Play Ball

It's that time of year. Baseball season has started. The air is getting warmer. The grass is getting greener. The Boston Red Sox have already had a successful series against the dreaded New York Yankees. Readers of Tangled Roots have often asked me why baseball figures so largely in the book. Well, there are artistic reasons that any American will understand. Baseball may not be the the most watched or most played game in the US, but when it comes to the American psyche, it is definitely America's favourite pastime. There is poetry in that game, in the way it is languid and deliberate, in the way it makes time stand still while pulses race. It is a game of history. A game for statistics nerds. A game where people who look overweight and lazy can still be athletes. It is the ultimate game to bridge generations. And it is the only game that could even come close to making the fragmented family in Tangled Roots whole.

But between you and me, that's not why I spent so much time and energy writing about it. I may sometimes call myself a poet, but writing about Little League baseball and then about the Red Sox' first World Series win in over 80 years was a way for me to write a bit of a love poem to my husband: he who has spent nearly 30 years listening to my fears, supporting my quixotic artistic ventures, going to every concert and reading, believing always that I was, well, talented. D loves baseball. His passion for the Red Sox is blind and abiding. But what he really loves, what he really believes in, is the power that baseball has to change young lives. D is one of the Commissioners of London Baseball, a Little League organization that allows over 650 London kids, from 5 t0 13, play the game. Through baseball he teaches them patience, pride, humility, teamwork and self-belief. Baseball brings out the best in him, and although I tease him about it constantly, and complain when he spends his entire weekend up at Wormwood Scrubs (the fields behind the famous prison) instead of at home with me, I'm very proud of what he does up there with all those kids, and how he lets those kids remind him of who he really is.

So, that's why I wrote, and will probably continue to write, about baseball, because whenever I do, I think of D and know that this is the very least I can do to show him how I feel.

Now here's a poem I wrote about baseball quite a while ago. I hadn't looked at it since it was published back in 2004. It's been kind of fun to drag it out and revisit it. Enjoy, and Happy May Day!

Peanuts and Sugar Cane
after a photograph of
Presidents Carter and Castro (courtesy of Reuters)

A newspaper clipping
tacked on this plastered wall
almost melts away with the years.

Two old men, familiar faces,
wrinkles around their eyes,
hair a shadowed shade of grey.

Two baseball caps, contrasting colors,
despite the black-and-white.
You can imagine them -- blue vs red.

Brims touch.
Fingers poke in defiance.
Yet, they are smiling.

Is it the baseball and
memories of faraway youth?
Or do they smile because

they are together, arguing rules,
straining muscle for muscle,
kicking dirt and pounding leather?

They are enemies, after all.
Their countries hate each other
with long generations of distrust.

A backdrop to my youth,
their threats gave nightmares.
I wake from dreams of incoming missiles, still.

But this photo stays forever on my office wall.
When I see it in the morning, I smile.
For what would baseball be without

peanuts and crackerjacks,
or two old farmers shouting
“play ball”?

Society of Authors and other fantasies

When I began to take my writing "seriously," I was looking around for some sort of organization where I could meet other writers, or at least have access to information.   I called The Society of Authors to be told in not too many words that the Society was only open to people with published books (that might not strictly be the case, but at the time that's what I heard).  Well, that was embarrassing.  And the scars went deep enough to turn the Society into one of my "signposts for success."  When I can be a member of The Society of Authors, then I will have made it, I thought. The funny thing is that I didn't think I would be eligible for membership with the publication of my poetry play, Dreams of May.  I wouldn't allow myself to apply until I had published a novel.  What that's all about I'd rather not go into.  But after Tangled Roots came out last year, joining The Society was one of the first things I did.  And last night I even went to their Spring Reception.  It was full of publishers and agents, all of whom had green name tags as opposed to the writers' white ones.  It took two glasses of wine before I could muster up the courage to seek out a green badge and introduce myself.  As it happens, the green badge I spoke with was the Amazon representative who told me all about their print-on-demand scheme in the States and how that is turning out to be THE way that small presses are able to distribute their books in the US.  Interesting.  Something to think about.  For those of you interested, it is found at www.booksearch.com.  Some might think that not talking to any of those agents who were standing around like sitting ducks, so to speak, was a missed opportunity.  Oh well.  I was having too good a time catching up with Sarah Salway, and meeting for the first time, Emma Darwin.  And I must admit, it was a thrill to stand there and listen to Margaret Drabble speak about how all those green badges must remember that we the white badges are the ones who make their jobs possible.  Of course, she was extremely diplomatic but her point was clear, as was the fact that I was suddenly one of the "we" she was referring to.

All this has made me think about the silly signposts I have thrust upon myself.  Of course, when I first started writing and publishing in magazines, my goals were different than what they are now.  I'd like to think that moving "signposts of success" show some sort of progress, although I fear they only show a lack of confidence and misplaced energy.  But it's still fun (though maybe not exactly full of mental health).  So here is a new meme for anyone interested.  What are your fantasy signposts for success?  In your wildest fantasies, what needs to happen for you to be able to say to yourself, "Well, I've made it."  I'll start:

* To be asked to sit on a panel at Hay-on-Wye

* To have my work translated into at least 2 foreign languages (preferably one being totally obscure, like Uighur)

* To give a talk and book signing at Shakespeare and Company in Paris, a la Ethan Hawke in "Before Sunset"

        * To have one of my novels made into a film (I'll save going to the Oscars for my next signpost movement).

So who's next?

Bob Dylan and Moleskines

Two things I love...well, actually, one thing and one person. First, the thing. Remember I wrote here about my disappointment at not being able to buy Moleskine journals at the Moleskine stall of the London Book Fair? Well, it all got to be a bit too much so I went on the internet and bought two. And here they are. Aren't they lovely? The larger one is a replacement for the one that I keep as a diary and which is soon to be full of my fevered late night/early morning scribblings. But I'm most excited about the pocket size one, perfect to fit into my handbag, red and so quite visible and not, I must say, made of the skins of moles (the fact that they are both leather and so probably mean they are made of something else's skin is a fact better left unmentioned). But now maybe I'll write down all the crazy things that go through my head when I'm "at large." Sure, I've always kept a small notebook with me, but this one is so much more fun to use. Aah......

And now for number two. At the last minute, a dear friend called to say she had a spare ticket to last night's Bob Dylan concert at the Roundhouse, and did I want to go? Did I want to go, she asked. Silly. So we went even though it meant standing, which was much less of a bother than we had thought. Dylan was wonderful. Better, I think, than he was the last time I saw him two years ago at Wembley Stadium. That time he seemed somehow tired and sullen. But this time he was bouncy, smiley, full of energy. He played lots from his new album which will obviously be a must buy. But he also did a lot of what I call "guess the song." I love this actually. He takes an old song, and as if it were a poem, he changes the "line breaks," eliding words which you wouldn't expect to be elided, changing cadences and rhythms so that it is both an old and a new song at once. Fantastic. Plus, I love going to a concert where the artist, and most of the audience, is even older than I am. It's all so civilized. Dylan comes out without an annoying warm-up band at 8.00, plays his concert, finishes at 10.00, we all go home and are safely tucked away in our little beds by 10.30. Perfect! Here's a clip I found on Youtube of the concert he played the night before. Gotta' love the white hat, too.

What a Week!

Phew....Monday, I was in Brighton discussing the ins and outs of teaching creative writing in schools with the terrific people from New Writing South. I'm really looking forward to doing some teaching for them.  I haven't done enough lately.  And I loved the way they told us "Remember, you are there as a writer, not as a teacher. You should not be in the room alone with the kids."  Actually, there are all sorts of important insurance and legal reasons why that's true, but it is also reassuring to know that my job would never be to maintain discipline in a school room of who-knows-how-many kids.  I have had to do that before from time to time, and let's just say that it's a lot more fun for everyone involved if I don't have to.

Tuesday was a writing day. Unbelievable.  There just haven't been enough of those lately.  I started by looking at the first chapter of the new novel in preparation for writing the last two chapters and thinking --yikes, this is thin.  The whole thing felt rushed and superficial, so I sat down and "padded", adding internal thoughts here, descriptions there.  Not what I thought I would be doing on Tuesday, but great progress and much needed.  I find editing my own stuff nearly impossible (thank God for my "trusted" readers who can see things much more clearly than I ever can).  I just can never tell whether anything works or not.  Either it's amazingly brilliant (what I think within 5 minutes of finishing), or it's the most abominable shite ever (which is what I think most of the rest of the time).  I know in my head the truth lies somewhere in the middle but I find it so hard to see.  So Tuesday was a good writing day for me.

Wednesday was all about the London Book Fair, as I described here.

Thursday I spent reading submissions to CurvingRoad's Call for New Play Submissions.  It's amazing how many submissions we've received.  The quality is very wide ranging and I'm finding that I can tell within a couple of pages whether the piece, or the writer, is ready to go. But we have some hard decisions looming ahead of us -- hard but exciting.

All of which brings us to today. Nearly a year ago I arranged to speak at a meeting of a local women's group about Tangled Roots.  Time passed and I didn't think much about it.  In the meantime I've spoken at several book groups and I find that it is something I very much enjoy doing.  It's amazing to sit in a room with interested people and have to describe, and sometimes, defend your work.  Then last week it dawned on me that this meeting was approaching and I got back in touch with the coordinator to discuss what they might want from me and what I might expect.  Her answer was that I should expect a room full of between

45 and 50 people, most of whom should already have read the book.  45-50 people!  Yikes!  That's like the Beatles in Shea Stadium! (apologies to my facebook friends for repeating this joke...). I couldn't believe it.  Suddenly I was going from sitting around a table drinking coffee and chatting, to standing at a lectern and giving "prepared remarks."  So I prepared

and prepared and prepared, and by the time I got there this morning, I was a wee bit nervous. 

Silly me.  No, there weren't fifty people there.  There were more like fifteen.  And no, not everyone had read the book.  Actually, none of them had.  But you know, it just didn't matter.  I gave my talk about the history of Tangled Roots, the decade it took me to write it, how it's really two novels woven into one.  I read lots of passages.  And as I looked around the room, people were smiling, nodding their heads.  Some had closed eyes as they listened to me read.  Others actually took notes.  It was terrific. And then they couldn't stop asking questions.  They asked:

* How much is autobiographical?

* How long did it take to get published and what's that process like?

* How did you know that John had to be a physicist and how did you do the research?

* Is it easier writing your second novel?

* Do you wait for inspiration or do you sit down to it like a job?

I tell you, there was nothing disappointing about it.  Alright, so I came thinking I would be Paul fighting my way through the crowd and ended up being, well, just me shyly smiling

 behind a table.  But reality isn't necessarily worse than fantasy, and I had a marvellous time talking about my work to a group of readers, 

people I had never known before and who now are eager to go out and buy my book and read my work (or so they say -- well, might as well believe them).  And when I look back on this week in April, I have to admit, I sure seem to be leading the lit'ry life I had dreamed of.  Not bad at all.

A Report on the Fair

Imagine a huge empty space. No, imagine two huge empty spaces connected by a wide corridor. Then fill the space with colourful banners hanging from the ceiling, a Manhattanesque grid of row upon row of "stalls", each with it's own colourful banners, walls of books, little round tables and wooden chairs for those all-important tete-a-tetes. Then fill the space with the widest range of people imaginable, all languages, all modes of dress, some meandering around lost in a blur, some striding purposefully talking on their mobiles. Got it? Then place me smack in the middle, turning around and around and wondering what am I doing here? That, in essence, is the London Book Fair. Make no mistake, this is a trade fair, THE trade fair for the publishing industry, and although they have made room for organizations like the British Council, PEN, Authors House where anyone can go and listen to lectures on everything from cooking demonstrations to publishing in the digital age, the real reason to go is to do deals. Agents meet with publishers. Publishers meet with book sellers. And the role of the author is minimal, unless you are the intrepid type who endeavors to sell your own wares. So, it would have been very easy for me to walk in, ramble up and down the aisles for an hour never talking to anyone, and then walk out again.

Yet it was more than that for me, but for a reason that had little to do with the fair itself. The fair, actually, turned out just to be an excuse to meet up with some people I have come to know through blogging. And THAT was fantastic. The London Book Fair gave me the chance to spend a few hours with DJ ( a fellow bluechromer), and the "Novel Racers," JJ, Helen and Leigh. We wandered around getting lost. We descended upon the Moleskine booth only to be told we absolutely could not buy anything -- a huge disappointment, and a crazy missed opportunity for the Moleskine people. We ate very mediocre sandwiches and drank too much coffee. One of us had a beer :-) But it was great fun, and for me, a real thrill to meet some of these people whom I feel I have come to know a bit through their blogs. We are all either taller or shorter than we had imagined, but otherwise I felt like I was among friends, real friends, and that in itself is the greatest advert for the Fair. I suppose we all could have met in a museum or a pub, but it is the Fair that brought us all together and gave us the chance to talk nonsense and talk shop.

Oh, and there was one more thing....One of the exhibits there was the "New Title Showcase." A huge wall of books, all prominently displayed face forward, all listed in a catalogue complete with a blurb about the book, the author, the publisher, contact details etc. When I found out that it was being organized I had to decide whether I would want to take part. I knew it would be down to me to arrange for it and to pay for it, and it wasn't at all clear whether it would drum up any business for Tangled Roots or do any good at all. But I knew myself well enough to know that if my little book wasn't there, I'd kick myself. So I filled out the form, sent my check

and a copy of the book and wondered what would happen. Well, it was a thrill (maybe I'm easily thrilled) and you can see me there, standing in front of my book prominently displayed on it's shelf (the helpful man even brought it down a shelf so it would be easier to photograph). JJ herself took the picture, and then later I forced everyone else to go take a look. So, yes, that was exciting, as was the fact that I spent the day walking around with a badge clipped to my chest that said "Sue Guiney: Author." Like I said, I'm easily thrilled.

So I suppose, like so many other things, the London Book Fair was terrific but for different reasons than I would have thought. And you know, there really was no need for me, or any of us, ever to feel intimidated by it. If you're interested in writing and you happen to be in London, by all means go. But arrange to meet up with your friends, and don't go hungry!

Paris, Honestly

Well, Paris was all it had ever been, will ever be for me. We walked a lot, we ate too much, we were happy despite the rain and the white Londonesque skies. There isn't much I could say that I haven't already said in a poem that I wrote a few years ago and features rather prominently early on in my poetry play Dreams of May. So rather than ramble on prosaicly, I thought I'd just show it to you here.

The Honesty Bar

There was an honesty bar
in the little hotel
at the back of the Place des Vosges.

Take what you want, sign your name.
The offerings were tantalizing:
two bottles of wine, three kinds of whisky,
liqueurs I didn’t recognize.

But honestly, I wanted Pernod,
wanted to sit with a glass smelling of liquorice,
pour water in and watch the world become a cloud.

To be really honest . . .
I wanted absinthe, whatever that it is,
illegal, I think, liquid opium, maybe,
that drink destitute Parisian writers shared
with bohemian women, a drink
to be afraid of, to speak French to
within a cloud of smoke.

I wanted to walk into the Place at night,
a little worse for wear,
and hear footfalls of horses on cobbled streets,

to see shadows of lovers beneath distant lamplights,
be the shadow of a lover beneath a distant lamplight,

wear a turban
and a slit up the side of my dress,
fishnet stockings and heels like poison-tipped arrows,

to sip absinthe within a surreal haze
and be lost within a romantic age.

Honestly, that’s what I wanted.

April In Paris

One of the biggest perks about living in London is that, supposedly, I can go to Paris at the drop of a hat. If you live in New York and sit on a train for a couple of hours, the best you can do is Philadelphia. I don't mean to cast aspersions on the City of Brotherly Love but, really, Paris it ain't. But of course, here I sit in London and although I have been doing quite a bit of travelling lately, I haven't been to Paris in two years. Two years! That's a sin, in my book. But now I'm going. Friday morning I board the Eurostar for a lovely, Spring weekend in Paris, just me and the little husband. The dinner reservations have been made. I can taste the Pernod already.

The timing couldn't be better because next week looks to be a doozie. On Monday, I'm in Brighton at a meeting of a the New Writing South Creative Team to which I have recently been accepted. New Writing South is a charity which sends writers into schools and businesses to run workshops on everything from poetry to playwriting. Being a part of it will give me more chances to teach, which I love, and to meet other British writers outside of London. And then the rest of the week is devoted to the London Book Fair. Last year I didn't go. I was much too intimidated and nervous. This year, I am just as intimidated and just as nervous, but I'm going anyway. What a difference a year makes, eh? I'll report back on how that goes.

But first, Paris. And just to get us all in the mood......

"Writing Therapy," by Tim Atkinson

Sitting in the middle of my tbr pile was the novel, Writing Therapy, by Tim Atkinson. I knew nothing about it except that it was written by my blogging friend otherwise known as The Dotterel . But the cover has a picture of an old "Imperial Model T" typewriter on it, and I have a thing about old typewriters, so I found myself first picking up the book, looking at it, turning it over and then without realizing it, starting to read. And then I couldn't stop. This is a novel the likes of which I haven't seen in a very long time. It is a story with real characters, written in beautiful prose, full of important ideas, but also structurally interesting. It is self-referential in a way that you don't see these days. With each page I got more and more absorbed and delighted, and felt like I had to tell all of you about it.

Frances Nolan (or is she Sophie Western?) suffers from a literary delusion: she believes she is the central character in a novel she is writing. Within the walls of the adolescent psychiatric clinic where she has been admitted to help her recover from her depression and violence, she throws herself into a new style of treatment called Writing Therapy which she pursues even against doctor's orders. Can writing cure a teenage girl whose problem has been too much reading? As she experiments with different narratives the true nature of her problem becomes clear. She is caught within a struggle for control of her own life and destiny as expressed through the writing of her own life story. The novel itself, the one written by Atkinson, weaves in and out of the novel being written by Frances. As a writer, this is no mean feat, but Atkinson handles it so adroitly that the reader never stumbles. The voices of all the characters are so clear that you always know where you are and who you are with. As time goes by and Frances heads towards her own "cure," you become caught up in the struggles not only of the other patients, but also of the adults who are there supposedly to help cure them.

It's not often that I finish a book and sit there saying to myself, "where did this come from?" But I did with Writing Therapy, and thanks to the wonders of blogland, I was able to contact the author himself and ask him. Here is a man writing convincingly in the voice of a teenage girl locked within the prison of a soon-to-become obsolete psychiatric unit. How did he do it? And why?

"I was keen to do something to raise awareness of teenage mental-health, having worked (though not in such a hospital) with troubled teenagers for years," Atkinson explained. "I've visited such places in the course of my career as a teacher (with responsibility for pupil welfare) and attended many, many case conferences. So I had a pretty good idea of what the mental-health professionals would be like. As for the patients, more and more of the pupils who came my way each year were suffering in some way: school refusing, eating disorders, self-harm and worse. Not only was I shocked by the rise but I was also concerned by the continued stigma. What schools (and other kids) often don't see is the happy ending to such stories. I'm fortunate to have kept in touch with a few of the 'successes' and in some ways Writing Therapy is a testament to them. But there are also those for whom the system doesn't work, and some of my royalties are going to the charity, Young Minds . Finally, I suppose (like many people) I had always wanted to write a book. But at the same time I didn't want to write a book like all the others. (You must know that feeling?) And the more I looked into the craft of writing, the more the workings of the writer seemed to flow into the novel, which seemed appropriate."

To me, both as a writer and a reader, this was fascinating stuff. At one point Frances/Sophie explains the nugget of the issue to her nurse, Will, and she says it better than I could:

"I mean that no one knows what's really real now, do they? No one knows which bits are fact and which are fiction any more. No one knows what I'm reporting or inventing."

Writing Therapy is about a person creating a personalty, a child creating their adult self, a writer creating a work of fiction, a character creating a future. It is simply wonderful and you can buy it here .

Christians and Jews

This is prime religious season for us Guineys.  Passover and Easter all coming together at once -- a seder Saturday night, Easter dinner on Sunday.  I'm sure this might seem weird to many, especially since we have kids. When D and I got married and decided we would practice both religions and raise our kids as both, we were met with varying degrees of skepticism, if not outrage.  I always use this time of year to take a quick look at how we have managed this admittedly iconoclastic approach to religion, and I'm pleased to say that, perhaps against all odds, it has worked.  It has worked well for D and I individually, and has worked well for the kids.  Each of them feels comfortable with each religion and its community. Each kid considers himself to have a spiritual side to his nature and is eager to ask the "big questions." And perhaps most importantly of all, each kid has grown up to be tolerant of others, open to different ways of thinking, and respectful of this incredibly diverse world we live in.   As we all know, the Last Supper was a Seder, and although paths might have diverged over time, many of us come from the same stock. This is a good moment to remember that.

So why am I bothering to ramble on about this?  Maybe because I can.  Maybe because I have lived my life in the belief that life can be lived my own 

way.  Maybe because as professional parts of my life ebb and flow, almost always surrounded by frustration and discouragement, at this time of year more than any other I can sit back and say that there is one hard decision that I made well.  One subversive strike which has paid off.  Two enormous (over 6 foot tall)

creations which have made the world a better place.  Of course, I'm not advocating this for everyone or even anyone.  It's just nice to think every now and again that perhaps one of the most difficult and controversial decisions of my life has turned out well.

Wishing everyone a Happy Passover, a Happy Easter, a Happy whatever-you-might-be-thinking about this weekend.  

Peace.

Stopping Off and Staying a While, Rounding Up and Settling Down

Today is the last stop on the "Space-Time Tour" for a while.  I'll be hanging around with Elizabeth Baines, herself a most wonderful writer, and talking about the relationship between music and language.  I don't actually talk about music all that much so this gave me a great chance to think about something that has been simmering on the back burner my whole life.  Do take a look. 

While we're taking a rest until we visit Nik Jones' place at the end of the month, feel free to check out any of the previous stops you might have missed:

Chez Aspie where the tour was launched

Jamieson Wolf who spent a week asking all sorts of questions and then talked about The Book Movie

Tea Stains where we discussed the connection between art and science, and the importance of place in my writing

Trixie on the Hunt where I was forced to divulge what makes me tick

The Dotterel where we did some serious untangling

Tania Writes where we get into the mind of the scientist *Big News: Tania was just mentioned as a Commendation for The 2009 Orange Prize!*

BT-The Crafty Gardener where we talked a lot about Russia

While I have music on my mind, here's a little lazy something to ramble away with....

Going Back to the Big Bang

It's hard to believe, but we are embarking on Week 3 of the "Tangled Roots Space-Time Tour." Today's stop is over at BT's place where we'll be discussing writing about Russia and the origins of the character of Grace.  BT is not a writer herself, and so to hear her questions and get her reactions is a quite a treat!

But to get us in the mood, I thought I'd share with you the first part of the special that Joao Magueijo made for The Science Channel called "Joao Magueijo's Big Bang."  I think it helps to show why the poet in me couldn't help but write about cosmology, and why even after spending years of my life thinking and writing about it, it still fascinates me.  Joao was kind enough to meet with me while I was researching "Tangled Roots."  If you watch this first part of the series (the rest can be found on YouTube here), I think you'll see why I've found it all so compelling.

Filling in the Blanks with Milan Kundera

While answering all these incredibly probing questions that have been launched at me on the "Space-Time Tour," I've also been catching up on my reading.  My "tbr" pile is huge, of course.  But I love the way it's filled with books written by people I now can call friends -- Caroline Smailes, DJ Kirkby, Tim Atkinson, Christopher King, Andrew McGuiness, Erik Ryman, Katy Evans-Bush, Fiona Robyn.  And that list will grow, I know, over the next few months.  But for various reasons -- mostly having to do with Number 2 Son hounding me that I had promised over a year ago to discuss this book with him -- I set aside the work of my friends and read one of my "fill in the blanks" books, ie a book that I've been meaning to read for years but never got around to.  This time it was Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

There is so much to say about this novel.  It is certainly a milestone of sorts in the corpus of modern European literature.  It is a "novel" of the mind in that is more about concepts than characters and is peopled with characters whose lives serve to explore Kundera's ideas of the nature of existence, the political definition of "kitsch", the role of the individiual within an historical context.  And it is brilliantly self-referential.  It talks about the novel as an existing entity outside of itself, and as a novelist, I found this fascinating.  For example, he digresses from his story to explain:

As I have pointed out before, characters are not born like people, of woman; they are born of a situation, a sentence, a metaphor containing in a nutshell a basic human possibility that the author thinks no one else has discovered or said something essential about.

Reading that caused me to drop the book into my lap and just stare off in amazement.  Yes, I have stumbled upon my characters in such a way and yes, in my most solitary moments I have even dared to think that I have had the need, if not the ability, to say something essential about a human possibility.  But I must be honest.  After picking the book back up to carry on with my reading, one more idea stopped me in my tracks, namely: ah, but could such a thing ever get published now?  If a writer without a pre-existing huge reputation dared not only to write such a conceptual novel but also to send it off to an agent or publisher, would anyone in today's climate pay any attention?  Would anyone in the industry dare to publish it?  I can hear my own publisher screaming into the computer screen, "Yes, yes I would!"  But the original 1984 edition of this work was published not by a small daring literary press, but by one of "the biggies."  And if those publishers today would cast it aside, as they may well be doing time and time again with other new "off-piste" work, then what does that say about the future of literature?  I don't know.....just a thought.....any comments?

While my head is in the clouds, I thought I'd also let you know what next week's tour stops will be.  Join me on Monday, 6 April for some discussion about Russia and structure over at The Crafty Gardener. Then on Wednesday, 8 April, Elizabeth Baines will be hosting me for some down and dirty discussions about technique and writing what you know (or not).

Until then, have a great weekend everyone!

Parallel Journeys

While I've been flitting around the cosmos, another more earth-bound journey has been happening chez Guiney. It actually started more than a year ago as I described here. This is the time of year when kids applying to American universities find out where they have and haven't been accepted, what their fates will be for this next stage of their education.  It's been a stressful time, as you can imagine.  Being an American-raised parent raising her own children in Britain, I have seen the best and worst of both systems.  The pressure that these kids is put under is horrifying for a parent to watch, and as I discussed over at Trixie's place, I do have a rather wide subversive streak that at times urged me to scupper the whole thing.  But I held my piece, let the boy get on with it, and I am now absolutely thrilled to be able to say that last night was a big night for Number 2 Son. He learned that he has been accepted to the ivy-covered halls of his dreams!  Needless to say, we're all thrilled and in hyper-celebratory mode.  But for me, the most important moment of all came when, just before we were all finally able to go to bed, he turned to us and said "It's so nice to know that all that hard work paid off and wasn't for nothing."  Those of us who have been around the track a few times (and especially those of us who are writers) know only too well that the opposite lesson could just as easily have be learned.  The world is not always a meritocracy, and the game of craps gets played with our futures a little too often for my liking.  I do know that there are wonderful kids out there whose hearts' desire were not filled last night, and I am equally proud of my son when he himself, in the midst of his own celebration, was able to think about, worry about and care for his friends. Lots of lessons to be learned here, I think.

And that leads me seamlessly to my next stop on the "Space-Time Tour" which happens hovering over Jerusalem tomorrow at Tania Writes.  I love Tania's work.  Her short stories are fabulous.  And it didn't surprise me to find that the questions she asked of me were very probing and insightful.  There'll be more discussion about what we learn from others,

 specifically from the characters we create, over there tomorrow.  Hope you can drop by.

And here's another reminder of previous stops you might have missed:

Chez Aspie, Jamieson Wolf, Tea-Stains, Trixie-on-the-Hunt, The Dotterel.

That's all from me today, in a happy, tired and somewhat pensive mood.