I decided on a 6 – 8 week gap between posts because this accurately reflects the likelihood of something artistic or equally worth talking about having happened in the meantime. Nobody needs to know the routine details like: what time I stumble off to work in the morning, and whether I think Brexit is a good idea (no of course not, have we all gone mad?) I can’t post cute photos of my cat because I haven’t got one – and when I spend my weekends hitting the keyboard then going around Lidl with a trolley, you can guess that all is not newsworthy. Today the backing track was provided by BBC6Music (thanks, folks) and sometimes I even got up to make a coffee. We all push on steadily towards our goals, helped along by seeing our colleagues realise something in print after it seemed like nothing would happen. This season I’m varying things a bit, compiling a scrapbook as I work towards one of my performing ideals – so if I don’t make any headway with a one-person-show, I will at least have a visual work which I can display at a future event. The decorated bike depicted on here isn’t mine; it comes from Peterborough’s Metal forecourt, where I went for an intensive masterclass led by Hannah Silva. She led us on an adventure into the world of sound, freeing up the voice and learning to be less afraid.
Meanwhile I’ve been writing sections towards the next novella. I know the title, but I’m not about to reveal it on here in case the whole thing never takes off. It sometimes feels that a cherished project can take a dive at the last moment, and it might spend a couple of years in a suitcase before being attempted again. It’s annoying, particularly when I can envisage what a whole thing is about from early on – the problem lies in making my way towards that distant light. You know how it is when you read a person’s work and you think ‘hey, this writer has rushed the last third of the script as they charged towards the finish line…’? Well, that would happen to me every single time if I didn’t revise up instead of down. I’m a poet and novella writer rather than a novelist because I just rush my way through scripts like a puppy with ADHD. Far from being one of those cut-it-down people, I have to convince myself to put more in – and that way I prevent the two-thirds/three quarters panic point which seems to overtake a lot of writers. As a reviser-up, I’m able to insert anything at any point until the script achieves its allotted size, which gives me some control over how fast the story arc is moving. Maybe other people’s editors and agents never tell them to try the Way of Adding More; I dunno. But I haven’t got an agent or an editor so I have to work it out for myself, imagining I’m the editor and then the subsequent reader. What would I want to read, if I wasn’t the person having to write it? If I hadn’t written it, would the stuff I’ve written look like a proper section in a real book?
Great Bookshops of the North East now. I was in Northumberland a couple of weeks ago, and while I appreciate the vast emporium that is Barter Books of Alnwick, the one I preferred was in Berwick on Tweed. Called ‘Slightly Foxed’, you will find it on Bridge Street a few doors down from a superb little Music Shop, with an artisan cafe lodged somewhere in between. You can’t go wrong with a combination like that. Best of all, the bookshop prices were very fair and I had no hesitation in replacing my worn-out paperbacks used for teaching and workshops. I’m sure it’s an open secret up there in the borderlands, but when you’re a tourist passing through, finding such a book-haven is a true delight. Berwick was a delight in any case, and I came away with a bagload of curios and musical spares after walking along the sea-wall. They’ve even got a stubby lighthouse at the end of it, and eider ducks diving in the estuary. A magical place, no doubt, for a lot of visitors.