Update, August 2018

Newark Book Festival is worth looking out for –  a new-ish annual book bash with an eclectic remit. They have the ‘serious’ stuff, sure –  but also plenty of family-relevant activities, and a glorious Literature Quarter in the market place, filled with stallholders and street acts. I was there on Sunday 15th July with my wares, and although this wasn’t the full-on experience enjoyed by the Saturday marketeers, newark.jpgthere was a warm and friendly atmosphere and I feel it will develop into something special for the East Midlands. It’s not expensive to hire a stall, and I can recommend it to any nervous first-timers who might have self-published their work. You’ll need to get on the mailing list though, if you want the details in good time: already, plans for 2019 are under way. You can sign up using their website at Newark Book Festival.

Meanwhile, I can’t speak too highly of the Shrewsbury Poetry crowd – a well-organised evening with excellent open-mic readers, and they even had the decency to invite me over there as the headliner for August 2nd. The signpostvenue was first rate (thanks, St. Nicholas’ Cafe!) and I had a spiffing time meeting the organiser & poet, Liz Lefroy. My travelling expenses were refunded, and several booksales (hooray!) meant that I came away with a decent ‘wage’ while at the same time not having sent my poetry colleagues spiralling into deficit. Which, as you will see, is a theme this month.

I spent several days around rural Shropshire, enjoying its associations with Mary Webb, Housman, and Wilfred Owen; not to mention the eerie borderlands I find wonderfully recreated in the Merrily Watkins novels by Phil Rickman. However, some of the eerie borderlands are not due to an evocative landscape with its image of ‘the land of lost content’. At the moment it’s also the land of lost and failing businesses. I know Shropshire reasonably well as a visitor – but the last time I was in some of those small towns, the shopfronts were selling goods and the best-known tourist trap wasn’t wall to wall eateries with tiny tarts costing £3.50. Places have to reinvent themselves in the wake of recession, but I’m not sure we need 53 coffee shops within walking distance of each other. What happens out of season? Do they have scone-throwing competitions, or open up their premises to the homeless? Is the throughput enough to guarantee a years’ worth of income for a new deli next to another deli with a slightly different pastry in the window?

The biggest laugh-inducing discrepancy happened in one tiny town in the middle of nowhere with half-day closing held up as a tradition. Most of its independent shops were gone or going, yet local funding had been lavished on a building that wasn’t offering anything unless you wanted tourist souvenirs. I stood in its brand new space looking out of its artfully restored windows at a rundown three-floor unit which used to be a thriving hardware store. Nobody wanted it, I was told. A wool shop had closed only ten days previously, yet around the corner you could still get militaria and Army surplus from a well-stocked curio shop.

All prepared for the apocalypse. Thankyou Shropshire; your future as a museum is assured. You have some of the UK’s finest heritage, great views from your unusual landscapes, and you’re perfect for low-fi visitors like me. But I’m not sure vegan delis and Discovery Centres are going to carry you forward, post-Brexit.

 

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Update, July 2018

DOLC spines

I’ve been and gone and done it! A suitable printers’ quote came in, and I had a no-frills deal for an initial 50 copies with a reliable local firm (GP Printonline, Peterborough). It involved no proofs so there’s a couple of things I must alter in future; but the end result is saleable, and that’s what matters. The 9-day turnaround time was also appreciated, because it’s ready for the Newark Book Festival now. I’ll be taking them around at the next three events, to see how it goes; meanwhile, if you’re interested you can order one for £7, including p & p within the UK mainland. Please use the form on the Shop Stop page, or enquire through Twitter @rennieparker, or ww.poetrypf.co.uk. Once I’ve got my seller’s information on Amazon, you may order through there also. The title is Daughters of the Last Campaign, and the press name is Demeter, after the classical goddess. As it’s a trial printrun I’ve included some artycrafty inserts –  you might find ’19th century adverts’ and a small print as a bookmark.

IMG_kite

It’s been a long haul with this particular book – at first I wrote it as a radio script, which is why the whole thing is dialogue-driven –  and I tested it while working on a community arts project where the main art was playwriting. Then I submitted it to a BBC department in the days before they changed to the Script Room system; and it was quickly rejected. But I could see how womens’ comedy (and comedy written by women) had gathered momentum, with many more delivering standup routines and older ones like me experimenting with different media. I kept faith with my idea, and re-wrote it as a collage text, with a cacophony of voices both male and female, some of them from the early 20th century. I was able to capture the period feel because my PhD reseach was on the pre-WW1 generation –  and like a lot of people fascinated by the intricate layers of Edwardian life, I’d read the explorer literature from the same period.

IMG_1304I suppose the lesson I learnt was: ‘don’t dump your ideas’. Yes, creative writing teachers will exhort you to murder your darlings, cut, cut, cut, fillet and slash. But I’m not one of the people who writes like that. I nearly always revise up, not down, with scripts gathering interest and detail until they’re done. If you’ve tried out your work in a public format like a class or a local open mic night, the audience reaction is all you need to convince you maybe it’s best to carry on. I would have binned the project if people hadn’t laughed, or if a few independent script readers hadn’t said it was worth doing. I can’t spend years on a vanity project, throwing good money after bad –  and neither can anyone else. But sometimes, you have to pursue an idea until it becomes real.

Update, June 2018

Well, I had the verdict at last – and it was a rejection from the press I had waited nearly a year for, under a competitive entry system involving readers’ panels. I came somewhere in the final 23 out of a script pile of 600, which means I did pretty well to get that far – because writing talent isn’t rare in the UK and thegarlic bulbsre’s a lot of us around. However it was still disappointing to realise I’d tied up a possibly viable script for a long time, making it ineligible for other things, only to get the useless-to-me unpublished runner-up thing.

Weeks afterwards and I’m still wondering about it. So near and yet so far; some of the readers thought it was funny, others thought it was irritating. Which, when you think about it, adequately sums up the reaction to most niche literature and comic writing. For each person who decided it wasn’t worth printing, another one said it was. So it’s time to focus on the positive and put my money where my mouth is; I’ve got the experience and I’ve run other people’s projects – two of them a good deal bigger than mine. I could publish it myself.

Therefore, dear readers, I’m in the process of asking around at the local commercial printers and working out how much I can put towards the cost. I don’t need a fancy print job, largely because I can add my own illustrations and other documents to make it more of an artwork later. And to this end, I’ve just spent the May bank holiday with a set of art papers and print blocks, creating little anagram poems to insert at the back of the book.

IMG_1304I’ll put progress reports on here, assuming I can get an affordable quote. As print costs have fallen drastically over the past 10 years, what looked impossible a few years ago is probably within reach now, even though I’ll be selling it myself and hawking it round at readings. You have to admit, that’s a better fate for a typescript than sitting for another year on somebody else’s script pile.

Update, April 2018

Do you ever get pulverized by the onslaught of social media and its talented way with making you feel small? I certainly do – because there’s so many excitable writers on Twitter just now that a Damien-Hirst multi-layered blatter effect happens as soon as I turn my screen on. And of course, it seems that everyone has something to promote, a new book or a series of events or summat, and I’m quite put out. Where do they find the time? Haven’t they got jobs or families? Why is their level of confidence so massive compared with the 40 watt bulb version I seem to have? Why do they have an army of associates cheering them on when I couldn’t even tell my mates at work that I’m a poet? And so on. Clearly, Twitter is bad for my health as well as my data allowance.

pressureThere’s a verse fest in my town this week, so I went along to a masterclass by a prominent male poet. Now, when I see the word masterclass, I expect some kind of class taught by a master – perhaps I’m influenced by ideas of painting demos, musicians sitting in a line with their instruments, or – yes, even a supercool poet sharing drafts and ‘what not to do’. Sadly, this guy thought a masterclass was 1.75 hours of talking about himself, with a high namedrop percentage and the special places he’s been now he’s at the top. I’m glad for the guy, I love it when writers are big news – but I’d paid £10 for that, and I could have found the same information on Wikithingi for nowt. The atmosphere in the room went strangely off-kilter as several audience members began to question his rationale for the sort of event he was giving us; and I could see the unease in the poet, who’d realised that yes, maybe he should have drawn up a plan before he started to walk onstage, and yes, maybe it is a bad idea to think that any old sentence is a pearl of wisdom because it is said by himself. All I learnt from this ‘masterclass’ was: a) write a plan, you idiot, and b) if you think you can get away with it, you can’t. An audience deserves what is written on the ticket, and if the performer isn’t prepared to deliver it, arts managers should look elsewhere.

Update, February 2018

Waiting, waiting. As ever. Sometimes it never seems to progress, does it? You write stuff, you send it out, and then it’s –    the Void. I’m sure wellknown writers feel the same sort of thing, because trick whenever I go to readings or events, there’ll always be some Big Name outlining how hard it was for them to get started, and how awful it was, waiting for the yes/no envelopes (back in the day –   no email!) and then the WAITING. Like, months. Not even a few days, no. Months. Well, I’m one of those preoccupied waiters right now, thinking of my little manuscript sitting there with all the other hopefuls as it shifts at a glacial pace towards a final decision. I’m glad to have made it this far of course. Past the initial selection, and on through what a film person would describe as Development Phase, even though it feels more like some dreadful half-state akin to a Dantean circle of Hell. Sometime this Spring I’ll get a final decision on that script, and it’ll be either a) cast into an even deeper darker further circle of non-being for all eternity, or b) it’ll be fanfares and a light at the end of the tunnel as another creative effort makes it into the real world at last.

Competition though. That’s a thing. I dislike competing with the other poets out there and I enter the minimum number of comps per year –   two or three. I don’t see why poets should feel as if they must compete like frantic parents for a place at a selective academy, or why they should imagine they might gain ‘edge’ or career traction from being third in line. It’s like we’re all being trained to participate not as writers, but as gameshow contestants; to accept that Prizes Mean Points, and it’s somehow part of the reality of being a poet, instead of something which the market has thrust on us. We’re not at school, for heaven’s sake; you can write whatever you want and there’s probably a magazine or arts project out there which publishes exactly that kind of thing. You don’t have to throw good money after bad and send your poems in to Little Dripping’s Biennial Versefest Competition (1st prize £100). It’s not automatically on the job description of Being A Poet. If you add up a modest £50 which you might spend on comps per year, and multiply it by the number of years you might be active as a poet, you’re looking at 2k and beyond. For that kind of sum you could publish your own collection, hold a reading at an independent bookshop, and kickstart some interest in your actual work. Just putting it out there….

Update, November 2017

On a glorious autumn day last month, I set off for a favourite town in the bishops palace 3Wolds, because I had a date with their annual festival of literature and craft. I had a good time as usual, but it was obvious how much the festival had changed from its previous incarnation as a district council project, funded and managed as part of the local authority public services. I’m sure the same has happened in your area too, particularly if you’re a smalltowner or living a long bus-ride away from the scene of action. Libraries closed, events pulled, funding stopped, publicity scaled down, and access denied. That’s the end result of course –  access being denied to the arts and literature, things which people have relied on throughout the centuries to give them meaning and support. We’re lucky in that public interest companies and arts trusts may take up the programme which a local authority can no longer provide, but this is rarely a longterm solution. If your venue used to be a theatre studio or a library and now it’s a table in a shop,  or an anonymous room in a business startup centre –   beware. You can literally see how the arts are being trivialised and made less relevant, less attractive, and less of what the reading public deserves.

Well, I did my session in the room with the stained carpet and the rattling hatch in the sports venue nearly a mile out of town, and I was glad to do so. But it’s not the festival I used to set aside a whole weekend for, and it looks like one more casualty in the trend away from culture in the community. In other areas of the country, things appear to be different; festivals being created by enterprising bookshop owners and literary groups, and torrents of Twitter advertising the latest shows. But not everyone can get into a city or drive nearly a hundred miles to a venue straight after work –  the rural areas are missing out on what the new-media driven urbanites can take for granted.

Update, September 2017

Well, what can I say. A week at Arvon is simply fabulous, dahling. I joined a course on musical theatre with the nicest bunch of people imaginable, who provided a week filled IMG_1267with laughter and song. It was exactly as honest and corny as it sounds. While I have no doubt that the tutors were rolling around laughing at what we’d done in the name of contemporary music, their expert guidance meant we could go ahead without feeling selfconscious about it – probably one of the biggest blocks to getting involved in any performance artform. Although I still can’t do one of my performance pieces without laughing, I feel as though I’ve made inroads into stagecraft and entertainment – factors which are going to help now I’m on the platform more often.
If you haven’t been to Arvon, I can’t recommend it highly enough. While it seems expensive on the surface, there’s a decent grants system which operates a sliding scale of contributions according to need, and once you’re there on the premises, you don’t have any outlay unless you fancy taking the local bus into Hebden Bridge, for instance. As it was, my week was so IMG_1274intensive that I didn’t have the time to go for a walk, let alone explore the area – so yes, it was cost-effective in the long run. I had the time to take some photos though, and here is the unique Yorkshire mill landscape in its late-summer glory.

Back to work with a vengeance now, as term restarts and a new batch of students flood in to my regional college near the bottom corner of Lincolnshire. I’m providing a workshop for Wolds Words later in October – looking forward to this, as Louth is one of my favourite towns and it’s always a pleasure to do stuff around this county. But my head’s still reeling from the words I wrote last week, and I’m hoping that soon I’ll have the confidence to integrate soundscapes with some of the poems I’ve written.