Jan Carson's Blog, page 10

… It’s Been Way Too Long

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It’s been over a month since I last blogged. A lot has changed. I bought a house. It had no furniture, no heat and terrible Venetian blinds for an awfully long time. It still has no heat but it now looks a little more like a place you’d actually want to live in/the inside of a jaffa cake…

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I had my first short story aired on Radio 4. Here we all are listening to it in the same room before it got furniture….

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I cut all my hair off and though it is now fine, I did spend a full week looking exactly like Grayson Perry, as illustrated by this charming portrait, drawn by a child during one of my Primary School creative writing workshops. (Look at that fringe!)

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I had a go at performing with my own string quartet. Thankfully this didn’t involve any musical turns on my part. I just wrote and read some new spoken word pieces between the movements of Haydn’s Seven Last Words from the Cross and made a complete hash of taking an end of show bow. It was a fantastic experience and an absolute treat to get to work and collaborate with a fellow ex-Cambridge House pupil, Laura Sinnerton, who is now playing viola with the BBC orchestra in Cardiff. Here I am post-show trying to look like I’m part of the band.

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t finished the edits on my Postcard Stories collection and it’s off to print now, I’ll be launching it with the Emma Press on Tuesday 30th May at 6:30pm in the Strand Arts Centre. You should come. Here’s a wee link to the Facebook Invite with all the relevant information. Just in case you’re still swithering have a wee look at the fabulous job Benjamin Phillips has done on the cover design. There are more of his beautiful illustrations punctuating the text. It really is a very pretty little book.

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Finally, and probably most importantly, I left my day job about ten days ago. From now on I’ll be spending my days writing, (although mostly so far it’s just been editing and moving semi-colons around various manuscripts), facilitating different arts projects, moderating literary events, teaching creative writing workshops and running arts events and workshops for older people. I am also watching far too much daytime cinema and turning the power nap into an art form. I’m having a pretty brilliant time. It’s only been ten days so I’m not exactly an expert on this freelance thing yet but already I can’t understand how I was managing to squeeze so much into my day and still clock 40 hours a week in work. I have lots of resolutions for this next season of my life, (finish reading all the Agatha Christies in the world, walk six miles every day, stop drinking so much coffee, write an Opera- honestly), and becoming a better, more regular blogger is right up there at the top of this list… promising now, it won’t be so long ’til the next instalment.

Seven Last Words

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You may have noticed that despite the fact I publicly proposed to read nothing but short stories during this, the shortest month of the year, I appear to be consuming very little aside from poetry collections by Northern Irish poets. There is a reason for this. I am in the middle of a commission to write seven new prose pieces loosely based on the Seven Last Words from the Cross. This is part of an exciting/slightly terrifying collaboration with a string quartet of Northern Irish musicians, headed up by fellow Cambridge House alumni and fabulous viola wizard, Laura Sinnerton.

On Easter Saturday in the Crescent Arts Centre the string quartet will be performing Haydn’s Seven Last Words from the Cross. (nb. have recently discovered Haydn is pronounced “Haydn as in hidin'” rather than “Haydn to rhyme with made in” – learnt this the hard/rather embarrassing way- don’t want any of you to make the same mistake). Haydn’s piece is traditionally performed with seven bespoke pieces of liturgy read between each of the movements. Many poets and writers have had a stab at creating new versions of this liturgy. Now it’s my turn. Yikes.

The seven themes loosely translate to be forgiveness, comfort, relationship, abandonment, need, fulfilment and reunion. I was instantly struck by just how pertinent these themes are to our situation here in Northern Ireland. So, I’ve spent the last month reading as much Northern Irish poetry as possible, particularly looking for how our poets have engaged with each of these themes. I’m now spending my evenings bouncing ideas off each other, trying to craft seven short pieces of writing that speak to contemporary Northern Ireland, mostly getting tied in knots, but sometimes hitting gold. It’s one of the most challenging things I’ve ever attempted creatively. I have no idea how it will turn out but I am thankful for the opportunity to collaborate with another bunch of immensely talented artists. I’ll keep you updated on how things are going, and you can book your tickets for the performance here via the Crescent’s box office. If nothing else, I can promise the music will be sublime.

February Shorts 2017

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It’s almost February and February, as you all know, is the shortest month of the year and therefore the month where I attempt to wean myself off novels and read nothing but short stories. I’ve been doing this for the last three years and i’m not done with it yet. Turns out there are enough great short story collections out there to keep me going for all my future Februarys and more besides. This year I’ll be mixing it up with some old favourites – William Trevor, Flannery O’Connor- and an exciting batch of brand new reads. It’s also my birthday this month so if anyone wants to purchase the complete Clarice Lispector and send it my direction I certainly won’t be sending it back. Can’t wait to get started. You’re all welcome to join me. However, I say this every year and no one bothers, so I won’t be at all hurt if you stick to your novels and your poetry collections. I’ll let you know what i’ve read at the end of the month. See you in March.

The Times They Are Etc Etc

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You know that point you get to in the days leading up to a haircut when you absolutely can’t bear the length of your fringe for a second longer? I currently have that feeling about life in general. Change is coming. Change is happening right now. I feel like one foot is already there, and the other is just itching to catch up. I’ve sold my big house. I’m in the process of buying a much smaller house. I am downsizing my life and trying to bring my overheads down to a level manageable enough to give up my full time day job and start taking more freelance and part times arts and community positions.

Right now things are just about as difficult as they’re going to get. (I hope). I’m still working full time. I’m temporarily homeless couch surfing between the homes of lots of very generous friends and family members. I am also working about seven million other freelance jobs –events, festivals, writing commissions and workshops- in the hope that someday very soon these jobs will form the basis of my income. It’s all a little bit scary. Also very exciting. I feel as if I’m approaching that point in my writing life where I either have to jump or start going stagnant. Every decision I make in the next few weeks will be processed through the cold hard filter of, “will this allow me more time to write?”

I’m not sure how long this period of transition is going to take but I am extremely thankful for all of you who’ve offered encouragement/spare beds/baked goods/red wine/motivational stories of other artists who gave up their day jobs and were almost instantaneously catapulted into incredible success/bits of freelance work. Also patience. A lot of patience. It’s all been noted. It’s all been very much appreciated. Can I have another few months of all of the above please? The times they are a changin’ but not quite as quickly as I’d like.

More Than Just Another Arts Event

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(Warning: This is a bit of a sappy blog. Sorry).

About seven years ago I found myself living in a small, and terribly posh, village on the outskirts of London. This was the kind of village which is often featured on Escape to the Country. It had two pubs, a cricket green, a common, (still not sure what the difference between a common and a regular park is- possibly the presence of people with red setters and Hunter welly boots), and an actual duck pond. It had a ridiculously English name. Successful business people owned large houses in this village and every day commuted from their large houses to inner city London, returning on the late train with carrier bags of expensive Waitrose food for dinner. It was the kind of village which has a missing generation. No one between the ages of 18 and 40 lived in this village. No one between the ages of 18 and 40 could afford to live in this village. (Nb I am not a successful business person. There is a long and quite boring story about how I ended up living there at the age of 29).

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Suffice to say I only managed six months in this village before the loneliness and long nights reading novels in the car, parked outside Tesco, for something to do, drove me back to Belfast. Even though I think I’m a pretty outgoing and sociable person, and I would definitely want to be my friend, by the end of my first month’s sojourn I was really struggling to find any sort of community. By the end of the third month I was pretty desperate. I’d even approached a complete stranger in Café Nero, (who was about my age and reading a book, so obviously we had a lot in common), and said, “I’m very lonely. Would you like to be my friend?” (It should be noted, this is not a good way to make friends). Shortly afterwards I left this village and moved back to Belfast, where after five years in exile, I didn’t really know anyone any more. I had to start building up a community one friend at a time; going to events and readings alone, making small talk with anyone who looked like they might be kind enough to talk back; slowly, very slowly, discovering where I might fit in to the arts community in Belfast. Thankfully Belfast was a much easier place to be lonely than the terribly posh English village. People took me under their wing and invited me along to events. I made friends. Great friends. I became part of a community I’ve grown to love and depend upon. I was encouraged to write books. I’m pretty happy in Belfast now. However, I still remember what it feels like to walk into a room at a reading or a gig, on your own, knowing no one, trying to look as if you’re quite confident in your aloneness yet really wanting to be known.

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All this to say, I was running a wee event for the Out to Lunch festival on Saturday morning and I noticed that around a third of the people who arrived at the Black Box were on their own. I’m not saying all these people were lonely or in search of community or unable to find some sucker to accompany them to an early morning music and spoken word event. I’m just saying it reminded me of myself, going solo to readings and gigs back in 2010, making my first brave and stumbly attempts to find a wee place in Belfast’s arts community. And it made me appreciate the community we have here in Belfast, where mostly you can walk into an event by yourself and be reasonably confident that by the end of the reading/performance/show you’ll actually have met a few people you didn’t know before. And it made me want to try harder to be a good host when it comes to programming events, to make sure the people who come to my events know that, no matter how odd or awkward they may be, ( and oh my goodness there are some odd and awkward souls knocking about the Belfast arts scene), they’re really welcome.

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By 11:30 on Saturday morning the Black Box was packed. Full houses always make programmers happy. It’s nice to look down a room and see no empty chairs and people standing at the bar. But to be honest, I was much more heartened by the fact that I couldn’t get my audience to stop chatting so I could get the show started. People had been forced to find seats at strangers’ tables and squeeze unto sofas with folks they didn’t know. There were loads of little conversations bouncing round the room as they shared cake and started getting to know each other. It’s always magic when this happens. It reminds me why I love to put arts events on, why I don’t mind getting up at the crack of dawn and carting amps around in the back of my car and endlessly running to all night Tesco’s for more disposable cups. I love bringing people together. Most of us who run events get a little high on happy audiences, enjoying themselves.

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Yes, it’s important that we programme high quality art at our events, quality should never be compromised in the attempt to create a welcoming environment, but it’s equally important that we continue to remember lots of people haven’t bought a ticket just to be blown away by the music we’re putting on, or astounded by our poetry or inspired by the art. They might also be at our arts events because they want to find a wee spot to belong, a place where it’s easier to be themselves for a couple of hours or a chance to meet some people who don’t make them feel like a spare part. This isn’t a particularly profound blog. It’s just a wee reminder that sometimes it’s easy to forget what it feels like to be on the edge of things. I’m thankful for the fact that I can dander into pretty much any arts event in Belfast and feel right at home. Maybe I’m being naive here but I don’t thing an arts event  should ever be intimidating. I know we can run events professionally and still manage to be warm and welcoming and dare I say it, personable, with our audiences. I know this because almost every day of the week I visit one of Belfast’s venues and encounter front of house who smile and chat and welcome me to their venue like it is an extension of their own living room. It makes me feel known, in an entirely uncreepy way. It makes me want to go to even more arts events. I really hope other people are having the same experience. I want to run more events in 2017 which are just as focused on community as they are on showcasing great art.

I Am A Bad Person. I Do Not Like Musicals

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Yesterday afternoon I went to see La La Land. I knew I was not going to enjoy this movie but I went anyway. I keep trying with musicals. I have an overriding desire to be normal. La La Land was not as bad as Les Miserables or most of the other musicals I have endured over the years. At no point did I actually say the words, “stop singing” loud enough to irritate the people sitting in the row behind. But, you better believe I was saying, “stop singing,” over and over inside my head for the entire two hours and thirty minutes. (Also “stop doing that tappy thing with your feet,” and, “stop doing that thing where you sort of speak your way into a song,” and, “stop swinging round immovable objects such as lampposts and grand pianos,” “just stop, stop, stop.”)

I do not enjoy musicals. No, let me rephrase that slightly, I do not understand musicals. Where did they come from? Who thought they were a good idea? Why is everybody singing all the time? At no point in my life have I ever felt the need, (or even the smallest inkling of desire), to burst into spontaneous song or dance. The singing bit is bad enough but dancing, for me, is an experience akin to enduring a root canal; a procedure best approached slowly, avoided if possible and only to be tolerated under the influence of some kind of mind numbing substance. (Insert something about being raised Presbyterian here. Insert another thing about growing up in Ballymena). I don’t believe that normal people just break into song and dance numbers on the side of the road/at the drive-in/in the grimy back alleys of revolutionary France. I’ve only seen it happen once in real life. (spontaneous Backstreet Boys dance off circa 2002). Everyone passing by, (and boy did they try to pass by quickly), was mortified for those involved in the impromptu “singing” and “dancing”. Those involved were young Americans. Perhaps, I mused this, this sort of thing was considered acceptable on their side of the pond. But it definitely wasn’t in Newtownards on a Saturday night.

When I watch musicals I cannot get past the singing. It makes me want to laugh and point at the singing people and say, “isn’t this ludicrous? Why don’t the rest of you find this ludicrous?” But no one else ever seems to find the singing or dancing ludicrous. No one but me looks like they are struggling to believe the bits where the actors don’t sing because the parts where they do sing are so very silly. No one else spent two thirds of Rent muttering, “don’t sing it, just say it,” in an increasingly loud voice. No one else hasn’t actually seen The Sound of Music, (out of choice). No one else wishes Baz Luhrmann would leave well alone when it comes to musicing-up his movies. Seems like it’s just me and a handful of serious Opera fans who want to stress the enormous gulf between their version of sing-acting and the sing-acting which is done by people in primary-coloured swingy dresses and two tone shoes.

Basically, most normal people appear to like musicals. They like to watch them live. They like to watch the film versions on DVD. They like to sing along to the stupid soundtracks, (which make very little sense beyond the context of the script), in their cars on the way to work and back. I don’t. I like to watch plays with no singing, and films with subtitles, and Radio 4 for the daily commute. I have absolutely no sunshine in my heart. I am a bad person. I do not like musicals.

Many of my musical-loving friends do not seem to be getting the message about me and musicals. (I have similar issues with my animated feature-loving friends). They say things like, “I know you don’t like musicals Jan but this one’s completely different.” To these people I say, “How is it different? Does it have no singing?” Inevitably it will be just as full of singing as the last musical they tried to convert me with, but the singing will be hip hop singing, or singing based on David Bowie songs, or singing done by people who are also really good dancers, or singing which is a clever commentary on social injustice. This musical will not make me like musicals. I would only like a musical if it didn’t have any singing in it. Or maybe one really good song, right at the end, over the credits, where you could only hear the music and not see the actors actually singing about it. I don’t think I’m ever going to change my mind about musicals. I haven’t changed my mind about not liking baked beans or Queen or continental markets either. I think I am one of those people who get stuck in their ways. Here are the ten things I learnt from watching yet another “this musical will make you like musicals,” musical. Thanks for trying friends.

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It takes much longer to sing a thing than it does to say it. Therefore musicals are much longer than ordinary films. (Like a significant amount of time longer).
In a musical if the lighting lowers even a tiny little bit it means someone is going to sing a saddish song. (NB the appearance of a grand piano or moonlit vista will also indicate you are venturing into the land of the lonesome ballad).
Whilst singing people in musicals can bend the laws of physics. Sometimes they fly. Sometimes they go backwards or forwards in time. Sometimes two singing people are able to be in the same place while singing even though they’re actually quite far away from each other. In the real world this only happens when two people are very much in love, or in sci fi movies.
At some point someone is going to flip a hat in a jaunty fashion.
In musicals it is perfectly acceptable to dance on top of the table in a crowded restaurant. If anything, this kind of behaviour is actively encouraged. It is not the same in real life.
Every musical will contain one line of melody so irritatingly impossible to shift from your memory it is like the sonic equivalent of a hiccough. The good folks who write the music bits of musicals are particularly wiley and have long since realised to repeat this refrain ad nauseum throughout the performance. This is what you will wake up to every morning for the next week.
If someone in a musical is wearing a pair of tap shoes, even if they’re just wearing them whilst casually walking down across a parking lot or buying some cereal at the grocery store, you better watch out, clicky heel dancing is imminent.
People in musicals have enormous groups of close friends and associates who follow them round at some distance just waiting for the opportunity to dance in loose formation around the edges of the scene.
The close friends and associates know better than to make a move on centre shot during these dance sequences, except maybe for one of them who will briefly do a back flip or some other difficult move, the main actors are not capable of.
Sometimes I go to films I know I won’t enjoy just so I can have a good moan afterwards.

Best Books of 2016

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It’s that time of the year when everyone makes list of their favourite books. Then, we compare lists and discover that basically we all pretty much liked the same book this year. So, here goes. I had high hopes for reading over the last twelve months. I started the year promising myself i’d make it all the way through Infinite Jest in 2016. I did not finish Infinite Jest this year. I did not even read the cover blurb of Infinite Jest though it sat on my bedside table like a particularly judgmental brick for the entirety of the year. I have now put it in a box and will not be making promises I can’t keep when it comes to reading in 2017.

I read 133 books this year. (I didn’t read as much poetry so that accounts for the slightly lower reading figure. Most poetry collections are shorter than novels. Unless you read “Collecteds” which are bloody enormous). I also read quite a few big, fat novels including Jonathan Safran Foer’s rather bloated Here I Am, which took me almost two weeks and four European countries to finish. Some of my favourite books of the year were absolute beasts. I read a quite a few books in order to interview the people who wrote them, (several twice, because I interviewed the people twice). This was a particular joy in 2016 as absolutely everyone I chatted to was lovely and really brought their work to life in conversation. I would thoroughly recommend interviewing the authors of the books you are reading. It is like having your own, personal book club where no one else gets to interrupt.

I’m going to go out on a limb here, and I know lots of you will disagree with me, but 2016 wasn’t a particularly amazing book year for me. I read a few wonderful books and a lot of decent books and quite a few that really didn’t live up to the hype. I think I’ve realised I’m more of a traditionalist than I thought I was. I don’t mind a bit of experimental language but I really need a story I can get my teeth into and some interesting, well-developed characters. It’s actually been quite liberating to finally admit this and I’d say my old-fashioned reading habits are probably reflected in my choices for the top ten books I’ve read in 2016. I realised this year that people must be at the centre of everything I do and these are essentially all books which are focused on, intrigued, and occasionally repulsed, by people. I’d recommend dropping into your local bookseller, (No Alibis, Belfast and Gutter Books, Dublin being my personal favourites), and picking up these books in 2016. But only if you’re not hell bent on reading Infinite Jest instead.

(The first book is my book of the year. The others are in no particular order. Also, just in case you’re wondering whether I’ve fallen into some kind of time warp, they weren’t all published in 2016).

Book of the Year:

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Hanya Yanaghira– A Little Life

I am made of pure concrete when it comes to books. I can’t remember the last time a novel made me cry. This one had me weeping for pages and pages. It’s not in any way sappy. It’s actually pretty brutal in places, but it is so very honest, it just gets under your skin and stays there. I’ve had so many conversations with other people who’ve read A Little Life this year and just been floored by Yanaghira’s capability as a writer. This is one of the finest and subtlest pieces of writing on the complexity of human suffering I’ve ever read. You can’t possibly read more than a few chapters without becoming emotionally attached to her central character, Jude. Ignore the fact that A Little Life is far from little, (I foolishly read it in hardback and had to engineer a kind of wrist support), go and buy a copy asap and then find yourself cancelling all social engagements for the next week as you remember what it’s like to get absolutely -“forget the real world/stop eating/start referring to the characters in the same way you refer to your actual friends”- lost in a story.

Two: 

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Mary Morrissy – A Lazy Eye

I’d never heard of Mary Morrissy before May. (With hindsight I feel this was very unfortunate). Then, I was asked to host her at the Belfast Book Festival. I read all her books in preparation and was astounded that I’d never read Mary Morrissy before. She is one of the sharpest Irish writers I’ve come across in a long time. All her work is fabulous but I’d particularly recommend this early collection of short stories. It has the dark humour of early Ian McEwan and an absolutely unswerving eye when it comes to recording Irish culture in all its brilliance and absurdity. These are the kind of stories which make me want to peel another layer off my sensibility and delve even deeper into the characters I write. Every single one of these stories is blistering. Well worth tracking a copy of this collection down.

Three:

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Jane Yeh – The Ninjas

In 2015 I read a lot of poetry. Most of it was shite. This year I read less poetry but the quality level was definitely much higher. Jane Yeh read at the John Hewitt Summer School in July. I liked her name. I like her plastic jewellery and I certainly liked her fabulous poems about ninjas, pandas and futuristic robots. If you like magic realism and you’re a little bit wary of terribly earnest poetry, (i.e. me and maybe Roisin O’Donnell), these are the poems for you. (Also what a good looking cover. It puts other poetry books to shame. Maybe if the covers of poetry books had more rainbow donkey pinatas and less photos of waterfalls people who were wary of poems [i.e. me] would be more likely to buy them).

Four.

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Conor O’Callaghan – Nothing on Earth

Oh this novel is good. It is very, very good. What is it about? I’m not entirely sure; people living in an unfinished housing estate who disappear one at a time, priests, Irishness. Nothing to set it apart from Donal Ryan or any of the other great pieces of rural, Irish writing. The plot, on paper, doesn’t feel like it’s enough to sustain a whole novel. The characters are only very lightly developed. And yet the novel actually has a physical feel off it and the only way I can describe this is to say it is like a cold shrug creeping up your spine when you’re reading. I can’t say why it’s such a creepy/mesmerising wee book. I can’t even explain why I loved it so much and thrust it upon everyone I talked to this summer. It’s something to do with the calibre of the writing. O’Callaghan has a light, but poetic, touch when it comes to description and dialogue. He hints and evades rather than bulldozes and, as a result, Nothing on Earth is the kind of novel which stays with you long after you’ve finished reading. The word I’d use for this is haunting. (Nb Nothing on Earth also wins the prize for most difficult to remember book title of the year. I’ve recommended it to several people under various alternative titles including Out of This World, Nothing Comes Close, and Nobody on Earth. It is closely followed by Donal Ryan’s impossible to remember, All We Shall Know).

Five:

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Donal Ryan: All We Shall Know, (alternative Jan titles including What We Don’t Know Yet, Things You Should Know and Nobody Knows)

Donal Ryan is my favourite person in the world to interview, (though I haven’t interviewed George Saunders or Charlie from Casualty yet, so I’m drawing on a rather limited pool of personal experience). He is also one of my favourite Irish writers to read and All We Shall Know is definitely my favourite of his books so far. It’s not a fussy novel. It pulls no sly tricks. It just gets in there, tells a great story, delivers a set of fabulously interesting characters and leaves you charmed and a wee bit devastated, in the very best sense. As such, it’s kind of a microcosm for Donal himself.

Six:

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Michel Faber: Some Rain Must Fall

I did not know of Michel Faber before 2016. Now I am a massive fan and this short collection is easily my favourite of the Faber books I’ve read so far. It’s odd and a little uncomfortable and impossible to put down. I loved the story about the suicide watch nun and the opening story about the teacher who specialises in teaching children who’ve survived school shootings and other traumatic experiences. Michel Faber writes people so well. His stories  perfectly illustrate what I’ve been trying to teach in my writing workshops all year: if you want to write magic realism well, (or any other kind of other worldly writing), you must first master the art of writing believable realism. I’m looking forward to devouring more Michel Faber in 2017.

Seven: 

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Shirley Jackson – Dark Tales

Oh Shirley Jackson you were probably my favourite thing about 2016. (You, and getting my lost lap top back). I’d only ever read “The Lottery” before this year. Then, one by one, every person I seemed to talk to during the summer wanted to introduce you to me and we were introduced and I instantly fell in love with your dark little stories and you, as a wonderful feministy writer who I could actually imagine having a cup of tea with. I am now so infatuated wit your work that I feel like I might be tempted to cheat on Flannery O’Connor and call you my all time favourite. But ,let’s not be hasty. I still have an awful lot of your books to get through first. Dark Tales is the best one I’ve read so far. I suspect it might also be one of your favourite. They’re all marvellous though, even the non-fiction ones. I wish I had discovered you earlier Shirley Jackson, or that you weren’t dead.

Eight:

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George Saunders – Lincoln in the Bardo

I’m pulling a but of a sneaky move in including this one in my best reads of 2016. I don’t think it’s officially published ’til February but a kind friend gave me a pre-release copy and I devoured it in one sitting on Christmas Day. It’s not what I expected. Though the slanted approach to telling a story is there in enormous measure, it’s quite different from Saunders’ usual style, with multiple narrative voices and a great deal of historical research included in the story. However, after about fifty pages I found myself adjusting the way I normally read to fit the style, (slightly more like reading a play script than a novel), and then it was a sheer joy and gave my atypical weird post-George Saunders’ dreams. Can’t wait ’til this is out so I can have a proper non-plot-spoiling chat about it.

Nine:

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Zadie Smith: Changing My Mind

I’m just going to be honest here and say I don’t really love Zadie Smith’s fiction that much. However, her non-fiction writing has always blown me away and this year I was actually fortunate enough to get to hear her lecture on the subject of “Why We Write”. It was one of the most challenging, witty and intelligent lectures I’ve ever heard and cemented my belief that Zadie Smith has the rare ability to make the most high brow topics accessible to everyone without compromising one jot of integrity. These miscellaneous articles and essays bear further testament to this. Here she writes about other writers, ethnicity, philosophy, her family and, amongst other topics, superhero movies. They are a joy to read and what’s more, they are also the kind of essays which lead to further reading. The best books, in my opinion, are always like little maps, pointing towards other books you should feel compelled to read.

Ten:

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Ernest Hemingway: A Moveable Feast

I’m not going to say very much about this one except to say I am slowly learning how to admit when I am wrong. I have always been very vocal in my dislike, (or ,out and out hatred), of everything Mr. Hemingway wrote and stood for, but I actually really enjoyed this, (and The Old Man and the Sea wasn’t too bad either). There. I am contrite. (But I still think all those stories about bullfighting and big game hunting are absolutely rubbish).

 

 

 

 

 

Film 2016

They say 2016’s been a wonderful year for art house and a dreadful year for blockbusters. I wouldn’t know. I think I’ve only ventured beyond the safe confines of the QFT/Strand a couple of times and, having gritted my teeth through the horror that was Bridget Jones and the Child of Questionable Parentage, realised the Multiplex was no longer for me. So, I’ve had a fabulous year at the cinema, almost wearing out my QFT membership card, and have had to expand my usual Top Ten Films to a more reasonable twenty. Even then, I’ve been forced to cull a few fabulous little movies which I really enjoyed: the always wonderful Greta Gerwig in Maggie’s Plan, (which we saw in a tremendous little art house movie theatre in Amsterdam), Todd Solendz’s darkly brilliant Weiner Dog, Cillian Murphy in Anthropoid, the visual delight that was A Bigger Splash, Hitchcock Truffaut, (a fabulous wee documentary which further fed my Hitchcock obsession), Little Men, which was simple and bittersweet, The Innocence of Memories, (a documentary/memoir/musing on the writer Orhan Pamuk’s relationship with Istanbul), and the Childhood of a Leader which was, absolutely stunning, despite its maddening migraine of a closing scene.

I’d settled on my film of the year within ten minutes of the opening credits and I’ll stand over it as a devastatingly, beautiful piece of storytelling. There’s a tenderness here, a gentle fascination with humanity in all its beauty and brokenness, which is apparent in almost every movie I loved this year. 2016 has been a hard year in which to feel hopeful about anything and yet the cinema has been full of films which seem to say aren’t people odd and awful and utterly wonderful. It’s the sort of gospel I’m quite happy to sit under right now. Here’s hoping 2017 is another great year for brave and ground-breaking cinema.

Best of 2016:

Notes on Blindness: Surely this is what film is for.[image error]

2. The Big Short: At last 2016, a semi-decent film. Sharp script, fabulously awful haircuts, thumping soundtrack and the nicest sofa I’ve seen in a very long time.

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3. Spotlight: A tightly-scripted, sentiment-resisting, sucker punch of a film. Plus Mark Ruffalo shining brightly in terrible jeans and Rachel McAdams not even being that annoying. 2016 cinema going is finally picking up

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4. Hail, Caesar: I thought this was going to be an all the best bits are in the trailer type of Coen brothers’ movie but actually it’s more of a Coen brothers do clever with a really light touch/look at all those A listers clearly having a blast/why aren’t there more song and dance numbers in modern films? kind of movie. Hooray for the Coens. They know exactly what they’re doing.

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5. The Witch: Haunting in every conceivable sense of the word. I have some issues with the ending but aside from the last three minutes when all the pace and subtlety goes, quite literally, flying, this is truly wonderful, well-researched and expertly executed cinema.

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6. Anomalisa: For an animated film this is heartbreakingly, awkwardly human. Charlie Kaufman resists the urge to pile on the layers and makes a simple, devastatingly beautiful movie about the loneliness of being a grown up person which comes in at a refreshingly watchable 90 minutes. Only thing that ruined this even slightly for me was how much the main character looks like Rodney from Only Fools and Horses. I’m guessing this wasn’t intentional.

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7. Mustang: This is an exceptional wee film. It sneaked up on me and turned my evening upside down in the best possible way. Make sure you don’t miss it.

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8. Green Room: Things I learnt from watching this movie: Patrick Stewart is pretty hardcore, duct tape and open fractures go together like cheese and crackers, never go to an isolated neo-Nazi punk club without a fully charged mobile phone. Tremendous stuff from the same director who did Blue Ruin, proving he truly knows his way round a shotgun thriller. More of this please.

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9. Everybody Wants Some: See, it is possible to make an American college movie which isn’t just crass, dumbed down puerile nonsense and you can even put in a reasonably large amount of baseball and not leave your audience bored out of their heads. Hats off to you Richard Linklater.

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10. Love and Friendship: I liked this way more than I actually like anything Jane Austen has ever written.

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11.The Daughter: This is family melodrama on an epic but incredibly measured scale. Gorgeous cinematography. Beautiful soundtrack. Fabulous performances from the whole cast with Sam Neill standing out as particularly memorable. Go see.

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12. Born to be Blue: Hey kids don’t do heroin and remember Ethan Hawke actually makes a decent movie once every ten years or so.

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13. Men and Chicken: The only thing this is even a little bit like is Donald Antrim’s fantastic “The 100 Brothers” but even that comparison doesn’t scratch the surface of how strange and unsettling and marvellous this wee film is. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard and people being beaten up by taxidermy before. It’s unlikely I will again.

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14. Julieta: Simple story, well-told with fabulous 80s outfits. This is the kind of Almodovar I can actually stomach.

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15. Hell or High Water: This is what a Western looks like in 2016 and it’s pretty much the best thing my eyes have seen in months.

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16. Hunt for the Wilderpeople: You’d have to have a very hard heart not to find this funny and sweet and a bit of a tonic.

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17. American Honey: Truly captivating film making. Explores the American dystopian present in a way which is both endearing and disturbing. Plus, that soundtrack. Didn’t even notice three hours speeding past.

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18. I, Daniel Blake: We are so lucky to have Ken Loach. We could really do with more of him.

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19. Nocturnal Animals: Dear Tom Ford thank you for reminding me to be thankful that I am not a vacuous rich person in a house built of glass and sad art and will therefore not end up stylishly unhappy drinking whiskey alone in well cut clothes. Saying that, any movie with Michael Shannon and Jake Gyllenhaal will always be worth a couple of hours of your time. (Nb Nocturnal Animals pictured sadly do not feature in this movie. Equally sadly, Amy Adams does.)

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20. I Am Not A Serial Killer: Like Donnie Darko crossed with the X Files entirely set in a MidWestern backwater i.e. Awesome. Includes best placement of Spirit in the Sky ever.

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…And the worst films my eyes saw this year.

Captain Fantastic: Holy indie movie cliche this was dire AND they murdered Dylan.

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2. The Revenant: This movie was like an Ernest Hemingway story in that I can see why some people will think it’s good but it literally bored the back teeth off me plus the dreamy, lens flare, floaty Native American parts were like scenes from the bad Terence Malick movies. Sorry Leo I just wanted you to hurry up and avenge your son’s death so I could go home and have a cup of tea.

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3. Youth: The best parts of this, (The one on one conversations between Paul Dano, Rachel Weisz, Harvey Keitel and Michael Caine), are sublime. It looks gorgeous. It has a lot of great Mark Kozelek songs and some fabulous cow shots. But the worst parts -and there are quite a few- are pure sappy drivel. A good half hour off the running time would make it a much better movie.

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4. Chevalier: Up there with the most boring thing my eyes have ever seen.

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5. Knight of Cups: This movie features many people jumping in the water with their clothes on, much twirling around mostly empty apartments, a horrific overdone God metaphor, lens flare in abundance, many, many fridge magnet truisms delivered in a breathy voice, a wardrobe entirely composed of the sort of floaty crap they can’t get rid of in the H&M sale and a seriously unrealistic/borderline misogynistic portrayal of women. Wise up Terence Malick. Just wise up.

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Best of Literary Happenings 2016

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Last night Hilary and I took a quick run down to Dublin for the “Long Night of the Short Story.” This is an annual event hosted by Irish Laureate for Fiction, Anne Enright. It always takes place on the shortest day of the year. As soon as the last song is sung and the last story read the days automatically start getting longer again. I am going to choose to believe this will prove to be the exact moment when everything in the world started to become a little more bearable again. Good words and music have been one of the few things we’ve had to hold on to during this last difficult year and last night’s performance featured some fabulous -mostly new- stories from Mike McCormack, Danielle McLaughlin, Lisa McInerney, Colm Toibin and Anne herself, (in cracking form), plus beautiful musical responses from singer songwriter Lisa O’Neill. It was a pretty magical wee evening and left Hilary and I sort of floating back up the motorway, inspired and full of Christmassy spirit.

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2016 is almost over and, save for reading the kids their Christmas Eve stories, last night will be my last literary event of the year. It’s been a shit year for almost everything else but a truly brilliant year for readings. I’ve heard writers I never thought I’d get the chance to hear in person and even had the opportunity to meet a few of them, (George Saunders, George Saunders, George Saunders). I’ve been to some brilliant Literary festivals, (Edinburgh, Belfast, Dalkey, Cork, Dublin), taken part in some great little hybrid music/art/literature collaborations and had the opportunity to interview a lot of people I really admire. I’ve also sat through a fair amount of terrible readings about cats and war and nature. But, even then, I’d say the quality of local cat/war/nature writing has improved slightly this year. I’ve launched enough books to fill a library, bought enough books to necessitate buying a new house with a library wing, and had so many incredible before, after, (and even during), reading conversations which have shaped my writing practice just as much as the readings themselves.

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Looking back over 2016 I reckon I’ve been to around 200 readings. (Worryingly this probably also equates to approximately 200 free glasses of wine). I can’t remember most of them -after a while one evening in the upstairs bar of the Sunflower listening intently to a man in a tweedy blazer, begins to feel very much like the next- but the ones I do remember have stayed with me because each has left me wanting to rush home and write. Bad readings feel like ploughing through soup but good readings of good writing, even those which are almost most intimidatingly perfect, (George Saunders, George Saunders, George Saunders), will always make me hungry to get my laptop out and have a go myself.

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So here’s to two hundred more wonderful literary happenings in 2017. Here’s to the frequent coming and going of writers over a very fluid North/South border, (fingers crossed). Here’s to new literary friends, and complimentary wine and buying so many books you’ll never get time to read them all. Here’s to remembering how fortunate we are to have such a robust literary community and doing whatever it takes to hold on to it. Here’s my list of the best readings I attended this year. I’m pretty sure I’m missing a few, (blame it on the complimentary wine).

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Launches: In recent years books have replaced ships when it comes to Belfast-based launchings. I feel like we’ve launched at least one book for every three residents this year. Hopefully this is a sign of things to come. Much mention must be made of The Glass Shore launch in early October, not least for the way so many women writers from the South came up to show solidarity with the Northern writers whose work had been included in this wonderful and, dare I say it, timely anthology. Something has shifted in Ireland’s literary community this year and for the first time since my return to Belfast I’ve felt a tremendous sense of belonging to the Island as a whole. Other writers from the North have voiced similar feelings. Perhaps it has something to do with Brexit and the fear of how this might negatively impact artistic relationships across the border. Solidarity is vital right now. I choose to believe it also has a lot to do with Northern-focused anthologies like The Glass Shore, the forthcoming 2017 version of The Female Line and our recent anthology of New Poets from the North of Ireland, (The Future Always Makes Me Feel Thirsty). The launch for Thirsty, (as I’m now calling it), was another raucous affair with so many people crammed into the John Hewitt it felt more like a punk gig than a book launch, (it is rare for me to break a sweat at a literary event, but I think we all left that one drenched). Sinead Morrissey was warm and incredibly witty in her opening remarks, Stephen Connolly was commanding, and afterwards there was a kind of clamour for Thirsty poet signatures, as many of them as you could collect, like poets were things you might want to actually claim ownership of. The birth of the Lifeboat Press‘s poetry pamphlets also gave us the excuse for two really special launch evenings celebrating Andy Eaton and Padraig Regan’s outstanding work, and we had a jolly old night in No Alibis with Kevin, Olivia and the Winter Papers team, giving the most beautiful of Irish journals a proper Belfast launch, (you know you’re at a truly classy book launch when the contributors sign their work in gold pen). Though it’s barely forty eight hours old I must also salute the editorial team behind Northern Ireland’s newest print journal, The Tangerine which launched in orange-themed style at The Sunflower on Tuesday night. Perhaps, more than any of the other launches this year, The  Tangerine is significant for it meets a really pertinent need within the Northern Irish literary scene. With so many people writing, and writing well, we need more places to publish our work. In a world where austerity has tried to force writing online, it’s great to have another avenue for print, and such a swanky one at that.

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Big Stars: This year I ventured out of Belfast and heard some of my literary heroes read for the first time: Zadie Smith, Tobias Wolff and, the oft-mentioned, George Saunders were all particularly memorable at the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Zadie Smith’s lecture on why we write was a personal highlight, while Saunders’ reading of “The Semplica Girl Diaries” instantly became my all time favourite live reading of anything. I’ve never felt anyone hold an audience captive like that, coaxing the laughter out, then quickly spinning full circle to make grown adults sniff into their sweater sleeves. For such an unimposing little man he sure knows how to pitch a word correctly. Hearing George Saunders read and talk about his writing has completely changed how I read his books and, if I felt the need to track him down afterwards and tell him this in an incredibly gushy and slightly creepy way, I stand over the belief that such a response was entirely merited. At the other end of the spectrum I heard Alexander McCall-Smith read at Edinburgh Book Festival in August. Now, I know how to read in front of approximately one million elderly people. Seemingly the secret is to greet as many audience members as possible by name, then deliver a rapid fire series of dinner party anecdotes and finally bring some chums on stage with an accordion. This was an interesting, if not entirely pleasant, experience. Everything’s a learning curve these days. Also somewhat baffling was Marilynne Robinson’s appearance at Queen’s in April. I’m still not entirely sure what she said, or what she meant to say, but how marvellous it was to be in the same room as Marilynne for over an hour, just looking at her in all her etherealness and thinking, she who wrote Gilead and Housekeeping is actually here in Belfast, talking to us. Finally, we had Kate Tempest at least twice, possibly three times, (I lost count). On the first occasion I talked to her myself. It was at Belfast Book Festival. I will confess to not knowing who Kate Tempest was one month before the reading and, having read her work, not being terribly interested in getting to know who she was until about one hour before the interview when I finally met her in the Green Room and found her surprisingly charming. However, it’s fair to say the girl blew me out of the water. For literary snobs like me it’s always a humbling experience to admit that you like something everyone else likes. Sometimes art is popular because it’s actually good. It was necessary to experience Kate Tempest live to understand this. It’s amazing how much a well-executed reading can open up a piece of writing. Sadly, the opposite is also true. I won’t mention any such readings but there we re a fair few this year.

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Special Moments: I’m going to restrict myself here and pick just two readings which left me absolutely reeling this year. (It would be three but I’ve already mentioned Mr. Saunders quite enough for one blog). The first was Sinead Morrissey’s reading of her new long poem on the expedition to Greenland at the Seamus Heaney Summer School. About two sentences into this reading I became aware that the entire room was leaning into the poetry. This was an actual physical sensation. I have never experienced this before with words, only music, and immediately concluded that I should learn how to do this. Then I remembered that I am not Sinead Morrissey and will probably never write anything that feels like a firework going off just behind the listener’s eyes. Thereafter I just leaned into the reading like everyone else in the room and enjoyed the sensation of finding myself, by fortuitous chance, in the best place in Belfast at this precise moment. My second, lose track of time and wonder if you have fallen down a black hole moment, was Vahni Capildeo’s absolutely mesmerising reading for the Seamus Heaney Centre in October. I’m not sure whether Vahni’s writes poetry or prose and I don’t really care. The space she creates around words, the way her voice is a kind of hook climbing out of each sentence, the playful solemnity of her work: it’s a little like being underwater for a very long time, but in a really good way. I have been raving about her collection ever since.

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Moderating: 2016 was the year I got to move to the other side of the stage and ask the questions for a change. I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to interview lots of really brilliant writers. Each of these experiences has been a steep learning curve as I try to  keep my nosiness in check, hold the audience’s interest and attempt, not always successfully, to keep the writer from going off piste. Thankfully everyone I’ve hosted this year has been both incredibly gracious and an absolute joy to interview. I have yet to experience a one word answerer/too many glasses of wine in the Green Roomer/onethe defensive from the off setter. Thank goodness. No doubt they’ll be plenty of opportunity to meet these particular blessings in 2017. It’s hard to pick favourites but I have to say I really enjoyed talking about faith and meaning with Donal Ryan at the John Hewitt Summer School. Anna Pavord at the Heaney Homeplace was also particularly memorable for the incredible depth and wisdom she brought to discussing her own relationship with the landscape and, (though I probably enjoyed the chips and chat in the car post-show just as much as the onstage interview), Lisa McInerney was unbelievably fun to talk with at the Belfast International Arts Festival. At times I forgot we were having a conversation in front of a live audience and just lapsed into asking her about things I actually wanted to know. I’m slowly learning this is the key to facilitating a good interview.

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Hybrid Happenings: Is it a reading? Is it a gig? Is it something there isn’t yet a name for but someone has made cake to go with it? The answer is yes to all of the above in 2016. From the glorious oddness of our Belle and Sebastian themed Poetry Picnic at the Ulster Hall to Orla McAdam’s gorgeous art exhibition, “Everything Leaves Marks” based on the short stories in Children’s Children and the now legendary John Hewitt Society Literary Pub Quiz, (where the answer to every question is either Dickens or Lord of the Rings and the grand prize is a pallet of tea bags), this year has been a wonderful year for collaboration, imagination and allowing live literature to creep out from between the confines of the traditional to have a little fun. I enjoyed returning the favour with local singer-songwriter Hannah McPhillimy who wrote a series of songs based on the characters in my first novel Malcolm Orange Disappears, and wrote a new short story based on “Ruins,” a song from her latest Ep. I worked on a special Book Show for Radio Ulster with the irrepressible Steven Rainey and had the most magical evening helping to facilitate a candlelit community reading in the Victorian Palm Houses in Botanic Gardens as part of our “Writing the Ravine” workshop programme. Occasionally it can be nice to get away from other writers and work with people who don’t necessarily see the world in sentences and couplets. I’m looking forward to  more collaboration  in 2017. I have a couple of projects in the pipeline already and can’t wait to elaborate in the New Year. 2017 is already shaping up to be a very good year for literature.

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Six Weeks in Enniskillen

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This Thursday evening, for the first time in almost two months, I will not be dashing out of work at 4:30 to spend three hours crawling through rush hour traffic from Belfast to Enniskillen. I will not be spending two late night hours crawling back to Belfast through freezing fog/black ice/snow. (Neither will I be stopping for drive by chips in Augher, or having my customary Lion Bar for desert, or tuning in to the Radio 4 drama about the three Scottish ladies running a clandestine intellectual club in Edinburgh). Instead I will be in Belfast drinking a glass of wine and listening to poetry. Bliss, (or potentially not-so-blissful, depending upon the quality of the poetry I’m listening to).

While I certainly won’t miss the five hour round trip to Fermanagh of a Thursday evening, I have to say my heart is a little sad this afternoon each time I remember that I won’t be teaching my creative writing workshop with the Fermanagh Writers tonight. The last six weeks have been a tremendously good experience for me and I’m thankful to both the Irish Writers’ Centre for taking a punt on my facilitation skills and the Fermanagh writers who’ve been such a wonderfully warm and welcoming bunch of talented individuals. I’m really genuinely sorry to see the course end. If only there was a way of moving Enniskillen closer to Belfast, (perhaps a geographical city swap with Lisburn?)

I’ve taught a lot of creative writing workshops over the last few years. Mostly for community groups and beginner writers. It’s fair to say they’ve been a mixed bag. Here’s a wee blog about my best, (and worst), experiences in the classroom/library/community centre/portacabin/Victorian Palm House (here). I’ve never not enjoyed a writing workshop though some have been pretty hard work. I always approach a session nervous; you simply never know what’s going to walk through the door. By the end of the two hours, no matter how difficult it’s been, I’m always full of enthusiasm for the participants and their writing.

I love watching writers grow in confidence and stretch themselves to try something new. I love listening to all the different ways in which a room full of creative people will react to the same prompt. I love watching pieces of writing develop from a fledgling idea to a finished story or poem, and my final Thursday with the Enniskillen writers was particularly meaningful as each writer read a piece they’d developed over the previous six weeks. If anything my only struggle with the creative writing workshops I’ve facilitated in the past has been the jump-in-and-out sessions where you only have two or three hours with a room full of strangers. It’s hard to do anything but teach when you don’t have time to properly get to know the writers in your class and, I’ve come to believe, creative writing facilitators need to be able to learn from their students as much, if not more, than they teach them anything.

Every single creative writing session I’ve ever taught has been a learning experience reminding me that each person writes differently; everyone has something to say and a right to be heard saying it in their own voice. I’ve long since come to realise that the role of the creative writing facilitator is not to dominate the class with her own particular outlook on writing, but to voice encouragement, to sand down the edges of a piece, helping the writer expose its natural shape then subtly, but quite consciously, get out of the way allowing the participants to tell their stories in their own words fully embracing their own style and theme. I

’ve recently come across a fabulous Flannery O’Connor quote where she addresses a group on the topic of writers teaching writing classes. “The only parallel I can think to this is having the zoo come to you one animal at a time; and I suspect that what you hear from the giraffe one week is contradicted the next week by the baboon.” My worst experiences of editing have always been at the hands of someone who doesn’t understand why, or how, I write the way I do. It can be a tremendously negative experience to be offered “constructive criticism” by a well-meaning, more established writer who doesn’t enjoy the kind of writing you’re trying to produce.

Over the last six weeks I’ve come back to this thought again and again. I had around a dozen people in my class: prose writers, poets, historical fiction writers, playwrights, crime writers, memoir writers, non-fiction writers and just about every other version of writer in existence. Over and over I had to resist the urge to try to turn them all into character-driven, magic realists. The desire to clip and embellish and offer odd metaphor choices was extremely strong. I did my best to keep it in check and, listening to everyone read their finished pieces last Thursday, I think I might just have got away with it. All my students produced a piece which sounded like a believable version of their own voice. I was really proud of them. It’s hard to hold on to your own voice when there’s a lady with a whiteboard and handouts telling you how she writes and then reading you huge, intimidatingly brilliant, chunks of George Saunders and Kevin Barry ad nauseum. It took me years and years to grow confident enough in my own writing voice not to be unduly swayed by other writers. Even now I sometimes get overcome by insecurity and consider altering my style and the themes of my stories to fit some silly perceived audience I have in my head. The writers in my class seemed so very assured with their writing voices. They knew how to take on board advice about structure and pacing and language choice without compromising one iota of their own distinctive style. They taught me a lot about learning in a workshop environment; teaching, as I’ve mentioned above, really has to be a two way relationship. I’m definitely still learning this one.