Amazing podcast: Tea with Dave Bonta

Dave Bonta, poet and blogger extraordinaire, best known for his via negtiva blog, and for the literary journal he runs with Beth Adams, Qarrtsiluni, also audio blogs the interesting conversations he has with the people he bumps into. He calls these recordings his Woodrat Podcast.

Back at the beginning of May, Fiona and I had the pleasure of (deliberately) bumping into Dave when he came to Wales for the launch of The Book of Ystwyth. 


We sat down over a couple of pots of tea in one of my favorite coffee shops in Aberystwyth, the Orange Grove, and recorded a fascinating conversation, covering writing, religion and the river of stones, as well as some personal sharing (and singing!). The result is Woodrat Podcast 42: Tea with Fiona Robyn and Kaspalita. Listen online now.

Making myself cry in public

I made myself cry in public yesterday.

I've been finishing off my final read through of my new novel, 'The Most Beautiful Thing', the read through that involves lots of red pen and reading out loud.

I did that 'being a writer' thing and took the final few chapters to a Costa Coffee in town. As I made corrections on the last few pages, I started crying and I couldn't stop. Tears were streaming down my face.

Is this normal?

The book is about 14 year old Joe as he spends a summer with his Dutch aunt in Amsterdam. Being the author, I made it up. I wrote the first draft, the second draft, and the third draft. I knew exactly what was going to happen in the last few pages.

But it still moved me beyond words.

Does your own writing make you angry/happy/laugh/cry? Which book has made you cry in public?

PS I'm not telling you whether they were tears of joy or sorrow - that'd be giving the ending away...

PPS you'll be VERY pleased to hear I've managed to slip my joke (the one what I made up) into TMBT - here's a sneak preview. Make sure you laugh! Over to Joe...

“Where do you get chocolate mousse from?”
They both shrugged.
“Chocolate cows. Chocolate mousse – chocolate moos – do you get it?”
Marika sniggered but Emmie wasn’t even looking at him. Her face was deadpan. Joe sighed.

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I ought to be getting myself in gear for this Blogsplash thing. Instructions for my current blogsplashers will be going out soon - it doesn't look like I'm going to make 1000, but I'm happy with 250. I have two lovely reviews on Amazon now - have a peek.

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Happy to report - no more poo in the bath.

On gardening, writing and runner beans on their tippy-toes

I found this Jeanette Winterson quote this morning on the very wonderful Peony Moon. I hope Michelle doesn't mind me transplanting it here - I'll be very careful not to damage the roots. It seemed criminal not to post it, what with the title of my blog and all.

“I learned to garden the way I learned to write - out of necessity. We needed vegetables and flowers, and I needed to tell myself a long story about life - I am still telling it - a kind of beanstalk that grows and grows, and I can climb it, both to escape the possibility of life at the bottom, and to find another world where giants and castles and harp-playing hens are still to be found. Gardening, like story-telling, is a continuing narrative. One thing leads to another. Like stories, there is always something going on in the garden long after the gardener has gone to bed. The thing grows, unfolds, changes, develops a maddening life of its own. For me, as a writer, I go to sleep with an idea in my head, and it takes hold during the night. I open the back door in the morning, and the tulips that refused to look at me the night before, have opened in the sun.” - Jeanette Winterson

You can read the whole article here - I shall do so when I've done my daily writing.

It's also relevant as Michelle is the first of my 100 Readers to finish reading about my gardener Leonard - she liked him (phew) and wants to adopt his dog Pickles. She'll be answering her interview questions over the next week or so - I'll let you know when the interview is up. In the meantime you can sign up to the mailing list by putting your email in the box on the right.

As I type, my runner beans are stretching up on their tippy-toes towards the twine and my blackcurrants are plumpening nicely. My leek seedlings are imperceptibly thickening and my Johnson's Blue geranium is magicking more and more sunny-sky-blue blooms.

Here's to planting, and to words.

PS talking of growing things, have a go at this - very lovely and a little bit addictive...

How to meditate/how to write

I know, more Zen stuff. But this is about writing, really. Or anything else that is important to you.

If meditation is a priority, then it's helpful to take that word literally and put meditation first. An example would be my rule of not turning on the computer before I've meditated. Simple, but effective.

Probably the most trenchant advice I've ever heard, was in eight words by Suzuki Roshi: Organize your life so you can sit well."

- David Schneider

It took me ten years to organise my life so I get the time and space to write, as well as enough money from my 'day job' to pay my rent.

Does ten years sound too long to wait? You'll either be waiting ten years to give your priority space, or ten years to have it in the same place it was before. Start today. And don't forget to enjoy the scenery along the way.

Which resolutions do we throw out of the window?

From time to time I make a decision to commit to something over the medium term. Recently I made three - to get into a regular writing routine again, to start meditating again, and to take a complete break from reading fiction while I work on my current novel.

The meditation and the writing commitments are holding. They still feel important, and correct, and sustainable. I'll waver, as I am actually a human being, but I am confident that they'll stick.

The not-reading-fiction commitment is out of the window. I felt like reading a novel yesterday afternoon, and so I did.

It made me wonder how I can tell the difference between commitments that turn out to be helpful, and commitments that turn out to be rotten. I think partly it's the spirit with which I originally make the resolutions.

The meditation and writing commitments are a way to honour things that are very important to me. I've had a lot of practise at them, and I know what is realistic (1000 terrible words a day) and what isn't (any more than 20 minutes on the zafu).

The non-fiction commitment came from a fear that I might not do my writing - 'maybe I can force myself to write if I stop doing this'. The quality of it felt similar to the strong resolutions I get to diet after eating too much ice-cream (which melt away like magic the next day).

I'm getting better at spotting these 'commitments which arise from fear', but I still succumb. The funny thing is, I think they're doomed from the very beginning anyway. I'm off to read some more fiction ; )

On not having the foggiest idea

Yesterday afternoon I decided to make a path between my vegetable patch beds by putting down weed suppressing membrane and covering it with bark chip.

I didn't have the foggiest idea what I was doing. I didn't know if I was strong enough to get the five bags of bark chip into my car. I didn't know how to attach the membrane to the soil. I didn't know if the whole project was a waste of time - if my path would be a complete failure.

It reminded me of starting my first novel, Thaw (out next year). I didn't know anything about writing fiction. I hadn't read any how-to books or taken any classes. I didn't know anyone writing novels. I'd read prodigiously all my life and written poetry for years, but had never put more than a few hundred words together, never mind eighty thousand.

The only way to approach it without scaring myself half to death was by calling it an experiment. I decided to write 1000 words a day and just see where I got to. This is how I felt about my vegetable patch project yesterday and, now I come to think of it, about most of my life.

The path is finished - it looks a little raggedy, but it's functional. I'm rather proud of it. I'm currently working on my fourth novel, and I still don't have the foggiest idea about what I'm doing or how it will turn out. Isn't it fun?!

Phooey to New Year's Eve - here's something else instead

I don't like New Year's Eve.

I don't know if it's because it usually involves staying up late and drinking (neither of which I do) or if it's the expectation that you'll be in a big group of happy friends (being happy) that makes me feel contrary, and makes me want to be on my own.

I do privately relish the thought of a new year - all those blank filofax pages - what might they contain? I do like the opportunity to reflect on what I'd like to try and do better this year. I'll do that instead, quietly, and give you a poem.

I like Franz Wright's poems very much. Here's a very appropriate poem for me this year from his latest collection God's Silence - I shall try to remember it, especially the last line, and I'll post more on a related note tomorrow. I hope you too manage to find a way to celebrate the new year in your own way.

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Publication Date

One of the few pleasures of writing
is the thought of one’s book in the hands of a kind-hearted
intelligent person somewhere. I can’t remember what the others are right now.
I just noticed that it is my own private

National I Hate Myself and Want to Die Day
(which means the next day I will love my life
and want to live forever). The forecast calls
for a cold night in Boston all morning

and all afternoon. They say
tomorrow will be just like today,
only different. I’m in the cemetery now
at the edge of town, how did I get here?

A sparrow limps past on its little bone crutch saying
I am Frederico Garcia Lorca
risen from the dead–
literature will lose, sunlight will win, don’t worry.

Franz Wright

My baby has arrived and she's beautiful

When the delivery man knocked on my door at nine o'clock this morning I could have kissed him.

I restrained myself. Instead I took a deep breath and ripped open the top of the cardboard box and there it was - The Letters - my book. Look - there's my thumb - it must be real!

I've been dreaming of this moment since I was seven, when I made my own books by stapling folded paper together and designing my own covers.

Anna and Em at Snowbooks have made a truly beautiful book inside and out, and the quotes they've chosen from Caroline, Jacqui and Susan are perfect.

I'm not a huge fan of hardbacks, but having seen how modestly sized and lovely this one is I'd suggest you might want to treat yourself so you don't have to wait until March for the paperback. You can get it direct from Snowbooks (worldwide delivery) if you want to be sure of receiving it before Christmas, or for a discount from Amazon UK or Amazon US (it should be available there soon fingers crossed).

Thank you Snowbooks. Happy Fiona. I feel like Snoopy did when he did his dance.

I am a chicken (not a coward, an actual chicken)

It's possible that I've already told you that my debut novel The Letters is coming out with Snowbooks on March 2nd.

This is something I've wanted practically since I was born, and as you can imagine I've been a little pre-occupied with it.

Last night, driving home from work, I became aware of the pattern of my thoughts. What will the back cover look like? How shall I organise the blog tour? Will it sell more than ten copies? Etc. etc. etc. Busy thoughts, pointless thoughts, boring thoughts.

Book book book, I muttered to myself. And then I said it louder. Book Book. Book Book Book. BOOOK BOOK BOOK BOOK BOOOOOK. Suddenly I was a chicken.

And then I felt much better.

The necessary schizophrenia of the writer

Emma Darwin (author of A Secret Alchemy) has a very interesting piece up at her blog, This Itch of Writing. about 'the necessary schizophrenia of the writer'.

She lists a number of contradictory positions that we writers must hold inside us if we want to be productive/successful. I'm especially interested in the first - that we must aspire to be "engaged so you know what other people's lives actually feel like; detached so you can observe them and find the right words to evoke them for different people again".

This reminds me very much of my work with clients as a therapist in private practice. In my experience, for the therapeutic process to 'work' I must enter into a real relationship with my clients - dive in, let myself by carried by the thoughts and feelings that come up. But I also need to be able to be objective about what might be happening, so I don't end up in a place of confusion/collusion.

My old supervisor used to speak of it as having 'one foot near the door'. One foot is allowed to become completely enveloped in the relationship, as long as one foot stays anchored at the edge of the room. Maybe this is also helpful for all our relationships, and for our relationship with the world. This is our balancing act - as writers, as human beings.

Ode to loafing (also known as moodling)

Here's to loafing/moodling - an essential skill for writers and for everyone else. Especially at the weekend.

"So you see, imagination needs moodling - long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling and puttering."

Brenda Ueland, from If You Want To Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit (1938)

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Loafing

I looked into the room a moment ago,
and this is what I saw –
my chair in its place by the window,
the book turned facedown on the table.
And on the sill, the cigarette
left burning in its ashtray.
Malingerer! my uncle yelled at me
so long ago. He was right.
I’ve set aside time today,
same as every day,
for doing nothing at all.

Raymond Carver

On being a writer who isn't writing

For a few weeks now I've been getting ready to launch my new book, small stones: a year of moments and my new writing services (there - plugs over). This means my novel has been sitting patiently in its 'draft' file for more than a month, wondering when I'm going to give it some attention.

I am in the priveliged position of not having a deadline for this novel, because I'm still looking for a publisher. I'm writing it because I want to. But not having a deadline raises an interesting question. How hard do I push myself to get it done?

I've always found it challenging to think about the difference between 'not-writing-because-it-isn't-the-right-time' and 'not-writing-because-it's-easier-to-avoid-it'. It's a bit like exercise, I suppose (I only suppose because I don't do exercise). We're rarely DYING to get to the gym, but when we're there it's actually quite fun, and we feel much better afterwards.

I'm happy (for now) to give myself some space. I've hoovered my little office. I've put a deep pink peony in my desk-top vase. I'm thinking of my character every-so-often, like a good friend you haven't been in touch with for a while. Maybe writers-who-aren't-always-writing are still allowed to be writers.