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Sadly, Pewter Rose Press has now ceased trading…and I’ve taken the last remaining copies of BHD’s short story collection, Talking To Owls and his novella (or is it a novel…we can never decide), A Penny Spitfire. If you’d like a copy of either, I can supply at £5 each including postage (simply drop me the money  to the Paypal account of M.Smith at brindleyhd@aol.com and send me an e-mail to let me know your address).

Here’s what people have been saying about them:

 

Comment on A Penny Spitfire (080716, by J.F.D.)

I just finished re-reading your novel. I so enjoyed it. I read it slowly this time and really took in the descriptions at the openings of the chapters. The cumulative effect is to evoke a really strong mood that varies but is pervasive throughout the tale putting a clear picture of post-war destruction and gloom in my mind. The altered people, relationships, sense of difficulty in finding meaning and re-directing relationships and lives was palpable. I recognise what you portrayed as authentic because my adopted parents were old and they lived through rationing and and respectability. I so recall being shocked if my father swore and I knew my mother was unwell when she swore once. There was also the whole business of not saying things. You really captured that culture of not having a language for emotion (emotion not being useful for Empire building or war). I was so pleased Paul was alright and Burma Sammy by the end.
Thanks for a good read.

 

TALKING TO OWLS  (by Anon.?)

The characters in these stories embrace novel solutions to life’s many difficulties. A group of lonely men, retired to the countryside, find an unusual means of communication; on an otherwise idyllic Scottish island, a new resident tries out various ways to deal with the old problem of noisy neighbours; three members of the Grough family experience an urgent need to get home from the pub as quickly as possible. And a snail decides it must be rid of its shell. The author presents a range of colourful individuals, from His Lordship to the devious Willie Nobutt, speaking in a range of voices and dialects.

But while many of the stories are comic or fantastical, some are touching or haunting, and present mysteries which only the reader can solve. Many are experimental in form, and they vary in length from half a page to thirty-five. Many have already won prizes.

The writer can command a versatile range of styles. No Time Like The Present depicts the revelation of family secrets through photographs in a novel way, with some beautiful descriptive passages:

…the water was clear, transparent as a veil, and the sandy foreshore, mottled with rocks, showed through. Sunlight sparkled off the waves, riding their oval shadows, sky like a backdrop.

But maybe the author’s strongest suit is humour. In The Sweetest Sound two characters discuss the bagpipes:

‘Yer no a fan of the pipes then?’
‘I can tek em or leave ’em’
‘I can think of a few places I’d tek ’em’
‘I can think of a few places I’d leave ’em’…

While Cover Story, an absurd but sinister tale, set in a pub, featuring a writer and two men in ill-fitting suits, ends in this way:

…my foot….must have caught the tray, leaning up against the table-leg, because suddenly it rolled out into the centre of the floor and fell, spinning like a tossed coin, noisy as a dustbin lid, flattening out with the sound of metal fantails on a snare drum.

It seems to sum up the quality of the story, and in a way, the humour and originality of the collection as a whole.

4.0 out of 5 stars Only four stars as it is too short

 

By M. A. C. on 29 Dec. 2012 on Talking To Owls

Often when you read a short story, or come to that a full length novel, you will sigh and say to yourself ‘that was a good tale well told’. Talking to Owls isn’t a book like that. No, if you read this book, at the end of each of the short stories you’ll wonder if it is you who has changed. Brindley Hallam Dennis has a knack of making you think about how you react to events. The Mackwater Seam is a perfect example of how a short story should be written. It will stop you in your tracks and confront your prejudices. Naturally some stories in this collection are better than others, but although sometimes they appear to be lightweight they are not. Each story makes you think, but they don’t preach. Excellent value for money and the magic will go on working long after you have read each of the 140 pages. Buy and enjoy!


5.0 out of 5 starsA Penny Spitfire – Brindley Hallam Dennis

 

By Daniel on 2 Nov. 2011

Format: Paperback

A Penny Spitfire
Brindley Hallam Dennis

Thank God it’s all over, that’s what Charles Bury thought. That’s what they all thought. It just took them by surprise, afterwards, the way it was…

This is a very original novel, in subject matter and form. It is set in a small industrial town (which remains unnamed, though it may be Burton-on-Trent) immediately after the 2nd World War. Rather than dwelling on heroic exploits and victories achieved, as so many novels do, it describes the spoiled and broken lives of those who came back. It recounts their efforts to come to terms with the overwhelming experiences they have had, while adjusting to a world in which the structures they knew before they went to war have been swept away.

The various characters, across the social classes, find their previous lives and relationships irrelevant or impossible, or turn to drink to forget the terrors they witnessed. There are still guns to be had, and criminal characters and feral children gather on bomb-sites. Even in peace-time, violence and cruelty have not disappeared.

Rejecting straightforward narrative, the author tells his story in a sequence of scenes, as in a play, or more exactly, a black-and-white film, the setting for each scene often beautifully described: mostly dark, nocturnal, always poetic. He also employs a novel way of mingling speech and thought, the difference between them blurred, almost as if the characters are buried in their own memories and experiences, inarticulate, communicating incompletely with each other, before relapsing into recollection and introspection.

While much of what happens is difficult and gritty, and there is a violent denouement, the characters are richly-drawn and sympathetic, and the descriptions throughout are unusual, atmospheric and haunting. And towards the end of the novel the author gives us a glimpse, at least, of hope for the future:

And all around, the fields stood silvered in the moonlight… and the train, gathering speed as it moved away, drawn by the black lines of its track, carried, beneath its ermine cloak of steam, a single point of fierce orange light, lustrous as a new-made penny.

5.0 out of 5 starsA compelling glimpse into the aftermath of war

 

By Anne McDonnell on 8 Jun. 2011

Format: Paperback

In a Midlands industrial town, partly bombed, the locals are coming to terms with the legacy of World War Two. Their world has changed and yet their patterns of behaviour were set years ago.
In A Penny Spitfire, we follow Derek Fitton, as he struggles to connect his pre-war life of work and picnics with the experiences of war in India and post-war expectations. Jack and Paul, too young to have fought, fall in with Clive Dandridge, their Corp, who trains youngsters in his version of commandoes. And Charles, the younger son of the local industrialist who feels there has to be another way. Class and social distinctions are no longer so certain and no-one knows how to discuss any of it.

With evocative descriptions of an industrial world that no longer exists, and a style of writing that blurs the edges between thought and speech, Dennis opens a door on a time and people often forgotten. The characters and their lives remain with you long after the book is finished.

 

By Nicky Harlow on 8 Dec. 2011

Format: Paperback

Penny Spitfire is a poignant and prescient study of the impact of World War II on a small midlands town. We see the world largely through Derek Fitton’s eyes. A car mechanic foresighted enough to open a garage before the war began, he has returned from India to find that he can no longer connect to his own town, community, even his marriage. Dennis’s prose pulses with sensory detail. It seems coated in axle grease, powdered with dust. Read it and you smell metal and oil, turpentine and cigarette smoke; you can hear the clank of trains shunting into the nearby station, the revving of automobiles unused since 1939. It tastes of blood.
In this town the war is almost a character in its own right. It is the glue that holds together a group of dispossessed men and women – and the wedge that has been driven between them. The novel exists in a silent, held breath, a time between two worlds. The war is over; the process of change – social, ideological and technological – is already in motion. But for all the distant clanking, the dust has yet to clear.
This is a technically adept work. Dennis’s omniscient narration is no Dickensian voice, haranguing and moralising. More it is the voice of a presenter or an MC; a slow strip-tease revealing a society in flux. His characters – the dreamy socialist, Charles Bury, the traumatised Burma Sammy, the lying ne’er-do-well, Clive Dandridge, and Fitton himself – have been curtailed, interrupted. Their relationships are still dominated by the war; just as the town is still dominated by a huge bomb crater. It seems that death is all they have to look forward to.
Only the ever buxom and garrulous landlady of the Odd Dog demonstrates any joi de vivre. But even this seems forced. The past is not `another country’ in this novel. It is more vivid than the present into which it bleeds. It infects the town with a hazy nostalgia, filtering everything through its sticky nicotine-stained lens.
Penny Spitfire’s poetry clings to you long after you have read the final chapter. There is a strong metaphorical element here, exploited to great effect by Dennis. The railway carrying trains that are either going away or being shunted into sidings, the penny that pops up under many disguises: as payment for thoughts, for the spitfire, a lapel-pin fashioned from left-over metal, or to close the eyes of the dead. And there is something inevitably Denis Potterish in the sexual repression that seeps into all the characters’ actions.
The ending comes as a cruel irony. In what is considered by the characters to be a symbol of hope, we are offered a glimpse of our own twenty-first century crisis.
I cannot recommend this book highly enough. Dennis finds the seeds of our destruction in his story of post war Britain. Writing of this quality is as hard to find as a penny spitfire on a bombsite.

 

Radio 4 pissed me off this week. (No! Never! Well, hardly ever…). They announced a short story slot with the phrase ‘by the novelist’.

 

 

Pewter Rose will cease trading at the end of the month, but there is still time to buy copies of their publications, including A Penny Spitfire and Talking To Owls by Brindley Hallam Dennis.

img_8098 img_8099There are several – some might say many – pairings of books and their film adaptations on my shelves. One pair that gets taken down and watched and read more often than most is Isabel Colegate’s novel The Shooting Party and Geoff Reeve’s film of the same name. I’ve written about this pair before as an example of the ‘faithful’ adaptation, but that fidelity doesn’t mean it is a slavish copy, a filmic re-enactment of the scenes readers might be expected to imagine (as has been said of the film version of McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men, for example).

Recently I watched and read, the Colegate/Reeve pairing with a closer eye than usual, looking, to begin with, for what I thought of as filmic equivalents to the told story’s content. Perhaps because Reeve has captured the tone and characters of the film so well and in many cases has replicated word for word the dialogue of the told story, I was surprised to recognise just how many changes I had not been conscious of when the watching and reading were weeks and perhaps months apart – or when the attention to detail was overwhelmed by the enjoyment of absorption in the story, told and shown!

In fact, even where those dialogues had been lifted ‘faithfully,’ they had often been placed differently in the film to where they lay in the original, both  in time, and place, and on several occasions had been put into the mouths of different characters. Many had been turned from internal monologues, to comments made in public.

Speaking on the DVD ‘specials’, Rupert Fraser, who played Lionel, remarks that there is only one scene in the film that is not in the book – the fancy dress scene that takes place on the stairwell at Knebworth (which took the role of Nettleby). I have said as much – and written it! But it is not, in fact, the case. There is at least one other – where Lionel and Olivia, in the film alone, go riding and have a faithfully reported conversation from the book – but not at the same point in the story nor in the same location. Other scenes have their conversational and incidental content switched around, the dinner party, in the film, for example, allowing words that are only thought to be exchanged aloud and thus made available to the watcher as they were to the reader.

The point I want to make is not so much about the particular novel  and film, but about the fluidity of of stories – how conversations can be manipulated, moved from place to place, and time to time, and mouth to mouth, without obviously changing their significance in the story, and, at first glance, or indeed any ‘glance’, without changing our perception of the characters that speak them.

Yet on a close examination it might be that a story is changed, subtly, and that its characters will be different, and not so subtly? One case I would give is where, in both versions, Sir Randolph, the key reader-proxy and opinion touchstone of the story, talks to Aline, the mistress of Charles Farquhar (in the book), and of Sir Reuben Hergesheimer (in the film), and accuses her of ‘wickedness’ in her speculations about the ‘affair’ between Olivia and Lionel. In the former version this is quite a long conversation, but in the latter is equally brief. More sharply potent perhaps, is where, in the film, Sir Randolph confesses to Hergesheimer that copying the Sandringham shoots almost bankrupted the estate. In the book, though the rest of the conversation does take place, Sir Randolph only recalls this to memory. He does not share it with his house guest. The shift in our perception of Sir Randolph may be slight, but is in a definite direction: In the first case what he is shown taking an interest in seems to me to be narrower and more focused in the film, broader in the novel. In the second, the told Sir Randolph’s reticence seems more in keeping with his character than the film’s more expansive version – yet, without that remark the audience of the shown version could not know that particular detail.

This isn’t offered as a criticism, only as an observation, and one that might support the contention that the business of shown, rather than told stories is one of sharper focus – streamlined is a word I have heard used by film-makers in relation to the adaptation process. With a novel our imaginations, sparked by what we are told, might run more freely, than with a film, where we must observe what is put before us.

Of course, whether or not considering this helps, when it comes to writing a story, might be a moot point. Another story set in the past but not made into a film (yet) is BHD’s A Penny Spitfire,  available here (but only for a couple of months more).

APennySpitfire-frontcover

You’ll have noticed that the world didn’t end last Sunday. You might have noticed that my blog didn’t appear either.

A big truck did it, and drove away: Took the phone cable right off the side of the house. That was the Thursday before. A week later and there was still no cable. But the world didn’t end for you, and it didn’t for me. It was just the phone line that was down. Eight days later, and we’re re-cabled and ready to go, but have learnt something about being cut off, and not cut off.

You’ll know, if you’re a regular reader of the blog, that I make a point of offering my own publications for purchase from time to time, but this week I’m going to push a little harder.

It’s not for anything I’ve written though, nor published. Despite being an aficionado of the short story form I do read novels too! And two novels I’ve recently read, and for the second time, are from the writer Jane Fathers Davidson.

Jane, who currently lives in north Cumbria, describes herself at the back of A Place Beyond Hearing, as ‘an adoptee and retired addictions therapist’.

Jane’s novel draws on her experience to tell the story of Robbie. It’s a hard-edged read, and for one who has worked with people living difficult and self-defeating lives, it’s perhaps extra-hard, because it is so true to life.

Set in Canada and England it sets out the struggles of Robbie, a sixty year old runaway and alcoholic, as she learns to understand the forces that have driven her, and to come to terms with them. There are times in the early part of the story when you almost want to turn your back on Robbie, it’s such a tough tale, and some of the other characters do! But as the novel progresses, and the size of the metaphorical mountain she has to climb becomes more apparent, and more threatening, you find yourself drawn to rooting for her, and drawn to caring. I’ve written about three tissue weepies before, but this is an altogether more dry-eyed story: painful, unflinching, but ultimately cathartic in its assertion of the value, and values of human life, and love.

When you get to the end, you’ll feel you’ve earned it; and it’s the sort of ending you need to feel you’ve earned.

 

By the same author, and drawing on the same understanding of human motives, for good and ill, is Blood Pudding. Jane, in a back cover blurb calls this a ‘funny, traditional sleuth driven romp with a surfeit of dogs.’ There are just about the right number of dogs for me, plus chickens, sheep, and a herd of cows (bulls, according to the character who gets chased by them). It’s a murder mystery set in the northern reaches of Cumbria alongside Hadrian’s Wall, in which a retired police detective tracks down the serial killer of several neighbours and friends. Told with panache and quiet comedy, it never quite loses touch with the  insights of a retired therapist,  which enable the author to furnish the story with a fistful of intriguing and bizarre characters, all of whom, at one point or another become the objects of our suspicions!

 

Available in paperback, or for Kindle, these two novels are available on Amazon, and would make great Christmas presents, or suitable indulgences for a fireside read – perhaps with a whisky and water – as the year turns autumnal. They are both, in their different ways, really good reads. You can find them here.

Blood Pudding 41nYqw+ldqL._AC_UL115_

There is a technique – trick if you prefer – used in TV and film, whereby a character is introduced by drawing them from the anonymity of a crowd. Before we know who they are, and without them having spoken or done anything noticeable, we have somehow had our attention focussed onto them.

Perhaps it to do wtih keeping them centre screen while the camera pans. Perhaps it is that they are in sharp focus while the others are in soft. Perhaps it is a nuance of dress or posture, but something pulls our eyes onto that character in particular before there is any obvious reason why it should!

I have often wondered, and once or twice have tried, if the same technique or one analogous to it, could be used in the writing of a story. The idea came back to me recentlky when I was re-reading Rumer’s Godden’s novel, Black Narcissus. Like many famous adaptations this is a story probably better known in its film rather than its original text version. Powell and Pressburger were faithful to the plot, with a few changes made necessary by the film form and its implied audience, but that’s another essay.

The opening of the novel can provide an interesting speculation on how a told story can, and perhaps even ought, to begin. The first few lines, a short paragraph, carries out several of the functions of a beginning:

 

‘The Sisters left Darjeeling in the last week of October. They had come to

settle in the General’s Palace at Mopu, which was now to be known as the

Convent of St.Faith.’

 

That capital S tells us they are nuns, rather than siblings,  and even from these two sentences we know a lot about what the story will be about. We have a location, in time and place, an embryonic plot – encapsulated in ‘settle’ and ‘now to be known as,’ and characters: the Sisters, and ‘the General.’

We might even detect the beginning of the ambience of the piece, and the importance of the building in, or from which most of the events will take place (which phrase itself, ‘take place’ tells us something about what story is).

‘St.Faith’, strongly implies Catholicism, certainly Christianity, when coupled with capital S sisters, and Darjeeling puts it in the Indian highlands, which we might feel is, for the nuns, ‘out of place’.

It’s the introduction of the characters that caught my interest though, and particularly of the Sister who is going to be the centre of our attention. By page 5 we should be fairly sure which one she is, but it’s curious the way that Godden gets us to that recognition. A surprise to me was how few times the particular nun is mentioned in those early pages, yet, as in my TV and Film ‘trick,’ our attention is drawn to her differently from the way it is drawn to the other named Sisters.

The first to be named is Sister Blanche – who will quickly become known as Sister Honey. She draws our attention, not to herself, but to the scenery, and does so in response to ‘Father Roberts’, who, we are told, thinks that the nuns will be lonely at Mopu.

‘“What is he afraid of?” asked Sister Blanche.”I think these hills are lovely.”

We will wait another page before another Sister is named.

‘Sister Clodagh rode in front with the clerk.’

We get more about Clodagh here: the way she rides; the way she talks to the clerk, and the snippet, that the other Sisters are ‘envious’ as they watch her. Next we get Sister Blanche again, and Sister Ruth. Their horses are unruly, and Sister Ruth panics, ‘She was terribly nervous…’

Over the next couple of pages both Sister Ruth and Sister Blanche are mentioned again by name, but it is until page 5 that we must wait for Sister Clodagh. Then, in two references, she reveals, or rather deepens our sense of her separateness from, and authority over the others.

‘…but Sister Clodagh said briskly: Come along Sister.’ And ‘”How she loves to exaggerate, “ thought Sister Clodagh’. In fact Sister Clodagh receives three named mentions on page 5, and after that, over the next few pages, we flashback to the chosing of which Sisters will ‘settle’ at Mopu, and here, on page 10, in case we haven’t cottoned on, Godden has her explicitly refer to being the Superior of the new Convent.

We have, by this time, been drawn not only into watching what she does, and hearing what she says, but we have been eavesdropping on her thoughts, and perhaps more importantly, we have been told what others think of her. The clerk, with whom she rides, for example, tells her that ‘the men are saying that the Lady-Sahib sits her horse like a man.’ That he does this ‘ingratiatingly’ adds to our sense of her.

What struck me about this introduction to the main character of the novel, was the tentative, almost surreptitious way, she was added into the story, like stirring in the few drops of chilli that will make a sauce truly hot!

If there is a second character in the novel, and I think there is, it is Mr Dean, who is insinuated into the story with similar sleight of hand. First mention comes on page 11, after our sense of Sister Clodagh has been well established. In a flashback, Sister Clodagh recalls her exploratory visit to Mopu: ‘..the General’s agent, Mr Dean, showed them over it.’

There’s is a richness to this novel. The General, though he appears only once or twice in person, is a dominating presence, almost like a God. He organises, manipulates, and sympathises with his characters. And Mopu itself is more than just a stage on which the action takes place. Its physical qualities mirror the emotional turmoil of the nuns as they strive to establish their school and hospital, aided by the destabilising presence of the morally ambiguous Mr Dean.

Assembling all these forces over the first dozen pages of the story Rumer Godden slips them almost un-noticed into our consciousness, and in an appropriate order of importance. In a strange mirroring of the ‘mystery play,’ these naturalistic characters seem to represent archetypal forces, with Mopu itself, and Angu Aya the caretaker from its days as ‘the House of Women,’ as a sort of pagan earth.   Both film and book are well worth getting to grips with, but remember, a film takes place in front of your very eyes (and ears), the book, behind (and between) them.

Ambiguous Encounters, ten short stories by Brindley Hallam Dennis & Marilyn Messenger

41FLvCi2O0L._SX323_BO1,204,203,200_Two entirely unconnected conversations on consecutive days led me to re-reading Tom Wolfe’s The Bonfire of the Vanities, and reading, I hope, with an analytical eye.

It’s one of those books that I found hard going to begin with on the first reading, but which seemed far more accessible on this second try. It is also one of the books that has been adapted to film in such a way that raises the issue of changed agendas. Wolfe’s book examines ghetto mentalities, and politics. De Palma’s film dances lightly over the surface of such concerns.

It was Wolfe’s writing that interested me though, in this re-reading, because in one of those two conversations we had been discussing stories, and where they spring from. This story, I pontificated, had sprung from a mistake, ‘when a $48,000 Mercedes hits a street it shouldn’t have’, as the cover blurb of my paperback edition says. Neither of us, in the discussion, had read the book recently, and so memory was struggling to provide ‘the beginning.’ That accidental wrong turning, and what it leads to, is undoubtedly the ‘inciting incident’ (McKee, in ‘Story’), but there is a deal of groundwork done before we get to it. In fact, there is a Prologue, and three chapters to read before we get to that incident. What then, you might ask, would the ‘obligatory scene’ be? (to which I say….watch this space).

Whether in short stories, or novels, beginnings (and endings) always catch my interest – My guess is that people remember the beginnings of novels, and the endings of short stories: How About You? (to quote Lynerd Skynerd). In a short story, I suspect, we’d kick off with that incident, and reduce the Prologue and chapters three to a sentence and two paragraphs! What is Wolfe doing with them? What does he need them for?

The Prologue starts in the middle of a nascent riot. He jumps in with both feet, right in the middle of an altercation between a speaker and a heckler:

 

‘And then say what? Say “Forget you’re hungry, forget you got shot inna back by

some racist cop – Chuck was here? Chuck come up to Harlem-“’

 

That riot, which will erupt over the TV screens of the other protagonists as the story unfolds, signals the breakdown not so much of a consensus, but of the assumption that there is one. As the Mayor is driven from the stage by the ‘black’ mob, the first of Wolfe’s ‘vanities,’ the illusion that the Jewish/white power group is seen as representing all the other groups that make up his New York is being torched. This prologue sets the wider scene into which protagonist Sherman McCoy will drive his Mercedes, and it is not a benign one. The shock experienced by the Mayor, though, is as powerful as the anger being expressed by the crowd. This novel, at heart, is how that shock is experienced, and responded to by our ‘hero,’ Sherman McCoy.

Three more chapters of preparation to come, though, and the first introduces Sherman. Wolfe ends it by telling us just who we’re dealing with. Like a tour guide pointing out a landmark, the omniscient narrator gives us the authorial word on Sherman:

 

‘The Master of the Universe was cheap, and he was rotten, and he was a liar.’

 

The chapter headings in Bonfire of the Vanities are worth paying attention to. That Prologue was called ‘Mutt on Fire,’ for example. Chapter two is called ‘Gibralter.’ The word,  presumably, carries a different weight of meaning for an American reader, and writer, but what’s clear I think is that it represents a fortress held in ‘enemy territory,’ and against the will of the locals; a fortress manned by people brought in from elsewhere; a fortress in which the locals are judged, ruled, and imprisoned by those incomers. And this Gibraltar is, in fact, the building from which justice is applied to the people of the Bronx. Among the incomers is the story’s main antagonist, Lawrence Kramer. He is an Assistant District Attorney, who catches the ‘D train’ from his crummy apartment, wearing sneakers instead of leather shoes – to reduce the chances of being mugged or harassed during the journey.

He bumps into Kovitsky, one of the judges (a Pole?), and the two are subjected to a barrage of insults from the inmates of a prison van. Whilst Kramer keeps his head down, Kovitsky confronts them head on. For film buffs, this is the character so neatly excised from the book in the process of adaptation. In the film, the magisterial Morgan Freeman plays a humane and wise, and, obviously, black judge, to replace the belligerent, and no less wise, but, obviously, white Kovitsky, thus neatly stripping the story of most of its power, and perhaps, point..

For the third chapter we go back to McCoy. It is his story that will remain centre stage, and so before we get into motion, Wolfe gives us another side of McCoy’s life, and of his character.

By the end of this extended beginning – chapter 4,  King of the Jungle, opens some 75 pages into the text in my edition – we have seen the wider environment of the city, McCoy’s personal environment, and both Kramer’s home, and workplace, that Gibraltar where McCoy will be challenged, in the prison cell as much as in the courtroom itself, to stand up and fight for his privileges as the ‘vanities’ burn down around him.

Curiously, this seems to me to be very much the in the pattern, of Location (in time and place), Situation, and Characters, the three pillars of story, that we have been looking at in the Facets of Fiction workshops over the last couple of months.

Being a novel, and a chunky one at that, you won’t find The Bonfire of the Vanities in Readings For Writers, which looks at the short story form!Readings For Writers cover

downloadI’ve just finished reading Lewis Grassic Gibbons’ Grey Granite, third in the trilogy,  A Scots Quair.

Writing in the foreword to the 1976 Pan paperback edition Ivor Brown makes the following remarks about it:   ‘gives the impression of being hasty and the end is unworthy of the whole. The great pattern appears to crumble in the author’s hands……..The book has some tiresome coarsemess.’   In a longer essay, the introduction to the Kindle edition of the trilogy, takes a different tack. Grey Granite, in this version, is a culmination of what has gone before, and the piece goes into some detail about the genesis of that third volume. Like his main character, Chris Guthrie, Lewis Grassic Gibbons himself returned to his roots to finish the story. My own experience of the book aligns more with the latter introduction. There is a crumbling, but to my way of thinking it is not so much ‘in’ the authors hands, as ‘by’ them. The society that Gibbons describes over the course of the trilogy is a changing one, and changing not for the better from the books perspective. Written between 1928 and 1934 – the first volume in a mere six weeks – the trilogy looks back over a quarter century of Scottish life, centred on a fictional remembering of Gibbons’ own part of the country, described by Brown as that lying ‘between the Grampians and the North Sea.’

Local, and detailed, beginning at rural Kinraddie in Sunset Song, passing through the town of Segget in Cloud Howe, and culminating in the city of Duncairn in Grey Granite, the general is found in the particular, for A Scots Quair is really a trilogy about that literary territory that we all inhabit, the human condition. Gibbons does not paint a pretty picture. All three of the societies he depicts are unsustainably divided, and the divisions deepen, and multiply as the scale increases. Words like ‘tinks,’’toffs’ and ‘keelies’ are used freely, carrying the freight of more widely used words that we shudder to hear and read these days! The reference to people as ‘dirt’ surprised me, and Gibbons satirises his own narrator by putting such words into his mouth, as well as into those of his characters. Divisions within Chris Guthrie’s family, and within Kinraddie, become, in Grey Granite, the class struggles of a nation, during the General Strike and its aftermath, the rise of Fascism. The crumbling is in part the introduction of greater and greater diversity, of characters and viewpoints, and of class strata, matched by a sort of disintegration in the narrative threads. At the same time, there is a breaking down of the bonds between individuals, even between Chris herself and her son Ewan. Progressively, as he becomes drawn into communist agitation, he loses his ability to maintain personal relationships. At the end Chris is alone, not only as we are all, internally alone, but also separated from family and society. She moves back to where she came from, but does not connect with the people living there, and then there is that controversial ending, which Brown saw as ‘unworthy.’

It’s an ending worth getting to via all the books of the trilogy. I find it a culmination. And don’t skip the prologue to Sunset Song: it is what makes you a citizen of Gibbons’ world, and makes you the ‘you,’ on occasion, of his sustained second person narration. This stylistic device, is used in several distinct ways throughout the trilogy, and there’s a good essay on that use, if you can track it down, by Trengove. Sometimes the you is the reader, the ‘crony’ of the narrator, but often it is one or other of the characters, and the changes between the usages come fast and thick, and without warning, especially in Grey Granite. It is Gibbons’ writing style that is the most obvious attraction of his work – though what he has to say is profoundly moving when we stop to reflect upon it. I can’t think of many other writers with such a powerfully evangelistic and compelling style. Cormac McCarthy would be one, but Gibbons,’ for me at any rate, outperforms even him. At the heart of this style lie two elements. One is the vocabulary of Gibbons’ fictional area of Scotland, based on Aberdeenshire. Words like ‘trauchle’ and ‘greeting’ and ‘gowk’ and ‘loon’, don’t need, for the speaker of Scots and Northern English, the glossary he added to American editions. And indeed, for any responsive reader of English, the context usually gives the sense of the word, if not the exact meaning – I’ve never quite got to the bottom of ‘ben,’ seemingly shoved into sentences, sometimes appearing to suggest ‘to’, other times to suggest ‘then,’ often seeming without meaning, but fitting in nevertheless. The greater element though, is Gibbons’ manipulation of the rhythms of the language, which turns this three novel masterpiece into a sort of song. And if it is a song, it is one which moves like the storms he so often describes, lashing against our imaginations, and stirring our passions. His technique is in some ways remarkably simple. Strings of short sentences are made into single long sentences by the use of commas, rather than full stops to separate them – actually to join them. Paragraphs begin with ‘ands’ and ‘buts’. Long sentences are fragmented by full stops. Unlike traffic lights on the blink, these devices don’t slow down the traffic, but speed it up, so that we read – even when not aloud – at a breakneck speed, arriving at points of heightened emotion in an already breathless state.

The BBC did a radio dramatisation of Cloud Howe recently, which I blogged about a while ago. It was a fine drama, but entirely lost the beauty and intensity of Gibbons’ narrative voice. There is dialogue in the books, but always embedded within that narrative, and to strip it out seems to me to lose something of the essence of the Quair experience. The trilogy is rightly hailed as a masterpiece of Scottish literature, and cited for its powerful evocation of the landscapes, and weather, in which it is set, but it is more than just that. It is a thesis about the fall of mankind into civilisation and organisation from a state of primitive innocence.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOne of the Facets of Fiction writers is through to the finals of a ‘first chapter’ style competition with a novel-in-progress. At this stage of the game, it’s a matter of performing (or as I prefer, reading aloud) the chapter in question in front of an audience and panel of judges, and of engaging in a brief Q&A session with the judges.

If a written text is a sort of score, then a reading of it – whether I like the term or not – is a sort of performance. What we give is our own version of how the text is meant to be read, or at least, the best we can do in that direction. It’s been said before, and I witnessed an example with Brian Patten back in the early seventies, that the writer isn’t always the best reader of the work (the last time I heard him read he was great!). But it’s not only whether or not any particular reader can find the best reading – if there is one – but also whether there might be alternative readings not intended, recognised, or understood by the writer. If there are such readings, what sort of validity do they have? Is the question of a sort of validity itself even valid?

We might presume that a reader has an intention for a piece of writing. We might think that it has to be so. But might it also be that what has been expressed in words might also be capable of implying, and communicating, other intentions? Is the reader entitled to experience such meanings, or mistaken in doing so? I’ve quoted before – because I often come back to the same remarks that I’ve read or heard, which have raised, but not resolved issues in my mind – C.S.Lewis castigating the ‘non-literary’ reader for filling texts with his or her own meanings. But to what extent are any of us literary, or non-literary, and how do we, or anybody else know it?

What my multi-faceted fictioneer will have to do, I suspect, is give an account of what the journey looks like from the point along it that they have reached, the journey, that is, of writing their story. What lies ahead, is still waiting to be discovered, by them, as well as by we readers. What you haven’t found out yet, about what you are writing, just like what you haven’t found out as a reader, is one of the joys of the process. We can’t know as much about our stories, perhaps, as there is to know, though there might well be things we do know about them that the majority of readers will never know.

The writer does have one advantage over the reader: that having discovered the secret valley or hidden pass of their story, they can retrace their steps to it. Just because you came to a spectacular view from one direction, doesn’t mean you would choose to approach in the same way when leading a friend to it. The writer’s journey is not on the same path that the reader will take. If the metaphor of the journey, and the path, is fitting, then does it also include the idea that we may walk the same path, without experiencing it in the same way? We might see from it, and upon it, differently to other travellers, and to our guide.

I wonder if, in talking to those competition judges, the writers will communicate the vision, and passion, that sent them off on their journeys in the first place, visions of the worlds they are creating, and of the world they have experienced – the ‘real’ world from which it sprang?

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAAt one of the Facets of Fiction workshops recently, we looked at a novel-in-progress that was set in the future; a here and then story, you might call it. With this sort of sci-fi (for want of a better term) there’s always going to be a blend of the ‘normal’ with the unusual, and the question arises, of whether or not that unusual is something that is going to be revealed slowly, or is going to be part of the starting point from which we set off into the story.

In the case of the story we were looking at, that unusualness was in the form of magic. This was a world in which magic was not only commonplace, but was rather obsolescent. It was so much taken for granted by the people in that world that they were turning away from it towards technology. For that reason alone, it seemed, that the reader should not be taken by surprise by its arrival even as late as a few paragraphs into the story. It would be so much a part and parcel of the fictional world that the reader had to know it was there right from the beginning.

I remember decades ago, being told that a problem with stories is what the author assumes we will take for granted. I’ve quoted a favourite example of this before…the raising of a hat, in an A.E.Coppard story, that he assumed we would expect to be there. Reading this story in a ‘post-hat’ world, I was taken by surprise when it appeared. His original readers would have assumed its presence. If this can happen with a story based in ‘reality,’ how much more so can it happen in a story set in a created unreality? If there is something abnormal to us, that we want the reader to take as being normal – and therefore hardly worth mentioning in the fictional context, in the created world, how do we introduce it, and when?

Looking at our magic story, in the FofF workshop, it seemed that the best way to avoid it being ‘a surprise’ to the reader, was to get it in early, before assumptions about the nature of that world had set in, assumptions that would almost certainly be based on the reader’s experience of his or her current realities.

Presumably, if you were trying to present an unexpected quality in the created world – something that took its inhabitants by surprise – you would do the opposite, creating their norms first, so that the exception to them was equally surprising to the reader? On the other hand, you might not! You might choose to tell us that whatever it was you were presenting was anomalous in the fictional context. I wonder which would work better?

Perhaps there’s another writing exercise here, in embryo at least – to experiment with creating unrealities within unrealities, and to manipulate the reader into taking them for granted, or being surprised by them.    OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA