Factualism

Saul Bellow made some interesting comments about the novel in an interview with The Paris Review. Literal truth versus artistic licence. ‘Literalism, factualism,’ he said. ‘will smother the imagination altogether.’ Do we, as writers, attempt to recreate the physical world down to the minutest detail, or do we accept the limitations of this approach and opt for a more free-flowing style in the interests of our art?

The novel I’m working on at the moment has two major obstacles. One – it’s set in a location I’m largely unfamiliar with, and two – it has as its background an industry I’ve never worked in (although I do have some experience on the periphery). Does this mean I should spend another year or so researching the fine detail, or abandon the project altogether as being beyond the scope of my experience?

The problem with research is that you can never do enough of it. As writers, we have this wonderfully rich storehouse called the imagination, but only our humble and often limited life experience to draw upon to give it authenticity. The advice ‘write about what you know’ implies that you should stick within your own boundaries. If you happen to be a travelling shoe salesman, write about selling shoes. But the advice also extends to that which you can find out about. You may not be a shoe salesman in real life, but you may, for argument’s sake, wish to write about one. No problem. All you need do is find a willing shoe salesman in real life to help you with your research.

The fear of most writers is that they publish a novel, or work of non-fiction, then get letters from angry readers telling them they’ve made an error. The shoe polish you mentioned on page 142 had, in fact, been discontinued in 1936, two years before your main character was selling it door-to-door. You then retreat into semi-seclusion, crestfallen and humiliated, never to write another word again.

Bellow, a writer of considerable talent and imagination, understood the problem of recreating the physical world in fictional form. A novel is, essentially, a work of art. Although its characters inhabit the same sphere as you and I, there is a point of departure, a blurring of the lines, that cannot be reconciled to normal life. If we attempt to recreate exactly this physical world, we are in danger of losing that most vital of assets – insight into what it was we were trying to achieve in the first place.

The only rule in writing is there are no rules. We hear this maxim trotted out at writers retreats and weekend seminars all the time. If there are no rules, we can do what we like. Turn all conventions upside down and indulge our every whim. Actually, it doesn’t work like that. You can’t ignore three hundred years of craftsmanship and expect to produce something people will want to read. The whole thing works from a diligent study of other writers and constant application to the art. If you want to be published, you should at least take the time to see what else is out there lining the bookshelves.

When my novel finally sits in Waterstones shop window, winking seductively at the passer-by and garnering huge media interest, I can only hope for two things. One, that it sells in enormous quantities, and two, that I don’t get letters from apoplectic shoe salesmen in Kent, demanding I fall on my sword. To ensure the latter doesn’t happen, I will indeed check every detail that appears in the final draft and omit anything I’m not sure about. But if I make a mistake …

I’ll leave you with a throwaway line from Graham Greene, my favourite novelist. When asked about the memorable low life characters in his books, he was asked if he had any direct experience. Greene replied ‘No, very little.’

Write what you know? Write whatever you’re drawn to write about and ignore the people who suggest otherwise. That way you might just keep the enthusiasm going to get to

THE END.

Triathlon – Serious About Your Sport

It isn’t every day you have a book published. Writing tends to be a lonely business, with the poor, unfortunate writer holed up in his garret room (yes, I know I’ve used that one before), dreaming of success while breaking up items of furniture for the fire to stop him freezing to death.

Saturday’s thump on the mat sounded heavier than the standard rejection I’m used to. Down I went to investigate and found, to my surprise, a large white padded envelope. Inside was an advance copy of my book Triathlon – Serious About Your Sport from New Holland Publishers.

Nothing beats the satisfaction of seeing your work in print. You can forget all the hours you spent toiling over earlier drafts, wondering if you’d make the deadline. This is carpet slippers and Cuban cigar time. You’ve arrived.

So, I would urge, browbeat and cajole everyone with an interest in triathlon, to buy a copy of my book in June (official publication date) and send me your thoughts on a postcard. Special thanks to the Editor Daniel Ford and all who contributed in producing such a stirling manual.

Keep Smiling!

Work in progress

Why do we put pen to paper, or index fingers to keypads, to record our thoughts for posterity? Seeing as the vast majority of writers will never experience publication in any wider context, why bother in the first place? These questions have no real answers. The fact is, people write because they are driven to, compelled by some primeval force to unburden themselves and to analyse the results.

Carl Jung famously said that he didn’t have writers and artists as patients, as they did their own therapy. Could this line contain a nugget of truth? Could the lowly writer, bent over his word processor, trailing cigarette ash and bourbon fumes, really be improving his character along the way? Surely, the pursuit of such a lonely business is more likely to exacerbate neurosis than promote good mental health. And writers by definition tend to be a pretty unstable bunch, given to all sorts of related afflictions. Alcoholism, marital break-up, manic depression, to name but a few.

Perhaps writers, more than anyone else, have a pathological need to make sense of the world. Born with one layer of skin less, they tend to be shy, sensitive creatures who spend much of their time on the sidelines, observing the action from a safe distance. Writing provides a vicarious pleasure, a means of engaging in combat without risking one’s life. Macho writers like Hemingway and Norman Mailer hid their sensitivities behind alcohol and a bluff public front, not an approach that’s recommended if you want to preserve your sanity, and your liver!

Writing a novel is like giving birth. From the moment of conception on, your children are not your own. You tie their shoelaces, watch them grow and send them out into the world, hoping (in the literary sense) that they will never return. The sense of loss is enormous. Then, sitting morosely at your desk one day, you’re faced with the only logical conclusion. You have to start another family.

The second novel deserves a section all on its own. Mine has been fraught with difficulties, from failed deadlines (self-imposed) to a general disatisfaction with the end result. The five stages of grief might best describe the process. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Occasionally joy, exhilaration and a sense of accomplishment factor in, but these are fleeting and not to be trusted. Why go on? Simply because, like most writers, I have to. Plus, the first draft of my third novel is already written, and is waiting in the wings.

Work in progress, that’s all we have. The day’s output waiting to be despatched. And that, quite frankly, is more than enough for anyone.

Dentistry and the modern novel

William Faulkner said that a writer’s only responsibility is to his art. Mine, unfortunately, is to my dentist. Driven from my bed in the early hours of the morning by a cracked wisdom tooth (how appropriate), I’ve sought relief in the written word and the shot of morphine my manservant has kindly administered.

Pain is, of course, no stranger to the landscape. Fiction is littered with corpses, real and metaphorical. The writer’s perception of the world is nearly always bleak, his characters struggling to overcome dire personal handicaps and unresolved conflict. Transcendence always comes at a cost, often in failed relationships and loss of one sort or another. Our hero gains insight from his shortcomings, not to mention the cracked tooth that kept him up all night.

J.M. Coetzee, the South African novelist and Nobel prize winner, has his critics. Martin Amis claimed recently that he had no talent and that his ‘whole style is predicated on transmitting no pleasure.’ This from a man who suggested euthenasia booths for the elderly! But is there any truth in this accusation? Not only about Coetzee’s work, (which I personally admire), but about novelists in general?

When you think of writers like Tolstoy and Dickens, one word comes to mind – vitality. No matter how dark or oppressive the material, the characters spring to life from the page. There is the sense of life being lived to the fullest. Dostoyevsky’s Raskolnikov kills an old woman with an axe, and yet we’re there with him in his dusty garret room, hiding from his pursuers and seeking solace in the arms of a young prostitute.

Modern fiction seems plagued with one-dimensional characters who never break out of their shells. In place of a living, breathing entity who thinks and feels as we do, we get a kind of faceless automaton who merely goes through the motions, never indulging his base instincts and never saying anything his creator might have to defend in public.

Perhaps humour has the answer. The most unpalatable subjects of all can be relieved, to some extent, by a subtle comic touch. James Kelman’s How Late It Was, How Late, follows an alcoholic’s attempts to cope with blindness, after being kicked unconscious by policemen. I read it several years ago and laughed long into the night. Humour is intrinsic to life. Why then should it be absent from the novel because of some pompous literary ideal?

Maybe it’s me. I always find the underbelly a much more rewarding place to inhabit – at least for fictional puposes. Detective novels bore me rigid. I’d rather read about the criminals. Or, better still, write about them.

Which brings me to that cracked wisdom tooth. The mind is capable of producing endorphins forty times more powerful than morphine. If I could find a way to harnass such a phenomenon I could dispense with the services of my long-suffering manservant and be one-hundred percent organically free of pain forever. But even that wouldn’t resolve the unbearable torments of the second novel!

Tales from the Fat Camp

Every morning I eat a bowl of porridge oats with sliced banana, nuts and seeds, and a dash of soy milk. Then, in a desperate bid to counter the reflux I’ve endured for the last two years, I down a glass of water and a cup of herbal tea. During this ritual, I read from a selection of diet and health books to increase my rather limited knowledge of how the human body works. And, I have to say, I’m still as baffled by the process as I was when I first started.

The so-called experts don’t help. None of them seem to agree on anything. How are we, the consumer, supposed to make informed choices when the information we’re given doesn’t tally? The diet that’s in vogue one minute is out the next. Surely someone out there must know the answer?

Being human is a strange business. We spend most of our lives trying to curb our basic instincts. Then, when we fail, as most of us are programmed by nature to do, we parade around wearing sackcloth and ashes, expecting others to commiserate. Food, far from being a source of pleasure, is, for many people, a source of shame, neurosis even. Failed dieters have that chastened, defeated look, like troops sent back from the frontline. They take comfort from the tales of other failed dieters as they regroup, grab a low-calorie digestive and prepare to do battle again.

Spiritual gurus tell us it’s what’s on the inside that counts. We in the West know different. You only have to walk past a mirror to get a fair indication of what’s wrong with you. Excess fat is a sign of weakness, of moral turpitude. More effort is required. More diligence when cruising round the supermarket with an empty trolley.

But who am I to give advice? I’ve just eaten a slice of cheesecake with a dollop of double cream. And do I feel guilty? No, of course not, it was absolutely divine! As for the extra calories, well, there’s always tomorrow ….

Running Free

After health problems stopped me running for almost two years, I decided to start up again. My first forays out onto the open road (or gravel track) were tentative to say the least. All I could manage to begin with were short bursts of a few minutes, follwed by a period of walking to recover. My chest burned the whole time. My breath came in wheezing gasps. In short, I felt like an absolute beginner, and nothing like the seasoned athlete who could run regularly for an hour and a half without stopping.

The current thinking in sporting circles is that aerobic training is out. According to the experts, what you need to do is speed up the metabolism by running harder for shorter periods of time. The excess pounds will then fall off quickly, saving you the burden of spending endless hours jogging around the local park.

But what about the humble beginner? The sedentary type, perhaps a stone or two overweight, more suited to the armchair than the running track. Could he/she be expected to benefit from such advice?

Training Law no 3: Train first for distance, only later for speed.

The Training Laws are, primarily, a set of guidelines based on the experience of long distance runners from as far back as the turn of the last century. They cover all the facets of training for endurance sport and have influenced scores of athletes along the way. The generally held belief has always been that to acquire the stamina and physical durability to run long distances, you first have to develop the aerobic system.

Mark Allen, perhaps the greatest triathlete of all, attributes the success of his career to a heart-rate formula known as the MAF technique. This required that he spent the early period of the training year exercising below his aerobic threshold, even walking up hills if his heart-rate began to rise above the prescribed limit. Years later, when asked why other athletes chose not to follow his, obviously successful, example, he simply shrugged and said ’Ego.’

The ‘No pain, no gain’ theory has dominated sporting circles for decades, implying that to get fit you have to push your body to extremes of endurance constantly. But for the unfit beginner, looking to break a sweat for the first time in ages, this gung-ho mantra is ill advisable and could even be dangerous.

Exercise should, above all, be a source of pleasure, something to look forward to and not feared as a brutal necessity. High intensity training has its place, but as part of a structured programme based on the sound fundamentals mentioned above. It can take years to build an engine capable of sustaining hard sessions on the running track. Conversely, the enthusiasm for keeping fit can be undone in seconds by adopting the wrong methods. Burn-out, injury and disillusion are not the basis for a career in fitness.

For the beginner, facing the unknown in a pair of Nike trainers and a high-viz jacket, the word is Caution. Everything in moderation, like Mama said. Then, when the dust settles on your first season out on the road, you can look back and review your efforts, knowing that there will always be time to up the ante.

My running prescription for an unfit beginner is as follows:

Walk for five minutes to warm-up. Run for one minute/walk for one minute x 5 (repeat five times). Walk for five minutes to cool down. 

As your body gets used to regular exercise, you can increase the duration of this exercise, adding one or two minutes to the set each week. Try the run/walk method for at least a month, until you feel able to run short distances without stopping. Always warm-up and cool-down, either by jogging lightly or walking, and never increase duration by more than a few minutes at a time.

Follow this prescription for a long and injury-free career in fitness.

Thank you …

Insomnia

At three o’clock in the morning, I had a revelation. Christopher Hitchens was wrong. It isn’t religion that poisons everything. It’s thinking. Lying awake in the blanket silence, the rest of the household sleeping, the mind tends to go into overdrive. Your entire life becomes the subject for debate, except there’s no-one around to field the questions.

I’ve suffered from insomnia for short periods ever since I can remember. Sometimes as the result of chemical over indulgence (chemical imbalance some might say), and sometimes because of depression. The combination of mental and physical exhaustion and the resulting paranoia that goes with it, leaves a lasting impression on the psyche. Lately, I’ve come to challenge my fears around this issue and to examine the causes, if any, in a bid to gain a better understanding of this debilitating condition.

Exercise is a must. Sitting around stuffing myself full of food and going to bed after midnight isn’t good for me. I’m used to being active. The self-imposed rest period I have around Christmas means that I drop the year-round swimming and cycling in favour of the odd brisk walk to keep me from stagnating. But, I have to admit, in the last few days, I haven’t done much of anything, apart from sit around and indulge my vices. Hence, the slow decline into corpulence, via the sofa and the remote control.

Eckhart Tolle was right. Thinking is, indeed, mankind’s greatest enemy. The central theme for his bestseller The Power of Now might not have been all that original, but you couldn’t fault the general principle. All, or most, of our troubles are of our own making. And most of them begin with the seed of thought, planted by the subconscious to cause as much consternation as possible.

Working out your entire life problems at three o’clock in the morning is not advisable. Read a book, or make a cup of cocoa as the guidelines suggest. Failing that, walk the dog (if you have one). Deserted streets are, surprisingly, far less daunting than the tomb-like isolation of the bedroom.

Learn to relax. Lying awake all or most of the night isn’t pleasant, but fighting it is worse still. Keep calm and resist throwing back the covers in vengeful anger. Time passes. Slowly, admittedly, but it does pass. As you lie there, cocooned in your warm quilt, listen to the silence and think how peaceful it is. The closest you’ve been to tranquility all day.

The mind is a washing machine on eternal full spin. To stop it or slow it down you need one of two things. Heavy tranquilizers or a course in meditation. As ordinary earthbound mortals, we’re all fleeing the same thing. Dark and sinister tunnels of the mind, opened up in childhood and never quite boarded up again. Insomnia welcomes all these uninvited guests, like the residential home in a Stephen King novel.

As each grim cycle churns over the past and the future for reappraisal, we look for something else to cling to. The most trivial distraction might offer some relief. Television, internet food shopping, football, malt loaf. Anything to take the mind off the revolving drum, the endless permutations that create anxiety and resolve nothing.

Me, I’ll be glad when it’s all over. In fact, as I peer vacantly at the digital clock, I see that , thankfully, it is. Hurrah! I’ve seen in the New Year with eyes wide open and survived with senses intact. My first act will be to throw myself in the local swimming pool to celebrate the end of sloth. The dog-eared manuscript, left in temporary exile in the third drawer down, is next on the list. Maybe I’ve written something that’s salvagable. Whatever the outcome, thank God it’s over. Christmas, that is.

(Originally drafted on New Year’s Eve 2011)