Writing your life: ode to a pen

Guess what I am: easily broken, easily lost and cheap to buy
That’s right, I’m a pen – and I usually help people write what they want, but listen up ‘cos this one’s all mine
I’m here to ask: what if the same pen stayed with you all your life?
Would you ever notice me there? Would I even catch your eye?

Let me tell you the story of Garry, who I was with for many years
For his 7th birthday we wrote out his wish list but he got none of it and broke down in tears
He got older and when he got bored, we carved stuff on trees like GAZ WOZ ERE
Once he handed me to his favourite footballer to autograph that Panini sticker album he still holds dear

Garry was from a broken home you see – he had to look after his mum
She made us write out shopping lists for matches, scratch cards and rum
Then we went around the supermarket crossing each item off one by one
And when we got back she’d start pouring trebles in the kitchen, and we’d be upstairs wondering when brighter days would come

Teachers fully expected Garry to be a tearaway at school
They’d give him night detentions for drumming beats on his desk, just because he thought it was cool
We were writing out lines as punishment when Garry put me down and decided to stop playing the fool
As he stared at the raindrops racing each other down the windows, he swore he’d be the exception to the rule

Something clicked that night, and fired with a new drive Garry felt reborn
We really knuckled down to his GCSEs despite the skivers and the squares’ scorn
I remember Garry chewing me nervously before that first exam, because he knew this was his time to perform
A couple months later his mum gave him a teary drunken hug when he told her: “I scraped into sixth form”

That was the start of so many great things, because it was there Garry met Elaine
To get her attention he’d roll me pensively against his lips to make him look mysterious, which felt pretty lame
But it worked, and soon we were writing her romantic letters received to great acclaim
Garry was falling in love for the first time – and the best part? She felt exactly the same

After sixth form Garry knew it was time to fly the nest
But he worried about leaving behind his mum, who was even more of a mess
She said she wanted him to leave this dump and do his very best
So me, him and Elaine moved to the city and signed for the cheapest flat they could find to let

It turned out to the best decision Garry ever made
Over the next few years he got good at that career game he played
Thankful, he was, for his humble background, which gave him the grit to take on new challenges unafraid
But we still sent concerned letters back home to mum, with stamped addressed envelopes for her to reply – the postage prepaid

Meanwhile, things between Garry and Elaine were going very well indeed
We spent some lunchbreaks and meetings doodling images of her, which is about as loved up as you can be
They were still head over heels, and between you and me
I wasn’t all that surprised when he got down on one knee

The suit tailor and I wrote down Garry’s chest, waist and leg measurements as the Big Day drew near
My proudest moment was signing the marriage certificate – we were so excited the ink was accidentally smeared
For some reason it was then that Garry’s mum started acting all weird
She stayed for the rest of the wedding reception but by the evening do she’d disappeared

It’s fair to say that over the next few years things weren’t as fun, free and wild
Garry and Elaine wanted a house, so endless lists of budgets and bills needed to be compiled
Work was pretty tough for Garry too, but for the first time in ages he smiled
When he got home at 10pm on a Friday and Elaine said she was expecting a child

They were living the dream with their new country home and beautiful young daughter Anna
Who after much debate had been named after Garry’s mum – her nanna
In the family Garry took on more of a parent role, while Elaine was very much the planner
Our favourite times were when we helped Anna perfect her handwriting and pen heartfelt letters to Santa

Garry was determined to give Anna the childhood he’d never had
He opened her eyes to the world and really was the best kind of dad
Then one day in the middle of winter, his mum called up sounding lost, troubled and sad
So Garry thought he’d cheer her up by taking the family to see her, but Elaine refused and that’s when things turned bad

He went alone, stayed for two nights, and when he returned his life had changed beyond recognition
Elaine and Anna had gone and on the table was a divorce petition
Elaine had used me to sign it along with a letter explaining her decision
She said Garry’s mum was to blame for creating a growing division

Garry hit rock bottom the day he moved out of their family home in the hills
It happened when we were writing down the meter readings to pay the final bills
He felt a strong surge of sadness and a pain that more than just hurt – it killed
From that day on his first glass of water on a morning was accompanied by a pill

Garry moved into a two-up, two-down, and couldn’t help feeling bitter
We’d write angry notes to neighbours about bad parking, stolen wheelie bins and litter
Even when Anna came to visit, Garry couldn’t stop talking about the way things were
It just made his daughter think her parents had it so much better before her

Things got worse when Garry’s mum was suddenly rushed to hospital
Liver poisoning it was – and everything the doctors could do was too late, too little
For the funeral we wrote an emotional speech, but his heart felt cold as metal
But he started to feel human again right after the ceremony when the dust began to settle

When Garry walked through his front door that night he opened some rum and poured a glass
He offered some to Anna, but she said: “no thanks, I think I’ll pass”
There was no TV in the house so we did a crossword – a hard one that put us all to task
Whenever we filled in a word it felt like the good old days when we’d write together in all those years past

Garry felt like a different man when he rose the next morning
A dark cloud had lifted and his spirits were warming
Over a strong coffee we started writing a poem of his life and realised this was our calling
When Anna woke up he read it to her and couldn’t stop his tears from falling

As she got up to give him a hug, she knocked me off the table and I smashed on the floor
They threw me into the trash and my final days were spent spooning a rotting apple core
There was no emotion when Garry realised I’d gone – he just got another pen out of the drawer
Don’t worry, I’m so disposable I’ve learned to expect nothing more

There are billions of pens just like me, so it’s fine if you get rid without saying goodbye
Just remember that we’ll spend some big moments together – happy or sad, laugh or cry
See, the sun may rise then set and people are born then die
But us pens remain mighty forever, and our ink will never run dry.

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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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VIDEO: I can't teach you to be a writer

I was honoured to present at November's Hey! Stac at Belgrave in Leeds.

Having always felt that writing is a calling rather than a hobby, I asked if it's impossible to teach someone else to be a writer. Drawing on my inspiration and others', I considered the importance of self-belief, empathy and vision in writing creatively, and questioned whether these qualities are innate or conditioned.

Click below to watch a video of the talk (and apologies for the flickering projector).

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Open Letters podcast

I sat down with Owen Clements (founder of Open Letters) to chat about all things writing, inspiration and #foundfiction. It was recorded for the Open Letters podcast.

Click the image below to listen.

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Creative Writing Classes

I can’t teach you the belief, resilience and vision you need to be a writer.

I can’t teach you that writing should be your one and only ‘thing’ – something you’re compelled to do all your life. I can’t teach you to take yourself away from your family and friends to enjoy the greatest high the world can offer: getting the words right.

And even with your hundreds of characters waiting 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 trust that each story you’re writing is better than your last. I can’t teach you to develop a fanatical obsession to keep doing this 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. 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.

I can’t teach you to write 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 to spy on your thoughts. 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 look at the butter dripping through your crumpets and begin to see it as symbolic of anything.

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 we’ve 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. I can’t teach you that writing is about seeing, thinking and feeling.

I’m sorry, I can’t teach you to be a writer.

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Good news comes in pairs!

Two of my short stories have been published by 
Reader’s Digest and the York Literary Review.


Viewing Is Essential won Reader’s Digest’s 100-word-story competition, and appears in the June issue of the magazine. It was voted for by the public after making the judges’ top three shortlist. You can buy and read the magazine here.

Thank You For Shopping was selected for the Spring 2017 edition of the York Literary Review – a journal of fiction, non-fiction and poetry edited by the Creative Writing department at York St John University. You can buy it at Waterstones York.

The best part about these two successes is knowing that more people will be reading my work than ever before. I don’t write to win awards, or to be published, as encouraging those things are. I write because I’m compelled to. That’s why I’ve been writing since I was six, and why I’ll keep doing it for as long as I live – regardless of whether my work sees the light of day, as most of the hundreds of characters I’ve created over the past quarter-century haven’t. But it is a bit of a dream to be recognised like this.


Special thanks to Anna Walker from Reader’s Digest, Kimberly Campanello from the York Literary Review, and everyone who supports and inspires me.

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It's only natural: metaphors at the beach

Nature has a way of making everything in its power symbolic of something or other. Here’s a selection of potential metaphors I collected from Bridlington beach – free to a good home.

• Clumps of ruined sandcastles that once stood proud and tall

• Jagged fragments of mussel shells that’ll scratch you if you don’t watch out

• The tide that already looks distant is retreating even further

• The UV rays you don’t feel because of the breeze, which doesn’t make them any less harmful

• Lines drawn in the sand that become less defined with time, replaced with natural grooves that no one can affect or influence

• If you hold sand too tightly it slips between your fingers

• Each individually brilliant grain of it looking generally the same in the company of many others

• Seagulls swooping for anything neglected, which their numbers suggest they always find

• Flags flapping so violently you can’t tell what they represent

• The blurred glimmer of light from inside the public loos

• Sunglasses hiding what people are thinking, or where they’re looking

• Pools of water built on sand where footprints disappear faster than they’re formed

• The apartments overlooking are pristine – but no one’s home

• Ball games undermined by the wind they thought wouldn’t matter

• A motorised dinghy no match for the chopping waves, even though it tries harder

• Swimming shorts holding on to the thighs they cover – but only when wet

• A toddler cries next to a mossy wall that’s a thousand shades of green

• You’ve got to blink, not rub, the sand out of your eyes

• Everyone confuses seaweed pods with bubblewrap at some point

• Baseball caps clinging to matted fringes, clinging to sweaty foreheads

• Contextless feathers intriguing no one

• A parked tour bus’s livery framed accidentally perfectly between a gap in the railings

• It’s easy to forget the seagulls look sideways rather than forwards

• The metal detector man searching for value he can’t see

• Territorially placed volleyball nets

• How funny that everyone knows to plan around the cooling of the day

• How difficult it is to get up when you’ve been sat down for so long

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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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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

Diaries and Dad's Army

Apologies for the sparseness of entries recenty, but I've had some terrible luck with arranging articles recently. Over the last few weeks and months I've had some of my best ideas to date, although crucially ones which have relied on things I couldn't control (i.e. people). So alas, they remain in the proverbial pipeline, as opposed to the proverbial dustbin of history, be it as they were articles about taxi drivers, prisoners studying for degrees, and the porn industry. I won't go into detail.

With a published article not on the horizon until the summer, I'll take this window of opportunity to spill some more of my unpublished thoughts onto this blog, as I've been encouraged to do...



...and you - if there's really a 'you' - might not realise it now, but those ellipses (...) represent 5 or 10 minutes of wondering what sort of thoughts I'd feel justified in placing on a blog. I've always longed for the habit of keeping a diary, or a journal - a room in which to store some thoughts which I'd actually be interested in digging up myself when I'm older, or which could comprise an experiment with my subconscious. I'm talking about a diary which would ideally have about a dozen entries per day of things like this:



I walked to the shop to get some food for tea. En route the streets were peculiarly empty... so empty that the few strangers who walked them were acutely aware of one another on the street even when divided by some distance... what happened at that moment happens occasionally. I was walking down an empty street towards a stranger who was walking towards me. We'd both clearly and consciously made arrangements about 50 yards prior to the inevitable event of us passing one another - I took my stride slightly left, he took his right, then corrected himself so we wouldn't bump into one another. In a mathematical world we would. Anyway, because of this conscious act of indirect interaction, we were then alert to the fact that we were conscious of eachother. Thus, eye contact was awkward. I pretended to be interested in the time by looking at my watch, then through the shop windows I walk past most days, trying my best to act otherwise occupied... it was very contrived. On most occasions I'm not this over-aware or concerned when walking past strangers, as usually, I don't have to anticipate walking past them for long, or I have a predominant thought to busy myself with in ignorance of them. Walking past strangers is supposed to be unconscious. When we think about it for too long we mess it up. Just like breathing or your style of walking. Or maybe it's a question of place? In my village it wouldn't be as awkward and might lead to a conversation about dogs.

I'm not sure if anyone else would ever ever think or act like this. It would perhaps comprise a decent piece of characterisation and nicely fit into my common themes of divides between strangers and human beings... But nevertheless, if I wrote things like this in a potential diary I'd be writing in it all the time, which wouldn't be economical. Yet I'm certainly that some interesting thoughts and observations, ones which I want to hold on to, will be lost if I don't document them somehow. I keep a journal every time I go travelling, so why not in everyday life?

Here are some ideas I've been having to write up into the format of 4 plays, like with 'Small Talk', an avenue for some sort of surrealist social commentary with a comedic potential...

1) A sort of 'Dad's Army' or 'Blackadder' take on suicide bombers. Featuring all the usual loveable characters, witty dialogue and slapstick scenes and a studio audience on stage laughing along. Turning the tables on the war comedy genre.

2) Working-class snobbery. From experience, the working classes can be just as ignorant as the upper classes.

3) The fickleness of human rivalry. Pickering v Scarborough easily becomes Pickering-Scarborough v York easily becomes North Yorkshire v West Yorkshire easily becomes Yorkshire v Lancashire easily becomes North v South easily becomes England v France easily becomes Europe v America easily becomes Earth v Mars...?

Anyway, to conclude, I've rarely been this frank on this blog before - perhaps someone could give me a thumbs up or thumbs down, or am I deceiving myself that people are actually reading this?