Writing Spaces

As well as my series of talks with authors, I’m starting a series of posts about the writing spaces of authors.  I’m re-posting the one I wrote about my writing spaces to get the ball rolling.

I have lived in many homes and had a variety of writing places. I have found that those which seemed least pleasant often led to me being more creative and productive. I wrote my first collection of short stories crammed into a tiny dark place beneath stairs, my first novel hunched over a table in a dark corner of a room. When I set up my study to perfection I found myself perversely seeking out other places to write. Perhaps I know sub-consciously that that my work sometimes suffered in too perfect a setting.

I studied Neuro-Linguistic Processing, NLP, under Robert Dilts in California and he has a theory which perhaps explains this. He suggests that the best way to be creative is to use what he has termed The Disney Strategy.

There are three stages to the Disney Strategy. 1. Dreaming up ideas. 2. Turning the dream into reality. 3. Sternly evaluating and criticising what you have produced. You then go through the cycle again until you are happy with what you’ve produced.

Sounds familiar? Writers might call it Planning, Writing and Editing.

Dilts further suggests that different settings are best for each stage in the process.

1. Dreaming up ideas. An open, playful space is best. Look up and allow yourself time and space to dream with a child-like sense of the possible.
2. Turning the dream into reality. A well equipped space where you can really focus on the work with the best of equipment and without distraction. Lean forward to the task and get on with it.
3. Evaluating and criticising. As uncomfortable space as you can find. Make yourself miserable and you’ll be more likely to discover your mistakes.

So here’s my current writing space. Or rather spaces.

I get my best ideas when I’m outside, on the terrace which overlooks the town and sea or, better still, in a café with the buzz of the world swirling past but leaving me undisturbed. My favourite place currently is the Cocoon Café where the owner and his waitress are welcoming and friendly.

As people walk past I scan their faces, conjuring up minor characters from their appearance and the things which appear to be concerning them. I also dream my best dreams when I’m lying down, in bed or in a reclining chair on the terrace. I look up at the skies and nothing can stop the ideas from flowing across me.

I turn my ideas into reality by working in the apartment. I use a good PC and have started to use some excellent writing software called Scrivener. I also have access to the finest research tool any writer could need, the world wide web. More than that, I have a circle of friends and colleagues from across the world, courtesy of this blog, Twitter and other social media.

The view looks over the town of Menton and Mediterranean Sea but I rarely find I am distracted by this. But to make sure I’m not I turn myself to the blank wall. The only thing I can see is a poster of a horseman from Siena on a mission from one town to another.

Sometimes, when the weather’s good like today I sneak out onto the terrace and write.

I evaluate and criticise by reading my work late at night. I would do it somewhere uncomfortable if I could but we live in a two room apartment and space is limited. Late at night when I’m tired and grumpy is about as good, or should I say bad, as I can find.

So there we have it. My work space. Or rather my working spaces.

 

 

Dawn. Menton

It’s 7.15 in the morning and the moon and Venus are dangling in a brightening sky.  I was awake and ready for work three quarters of an hour ago but then my computer decided to update itself and took an age.

A watched laptop never configures so I decided to go onto the terrace and watch the world wake up.

Monsieur Martin the baker is busy in his shop, baking baguettes and serving early breakfasters.  A man is sipping coffee in one of the seats ouside and watching people hurry to work.  By the look of him he has no where to hurry to or maybe he does and is just very relaxed.  Or enjoying his first coffee of the day.

An insect chirps busily in the tree in front of me.  A blackbird wakes and begins to sing.  In the distance, closer to the beach, seagulls squawk at each other, their irritable sounding ‘yike, yike, yike’, cutting through the air.

The traffic is light and with no shrill motor-bike engines revving to prove the manhood of their riders.  An ambulance weaves slowly through the traffic, lights flashing but no siren blaring.  I assume it’s someone who had just had a heart attack, who needs speed but no noise.

The sky is a moving feast of clouds.  They barely seem to move while I watch them but when I look up after only a few moments the pattern has changed remarkably.  Like a huge kaleidoscope shaken by a child god.

The sky is brightening now.  It’s 7.25.  The moon and Venus are growing faint, I thought for a moment they had been snuffed out by the light.  They seem like dying lovers, all life ebbing from them, clinging on while sight remains so they can see each other until the end.  A red mist takes them and they fade away.

But then the reddening cloud thins and I can just see the bent bow of the moon.  The crescent is so thin it looks like it may break.  Yet somehow, despite its fragility, it remains in place, defying the brightness for a little longer.

The clouds over the sea remain dark but higher in the sky they’re turning pastel pink.  They look like a stepping stone path across the sky.

A train rattles out of the station, heading for Italy.  There was only one passenger on the earlier train.

One of our friendly doves has come to see me, staring across from its perch on the terrace edge.  It shakes itself and a white feather falls.

The trees have re-gained their colour now.  In this light I can see the line of trees in the gardens are turning brown, hanging on like the moon, but soon to fall and disappear.

This will be our first autumn in Menton.  The last of the seasons for us to experience; we’ve loved the winter, spring and summer.

What a pleasure awaits us.

Young musicians at the Fête de la Musique

I like music but can barely whistle a dirge let alone a tune.  I think I’m fortunate that I like many types of music from classical to pop and rock and most shades in between.

Not everything though. Much of Jazz leaves me bemused.  And as for electronic music.  It just makes me grimace and turn right off.  Memories of Rolf Harris and his Stylophone must have been the reason for this.  Which is sad because I was a great fan of Rolf when I was younger.

Anyway, I digress.

Yesterday was 21 June and this meant the Fête de la Musique in many cities around the world including Menton.

We spent the evening going from one show to another, many of them given by young people who had tons of talent and, more importantly, the commitment to music which meant they slogged hard to give their audience entertainment.

It was a great night and a great way to start the summer.

********

Just a note that tomorrow, I’ve got the second of my interviews, this time with Ty Johnston, the fantasy, horror and literary fiction author.  Next weekend I’m interviewing SJA Turney about his historical fiction.

For those of you who missed David Gaughran talking about his book ‘A Storm Hits Valparaiso’ and his earlier one about his book ‘Let’s Get Digital’ you can find them here.

David Gaughran on ‘A Storm Hits Valparaiso.’

Interview with David Gaughran about his new book on indie self-publishing: ‘Let’s Get Digital.’

Let’s Get Digital. Part 2 of my interview with David Gaughran.

Sensational Discovery. Oscar Wilde interviews.

I recently visited Paris with my wife.  One day, as we strolled along the Left Bank, a tremendous rain-storm sent us scurrying into an alley for cover.  It was quite dark in the alley and I banged my shin against something hard and sharp.  I bent down to examine it and was astonished to find a battered old suitcase with rusty lock.

It is not something I would normally do but I decided there and then to take the suitcase.  I brought it home to Menton and tried to get into it.  No luck.  In the end I had to buy a hack-saw and cut the lock completely.

I looked inside and my jaw dropped open.  (This is the second time in my life that I have had such a comic book reaction but I promise you, drop open it did.)

Inside the suitcase were a mass of papers which proved to be interviews which Oscar Wilde had conducted with prominent people of his time.

I aim to post these periodically on my blog, starting with the first interview when the fifteen year old Wilde interviewed Charles Dickens only two weeks before his death.  (In fact I begin to wonder whether the two events were in any way connected.)

However, I start not with any of Wilde’s own interviews but by one from his friend, Lord Alfred Douglas, known affectionally to his friends as Bosie.

For lovers of history there is an added piquancy.  This interview took place the day after Valentine’s Day 1895 which was the opening night of ‘The Importance of Being Earnest.’

The Bosie Papers

15 February 1895

Following the triumphant first night of Oscar’s latest play we were visited at our hotel by a hysterical old woman by the name of Lady Flashman.  Apparently she had seen ‘Earnest’ the night before and, being as empty-headed as she was wealthy, took it into her head that Oscar, the darling of the London stage, would like nothing better than to write a play about her decrepit old husband.  She must have imagined that he would swoon at the very idea.

Strangely enough, Oscar decided to see the woman.  He was clearly in an exultant mood after the astonishing success of the first night.

As always he was courtesy itself although I could see through the façade that he was utterly disgusted by the aging harpy.  He pretended that he was beguiled and besotted by her and she flirted with him in a manner more suited to the madam of a bordello. 

To my astonishment Oscar agreed to undertake an interview with her husband and asked me to pass him his day-book so that he could find a suitable time.  The old baggage fluttered her eyes at him and said that there was no need to make an appointment. 

‘I’ve brought my Hector with me,’ she said.  ‘He is waiting in the lounge.’

Oscar was so delighted with her that he agreed to meet with the old man there and then.  I tried to dissuade him from this but he brushed aside my objections which I must say I found very wounding.  Then, to rub salt into my wounds, he asked me to be the amanuensis of the interview. 

Naturally I determined to refuse and make a wounding departure.  However, Oscar had made his request in front of the fawning Lady Flashman so I had to swallow my chagrin and agree.

A servant was summoned and sent to bring her old fool of a husband to meet us. 

As events unfolded I surprised even myself by discovering that I was, in fact, a superb amanuensis.  Here is my record of Oscar and Harry Flashman’s first meeting. 

Picture if you will, the refined Oscar sitting at his ease in his Norfolk jacket with the gorgeous silk handkerchief I had bought him drooping from his pocket.  Then picture the nature of his visitor.

Sir Harry Flashman was a hulking great creature, six feet tall, as broad as a navvy with moustache and whiskers from a previous century.  He looked to be aged about fifty-five or so although he was actually in his early seventies.  There was a toe-curling revoltingness about him, something which made my nostrils contract.  At the same time, I must admit he had something about him, some charisma or animal force.  It made me want to run to the toilet.

Sir Harry – G’day to you Mr Wilde.

Oscar – (rising and taking the brute by the hand).  Good day to you, Sir Harry.  Your wife tells me that you would like me to write your memoirs.

Sir Harry – (staring venomously at his wife) That’s what she said, is it?

Oscar – It most certainly is.  She tells me that you’ve had a fascinating life.  She even went as far as to call you ‘Her Hector.’

Sir Harry – (to his wife) That’s so flattering of you, Elsbeth.  Now, why don’t you get yourself off to Oxford Street and buy yourself something for the weekend.

At this point, with much false cooing and curtseying, Lady Flashman made her departure.

Oscar – Charming woman, your wife.

Sir Harry – Aye, she’s a charmer right enough.  You’re welcome to view her charms (sitting forward in his chair suspiciously) but only from a distance.  Now then, Mr Wilde, my idiot of a wife has got it into her head that you’d be the perfect person to write my memoirs.  I can’t see for the life of me why anybody would want to read them and even less so if you were to write ‘em.

Me – How dare you, sir.  Oscar is the darling of Literary London.

Sir Harry – (turning to me with a belligerent look) When I want to be cheeked by some office boy, I’ll let him know, thank you kindly.

Oscar – Sir Harry, this is no office boy.  This is Lord Alfred Douglas, son of the Marquess of Queensbury.

Sir Harry – (with a repulsive leer) Oh, so you’re the one.  Not much like your old man, are you?  I can’t see you watching at a Boxing Ring.  Or riding a horse.  (Turning to Oscar.)  Or perhaps I’m mistaken.  Perhaps you like to go riding with this young man, Mr Wilde?

(Long silence.)

Oscar – Lord Alfred’s father is a great hunter of the fox but Bosie, dear child, is more a poet by inclination.

Sir Harry – I didn’t come here to talk about inclinations if you take my meaning, Mr Wilde.  Nor about hunting.  I’m here because my wife wants you to memorialise me.

At this point I made to rise, thinking that the time to end the interview had arrived.  But Sir Harry Flashman gave me a glance like a viper which made me feel quite giddy.

To my astonishment, Oscar said that he concurred with the notion of conducting the interview.  Imagine my horror.

The brute staggered to his feet, gave me the filthiest leer I have ever received and stuck his card in my waistcoat pocket.

Sir Harry – There are Office Boy.  Get in touch when your friend has a free moment.

Then he stalked out of the room but not, alas, out of our lives.

Oscar – (with a grin) Oh do lighten up, Bosie.

Near Perfect Writing Space

If you’ve followed any of this blog you will realise that I am fascinated with my writing space.

Not that I’m obsessive or pernickety (hum, don’t think I’ve ever written that word before).  It’s just that I always hanker after a garret in Paris, although having gone their a week ago and been frozen to my bones it would have to be a Parisian garret where I now live, on the French Riviera.

A garret like Gene Kelly had in ‘An American in Paris,’ with a bed he could suspend from the ceiling, table, chairs and even a jug of flowers hidden away in a cupboard, all to give him enough space to fulfil his passion of painting.

An American in Paris (1951) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I have less need of space, just my trusty old laptop and the resources of the world upon the internet.

Now, at last, I have arrived at almost my perfect space (I won’t call it perfect, nothing is while I can still dream.)

Courtesy of two very simple technologies, an extension lead for my laptop and a blind to shade the screen from the sun I can now sit on my terrace overlooking the roofs of Menton and theMediterranean Sea and pound away to my heart’s content.

Incroyable as my French friends would say.

On our way to the Cote d’ Azur

Nine or ten years ago I decided to take a week’s holiday in Liguria, Northern Italy.  I flew from Bristol airport to Nice arriving late in the evening.  Because of the late hour of my arrival I had already booked a hotel from England.  When I told the bus driver where I wanted to get off he gave a shrug which I could not fathom.

When I got off I began to understand.  The district I had arrived at was something like the Vienna of Carol Reed‘s film, ‘The Third Man.’

The streets were dark and had an atmosphere of mystery and threat.  People hurried past in buttoned up clothes, avoiding the gaze of others.  Any moment I expected to hear the sound of a zither and Orsen Welles lurking in an alley.  I hurried on myself, keen to find my hotel.

In fact it seemed less of a hotel and more a venue for petty criminals and ladies of the night.  I felt distinctly uncomfortable, reminded of my stay in the less salubrious quarters ofNaples.

Still, I had only booked for one night.

My plan was to head across the border to San Remo so the following day I caught a train from the central station in Nice.  A lovely older lady, as fragile as a china doll, apologised for the state of the train.  ‘It is not a good advert for the Cote d’Azur,’ she explained.  It may not have been, but the journey certainly was.  I split my time between talking with her and gazing out at the scenery with excitement.  There was something truly fascinating and beguiling about the coast.

The lady left the train at Monaco and I travelled on.  By the time I had reached the last town on the French border, I had made up my mind.  I would postpone my journey to Italy by a day and see what the French Riviera and this border town had to offer.  I hopped off the train.

I did not know it but I had arrived at the town of Menton.

I walked down from the station, loving the warmth of the air and the calm and attractive buildings.  I went into the first hotel I saw, the Hotel Moderne, and was surprised to see a virtual double of a friend on the Reception desk.  ‘We have a room with a balcony but for one night only,’ the Receptionist said. ‘It overlooks the church so you’ll hear the bells.’

I snapped up the room there and then, threw my bag on the bed, and went off to explore the town.

I was entranced by everything I saw.  I eventually ended up in an old square with a strange statue staring down upon me and ate at one of the lively restaurants which crammed around it.  As I sat there, I felt a warm sense of peace inveigle itself into me.

Then I strolled back along the Promenade to my hotel.

It was as I walked along that the magic happened.

Four beautiful young black women strode out into the busy road and halted the traffic.  They then began a lively and good-humoured dance.  They were replaced immediately by two young men who made the road an arena for their athletic and daring display.  Any town that allows this to happen must be something special, I thought.  Talk about life-enhancing.

I had fallen in love with Menton.

Now, after many years of visiting the town with my wife Janine, we are on the count-down to moving there.  Only five weeks to go.