spectacular, dwindles to the merest dribble of words if I take myself off to a public place and try and work.

Oddly, I also find it difficult to work in my office.  I am the only person who works there, but I'm faced with a different set of problems.  That space is where I practice law – and for some reason that seems to prevent me from doing much useful creative work there.  I suspect this may be due largely to guilt.  If I'm in my office, a small voice in the back of my head whispers, you should be doing proper work.

The photograph at the top of the page is of the log cabin in our yard, where I finished my fourth novel, Wonderful You, studied for the Missouri Bar Exam, and began (and abandoned) two woefully ill-conceived novels before starting on The Novel With No Title.  The cabin was great while I was writing or studying full-time.  It was away from the house, which was critical as we had a new-born at the time and there was an awful lot of noise.  It has a certain Thoreau-like charm to it, as you can see.  But beware such bucolic delights, dear reader.  All manner of wildlife was keen to come and join me in there, and the extremes temperatures of Missouri summers and winters left me yearning for properly air-conditioned surroundings.

When I started my law firm and began writing exclusively in the mornings again, I gave up on the cabin.  I was not interested in traipsing across the yard with coffee and computer at 5 in the morning.  For several years I wrote in our spare bedroom, and that worked well enough, although I yearned for a permanent den which I could really make mine.

Last year, I got my wish.  Catherine had been sleeping in the small room next to our bedroom which was her nursery, but she finally became aware of the inequality of bedroom real estate between her and her brother.  When she began agitating for a move to a bigger bedroom, I saw my chance.  I claimed the nursery as my own, and this is where I sit as I type this.

It's the smallest room in the house, and I love it.  I can shut the door and the rest of the world retreats.  In my writing room I am cocooned, surrounded by things (books, mainly) that give me comfort and calm me.  They act as a buttress against the world outside the door, and clear a space in my head so that the words can (with a little bit of luck) come rushing in.

It's taken me a long time to get a room of my own, and I know how lucky I am to have it.  Of course, you don't have to have a whole room – you might just have a corner of a room, half a table top, or the edge of the bed.  But it shouldn't matter.  What's important is that you find somewhere that you can exclude the outside world, and concentrate on the story you have to tell.  If you can wax creative above the din of someone shouting "Latte for David," all power to you, but it's not for me.  I need my peace and quiet.

Reaching the End

As I approach the end of this epic rewrite, I am faced with mixed emotions.

I will be relieved when the work is done, and I can turn my attention to other stories which have been waiting patiently for me.  But with that comes the knowledge that this particular effort is almost finished, and with that knowledge comes a degree of sadness.  A favorite quotation of mine, which regular readers of this blog and my tweets will have seen before, is from the French poet Paul Valery, who declared that poems are "never completed, only abandoned."  That thought occurred to me again this morning when I read a piece in the Huffington Post by author Nicole Krauss about finishing her latest novel, "Great House."  She beautifully captures the ambivalent emotions one feels on the completion of a novel.  Here's the quote, from the very start of the piece:

"There is something strange that happens at some point between when one turns a novel in to the copyeditor for the last time and the day it's finally published. The book, which for so long was something elastic, shifting to accommodate each new thought, every nuance in the writer's mood, begins to harden. One discovers that the chair that yesterday could be dragged across the room is now nailed to the floor. The novel begins to close itself to the writer who built it out of her private concerns and instincts. She who knows its measurements exactly, who invented its inner workings, begins little by little to forget how it was made. The more the novel becomes a solid thing in the world, the less access the writer has to the accidents, reversals, inventions, rejected ideas, passing weather, sudden triangulations, and unshakable intuitions that led to those words, and only those, standing there on the page with an authoritative air about them, as if they were always bound to be. The writer who locked the door not long ago loses the key."

Exquisitely put.

I'm not quite at that stage yet, but it won't be long, now.  Soon my chairs will be nailed to the floor, too.  Will I feel anguish, or relief?  I'm not sure.  All I know right now is that there's still a lot of work to be done.  Time is slowly running out.  Best get back to re-arranging the furniture.