Reflection Point 11/12

So, one year ends and another begins. A pragmatist might say it's just the changing of a digit on the calendar, or time to buy a new one I guess, but for the rest of us it is a good time to reflect and to plan - and in planning to hope.

This has been a good year for me, bought a townhouse with my wife - first calendar year of marriage too - started this website; met Neil Gaiman, Kevin Anderson and Marianne de Pierres; saw Muse, Amanda Palmer and Mikelangelo and the Black Sea Gentlemen; discovered some great music and read some good books. Work was fine too, got to do some more writing there too which may not be my type of thing but it's experience and money. There were downsides too of course but I won't go into them here.

What this blog is really about is the position I'm in for the New Year. Managed to finish a rough draft of Prometheus Rebooted with hours to spare before 2011 bid farewell, which was a goal and gives me something to polish and try to bring to fruition later. It also frees me up to work on other first drafts.

Other plans for the year are to do Harlan 101 as a sort of writing course and to read 50 plays. What does that mean I don't actually here you ask but imagine you might think, well let me explain - it's not that much so I won't just sum up. Harlan 101 is a book of short stories and essays written by Harlan Ellison. I heard about it through Neil Gaiman who wrote the introduction; he reckons anyone who wants to be a writer should read it, so I bought it. From the introduction it seems Neil learnt some of his craft from Ellison and found a lot of inspiration in his stories too. So I'm going through the book and making notes and thinking about things. I've read the first two stories and yes, I think I'll learn stuff from this book and enjoy reading it as well - so if you want a good read look for some Ellison.

The 50 plays idea is similar in a way. The real aim is to read a play a week; I'm just allowing myself a couple of weeks leniency. I won't just read them either, I'll read them, then make some notes for myself - see what they do and how they work. It's based on what Timothy Daly, who taught me playwrighting in uni, said, that we should read a play a week and not just for the course but in general. It will help with experience, motivation, inspiration and general craft knowledge.

Before I go I'll just quickly tell you about an evening with Neil Gaiman - I know, I know, I keep mentioning him but he keeps popping up in my life, blame Twitter. Anyway, he did a show in Sydney which I went to with Samara and we had a ball. It opened with Fourplay, the string quartet, who played mostly original works but also their version of the Doctor Who theme and Rage Against the Machine's Killing in the Name of, which were brilliant. The viola played the vocals for the last one and it was hilarious hearing a classical stringed instrument swear.

Neil read a number of stories some of which I'd read before in Fragile Things and others which were new - one was new to everyone there, he wrote it as a Christmas gift for his youngest daughter and the only copy he had to read from was the email he'd sent it in. That one was creepy and funny, so were several others; he's very good at making you laugh one second then freaking you out the next. The stories worked so well aloud, and his sheer enthusiasm and joy in telling them was infectious and inspiring. If I do mention him a lot it's not a bad thing, he's a good role model and influence for one such as me - or anyone really.

Let me wish you a happy New Year full of fun, frivolity, creativity and dreams. Especially the latter; remember the philosophers of Led Zeppelin's words - “Dream until your dreams come true.”

Tom Stoppard

For most of high school I planned on being either a cartographer or an environmental scientist who dabbled in writing. Then came Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and it all seemed like a lot of work; whereas writing was just natural. Still, I wasn't convinced and had no particular focus.

So it was as a weary and directionless teenager that I came upon Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, one of the texts for my HSC English course. It was then I knew what I wanted to do - write plays. I had no idea theatre could be so … well, nuts. Yes, I had been somewhat sheltered to come to that conclusion, something I've been well stripped of since, but that play remains one of the cleverest, wittiest and most entertaining I've encountered and if I had not read it at that point in my life I firmly believe I would not have followed the path I did. So it's not really exaggerating to say Tom Stoppard changed my life.

Imagine my excitement therefore on hearing he was going to be ‘in conversation' in Sydney - there is an event not to be missed! Going along with fellow cracked playwright and good friend Ash Walker, I waited with expectation for the man himself - same copy of Ros and Guil are Dead in my pocket on the off-chance I ran into him later for an autograph, I didn't.

From the seats we had his features were a blur and he appeared very small, nevertheless there he was; older than the photo in the back of the plays of his I have, but only in as much as his hair was grey. He was very much my idea of the English writer: casual suit, shock of hair, legs crossed in a slight slouch and hands poised for a good chat. He didn't disappoint, for the next hour and a half he conversed on a range of topics, directed somewhat by questions but mainly as starting points for things he wanted to relate. Years of experience and a keen, active and inquiring mind have led to someone who has a lot to say; the one trick he had was staying on topic and not forgetting his point in the meantime.

It would be ridiculous of me to try to recount what he said but there are some things which he raised that I want to relate, because they very much related to me as a writer. One of the encouraging things to hear was that he no longer believes in knowing everything there is to know about a play before writing it. For years I had it drummed into me that thinking such a thing was foolhardy arrogance and it could never possibly work; it's a true relief to hear such an accomplished writer say it could. Interestingly, that morning, while choosing which of his plays to ‘happen to have' in my pocket for my wished for accidental encounter, I read his introduction to a volume which opens with The Real Inspector Hound where he related the same story as he did in the conversation. It was his epiphany on the subject; since he found himself with an almost completed play that revolved around a corpse under the sofa, without knowing who it was. Suddenly it was obvious who it was, he finished the play and it remains a great success to this day over forty years later.

He seemed to have to reiterate that point several times, the question asker having trouble accepting that such intricate and clever plays could be written without being planned first. Then Tom mentioned feeling lucky when he did come up with the great line in question, and similar moments. "If you feel lucky it's good; if you feel clever you're stuffed." (not verbatim but essentially what he said). Of course he went on to say luck has nothing to do with it, the work is being down all the time in the subconscious. It just feels lucky when it suddenly spills out onto the page. This seems to relate to a fascinating aside about an historical character from his trilogy The Coasts of Utopia, which I sadly know little to nothing about. The character was a Russian literary critic during the time of Tsars, he said he had tried to be a poet but knew he never could be, because when he went to write a poem he put everything into being there writing a poem. When a poet writes, you watch them, the pen moves constantly - then it stops and the poet stares, then the pen moves again. There in that moment when the pen stopped, where did the poet go? Only artists know and that's what makes them artists. It would seem to me they go inward, to the subconscious where creation and dreams lie.

Talking about this figure also led to another of those moments where things strangely coalesce. You may recall in my last blog my off-handed question about how so much beautiful music could come from the oppression of Stalinist USSR. This critic insisted his success as a critic, and the success of the writers he critiqued, lay in the very repression of the Tsarist regime he lived under. Not long before his death he went to Paris to try to recover from tuberculosis, his fellow countrymen who were also there encouraged him to stay. He wouldn't even consider it; there anyone could publish whatever they liked. There was no pressure, no real scrutiny - and no lasting success, as everything written was soon buried under the next week's publications. How that view stands now, with anyone capable of putting out huge amounts whenever they want … well. Stoppard did say he didn't think the freedom we had would produce, comparatively, as many masterpieces as the days when being published took more effort.

I seem to be going on a lot too now, but there was so much to think about it's hard not to. One final point I'll talk about was his comment “I don't write drafts of plays, I write drafts of sentences.” This was a key part of his process I think. He'll write fifty copies of the first page, each barely distinguishable from the last, and continue doing this back and forth through the play so by the end there's only one way things can fall out. But a lot of decisions are made on the spot early on. He mentioned something in the second scene of Arcadia, it could have been this or that - he went one way, if he'd gone the other the whole play might have failed because everything that followed would've been completely different. He may even have abandoned the play. Which makes me feel better about plays I have abandoned too.

So with Stoppard the work lies in the writing and, as we're always told, the rewriting - but here there's not that much difference. It's not the same process as mine by any means, nor should it be, but it gives me confidence that mine is okay and however I arrive at the end result, if the work is in there - and I “trust the subconscious” - it'll be all right.

Musical Forays

Last week my ears were firmly up against the wall taking in as much of ABC Classic FM's Classic 100 countdown as possible. The theme this year was nominally the 20th century but in practice it was anything from 1900 to today. For me the countdown was a culmination of a process of discovery; not that the journey is by any means finished it's just not so firmly focussed on one time period any more.

Going into the voting I had some absolute favourites, but I wanted to find out more about what my options were. It wasn't all that long ago I put aside the idea of all classical music coming from a bygone era and all composers being roughly contemporary. So finding out what happened in the last hundred or so years was really interesting. I won't bore you with all the details but classical music is more than you might think and worth trying out. I was lucky and grew up with it, but if you haven't given it much of a chance I encourage you to.

The countdown itself raised some interesting moments and opinions too. One thing it really showed up however was some very intolerant people who were constantly ringing in or commenting online about how dreadful some piece of music was and how it was a shame the ABC hadn't better educated its listeners in the finer points of this or that composer; or how everyone who voted for something must be tone-deaf. They couldn't accept that people have different tastes and that just because they don't like something doesn't mean it's a bad piece of music. I certainly hope the exercise has given people pause for thought and an appreciation for the wonderful variety of music and - most importantly - people out there.

Going into fanboy over-analytical mode I compiled a list of the composers who had the most entries, then did a weighted count with points awarded depending on which lot of 10 the entries came in at. In all Mahler had six entries but Rachmaninoff had his five pieces better placed. In fact, despite the lauded success of the Brits at the very top of the countdown, it was the four big Russian/Soviet composers who had the most entries and points. It's interesting to think then how much beautiful music came out of oppression and suffering. Shostakovich's symphonies were the big revelation to me in listening to the countdown and so many of them had to be written to please the State, but still manage to speak against it. Prokofiev seems to have followed a similar path.

This has further inspired me on my journey of discovery and I'm currently cruising the river of Shostakovich's 15 symphonies. There are some lovely serene meanders and lots of rugged white-water rafting sections.

On the topic of music, a few weeks ago I was lucky enough to accompany one of my oldest and dearest friends, John, to the 10th anniversary gig of Mikeangelo and The Black Sea Gentlemen. It was at Notes in Newtown, quite swish or swank depending on point of view, and was dinner and a show. Dinner was nice, show was better - and our seats were brilliant, as in directly next to the stage.

Opening the entertainment was the Transylvaniacs; sounds like a poor excuse for a goth band but they're nothing of the sort. In fact, hearing them continued my musical journey of discovery as they play traditional music from Transylvania - without a single vampire joke or widow's peak thankfully. The music was rich in tones and rhythm and was even accompanied by a dance solo which was breathtaking to behold - and more so to perform I imagine.

The main act itself was in a word spectacular. The decade of experience showed but clearly hadn't eroded the sense of enjoyment these guys have in their music. It was them having fun as much as them entertaining anyone else and that made it great for everyone.

Part of me wishes them every success and part of me hopes they stay at this level so they can keep walking down tables singing, stealing food from waiters who get too close to the stage and using audience members as makeshift portable mike stands. Highly skilled musicians, natural entertainers and consummate professionals always in character. I will buy some albums but they'll never compete with The Black Sea Gentlemen live.

The Day I Met Neil Gaiman

I figure it's about time I started this blog and what better place to start it than the time I met Neil Gaiman? Of course, by meet I mean I handed him a book and he signed it and handed it back, but there was a moment and it deserves a blog.

First some back story. Six months before this fated meeting I'd barely heard of the man. I knew the name, I knew he was an author and someone at uni once told me I should read something he wrote. That was about it. Similarly, I'd heard of the Dresden Dolls and knew Coin-Operated Boy, but Amanda Palmer was a mystery to me. Then my wife, who at that stage was my fiancee and already a big fan of Amanda Palmer, bought and read Neverwhere because someone had told her she should. She wasn't even halfway through when she told me I had to read to it too. So of course I did; six months later I'd read it and American Gods and was collecting his other books as quickly as I could. This stuff was gold, solid gold.

So, when Amanda Palmer announced she was doing a show at the Opera House and Neil was going to be there ... it was a no brainer - so was I and my wife Samara. I listened to as much of her work before the show as I could and admit I became a big fan of her too. Soul-wrenching honesty, beautiful music, and a hefty dose of twisted humour - it's Neil's writing in song.

Just before the concert I bought a Jane Austen Argument EP, it was signed and we were going to see them and it seemed something I should do - I couldn't explain it. Damn glad I did though. They opened the concert and were breathtaking - gave me goose bumps as soon as Tom started to sing. Mikelangelo and the Black Sea Gentlemen were another revelation; then Amanda blew us all away, with Neil enchanting us with a poem of megafauna in the middle.

After the concert Amanda and Neil came out the front for signings. We knew they would from their twitter, so Samara and I had a book of his each on us and we bought a set of coasters with album art etc for her to sign at the merchandise table. The signing happened really fast so all I said to Amanda was thank you and I smiled idiotically, she smiled back in somewhat of a daze. To Neil I managed to say "You're a big inspiration," because he does inspire me and just his existence encourages me to keep writing. "Depends how much you care," he replied as he handed me the book back. I didn't fully register what he'd said at first and the next person was coming in, but I nodded and we had an infinitesimally short moment as I digested the statement. I was thrilled to bits and pretty much floated out of the Opera House.

It was pretty special. Reminded me of when I met Sir David Attenborough in a way. He didn't say something so thought-provoking but the moment left a big impression. I've thought the world of him for as long as I can remember so meeting him at a book signing was a big deal. I only blustered something about having grown up watching him (to which he said 'really?' in a polite way) and how he'd had a big impact on my life. Not even sure he completely heard it I probably mumbled. But the best part was as he handed the book back he shook my hand, I said thank you and, still holding my hand and looking me square in the eye, he said 'a pleasure.' He meant it to. He appreciated what the moment meant for me as a fan and he let me know that it meant a lot to him that I cared so much about his work. I floated for a good hour or so after that.

I thought about what Neil said a lot on the way home. I was thinking he'd just say that's nice of you or thank you. I think that's why I took a bit to register what he'd said. "You're a big inspiration," "Depends how much you care." It wasn't an immediate response, he took the book as I said it, turned deftly to the right page, signed in that well-practiced way, then said it on the return so the 'you care' was said as we both gripped the book and made eye contact. I think the look was a bit of, 'if you see what I mean' and a bit of seeing whether it meant anything to me, gauging my reaction sort of thing.

I probably disappointed him; I was halfway home before I finished digesting it fully. He's probably said it plenty of times but the way he did it, and the fact that he did make eye contact as he did; he meant it and meant it to mean something to me. I think it was also a form of thank you; 'that I have inspired you means you care about what I've done, thank you.' He definitely seems to appreciate his fans.

But to me the crux of what he said added up to more than that. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but that's my right. His work wouldn't inspire me if I didn't care about it, but more than that it wouldn't inspire me if I didn't care about my own work that he's inspired me to continue with. For me to really mean that he's a big inspiration and to show that I care I have to not just think it or even mean it, I have to do it. In one brief little exchange he inspired me even more than before. Because I do care about my work, so I will do it. Thank you Neil.