The Boy Who Could But Didn't - Part 4

Death of the Novelist #1

Tuesday 2nd June, 2009

And the award for least effort put into a rejection response goes to…

rejection

It almost makes me look back through rose-tinted specs at ‘Dear ……………………….’; a form of address which always perplexed me more than a little. I mean, if you’re going to be made to feel utterly ephemeral to the person taking 10 seconds to read a synopsis it took you a week to compile about the novel it took you years to write, there’s no better way to do it than by receiving a template form with space for your name, and discovering they’re so uninterested in your submission that they haven’t even scrawled your name into the aforementioned space:

‘Your insipid ink-dribblings offend me so much I’m not even going to pretend you’re an autonomous being: Dear intangible concept so offensive to me that you do not even merit acknowledgement of your very existence, go away.’ *

This new no-frills approach however makes me feel like a sort of literary Jehovah’s Witness. Imagine if the tables were turned, and it was considered acceptable for authors to write prospective letters in the same way:

Dear ……………………….,

Read this.

Ta,

[illegible scrawl denoting extreme busyness with subtle undertone of scorn]

* Anyone who’s never received a rejection letter/note/word from a literary agent may wish to listen to this. It may help you to understand why many authors have no friends and hate everyone. And never get published.

In Plain Sight

Saturday 30th May, 2009
In Plain Sight

Passacaglia

Friday 22nd May, 2009

I feel connected. Again I see the number 22, everywhere, much like I once saw combinations of B and 13. Sometimes I still do. I finally took the time to look it up – connotations of Revelation and a conjunction of the mundane and the fantastical. Sounds like me in a nutshell – living in my own little world as I trudge through the bigger one – bigger things always seem bare and uninteresting because there’s more space to fill, but at the same time have more corners to lose things in and find. It’s often seen as something similar to the first major card of the 22 in Tarot. Other’s even say it’s the stuff of the very Word of God.

I marked up a candidate’s exam paper today when one mark wasn’t clear. Perhaps it was Question 22. I don’t remember. As soon as I did it I had a vivid fantasy about a life-saving operation I will undergo in about 30 years at the hands of a surgeon who once almost failed a critical exam if it wasn’t for one mark. It wouldn’t surprise me if it came to be. Impossible things lie in each and every corner these days.

The room where the exams take place is one of the college’s museums – a collection of internal organs, limbs and body parts forever preserved for trainee surgeons, visitors and temps such as myself to gawp at and possibly consider the nature of dignity of one made immortal in a plastic casket; a tide of formaldehyde sweeping back time to keep them forever close to their moment of death. An old lady – an actress playing a patient in one of the assessments and still in her red and white dressing gown – moves from exhibit to exhibit, regarding them and commenting as she does, either half to me or entirely to herself. “They are grotesque,” she says, “but I also find them comforting. The capillaries in our body look no different from those in a leaf or the roots from a tree. It reminds me that everything in the universe is connected. And I think that’s beautiful.”

I’ve started hearing music – a cacophony of clashing, incompatible noises and sounds that have only now started to slow or speed up, occasionally intertwining to become a melody or a beat. A simple sound that is beautiful by its very simplicity. Life plays on in endless Variations. I see these Variations every morning I leave the house, these beautiful things inconspicuous by their plain sight: traffic slowing to let an ambulance pass; two people who once had the improbability to meet and are now holding hands; sunlight within huge mountains and cities made of cloud reflected in a tall glass building, manmade. What is my chord? What key is my brain thinking in? What door does it want to unlock? What is behind door 22?

The Lonely Tale of King Furciel

Monday 6th April, 2009

A cautionary tale for adult persons as to why one should not accept denominationally unstable wishes from strange fairies in forests. Written and scrawled by yours truly and read by John Rayment.

Work in Progress

Saturday 4th April, 2009

A snapshot of a scribbled-in notebook.

Ben Leto on Resonance FM #2

Saturday 28th March, 2009

Click here to listen to last week’s show on Resonance FM with Arthur Fowler’s Allotment.

I treasure your friendship

Wednesday 25th March, 2009
I treasure your friendship

The First Day

Monday 23rd March, 2009

On the 22nd day of the 23rd year of conflict, something perfect happened.

In unorchestrated symphony, the librarian lay down his pen; the soldier his sword; the heretic her wand. Peace fell, softly like the first leaf of Autumn; the first breath of a deep and long-held sigh. Peace, forgiveness. Love.

The soldier stood upon the cliffs and looked out across the land, golden and new once again. He lay his beloved sword upon the tall Spring grass, and leant back upon the wind. “Goodbye,” he sighed as he fell into the sea. “Goodbye, and thank you for my purpose.”

Ben Leto on Resonance FM

Tuesday 17th March, 2009

Ben will be reading out a few arbitrary sentences from his professional albatross of a novel Beasts of the Field tonight at 6:30pm GMT on Resonance FM‘s On The Fringe, courtesy of Arthur Fowler’s Allotment. Listen in. Or do not. He will not be offended if you do not.

[28/3/09: MP3 of the show now available from here]

Mugabe

Sunday 1st March, 2009

deliciouscake1

Web 2.0 and The Writer

Monday 9th February, 2009

Anyone who wants to be a writer, stop.

Anyone who wants to work in publishing, stop.

Sit down, put your feet up for an hour or two, make a cuppatee and read this.

It far more eloquently articulates what I was previously trying to say about the state of publishing in the currently looming recession, and the implications for those with barely a foot on the first rung.

There are things I remember having a profound effect upon my conception of the world as an artist. Some of them are time-honoured and conventional, such as Wilde’s De Profundis. Other examples some might raise their noses at, such as the first time I properly heard Björk or when I spent a week in Skye listening to little else but Patrick Wolf’s Wind In The Wires.

On the Survival of Rats in the Slush Pile is certainly one of these things. It’s possibly, for an unpublished writer in the early 21st century, the most crushingly depressing and yet strangely comforting overview of the writing-to-publishing process to be read.

Early attempts at networking typewriters often proved unnecessary and silly.
Image by radiospike photography

Too many writers are currently too focused on being published rather than simply writing, because publishing is their only perceived means of not only marking their success as a writer, but developing an audience. This is not just an improbable method to begin with (as the essay demonstrates), but is currently less likely than ever to work. In short, and as I suggested previously, writers have to find their own platforms. They have to seek out both audience and merit on their own, and on their own terms.

So here’s one particularly nice little shelter for budding bloggers and weary writers alike to huddle under, as recently pinched from a friendly Canadian’s blog.

Six Sentences is an open submissions site and online community where anyone may write anything they wish, so long as it’s in the eponymous six sentences. It’s very similar to another site I once used called 100 Words, though perhaps a little more beginner-friendly by not strictly obligating you to both write and edit every day for at least a month in order to feature on the site, though that in itself is a great discipline for those who need it. I also got in a huff with 100 Words as I stuck to it diligently without missing a single day for a whole year, but lost six months worth of entries when they migrated to the new site, despite my emails as requested that resupplied my missing posts. As a result my Year of Hell remains incomplete, but I’ve been slowly republishing the individual entries here on my own blog.

My little offering to ‘Six’ however, based on a perhaps easily deducible recent event, is here. Feel free to furnish me with as many, or as few votes, as you feel it deserves. Like Post of the Week (which yours truly also often judges), the most popular entries are shortlisted to find an overall winner for each month, but it really, honestly isn’t about ‘winning’ anything. It never was. Sites like this are wonderful little virtual gems – not just as an opportunity to get your voice heard in a climate increasingly hostile to new writers, but to hear others’ and build up a sense of community – something that anyone who’s sought a career in literature will tell you very rarely comes easily. It’s certainly the sort of lifeline that will prove inevitably invaluable to authors already struggling to speak as the ship takes on more water.

Death and Taxes

Thursday 5th February, 2009
Death and Taxes

Projection

Sunday 25th January, 2009

a lot of the time i stay up late alone. i walk the streets without leaving my room and peer in the houses of strangers without looking. in one i see a couple arguing. they scream at each other – cursing, hissing, pushing. finally the man lifts a heavy vase and smashes in the woman’s skull with one quick swipe. he then collapses beside her corpse, weeping, incapable of touching her, waiting inconsolable for whomever will arrive to punish him, but no one comes. i move on. in another i see an old woman sitting alone at a table draped in a perfect linen cloth. she knitted it herself. it has taken her twenty years. upon the table are cakes, tarts, biscuits and buns, glasses of squash and lemonade – sticky sugary treats for no one. she sits there alone, staring at what should be a happy banquet, not even an expression left with her for company. this is how she spends every night. i move on. in another house i see a family of friends gathered on chairs and sofas around a television. they stare into its screen, uncomprehending of its petty images or each other, absorbed in their own heavy expressions – too set to register even the lightest of thoughts, not one of them lifting so much as a finger to alter the inevitable procession of images they stare disinterestedly into. there was someone else there once – the suggestion of a consciousness or conscience that still somehow lingers and endures in the silence, but is long gone all the same from here now. only memories live here, given life by the light of a TV screen. ghosts made flesh. I move on. I stop at one last house. Within it I see a child, hunched over upon his bed, reading without looking at the words, speaking without making a sound even to himself. he thinks of how small the world is, how flat – of how many people he has known and loved who have since fallen from its edge and disappeared from his universe altogether, faster and faster, spilling like sand from a shattered hourglass. he doesn’t cry for his mother. he no longer waits to go out and play with his best friend. i do not move on. i stay with this boy, this child, so far from being a man. i want to see what will happen. i just want to see what happens to him next. it’s not as if i care. it’s not as if i care one way or another. it’s just curiosity, that’s all. it’s all just something to do.