The News

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Sometimes The News is so interesting that I think my brain is going to explode. I have a dear friend who once worked for one of the mighty broadsheets. On slow news days, she used to make a little joke about looking for The News, imagining it as a shy woodland animal that was prone to hiding under the desk, which had to be searched for and then coaxed out, with many gentle persuasions. Today, The News is not a water vole but an enormous woolly mammoth, stamping about and roaring (did mammoths roar?) and throwing its tusks in the air.

The internet too is exploding: with outrage, some real, some politically calculated, some entirely manufactured, some commercially driven, some frankly hypocritical; with fascination; with shock; with amazement. There is a mad scramble to catch up. After all, the brilliant and driven Nick Davies has been writing about this for months, and no one took the blindest bit of notice. (I have loved Nick Davies ever since reading his seminal book Flat Earth News, which I hope now will take its deserved place on the best-seller list.)

The thing I do not understand, and keep banging on about, is that Rebekah Brooks told a Select Committee, in 2003, ‘We have paid the police for information in the past’. I am such a political anorak that I actually watched that, and even though it was eight years ago, I still recall my mouth falling open in an astonished O, as if I were some goofy cartoon character. Paying the police for information is illegal. It was said, quite easily and casually, on television, in front of a room full of our elected representatives. And nothing was done, no headlines were wasted, no police action taken, no independent inquiries announced. Then, when it was reported last week that The News of the World had been paying police for information everyone went crazy nuts in the head. It was as if it were an astounding new revelation. Really, it was like Peter Lorre saying ‘I’m shocked, shocked, to find gambling going on in this establishment,’ and then turning to collect his winnings from the fawning croupier.

What will happen next? Nobody knows. One of my favourite political commentators was reduced to saying, on this morning’s edition of The Today Programme, very slowly and deliberately: IT. WILL. BE. A. BIG. MESS.

There are so many ramifications that it is impossible to count the ways. There are also about forty-seven different ways of looking at it. People are using it to bash the BBC, which apparently has been vicious and vindictive in reporting the troubles of a rival. I call it informing and entertaining, in the manner of Lord Reith, but you say potayto, I say potahto.

One cross fellow decided it was a perfect excuse for a little light class warfare, savaging the bien pensant liberal elitists, who look down their Notting Hill noses at the salt of the earth tabloid-reading classes.

According to taste, the News of the World is either a great pillar of British life, loved for 168 years by legions of Ordinary Decent Britons, or a sewerish bottom-feeder representing everything that is wrong with this small island.

Bob Woodward himself has brought out the –gate suffix, calling it Rupert-gate. I think that is not going to catch on, myself. And talking of gates, my current favourite joke of the entire mess was made by a very jolly commenter on one of The Telegraph blogs who said: ‘This is the biggest story since Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman got Nixon to resign!’

Twitter is delirious with rumours. The number one at this moment is that Gordon Brown is about to break cover and make some kind of incendiary statement. For some reason, this causes Brian Blessed’s voice to shout in my head: GORDON’S ALIVE.

As for me, I am taking it very, very personally. How am I expected to get any damn work done when the news mammoth is making such a riveting racket?

 

After all that, I think that we need some nice, soothing pictures, like a visual sorbet to cleanse our collective palate. Still too rainy for photographs today, but here is a selection from the last couple of weeks, with many green things to soothe your troubled minds. Or my troubled mind, at least:

Hidcote:

Wild grasses:

A little phlox:

Magnificent fern:

Lovely astrantia:

Glorious Portuguese laurel:

Oh, oh, oh, that Pigeon:

I know you’ve seen this before, but sometimes, when The News goes crazy, the only answer is a picture of a baby oystercatcher:

Grass with faded and slightly blurred hill in the background. I like this picture because something about the colours makes me think it looks like 1957:

Perfect viola:

Rather muddly pot table:

The old, leaning, iron fence, of which I never tire:

And a delicate new acer, just settling in:

 

Should you share my own geekish fascination with this extraordinary series of events, here is some further reading.

John Rentoul, for whom my admiration knows no bounds, has a measured, intelligent interesting piece here.

Matthew D’Ancona also has an interesting take here.

The lovely John Finnemore, whom I bless every day for writing Cabin Pressure, which can make me laugh even when I am utterly miserable, is both funny and serious here.

And, if you can bear any more, one of Nick Davies’ most shocking and fascinating pieces on the whole saga is here. It is so incredible, in the literal sense of the word, that I had to read it twice. It was published in March. As far as I can tell, there was not a peep from the rest of the press.

 

Oh, oh, and now some News of my own. It is reported that The Younger Brother has arrived on the compound. Can hardly believe it. He has been living six thousand miles away for the last three years, so this really is headline stuff. Hold the front page, baby. Am running now to gaze upon his dear face.

Sunday Pictures.

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Pouring with rain again, so no new pictures. Here are some from the last week:

A slightly unexpected satisfaction

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I’ve never really understood the posterity thing. After all, one is dust; the worms are at one’s bones. I suppose it would be nice if someone were reading my books years after I had shuffled off, but my guess is it will not concern me much, since I shall have no consciousness with which to appreciate it. Mostly, I would like people to read them now.

On the other hand, I like the idea of leaving things, not so my name shall be remembered, but so some human I have never met, in some distant future, shall appreciate the thing itself. This is why I love planting trees.

My little garden has long been a source of both pleasure and pain. When I first made it, I got very excited. I listened religiously to Gardeners’ Question Time; I fell helplessly in love with Bob Flowerdew, partly because of his gravelled voice, and partly because anyone with a name like that must command love; I bought all the books.

Then I realised that I was not terribly interested in horticulture itself. I found some of it dull, and some of it confusing. I grew panicky about the right time to prune, or what one was supposed to do with cuttings. The ground elder mocked me, ruthlessly. I decided I was no damn good at the thing, and felt ashamed.

But miraculously, the garden went on growing, despite my periods of neglect and my wide spaces of ignorance. Things got a bit wild and leggy; there was a vicious fight between the elders and the salix; this summer, I only just rescued one of my favourite Japanese cherries from death by lilac. (The lilac had to be hacked back, and actually seems much the better for it.)

This year, I got some help. It turns out I cannot do everything by myself. So now a kind Belgian lady arrives each week, and knows what to do. I follow her around rather vaguely saying things like: No variegated leaves; and, Do you think we should do something about the ivy? Because I now have someone with actual knowledge, I no longer have to beat myself up for my own foolishness. It does not matter that there are many horticultural mysteries I shall never solve. I can do some weeding and admire the astrantias with no crashing shame.

It is not a great garden. There is no Gertrude Jekyll here. People will not be rushing to photograph it. But I love it, and each week it looks prettier and prettier. I realise I have been looking at it the wrong way round. I used to castigate myself for its imperfections. Now I think: I made a garden. (Sometimes, I actually say this out loud, in a voice of slight amazement.)

There was nothing, and now there is something. There are gaps and muddly bits, and places where things have got out of control, but none of that matters. I am looking at the loveliness, rather than the faults. And one day, when I am gone and forgotten, someone else shall sit in it, and look at the rowan trees and the apple blossom and the winter-flowering viburnum and feel pleased that someone, whose name they do not know, planted them.

For some reason, this makes me happier than I can say. Posterity, schmosterity.

 

Today, it was raining so hard that the Pigeon actually refused to go outside. She must have wanted a walk, but she took one look at the monsoon, and actually shook her head. This made me laugh quite a lot. So there are no photographs from this day, but here are some from the last couple of weeks:

A lone lavender:

A single salvia:

This geranium has just come into flower:

A delphinium in the wild corner, seen through the ferns:

This is a post-flowering geranium, rather exotic in close-up:

More salvia, of which I never tire:

Delphinium getting ready to flower:

Very happy-looking lavender:

And, beyond the walls, out in the open spaces, this is what it looks like:

And, for your viewing pleasure, my most beloved Pigeon. She is being particularly sweet at the moment. She has got her boundiness back. I feared that after her sister died it had gone for good. I thought she would sink into sad old age. But she has more mettle than that, and she has got her joie de vivre back:

If I were only slightly more fanciful than I am, I would believe it is because of all the love she gets from the Dear Readers. However, as I am a strict rationalist, I cannot permit this whimsical thought. A: she is a dog. B: love cannot transmit itself in any corporeal sense through the blogosphere. Perhaps though, as it is the weekend, I can allow myself ten minutes of magical thinking, as a treat.

Have a lovely weekend.

Writing Workshop, Day Five.

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Last day, my darlings. I salute all of you who have stuck with it.

Some practical matters, and other ephemera, which may or may not be helpful. As always, take what you want and leave the rest:

Work out how you work best. Some people prefer a pen and pad; some find typing much easier. If you do not know how to touch type, and there is a way you could learn, learn. It only takes a couple of weeks. If there was one piece of advice I would give to any young person, it is: learn to type.
Do you need silence? Or is silence overwhelming? I often write to Mozart. The scientists say he stimulates parts of the brain other composers do not reach. I’ll take any help I can get.

Get a really good thesaurus. Get in the habit of using it. Read it for fun. It is a good habit to go rummaging for the exact right word; do not put up with second best. On the other hand, be careful. Sometimes the thing just is red. It is not vermilion or scarlet or carmine. Sometimes, as Gertrude Stein once said, a rose is a rose is a rose.
Read the kind of books you want to write. If you long to write thrillers, read them. Read the good ones. Read up.

Have at least one special subject. Even if you do not use it directly in your writing, it will enrich it. At the same time, it’s good to be a bit of a generalist. Collect knowledge. Someone cleverer than I said: know everything about one thing, and know a little about everything.

I find that reading poetry is helpful, even if you do not want to write it. It gives depth to your feeling for language. I like Auden, Eliot, Yeats, Robert Lowell, Hugo Williams. Find a poet you love and go back to them every week, even if it’s only for five minutes.

I also think that you should read Shakespeare every once in a while. I know that makes me sound like a schoolmarm, but he was the master and there is so much that he does with truth and words and the human heart that you should know. There should be a bit of you which is infected with Shakespeare. I often find myself unconsciously paraphrasing him: the slings and arrows, the sorrows that all flesh is heir to. He can bring a richness to your writing and thought. You don’t have to read all of him, but I do think a working knowledge of Macbeth, Lear, Hamlet and Anthony and Cleopatra is really helpful.

Take a notebook everywhere. You will forget. That piece of deathless prose that runs through your mind while you are cooking will die. That brilliant idea you had just before you went to sleep will have evaporated like water on glass by morning. I like the little Moleskin books. Have one in the car, by the stove, beside your bed.

Learn to listen. This sounds mad: of course all humans know how to listen. Actually, I think it a skill like any other. Often, in conversation, you get so excited by your own ideas that you are just waiting to say what you want to say, rather than really listening to the other person. Quite apart from the fact that it is a human courtesy, it is vital for your writing.
Watch, too. Be a human detective. Learn to look out for the tiny things. It is fascinating how much people can reveal through the smallest twitch or movement or shift in tone.

Do not forget the senses. It’s not just cerebral. What did things smell like, taste like, feel like?

Ask questions. You can do this of people, although sometimes you may fear this is rude. Ask questions of yourself, of the culture, of the accepted wisdom, of the things you take for granted.

Allow yourself enthusiasms. Passion is important in writing. Be a bit obsessive, if you want to. (This may be a massive great rationalisation on my part. I am obsessive, so of course like to spin it into a Good Thing. It might be just what it is.)

Remember the universal emotions: love, hate, fear. Everything comes back to those. But the secondary emotions are interesting too: indifference, like, grumpiness. If it is all about love and hate, then the medicine is too strong.


A note on Motivation:

I want you to think about it. People do things for such strange reasons. People kill for money. MONEY. We all take that for granted because we’ve heard it on a million crime shows and read it a hundred times in the actual paper. But if you get to thinking about it, it is a fabulously strange thing to do. You would take a human life so, what? You can go shopping? Have a nice holiday? Get a diamond or a boat? You cross the ultimate human taboo for a bit more cash? A man was convicted of killing his wife last year. He murdered her so he could collect her life insurance. It was around £300,000. That’s a just a nicer car and a couple of good suits and a better pension. For this, he slaughtered, with thought and care, the women he had sworn to honour and love. It’s not only brutal and tragic, but it is beyond strange.

People kill for shame: they perform honour killings, which have nothing of honour about them.

You do not have to go to the macabre or the extreme. Think of more ordinary motivations, especially the ones that one tends to take for granted, but are in fact quite odd, once you dissect them a little.


And a final word, on first and last lines:

I always says that generally you should not write with a reader or a publisher or a market in mind. Always remember that you are writing to fascinate and entertain and entrance yourself. If you can delight yourself, the chances are you might delight your reader.

Occasionally, it can be helpful to write with one, perfect, Platonic reader in mind. But if you set out to be commercial and successful by second-guessing the tastes of the public or the needs of the market, you will fail. Never forget that Harry Potter was turned down by tens of agents and twenties of publishers because at the time it was universally agreed that no one wanted to read boarding school stories. Also, trying to meet some artificial idea of what sells can induce a degree of self-consciousness. So my advice always is: do not think of the readers, but write the book you most want to read yourself, which you cannot find on the shelf.

However, there is a debt of honour you owe your readers: if they give you their precious time, you give them the best prose you can manage. And there is one other moment when you need to be acutely conscious of an actual person picking up your book, and that is when you are writing your first and last lines.

The first is for a very obvious reason. Someone is in the bookshop, there are hundreds of books before them, you do not have a famous name, you have not slept with a film star, why should they choose yours? They open the first page. If you do not grab them with a zinging first line, they will put the book down and move onto your rivals. Also, the first line is important for you because it will set the tone. If it contains the perfect chime of truth, you are more likely to go on to write a good story.

Here are some of my favourite examples:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice.

In a village of La Mancha the name of which have no desire to recall, there lived not so long ago one of those gentlemen who always have a lance in the rack, an ancient buckler, a skinny nag, and a greyhound for the chase.
- Cervantes, Don Quixote

Midway in our life's journey, I went astray from the straight road and woke to find myself alone in a dark wood.
- Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy, Inferno

James Bond, with two double bourbons inside him, sat in the final departure lounge of Miami Airport and though about life and death.
- Ian Fleming, Goldfinger

It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York.
- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

This is the saddest story I have ever heard.
- Ford Maddox Ford, The Good Soldier.

(Of this one, I said to my students today: it is a high risk opener. If Maddox Ford does not live up to that promise, then we are going to ask for our money back. Luckily, he had the good stuff to back up his bold claim.)

Mrs Dalloway said that she would buy the flowers herself.
- Virginia Woolf, Mrs Dalloway

The good last line is for a slightly different reason. The book is bought by now; you are not working on purely mercenary motives, you are not trying to catch anyone’s attention. But I do think you owe your faithful reader something lovely and satisfying and complete, so that when they put the book down, they feel a proper sense of closure. Also, and this is the mercenary part, if you leave something evocative and haunting in their memory, they are more likely to buy your next book.

Here are a clutch of my favourite last lines:

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby.

Everything had gone right with me since he had died, but how I wished there existed someone to whom I could say I was sorry.
- Graham Greene, The Quiet American

After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain.
- Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls.

We shall never be again as we were.
- Henry James, Wings of the Dove.

Everything he hated was here.
- Philip Roth, Sabbath’s Theatre.

My students were very splendid. They were brave and good and true. They did some wonderful writing today; there were gasps and laughter and even a tear in the room. I hope they, and those of you who have followed this online, go on to write the books and stories of their, and your, dreams.

I did at last take a picture of the garden, so here are some growing things:


















And the most lovely Pigeon, with her little ears: