My posts have dwindled slightly during the summer months this year, which is almost the opposite to last. Last year we were in lockdown, and I was writing posts twice a week(!), but this year I prioritised trying new activities and writing new things (although I have been reading, don’t worry!), so I’m sorry I’ve been a little bit neglectful.
In August, I went to the Swanwick writers’ retreat again, and after some amazing workshops, I was inspired to write poetry like I used to. The death of a friend and the pandemic caused me to turn to nonfiction, I suppose as a way to cope, but now I feel I can go back to my writing roots: penning poetry about social justice, and experimenting with magical realism.
This genre brings me to the book I’ve loved reading the most over the summer: Bear by Marian Engel. I picked it up from Daunt Books in Marylebone.
Bear is about a woman’s relationship with a bear. It goes beyond the socially acceptable, plays with taboos, crosses the line between what is deemed ‘natural’ and the natural world. It is set in two isolated places: the protagonist’s mind, and an island.
‘Give me your skin.’
This book, to me, is about the acceptance of self, the breaking-free from constraints, the questioning of other people’s judgement and expectations, particularly those of the patriarchy.
Last week, I cleared out my books (10 years worth – the decade of my life in London). It was brutal. I donated pretty much everything I’d already read, in the hopes each novel would go to someone who really needed it.
But I’m not ready to donate Bear, not yet. For some reason, some need, I’m not quite finished with it.
This summer, you have permission to act like Mack and the boys:
Party too hard, be ostracised from society, then throw another party and be welcomed back with open arms.
Chase a ton of frogs around someone’s garden, get invited into the house for deep chats, then borrow a litre of good whiskey while the homeowner sleeps on the floor.
Stay in a warehouse with your pals and fill it with OK-furniture and a dog.
Take it in turns with your friends so only one or two of you have to work a job at any one time.
Go on a road trip, break down, get arrested (at a pub), then get let out of jail. The reason for your release? A party.
Cook a rooster over a campfire.
Big-up everything your friends say with the phrase: ‘I think you’ve got something there…’
Fight, then make friends with your opponent. Make friends with everyone.
Cry at good poetry.
Listen to awesome music, ideally on a record player.
You deserve it. Steinbeck says so (basically). Happy summer 2021!
On a long car journey when I was nine-years-old, I decided to read one of my more chilling stories aloud to my family. My younger siblings listened as I told them a tale about a toy who ate children. When I’d finished reading (spoiler: they all die at the end), worried looks formed on my parents’ faces, and I was told not to write stuff like that. I ripped the story up into tiny pieces, and threw it out of the window.
Although I stopped writing Gothic stories for a while after, I didn’t stop reading them. Now I find myself penning and devouring as much within the genre as possible.
A few weeks ago, I read Mariana Enríquez’s International Booker Prize Nominated short story collection The Dangers of Smoking In Bed. I’ve been thinking about her tales often. The most haunting are those that feel a little close to the bone: ones that remind me of being young and naïve; uncanny stories that are just a little too familiar. Memorably, the horror in this collection arises from the nature of human beings rather than the supernatural aspects, and it’s this insight into humanity’s capabilities that is truly frightening (and beautifully critiqued).
I no longer rip up my outré stories. (One was recently shortlisted for a Writing Magazine competition.) Exposure to writers like Mariana Enríquez, including Angela Carter, Claire Keegan and Emily Brontë, helped me realise women can, and must, write twisted, sinister stories, exploring the darkest of fears and desires. I recommend delving into Enríquez’s collection: you should definitely judge this book by it’s cover.
I finished Life of Pi on the first day of Ramadan. This felt significant, because the eponymous hero is a Muslim, Hindu and Christian, and through Pi’s faith, Martel conveys the importance of respecting all religions. I particularly like Islam because of Ramadan, and what it means to fast alongside your community: Ramadan portrays the beauty of spirituality, faith, and worship, and highlights a collective caring of people that sometimes other communities miss.
Life of Pi is also a story about survival; Pi is stuck in the middle of the Pacific Ocean – with a tiger for company – for 227 days. I think that’s what we’ve all been doing for the last year and a bit: surviving (some of us with our own fearsome tigers). The word survival means something different when stranded in the Pacific Ocean, but it doesn’t mean we haven’t felt a bit lost at sea. We have all experienced hardships this year, be it surviving mental and physical health issues, surviving emotions such as sadness and grief, or surviving each of our disrupted days.
Pi survived on hope and faith. If you’re reading this, you found a way to survive too. You survived more than 227 days of a pandemic, and that is amazing. Some people, though, might feel they only just made it, and that is OK. I have written about mental health on this blog before, and how a mixture of therapy, chigung, and kung fu have helped me (alongside reading, of course!). These things may not be for you, but charities such as Mind and YoungMinds might be able to offer you, or your friends and family, some guidance, so you feel strong enough to continue your journey.
In October I am running the Royal Parks Half Marathon in aid of Mind. If you would like to support me, and others who might need Mind’s help, you can find out more here.
Thanks for sticking with my blog since I started it back in the first lock down. Like Pi, keep surviving, because you matter, and you are deserving of a good life.
I read A Room of One’s Own at the start of the Christmas break. If you haven’t read it, I urge you to. It will inspire, enrage, and open your eyes to the various connections between women and writing. It helped me to realise the importance of our (as Woolf puts it) ‘mothers’ of literature: the Brontës (Emily is, of course, my favourite); Eliot, Behn, among others (others I should have known about years ago but didn’t until now); and the successful female authors who came later, and still write today.
‘…a woman writing thinks back through her mothers.’
I think I needed to be reminded of the history these writers have given me: the tiny scars left behind by hundreds of years of poverty and misogyny; wounds left open due to continued oppression; all of which impact writing. But I am also a product of their determination and courage; their fearlessness and perseverance. As a writer and a woman, I have come to understand that I write because I am part of their history, and I am bound to them for giving me a sense of purpose, and the bravery to continue.
One of the most memorable and valuable extracts from A Room of One’s Own (and I underlined many), is when Woolf examines which female writers she admires most and why. It is great advice:
‘That, perhaps, was the chief miracle about it. Here was a woman about the year 1800 writing without hate, without bitterness, without fear, without protest, without preaching. That was how Shakespeare wrote […] and when people compare Shakespeare and Austen, they may mean that the minds of both had consumed all impediments…’
I think Woolf is saying that, in order to be a good fiction writer, you must write things as they are, and leave the analysis to the reader. The writer tells a story; they don’t preach or lecture or pin their opinions to the page. If you, the writer, can create characters and places that seem real, and leave your readers with the kind of questions they are left with when they meet someone new in their own lives, then you have produced something good. And if you want the reader to ask very particular questions, then perhaps you can shape your characters in a way that promotes them.
‘I find myself saying briefly and prosaically that it is much more important to be oneself than anything else. Do not dream of influencing other people, I would say, if I knew how to make it sound exalted. Think of things in themselves.’
I’ve been trying to work out what Carson McCullers’ The Ballad of the Sad Café is about. I spent a while pondering over who the hero and villain were, because every character comes across as mean in their own way. But I guess that’s what makes the story realistic: humans are fallible.
I’ve come to the conclusion it’s about love and togetherness. The characters who suffer the most are those who have felt loneliness to the point of grief: Miss Amelia, Marvin Macy, and Cousin Lymon. All three characters are rejected by the person they love.
I think McCullers is trying to tell us that loneliness is the worst form of living. In the final pages, the juxtaposition of Miss Amelia – dejected and isolated – with the choral singing of the chain gang, seems to say this.
‘And those [Miss Amelia’s] grey eyes – slowly day by day they were more crossed, and it was as though they sought each other out to exchange a little glance of grief and lonely recognition.’
‘The music will swell until at last it seems that the sound does not come from the twelve men on the gang, but from the earth itself, or the wide sky. [..] And what kind of gang is this that can make such music? Just twelve mortal men, seven of them black and five of them white boys from the county. Just twelve mortal men who are together.’ (My bold.)
Is loneliness a worse form of punishment than being imprisoned, and being made to work in the chain gang? Perhaps loneliness is a type of prison itself. The chain gang sing in unison, and Miss Amelia is in her boarded-up café, alone.
I’m a big fan of McCullers, and her work seems to consistently highlight the condition of loneliness. (You can read my other post about her work, here.) Perhaps The Ballad of the Sad Café is a reminder to us to reach out to people who are alone, and who need support and love, regardless of their fallibility.
Honeyman beautifully presents the inner workings of Eleanor’s misunderstood mind: we quickly learn to love Eleanor and root for her throughout the novel. Her narration of events is very matter of fact – making Eleanor, for me, a complex, almost unreadable character.
It was never clear to me if Eleanor was aware of how others were treating her; perhaps she could see and didn’t care enough to even allow her internal monologue to address this. My gut tells me that others just took advantage of Eleanor’s inability to read others: I saw this as an accurate reflection of human behaviour in ‘the real world’.
What struck me about Eleanor’s blunt narration of domestic abuse was that the reader is forced to digest Eleanor’s trauma in its rawest form. This, combined with the way Eleanor is treated by her colleagues, made me question how so many women who are in need of help and support often go completely unnoticed. Perhaps Eleanor is emblamatic of the quiet, vulnerable women who too often slip through the support net.
However, there is one character in the novel who presents themself as worthy of existing within Eleanor’s sphere. This character is Ray.
Too often I see narratives commonly following a similar path: cis woman is not okay > cis man arrives > cis woman falls in love with cis man (after some persuasion) > cis woman is all good.
This kind of narrative is frustrating as it implies that women need to fall in love with a man to be happy, sane and secure. It further implies that male:female relationships cannot exist without a sexual agenda. Honeyman cleverly flips this annoying, repetitive structure on its head and – whilst the ‘saviour’ remains male – this saviour has 0 interest in taking advantage of Eleanor’s vulnerability to gain sexual gratification.
Ray is altruistic. Ray wants only to help Eleanor. In fact, Ray cares about Eleanor and wants nothing more than for her to see life for what it can be – full of worthwhile human connections.
Arguably, Ray falls into the bracket of a ‘male saviour’ but I truly believe that what Honeyman has presented to her audiences is genius: we really can have male characters who are capable of showing empathy towards women and yes, they will do all they can to help and support without expecting a snog at the end of it.
But, being unbelievably resilient and courageous – the true hero of the novel, of course, is Eleanor herself.
Thank you Gail Honeyman for gifting us with a novel that tackles loneliness, trauma and relationships without (thankfully) a sickening love-story ending.
Georgia is a writer and teacher based in Bristol. You can find her on twitter @MissStares.
I’ve often joked that one of the reasons I came to university was to play Dungeons & Dragons again. When asked if that’s how I spend my time at university, I say it’s what got me into writing in the first place. Even today, I often wonder how table-top roleplaying games contributed to my writing journey; after all, it’s a form of interactive storytelling.
Most people are familiar with the name Dungeons & Dragons, which is so ubiquitous that it’s often used as a short-hand for most table-top roleplaying games. For those who aren’t familiar, here’s how they work: one person, known as a “Dungeon Master” or “Games-Master”, tells a story and assumes the roles of characters – known as Non-Player Characters (NPCs) – in the world they have created. The other participants are the players, who assume the roles of Player Characters (PCs). Their actions are usually determined by rolling dice, and different PCs often have different abilities. While the Games-Master might have an adventure prepared, the players may not always follow it, so the storytelling often requires some improvisation and quick thinking on the host’s part. Most of these games tend to take place in a Tolkien-style medieval fantasy, but they do explore other genres too.
I was introduced to Dungeons & Dragons around 2003, when I moved to Staffordshire. I was later able to introduce some of my school friends to the game, with my brother hosting the campaigns. When he went to university, I took over as the host, running campaigns using a Star Wars roleplaying game. Things took off when I was 17, and my brother gave me a copy of a roleplaying game called Deadlands. Taking place in the American West, it combines steampunk and horror in a fascinating alternative history. At that point, my roleplaying group had drifted apart, so I was struggling to find people to run a campaign. But I also loved the world the rulebook painted, and wanted to write a story in it. A lot of my early writing was probably Deadlands fan fiction.
The introduction to Deadlands also introduced me to the Savage Worlds roleplaying system, which accommodates more action-packed games. It was through that system I discovered the medium of “pulp” genre fiction – named after the cheap paper it was printed on – dating back to the early 20th Century. (Characters like Tarzan and Zorro started in pulp magazines, and the Indiana Jones films are heavily influenced by these kinds of stories.) At this stage of my life, I was struggling with A-Levels, so not able to run as many sessions. Looking for an escape, I found solace in writing pulp stories based on the Savage Worlds adventures I’d been reading instead.
Coming into writing via roleplaying has meant that I’ve often focussed more on making characters rather than stories. This includes my two swashbuckler heroes: Kestrel and Scar. It has also meant that I’ve developed a rather cinematic writing style, especially when it comes to action. That’s something I’m trying to improve for prose.
I still play roleplaying games to this day, having joined a university society dedicated to the activity. In fact, I’m trying my hand at writing my own setting which mocks the tropes and conventions used in such games. Perhaps it will open up some new avenues of writing for me.
Andrew Roberts has been writing as a hobby since he was 17, and is influenced by the old pulp magazines of the early 20th Century. While working as an accountant, he began working on a series of swashbuckler stories following the adventures of wandering rogues Kestrel and Scar. His discovery of the Swanwick Writers’ Summer School in 2016 inspired him to take his writing further. He took a hiatus from the accounts profession in 2018 to study for a BA in Creative Writing, and hopes to be able to continue his writing once he finishes his degree.
I was travelling yesterday, so I’m posting this 12 hours after my usual deadline for posts (Wednesdays and Sundays at 7pm), but this feels like an apt moment to tell my awesome subscribers that I’m taking a month off so I can read as many books as possible without a deadline. (I’ve also taken up rollerskating, so this explains the pic below – there are books in the rucksack, I promise.)
I have finished teaching for the summer term, so now is the perfect opportunity to sit back and read the books I haven’t had much time for (namely, The Lord of the Rings). I will be back in August to write about all of the amazing/questionable/horrendous reads I have come across throughout July, and to tell you about the online writing courses and competitions I’ve entered.
Thanks for your ongoing support and good vibes. Tweet me @GCtheWriter with recommended reads and your writing/blogs/skating tips. See you in August!
This post is dedicated to all the dads who spent hours reading bedtime stories to their daughters, and loved every moment. Happy Father’s Day.
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Every Friday at 10pm, after their bellies were full, he’d walk her outside to sit on the trampoline and stare up at the sky. They would talk about theories of the universe, the constellations, planets and the stars.
She would say that the universe was made like a donut, that we can never discover the end of it because the end is the same as the beginning. “Space changes so quickly and by the time you get back to the start, its not the same anymore,” she would claim with certainty.
Then she would ask about life beyond the stars. “The world would be an awfully lonely place if there were no others to keep it company,” he would say.
Her curiosity never wavered and as she grew, so did her inquisitive mind and fascination.
They did this every week, until they could no longer stare at the stars together. It is the moment that she remembers most when reflecting on her life 20 years ago. That trampoline has long rusted, but her childhood memories with dad still shine as bright as the stars, every Friday night.
In a game of tennis with my friend Sandra, I committed to contributing a blog post today. I have never written a blog post, or published any exert from my creative writing like the above, but there is a lot ‘I have never’ going around right now. As we sit in our homes today waiting for the time our whole family can be together for Fathers Day, we find ourselves asking the question “why haven’t I done this before?”. The GroundHog Day we all feel from our everyday life at this present time is a bonus that should be appreciated, and that is unlikely to come around again in our lifetime. You are being encouraged to do what you haven’t done before – less monotony, more I can be.
I can be a children’s story writer. My favourite book growing up was Flat Stanley by Jeff Brown. In the book, Stanley Lambchop is squashed flat by a notice board but being the resourceful kid that he is, takes advantage of it by being posted to places he never thought possible. He helps to solve a crime, and truly makes the most of a bad situation. I learnt a lot from this book as a child – not simple that biology does not work like the book describes, but rather that there can be a practical outcome in all scenarios.
I undertook a series of creative writing subjects at university. Whilst I thoroughly enjoyed the creative outlet that writing could provide, for many years since I have put down my pen and paper, replacing these with Microsoft Excel and post notes. Recognising that I enjoyed creating stories (often with ludicrous plots) my husband one day revealed to me that he had been writing down my ideas on his phone before bed, so to come back to them and remind me of what I had done. We’ve decided that, one day, we will write a series of books together – me as the plot creator, him as the illustrator (he is an exceptional drawer). There is a wonder that how taking a step back has helped re-evaluate the power of my mind, and joy of childhood.
I can be a historical fiction enthusiast. Other than astronomy, history was a love that my dad and I have always shared.I’ve long been taught that you cannot learn the lessons history can teach, unless we seek to understand what they mean. I am keen history buff, going as far as getting married at King Henry VIII’s former Summer Palace, where a young girl named Elizabeth found out that Queen of England. Studying at Law School gave me many things, but time to enjoy reading a leisurely book is not one of them. It has taken staying home to rekindle my love, and in particular that of historical fiction.
My recommendation is to read The Miniaturist by Jessie Burton. Set in Amsterdam in the 1600’s, the story follows a late teen named Petronella (‘Nella’) and her experience being married off to a wealthy merchant sailor. As a wedding gift, she receives a miniature dolls house. As the tale unfolds, the only constant is the impact of the dolls house on Nella’s life. We experience how themes of sexuality, wealth, race and gender have developed and evolved, and are encouraged to reflect on ourselves and our mindfulness of others.
Once I made it to page 150, I found myself enthralled and enwrapped in the events that were to follow. This book rekindled my love with historical fiction, and my Amazon wish list has grown ever since.
Less monotony, more I can be. As I complete this post, I find myself thankful that Sandra recommended I write for this blog. I find it calming to express creativity, to rekindle my love of reading and writing.
Five tennis games later and a commitment to weekly lessons, I know what my next I can be moment is. I can be a tennis player.
What about you?
Natalie Simberg is an Australian masking as a Brit. She is a professional Portfolio Director, and an unprofessional traveller and explorer. Born in Sydney, she is a lover of all things outdoors.
the isolation book club 