Publications update

I have three pieces forthcoming, as follows:

A text called ‘What I did on my holidays’ has been accepted to be published in this summer’s issue of Fahmidan Journal.

Two prose poems, ‘The sisters are neighbours but no longer on speaking terms’ and ‘Moth’ have been accepted for an anthology to be published by Writing Space Press.

A deep delve into my hard drive confirms that the second of these ('The sisters are neighbours') was first written in April 2006, ie it is 20 years old, and has undergone little change since. It has been rejected at least 14 times. The last piece, 'Moth', first emerged from its chrysalis in August 2024 but in its relatively short life has been rejected six times. I draw no conclusions from this peculiar history, but I note that these are two comparatively 'accessible' pieces, and I'm unlikely to waste my time and others' time submitting some of my 'less accessible' pieces since I've not found journals likely to take an interest in them. On we go.

Literally everywhere

Do you have to be a writer to wince at the worst misuses of language?

Yesterday, Paula Radcliffe, an intelligent, highly educated woman and considerate commentator, remarked that "the goalposts have literally just moved for marathon running”. Wait, there’s more.

Through much of this past winter, BBC Radio 3—previously widely-regarded as a reliable platform of cultural focus—repeatedly ran one of its painfully tacky self-promoting adverts in which a familiar broadcasting voice referred to music in which “you can literally hear angels”. (That's probably the worst example I’ve ever come across, not least because several people in 'professional' roles will have sanctioned the soundbite and signed it off).

You don’t have to be particular about language to find the effect problematic. First, if we consistently use words for different meanings, so that the misuse becomes embedded in everyday language, it reduces the accuracy of what we try to articulate. (Use of the word ‘sophisticated’ is a good example). Secondly, we are disempowered by the vagueness of our own speech and that of others. A build-up of misuse of fashionable unthinking terms such as ‘like’ and ‘100%’ and ‘oh my god’ confirms and endorses careless communication, increasing the challenges of understanding.

Obviously human interaction can and has to absorb a degree of flexibility, otherwise creativity could be constrained disastrously across whole societies. In particular, humour and literature would be vulnerable, with puns, metaphors and deliberate ambiguity at risk of suppression and self-censorship. Attempts in the 20^th century by east European regimes to control cultural output offer chilling lessons: Stalinism in post-war Hungary resulted in the banning and pulping of Winnie-the-Pooh.[1] That’s funny-peculiar, but it’s not funny-ha-ha.

Cultural freedom, like all freedoms, comes with responsibility. As it has so far evolved, language is still demonstrably inadequate for expressing our feelings and explaining our experiences. It’s irresponsible to contribute to its erosion. We can't allow ourselves to stop paying close attention to what is said and written, and reflect critically on it. Perhaps there’s a fine line to be drawn. Metaphorically.

(Talking of puns, I saw a new-born lamb starting to try to run the other day. It was a bit if a gambol, to be fair).

[1] Steinitz, R. György Ligeti, 2003, p26.

What forces stimulate artists’ best work?

I’ve always been put off when journals issue themed calls for submissions. I don’t see how a writer can be expected to produce quality work, at short notice, when so conceptually constrained. That’s not to say that such calls might not provide an opportunity if you happen to have something already in the back of a cloud folder, that can be tweaked to fit the theme. But it’s an odd way to go about things—redolent of art classes and ‘creative writing’ courses, giving people a topic to tinker with.

I was reminded recently that there isn’t just one optimum way of getting the best out of yourself. Awake in the night (a recurring problem throughout my life) I was listening to a transcription of Bach’s Goldberg Variations on R3. (Yes, the work is believed to have been composed for an insomniac ‘for the refreshment of their spirits’, and it fulfils the brief: but that’s not my point here). Some people regard this as the greatest single piece of music ever composed (that’s a conversation-starter, not a falsifiable assertion); and it’s worth remembering that it was a commission. Most of Bach’s work was essentially contract work, to earn a living and keep doing what he was good at. Did he already have in mind, in a notebook somewhere, the sublime aria that begins and ends this particular masterpiece? Or did it just come to him when he sat down to get on with the job? Was he hurried by a deadline or relaxed at the absence of one? It would be fascinating to know how this work came about. (Angela Hewitt’s exquisite COVID lockdown recording of the aria is here).

It seems to me that most of the art that we make efforts to engage with, comes about through a combination of the need to earn a living; an impulse to create; the expression of a talent; and the individual need to achieve something. I suggest, for example, that much poetry is generated mainly because of the impulse factor. Whereas for many composers, earning a living has been the predominant factor. But it varies. After the early years, Picasso did not need to earn a living from his work but remained extraordinarily productive, impelled to create. Or consider Virginia Woolf. It’s true that for a time she needed to generate income from writing (mostly through reviews) but throughout, what drove her to express her complex insights in fictional form was the impulse to create and her individual need to achieve. If she’d not had sufficient wealth and therefore time in her day-to-day life (and a room of her own of course) it seems highly unlikely that her best work would have been stimulated by a journal inviting submissions on, say, ‘lighthouses’ or ‘posh people’s parties’.