SEPTEMBER 2004
Sat 26th September, late at night
I’ve spent the last week thinking about, and sometimes even working on, my ideas for Novel II, but I’m already behind in my schedule. Everything always takes so much longer than you expect. I have this idea that when I really get going, I’m going to write 3000 words a week. It sounds so reasonable, but I bet it’ll catch me out. And then I’ll spend hours doing anal sums about how many words have been / will be / might be / could be / won’t be written per week, and those hours will then need factoring back into the word/hour equation...
I’m also back in the cycle of switching between conviction of my own brilliance, and an equally strong belief that I can’t write for toffee. Hmmm. Publication was supposed to have evened that one out. I guess I’m just stuck with it. Anyway, somebody who definitely can write is Julia Darling, who wrote in her blog this week that her throat feels as though she has swallowed a cold golf ball. This is such a vivid description of what a certain kind of sore throat feels like. How do people think of these things? She also tickled me by using the phrase “head mould” which made me think of some kind of fungal infection. It turns out to be a mould of one’s head. As in jelly mould.
Oh yes, and my other weakness, besides thinking I can’t write, anally counting things and fantasising about chocolate, is that thing of really really wanting to write, wishing the Writing Time had arrived, and then when it arrives... doing fuck all with it. On Wednesday I spent all day at work wishing I was at home so that I could get on with the writing I’d started on Tuesday but then failed to finish because all the food in the freezer had to be cooked and re-frozen due to some lightbulb-obsessed bint (me) knocking the plug out of the socket with a stepladder. Then I got home, sat at the computer, and... did nothing. Surfed the web, read some emails, fiddled about with a radiator - anything but writing. What the hell is that about? I really want to write, I have something to write about, but instead I make myself feel utterly shit by not doing it. Even though I have the spare time for it. It’s bloody infuriating and utterly pointless, and yet I am always doing it. It’s something to do with the fear of failure, but that really is a pathetic excuse and I should have grown out of it by now.
Now, here’s a question: If there is a finite probability that any planet might have life on it, and the universe is infinite, does this mean that (a) there are probably an infinite number of life-containing planets in the universe, and furthermore that they are (b) infinite distances apart, and all this because infinity divided by a finite number is still infinity? Apparently the answer is Yes to (a), and No to (b), which is good because that’s what I said when my friends Fran and Jan asked me this on Thursday night.
Isn’t vicarious pleasure fun? Achmat Dangor has been shortlisted for the Booker prize (OK so it’s really called the Man Booker now, but I have no idea why, and I’m assuming it’s only because they ran out of money and had to recruit some company or very rich individual to foot the bill who would only give the money on the condition that their name got vanity-checked in the title and I’m blowed if I’m giving them the pleasure and anyway, it’s the Booker, isn’t it? That’s what it is). I’m very excited about this, because I met him once. Well, I talked to him. Well, I took part in a conversation in which he was also taking part on an internet forum. So really I may as well be his sister I know him so well, and I’m taking all the credit for his success, OK?
My grandparents and my parents (Felix’s grand- and great-grand- parents) came to visit today, and (accidentally, in fact) it happened to be Grandparents’ Day. Not that we bought them a card or anything. Still, we went to the park and Felix collected conkers and kicked leaves, and then we all sang songs. We do that in our family. It’s a tradition that my mum asks me to sing classical songs and I whinge and squirm as though I was transported straight back to adolescence. But the funny thing today was watching her whinge and squirm while her mother made the same request. Ha. And the house is now clean and tidy, which is a very good reason for having visitors on a regular basis.
Last weekend was lots of fun. On Friday night I finally met Claire Dowie because she was performing in Manchester. She did the stage version of her book, Creating Chaos, and it was brilliant. She’s down to earth and natural, and I’ve never seen a performance quite like it. My opening words to her were “Aaargh, I’m desperate for a piss,” and then I ran away. When I found her again I apologised for swearing in front of her children (7 and 11, and very nice), and she pointed out that they’d just sat in the audience while she said “fuck” and talked about erections and hands up skirts, and I felt very silly. So to make up for that I walked on my elbows, turned my toes in to face themselves and did a backwards walkover. In a theatre bar. While another performer sang a love song to a lemon in the background. Her kids thought I was great, at any rate. Well, either that or they were humouring me.
Then on Saturday night we were invited to a party full of the people who make Pingu and Bob the Builder! Which are both apparently produced just down the road from where I work. And I have a new ambition, to write Pingu episodes. Which would be so cool. And they were all really nice, and both Ally and I were struck by how long it is since we went to a party where we didn’t know everyone - and how nice it is to meet new people.
(I’m so glad I read Suzy, Led Zeppelin And Me (Martin Millar) some time ago, because ever since then I’ve felt proud of how often I use the word “nice”, instead of ashamed. MM’s character in S,LZ&M has a “nice and good” phase when he writes. He goes through his manuscripts looking for long poncey adjectives, and replaces them all with the words “nice” and “good”. Hurrah!)
Anyway, back to this party. As the evening progressed, a strange contagious disease spread through the house. More and more people sprouted adhesions on faces, arms, chests... one woman lifted her trouser leg and showed me a whole crop going right the way up her shin. Apparently there was a man there with a sticker fetish, and he was going round attaching them to people. Well, this is what they said. But it only happened when either I or they were out of the room, so I’m a bit suspicious. Anyway, Ally says he was watching Pingu this week and there was an episode where Pingu’s little sister (who I now know is called Pinga) went around sticking stickers on everything.
Other highlights of the Pingu party:
(1) The Hindu doorbell. Well I was pretty far gone at that stage, so it may not have been Hindu, but it appeared to have a picture of a many-limbed god of some kind on it, and it made a noise like somebody chanting. Except that at first I thought there was a tiny-weeny speaker under the coat pegs, and someone was playing a record with an electric guitar, but that was only because I didn’t know I was listening to a doorbell. Obviously once I realised, it sounded more like a man chanting. Or maybe I only thought that because of the god. It was probably just a stain or something, and I was listening to the loud hum of a dodgy battery.
(2) Ally playing Lemon Jelly’s Chicago cover, and people thinking he was mixing Chicago live into his set. They were exclaiming loudly with approval, and he thought they were talking about something else entirely. He nodded happily and took all the credit while I giggled quietly in a corner. Apologies to all those reading this blog who know nothing about Lemon Jelly, Chicago or mixing. Basically Ally was making jelly in the corner of the party, and he mixed in a special ingredient from Chicago to help it set.
(3) I discovered that Pingu is not made of plasticine at all. He’s completely rigid, but he has several hundred heads and feet.
(4) A man took a photo of my cleavage. Or at least, that’s what I accused him of. It turned out he had one of those digital cameras with a swivelly lens, and he was taking a picture of my face from below. Oh I dunno, maybe you had to be there.
(5) Actually this is more of a lowlight: being reminded that before I was a mother, I could regularly stay up until 4am on Friday and then stay in bed all day on Saturday.
(6) Remembering that I gave up staying up till 4am long before I became a mother. Because, well, it makes you feel shit the next day.
For the past few weeks there’s been a disclaimer at the top of this blog, telling people... well basically what it was saying was “if you think this is shit, don’t worry, I can write really. I’m just not trying very hard today.” But I’ve decided it’s too apologetic and will probably just annoy people. It’s like that thing where you know that apologetic people are annoying, so you keep apologising to people for being the kind of annoying person who apologises to people all the time.
Hmmm. I was going to just remove the disclaimer, before I wrote that last paragraph. But now I’m tempted to replace it with “if you think this is shit, don’t worry, I can write really. I’m just not trying very hard today.” Hmmm.
I was listening to something on R4 the other day about how life started on earth. They were talking about what conditions are/were necessary to create life, and whether or not it could happen on other planets. Apparently the fact that life on earth developed so quickly leads some to believe that, given the right circustances, life is really quite likely to develop, if not inevitable. But when they say "quick", they mean that there was an 100-million-year period in Earth's history during which photosynthesis may have developed. 100 million years just to get a plant! The scale of things in the universe, in terms of both time and space, never ceases to amaze me. The other thing that fascinates me is the possibility that this means we are descended from plants. I know we share something like 90% of our DNA with plants. How on earth did plants evolve into animals? I’ve been told since that they didn’t really, but I might just conveniently forget that.
Anyway, this all fed a growing hunger in me to pay more attention
to scientific matters, and then I'd really like to have a go at either writing a popular science book or some science fiction. I'm thinking more Margaret Attwood than Iain Banks, but still I would need to do some research, which in itself would be rather fun, I think. Given that I’m already altering the facts to fit my own desires though, I might be better off writing sci-fi than popular science. Anyway there simply aren't enough hours in the day, and it’ll be at least a couple of years (probably more) before I could embark on a project like this, but it's nice to have it sitting there invitingly in the future.
I stumbled across an old copy of the Grauniad with a section from the blog of a British man in jail in America. It paints a pretty grisly picture. The article said he was in jail for fraud, which made me think it’d be something like insider trading (and I confess made me less sympathetic), but I’ve since visited his actual blog and if I understood correctly, he’s actually in there for organising raves. Not only that, but his raving career started in Manchester in ‘90/’91, which is when I was at it, too. So obviously I’m going to email him, and (if they let me) send him a copy of my book. I recommend the blog - it’s fascinating. And quite an eye-opener. He’s called Jon, and his blog is here.
I finished Brick Lane, and it was brilliant. But now I’m a bit stuck, because rather than start another new book I feel like I really ought to return to the one I was reading before. I didn’t finish it, cos it was a bit turgid and wasn’t pulling me through. But since being published, I now have this strange feeling of loyalty to all authors, and it feels like it would be terribly mean and rude to not finish someone’s book. I’ve never met the man, probably never will, and he’ll never know if I give up on his book. But still... and that same feeling of solidarity prevents me from mentioning his name here. Because, well, it would feel mean. But I don’t really want to finish his book. But I don’t feel I’m allowed to start another until I finish it. So I’m stuck.
Thurs 16th September, 10.30pm
Well I got over my motivation slump, and am now zipping about all over the place being super-efficient and busy and very much looking forward to my three-day week which starts next week. Hurrah!
Mostly I’ve been doing little jobs about the house, but also I’m making progress in the business of deciding what Novel II will be about. I’m writing three prototypes, and I will have chosen one (I hope) by mid-October, when I’ll start writing in earnest. I have a “focus group” lined up, of people who are going to help me choose. I’ve no idea how it’ll work out, but it’s a nice idea.
I’ve also been doing final edits of my two short stories for Diva and Scarlet (see other blog entries), and writing a proposal for a series of writing workshops based around the theme of water and the River Calder, for Todmorden council. I really hope they take me up on it, because in the process I got pretty excited about all the ideas I was having. I’d love to see them implemented. But I’ve no idea what sort of competition I’m up against, so I’ll just have to wait and see.
Felix is more or less potty trained, and nattering away like crazy. I read him Where The Wild Things Are tonight (with great relish), and we both got transported away to a world of Rumpus. He likes monsters.
A friend spotted a man reading a full-page article about me on the tube. Apparently she spotted the words/phrases “Silver”, “Nine Ladies”, “Edna” and “Bisexual Sudbery”, but the tube was crowded and she had to get off before she had a chance to ask what he was reading. If anybody out there knows what it was, I’m intrigued!
Tomorrow I’m going to see Claire Dowie perform. I loved her book Creating Chaos, and we’ve been swapping emails, so I’m looking forward to meeting her. Then on Saturday my partner’s DJing at a party, which sounds like fun. And I’m going to take my friends’ kids somewhere on Sunday morning, in return for them having F on Sat night. God knows what we’ll do. Something gentle for my hangover! Lyme Park maybe.
I heard a fascinating piece on the radio tonight (Mark Lawson. He surely must know everything there is to know about the arts? I think he plays arts programmes to himself in his sleep), about a woman who dressed up and then roamed around Liverpool city centre trying to attract the attention of CCTV cameras, so that she could then request copies of the tapes (as is your right under the Data Protection Act) and piece them together into a video installation. She ended up getting really friendly with the guys that actually operate the cameras. She would ring them up to tell them where she was, and then watch the tapes back with them and suggest different camera angles and techniques. Sometimes they would ring her, saying “Aha, spotted you!” The installation is on at the Liverpool Tate until Nov 28th, and I’m going to try and get down there. I wonder whether I could persuade a 2-yr-old, 6-yr-old and 9-yr-old...
Maya Chowdhry, an inspirational playwright I know, has told me about a new anthology of short stories called Bitch Lit (published by Commonword) which I’d love to get involved in if poss. There's an introductory workshop on 20th Nov at Waterstones. I’ll post more details as I get them. Oh yes, and there’s something called Homotopia in Liverpool on 6th Nov, which I might be getting involved in. So really it’s all happening, and I feel like a proper writer. Although Number One Priority has to be Novel II, or it’s all just smoke and mirrors. Which is nonsense of course, but Novel II is important.
My lovely friend Fran sent me some details about a conference in Liverpool (everything seems to be happening there) about collaborations between artists and scientists. It sounds fascinating, but to get involved it seems I would have to write “a paper”, something I’ve never done before and which sounds impossibly serious and daunting.
I always have to be right. So much so that recently I got an overwhelming urge to ring a friend of mine. Why? Well, a few weeks ago I had cause to give her a Cumbrian phone number. Her response was to click her tongue in exasperation because I didn’t do it properly. What I did was to recite two groups of numbers: six digits, and then five. She said it should have been the other way round. She had a point: Most British area codes are now 5 digits long. But in some parts of Cumbria it’s the other way round. She was so adamant that she confused me into apologising. But later on I rang a Cumbrian number, from Cumbria. Lo and behold, only 5 digits required. This was weeks ago, but when it popped into my head I felt this desperate urge to ring my friend and point out that I was right, and she was wrong. Because I am always right.
Oh heavens to Betsy, I really should edit this nonsense more. But tea is ready, so it’s just tough.
Tue 7th September, 10.30pm
There’s always been this strange connection between what I consciously want and what I subconsciously want. I expect I’m not particularly unusual in this. Towards the end of the summer I consciously wanted a nice long rest, cos I was knackered. Still, I didn’t really take any opportunities for it, and seemed to subconsciously want to be busy. Now I seem to consciously want to get on with a million tasks that sit in a list at the back of my head, but subconsciously I want to sit around watching telly and reading books, which is what I’ve been doing. Except that it only makes me feel depressed, lazy and unproductive. I wish I could get my needs, desires and abilities in synch with one another. I’ve been running around like a mad thing for months. I’m sure I deserve a rest. I probably need one. So why can’t I enjoy it? Pah. Human Schmuman.
Wed 2nd September, late at night - I'm a Rambling Woman
I’m not entirely well. But I’m not entirely ill, either. I had some kind of stomach bug while on holiday, and my middle still isn’t behaving.
But despite that the break was great, and now my head is full of dreams about buying a remote cottage in the hills and setting up a writers’ retreat. There are the small matters of money, time and opportunity – but apart from that it’s a sound plan.
This week I am mostly missing my boy (away at his gran's cos his mum got the dates of the nursery shut-down wrong), nursing the strange wrongness in my body that won't go away, stressing about What To Do Next (1.66666 days a week is still not enough), and having inexplicable moments of happiness while listening to loud music in my car.
I’m also reading Brick Lane and fantasising about being even half as good a writer as Monica Ali. But it’s giving me a very healthy appetite for writing Novel II, which I will start Very Soon. I have three ideas fighting for supremacy, but one in particular is winning hands down.
And I’m still excited about having a story published in the new magazine, Scarlet. I’ve been moved to issue 2 though, because my piece is “too fetish”, which I think is rather a compliment!
Oh yes, and on Monday I did a reading in the Women’s Space at Manchester Pride, where the audience were lovely and included a woman called Jane, who has a senile dog and the joy of having had her first lesbian experience in my house, in the 70s. I love my house. Since at least as far back as the 70s it’s been populated by all the local freaks, misfits and weirdos (that’s supposed to be a compliment, and you’ve no idea how many times I just rewrote that sentence). And in the 40s the bandleader from the dancehall across the road lived here, and kept chickens in the garden and pigs down the road. And when it was built in 1872, its first owner was a woman. Which was not long after the Women’s Property Act (or whatever it was called), and would still have been quite unusual.
One of these days I’ll get off my arse and do some proper research into the history of this house. The beams in the cellar (and quite possibly joists all over the house) came from dismantled wooden ships (“Heave ho!”). For those of you who have read The Dying of Delight, it was set in this house. I’ve now lived here for nearly 16 years, and next Christmas it’ll become my longest running home. The day I arrived I had a broken leg, and the bathroom floor collapsed into the room below.
But how cool to sell a book to a woman you’ve never met before, only to discover she lost her lesbian virginity in your sitting room!
I’m rambling now. I’d better take my broken tummy to bed.
|
Clare Sudbery