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like bees to honey

I first visited the Maltese islands in the summer of my third birthday. I don’t actually remember the visit, instead my prompt is an old cine camera film of a small me walking off Gozo ferry, holding hands with my mum and waving at my dad.

My mum was born in Malta, to a Maltese mother and an English father and I grew up spending my summer holidays on the island (locals call it The Rock). We’d visit every summer, taking presents for our vast extended family. We were very much the English relatives, gifting huge bars of Cadbury’s chocolate and brightly coloured plastic beads and bracelets.  We’d spend the first few days visiting relative after relative and each time my dad would be given Cisk lager in a bottle and I’d drink ice cold Kinnie (a Maltese soft drink made from a blend of oranges and aromatic herbs) through a straw.

I treasured the whole summers that I’d spend on the island playing in the sun and the blue, crystal-clear sea.  Some days we’d explore beaches, Golden Sands, Għadira, Armier or take boat trips to Gozo, to Comino, to the Blue Lagoon or around the Blue Grotto of Żurrieq. When the midday sun was too much for us, we’d pile into our battered hire car and explore beautiful sun-bleached countryside spanned with rubble walls, quaint little villages and numerous awe-inspiring churches. The churches, even then, even when I was too small to know my own beliefs, carried a mystery that made me shiver. Other days we’d choose to catch a rusty bus and travel to the capital city Valletta or to Mdina, the medieval, silent, old city next to Rabat.  Then at night, as the temperature cooled, we’d promenade along the sea fronts of Sliema or Bugibba, we’d meet with relatives and walk, chatting and hearing stories that were full of history and folklore. At weekends we’d join in festas (village feasts), buying nougat from street vendors and staying up late to watch firework displays decorating the night sky. People danced in the streets, bedtimes were forgotten. There was no fear, just welcoming arms, open doors and a receiving that made me feel like I belonged, like I was safe.

Today’s Malta is a modern country depending mainly on tourism and IT. Visitors arrive with the expectation that because the Maltese archipelago, consisting of three islands: Malta, Gozo and Comino, is so small that they can see all of the beauty spots within a short visit but they are wrong. The islands conceal so much, so many tiny hidden gems waiting to be discovered and explored. The look of the island may have altered from the summers that I spent there, but the feel and the integrity remains the same. Spirituality, tradition, mystery, determination, resourcefulness, pride, culture, linguistics, history- these islands have such a wealthy pot to draw from.

Making the decision to set ‘Like Bees to Honey’ in Malta was an easy one. My grandparents met in Malta during conflict and chaos, many years ago. My grandfather was a non-Catholic English soldier and my grandmother a Catholic Maltese girl who sacrificed for a love that lasted and grew through decades. Their story offered me a seed, just as their love for each other made me believe in a happily ever after. ‘Like Bees to Honey’ is a tribute to my grandparents, to the mystic that covers the Maltese islands and to the magic of childhood summers.

1. A small Indian elephant would be best. A small, female Indian elephant, with a gentle nature and a docile temperament. An elephant which is not bothered by traffic or dogs.  A calm elephant.

2.And a mahout, a keeper. Without a good mahout to take care of the elephant, the project fails.

3. The elephant must be fed and watered. Every night, there must be somewhere for her to shelter. Careful planning will be necessary.

4. The mahout and the elephant are devoted to each other. There is a perfect consonance between them. The mahout’s mind is the shape of the elephant, the elephant’s mind is the shape of the mahout. Both are excited by the prospect of the journey.

5. Time of year to begin: late spring or early summer, when the air is fresh, when the grass is lush, when the sun shines.

6. The route. As a general principle, avoid cities and big towns.  Begin in Sussex, move west into Hampshire and Dorset, cut north, avoiding Bath, through the Cotswolds, tack north-west into Worcestershire, follow the Welsh border north to a point south of Chester, head east to the Peak District, then north up the Pennines as far as Hadrian’s Wall.

7. And then?

8. Steer east again and walk along the beaches of Northumberland with the elephant’s feet leaving prints in the white sand.

9. Excuse me, but this is an absurd idea. Consider the cost of bringing the elephant and her mahout from India to England. Or, if you prefer, consider the problems of the journey. Your route crosses half a dozen motorways – how will you manage that?

10. There are bridges over motorways. For the most part the elephant will be moving through quiet country. Drove roads, green lanes, woodland rides. Many miles will pass in which the elephant and her mahout never meet a soul.

11. No part of England is that quiet nowadays. This is England in the twenty-first century, not the eighteenth. What of cars, lorries, motorbikes, tractors? What of low-flying military aircraft? What if it rains? What if it thunders? What if something goes wrong? (Something is certain to go wrong).

12. The elephant is easy-going. She does not mind thunder, or loud noises; she is used to traffic, from her time in India. She is fit as a fiddle. If it rains, it rains; she does not mind rain. The mahout does mind rain, but he has been provided with an old-fashioned, black umbrella. Nothing will go wrong. In the event of fog, to alert other road-users, she will have a red brake light hung on her tail. The mahout will shine a headlight ahead of her. The licence has already been obtained.

13. How will the elephant be received? With disbelief giving way to astonishment and wonder, with fear giving way to admiration and laughter. With large photographs in local and national newspapers. With cheering crowds and barking dogs, and brass bands playing ‘The March of the Elephants’ and similarly appropriate music. With nightly bulletins on television, with the production of T shirts reading ‘We Love The Elephant’. Everyone is talking about the elephant, everyone is thinking about the elephant, people are even dreaming about the elephant. The nation is in love with the elephant.

14. What lies behind this indulgent, sentimental fantasy?

15. The world is as it is: what if it were not? What if it were different?

16. The journey lasts only until the summer’s end; the elephant would not enjoy the rigours of an English winter.  In September she and her mahout return to India. Seventy years later, there is an old man who tries to amuse his grandchildren with the story of the day when he saw the elephant; this is a story that he’s told dozens of times, that he’s been telling himself ever since it happened: it’s true, he says, it’s not a fairy-tale, I was six years old, same age as you, and I was coming back from the supermarket with my mother, your great grand-mother, when I saw the elephant walking towards me, a female elephant, with short tusks, and her keeper sitting on her neck, and they walked down the road towards me, and all the cars stopped.

17.  And then?

18. And then it began to rain, and the keeper put up a big, black umbrella. I don’t remember anything else, but I remember the umbrella, he says.

More like this:

The Approach by Chris Nicholson

The Elephant Keeper – Independent Book of the Month

mathilda

Not since Sebold’s Susie Salmon (The Lovely Bones) has there been a young woman whose attitude towards death and its effect on the living had such potential for beguiling readers of all ages. Lodato indelibly captures the fragile vulnerability and fearless bravado of adolescence through Mathilda’s impeccable voice, one that rages with alienation, frustration, and confusion as much as it aches with hope, wonder, and desire. A phenomenal debut.

– Booklist (starred review) via MathildaSavitch.com

Exciting news a couple of weeks back – the 4th Estate book Mathilda Savitch is a Waterstones New Voice!

From waterstones.com:

For the first time in its three-year history, all twelve of the chosen books are debuts, and this year’s selection includes some incredible, innovative writing. The list includes books published for the first time as well as debuts from 2009 now appearing in paperback, that deserve to be highlighted to a wider readership.

I read this book back last summer when it was still at proof stage and found the voice of Mathilda, the eponymous central character, hypnotic. I also thought it had one of the best opening lines ever – one that just sucks you straight into the story.

To whet your appetite, here’s an extract from Chapter 3. Please feel free to email it on, or embed on your own site. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did…

And for those of you who’ve already bought the book (and may I say, good choice), here’s a selection of reading material from back in September.

Happy reading!

More debut writers:

Rebecca Connell – Pushing Moral Boundaries

Reading Lace – When Dreams Become Reality

Q and A with Johanna Moran

A short story by Chris Nicholson

****

I know, I understand: it’s always tricky. Everything’s tricky. The timing of the approach, the manner of the approach; you never know how it’s going to pan out. You have to be careful, really careful.

At this very moment, for instance, over there, by the window. That’s the one. You can’t see her that clearly in the shadows, but she’s there all right. I’ve been watching for days and days, weighing up my options, sifting the possibilities. I admit, I’ve become a bit obsessed, a touch infatuated. Should I go for it or not? Might be a big mistake: she’s big, much bigger than me.  Stronger than me. They always are.

It’s the same for you, you reckon. Where? That one! Also by the window! What a coincidence!

You’re not sure if this is a good time to make a move? No, me neither. But I do have some experience in these matters; permit me, if I may, to ask you a few questions. First, is she aware of your existence? You think she may be, you think she may not be. Exactly the same for me. Second, are you aware of anyone else who may be considering an approach? Or of anyone who may currently be approaching her? In short, do you have any rivals? I ask only because rivals can cause all kinds of complications. It’s probably not a good thing for you to make an approach if she’s already with one of your rivals, unless you’re very confident.

You’re not very confident? That’s no bad thing; over-confidence is so often fatal. What’s needed, above all, are good judgement and good technique.

You don’t think that there are any rivals but you’re not certain? No, you’re certain that there are no rivals, but you’re worried that one or more may appear if you don’t act quickly. I sympathise with you here. It’s an awful feeling when someone jumps in ahead of you, destroying your plans. It’s happened to all of us. But I’d like to point out that, in your own words, there are no rivals at present. That’s a big positive. Hang on to that. Or, if you prefer, let’s examine the scenario in which, just as you’re making your approach, you become aware of a rival. Now, this rival will be as concerned by the sight of you as you are by the sight of him. So, don’t back off; stand your ground, and make it clear that you have no intention of giving way.  A show of strength is often very effective, in my experience; it’s rare for there to be a fight. With a bit of luck he’ll decide to leave the field. Sometimes, of course, a rival shows up who is stronger than you, and equally determined; in that case, I admit, it may be prudent to beat a temporary retreat. Your chance will come again.

But let’s assume that there are no rivals; you’ve got a clear run. How should you approach her? Timing is obviously critical. In my view, it’s best to approach when she’s preoccupied by something else, when she’s distracted – for instance, when she’s sewing, or eating. When she’s just eaten is the best time, of course. I should have said, very important indeed, never approach if she looks hungry. Never even think of it.

Hungry for sex? I suppose so. It’s not a phrase I feel very comfortable with, to be honest. What does it mean? I see. How very extraordinary. Well, that’s one significant difference between us. I envy you that, I must say.

In terms of approach strategy, there are different schools of thought. Some argue that the essence lies in speed, while others advocate a more painstaking advance. My own advice breaks the approach into two separate phases.

Phase one should always be slow. Rush from a distance, and it’s odds-on she’ll take fright and try to hide. So, slowly does it. Don’t alarm her. She may see you, she may not. She may be a cunning type – pretend that she hasn’t seen you, when she has. If she turns towards you, don’t run away: remain still, keep calm, try to read what’s in her mind. Easier said than done, I know. If she turns towards you and waves her legs in the air, that’s a difficult one, it could mean a number of things.

What? Leg-waving is a definite positive for you, is it? How interesting. I’d have said, based on my experience, that it’s pretty ambiguous. It may be a come-on, but, equally likely, it may be telling you to go away.  It may seem like a come-on, when it’s an invitation to a trap. You need to be wary. If it ever happens to me, the leg-waving, my usual response is to wave back, in the hope that she’ll think that I’m just passing by. Hi. All the best. And on I go.

Frankly, I do my best to avoid being seen, and that’s why I always recommend evenings and nights, when there’s not too much light. Bright mornings and afternoons are definitely to be avoided. Pitch darkness is good, but then you’re relying on your hearing to locate exactly where she is.

Now to phase two. Inevitably, as you get nearer and nearer, however careful you are, however silently you move, there will come a point when you’re detected. Ideally, you need to make your move just before that point, when you still have surprise on your side. That’s the perfect moment. Of course, I admit, it’s not easy, especially for novices, to get the timing right, and it’s not really something that can be taught; it’s a matter of judgement and calculation, which grows with experience. If you go too early, she may run away before you reach her; if you leave it too late, she’ll probably turn to face you, and then you’ll have to use your negotiating skills to extricate yourself. Things can turn pretty nasty. In general, in this second phase, when you move, move quickly, as quickly as possible. Be bold, be decisive.

Click here to continue reading.

Chris’ The Elephant Keeper is published this month and is available at a discount price from most independent book shops.

Due to unprecedented demand (!) we’ve decided to reveal the names of the remaining ANONthology authors in this post.

It means that anyone looking for the answers will easily locate them here.

Who wrote what

Do – by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Pavilion – by Yiyun Li

The Hypnotist’s Wife - by Rebecca Connell

The Political Obligations of the Lover – by Rudolph Delson

The Approach – by Christopher Nicholson

Purple Ink – by Joyce Carol Oates, extracted from Little Bird of Heaven

Letter from Paris – by Laura Spinney

In the Camp - by Patrick Gale

The Bears – by Philip Hensher

***

Did you guess correctly?

For those of you who missed the original publication, we will continue to repost the remaining stories, and link to them here. To read a bit more about the publication, or view it in its original (anonymous) form, click here.

Louise Tucker talks to Rebecca Connell

If you haven’t read the book yet – please note, this interview contains spoilers.

There are three strong characters in the novel. Who interested you most and why?

I saw all three characters as quite distinct from each other and Nicholas was the character who came to me first. In general I tend to prefer writing men, rather than women; I find it easier. I wanted to get the sense that this was someone who was quite morally ambiguous, so that the reader’s response to him would shift back and forth. I thought of him as the most complex.

As far as Lydia was concerned, I wanted her to be quite an unlikeable character, someone who, on the surface, was everything that someone would want, without much underneath. I almost felt I didn’t know her. And similarly, in a way, I saw Louise as someone that the reader wouldn’t know that well, someone who had an air of mystery about her but who had a lot going on under the surface, so the opposite of her mother.

And where did the idea for the book come from?

The scene where Louise is following Nicholas on the street came to me first. At that point I didn’t know why the woman was following the man at all, I just liked the idea of a woman following a much older man, and leaving it quite ambiguous – was it, for example, a sexual thing or not? It evolved from there.

I played around with ideas of how the plot would develop for quite a while. Originally I thought Louise would die at the end so I was working towards that, but as I continued writing that felt too melodramatic, since the pivotal point had been Lydia’s death, so I had to shift my expectations. But there were certain characters, like Adam and Naomi, who I hadn’t banked on at all. I had seen Nicholas as an eternal bachelor, who hadn’t quite got over his affair with Lydia, but then I started feeling that it would be a lot richer and more complex if he did have a family, if he had slipped into a different role.

 

The theme of this novel is very dark and your website mentions that your next novel is even darker: what attracts you to such darkness?

You don’t necessarily have to experience darkness to understand it and I think there is darkness, or sadness, within most people, even if it hasn’t been tested to the limit. I haven’t experienced a lot of tragedy but I know that capacity is there, and for me the book was about pushing that into the open. Certainly as far as infidelity goes it’s a subject that I personally don’t feel very ambiguous about. I’m pretty anti it, as most people probably are, but I was interested in trying to create a situation in which someone’s infidelity was sympathised with to an extent. I think writing should be about pushing your own moral boundaries as well as those of your readers and characters.

 

Louise’s life seems to be haunted by the lives of her parents: do you think that is common?

I think we are all shaped by our parents to varying degrees, most people probably more so than they’d like to admit. My own family life is nothing like Louise’s but I have a father who’s a strong character and he himself saw some parallels between Nicholas’s personality and his own, even though that wasn’t explicitly intended on my part. Powerful people in your life can influence your writing whether you mean them to or not.

 

The incest is not commented on in the book, either by Louise or Nicholas. If anything, it’s skated over. Why is that?

Louise and Nicholas are both people who have grown used to repressing their feelings, and to pushing painful memories underground. I initially considered the possibility of them having an explicit conversation about Louise’s relationship with Adam and its implications, but it felt wrong. When push came to shove, I don’t think either of these characters would want to face up to the unpleasantness of the situation, at least not immediately, and I wanted to reflect that in how much – or rather, how little – the reader was told about how they were feeling about it. Ultimately, it’s just another secret that both of them will have to keep.

 

You went to Oxford University and set the book in the same town; what made you choose it as your location, apart from familiarity?

Familiarity was important and although I thought about setting the book in London, which I know better, it didn’t feel quite right. London is such a huge, sprawling place, and although Oxford is a busy city too, there’s a more enclosed and insular feel to it, an introspective feel. To me that was important because the characters are so bound up in their own worlds that they don’t really let the outside world intrude too much into them. I liked the idea of a setting that reflected that.

 

Why is it the ‘art’ of losing?

Ah yes, the title, it took me quite a long time to get to the title; I probably didn’t have one until I was about halfway through at least. Obviously loss is a big theme from both Louise and Nicholas’s perspective, but particularly for Louise: she doesn’t have any obvious talent, ambition or direction in her life and almost the only thing that she’s good at is tapping into the past, connecting with that sense of loss. So whilst it’s not exactly an art, it is something which she holds precious, in the same way that other people would hold a talent or an ambition precious.

It’s also a quotation from a poem by Elizabeth Bishop. The poem itself is not particularly relevant, but that’s how I came across the phrase. I felt I wanted something to do with loss so I Googled for quotations and that’s what came up and it seemed to fit. In the past I’ve always had a title first so it was bit unsettling not to have one. Ideally I wanted to have something to do with identity because I feel that that is such an important theme in the book, but I couldn’t quite find the right phrase.

Why is identity so important a theme for you?

From a conceptual point of view I’ve always had an interest, but I also think that the idea of self, how we define ourselves, is central to life, as is the way that others define us. The synthesis between those two things, or the disjunction between them, is fascinating. I often feel that the perceptions we have of other people are wildly inaccurate or at least only reflect one aspect of a personality but it’s something that you never quite know unless you’re very close and even then it may not accurately reflect what’s going on inside. I tried to play with that theme, via Louise changing her name and almost to an extent becoming her mother. But since she doesn’t know Lydia she has to create a different self who is perhaps like Lydia but perhaps isn’t. I had the sense that she was trying to search for something deeper about her mother which didn’t even exist.

 

What was it like to cross the divide from unpublished, unagented writer to agented and sold writer?

It was something that I’d been anticipating for a long long time and although I’m mercifully young to have a first novel published I do feel quite old to be doing it. I’d built up in my head this mystique of what it would be like to have an agent and a publisher; I used to lie in bed thinking about it, so when it actually happened it felt quite natural: this is what I always thought I would do, so what took me so long?!

At the same time there was a lot of excitement, particularly in the agenting process, because once you have an agent you hand it over to them to find a publisher and sort out all the details, whereas finding an agent is something you do by yourself with no one to back you up. I found that part of the process, the submissions process, difficult because I wasn’t used to putting my work out there and part of me didn’t want to. But I got to the point where I thought it’s silly not to try.

           

Apart from doing an English degree, did you do any courses in creative writing or have you read lots of books on plot?

I’ve never done a course or anything like that because I feel that creative writing MAs have a limited use. I don’t think they can teach you to write, though they can be good for motivation, but that’s something in the past that I’ve never really needed. I also think that there is a certain house style and the work that comes out of them can feel a bit samey, so I consciously didn’t go in that direction.

As far as books go, I read Carole Blake’s From Pitch to Publication quite carefully but I didn’t do extensive studies. I think because I have been writing since I was about five I went for it in my own way, and hoped that that’s what the market wanted too.

 

Who are your influences as a writer?

My first major influence was Agatha Christie. When I was younger I was really into her. And although I’m not writing murder mysteries as such, I do think the elements of crime and mystery are always going to be part of my writing. As a teenager I was into a lot of writers who are traditionally seen as quite misogynist, like Martin Amis, Kingsley Amis, Julian Barnes and David Lodge, people who women aren’t supposed to like. But I never saw their writing like that; I thought their view of women was quite interesting, maybe not always accurate, but there were certainly some points of recognition. And I think that’s partly why I like writing about men. I feel that I’ve learned from writers who create powerful male characters and that comes quite naturally to me now.

In more recent years, Maggie O’Farrell’s After You’d Gone was a big inspiration for my own novel, because it plays around with tenses and first and third person. I knew I wanted to do that but I wasn’t sure it could work; having read her book, I thought, yes, it can and I’ll give it a go.

 

How do you think your writing will develop?

I think over time I will move slightly more in the direction of the crime genre. It’s something that has always interested me. It might sound morbid but a book without a death is not a book for me!

To celebrate the paperback publication of her new collection of stories, The Thing Around Your Neck, Orange Prize winner Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie talks to FifthEstate about what inspires her to write, the fateful coincidence of her childhood house and the books that changed the whole direction of her fiction.

It has also just been announced that Chimamanda is on the shortlist for the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize; winner to be announced Monday 30th November. Congrats Chimamanda!

Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie has been named winner of this year’s Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction.

She beat five other contenders for the women-only award. Adichie’s novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, is her second work and set during the Biafran War of the 1960s, and was also selected as a Richard and Judy book this year.

Half of a Yellow Sun tells the story of people caught up in the unfolding political turmoil in west Africa, whose loyalties are acutely tested when troops advance on the dusty university town they inhabit.

If you haven’t had a chance to read the book that Judy Finnigan described as one of the best books she’d ever read, here’s a good start.

First chapter and exclusive extra materials for Half of a Yellow Sun (for non-commercial use only)

PLUS
Read masses of praise about the book from people on the Guardian blog here.

Ever since Kiran Desai won the Man Booker Prize in October last year, as the youngest female winner in the award’s 39 year history, I have been wanting to read it. I picked up my paperback copy from Heathrow while flying home for Christmas, but could not find the time to sit down and read it. I admit I felt slightly apprehensive, thinking that as a Booker Prize winner it must be a difficult, challenging read.

Then the book was chosen as the March title for the SYP Oxford Book Club and I suddenly had both a very good reason and a deadline for reading it.

The story is set in Kalimpong in India, far north-east in the Himalayan mountains, near Bhutan and Nepal. I admit I had to look Kalimpong up on a map, as Himalayan geography was never my strongest subject. Reading about the area made the story feel more real, and gave me more insight into the conflict described in the book between Nepalese insurgents and the upper class Indians living in Kalimpong.

The story gripped me within a few pages and transported me completely and utterly to a tiny mountain village on the other side of the world. I could vividly imagine the shabby house where Sai, the main character, lives with her grandfather and their cook, the landscape, plants, smells, even the extreme humidity during monsoon season. I have missed reading stories like this!

The book gets under your skin, and it made me feel angry, sad, annoyed and nostalgic as the story progressed. The haunting loneliness that permeates the family lineage of all the characters, the extreme poverty and widespread injustice, the Nepalese insurgency — uncomfortable to read about but necessary for understanding the culture and history where the story is set.

The thing that made it so uncomfortable for me to read was the domestic situation for all the main characters. The extreme poverty — even of the “upper classes” — in Kalimpong, the domestic violence, the role of women, and the lack of close family ties, friendship and solidarity was difficult to come to terms.

The SYP book club meeting was a great opportunity to discuss the book with fellow young publishers, and gave me insight into issues I did not consider myself while reading the book. This is why I always read a few reviews after finishing a book — I admit that sometimes I miss quite obvious things!

It’s been several weeks since I finished the book but the story won’t let go, it’s playing on my mind and has inspired me to read more about India, West Bengal, Darjeeling and the conflicts in this area. Warmly recommended!

Does anyone remember the summer of 1998? A date that now seems so far back in the sands of time as to be completely unreachable, a time when Bewitched’s C’est La Vie was rocketing up the pop charts; a time when Tony Blair still ‘had it’; and the internet took eleven minutes to dial up, was prone to randomly disconnect, and cost 50 pence a minute. A good year in spite of these things (some would argue it was a good year because of them), there was a moment nestled amongst that vibrant and sunny summer that stuck with me and changed the way I read fiction or, more specifically, the way in which I read characters.

I was fourteen then, reasonably healthy, reasonably happy, and enjoyed the odd bike ride. One evening I decided to bike with a friend out into the countryside. Now Lincolnshire, for those not in the know, is pretty; very pretty. Full of fields. Full of wildlife. And for a fourteen-year-old, full of boredom. But we had found something of interest, a potential pit of fun hidden away in the Lincolnshire wilderness.

It was a disused quarry, small, but full of ridges and rolling hills that we could bike up and down; a makeshift obstacle course that was ours for the taking. We got maybe a good forty minutes out of it, riding about, laughing, falling off our bikes in a spray of dust. We were having so much fun we didn’t notice the 4×4 Land Rover pull up.

“This ‘ere’s private prop’ty,” the farmer said, stepping out of the Land Rover. “Whart you lads up tuh?”

We mumbled some excuse and started wheeling our bikes towards the quarry exit, looking towards the horizon and escape. Not once did we stop to consider if it was indeed his private property to preside over.

“Stay orf land that’s nat yours!” he barked after us, adjusting his hat with tobacco-stained fingers. “Go on — ‘op it.”

Farmer

Turning this event over in my mind later on that evening, I realised for the first time I was consciously aware that what I had viewed was a living, breathing, talking, excreting caricature; a farmer portraying the image of a stereotypical farmer that is ingrained in all our minds from birth. Like the Hawaiian shirt-clad, cigar-chomping American tourist stereotype, this chap was a complete pastiche of himself. Some publications, like Viz, produce caricatures from the national demographic and pursue them towards their logical conclusions, with often hilarious results. I think the point is that there is a kernel of truth in every stereotype; although it can never be taken as the ultimate truth.

There is much talk in publishing today of the author brand. I have a recent Stephen King paperback on my shelf where on the spine we find the author’s name is roughly a 12 point font size larger than the title of the book. There lies an example of the author-brand at work; but I propose there is also a concept of an author-caricature. Whereas the brand is created by the marketers, the author-caricature (hereby referred to as AC) is a complex structure created by the author itself, as it relates mostly to the contents of the books rather than the covers.

Hunter S. Thompson is a classic example. Read The Rum Diary. A novel he wrote in the late 1950s, dealing with a fictional character who gets up to lots of mischief in Puerto Rico. Now read any of the books he wrote after that, after emerging as a survivor of the 1960s. Thompson himself is the central character of these subsequent cult favourites, and in all of them he clowns around, and gets up to lots of craziness ala The Rum Diary’s Paul Kemp. Thompson essentially converted himself from author to AC, becoming one of his own characters and producing books that we can only presume are real-life experiences. But would the Thompson of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas have gone on such a reckless drug-fuelled epic if he had known he wasn’t going to write a book about it later on?

The reason Thompson moulded himself into an AC is because caricatures, when done correctly, are fun. If I had written a story about the farmer at the quarry, it could be an amusing diversion because it plays into our pre-established ideas of The Farmer as occupation, supplanted in our subconscious by countless children’s books and TV shows. In real life, he played into that notion to such a tee that to fictionalise him would be to acknowledge the ridiculousness of the caricature and at the same time emphasize its worth in society. ACs like Thompson and Burroughs created their very own caricatures that today one can comfortably slip into, should one be so inclined: the drugged-out writer. Others occupy spaces that have been created long prior to their arrival on the publishing scene; Irvine Welsh as angry Scotch writer; Stephen King as a Dickens-esque ‘writer of the people’; Jaime Oliver as Yet Another Young Male Chef.

Eventually, so I’m told, the summer of 1998 ended. In the September I started at a Grammar school and in the years following observed many more caricatures, both in the media and in real life. Some ugly, some lovely, most plain funny. The biggest caricature I ever met was in 2002, at a talk given by one Jeremy Paxman. This grumpy, take-no-prisoners TV tyrant was as sweet as a puppy dog in real life; the hard nosed reporter image he portrays is a lie. So is fiction, by its very nature, and that is where caricatures of people and occupations can be most successful as it is there we can recognise exaggerations of the strangers we meet from day to day. One day I very well might return to that disused quarry, in the hope of finding the farmer. I would ask him for some advice, for some tips; “Just how, Mister, do you manage to keep up the lie?”

Here’s the second the Foyles’ Day videos, featuring readings and discussion between Hilary Mantel, Bella Bathurst and Danuta Kean. To view on a larger screen, visit our Google Video link.

“If life had no love in it. What else was there for Maggie?”

Page turners are not new. My favourite, a riveting tale of female oppression and forbidden love, was written in 1860. Mill on the Floss is George Eliot’s most autobiographical novel and is a sweeping, passionate drama. I first read the book as a teenager and loved it.

Then this year, I picked it up again. The story remains as I remembered it, powerful and compelling. The cast of characters, including the lovely dark-eyed Maggie Tulliver, head-strong and clever, her insensitive brother Tom, and her foolish but loving father, returned to me like long-lost friends, still vivid after all these years. And then of course there’s Stephen Guest, the flawed hero who pushes the narrative to its tragic conclusion. But I won’t spoil the story. Read it and see for yourself. There are vistas of Constable countryside, beautifully described in language that is full of light and movement.

Just pause for moment on the opening paragraph and you’ll see what I mean. It’s the difference between drinking cheap plonk, and a vintage wine.

Our first film created from Foyles Day. It’s about 15 minutes, featuring some readings and a discussion about how to write successful memoir – in particular what publishers are looking for.

If you’d rather watch it full screen click here.

Thanks to everyone who came, by the way. It was packed out. And especially thanks to those who’ve since got in touch with us to say you loved it.

We’ll be featuring more films each week, and the unabridged podcasts from next week.

Stranger Than series

Here is Rod Liddle in last week’s Sunday Times:

It is a mixed-up world where the greatest literary inventiveness, the most imaginative writing, is found in matters of fact.

And Andrew Marr a while ago in the Observer:

My conclusion, is that non-fiction writing in this country is better – stylistically better, more ambitious, more interesting, more dangerous – than fiction … The tricks of the novel, in rhythm, setting, authorial intervention and characterisation, have been better learned by new generations of historians and biographers than by novelists.

I don’t think that there is a terribly interesting debate to be had by setting fiction up against non-fiction for some spurious position of creative pre-eminence. But I do think it is time to recognise that something special has happened over the last twenty years or so. There has been a change in how non-fiction is written and in how readers experience these books. We have come to expect and demand the same qualities in narrative and voice; we welcome creative story-telling, the intrusion of the personal perspective and experience and even ambiguity.

There are writers of non-fiction whose imaginative landscapes are as unique and original as any fictional voice. Writers such as WG Sebald and Iain Sinclair have created their own very different worlds where fact and fiction collide and no one is ever quite sure where they stand. The stories that excite me are often the telling of real experience that is as imaginative and beautiful as any of the novels I have read. I am looking now at books by Patrick Wright, Luc Sante, George Plimpton, Barry Lopez and Joan Didion, writers of astonishing, beautiful works of non-fiction.

At Harper Perennial we publish some of the greatest writers of narrative non-fiction, writers who have been instrumental, famously, in creating new genres of non-fiction writing. Can you think of a novel that is as imaginatively written as Alexander Masters’ Stuart? Is there a fictional character as extraordinary as Quentin Crisp, the Naked Civil Servant? Has anyone ever written with more intensity and a more unique, tragic experience as Jean-Dominique Bauby in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly? Well possibly Lorna Sage or Joan Didion.

I recently sent one of our authors, a novelist, a selection of new novels. He sent them back saying, why would anyone want to read fiction these days and could he have some non-fiction books instead? For his sake, I am glad that this is not a universal response. But he is not alone in seeking his literary thrill in the stranger world of non-fiction.

So that is really why we have put these writers together in a promotion and also for our day at Foyles. Of course I want people to read these books and I want every bookshops to sell them, but most of all I want readers who have not discovered the pleasure of this kind of non-fiction before to give it a go. These are great books, books to read for the quality of the writing and the manner of the telling as well as the remarkable stories themselves.

My special book was introduced to me by a man called David a few years ago.

It’s called ‘The Moonlight Chronicles’ and is written by a man called Daniel Price. Subtitled ‘A Wandering Artist’s Journal’ (mainly because that’s what it is), the author writes about the details of his life — trips to the mountains, the first day of summer, hanging out with his kids, mowing the lawn, and he sketches things along the way.

What you’re left with is a sense that life is made up of great moments, both big and small, and the only way to really capture them is to note them down, draw little pictures of them and build a little low-key journal of your life. It’s really beautiful in a lo-fi, slightly untouched by progress kind of way.

I think Mr Price lives a life that we’d all quite like to live — the all-natural version of Jack Kerouac, but with a family and self-built writing shack to come home to. He’s one of the good guys.

Dan Germain of Innocent.

Everyone has their special book: the one nobody else has heard of, the one to bring out when you want to amaze people.

At a time when booksellers are undoubtedly under pressure to pile high the new bestsellers and publishers are focusing on smaller, powerful lists, it’s good to know there’s still an ecclectic array of weird and wonderful minority reading to be unearthed and enjoyed.

Our 2007 mission, should you chose to accept it, is to expand minds and bookshelves until they’re bulging.

So begins ‘Secret Weapons’. Over the next few weeks, 5th Estaters will tell us about their books (or in some cases journals or papers) to be reckoned with and ask you to post yours in the comment sections at 5th Estate.

Dan Germain of our favourite smoothie company, Innocent, starts the ball rolling. Novels in other languages, out of print gems, science papers, your daughter’s homemade scrapbook, even an early 20th century chapbook - what’s the Secret Weapon on your bookshelf?

Don’t be shy: pick the one we like best (editor’s decision is final) and you’ll win a parcel of £150-worth of books, delivered to direct you* and an invitation to become a guest 5th Estater yourself.

*International delivery no problem.

Hello again. My new novel, Notes from an Exhibition, the story of a damaged family and the mad genius mother at its heart, is published next summer.

Last week I sketched out some notes following the novel’s development. This week, as promised, I’m posting the book’s first chapter to see what you think – 7 months before it reaches the bookstores. If this whets your appetite, you’ll find a further chapter at www.galewarning.org in the revamped Latest Title section.

Free download of the first chapter of Notes from an Exhibition.

Notes on the Evolution of Notes from an Exhibition
As seems to often to be the case, the starting point for this novel ended up being material that plays only a small part in the finished narrative. In the wake of my father’s death a couple of years ago, I found myself spending a great deal of time visiting my widowed mother. The usual post-mortem business of recycling vast quantities of letters and drawers of old clothes escalated when she decided to snatch the chance to move from a flat which now seemed far too big for her to a perfect but much smaller house just around the corner. On the one hand I found I resented spending so much time away from my home but on the other I discovered that there was something horribly seductive about sliding into an elderly parent’s routine. In the name of filial duty I was putting my usual responsibilities on hold, my impatience dulled by regular, old-lady treats from M&S, nightly gin on the dot of six, and a strange regression to a sexless but immensely peaceful second adolescence. I began to spin a story out of the experience which ended up being the strand of the novel involving Hedley’s prolonged retreat to Penzance.

How this evolved into the longer novel and one about an artist is a mystery to me but I suspect the key lies in the happy accidents of reading. I happened to re-read Sylvia Plath’s only novel, The Bell Jar. That somehow led to me discovering and devouring the poetry of Ann Sexton. Somebody, possibly my sister, saw me reading the Sexton and recommended Kay Redfield Jamison’s study Touched With Fire, which explores the intimate links between manic depression (or bipolar disorder) and the artistic drive. These three stirred up all sorts of memories but especially ones of a sibling’s spells in psychiatric hospital when I was a child and of an intense relationship I enjoyed in the 1990s with a Scottish painter. Graeme had always been open with me about his bi-polarity — it was one of the things that made his company so addictive and his long, long letters so extraordinary — but it made it impossible for him to commit to our relationship and ultimately caused him to throw himself under a train.

I have never had any skills with a paintbrush or pencil. Compared to my siblings I had the visual equivalent of a cloth ear and quite possibly turned to music to compensate for the shame art classes brought me. So to write a novel about a painter was always going to be a challenge. But I knew my heroine had to be a painter, not a writer or a musician, because if her skills were alien to my own I’d stand a better chance of conveying the sheer difficulty in what she achieves.

I know several artists in Cornwall and have a fair idea of how artists work. And my work has always been very image-driven. However I forced myself — an excruciating process — to work through the various technical exercises in Betty Edwards’ seminal Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain in the hope that this would help me start to look at things the way a painter might. It was fascinating — and oddly comforting – to be led to see how much of my clumsiness in art stems from an over-interpretative, “wordy” brain. In between learning to still my brain in order to see clearly and drawing things upside down in an effort to stop my mind impatiently bypassing my eyes, I hit on the idea of Quakerism as the perfect discipline for a troubled artist.

The complex personality of Rachel had already taken shape in my head, and I already knew she would end up working on the fringes of the artistic community of West Penwith, when I quite by chance met an old friend’s mother after talking about my novel, Friendly Fire, at the Cambridge Book Festival. I discovered that not only had she once taught, like Rachel, in West Cornwall School for Girls, but that she had enjoyed several rather scary encounters with Dame Barbara Hepworth. I had been fretting about the degree to which Rachel should interact with the real life painters of St Ives and Newlyn and, by writing her stories down for me, this kind woman gave me the key I needed, those few intimate physical details that would let me make Hepworth a sort of ambiguous demon in Rachel’s life, both inspiration and tormentor. Even in the 1970s the Cornish art scene was still very much a man’s club and women like Rachel and Hepworth who strove to hold their own and be taken seriously had to become a little monstrous. (A similar quirk of fate would put me in touch with a fan of my work who just happened to have been a patient in Toronto’s psychiatric hospital at exactly the period I needed to evoke in the novel.)

It’s a great shame that so few of the old artist’s studios in West Cornwall have survived without being turned into luxury holiday homes. A rare exception, hugely atmospheric even now that it’s a public space, is Hepworth’s which visitors can explore on a combined ticket from Tate St Ives. Her workshop, conservatory and tiny summerhouse are still much as she left them on her terrible death, the subtropical garden is surreally crammed with her sculptures and one gets a powerful sense, in the monastic, distinctly undomestic rooms in which she lived and worked, of the violence she had to do herself as a wife and mother in order to succeed as an artist…

(Chapters of Patrick Gale’s novel, Notes from an Exhibition, will be available on fifthestate from next week)

Here’s part 2 of John Lynch from the filing cupboard: a mesmerising reading from his book, Torn Water.

Incidentally, sorry for the delay in getting this out. (Now we know what happens when the chief editor of fifthestate gets sick for 2 weeks…!)

Reading from Torn Water. (5.6MB)

Writer and actor John Lynch came in to see our paperbacks editor, Essie, a few days ago, so I asked if he wouldn’t mind nipping into the filing cupboard and having a bit of an impromptu chat with the fifthestate team.
John Lynch

Although it’s not a book I worked on myself, I’d read his novel, Torn Water, when 4th Estate published it in hardback in November 05, and loved it…so I had a few questions I really wanted to ask. The novel is a treat: beautifully lyrical prose, it’s the story of a boy growing up in Northern Ireland in the shadow of his lost father – and there’s a mystery to solve.

John also is the voice behind our audiobook of The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and starred in the film, In the Name of the Father. There wasn’t time to cover everything, but we discussed John’s reasons for writing the novel, and some aspects of his own life.

Here’s the interview, and a reading from Torn Water. (7MB)

The second installment – another reading from Torn Water - will follow next week. The paperback, if you’re interested, is out in January, with a brand new PS section.

Is it a true story, I am asked? Did it really happen? Time and time again this is the thing that interests people.

Once when I was the Artist in Residence at the Ashmolean Museum, in Oxford, I wrote a piece about the museum building and what had happened in it. It was just a story. I made it up. But for many of the people who read it and subsequently wrote to me, I sensed a desperate need to believe it was ‘true’.

On another occasion I found a child’s dress from the Coptic period displayed in a case, labelled with all the details of location, date, fabric and age. There was a dark brown stain across the exquisite hand-embroidery of the garment. This, the label told me, was blood.

Taken aback, I tried to imagine the grief the unknown mother of a thousand years ago would have felt. Yet, since grief is not a tangible fact it was omitted from the label. And so that distant emotion, carried across time, was lost forever.

How much do we lose because of our rigid adherence to the distinction between ‘fact’ and ‘fiction?’ And why do we care so passionately about realism in fiction? How true does a story have to be before it can be absorbed and enjoyed? We know from recent events the lengths that people have gone to ban novels and hound authors, believing mistakenly that their characters are ‘real’ people. Such is the power of the imagination; such is its potential. But fiction harnesses that power and takes you into a dimension which will continue to live in your mind, long after the pages of the book are closed. It should be irrelevant how much of it is constructed upon fact.

My novel Mosquito grew out of a longing. A longing to return to my past which had been lost in the mists of time and the events of war. I wanted to walk again on that beach I had known as a child, so, I imagined the place as it once was, and made it exist in my mind. That is not to say that actual events did not trigger the book too. The poet and novelist John Burnside recently said that, “to go beyond mere facts, to record a true history that takes account of the unseen as well as the visible …the writer must create something that, on the face of it, is a fabrication. That is what art does; that is what any narrative must take into account if it is to succeed.”

Should we not be celebrating these sentiments rather than frantically searching for the absolute division between fact and fiction?

It’s literary love-in time here in Toronto, with the arrival of over 100 writers participating in the 27th annual International Festival of Authors. There are 10 days of readings, panels and interviews scheduled, and the atmosphere is everything you’d expect from a literary festival sponsored by Starbucks (among others): civilised chatter over filter coffee, or perhaps a green tea; polite reverence, the occasional titter or gasp, and respectful applause.

So Gautam Malkani’s debut, reading from Londonstani , is like a collective happy-slap from the desis of Hounslow. “It’s quite brutal” he explains, before launching into the profanity strewn first chapter:

Serve him right he got his muthafuckin face fuck’d, shudn’t b callin me a paki, innit…

Malkani’s performance is excellent. Tall and slight, and perhaps slightly geekier-looking than you might expect, he speaks with confidence. His voice is that of a typical middle-class South Londoner, but it is flecked here and there with telling traces of his Hounslow upbringing. So even while he is explaining the genesis of the novel, in his Cambridge PhD dissertation on South Asian identity, the rapid-fire desi rudeboy never seems far from the surface.

I’m generally not a fan of readings. I find books are better on my own terms. Just as a book can be interpreted very differently depending on how you approach it (as a course requirement, having found the author’s photo attractive, or unattractive, beach reading, airport fodder, prize winner, classic…), so too with who is reading it to you. An annoyingly nasal voice, obsessive water-sipping, or strange emphasis or inflection can ruin a reading. You then have to factor in the obligatory crying baby, and the over-responsive audience member empathising demonstrably and guffawing at the slightest provocation… More than once I’ve found myself trying hard to pay attention, only to find myself thinking about what I’m having for dinner as the lights go up. Of course, I clap politely. But books play so much better in my head.

With so much talk about the growth of the cult of personality to the detriment of the actual work, readings seem to draw me too much towards the author. Check out my third paragraph. It should be about the book, right?

Malkani’s reading, however, is different. His energetic, almost theatrical performance brings the ‘street’ vernacular of the novel to life. The linguistic mashup of hiphop terminology, txt msg spk and Punjabi slang is thrilling and impressive enough on the page, but Malkani’s interpretation takes it even further. Visceral and hugely engaging, the reading unleashes a latent humour I was only half-aware of when I read it myself. I suppose I was too busy marvelling at the linguistic dexterity, the rudeboy panache, and trying like a lame gorra white boy to master the pronunciation in my head (more often than not channelling Richard Madeley’s version of Ali G). The audience is enthralled and laughing hard. I’m disappointed when he finishes.

In just a short excerpt, the reading illuminated the material, hinting in the lives of Jas, Hardjit, Ravi and Amit a story of race, yes, but more than that, a very funny satire of male insecurity and middleclass alienation. As the lights come on and we file out of the hall, the chatter is enthusiastic and discursive, like when you come out of a great film or play. I’m definitely going to read the book again, and I might even go to a few more readings…

A book reading that’s enlightening and hilarious? Now that’s impressive, innit.

Many thanks to everyone who listened to my first chapter this week. We’ll keep it up here in the months running up to publication.

Last week I came in to visit everyone who is going to be working on my book at Press Books. You can listen to an interview with me here, and also hear how to get sent one of ten free advance reading copies of Crow Stone.

Listen to interview with Jenni Mills: The Filing Cupboard presents an interview with author Jenni Mills

Last month the fiction people at HarperPress imprint acquired my debut thriller title, which will be titled ‘Crow Stone’. It is set in Bath, and follows Kit as she attempts to shore up the ancient stone quarries under the city – uncovering buried sinister secrets in the process.

The book is currently in manuscript form, and will hit the shelves in hardback in Spring 2007. In the meantime, we recorded me reading the first chapter for you to sample…

Listen to Crow Stone: The Filing Cupboard presents the first chapter of Crow Stone, read by the author Jenni Mills [MP3, 8.13MB]