One about writing and the Word Factory (with some shameless name-dropping)

“So when did you start writing seriously?” someone asked the other day.  Drawing a veil over the ‘novel’ I began when I was around fourteen, dealing with the invasion of the UK by Germany during WW2 (move over Robert Harris), I suppose it was when a friend and I began what we called The Comic, but could probably be better described as Fan Fiction.  I do not propose to speak a word about what went on in The Comic, but we then progressed to writing a novel based entirely on multiple choice.  As I recall, we were on a rowing boat on Regent’s Park lake when we began mapping it out thus:

1.  It is set in a) 20th century b) ancient Rome c) Medieval Tymes.  (We chose c).

2.  The hero is called a) Dickon b) Robin c) PanPot.  (None of those, though Robin did end up as a subsidiary character.)

You can probably imagine the rest.  We loved writing it, even though it was shite.  Never ones for much research at that time, we decided one character needed a wheelchair and duly ‘invented’ it.  The anti-hero was a necromancer, so it was pretty easy for him to do (his name was Gui, in case you’re wondering).

Then I went to India for 6 weeks, my first time travelling alone.  A couple of years later, I saw that Bill Bryson, whose writing I love, was the judge for the Time Out Travel Writer of the Year competition.  “What the hell?” I thought and entered with a piece about a 24-hour bus journey from Delhi to Manali.  Dear Reader, I won.  The prize was a round-the-world air ticket and a posh camera that I dropped in the Okavango Delta whilst escaping from a hippo.

Still,, I never seriously considered writing as an option, although I did a lot of freelance pieces for newspapers and magazines, mainly about travel, sometimes not.  Not even when my then-flatmate (name-drop alert) Michael Grandage wrote me a letter – yes, we did write letters then – to say: “I’ve just seen three people on the tube reading your article.  I wanted to shout ‘I know her!’  It’s brilliant.  Be a writer.  Why would anyone want to be a poxy actor anyway?”  Michael, as we know, gave up being a poxy actor and pretty much took over the world as a director.

Still I didn’t consider it as an option.  I loved being a poxy actor, I still do, though have diversified quite dramatically into all sorts of other things.

And then I wrote a novel.   One that I think is good enough to be out there (and which is currently being read in its entirety by two agents), and that is not based on a multiple-choice scenario.  And I met other writers, all incredibly generous with their time and advice.  One is Stella Duffy (name-drop alert 2) and she introduced me to the Word Factory one Saturday night at the end of January, where she was reading one of her short stories.

Now, I’ve never really got short stories.  I mean, I like them and all, but offer me a novel instead and I will take it.  But the Word Factory showed me what short stories could be.  This is what the website says:

“In the beginning was the Word Factory – a series of intimate short story salons bringing brilliant writers and readers together for wine, conversation and great work.”

And when it says “brilliant writers” it isn’t kidding.  Since January I’ve heard Val McDermid, Toby Litt, Alex Preston, Evie Wyld, Vanessa Gebbie and more read their fantastic stories.  And if that weren’t enough (for £12 including a glass of wine), you can also go to the free Short Story Club for an hour before the salon.  Each month, clubbers are sent a story which we then discuss, fairly politely.  I’ve been introduced to George Saunders and Flannery O’Connor thanks to the Short Story Club, and can’t believe I’d not read them before.  And as if THAT weren’t enough, there are Masterclasses to sign up to on the Saturday afternoon.

I love the Word Factory.  It is welcoming, friendly and relaxed and that’s thanks to the organisers – Cathy Galvin, Paul McVeigh and team – and I always come out of a salon inspired to write more, write better.  Every writer needs a Word Factory in their life.  And the wine is excellent.


All creatures will make merry

Fantastic piece on the Tories’ latest masterplan to take benefits away from those with mental health issues.

It's not the despair

You can tell three things about whoever thought it might be a good idea to take away benefits for unemployed people who refuse therapy for depression.

First, they have never been unemployed. Second, they have never been depressed. Third, they have never been unemployed and depressed.

Since I have, I’m here to tell you: it doesn’t work that way. Unemployment makes you depressed, even if you weren’t depressed. Unemployment makes depression worse, if you’re prone to it. Unemployment and depression is a dark spiral in which your diminishing self worth is constantly attacked by the evidence around you of your failure. Failure to work, failure to stop being depressed. Failure all round.

Another reason I can tell whichever person scribbled this fag packet proposal down has never been through depression is that you can’t just get therapy. You get put onto a waiting list. Depending on your postcode…

View original post 366 more words

Songs without words

I was doing OK. I hadn’t cried. No emotional involvement, lots of interaction and smiling. But there was this one woman, well-dressed and beaming, not that old. She didn’t sing along but she was loving the music. Next to her was a younger woman (her daughter, as I later found out – the lady had only been moved to the home days before). She was holding her mother’s hand and smiling at her whilst tears poured and poured down her face. I had to walk away and do an impromptu tango in the middle of the room.

Lost Chord is a charity which uses music to increase awareness and self-esteem in dementia sufferers. Dementia is without doubt one of the most devastating diseases of our century. The training day for Lost Chord took place in Nightingale House, a Jewish residential home, beautifully-maintained, full of care and consideration. Any of those residents could have been my relatives. One man remembered the bakery our family used to own in Edgware. I was physically and emotionally drained at the end of the day, and pretty nervous about how my first tour was going to go. So I planned. Oh, I planned. Hours of shuffling music around, putting medleys together, discarding, adding and also borrowing bits of percussion from all over the place.

We had four gigs booked for one day, scattered over Suffolk. Four care homes, all with different rooms and acoustics, all with residents of differing stages of the illness. In one home a budgie in a cage sang along with me. I wanted to let it out and set it free – I hate seeing caged birds. And what a cliche that turns out to be. The lovely residents, many of whom danced and clapped and shook maracas or sleighbells were as caged as the budgie, trapped in an illness that has no cure, only a slow decline of every faculty you have.

The room was a mixture of early and late-stage dementia and probably the most challenging of the four gigs – around 40 people (plus staff and visitors), and the Lost Chord ethos is that you interact with each one of them, pretty much all through the hour-long concert.  So I ended up doing laps, making sure I didn’t miss anyone out and if they can’t move or dance, you hold their hands, kneeling down in front of them and making the strongest connection possible.  There were two men, one maybe late 60s, the other a lot older.  They both held toys.  The younger man had a stuffed tiger, the older one a plastic doll.  They cuddled them like children, they held them as protection and perhaps as the last thing left to them, either in reality or wherever they were in their memories.

I wanted very badly to engage these two fractured men.  None of the songs I’d done so far (mixing up show songs, bit of classical, bit of Elvis) seemed to touch them.  Then I played the mastercard – a World War 1 medley I’d pretty much cobbled together the night before.  I’ve avoided WW1 songs in all my other seniors sessions – it feels patronising to go ‘oh you’ll love this’.  Why would they?  Most of them weren’t even born then.  One brilliant woman said when I rolled up at a session in Borehamwood “Please don’t give us any of that war rubbish – we’re bored to the back teeth with Vera Lynn,” so they get Elvis, Bill Haley, the Rat Pack and Barry Manilow.  This was different.  I started with Tipperary and the room lit up.  Everyone was clapping, smiling and singing.  I homed in on the man with the tiger.  He almost smiled.  He started to mouth the words. I stayed with him for the rest of the song.  Then I went to the back where the man and his doll were.  I knelt beside him, sang “If You were the Only Girl.”  And he looked at me, and began to mouth the words.  It was the same in all four homes – those were the songs that did it.  I was talking to my mother about it afterwards and she said, “But all those songs were in films when we were children.  Their parents probably sang those songs to them.”

So what happens to our generation?  What songs will we get?  Blur, Adele, Elton John?  What are the songs that bind us, that will make a room a place of collective joy.

There are countless studies being done on the effect of music on people with dementia and Alzheimers.  It’s a bit of a thing at the moment, lots of money being earmarked, and that’s brilliant.  And everyone wants to do their own thing, have their own spin and that’s brilliant too.  But Lost Chord has pinpointed the thing that matters most.  These are individuals – they had lives, joys, loves and griefs.  They had more stories than we can ever know.  They sit with dolls and toys and their thoughts are god knows where.  But when I knelt beside them, and held their hands and sang into their eyes, they lived joyously within that instant, if only for that instant.