Laurie Graham's Blog, page 12

Writer NOT at work?

Writers sometimes hit the buffers. Maybe the brilliant idea they thought they’d had turns out not to be so brilliant after all. Maybe there’s a basic structural fault in their construction. Or, they think they’re suffering from writer’s block. Years ago they’d sit slumped over the typewriter snivelling, ‘I’m blocked.’ Nowadays they can find reams of ‘unblocking’ advice online. They can attend a workshop. A kind of Dyno-Rod for novelists.

I’ll tell you what I think. Crying ‘blocked!’ is a cop-out. People ask me if I ever get writer’s block and my answer is that I have never had the luxury. My writing put (and still puts) food on the table. If I wake up wishing I’d done something different with my life, I go to my desk anyway and write. If it ends up in the trash bin, so be it. I have to write because that has been my chosen path and it’s too late to change now. The occasional patch of ennui and uninspired dreck-production goes with the job.

There are things I do, when whatever I’m writing isn’t quite working, when the Inner Laurie whispers, ‘no, no, no, can do better.’ I go for a walk or clean the windows. Ironing is good too. It’s an activity that allows the brain to coast out of gear and, okay, unblock itself. A kind of castor oil for the creative mind which comes with the bonus benefit of lovely smooth sheets. So a win-win.

But one last radical thought. No-one has to become a writer. Everyone doesn’t have a book in them any more than they have a symphony up their sleeve. Sorry. If you think you’re a writer, if you’re just starting out and you find you keep getting blocked, walk away, be something else for heaven’s sake. Life is long and wide and full of wonderful possibilities. Trust me, there will never be a world shortage of writers.

 

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Publication Day!

So it’s out!  Anyone for Seconds, now available in all good book shops and perhaps in some not so good ones. It’s my seventeenth novel  –  at least, the seventeenth I’ll admit to  – and I’m sorry to say that for me publication days aren’t what they used to be. They used to be a reason for a party and indeed I’ve had some great launches, a few of them hosted by kind and generous friends. But by number 17 it’s all a bit ho-hum. Sense of achievement? Not really. Optimism? I wouldn’t be so foolish.

However…. A f S has already had some super reviews from advance readers and when I opened a copy at a random page yesterday it actually made me laugh so I certainly have grounds for a wee celebration this evening. A glass of fizz and the last scrapings of my Russian caviar.

I used not to work on pub day but given the currently dire straits of my career I will put in a couple of hours. Other projects for the day: salting runner beans and turning up the sleeves on my latest acquisition from the second-hand clothes rail. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a 1950s housewife? No, it’s Laurie Graham on publication day.

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Back in Business

By which I mean, behold my spiffy new-look website. What’s changed? It’s less cluttered and it is small screen friendly. This, I’m told by those in the know, is very important these days when even grannies use mobile devices and anyone under the age of 45 has the attention span of a flea.

I’m not, strictly speaking, back in business work-wise. The stampede to publish my next book hasn’t raised any dust, but Anyone for Seconds? will be out on the 23rd so two cheers for publication day. A glass will be raised.

It may only be mid-August but I’ve had my summer: two wonderful, relaxing episodes of lolling poolside and murmuring, ‘I wonder what’s for dinner.’ I’m now back at work, making final (I hope) improvements to my new project, Book 1 of a proposed series  –  watch this space  – and making a start on Book 2. If it isn’t snapped up, I’ll publish it myself. So unless God has something else scheduled for me, there will be a new book next year.

 

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Builders In

A quick pit stop to pick up clean clothes and to announce that I have the builders in. My website will be getting a spruce-up in the next week or two, so I won’t be posting again until it’s done.

I had an utterly delicious time in France, made all the more so by the Ladies of the Lot book group who had not only very kindly read Gone With the Windsors but also fed me champagne and yummy cake. I don’t get to meet my readers all that often but when I do it’s always a treat.

I broke my journey back to Ireland with a few days in London where at long last I had time to visit the Chelsea Physic Garden. If you haven’t been, go. And if you go, take the guided tour. The guides really know their stuff. I also greatly recommend the Teeth exhibit at the Wellcome Institute, on till mid-September. Actually, the Wellcome Institute is always worth a visit. It’s a great place to take children who have reached the age of fascination with the gruesome. Nice cafe too.

Not so great was my evening at the Globe to see The Winter’s Tale. The production was okay, apart from the bear, which was rubbish, but my fellow groundlings were a nightmare. I know groundlings have a certain rowdy reputation to live up to but there was no wit in evidence, no engagement with the performance. I was surrounded by a host of pizza-snarfers, drink can droppers and phone-answering reprobates. I used to like standing in the yard but next time I think I might have to pony up for a seat and a cushion.

So now I’m off to Italy to splish in the pool with two of my granddaughters. By the time I get back I should have a shiny new website all ready for publication day. August 23rd. Should be just around the time Christmas cards appear in the shops.

 

Travel Companions

It’s been a long time since I had a do-nothing kind of holiday but this year I’ve been invited along on two such, so how lucky am I? The first will involve little more than dipping in the pool occasionally and murmuring words of gratitude when yet another meal is placed before me. And reading, of course.

The Queen has her summer books chosen for her  –  indeed once, many years ago, a Laurie Graham title made it into the box for Balmoral. It felt very thrilling, at the time. I now know that HM reads mainly Racing Post Form Books, but never mind. At least I crossed the threshold, so to speak.

I’m happy to select my own holiday reading. But what? I’ve taste-tested several paperbacks and the following four have made the final cut.

Le Testament Francais by Andrei Makine. My French isn’t up to much so I’ll be reading it in translation but I can already tell you that it’s a dense and delicious read.

The Wonder Bread Summer by Jessica Anya Blau. If Makine is a perfect Laduree macaron, Blau is a Pink’s hotdog with extra onions followed by a red, white a blue Jell-O shot or three.

Independence Day by Richard Ford.  I’m a late-comer to the Ford fan club. If I were stuck at home with the rain lashing against the window, I might feel grumpily jealous of his wonderful writing, but I’m not and it isn’t, so I don’t. And what better book to be reading on July 4th?

and

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles. Because I’ve yet to meet anyone who hasn’t loved it.

Plus a bottle of Guaranteed Sun Block for my lily-white skin  and my dear husband’s battered old Panama. Sorted.

 

 

All in a Working Day

I’m back from the Ilminster Literary Festival in lovely Somerset, where I was the follow-on act after Dot Allbones. An unenviable task. But the audience at the Warehouse Theatre were awake and friendly, two conditions no author ever takes for granted. In my time I have spoken to single figure audiences and I have spoken to audiences that had only come to get out of the rain or because the Jilly Cooper gig was sold out. Ilminster was no such nightmare.

I’m relieved to say that despite my misgivings Dot behaved herself. She only went off-script once, though I could see that glint in her eye on a few occasions, and when her 40 minutes were up she slipped back between the covers of The Night in Question without a murmur. I only wish I could show you a picture of her in full flood but there was a strict rule about cameras in the theatre. Fortunately someone who shall remain nameless managed to get this shot of Dot’s ardent admirer, Tom Bullen, before the notice prohibiting photography was pointed out to her. Or him. 

Tom Bullen, aka Peter Page, and Dot’s Master of Ceremonies, Mike Lanigan, were last seen, at a late hour, sampling Somerset Cider Brandy. Thanks to the advanced ages of all concerned there were no reports of hooliganism or rowdiness in Ilminster’s genteel streets that night.

Dot and her entourage are available, given similar liquid inducements, for future engagements.

But for now, back to work.

A Three Hundred Mile Hop

Nizhni Novgorod was the furthermost point of my Russian trip before I turned for home. Four hours by train from Moscow, which to Russian minds is a mere hop and a jump. I had no literary agenda there, though from 1932 until the collapse of the Soviet Union the city was renamed Gorky, after its most famous son. But I’m no great fan of Gorky’s writing. My purpose was to see the mighty Volga and to attend a birthday lunch.

Nizhni is a well-favoured city. Part of it, including its impressive Kremlin, stands high on a bluff above the point where the Oka river empties into the Volga. It has a prosperous, well-heeled feel. Back in the day it was one of Russia’s many closed cities, off-limits to outsiders because of its top-secret arms factories. Now, although it still has an anti-aircraft defence plant, it’s open to the world. In fact it’s one of the venues for this year’s World Cup for which it has built a super-duper new stadium.

 

 

Boris Nemtsov is another name associated with Nizhni. He was its governor from 91-97 and later became an outspoken critic of Putin, which courage earned him death by lead poisoning in February 2015. When I was in Moscow I walked across the Bolshoi Moskvoretsky Bridge to see the flowers that are laid at the spot where he was gunned down. Nemtsov is not forgotten.  

But back to Nizhni Novgorod. I was in town the week before the May 9 Victory Parade and had a grandstand view of a dress rehearsal. I was actually inside the Kremlin when I heard the sound of the Preobrazhensky March and ran to see what was occurring. I am a sucker for a brass band. You may be as impressed as I was to learn that Russian policewomen march in high heels. It takes me all my time to stand around in them at a party doing nothing more complicated than eating peanuts.

And speaking of parties: Danil Kirillovich, for whose celebration I had travelled to Nizhni, was one year old that very day. He wasn’t hugely interested in the pizza but he did taste test all the wooden farmyard animal jigsaw pieces I had brought from Dublin.

Is Nizhni ready for its World Cup invasion? I have some doubts. They’ve recruited extra taxi drivers but my confidence in the selection process was slightly undermined when I found myself having to navigate for one flummoxed driver.

And the Volga? It did not disappoint. Now I’ve seen it I’d rather like to sail along it. But that’s an adventure that will have to wait. Next stop, the Ilminster Literary Festival, where Dot Allbones is becoming quite the diva with her demands. Quieting Syrup and Hair Invigorator indeed!

 

 

 

And Then, Melikhovo

I began to despair of seeing Anton Chekhov’s country house because its administrators suddenly announced that on my appointed day they were closing for spring-cleaning. But there was a quick shake-up of my itinerary and off I set, wedged between two Sumo-sized Russians in steaming raincoats for the fifty minute train ride to Chekhov. I wonder what he’d think about having a town named after him?

There’s nothing grandiose about Melikhovo.

The house is a modest size, particularly considering the comings and goings of family members and friends. You can quite understand why Chekhov had the pretty, powder blue, three-room Chaika retreat built. A shed of one’s own. Though it’s situated so close to the main house I imagine he could hear everything that was going on over there.

He only lived at Melikhovo, on and off, for seven years, until his worsening health persuaded him to move south, but the house/estate/museum speaks eloquently of the man. He loved to fish, so he created a pond. He loved to garden so he planted and planted. The descendants of his apple and cherry trees are still there. He loved his dachshunds, named after Quinine and Bromide but also given patronymics, Russian-style  –  Khina Markovna and Brom Isaevich  –  and their little statues are in the grounds, guarding their master’s upturned hat. 

 

What else can we say about him? Was he impatient and testy? Plagued with self-doubt? Big-hearted or cold-hearted? Obsessive, funny, highly-sexed, restless, commitment-shy?  All of the above, probably.

He was a doctor, willing at all times to be called away from writing in order to treat a patient: his medicine boxes are there in the house. The table is set for dinner, but his preferred chair is the one nearest the door, for an easy getaway. Parents, sister, endless guests and not always welcome ones. At times the company must have been stifling. I have this seating information, by the way, from my excellent English-speaking guide. If you go to Melikhovo, ask for Mikhail Golovan.

Maybe you know the story of Chekhov’s death. The airless hotel room in the German spa resort of Badenweiler, in the middle of a heatwave. A doctor sent for, late at night. The glass of champagne downed, and then…. I always thought, ‘how very civilised’. But as Mr Golovan explained, in those days offering champagne was a kind of death-bed courtesy between doctors, an unspoken signal that there was nothing more to be done and the end was very nigh.

And then of course there was the undignified removal of the body from the hotel using a laundry basket rather than a coffin, to avoid distressing the other guests. I think that’s a scene Chekhov would have enjoyed very much indeed.

 

 

More Notes from Russia

There’s plenty of a literary flavour to keep a person entertained in Moscow. In just one morning I visited Chekhov’s apartment   –  his name plate is still on the door and I’ll show you if ever I manage to wrestle the photo from my phone  –  and Bulgakov’s, and then I sat in the sun for a while, beside the Patriarshy Pond(s) with my eyes peeled for any of those unsettling characters from the opening chapter of The Master and Margarita: never talk to strangers. I didn’t. I ate my banana and moved on. I planned to go to Gorky’s house too but it was closed. ‘Closed for renovation’, ‘closed for cleaning’ and just plain ‘closed’ are frequent conditions in Russia.

A Tolstoy pilgrimage was a more complicated project. Yasnaya Polyana is 120 miles from Moscow. One possibility was a slow train ride to Tula and then a bus. I took a taxi. 60 euros for a 120 mile trip was a bargain, I think you’ll agree. Plus you get to talk to the driver.

I know a bit about Tolstoy. I’ve read a couple of biographies and also the diaries of his long-suffering wife. But at Yasnaya Polyana the Tolstoy legend is carefully curated by the State. Only Pushkin is more revered than Lev Nikolaevich. So there was no mention of the gambling that almost destroyed the family estate, nor of the children he fathered exercising his droit de seigneur with the peasant girls, nor of his stubborn and opinionated character.

The lovely white house is approached along a cathedral nave of silver birches. I have quite fallen in love with those trees. Over the years Tolstoy used several different rooms as his study and whenever he changed locations he had all the furniture moved with him. One can imagine the muttering below stairs. ‘Here we go. He wants the couch moved again.’ 

He wrote sitting on a low, child’s chair, with a booster cushion. Actually, for all that he was such a big man, physically and intellectually, there was something childlike about him. He loved games and jokes. He was capable of tantrums and sulks. He was still the little boy whose mother died before he could form a memory of her.

You have to walk half a mile or so into the forest to find his grave. I’ve sometimes felt there was a touch of the Marie-Antoinette about Count Tolstoy, chopping wood in his peasant shirt, but there was something truly touching about his simple woodland grave. And you do sense his presence. I wouldn’t have been in the least surprised to see him come striding between the trees. Dumbstruck, no doubt, but not surprised.

 

 

My guide and I bought pryaniki from the stall set up outside the gates. Tula pryaniki are a local speciality, a kind of dense, spiced and very sweet cake. We drank black tea and got a sugar hit until our bargain 60 euro return ride showed up. 120 miles back to Moscow. Tolstoy used to walk it. So I guess he wasn’t such a diva after all.

Notes from Russia

I’ve been travelling, hence the long silence. As many around me fall sick or grow too frail to haul luggage I decided to leave my comfort zone for a couple of weeks and scratch my itch for Russia while I still can. It was a very personalised trip. No-one else I know would have drawn up the same itinerary, so I travelled solo and then relied on local guides for the lowdown.

My first stop was Repino, on the Gulf of Finland, where I wanted to visit Penates, the house/studio of the painter Ilya Repin. There was still snow on the ground. The sea was frozen. 

Penates is a fabulous, light-filled testament to the man who created it and lived and worked in it until he died in his eighties. Repin was a man with strong opinions and a sense of humour. He disliked the (then) Russian habit of keeping dozens of servants and installed a sign in the entrance hall announcing in clear terms that Penates was a help-yourself establishment.  Hang up your own coat, says the sign. Don’t expect to be announced. Sound the gong and walk in.

The theme continued in the dining room, whose table was the biggest Party Susan I’d ever seen. The rule was simple: serve yourself. When you’ve finished, put your dirty dishes and cutlery in the drawer beneath the table top. There was a penalty for anyone breaking the rules: they were required to make an extempore and entertaining speech on something of topical interest. This was to be delivered from a kind of pulpit or tribune Repin had installed in the corner of the dining room, a sort of naughty step for grownups. If I still had a dining room this is an idea I’d steal, not because my guests ever sat around waiting to be served but to caution those who talked endlessly and exclusively about themselves.

You’re probably wondering, as I did, who cleared those dirty dishes from the drawers of the serve-yourself table and washed them. I think we know the answer. Nevertheless, 9 out of 10 to Maestro Repin for trying to live in a simple, unentitled way.

If you’re ever in St Petersburg and have a spare day, go to Penates. Pine trees, sea air and an extraordinary house.