…where the food garnishes itself.

The great British seaside [Part 1]

On Yorkshire’s eastern seaboard lie many jewels. Nestling in a calm and sandy bay, with its history clinging like crusty barnacles to the salty bedrock of British seaside tradition, is Bridlington - that pearl of the coast. Sitting demurely between Flamborough Head to the North and Spurn Point to the South, it grins benignly out into the dark green North Sea and Holland beyond, beckoning travellers to take tea with her. She shrinks, like Scarborough’s younger sister, hiding her charms with modesty and jealously guarding her delights with wisdom and reserve. Where her elder sibling is brash - with her painted lips and awkward heels - Bridlington, on the other hand, is refined and gentile but don’t think for a minute that she can’t offer the same delights. She is vibrant with everything a pleasure seeker could wish for but without the vulgarity offered by her less restrained family member.

The seaside experience, extending deep into the British psyche like seaweed entangled firmly in our minds, is not about being beautiful - that is for the continentals. When you visit a Northern coastal resort like Brid, it’s time to let your hair down and be who are are (and sometimes who you’d rather not). Our suspension of disbelief is in full flight as we promenade along facade after facade of flashing lights, misspelt signs and indigestion inducing food emporiums whilst telling ourselves that we are having fun in spite of the rain. On the whole, we know that everything is not only skin deep and purely for our benefit but more importantly; we know that it is perhaps more that ever-so-slightly rubbish. In fact, secretly, we know it is significantly crass but we love it all the more for its paucity of depth

We embrace its honesty as it spews yet another greasy hot dog or donut stall at us and we laugh as we buy dreadful hats with rude motifs and browse hideous keepsakes and souvenirs which we will discard within the year. But most importantly, we want to engage in the whole spectacle. We have a driven desire to eat boiled sugar and seafood or fried fish and pale chips from paper as predatory birdlife swoop, because it’s bred into us. It’s traditional. Overweight and sweaty children, holding shafts of brightly coloured rock, run between the awnings and and paw their sticky fingers across the contraptions designed to extract our spending money. Mums and dads, with more flesh exposed than is decently acceptable, look on with teeth bared and cackle - confident that they are all having the commodity of fun delivered in spades. They know in their hearts that the facade is a tart but in that understanding lies the terms of engagement which brings a rush of thrill knowing that our relationship is transient.

Underneath the flashing lights and constantly chirruping arcades, however, lies an older version of self, which if searched for reveals another incarnation of now. A vintage version of itself which has layers of similarities stretching back to the hazy days of fishing fleet and shipping lanes, tobacco smuggling and piracy. In those days the air was rich with daring and adventure and you can smell the log smoked stories of ghosts and bravery in every inglenook fireplace of every stonebuilt inn.

But perhaps it was the Victorians and Edwardians who introduced the proletariat to the idea of venturing to the beach and the letting down of hair which, even then, involved a degree of equal daring to the seafarers of old. Every palace of fun looks down on the modern day with a knowing eye from the building tops which still proclaim the names of long forgotten music halls and flickery cinemas such as the Empire and Astoria. From the pavilions and solariums where the sun never comes to the flowered gardens where the benches regimentally face the watery horizon - everything is designed for escape, if only for a moment, from our ordinary and dreary lives.

In spite of the rain I’d urge you to smile when you visit such a place. She knows she is brash but if you take tea with her she can entertain you on her level. There is no need to recoil in horror if you feel above the vulgarity of it all, she knows that and always delivers all that you’d expect. When you take her at face value the rewards are bountiful so embrace the great British seaside with open arms as if she were a favourite grandma with her best party frock and a face full of make-up. She might plant you a slobbery kiss on the cheek but you know you always have the going home to look forward to.

Just recently I was asked: “What literature has had the most influence on you?”

To be honest, I have to say that it was children’s books that have always had the biggest influence. As a father, I have spent nearly thirty years reading aloud to my children and though all that time have absorbed the ‘inner truths’ of simple story telling: there’s a character, they want something, they try to get it, they succeed, they feel better and then they live happily ever after.

From the classics to the modern - all the books (of any merit) that I have read follow this same, timeless path through desire, quest, achievement and solution. But, unlike ‘so called’ adult stories, they do so in ways that are clearly marked and strongly outlined. Each character’s place in the story is very easily understood (they have to be for a child’s mind) and the timeline for each of them follows a defined and logical path.

It’s not surprising then, that when people ask ‘who are your favourite authors?’, my first thoughts are always: Enid Blyton, Hans Christian Andersen, Alfred Bestall, Theodor Seuss, AA Milne, and over recent years: Roald Dahl, Jacqueline Wilson, Jo Rowling, Kate DiCamillo and many others. I’m not saying their writing represented ‘high literature’, it’s just that they are the names that come most easily to mind. But for me, it was Rupert Bear that struck the strongest chord. With his smart casual clothes, congenial friends and cozy-comfortable family, living a blameless life in rural middle England.

I was captivated by the idea that, following a hearty breakfast, Rupert could go out into the world and for no particular reason, would find himself on a Pirate’s treasure island, or a Magician’s castle by lunchtime with the peril of having to save the day for all concerned (which he always did) and still managed to get home in time for buttered crumpets at teatime. But that was the secret for me - it reassured me that magic was in the air and all you had to do was look for it. It also gave me a great sense of security, knowing that there was always hot cocoa waiting when the dragon had been slain (or given a jolly good telling off, at least).

In my view, the best literature has a little bit of Rupert in there. The only thing that is different, is that the conflicts, solutions and language are more complicated. We all want to know that, come teatime (whether metaphorical or not) things will be restored back to normal but they’ll be just that little bit better because of what our hero did.

A small part of my mind has been closed off for about twelve weeks now. I have walked the corridors outside its door many times, hesitating to perhaps look in as if checking on a sick child. Each time, however, I have resisted the temptation and gone about my business satisfied that all was well within.

For a while I became concerned that what lay in that room had withered and died - faded away into nothing more than a clouded memory but something drove me on to persist with my absence and let it have time to rest. Instinctively, I knew that the thing which I had confined had been worked harder than it had ever been for some time and needed to recover.

On the sixth of December last year I completed the final chapter of a novel that I had poured myself into, intensively, for a little more than six months. Carving out an average of a thousand words a day, it staggered into bed at just short of one hundred and fifty thousand words. I knew in my heart that those words were, quite possibly, not assembled in the right order and might even be the wrong words for the job. Certainly, there were more than required but for the time being they served the purpose of painting the picture I wanted to release from my imagination.

Since that day in December I have made no attempt to put my fingers to the keyboard to write anything of substance. With the exception of a few journal entries I have observed a complete abstinence which has been due in part to having nothing of any interest to say. So complete was my exploration of the grand designs of my novel idea that I had exhausted every creative avenue and emptied all the resources I had for new ideas. Rather than face the futility and disappointment of flogging a crippled steed I concluded that a sojourn was better than a battle. Far better that I let it lie than try to ride the stumbling creature and fall, taking the humiliation which that brings.

I am convinced that my inactivity these last few months are not a case of writer’s block (which, in any case, implies that a writer cannot move forward) so much as a case of a writers ‘conclusion’ - a situation where a train of thought finally arrives at its intended destination. Having disembarked from the train I find myself now striding the platform’s length looking at posters for other exciting places to visit.

But now it is time to unlock that attic room. I have heard the plaintive cries from within and know that the thing is alive and well. Awakening from winter hibernation, it now seeks sustenance and attention which I once more feel capable of offering. Our time apart has been a period of recovery for us both as I have spent my time living a life and observing the very things which I have previously attempted to document. Now that the dark days and icy winds have receded, my internal store of snapshots and character sketches is renewed and together I believe that we can, once more, embark on adventures new as spring begins to surge around me. Sometimes a change is as good as a rest. When the words won’t flow - don’t force them (they are unforgiving). Do something else instead.

Facebook has changed the world in many ways and in spite of the negative coverage it often gets in the popular press, all of us who use it cannot deny the positive benefits it brings to our everyday lives.

In a world where much of our ‘digital’ life is stored in ‘the cloud’ - that mysterious place in the ether where all the music, films, photographs and email messages reside - it is wonderful to realise that I have a cyber-mantlepiece filled with birthday cards and greetings.

Facebook has truly linked our lives in an intimate and immediate way that never existed before (unless we lived on the same street, same house etc) and for that it has truly brought us closer together. I genuinely enjoy reading the sincere updates of the daily lives of people who are special in my life and although I don’t always interact with their news, I feel that I am connected with them.

Yesterday was my birthday and as a treat to myself, I disconnected from the internet for a day. This in itself is an usual thing (as most of us smartphone users will know) but as I was out of range of any signal for many hours it was an easy task. I felt freed from the need to continually poke at a screen and as much as the curiosity burned in me, I resisted the temptation to see if anyone had remembered that it was my special day.

But what a wonderful surprise it was to return to see a page filled with thoughts and good wishes. Facebook has made it a relatively easy task to be aware of each other’s birth dates but the fact that so many took just a few moments to click on the link and type a message is genuinely heart warming and means a great deal to me.

To mention a few (in no particular order): Lizzi, Daniel, Holly, Dave, Minnie, Edwina, Paul, Jennifer, Jo, Colin, Jon, Rachel, David, Nibbe, Ulrike, Hope, Jason, Kyra, Annie, Alannah, Michelle, Bill, Dave, Karl, Lee, Matt, Joe, Gazz - your thoughts are wonderful and I thank you.

My missus had planned a secret getaway on the Friday night and we drove away, deep into the North Yorkshire countryside to a marvelous hunting lodge hotel, where she had arranged dinner and an overnight stay. The following morning, after a huge breakfast we went out into the foggy, crisp morning air for a walk around the village then set off to visit the nearest town: Malton. From there we went back to York, picked up my daughter, Hope and we drove to the coast to have doughnuts. Taking the scenic route back we went into York and had massive amounts of pizza. Finally, I indulged myself with a couple of hours of Harry Hill on TV then fell asleep on the sofa. Tired but (for once) very happy.

The last twelve months have been an unusual experience all in all, and this birthday marks some important landmarks: It was the year that I wrote a novel and became a grandfather (amongst other lesser events). I shall look forward to the next twelve with great optimism as I feel that we all are the source of our own destiny.

It’s a very strange feeling having completed a book. On the one hand, there is the elation that it is all finished: that every twist and turn has been explored, every angle examined and every exposition exposed. But, on the other hand, there is the very tangible feeling that it is ‘all over’. In some ways, that is more terrifying than the prospect of embarking on such a project.

They say, that for a gambler the most euphoric moment is when all the winning money is spent. The feeling of emptiness frees them from the compulsion to gamble and they are faced with the empty page of neutrality. But, as we all know, the desire with any addiction is to engage ‘just this once’ with the very thing that fills every thought.

VALVEPUNKS! ‘The long road to Quixotica’ (Working title) is the name of my newborn and it’s a ripping yarn of deliciously vintage proportions. Set in the future (but rooted in the past) it follows the adventures of am old man as he goes in search of his sanity. Or, as the blurb says:

“When an old inventor and radio star of yesteryear is visited by a journalist - keen to learn more about his past - he takes them both on an incredible journey to find the facts and in the process; to be reunited with the woman he loves. Struggling to cope with his forgotten life and facing an uncertain future, he tries to discover serenity and some crucial answers by time-slipping back into his troubled youth, then fast forward into one version of the future. Knowing the truth brings a dilemma; does he follow his previous timeline or choose to reinvent history?”

It’s a A quirky, dark comedy, mad science, time-slip, love story. Filed under: Steampunk / Mad-Science Fiction / Scifi / Comedy. But who is he? - “Reggie is a frail old man lost in space and time. He seems not to remember where he has come from nor where he is going. All that he knows is that he is fleeing from a forgotten enemy to a destination he can’t remember, using a machine that he built which can travel through time, space and matter.”

The research for the narrative has led me through hundreds of visits to antique shops, carboot sales and auctions. Along the way, I have joined astronomical societies, radio enthusiast circles and scientific forums. I have spoken to a great number of elderly friends to garner their impressions of the modern world (as well as their recollections of the past) and through it all, I have become transformed- both in my understanding of the world around me as well as the history of the universe itself.

But now I am faced with a sense of grief and panic that there is no more to do. Apart from the obvious sequel (which I am already working on) I am struck by an overwhelming feeling of loss now that my daily routine is devoid of any ritual obligation.

For the past 184 days I have spent an average of four hours (every day) writing a typical 800 words a day and to not have that focus anymore brings a feeling of loss which I am not sure how I will fill. In the space of exactly six months (from 23rd May to the 23rd November) I have written 146,127 words towards my book which represents approximately 736 hours (or a full working month) of writing. Whilst this is, in itself, a feat of no mean measure, I am now faced with the absence that its completion presents.

For the sake of my sanity, I intend to take Christmas off, and review the book in the new year and then the re-writes will begin. - that glorious process that involves the polishing and perfecting of all that is good. Hopefully, at the end of it there will be a story that will be worthy of reading. But, between you and me - I think it’s going to be great. I can’t wait for you to read it.

One of the perils of embarking on the journey of writing, is the very likely possibility of ending up down a road with no exit route. A cul-de-sac (literally meaning “bottom of bag” in French) is a word which refers to a dead end street, a close, or a no through road and it’s a place that every writer fears, no matter how spectacular the houses are along that road.

During May and June of this year I was particularly inspired by my novel - so much so that I was averaging a thousand words a day, clocking in at nearly thirty thousand of the sparkly things by the first week of June. This was a wonderful achievement, in my eyes, and the completion of the first three chapters of the book heralded a great sense of relief. However, there was a theatre booked for the performance of a play I wrote which needed all my attention and so throughout the rest of June I was engaged with rehearsals and preparation for that.

The show went well and I came out of it with not only a feeling of pride that it was well received but also a commission to write a new play for the October Literary Festival in Malton. Without wasting a moment, I began work on that and turned round a first draft in a couple of weeks, organised a cast get together and had a couple of read throughs, which looked promising but this week realised it had been four weeks since I had worked on the novel.

I tried to re-start the impetus which I had going this time last month and found it very hard indeed to get the flow started and on one occasion only managed a paragraph in an hour. For whatever reason, the ideas were simply not ‘tumbling’ like they were previously. Now, it’s not like I don’t know the story (the whole thing is mapped out in my mind and I am aware of all the intimate details), it’s just that I feel like I am slightly trapped in the cul-De-sac created by the events so far. The magnitude and impact of the ‘set-up’ is slightly intimidating me at the moment and I feel as though I might not be able to match the dynamic and thrusting pace I had set down last month.

It’s not that I am worried by this, far from it, it’s just that it’s frustrating as I want to get back in the captain’s chair and resume steering the ship through new waters. But that cul-de-sac! Perhaps the work on writing scripts is something that I should embrace for the time being until the words are ‘bursting’ to come out again.

It is for this reason that I haven’t posted a blog for a few weeks and right now I am putting some thoughts down - as a kind of laxative, if you will and if your writing takes you down some blind alleys from time to time, my advice would be: get out of the car, take a look at the neighbourhood, survey the landscape, eat a sandwich and have a think - you haven’t lost your legs, you’ve just misplaced your roadmap for a bit.

NEVER give up.

The problem with most people is that they just don’t ‘think’. I don’t mean this unkindly, I simply mean in that today’s media rich lifestyles, the tendency is to be swamped with stimulus that invades our consciousness and pushes out not only our ‘inner commentaries’ but also our natural tendency to critically analyse the experiences we find ourselves in.

As a writer, I feel it is essential to observe all of life’s intricate tapestry to be able to talk about it. This was never more apparent than when I recently took a bus ride to the coast. Normally, I would take the car and drive but on this occasion decided that public transport was a safer option (my vehicle not being in a fit state to cope with such a lengthy haul being the primary motivator!). 

It has been a long time since I used a bus and I had forgotten how it changes one’s perspective on the journey: whilst driving you are held captive in one position, with eyes firmly fixed ahead and thoughts that are focussed (through necessity) on the road and the actions of other motorists around you. However, when you submit the navigating to a designated ‘captain’ the mind is free to wander with the prospect of having nothing of any significance to do for a period of time. In my case, it was a ‘coast’ to the coast. 

I was immediately struck by the diversity of ‘characters’ who shared my crossing and I was engaged in the process of ‘people watching’ for much of the time. It occurred to me that I was surrounded by a film’s worth of engaging figures, from the protagonists and antagonists to the villain’s sidekicks, supporting heroes and walk-on actors. Each one of them was rich with backstory, mannerisms, dynamics and dimension but I had a feeling that I was the only one who was feeling this way. 

There was the young man I dubbed ‘the comic book guy’ who spent the whole ninety minutes on his web-phone (with earphones tightly plugged in) who checked his mail, updated his Facebook status, bought stuff on Amazon, read a film review, uploaded some photos and all the while was completely oblivious to the fact that he was on a bus with fifty or so complete and deeply interesting ‘strangers’.

I, on the other hand, was vividly aware of the smell of lavender, wood fires and cut grass that was blowing in through the open windows. I saw lambs leaping, cows feeding, and crows circling recently ploughed fields. I saw a farm and sheds and houses with people gardening, a darkly inviting woodland, people on bicycles and a Muslim praying on a mat in gas station forecourt. Inside, I saw a multitude of clashing and exquisitely intertwining lives and I pondered for a moment on how we would all interact in the event of a catastrophe. 

Opposite me was an old man. His brown-skinned hands clasping the rail in front, the purple veins and brown nails telling a tale of a life rich with adventure and hard work. He wore a dark green raincoat, a tweed cap and had thick, gold-rimmed glasses and throughout it all, he smiled to himself. But behind him was someone, I felt, held a darker secret. He was dressed in a dark sweater over a checked shirt with a baseball cap, the brim pulled down to his green-tinted aviator shades. On his lap was a black holdall and through the slightly open zip I could see the head of a doll. 

After a while, I noticed that the old man had made a ‘silent connection’ with another old man further down the bus and this seemed to unsettle the ‘ex-marine’ with the baby in the bag - I wondered about him for a moment as I studied his unease. Was he a paedophile? a baby murderer? (were there real body parts in that bag?) or was he simply a grandpa off to see his granddaughter? - These possibilities and many more, cascaded through my imagination as we trundled on and after a while I decided to read - to take advantage of my brain’s ‘downtime’, (whilst waiting for the bus I had bought a paperback from a second hand store - James Herbert - and immersed myself in ghosts for the remainder of the journey.)

Arriving in the Yorkshire seaside town of Scarborough in the early afternoon, I wandered with my daughter and her friend through the bustling shopping street down to the sea front’s ‘main drag’. While they went into various stores I waited amongst the chattering throng and was drawn to a street preacher with a placard claiming that ‘THE WORLD WILL END IN 2012’. Naturally, I was deeply curious. 

He handed me a poorly photocopied leaflet outlining his ten reasons why the world will end and I was stunned by his proclamation. So much so that I would like to share with you his chilling vision as it provided the final piece in my ‘movie’ outline of the whole day - so far, I had the characters, the scenario and now the plot for a cataclysmic disaster movie that was going to take millions to produce. As the pamphlet was quite detailed (and enthusiastically rambling) I would like to paraphrase, just to get to the meat of the matter:

TEN REASONS WHY THE WORLD WILL END.

1. According to the Bible, God has allotted just 6,000 years for the world to run its course. The deadline being just two years away. 

2. The Pope is the most evil man in the world today. It is written that he is the ‘last one’.

3. The Roman Catholic Church are the ‘Anti-Christ’.

4. The New World Order is already taking shape. 

5. When the world starts talking about peace and safety then destruction shall come upon them.

6. World-wide problems are deliberately manufactured.

7. Resources are running out. 

8. Aliens are deceivers and non-religious ‘teachers’ are to be mistrusted. 

9. Only God is in total control of the world

10. Satan’s followers would look foolish if nothing happened. 

And finally, a rather awkward number eleven crept in right at the end - 

“The Church is controlled by Satan”.

If you don’t believe me, you can read all about these ‘Conspiracist Christians’ at the home page - The Church of God’s Remnants - and see how we must all repent and join them, in case that, on the glorious day, we are swept aside in an avalanche of retribution and anger. 

All of which made me think. Perhaps the ideas expressed by the preacher were extreme, misguided or even inevitable but more than anything it showed that someone, somewhere had taken time to think about it and I started to come to a few of my own conclusions. What I would like to leave you with, are my ‘ten reasons why writer’s creativity will be at an end’ if they don’t follow the ‘universal laws of the muse’.

TEN REASONS WHY CREATIVITY WILL END.

1. THINK. Turn off the TV, the radio and the internet (for a while) They stop you from ‘thinking’ (which is what the media giants want in any case) 

2. LISTEN. That voice you hear as you read this? That’s YOU. Pay close attention and let yourself describe what’s going on. 

3. ASK WHY. Question everything, assume nothing. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet (perhaps the sky ‘isn’t’ falling!)

4. TAKE A DIFFERENT TACK. Learn about philosophy and discover new ways of thinking, analysing and experiencing. 

5. MAKE NOTES. Carry a notebook at all times (ideas are like fish - they must be speared on the end of a pencil before they swim away.)

6. WATCH AND LEARN. Writing is merely describing life and you can’t do this unless you know what it looks like.

7. GIVE YOURSELF SPACE. Listen to your inner voice. Encourage it to talk to you. 

8. BE OPEN MINDED. Open your senses to the current experience. Take in every detail. Let your ‘writer’s radar’ be on red alert at all times. 

9. TRUST YOURSELF. Publishers are fickle. Don’t read so much that it influences your writing. 

10. WRITE IT ALL DOWN. Every thing that you see, hear, smell, taste or feel is essential detail that can one day fuel the fires of an almighty story. 

THINK FOR YOURSELF, and listen to your own voice. 

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