Monthly Archive

Happy holidays all! Hope everyone gets a chance for a breather and some nice food these next two weeks sometime.

And all the best for a peaceful 2008.

Shopping all day (one list day down, 90% of it ticked off, yay!), but before we all go underground and lower our metabolic rates, in my inbox this evening — very kindly and efficiently — is the link to an interview I did for Authortrek.

Anyone who’s read the other interviews on this site (see sidebar) might register that pesky Greyhound bus incident, which comes up again here. Of course, slightly disingenuous of me to wonder where it’s come from. Nevertheless, like a visitor to my own life, I think ‘gosh it really must have figured strongly’. Which of course it did.

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For X-factor aficionados: have to admit we have Leon Jackson playing in the background. Once Niki was out, we thought Leon all the way, hah! Didn’t vote though….

Another crisp frosty start, so rather looking forward to heading into town later to finish the shopping. Staving off panic. All a bit last minute this year. And no cards written yet. Again.

As usual, my lists are exhaustive, obsessive and nearly incomprehensible: E haircut (made), M haircut (make), cats’ claws, cat litter x 2, drycleaning 24 hours? (ask), travel medicine, night time cough medicine, shave, truffle ingredients? (R). Etc. And the list of presents not yet secured: E to M, M to E, E to R, M to R. Etc. And now that the children can read, all in a code only I understand: M C & H, E 2… Sigh. And as if one list isn’t enough, I’ve today started my usual list series, a day by day countdown. I don’t think that a poem out of all of this would be very entertaining to anyone but me. However, in all my spare time I might write it anyway.

As a kind of leavening (wandering lists), check this out. Sent by Deborah via via via via facebook, as ever. Enjoy!

Because we have Wonderful Builder in, earlier this month we broke it to the children that there would be no decorations or tree this year. We would be going away for the holidays, we stressed, to a house where there is always a huge tree, garlanded stairs, etc — bliss — so it’s not like they won’t get their fix. Nods of acquiescence all around.

However. The closer we hove the more pleading the looks, so at the weekend out came the box: M’s idea was to decorate their rooms and only their rooms. A little bit of Christmas.

Well. Almost every single decoration and the tree lights along the hall later, I’ve decided that children are much more sensible than adults. Again.

It looks like Christmas. It feels like Christmas. They took two hours stringing tinsel along their beds and paper chains across their ceilings. Baubles on every knob of their chests of drawers. And two nights ago when the lights first flashed on it was, as they say, magical.

Never mind that last night the lights, um, flashed off. So I’ll be at the hardware store today, trying to find a fuse bulb for a five year old set of lights. And probably end up buying a whole new string. It’ll be worth it…

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Amongst the decorations come my grandmother’s tatted ones, made many many years ago and carefully preserved year on year in a square, christmas-y box. They are strung with red ribbons, starched stiff. We only have five.

M in particular is affected by the concept of time. Yesterday she put on her tiny silver ring, bought last year in France. One of her most precious things she says, because (this seven year old says) it ‘holds memories’. Her shelves are full of objects gathered at such and such a place at such and such a time: wool caught in the fence of her infant school playground, a stone mouse from Pisa, a tiny china bear from her best friend, a ‘key’ she fashioned out of strong grass, a small enamel painting of St Francis of Assisi she chose at the place itself. Etc.

I feel I have no way to disperse this for her, and perhaps I don’t need to. I too have felt it all my life, and remember crying on my twelfth birthday because I would never be eleven again. Sigh.

I suppose that while she makes and arranges objects to remind her, I most often use words to do the same thing, e.g. the memoir work on this site about my beloved grandparents.

M has formed and reflected her life from things around her ever since she was old enough to grasp and hold. There’s no getting round it, and though I know this attentive, sensitive way of getting through the world isn’t a simple (or lucrative!) path to follow…I don’t think she (or we) has (have) any choice. She’s on it.

And hooray! Thrilled to discover over the weekend that one of my pieces has been chosen for publication in Your Messages. As some of you may remember (or maybe not…), the blast of doing it was long-lasting. When I was in the Lakes in late November, I felt quite bereft of the whole project, having wanted to do at least one a week to keep my hand in….Alas, to venture to Hawkshead and try to find a computer would have been breaking my pact with the Land of Long-hand. So I didn’t.

However. It’s turned out more than all right in the end. The launch for Your Messages goes like this:

Date: Thursday 31 January 2008

Time: tbc

Venue: The Poetry Cafe, Betterton Street, London WC1

I’ll be reading, along with maybe 20 others! Sounds fabulous. I’m very honoured. Thank you to Lynne Rees and Sarah Salway for thinking of it, and for running such a tight ship. A wonderful, enriching and utterly sound idea which created a strong community, and will produce a fine artefact. Not to mention make some good money for a more than fine charity. Hats off to you, ladies!

Well. All I can think of are lists this morning. Thanks in particular go to:

1) Tom, for arriving just as I sent a panicky message saying we’re going to have to take the kids with us

2) Sat nav

3) Crockatt & Powell, for opening their doors and keeping them open

4) Anthony Delgrado, for the book and the wine

5) Lynne Rees, for a blushingly lovely and funny and altogether warm intro

6) Nancy Wilson and Hamish Fulton, for their gift of these wacky and wonderful ceramic cups:

7) The charming, inexpensive Japanese restaurant down the street, the name of which I could not register by the time I reached it

8) R, for making us laugh and laugh

9) Sat nav

10) Today being Friday

Did I mention I was still recovering?

As soon as we wake, we know it’s the sharpest frost yet this season. Just lying in bed, the air — or imagined air — feels like the holidays.

Of course, we have to struggle up and get E moving — a difficult job after many late nights of first play performances then yet another concert last night (samba band, choir, and wind band - heavens!). To his credit, by after breakfast he’s awake enough to notice the lightening sky, brushes his teeth looking out the new (lowered) windows, over the fields and out to Blean Wood. He stands at one, I stand at the other, and we don’t need to say much. Fine mist rises from the tops of hedges, and every branch and leaf, blade of grass, stands out in white relief. He’s out the door at twenty to eight, no doubt sliding first down, then up the hill to the bus stop.

Losing You launch tonight. Some long-standing friends will be there, some new ones, and doubtless others I’ve never clapped eyes on! Good. This morning I’m feeling thankful for all sorts of things.

(image from a British wildlife site)

It would be remiss as all get-out (love this expression) of me not to mention that the launch for the paperback of Losing You is nearly upon us:

Date: THIS Thursday 13 December

Time: 7pm

Venue: Crockatt & Powell, London SE1

I’ve heard from a number of folks who say they’ll be there, and others bound for Christmas do’s who won’t. If you’re undecided because, say, it’s late night shopping, and you really need to get on — you could always come buy some books to give for presents?!

Speaking of Christmas do’s, when I was working in London (as a secretary for a real estate firm), we always had slap-up Christmas parties. The one that stays with me is the mortifying one, when I

a) said clearly and within ear shot of my boss that I wouldn’t be around more than another six months (I wasn’t),

b) slow-danced with the head of sales in the City and inevitably,

c) threw up when I got home.

Of course, I do love parties. But not like that. I like the sort of party where — another Christmas one, this time in Canterbury, at our house — you end up in the icy street, trying to balance a broom on your forehead, coloured star lights in all the surrounding windows. And no one falls down or gets sick. And the next morning you watch as cars do slow slides into each other in the bright sunshine, down gentle gradients as if part of a big dance. No one gets hurt there either, and people get out of the cars and laugh. And you’re inside drinking hot chocolate.

At long last I’m able to get to something I’ve wanted to (get to) for a few days now. Things tend to amble into my (our) path(s) though, some enjoyable — the antics of the children, my time away, the Night Train launch — and some not so enjoyable — a grotty cold!

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So. What I’m wanting to mention is Rachel Sarai’s Vineyard, by Deborah Rey. I finished it just before I went away, and thankfully any fear I had of it fading was unfounded: this is a book that stays with you.

The book moves between the grown-up Rachel’s world where her mother is dying and where she is left to deal with the funeral — and the child Rachel’s world where she is a runner for the Resistance, and where a triangulated emotional and psychological battle takes place between her mother, her father, and the beautiful violinist, Marie.

This is also a book that doesn’t pull any punches. The narrative style in the ‘present day’ voice of grown up Rachel swings between rancourous and sarcastic — and is at times insoluably vulnerable. The ‘child Rachel’ voice is closer to reportage: visual, slowly paced, and dealing more plainly with symbolism, letting emotional weight gather. Young Rachel’s wisdom, her determination to ‘be strong’ mixed with a real need and desire to love and be loved is… heartbreaking. Throughout the book, we are reminded of who she was, what was taken from her — and who she is now, what she has inevitably become, her own battles fought.

There are several striking, visceral scenes in the book, which Rey tackles with considerable courage. I found myself wanting to turn away, not to witness this — yet I had to, because Rachel had, and because, in some strange way as a grown-up now myself, I had to. I owed it to her to be with her, as no one had been with her then.

I cried twice while reading this book, and as I say practically held the book at arm’s length on two further occasions. I was flung all over the place.

More than anything, Rachel Sarai’s Vineyard strikes me as a book that absolutely had to be written. The experiences in it simply could not go unrecorded. I can only guess that it must have been simultaneously hellish and uplifting to write, the kind of piece you write with your hand over your mouth. You mustn’t say anything, but then again — then again — you must. And Deborah Rey has.

Now that this particular ice cap has been smashed through, it seems to me that there is at least another book in these experiences. It’s safe water now — not exactly clear sailing — but my instinct tells me the worst is over. I was particularly taken by the lyrical, observational, generous voice of young Rachel, and suspect she has more to say.

Rachel Sarai’s Vineyard is published by — yes — bluechrome, that Portishead bastion of the nearly unconventional. And I think that bluechrome being what it is has allowed this book full voice, much to the credit of author and publisher. A limited Special Edition is available now, and the full print run follows in April 2008.

Wow. Where to begin? Last night’s launch of Night Train 5 was a corker: a hundred people, great readings, splendid music, snazzy food and drink… and a shedload of books sold, apparently. Like, 150. Wow. Again.

Many thanks are due: to the contributors one and all, to the readers, to those who submitted. To the School of English at Uni Kent who support the venture with hard cold cash. To Vicky Wilson (Canterbury Festival Poet of the Year AND copy editor), Chris Lancaster at the Uni Print Unit for saving the day, Frances Knight (piano) and Paul Booth (saxophone). And of course to the editors, Susan Wicks and Andrew McGuinness, without whom, etc…

A particular thanks goes to the Gulbenkian staff, who just kept bringing out the chairs, adjusting the mic, and flogging those books! The theatre cafe also looked positively seasonal, red and tinselled — the end of term was in the air! Really fab.

And I’d also like to thank everyone who came up to me and said hello (along with so many nice things). Never one to shirk my social responsibilities (!), I took unadulterated pleasure in seeing so many familiar faces, so much energy, so much enjoyment, and so much success coming to so many of you.

As readers of this blog will know — and indeed, anyone who knows me knows!– I love a party. And what a party. What top notch work all around.

Finally, an appeal: if anyone took any pictures on the night, send ‘em! I’ll stick them up….

Just a quick reminder that tonight is the launch of NIGHT TRAIN 5 (an anthology of the best of University of Kent’s student work) in Canterbury, at the Gulbenkian Theatre.

Time: 6.30 pm

Tickets: £8 (£7 concs) INCLUDING a copy of the book, a glass of wine, and very, very fab music by jazz duo Frances Knight and reknown saxophonist Paul Booth.

AND loads of student readings: 16 poems, six short short fictions, two short stories….

It’s good stuff: I’ve read it. Because I’m co-MC-ing along with one of the editors, Andrew McGuinness (a fine fiction writer in his own right, by the by, more later I’m sure).

Be there or be…uh, left standing at the station?

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Now might be a good time to mention that not only does M dance, but son E danced for years, and yes, I do and have done for many more years. Ballet. Not sure why I feel the need to mention this, except that in last 24 hours I’ve encountered three people who either know me through dancing or ‘heard’ that I danced — something in the air maybe: coffee with Karen and Sarah (both dancers); chance meeting with Suzanne (dancer) at the school play last night, and now this morning Wonderful Builder just getting going before the rain started bucketing…. ‘Seems there are many strings to your bow,’ he said (enigmatically). He’d heard it from the wife of the man he plays squash with. Heavens, I say. So I’ll set the record straight: no, not professionally, but yes, for 35 years, some of them pretty seriously.

How’s that blueblog, which links here through “Patricia Debney Mainly Talks Dancing”? Good enough for TV?

Gosh. Seems like quite a lot happened while I was away. E apparently performed Miles Davis’ fab So What? (watch the vid!) on piano wonderfully, and M had exams (I think they went fine, Mummy). For his part, R kept the whole ship afloat, driving halfway round Kent daily, cooking fine food (better than I had in the Lakes, that’s for sure — spot the chef)… and tearing his hair out over the RAE. For those who know, you’ll really know. For those who don’t, suffice to say it’s a higher education research exercise. Which happens to attract funding, and which takes years to draft. And years off your life, methinks.

The RAE is one thing I don’t talk about in a recent article for Writing in Education (the extremely informative publication produced by NAWE — National Association of Writers in Education — which arrived while I was away) because I’m lucky enough not to be at the coal face of that. The article, Over Here: Being an American Writer and Educator in the UK does ponder just about everything else: my history at Oberlin College, what I think about writer/educator interfaces, my MA at the UEA, my take on the similarities and differences of the two creative writing systems.I was surprised to find that once I got started, it was difficult to stop — always a sign that vital stuff is going on, of course. Writing it was a thorough exercise in itself, but an infinitely more enriching one, I’m sure. For that I thank co-editor Philip Gross, who first asked me to contribute. Unfortunately Writing in Education isn’t available online, but you can go here for more details should the spirit move you.

AGAIN!

Amongst the emboldened messages lined up like little soldiers yesterday I discovered a gem: another wonderful review. This time from (astute) Caroline Smailes, on what has got to be one of the most enticingly-titled blogs ever: What You Reading Caroline?

Here’s a taste:

A short read-in-one-sitting novel told in two parts, in two lyrical voices. A sparse yet precise piece of fiction that forces the reader to think about invisible words, about all that is left unsaid.

The story centres around the time just before and after Marilyn’s father’s death and is perhaps a study of the assumed within relationships…There is an eeriness, a darkness that comes from the invisible words, from the unspoken.

Crafted, skilfully paced and visual through familiarity…There are unanswered questions that the reader will never have responses to…I loved the layout and feel of this book. A beautiful object that added to the pleasure of the read.

What a treat! She’s also taken the trouble to put the review on amazon, for which I am grateful.

And I’m delighted to see once again some appreciation for the care bluechrome take with their books. Hear, hear! There’s none of this flimsy almost transparent paper, invisible margins, dense text and bendy covers malarky — no sir-ee Bob. If you’re going to do it, do it right. And they do. bluechrome books are a joy to (be)hold.

Yikes! I’m grateful (often) for the lack of paper in my life, but not (often) for the stacks of unopened, emboldened messages in my inbox. Sigh. I am grateful too (very often) for the rich tapestry of my many-threaded life, but not (usually) for the multi-tasking it demands of me.

However. Small potatoes compared to the fruitful, thoughtful week away: plans, writing, pin-drop silence. As predicted, lots and lots of fog, rain and general greyness — hence no lovely photos. And all of our photos from previous years seem to be buried in the bowels of the other computer. Oh dear. But here’s a taste, a photo that at least captures some of how the gorgeous Lake District looks this time of year (photo by Glen Morris):

I ventured out twice in a week (except for village walks). The second time I went to Brantwood (Ruskin’s home, and a wonderful rainy day visit, great to go back after several years), and Jumping Jenny’s, the cafe there (visited, I admit, many times a year! Delicious well-made food, and beautiful views). Despite the persistant and breathtaking-in-itself rain, Coniston Water was as complex and edifying as ever (this shot is taken from The Cumbrian Directory ). The roads were lined with fallen beech leaves that when wet darkened to pure russet.

By 3.30 pm it was nearly dark, but each day just before real darkness fell, 15 minutes of gold suffused everything — even through the clouds and fog. I stepped out the door more than once just to look, thinking there must be sun. But there wasn’t. Like when you’re walking down the street before people draw their curtains: inside you see warm sidelights, home. Only it’s outside, and 15 minutes later someone somewhere realises it’s nighttime, lowers the blinds.