Lessons for Hippies

I say goodbye. To the iridescent water. To the red squat succulents spread all over the hill. To the fortresses high above and the rocky architraves over the water. To glowing sunsets every night, cool sand between my toes. To chestnut red beers and tangy goat cheese; rosé and my crappy straw hat. To the sounds of tent zippers and our raucous teens on the beach, waves riffing the sand and almost washing thought away.

A long drive across the top of Corsica to the ferry and the Italians are driving me nuts at the port. All lined up preening, checking out each other's tatts and tans. It's a hundred degrees.

And then - as a vision - three divine-looking shirtless German guys ride up on motorbikes and my stomach does a turn. Older guys, sharp faces. Probably gays. Gorgeous.

They have this red-headed hippie momma narrowing her eyes under her hat.

Then I am revving the car on board the mammoth ferry, into her bowels on rattering iron ramps studded with bolts and thick yellow paint. It's a furnace. You can't help thinking of the Costa Concordia lurching over, water spilling at you horizontally.

But I love ferries. Vessels. Hulls. Sails

My son finds a seat next to an older tanned Italian couple with a bulldog playing with a lime green plastic ball. Everywhere I look there is patterned carpet. Screaming kids. A low ceiling with silver ridges. This hippie momma shakes her head.

I go upstairs to find the Germans. They will be somewhere and I can study them from afar. Or perhaps I can ask them for a fruit knife. A woman can always ask for a fruit knife. And a European man will always have one.

And there they are. They are not like Italians talking incessantly, or badgering their children, or stretching out their bodies for the edges of the sun. They are plonked on deckchairs reading hefty books, one of them is sleeping.


I sit down on the rusty deck painted bright blue, the same blue as my nailpolish. I bunch up my bag and pull my hat over my head. I fall asleep remembering all the times I have slept on the ground in faraway places, usually with a belly ache clutching a sleeping child and a bag of travel documents.

This is the quote from John Burnside's introduction to his wife Iris Murdoch's mesmerising book, The Sea, The Sea. I have read these words endlessly, running my tongue over them, smelling them. 

The temptation to withdraw, to achieve a seeming detachment, to be above or beyond the cacophony of 'the world' may be an attractive one, but it usually has nothing to do with a spiritual path, or - the search for wisdom, or  heaven help us - saintliness. To practise detachment one must be in the world, in the chaos of emotions and needs and conflicts that make up ordinary life. If that world is sometimes disappointing, so be it: a just life is one that must be lived in the midst of disappointment. Withdrawal can provide the illusion of perfection - self-governance, order, a quietist's idea of peace - but it is not, for most us, worthwhile. The example of the saints, of the Bodhisattvas, of the Sufi masters, is that mere withdrawal from confusion and misery is not enough; how can I enjoy my peace, if others are confused, hurt and in need. What distinguishes the Bodhisattva is the decision not to leave the circle until all sentient beings attain enlightenment; the saint who has shed the illusions of the world returns to that same world in order to assist others. This return is not that of a cool, detached, superior being; it is a return to the thick of things, to the chaos and pit of the human condition. To accept imperfection - this is the key. To engage, with compassion, in the serious game of being, is the only acceptable choice.

I don't need a Kindle I have a Leopard Print Bikini

There comes a time in some women's lives when we reach the leopard print age. I will never forget one of the secretaries in my ex's old office (she used him as a screen saver, sweet bird of youth) who wore swanky leopard print jumpsuits to work, jangly earrings, lots of eyeliner and big hair. She walked as if working were beneath her, and it was a chore for her to answer the phone (difficult with those talons too). Her face used to light up with an eyelid-batting smile when my then husband's face popped around the door. It firmed up again when I was ushered in with a sweaty kid on my hip.

Leopard print. How late-forties. How I-wanna-be-jungle-while-I-still-think-I-can.

And now readers this unfortunate writer has to confess she bought a bitty leopard print bikini last week. It was grabbed and thrown in the basket. Cheap and the only one in her size, while shopaholic daughter pored through shreds of this and palm trees on that.

Whoosh. Catherine joins the leopard print club. Oh dear.

So now I've been packing my bag for the annual camping trip, holding it up in the air, wondering what was I thinking? Have I joined the ranks of Kris Jenner and Sharon Osborne? Move over Joan Collins?

How daft. I can already see myself laughing - at myself - while backstroking over the waves.

But reader wait. For this is not a post about leopard print bikinis. It is a serious post about not-having-a-Kindle-but-a-big-suitcase. And driving such a long long way that when I get there I want to pull out my stash of paperbacks on the lazy susan and decide which one I want to read first. Can you believe I was contemplating bringing a computer? A manuscript? Naaaah. Here's my pile:

Iris Murdoch The Sea, The Sea - my prezzie from a best mate
Simon Van Booy (short stories) Love Begins in Winter - read it was a prizewinner, ordered it
Margaret Laurence (short stories) This Side Jordan - Ghana in the 50s. Will this be an expat romp or some insightful writing?
Esi Edugyan Half Blood Blues - Haven't read the hype because I wanted to go there myself
Roelof Bakker, editor (short stories) Still - with 'still' photographs too
Nikki Gemmell With My Body - lashing of sex I expect
Hazel Rowley Tete à Tete - The Lives and Loves of Simone de Beauvoir & Jean-Paul Sartre. Because I can't let go of this couple and HR was a wondrous biographer

So when you see this skinny chick in a leopard print bikini, fretting for her towel and hat, don't feel sorry for her and think she's lost the plot - because she has a feast of plots back in the tent.


What about you? I love snooping on other people's reading lists.

Return to Penzance or How to Write a Novel in a Chicken Shed

I returned. Another book, another festival. Some of you might remember a certain impoverished author doing a ten-hour bus trip from London to Cornwall with a purple hat and a stash of bookmarks. A certain author who didn't knock over the water jug or uncross her legs on the stage while she rattled on about her book. A certain author who ran into a fully embellished Johnny Depp/Keith Richards in the street and garbled, Are you a pirate?

It was glorious. Okay the bus trip was punishing but the weather - constant topic of conversation on this fair isle - was glorious. Oh yes, and the Penzance Literary Festival was even bigger and more stimulating than last year, with almost a hundred events spread over the windswept hilly town.

Though I missed the first two days (and the opening talk with sassy Damian Barr!) I did see Festival Patron Patrick Gale interview the somewhat haunting Sally Vickers and, like last year, heard the luminous Bookshop Band - this time from up in the stalls with a pint of Cornish Bitter. There were events for all: poetry readings, books inspired by local history, workshops for writers, sessions on crime, poetry, romance, publishing. I particularly enjoyed Kari Herbert's talk about her book 'Polar Wives', being quite an explorer-freak (reared on tales of the European explorers who ventured into harsh central Australia). Kari's tales of the wives-left-behind were fascinating and I could have stayed listening for hours.

I also loved the sub-tropical Morrab Gardens gracefully lain out in the middle of town. I wandered through these each day as I headed up to the Acorn Theatre. Picture an empty bandstand, brilliant sky and seagulls wheeling low, sun-dappled grass and luscious tropical bushes draped over paths.

On Sunday our event took place downstairs at the Acorn, where fellow Indigo Dreams author Alison Lock and I spoke about our new short story collections. We both put on our best dresses and lippy and found ourselves in front of a red velvet curtain and a small, warm crowd. Alison was at Penzance last year with her poetry collection 'A Slither of Air'. And we all know that I was interviewed by Sarah Duncan about 'The Divorced Lady's Companion to Living in Italy'... and ended up talking about whether a racy book reflects a racy life (well, does it?), and how-to-write-a-novel-in-a-chicken-shed.

Drinking writers!

This time Alison and I spoke about 'Changing Genre and Working with a Small Publisher'. Although my collection 'Pelt and Other Stories' is out this autumn, Alison's book 'Above the Parapet' came out in April. We had a great old time interviewing each other and attempting to sound serious. Alison read an excerpt of one of her prize-winning stories, and I stumbled through my title story 'Pelt', which I may paste below.

A wonderful few days of beer by the sea, literary thoughts and meetings, briny air and rather oversized seagulls. They don't eat writers, do they?

PELT
Rolfe triggers is. In the way that is the way of all men. In his case a type of athletic bragging ruined by the self-defeat he hangs his hat on. I feel a plock and, with his surprised, involuntary retreat my waters come splashing out, gay and heralding, whereby he bounds back to inspect the folds of his manhood.

The Bookmark!

My obroni baby will come this day. I roll onto my back and raise my knees in sweet excitement, the baby nestling back even though her head is plugged within my pelvis. Soon after Rolfe is agitating with a towel, peering cautiously at my dark opening. No action there, I laugh. He looks perplexed. Despite his thirty-nine years Rolfe is unfamiliar with the mulch of his own body. A fever sends him into studied ecstasy. The tumble worm in his butt, whose head and long wrinkled body I inch into the light, is repellent and edifying.

At the apex of his growth curve I suspect I must place myself. This is the man who continues to daub his hands on my sheeny back and breasts. He told me that in Ethiopia, his last posting, they call girls like me 'slaves' because of our broad noses and skin a shadow cannot cross.

This is Rolfe's first child. His wife Karina was barren. I have led Rolfe to believe that this is my first although I had two others before. They are at the village and I send them money. The midwife will no doubt perceive all of this.

Time travel, awesome short stories, people bonking in the room upstairs

A couple of times I thought I saw her. A skinny thing with cropped hair, rushing somewhere, her dreams in light clouds behind her.

Or her nose in a book in Shakespeare & Co, poring over every word.

Or strutting about, trying to look as though she owned the place.
 
Ahh, I remember Paris. We all remember Paris. For Paris represents the dreams we all had as young glistening things. Dreams of writing or dancing, of travelling, of lovers. These dreams were the stuff we had in our heads before we had kids and bills, husbands, dogs to vaccinate, homework to supervise, gardens to weed.

My old personal library

Are our kids as hopelessly dreamy as we were? I'm not sure they are. They are hardier, they read less books. And the way they wander into other worlds - it is not through words and books but through the vast and savvy internet, a concept that might have seemed like time travel to those of us who grew up pushing coins into public telephones and making party music mixes on cassettes.


Do you remember cassettes? Yes, cassettes. How about getting the tape caught in a crap recorder and having to reel in the slinky coils of songs. Hoping you didn't lose your David Bowie or Talking Heads.


Ahh, it is good to remember Paris.

I went there as a young thing, a silly au pair in a smelly cul de sac that has become prime real estate now. A posh architect's office downstairs (they are international stars I am told) where before there were Indian sweatshops and a cranky concierge. To think I was living there when Christo covered Pont Neuf in silk cloth. Does anyone remember that? Now, what an event!

vegan cajou cremeux at café pinson

It's different now. Pricey. Snooty. Trashy. Vegan. Pricey. Still so much to love. The leafy squares, and picnicking so much in vogue. The ever-cranky waiters and big glass bowls of Belgian Leffe beer. The avenues, though the traffic seems wilder than ever before. The bridges, the sunlit stone bridges. Lovers in your path, thinking they are lost and new. Even those in the cheap hotel room upstairs, a see-sawing screeching of the bed, then those sighs. (How satisfied the young dude seems at breakfast with his many piercings and immense appetite. She doesn't show so I will have to imagine her.)

Neverchanging

In the train I meet a beautiful Estonian woman who is thinking of going raw - as in raw food only. In the airport I read the most wonderful stories of James Salter for the very first time.

Isabella Rossellini and Blowhole Sex

What do you know about sex? You think you know a fair bit? A little here and there? A truck load?

Isabella Rossillini knows heaps. Yes, the Isabella Rossellini. But I never thought I would be sitting in a theatre listening to this glamorous, iconic woman dressed up as a common housefly. Or having her head bitten off by a praying mantis in the act of love.

IR before a captivated audience

Friends in Spoleto brought me along to her one-woman (and many fish/insects/birds) show called Green Porno, which you might like to read up about and - if you are lucky - catch a performance. I nearly died laughing. Rossellini spoke in husky Italian from the podium, lecturing in a simple black dress with several strands of pearls (later discarded when she changed into male attire on the stage), while she referred to filmed skits (her acclaimed series on animal sexual habits) on the big screen. These films, researched and directed by IR herself, showed her dressed as insects or animals to demonstrate her arguments - which spanned from hermaphrodites on Noah's Ark to the vaginal passages of ducks.

What? Isabella Rossellini dressed as a duck, enjoying copulation with a her favoured partner? Or, producing a tape

IR does her fly thang

measure to show the (astonishingly short) penis length of a gorilla? Or Isabella Rossellini dressed as a fly, spitting into a plate a food; or as a spider being eaten up by her itsy bitsy young? Or my favourite - Isabella Rossellini joining paper cut-out dolphins frolicking in the sea, where she showed us dolphin masturbation, dolphin gay sex, dolphin blowhole sex, indicating that imagination in the act of love is hardly restricted to humans.

Don't you remember this woman's flawless face - the face of Lancome, the face that was allegedly discarded when she passed the 40 year mark?


Talk about reinvention! This is a woman who has come a long, long way from her glamour puss Lancome days and her heady affair with David Lynch, her stirring role in 'Blue Velvet', the long shadow that her talented and scandalous parents extended over her life. I wondered about this transition, from feted actress to a biology degree and her spoofy child-like films - the lady even showed us photos of her Penis Exhibition in Toronto (if I'm not wrong), where she stood in the midst of a forest of pastel paper sculptures of every manner of penis under the sun.

Now she is a bird !

I wonder how many of us would have been able to transform from ageing actress to serious comedienne, a brave performer with such a cracking idea? Amazing and - somehow - a slap in the face to Lancome and the common belief that a woman's creative life is over once she hits fifty. Not at all - Rossellini, without stepping up on a soapbox, has outpaced that school of thinking in a witty, intelligent and enquiring piece that is absolutely worth seeing.

What was I doing in that neck of the woods? I'd been invited to a friend's art exhibition at the cultural hub of Spoleto, halfway down the Italian peninsula where they have a smashing festival each summer. Umbria. Olive trees and baked stone towns clasping hilltops. So far from the leafy, hazy north. But more on that next week.

For now I just wanted to tell about an unexpected evening of green porno and blowhole sex.

The Art of Writing (2)

June in Italy means the first groaningly hot days, bare shoulders and still-white legs. Campari spritz in the piazza at dusk, the first prosciutto crudo e melone of the season, some hefty holiday reading...

Summer.

Midway through the month as some of you know I took off down to Tuscany to join Lisa Clifford's inaugural The Art of Writing Retreat. As I drove from Veneto in the north to the more arid and hilly middle Italy, I couldn't help thinking how many writers had been drawn to this bewitching area in search of inspiration. Florence. The Uffizzi. Siena. That arresting Tuscan accent. Lisa's family connections with the rolling hills of Casentino outside Florence made it an obvious choice for her event, and I must say I was glad to find myself in this quiet, forgotten area of a region that is so eyewateringly beautiful it can often be overrun by foreigners.

Captivating morning views

It was so quiet. Those lucky enough to be enrolled on the course were holed up in stone-walled lodgings in the hills, while we ladies (Lisa and assistant Penny Howard, guest tutors Deirdre Pirro and Morag Pringle) stayed in Lisa's family house tucked halfway down an astonishing valley where each day I was tempted to go for a long hike - but for the boars reportedly seen about!

Now over to the writing. Soon after arrival I gave a talk about 'Blogging from the Heart: Grassroots Book Promotion' which grew into a engrossing debate - aided by a round of local white wine. I learned that each morning participants worked through exercises with gifted writer and teacher Jim Friel. I joined in and had a lot of fun and some crystalline ideas (for a moment there) and will write more about these on the Pelt and Other Stories blog. It was quite an eye-opener for this set-in-her-ways writer, who is not at all used to sharing work or ideas. I learned that opening the creative door a crack can release a brickload of ideas. A lovely way to shake down the house.

Inspiring writerly talks

Jim also analysed beautiful texts - from James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Graeme Green - inviting us to ponder language/character/action. I admit I was shaky initially, but felt the benefits were like a good head massage: tricky to let go at first, but then an irresistable warmth takes hold. Classes ranged from getting started on a project, to characters, structure and drafting, while individual afternoon sessions gave each participant the chance to share details of their projects with Jim. I noticed there were more memoir projects than fiction on the menu - and hope that all writers present make headway over the coming months! There is nothing like a gathering of writers to make one want to go home and work.

Lisa's guests also included vibrant U.S. agent April Eberhardt, who in a Skype interview outlined an indie approach to publishing and gave participants ideas for entering the expanding world of self-publishing. Lawyer/writer Michelle Fabio spoke of storylines - Michelle writes the wise and successful blog Bleeding Espresso.

Over to food. One cannot report on a stay in Tuscany without mentioning local food and wine. Carpaccio di zucchini, wonderful summer salads, local specialities with potatoes - were all washed down with Montepulciano and enchanting wines. More often than not, grappa, limoncello and intriguing talk followed the meals.

How many writers does it take...

to make fresh ricotta?

Okay I'll admit it. One of my favourite activities involved pecorino cheese! One afternoon the group travelled over the hills and faraway - a story in itself - to local pecorino (sheep cheese) producer Lorenzo Cipriani, where a bunch of writers watched a bunch of sheep being milked. Said writers then observed said sheeps' milk transformed before their eyes into ricotta and were of course invited inside for an endless sampling of indescribable cheese delights, sinfully good salami and gorgeous tomatoes - all washed down with buckets of red wine...

Dee-lish!! That day we embarked upon The Art of Eating!

With TAOW founder Lisa Clifford

I must say I had a blast. It was a very special few days with a lovely group of people, and I feel quite lucky to have been invited to take part. Great work Lisa, Penny and Jim and good luck with The Art of Writing next year.


*If you are interested enquire early as I think places are filling fast

How many kids does it take to make an author?

I was just about to write a post on my breathtaking few days at the Art of Writing retreat in Tuscany last week (endless tree-decked hills, feisty writerly company – stayed tuned next week) when this article caught my eye.

Zadie Smith criticises author who says more than one child limits career.

I have a soft spot for women writers with kids, which doesn't mean I have a hard spot for women writers who don't. And readers of this blog will know I can’t pipe down if there is a discussion on Career vs Motherhood and the myriad of life strategies there are in between. Throw the dilemmas of the writer into that stew, and you have my attention. Reader, do your thang.

 

Last week a Guardian journalist cobbled together a text based on Zadie Smith's and Jane Smiley's comments upon an Atlanta article written by Lauren Sandler, which has raised a few hackles. The Guardian then provided a study in graphs and pie charts to investigate the equation one child=genius. My first thought: Who says an author is a genius??Ahem.. I don’t necessarily. Brilliant yes, but a genius? Do you? 

Sandler, only child and mother of one, finds that several of her beloved writers are mothers of only children and wonders if their oeuvre might have been compromised by the production of further offspring. She cites a comment by Alice Walker (whose mother-daughter conflict is well-documented and painful to read): ‘..Because with one you can move. With more than one you’re a sitting duck.’

Sandler goes on to lament,  ‘Is stopping at one child the answer, or at least the beginning of one?’

Indignant Zadie Smith commented that ‘..as the parent of multiples I can assure Ms. Sandler that two kids entertaining each other in one room gives their mother in another room a surprising amount of free time she would not have otherwise.’

Not all mine

Hmm. While I do remember typing out my first novel with my eldest in a basket on the floor in Mogadishu, my recollection of the faraway time when I had (just) two offspring brings back the less lyrical image of Older Son driving a train over Baby Son’s face. I’d love to agree with Zadie that children entertain themselves quietly, but in my household this has rarely been the case. Illness, fighting, food, mean that Mummy is nurse, referee, shopper all at once, on-and-off during the day.  Child care? Well, until writing pays for that and the bills, I have the school system to thank for that. 

Sandler’s article also reflects upon the lives of her ‘revered’ authors, citing cases such as Joan Didion, Elizabeth Hardwick and Alice Walker, and though it serves the purpose of her argument that greatness is limited by multiple reproduction, it feels a little like peeking through the rubbish bin behind a famous person’s house – too much information. Would she have been the same writer, had she had more children to drop by with in-laws, or less quiet time to workshop her novels? Was she selfish? Is this how greatness was achieved?

While heartfelt, it seems rather limited. And – even more silly – in the Guardian piece that examines the ratio of larger families to literary genius, it appears that most successful novelists produce zero children, although the second most popular number is two. Thirty-eight percent of females in the literary genius category (Joyce Carol Oates, Harper Lee) have no children compared to twenty-seven percent of males. Novelists have more kids than poets. Norman Mailer rocked the survey by having eight children. With four kids, I find myself in the same category as John Updike, E. Annie Proulx (a late starter) and Saul Bellow. So there's hope for this writing junkie yet.

As Zadie Smith rightly says, there are so many factors essential to a writer’s career. An understanding partner, childcare, family support. And there are so many elements that might limit a writer’s – or anyone’s – career. Health, personal and economic issues quickly come to mind. Lack of determination, lack of clarity of purpose, even plain bad luck.

So where are we with all this? There are big egos and neglected children in every sector. Writing takes time and endless belief. Kids are a timesuck but they can save you from yourself, enrich, impair. And there’s no easy way to become a literary genius, or even a halfway happy published writer, with or without sprogs calling you up all the time, expecting cash, emptying the fridge, stealing your clothes and telling you you’re clueless...