The best stories you find are the ones that find you: the #foundfiction launch party

By staging a night of anonymously co-written stories, art-poetry crossover performance and insightful talks within the gorgeous interior of the Leeds Library, #foundfiction has made a strong bid to be part of the city's literary history - and future. Here we reflect on the night's highlights, the journey to the launch and the project itself.

'Smile, it might never happen.'

'Live every day like it's your last.'

'Be true to yourself.'

Many of us have words to live by - particular phrases that define who we are and guide how we handle life's curveballs.

For #foundfiction it's 'the best stories you find are the ones that find you'. This is the idea that literature is about a reader taking the outstretched hand of a writer they might never meet, and making a powerful bond through a story they didn't know they were looking for.

The concept behind #foundfiction is very simple. Writers send us their stories, which we print out, fold into envelopes marked 'READ ME', and leave in public spaces for someone to find. To date, around 100 stories have been found and shared on social media - throughout the UK and Europe, and as far away as the US, Canada and Australia. We've also published Polish stories to be distributed in Poland.

After initially starting out as a means by which one shy writer could get his work anonymously read by others, we now publish work by around 30 authors.

In July 2017 we applied for a grant from Leeds Inspired, which funds many arts projects, venues and organisations across the city. As part of our application we proposed to stage a launch event that would encourage Leeds' writers, readers and lovers of literature to join the growing #foundfiction community and help take the project to the next level.

We were awarded the grant in October 2017 - and immediately got to work planning a launch event that would capture the imagination of the city.
 

Countdown to launch

Booking a venue was our first step. We were spoilt for choice, with cool bars and quirky spaces adorning every street in Leeds. But as soon as we entered the Leeds Library to discuss hiring its New Room for the night, our decision was made.

 

 

 

As well as being a beautiful space that was very relevant to #foundfiction, the Leeds Library was celebrating its 250th anniversary - and looking to add to its 2018 programme of events.

Next we focused on creating a striking visual design for promo. Working with dogeatcog, we produced posters and flyers to distribute around Leeds, bookmarks to hand out on the night, and a gif to share online.

We also had a video made by Ben Porter, of Hewitt & Walker, to share on social media.
 

 

But we wanted to do something different to promote the launch party. Something specifically related to #foundfiction and the associated concepts of serendipity, anonymity and inspiration that are key to the project.

We bought a cheap desk, put a piece of paper on it, and encouraged members of the public to co-write a story by adding one line at a time. The #foundfiction writing desk was born. We took it on a tour of Leeds, leaving it unmanned in:

Hyde Park...

Chapel Allerton...

...and outside the Leeds Library on Commercial Street.

Sure enough, passers by got involved, co-writing two short stories. We thought it was amazing that people were evidently keen to get creative with others they probably didn't know, in a place they were likely just passing through, for a project they'd almost certainly never heard about.

The main event

The #foundfiction launch party was a night of talks, stories, film and live art. Among the presenters on the night were:

• Carl Hutton, chief executive of the Leeds Library, who spoke about the venue's 250th anniversary programme
• Lewis King, writer and presenter, who talked about how graffiti he'd captured in Leeds related to the concept of street art and serendipitous discovery
• Owen Clements, co-founder of Open Letters, who discussed the personal significance of letter-writing as an art form

We heard from Marta Polap, from Katowice in Poland, and LA-based Sol Armada, both of whom recorded video messages about how #foundfiction has touched their lives and how they've been supporting the project in their respective countries.

We also had three of the area's best spoken word poets - Rose Drew, Phil Pearce and Colleen Pilkenton - take part in a unique creative experiment. As the poets performed their work on stage, artist Jay Sillence drew a visual interpretation of the poems on the screen behind them - illustrating that storytelling transcends artistic formats.
 

Finally, we invited attendees to co-write a story by passing a notepad around the audience - producing a similar result to the #foundfiction writing desk we'd toured around Leeds.
 

Looking ahead

 

All photos by Sarah Whitehouse

It's always been our goal to grow #foundfiction. Ultimately, if every major city across the world had the scale of a following we have in Leeds, we'd be making a considerable impact on the way people publish and consume short fiction. Like Airbnb, Uber and Deliveroo have disrupted their respective industries, we could one day be doing the same in publishing. If we're ever going to get there, we need more writers, more distributors, and more support. We've come a long way in a few short months, so it's possible. If you want to be part of helping us get there, get involved.

In the short term, the #foundfiction writing desk will be back on 3 June at the Northern Short Story Festival. And keep your eyes out for another event this year.

#foundfiction is your project too. Keep writing, keep sharing and keep in touch.

Twitter: @fictionfound

Facebook: foundfiction

Instagram: found_fiction
 

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I can't teach you how to make it as a writer

A few weeks back I gave a talk about #foundfiction at Bettakultcha, a monthly night of creative presentations at Belgrave in Leeds. 

Off the back of that, Bettakultcha organiser Ivor Tymchak asked me if I’d give another talk – this time at the University of Leeds, to final-year students, about how to find careers in the arts and creative industries. I said yes. 

The presentation was part of the arts faculty’s Expo17 event, where soon-to-be graduates went along to learn about how to take their first steps into the jobs market. Here's what I told them.

Sorry guys, I can’t teach you how to make it as a writer after university. I can’t teach the vision, belief and resilience you need for that. I can’t teach you that writing should be your one and one ‘thing’ – something you’re compelled to do all your life, no matter what. 

And even as your hundreds of characters wait patiently to see the light of day, I can’t teach you to feel like a seven-year-old flying your first kite, giddy on lemonade, as you create hundreds more at your keyboard. I can’t teach you to develop a fanatical obsession to keep doing this – determined to get better at writing for ever. 

I can’t teach you to believe you’ll be one of the great writers. I can’t teach you to believe in this so much that you start to see it. Millions of readers will be moved by your words, and non-readers will be aware of the many theatrical and film adaptations of your stories. Academics will say things like “the audacity of didactic prose!” in university lecture theatres, their arms outstretched, with regards to your impact on world literature. But I can’t teach you to believe that. 

Even your worst stuff – the crappy teenage poetry and that student play you had to convince your housemate wasn’t pathetic, but prophetic – will be released as ‘The Early Writings of…’ to widespread critical acclaim. 

If this doesn’t happen in your lifetime, it will when you’re dead, but I can’t teach you to believe that – unwaveringly, amid the many rejections you’ll get from the smallest of literary journals, newspapers, employers, or whoever. I can’t teach you to keep going, believing that in the end you either succeed or you give up. 

I can’t teach you to keep writing about what you know, because your life’s already novel-worthy. I can’t teach you to be brave enough to draw on the darkest moments of your life and write something from the heart that will reach out and take the hand of a reader you don’t even know, and make their life worth living. 

I can’t teach you not to look for inspiration, but to let it find you. I can’t teach you to see the stories begging for your attention every day: the raindrops racing each other down the window; the person waiting for a bus at the wrong stop; the ‘for sale’ sign outside a house. I can’t teach you to realise inspiration is everywhere.

I can’t teach you how to keep your mind fertile for ideas. I can’t teach you to see how airplanes, light bulbs, skyscrapers, and everything remarkable humanity has ever built, are just shadows of ideas that have come to people. Ideas floating around our collective unconscious; a place of pure feeling, where the dots connect, which you only catch a glimpse of now and then; a place less tangible but more real than our filtered, physical world. I can’t teach you to be comfortable spending time there. I can’t teach you how to take other people there with words – or pictures, or anything creative you do. I can’t teach you that creating something is about seeing, thinking and feeling. 

I can’t teach you to leave behind university and what Marina Keegan called ‘the opposite of loneliness’. “It’s not quite love and it’s not quite community, it’s just this feeling that there are people, an abundance of people, who are in this together. Who are on your team.” 

I can’t teach you not to be afraid to do something different and take a different path just to get started on the ladder you want to climb. I can’t teach you to compromise on your dream job straight away. Why would you want it straight away? Then you’ll have nowhere to go for the next 50 years. 

I can’t teach you to be comfortable taking yourself away from your family – moving across the country to take different entry-level writing jobs – to enjoy the greatest high the world can offer: getting the words right, and feeling like you’re getting somewhere. I can’t teach you to be cool about losing touch with your friends – and you will lose touch with most of them – as you move to different cities to pursue other opportunities, because you’ve got your eye on the bigger prize. Fulfilment. Development. Doing what you feel you were born to do. 

I can’t teach you to be happy about starting a job at a company where there are already established friendships that you have to break into – and I can’t teach you to believe me that it’ll be fine and you’ll meet great people at work just like you have at school, college and university. 

I can’t teach you to realise that, when you’ve started out in a ridiculously high-pressure job just to get yourself onto the career ladder, or if you’re unemployed, the best years of your lives are not behind you. I can’t teach you to realise that the best years of your lives are part of you as you grow up and move to London, and away from London, and wish you did or didn’t live in London. You can still have parties when you’re 30. Guess what, I still go to parties and I’m 31. I’m planning to continue having fun when I’m old. 

And with all that change to adjust to – new people, new expectations, new cities – I can’t teach you to remember what’s really important: your passion and belief. You will be one of the great writers so it’s all worth it. I can’t teach you not to get rid of your inner seven-year-old. 

I can’t teach you to remember that you can still do anything. You can change your mind. You can start over. Go back and do a masters. Go travelling. Whatever. The notion that it’s too late to do anything is comical. It’s hilarious. You’re graduating university – you’re still young enough to make mistakes. I can’t teach you to know that you’re so young. 

You can’t, MUST not lose this sense of possibility because in the end, it’s all you have. I’m sorry, I can’t teach you how to make it as a writer after university. I’m still working at it myself.

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VIDEO: People of York

I was honoured to feature in the latest instalment of Plastic Fortune's YouTube documentary series People of York, in which creative people in our city talk about the projects they're working on, what inspires them, and what they think about York.

Having finished my first short story collection Pillow Talk for Insomniacs, I'm now working on a longer novella. You can read the first extract here.

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Solitude is productive: Writing in the Highlands

Last month, I had a week booked off work, and I hadn't made any plans. So I packed a pen and paper, drove up to the Highlands, and pitched my tent in the middle of nowhere.

I'd always wanted to experience the pleasure of writing creatively in pure solitude, and this would cross one off my bucket list. Plus, I needed to make greater headway on my first short story collection, Pillow Talk for Insomniacs, and I sensed that this was the perfect opportunity.

Sat in my Corsa outside my York flat, I put PH22 1RB into my phone's sat-nav. 242 miles, it blinked. Six hours, 38 minutes. Not too bad, really. I fastened my seatbelt and pressed DRIVE on the screen. For some reason, the distance then shot up. Now it said 360 miles, seven hours. 59 minutes. Oh.

The roundabouts came and went, and I got to the Cairngorms in the end. Finally on foot, I set off in search of a flat area to pitch my tent. I must have hiked off-trail for a couple of miles, drawing entirely on the minimal camping knowledge I'd learned at scouts and music festivals. (Scouts, where, in five whole years, I'd earned only one badge - orienteering, which I kind of cheated on anyway.)

I eventually stumbled upon a bed of heather, which lay within the cocoon of a bank beside a river, and thought: this'll do. The landscape in every direction was wide and beautiful, the heat inescapable.

Apart from some ravenous midges, there were no distractions whatsoever. I wrote solidly for four days - pausing only to warm my home-made soup on the stove, or sip from a tumbler of single malt whisky (because drinking alone in the Highlands is not tragic, it's iconic).

I would sometimes catch the echo of someone's voice, look up, and spot a group of walkers a few miles away. They were about the size of these full-stops...

That was the closest I came to human contact. And, as much as I'd love to say I fought off bears and hunted down wildebeest with a spear I'd fashioned from flint, twigs and nettles, there weren't really any animals around either. Just insects.

By the end of my trip I'd written six short stories, which is about six times what I usually muster per month back home.

So solitude is productive.

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These words, like this

I start with a blank canvas. With nothing. Sometimes I start with words I’ve copied from an idea I had weeks, months ago. Not this time. I write the words on a page, like this. These words, like this. It makes me feel like I’m getting somewhere. I don’t want this – a self-indulgent story about me writing a story – to be the only place I get to. I want the place to be a journey. This is my starting point, this time.

Maybe I should write something about a conversation I was part of the other day. A couple of old friends, chatting about when they were kids. They stole a large, cheap bottle of whiskey from a convenience store, which is now out of business. They took it from behind the counter when the fat owner wasn’t looking, and ran out of the shop. They were chased around the block by some passing police officers – that’s bad luck – and made it perhaps a mile down the road, before they decided they could run faster without the bottle, so they threw it into some bushes near this factory and sped away. They were never caught by the police officers. Years later they were telling this story to someone else, and in doing so, wondered whether the bottle would still be in the same place they threw it. So they went back to have a look, and yes, there it was. The label had rotted off, but the dark orange whiskey inside was still there. And then they opened it and got drunk, belatedly. See, that is a cool story. Maybe nothing more than that.

So anyway, I’ve looked up and seen the blank canvas dotted with rows of lines, letters, words, and perhaps I’m making progress. Not checked the word count yet, though. Maybe 200? Oh, 306 – it’s in the bottom left of this Word document. I hadn’t realised that before. It’s important I keep writing. It’s the only chance I’ve had in a long time to get to write something I don’t have to – I’m a journalist in my day job – now, tonight. Oh, I’m fully aware it doesn’t always work like that. Inspiration can’t be arranged, sure. It would be pointless if it could be. But also convenient. Sporadic progress is quite frustrating. You want to be able to make short, but regular progress as a creative writer. The last story I wrote was perhaps a month ago. And now I have the chance to start something new.

Do I want a Pop Tart? Maybe. NO. I don’t. I shouldn’t. I’m not even hungry. Oh, this is it, I’m slowing down, losing momentum, now that an external pleasure has been flirted. In the zone I need to be. In the zone is thinking about memories, about love, tragedy, people, etc. Typing trains of thought gives a self-illusion of creative productivity – that’s why I’m doing this. So I’m back to the start. The canvas is filling up and I’ve checked in to my desk for the night. I have tonight, only tonight, the first night in a long time, to come up with something. Not for a publisher – God, no – just for me. My self-esteem, my identity, yada yada. And for you.

Just now I’ve decided the person in this story is called Helen. She starts her life in my story at the breakfast table. Not a middle America, Little House on the Prairie type breakfast table, with an actual cloth held down with pancakes and jam pots. A dull, modern breakfast bar. She sits on her stool and faces the wall, where there’s no TV or anything. She eats quickly to get out of her chair and do something more interesting. It’s important for me, the author, not to go back at this point, but I am going to anyway. The breakfast bar is based heavily, entirely even, on the one that was fitted at my previous address. It was, I think, a granite surface, and the wall was white. I ate Pop Tarts on there. You see how I came to the breakfast scene, now, if you’ve been following. I’ve just realised it myself. Helen eats Pop Tarts on the stool. She’s cut them into four, so they are easier to put in her mouth, and so the filling cools down more quickly. But it means that some of the red, strawberry jam, which lies within the pastry, had dropped onto her jeans. It leaves a dark, glossy stain, which frustrates her a little. Although she’s determined not to let it bother her too much, as her friend gave a speech within a conversation about life, and it made her think that she worries way too much. That bit didn’t happen to me, it just happened to Helen.

Helen has brown hair. She likes smoking and that’s what she does when she finishes her Pop Tart. She likes smoking outside, particularly. When it’s cold, and there are no other sounds but her, exhaling. She’s standing outside the house, by herself. Out the back, with the overgrown bits of grass at the edge of her square lawn, blowing at her feet, blowing against her leg. That sentence may need restructuring.

It’s a typically overcast day, but it would be too perfect if this meant that Helen was feeling similarly typical, mediocre, non-emotional. She is actually incredibly emotional. She’s reflecting on a profound experience as she gazes off into the middle distance. A few hours before, at a party in the night – she hasn’t yet been to sleep – she was told by someone who she used to like, that they used to like her. In private, within a room so full of people – bursting with other conversations and anecdotes and bragging and singing – that it seemed private. So she’s thinking about that right now, as a long collection of ash starts to droop at the end of her cigarette.

She’s standing there so still and smoking it so gently that the ash never falls until she throws the cigarette in the brown bin, where it floats in water next to others from other solitary moments. Helen lets the brown bin lid drop. She opens the door and heads inside to do something else. She’s wearing her shoes, again from the previous night, so decides it’s a sign that she must go out into the world. She has no direction. It’s a Sunday. She leaves through the front door and rounds the corner of her driveway, heading into a graveyard, where she sometimes gets high, alone.

The place is so full of the pink and mango colours of the flowers and weeds that she hasn’t seen as it’s usually pitch black when she’s here to get high. No one else is around as she walks, her walking boots making no sound as heel-toe, heel-toe, she navigates her way around the 19th-century gravestone, frowning by default, as she lies, deep in thought.

The mundane experience that affected her profoundly, is what she is thinking about. Not the one aforementioned. The thing that that admission, that the guy she used to like used to like her, in the small circle of the two of them, within the bursting room that was warm and smoky, led to. Basically, she ended up sleeping with him. So vivid, its memory is to her – it only happened a few hours ago – as she walks through the graveyard’s exit and into the main square of the town. Helen breathes more heavily when she recalls the more intimate and particularly physical moments of that encounter. It’s not like it happens to her all the time. In fact, that’s the first time anything like that’s happened in 18 months. He whispered things in her ear, she recalls. She winces when she remembers what she said back. Again, this totally doesn’t happen to her all the time. All the wincing and breathing heavily makes passing strangers look up at her and wonder what’s on her mind. Some of the people aren’t strangers.

Helen reaches for her cigarettes, but remembers where she left them before she even touches her left pocket where she usually keeps them. The wind would make them more difficult to light out here anyway. So she thinks about heading back. Stands there in limbo, for a while. It’s Sunday, and she has no direction, you see. She decides to head back to her house. Blossom falls from a tree into her hair. Maybe she’ll go home and watch a film, maybe someone will tap her on the shoulder on her walk back and remind her of something she needs to do today. Maybe the guy she slept with will turn up at her front door. Maybe he’s waiting at her front door right now. Maybe he’s walking right behind her.

I just don’t know. I’m going to eat a Pop Tart.

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Wet

She'd wet the bed the night before last, and knew she would again some time. She'd tried clenching certain muscles to prevent it from happening, but somehow it still did. Not every night — because that would mean it was a problem with her body. It was irregular, and for no obvious reason, so therefore her pathetic head was to blame. Her stupid brain. Of course it embarrassed her. She'd love to have an explanation for it happening, or at least some excuse, but she didn’t.

Usually, after it happened, she'd wake up in the night and hear nothing but her family sleeping — as she lay, ashamed, humiliated, terrified, in a damp patch. She never knew what to do in this situation. Her instinct was always to cover her actions up, but this wasn't easy. Even if she did manage to strip her bed without waking her brother, who slept in the bunk above hers and was always ready to poke fun — as siblings of their age often are — she didn't know how the washing machine downstairs worked. She knew how to run the bed sheets under the hot tap in the bath and scrub them with a soapy flannel, then hang them over her curtain rail and hope they'd be dry by morning, but it was very likely someone would notice and probably shout or laugh if she tried that.

So she'd just lay there in bed. Lay there in her wet pyjamas, and wait for the wee to dry around her legs and back. It made her feel very cold and sent shivers down her spine, so she'd hold her duvet to her body tightly, even though that was wet too. Eventually, the wee would dry completely before she’d have to start getting ready for school. When it dried, it seemed like the whole bed-wetting thing had never happened. But of course it had, and it left traces — physical traces — behind. She would smell strange at school, and her mum or dad would find out what happened the next time one of them changed the bed and uncovered the faded yellow smear on her crumpled bed sheets. And whichever one of them found out first would tell the other, and then tell other parents when they hosted dinner parties or went to church. She didn’t like the thought of her parents telling anyone, but she literally prayed they’d never tell the parents of her friends.

It seemed a mystery to her — her wetting the bed all the time. She was a fit and healthy young girl who spent time with her friends, went through books at an impressive rate, and played a lot of sports — extremely well in some cases. She had a positive attitude, a competitive spirit, and largely succeeded in things she drove herself towards.

Her friends could’ve probably been more supportive. She’d never admit that they appeared closer with each another than with her. Or that she often felt lonelier in their company than she did in her own. Or that they’d isolate her with their language, sometimes even using the F or C words. They’d never actually attacked her or caused any bodily harm — apart from this one time, when some rusty goal frame came crashing down on her shoulders while she played football with some boys at school. Two of her friends had pushed them over from behind her — a joke that she took tragically well. And then this other time when they threw snowballs, with stones in them, right at her face, from point blank range, after she uncharacteristically yelled at them for ruining the snowman she’d made. She’d woken up extra early and walked to school while it was still dark to roll the snowman’s body around the playing field — the February cold biting her small, determined hands for two hours. It had taken her friends about fifteen minutes to kick it to death while she stayed behind and talked to her favourite teacher about books she liked — completely oblivious.

But her friends weren’t mean to her all the time. She’d spent two nights at this other girl’s house, where they played video games, watched TV and exchanged their thoughts and feelings on people and things. They’d even slept in the same bed, and she didn’t worry about wetting it for a second, because, in that time, she felt like a normal girl. Those two nights were the most accepted she’d felt in her entire life. But that was a long time ago — while the other girl’s best friend was away on a family holiday, it later transpired. The other girl rarely spoke to her after that.

For some peculiar reason, she tended to think about things in shapes. If the situation with her friends could be visualised, then she would be a dot outside a closed circle with spikes protecting it. She never felt that the ties she shared with them were permanent, and feared they could be terminated at any time — without notice. That thought absolutely terrified her. People have got to have friends, however you define them. And if they knew about her wetting the bed, they'd leave her, she was sure of that.

Her friends had problems of their own, of course. But they were body problems — nut allergies and stuff like that — and those problems were fine, because they were things that people generally understood there could be nothing done about, that weren’t that person’s fault. Unlike hers. Some of her friends also had more understated problems to do with their families — problems she noticed when she very occasionally went round their houses after school and saw doey-eyed fathers on oxygen machines while mothers drank dark liquids and anxiously read triple-folded letters. But again, those problems were fine, because that stuff was probably perfectly normal to them.

Wetting the bed was just embarrassing. There was nothing remotely okay about it. People who had problems like hers were disgusting — there was something wrong with them. She thought she’d have grown out of it by now. Her parents sure expected her to. She felt horrible for letting them down, on top of everything else — forcing them to change the bed sheets, with heavy sighs, each time it happened. How dare she deny them the right to have a normal child, that they could show off and be proud of? She only had herself to blame.

Over the previous few months, her parents had been going through a tough time that involved them shouting at one another a lot. She was aware of this, but didn't like to acknowledge it. She thought that somehow it wasn’t real — that they were just being dramatic when they argued, or pushed one another around the place, usually in the kitchen, which was small, or onto the bannisters – breaking one of them on one occasion. She could never tell who was pushing who. She was always out of the room. Her brother told her he saw mum pin dad down on the floor the night after they’d got back from Sunday lunch at grandma’s a few weeks back, but she didn’t believe him. It couldn’t be happening to her family — it only happened on TV.

So she lay in bed, listening to them, forgetting about the bed-wetting for a moment. Through the floor of her and her brother’s bedroom, her dad’s voice sounded more like a groan when he spoke. In this case, he was shouting. Her mum was wailing, loudly, and shouting back. There were loud footsteps and slamming doors when there wasn’t shouting. Why? She thought. Why to her? Burying her head between two pillows, she pulled her duvet right up to her chin and curled her toes. She wondered if she was the only girl still awake at this time of night. Was there someone else out there experiencing this? Or, of all the girls living in the world, could it be only her going through this exact experience right here, right now? And would things change when she went to the bigger school, or if her dad stopped getting angry? Her heart was racing as questioned herself.

The moon cast a spidered glow on the wall next to her head. Without even thinking about it, she reached out and touched it. It felt warm. Immediately, she sensed that she'd remember this moment in years to come, even if in that moment itself, she felt she was being just a touch dramatic. It wasn't a moment that should belong in real life, let alone to her, she thought, as she tried to imagine what her life might be like in the future. Friends who would never leave her. Boys who would find her attractive. Normal things she could do to make her family proud. Children of her own, who she wouldn’t attack for wetting the bed — she swore herself to that one.

She kept her hand there as she imagined all this. Closing her eyes tightly, she felt a chill run up her neck and into her cheeks. Then her eyes felt wet. Suddenly, she realised the moment was real and it was hers. Something had clicked in her head. It felt neither good nor bad, just different — a radically different way of viewing her life, which had started right there and then.

There was some pushing downstairs between her mum and dad. She thought she heard the sound of cutlery clattering. A pillow brushed against the wall above, making her jump. She felt her bottom bunk shake as her brother shuffled around on his mattress. She took her hand off the wall and remained perfectly still. A few moments passed. Then a few more.

"Are you scared?" her brother asked.

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The Next Big Thing Blog Hop

I’ve been asked to take part in the Next Big Thing Blog Hop, which offers writers an opportunity to discuss their latest projects. I was “tagged” by Louise Gibley, author of Girl Meets Boys, who’s currently working on her second novel Scrabble Pieces. At the end of this self-interview, I’ll pass the baton on to couple of other scribblers.

This seems a bit like those narcissistic questionnaires I recall once doing the rounds as MySpace bulletins, which I actually really hated, but in this case I'm quite interested to read about what sort of magic is happening in Word documents worldwide. Here’s what’s going on in mine...

What is the working title of your next book?

Pillow Talk for Insomniacs.

Where did the idea for your book come from?

I'd not considered writing a book until I started to wonder if a poem I was writing would work better as a short story. It became He Was Raised to Believe These Things Were Possible. After that, I found that my narrative and subject matter were more suited to this format, so I decided to write a collection.

What genre is your book?

Literary fiction.



Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

I’m not sure I want it to be filmed, but I’d like Ben Whishaw to play a part if it were. Peter Mullan for one of the fatherly roles. Joaquin Phoenix and James Franco if they can do British accents, Tilda Swinton, aaaaand it might be polite to stick my girlfriend and actress Molly Kay into the mix too.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your next book?

An occasionally bleak patchwork of moments that define my lost generation.

Will your books be self-published or represented by an agency?

I'm not sure. I'm aware of the buzz surrounding self-publishing in the e-book market, but I think any emerging author can benefit from the professional guidance of a literary agent. We'll see. I've got to get the darn thing written first.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

It's still in progress! Having started my first short story in March, and now up to 10,000 words with about half a dozen others under my belt, I might have something resembling a first draft this time next year.



Which other books would you compare this to in your genre?

I fell in love with short stories after reading Raymond Carver's collections, so there's a lot of him in this. He wrote in a deliberately spare, minimal style that conveys meaning in a very efficient way, and that's something I've taken on with my own writing. And probably Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace — a book I’m currently reading, and a truly incredible literary feat by a writer who tragically killed himself at the age of 46.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Ordinary people, mundane routines, the drudgery of work, small talk, hope, tragedy, comedy, prejudice, envy, innocence, cups of tea, whisky, insomnia, awkward moments, heartache, euphoria...

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

If you read only full-length novels, you're in for a shock. I like to get in, get out. Short stories leave more to the imagination, and some of my material might be a little close to home — I consider those two things to be hugely positive, but I'm biased.

Here are two talented authors who I have tagged to tell you about their Next Big Thing:

Sarah Michelle Lynch | Author of The Ravage Trilogy – futuristic novels combining romance, sci-fi, action, suspense and thriller

Sophia Moseley | Freelance feature writer and author of Charlie – a book of children’s short stories

Where the stars always come out

Published by THE METRO

'Stargazing holidays reach for the sky'

Main feature

The stars have always fascinated mankind. ‘I think everyone is a stargazer at some time or another,’ says Robin Scagell, astronomy author and broadcaster. ‘You don’t have to be nerdy or a boffin to appreciate the amazing spectacle.’



Stargazing is becoming a popular activity of globetrotters seeking romance and beauty in remote destinations. In South America, backpackers and holidaymakers gaze at the Southern Cross, a distinctive constellation visible from the southern hemisphere. Its brightest stars form a cross that features on the Brazilian flag and is mentioned in the country’s national anthem.

The world’s highest desert, the Atacama in Chile, attracts thousands of visitors a year. Its combination of high altitude and dry air makes for stunning night skies. Plus, the Cerro Mamalluca Observatory organises tours.

There are parties dedicated to cosmic kicks in Cherry Springs State Park in Pennsylvania where more than 10,000 stars are visible. Its twice-a-year star parties attract hundreds of astronomers, amateur and professional.

In Australia, the New South Wales Astronomical Society holds a South Pacific Star Party (May 14 to 16 this year) for amateurs armed with telescopes at a 100-acre site three hours from Sydney. Ayers Rock, in Northern Territory, is a striking setting on account of its clear nights. In Britain, the International Dark Sky Association last year found less than ten per cent of the population can see the Milky Way from where they live. However, there are some excellent locations. Check out the Western Isles in Scotland, central Wales, north Norfolk, Hartland Point in north Devon and Kielder Forest in Northumberland.

The crème de la stellar crème is Galloway Forest Park in Scotland, which is one of the best in the world. It won gold in the Dark Sky Parks awards in November, registering a darkness reading of 23. A rating of 24 would be measured in a photographer’s dark room, says the International Dark Sky Association. More than 7,000 stars can be spotted from the park and the Milky Way is so bright, it casts a discernible shadow. Even our neighbouring galaxy, Andromeda – 2.5million light years away – can be observed from the best pockets of darkness. Look out too for spectacular meteor showers, vivid shooting stars and expansive galaxies which, from far, far away, unfold gloriously across the sky.

For beginners, a decent pair of binoculars are a good idea and they can cost less than £50. The Helios Fieldmaster 10x50 (£44.99) and the Celestron SkyMaster (from £84.99, both available at Harrison Telescopes, www.harrisontelescopes.co.uk) are recommended by Swindon Stargazers. Its website says: ‘They can be the gateway to many a fine viewing, especially those objects such as Comet Lulin, whose trajectory is hard to pick up and you need to search a lot of sky with ease.’

In terms of easy constellations to spot with the naked eye, Orion is the clearest. Its three stars in a distinctive line point upward-right to bright star Aldebaran in the Taurus constellation, and downward-left to Sirius, the brightest star in the night’s sky. Looking north, the Plough hangs high in the east, opposite Orion, while Gemini and Auriga glimmer above it. ‘All you need is a reasonable star map and a bit of patience,’ says Scagell.

Robin Scagell’s tips are at www.stargazing.org.uk. For further reading, try Stargazing 2010, a guide to the year’s cosmic events (Philip’s, £6.99).



Top Destinations for Stargazing

Galloway Forest Park, Scotland
Mike Alexander and Steve Foy run ‘star camps’ close to Wigtown Bay. See www.gallowayastro.com/starcamp.htm Wild camping is also permitted in the park. See www.darkskyscotland.org.uk.
From the south, take the M6 to Carlisle, A75 to Newton Stewart signposted to Stranraer. From Glasgow, take the A77 to Girvan, A714 to Newton Stewart or A77 to Ayr, A713 to New Galloway.

Cherry Springs State Park, Pennsylvania
Nearest airport: Erie International.
www.dcnr.state.pa.us/stateparks/parks/cherrysprings.aspx

Natural Bridges National Monument, Utah
Nearest airport: Salt Lake City International. Camping is about £6.50 a night.
www.nps.gov/nabr/index.htm

Atacama Desert, Chile
Nearest airport: Comodoro Arturo Merino Benitez International. For further information, see www.mamalluca.org. For accommodation, see www.elquidomos.cl

Mount John Observatory, New Zealand (pictured above)
Nearest airport: Christchurch International. Further info e-mail info@earthandsky.co.nz

Ayers Rock, Northern Territory, Australia
Nearest airport: Adelaide, then take the Stuart Highway. For the Sounds Of Silence tour with canapés, dinner under the stars and a guide, see www.ayersrockresort.com.au/sounds-of-silence

UNEDITED VERSION

The stars have always fascinated mankind. Their mystery has for long provided a great muse and a compelling mission for artists and scientists alike, yet their appeal is rarely lost on any human being. The habit of stargazing is in our common nature, linking the creation of the oldest star chart in 1,534BC, to a brief appreciation of a clear night on a walk home from work in our own age. “I think everyone is a stargazer at some time or another,” says Robin Scagell, a writer and broadcaster on astronomy. “You don’t have to be nerdy or a boffin to appreciate the amazing spectacle.”

At this time of year, Orion is the clearest constellation to look for. Its three stars in a distinctive line point upward-right to Aldebaran, in the Taurus constellation, and downward-left to Sirius, the brightest star in the night’s sky. The Plough hangs high in the east, opposite Orion, while Gemini and Auriga glimmer above it. To see this you won’t need the latest pair of binoculars, as these dependable cosmic wonders can be gleaned with the naked eye. “All you need is a reasonable star map and a bit of patience,” says Robin.

Sadly, the urban spread is such in the UK that even in the countryside, many are deprived of more dark delights accessible elsewhere on earth. Subdued by light pollution, many people struggle to see further than the harsh orange glare created in nearby towns and cities. Few are able to enjoy the completely dark skies necessary to observe, at most, more than a few hundred stars dotting the dome of night. “Light pollution is a major curse, and in many cases quite unnecessary,” Robin tells me. “The glare from a city spreads for hundreds of miles.”

The International Dark Sky Association found last year that less than 10% of the UK’s population can see the Milky Way from where they live. Among these exclusive and remote stargazing locations are the Western Isles in Scotland, Central Wales, North Norfolk, Hartland Point in North Devon and Kielder Forest in Northumberland.

Yet Galloway Forest Park, in Dumfries and Galloway, recently picked up an international award for its dark skies. It registered a darkness reading of 23, the highest possibly achievable – a rating of 24 would be measured in a photographer’s dark room – providing optimum viewing for stargazing. Accordingly, 7,000 stars can be spotted from the park, and the Milky Way is so bright it casts a discernable shadow. Our neighbouring galaxy, Andromeda – 2.5 million light years away – can also be observed from its prime location, while spectacular meteor showers, vivid shooting stars and expansive galaxies from far, far away unfold gloriously across the sky’s pallet.

It’s easy to conclude why Galloway Forest Park welcomes around 850,000 visitors each year. Perhaps it’s the effort to locate ourselves in the depths of the universe that makes stargazing so uniquely popular – the desire to wonder why we’re here, how we fit in, and what it’s all about. At last, there is a more accessible area in the UK to head for to indulge in this hobby.

Yet stargazing to its stunning potential will likely take you around the most isolated corners of the world. Prime spots are geographically the preserve of continents with low population densities, and therefore less light pollution from urban areas.

USA: In the Cherry Springs State Park in Pennsylvania, over 10,000 stars are visible. They host two star parties every year, attracting hundreds of astronomers, amateur and professional.

The Natural Bridges National Monument in Utah is also considered as possessing some of the world’s best views of the night’s sky, attracting some 100,000 amateur astronomers each year. As well as providing on record the world’s darkest skies, the National Moment was the first to be named an International Dark Sky Park, and is now one of fifteen such parks in the USA and Canada.

South America: There are many cosmic wonders which are exclusive to the Southern Hemisphere, such as the constellation of the Southern Cross. The Atacama Desert in Chile is the highest desert on earth, and combines its high altitude with dry air, creating stunning night skies. The Observatorio Cerro Mamalluca offers tours of the area for stargazers.

Australia: The Sydney Observatory is world-renowned, while every year, the New South Wales Astronomical Society holds the South Pacific Star Party at a 100-acre site three hours from Sydney, for those wishing to escape the city. Ayers Rock in the Australian Outback also gives a striking setting for its clear nights.

New Zealand: The Auckland Stardome offers a 360-degree dome theatre for optimum night viewing. Nearest airport: Auckland International. Accommodation: Many hostels and hotels in Auckland. The Mount John Observatory in its Southern Alps offers majestic night views in a dramatic location.

Africa: Additionally, there are many destinations in Africa which are perfect for stargazing due to its low population density and frequent cloudless night skies. Namibia in particular provides many unique lodging experiences amid the sand dunes of its vast rural retreats.