"I've written so many emails, I can't do it any more," said he. "I'm exhausted. It never stops. If it's not libraries it's the unemployed being made to work for nothing, or whales being harpooned, forests uprooted or our health service being wrecked. And really, in the end, what does it all achieve? Once they've worn us out, governments just go back to doing what they want. Protesting never does any good in the end."
I remonstrated with him, but maybe not very much, because I was feeling pretty discouraged myself. Then something
I'd never been to Texas before, and no doubt my idea of the place was fairly similar to many another Englishwoman who has never visited. Cowboy hats and boots, tumbleweed, twangy accents and cattle. Of course I knew that there were cities in Texas, and skyscrapers, freeways and shopping malls, but I'm a child of the fifties, and was brought up on Dick West and the Lone Ranger. So of course I looked for signs of cowboys. They were easy enough to find. And along with the whites, in cowboy hats or not, there were of course Blacks, Hispanics, Chinese, the whole rainbow of peoples that makes a place vibrant.
Tea. Is any other drink so adept at being acceptable in all walks of life, at any time of day and in so many parts of the world? I'd venture to speculate that tea was the first hot drink ever made by man (or some form of tisane made from leaves, fruit or flowers and hot water). Most houses I know have some form of tea worship paraphernalia. This is my everyday form. A kettle, and several pieces of mismatched crockery, depending on my mood. I do love a cup of tea, especially taken in the company of friends.
The most basic method relies on me dunking the teabag straight into a mug, so bypassing the teapot altogether. We all have our most sluttish...and most stylish way of serving tea. The smartest tea pot I have is an inherited silver one, which I use just for the hell of it, when the fancy takes me.
But receptacles for tea can be very basic indeed. Here are some little clay cups, sometimes still used by tea sellers at railway stations in India. They are the best of throwaway cups, much more ecologically friendly than paper or plastic, and far more elegant.
I'm sure I have read somewhere (to my horror) that sales of tea in the UK are declining, and have been for a while. Coffee, that altogether more sophisticated beverage is in the ascendancy, and soon we poor Brits will have totally turned away from our so called national drink. I don't believe a word of it. Have you
seen the tea section in most supermarkets recently?
Besides, a lot of our literature depends on it.
How would the dormouse have fared if the Mad Hatter had dipped it into a coffee pot, and then presumably depressed the plunger? Get rid of tea and you immediately lose one of our finest mealtimes. Rupert Brooke knew that in 1912. Honey for tea, tea and biscuits, tea and sympathy...You can bet your life that in the background of all the Streatfields, Nesbits, Blytons and Cromptons, long suffering parents or guardians were busy drinking a reviving cup, while their offspring got into ever more alarming scrapes.
I suppose all this is why I'm so offended that the words tea party have recently been usurped. A small part of me rages when those most agreeable words are put together to describe political values that are far from my own. To begin with I hoped that the label wouldn't stick, but with the Republicans in the US beginning the long
As soon as humans had something to trade, advertising must have been invented. Maybe the first flint knappers didn't need to take a full page advert in the Avebury Argos, but they must have somehow let people know what they were making, whether it was demonstrating their skill directly, or hoping that work of mouth would communicate where to go to trade for the best skinning flint available to man. As soon as print was invented the possibilities increased dramatically, and in more recent centuries the need to advertise has spawned a plethora of agencies, all falling over each other to create ever more effective ways of selling us almost anything. I think it was Lord Lever who said something to the effect that fifty percent of his advertising was wasted, but he didn't know which fifty percent.
I was thinking about this recently while updating my Facebook page, and wondering what to Tweet next. As writers we are all used to self promotion, whether we like it or not. We phone the local paper with news or send them copy, do school visits, turn up for book signings and attend festivals.
But this is no longer enough. Now we must also diligently Tweet, update our websites, keep our Facebook pages interesting, link to Linked in, and do whatever it takes to keep ourselves 'out there' on Bebo. And of course Google + is coming, and who knows what the next thing will be.
Maybe we don't all do all of these things, while some of us may do others, but whatever we do, and however we link it all together it steals writing time, and increasingly, I fear that although we're all waving like mad, we are in danger of drowning in advertising.
I make a special case for blogs which, although sometimes considered advertising, at least have the advantage of being much more than simple slogans. There are some brilliant blogs out there, written by people who can be erudite, informative, provocative, all the things I love. But then I would say that, wouldn't I, as I'm writing this in a blog? Of course, doing these things can be enjoyable, and enjoyment is its own justification for all of this online activity. In that case it matters little if it eats into other activities.
I look admiringly at book trailers. There they are, in links or to be found directly on You Tube. They're wonderful, aren't they? Seriously, they really are. The best are tiny jewels of creativity. I want one. I do. But isn't part of their allure the fact that they are new and exciting? Will they still have the same impact once we all have book trailers? I suspect not. Once we all have them there will be something else we really ought to be doing to keep up. Maybe I'm wrong, but I'm beginning to wonder if all this activity is worth it. Sometimes I feel a bit like a lemming; not suicidal, but pressured into behaviour that isn't normal, or wise.
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By:
Cindy Jefferies,
on 7/18/2011
Blog:
An Awfully Big Blog Adventure
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One thing you can depend on for a writer is that if you ask them what they're thinking , whatever they reply you can be pretty certain that at least a part of their mind is thinking about a story. It might be no more than a slight itch at the back of the mind, but it'll be there.
So, being a writer, it is hardly surprising that when I was in Paris in the Spring stories were taking up a corner of my mind. After all, even a desert can be fertile ground for a story, which makes ideas for fiction seep out at every turn in Paris.
Fortunately, the friend I was staying with understood, and on the last day of my trip came up with something for me to take home. It was a quote in the frontispiece of a novel by Mathias Enard called Parle-leur de batailles, de rois et d'elephants.
Puisque ce sont des enfants, parle-leur de batailles et de rois, de chevaux, de diables, d'elephants et d'anges, mais n'omets pas de leur parler d'amour et de choses semblables.
Here's a translation:- Because they are children, tell them about battles and kings, horses, devils, elephants and angels, but don't neglect to tell them about love and things like that.
Not being able to find an attribution I assumed the author must be Mathias Enard, but I wished that I knew for sure.
I loved the quote. It seemed to sum up exactly what I thought was important. Yes, of course a fast moving plot is paramount, especially in the sort of fiction for the 8-12's that I usually write. But, and I think this is particularly important for boys; love, and things like that is also vital. Girls tend to be better at talking about feelings, while some boys, I think, can find it harder. Of course, both boys and girls can feel pretty lonely at times, when what they're feeling is muddled and difficult. I believe that one of the best ways of understanding that you're not alone in your feelings is through a good story. So the quote resonated with me, whoever had written it. But the story doesn't end here.
Some while later, a review from an American newspaper fell into my inbox. It was a glowing review of a new novel that had been in the final selection for the Prix Goncourt in France. It was
What is it about doors?
I tried everything and of course the answer was to abandon it, because it wasn't right for the character or the story. But that conclusion took a week or so to find and by then I'd hammered on just about every door in my brain that I thought might be barring the solution I thought I needed.
happened that made me think again.
Excellent doors - is the top one Charney? And bravely done with the book - if only there was some guarantee at the beginning of weeks like that that the solution WILL BE FOUND, they wouldn't be quite so harrowing!
The top door is certainly Charney - rcognised it at a glance.
Sending sympathy, Cindy - I know the feeling you describe. And yes, brain work can be exhausting, especially when it's frustrating.
And before Joan can tell me off again, I'll get straight back to hammering on the door of Sterkarm tower!