The Literary Equivalent of the Weird Kid in the Corner
I do not hang out with authors much. In terms of writers who are friends, well there are Tim and Mr. C. I have known both for nearly two decades – long before I was published. As for Mr. Grasso, he was a Wolf Parlour companion years prior to his name being in print. There are one or two others I will have the occasional drink with, but in general, I do not hang out with authors much. I am not into bragging or bitching about book sales. I do not care about comparing reviews and I do not even do launch parties. I am the literary equivalent of the weird kid in the corner at school. It is no wonder I am a Billy no-author-mates.
This state of affairs may not be such an awful thing. Most authors – myself included – are actually rather dull. Those that are not boring or vapid, tend to be monstrously self-obsessed, somewhat tyrannical and ridiculously poncey. I am not going to mention any names, but I am speaking from battle-scarred experience when I say a lot of writers are terrible shites.
Therefore it is a bit of a novelty for me to travel up country and spend 24 hours staying with a novelist. In everyday conversation I do not get to use phrases such as 'narrative thrust', 'fuckwit publishers' and 'way too obvious deus ex machina'. It is rare luxury to be able to think aloud: 'There is a book in that…' with a professional peer I respect enough to spitfire any bad idea before I get too attached to it.
Given this, I drunk every drop of joy from my visit to a friend, novelist and publisher in the area of the old Pyrehill Hundred. My last visit to their home was almost a decade ago. It was still as wonderfully welcoming and decadently Victorian gothic as I remembered. My fresh invite was partly down to some writer business, partly down to the fact that in the post-Anne-Marie landscape of my life it is no longer a crime to have female friends.
The 'writer business' was the slim chance that I might be able to offer some help my friend with a book they were contracted to deliver. Now I am a difficult man to flatter. I know my faults and failings far too well. However, having an established author ask for my assistance on a novel was always going to charm this non-fiction boy away from his own desk.
Having been arrogant enough to tell someone who has written more than 20 books how I would remix and re-master their material to create the required sequel, the rest of the day was spent drinking tea, munching on German chocolate and feasting on fabulous lasagna. As the evening came down, more tea was drunk, movies were watched and gossip devoured*. As the new day started, much magical malarkey and quantum strangeness was discussed.
About 2:30am I retired to bed to read (one of the pleasures of staying with a writer is you are guaranteed a library of a few thousand books to browse) while my friend worked till 5:30am. At 8am I got up, investigated the walk-in pantry that was bigger than most B&B bedrooms and sorted out my morning fix of Rosie. Until the afternoon, my only company was the eight cats of the house.
I had forgotten how wonderful it was to have a cat on your lap while writing. It may sound a little Blofeld, but what you lose in terms of words-per-minute typing efficiency, you gain in terms of a sense of fundamental well-being. By 2pm I had written 3,500 words of skeleton plot and notes for my friend to use. It might be an unconventional form of houseguest gift, but each according to their abilities.
The ride home was glorious blur of canal boats, stone bridges and fields glimpsed from the train window. I crossed the edges of the ancient kingdom of Mercia lost in the investigation of books I had been given. SMS messages from Surreal Girl, the anticipation of greetings at Euston and the prospect of a welcome home plate of satay chicken made even made the post-Luton stretch of the jouney joyful.
I do not hang out with authors much. Many writers are terrible shites and I am probably better off being Billy no-author-mates. However, I am bloody lucky that the few authors I do spend time with are grand people endowed with generous spirits and a fine line in conversation. You can not expect much more from the looser members of your running tribe. Their friendship is a blessing.
*The main news was that one of my absolute literary heroes – Ken MacLeod – is a thoroughly wonderful chap in the flesh.
This state of affairs may not be such an awful thing. Most authors – myself included – are actually rather dull. Those that are not boring or vapid, tend to be monstrously self-obsessed, somewhat tyrannical and ridiculously poncey. I am not going to mention any names, but I am speaking from battle-scarred experience when I say a lot of writers are terrible shites.
Therefore it is a bit of a novelty for me to travel up country and spend 24 hours staying with a novelist. In everyday conversation I do not get to use phrases such as 'narrative thrust', 'fuckwit publishers' and 'way too obvious deus ex machina'. It is rare luxury to be able to think aloud: 'There is a book in that…' with a professional peer I respect enough to spitfire any bad idea before I get too attached to it.
Given this, I drunk every drop of joy from my visit to a friend, novelist and publisher in the area of the old Pyrehill Hundred. My last visit to their home was almost a decade ago. It was still as wonderfully welcoming and decadently Victorian gothic as I remembered. My fresh invite was partly down to some writer business, partly down to the fact that in the post-Anne-Marie landscape of my life it is no longer a crime to have female friends.
The 'writer business' was the slim chance that I might be able to offer some help my friend with a book they were contracted to deliver. Now I am a difficult man to flatter. I know my faults and failings far too well. However, having an established author ask for my assistance on a novel was always going to charm this non-fiction boy away from his own desk.
Having been arrogant enough to tell someone who has written more than 20 books how I would remix and re-master their material to create the required sequel, the rest of the day was spent drinking tea, munching on German chocolate and feasting on fabulous lasagna. As the evening came down, more tea was drunk, movies were watched and gossip devoured*. As the new day started, much magical malarkey and quantum strangeness was discussed.
About 2:30am I retired to bed to read (one of the pleasures of staying with a writer is you are guaranteed a library of a few thousand books to browse) while my friend worked till 5:30am. At 8am I got up, investigated the walk-in pantry that was bigger than most B&B bedrooms and sorted out my morning fix of Rosie. Until the afternoon, my only company was the eight cats of the house.
I had forgotten how wonderful it was to have a cat on your lap while writing. It may sound a little Blofeld, but what you lose in terms of words-per-minute typing efficiency, you gain in terms of a sense of fundamental well-being. By 2pm I had written 3,500 words of skeleton plot and notes for my friend to use. It might be an unconventional form of houseguest gift, but each according to their abilities.
The ride home was glorious blur of canal boats, stone bridges and fields glimpsed from the train window. I crossed the edges of the ancient kingdom of Mercia lost in the investigation of books I had been given. SMS messages from Surreal Girl, the anticipation of greetings at Euston and the prospect of a welcome home plate of satay chicken made even made the post-Luton stretch of the jouney joyful.
I do not hang out with authors much. Many writers are terrible shites and I am probably better off being Billy no-author-mates. However, I am bloody lucky that the few authors I do spend time with are grand people endowed with generous spirits and a fine line in conversation. You can not expect much more from the looser members of your running tribe. Their friendship is a blessing.
*The main news was that one of my absolute literary heroes – Ken MacLeod – is a thoroughly wonderful chap in the flesh.
Labels: Authors, Ken MacLeod, Pyrehill Hundred
posted by David at 1:54 PM
5 Comments:
That sounds like an absolutely lovely time. I don't know many authors, but artists seem to be much the same in personality.
It is wonderful to have someone that you can talk to without having to turn your internal radar on or keeping your guard up.
Thank goodness for that1
We tend to be a salty lot, it's true.
But you, my friend, are dull in exactly the same sort of way as the sun is chilly.
Frankly -- and if anyone else is reading this, I swear on the graves of my dead parents that it is true -- the strangest and most electrifying moments of my life have been in your company and, I suspect, at least partly as a direct result of your actions.
Man, if that's dull, give me boredom any day.
God, i love your little travelogues. Sounds like it was an enriching few days.
Do you mean Carl Grasso?
Catz, he's referring to the frighteningly talented and visionary Stephen Grasso :)
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