The Emily Awards 2016

 

As I was ruminating on the books I read last year, I thought it might be fun to pick out my favourites and to briefly summarise what I liked about them. So without further ad0, may I welcome you to the first annual EMILY AWARDS! Drumroll…

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Best Novel: The First Bad Man – Miranda July
I don’t want to say too much, except that the first page made me gasp with surprise and laugh out loud, and that carried on happening throughout. As original and playful as Vonnegut. Like Vonnegut, I liked humanity more by the time I reached the final page. Read it.

The Godfather Award for Best Sequel: The Story Of a New Name – Elena Ferrante
I really liked My Brilliant Friend but I loved The St0ry of a New Name. I felt as though MBF did all of the grunt work of establishing place and characters (so, so many characters), so that TSOANN could really get going with telling a focused, atmospheric story. Lena and Lila are some of the most complex and fully realised female characters I’ve ever come across, and I felt myself copying Ferrante in everything I wrote, for a good while after reading this. Whoever the real Ferrante is, she gets female psychology. And she gets that it’s not always men we’re mooning over.

Best Hangover Read: The Girl on the Train – Paula Hawkins
I dislike the snobbery that surrounds genre fiction. Sometimes what I want from a book is to be wrapped up in its plot, to be immersed in its world and to be distracted from my headache and the smelly man in the seat next to me on my route back from a heavy night in Manchester. Plus, it’s always great to discover a flawed female protagonist.

Best Re-Read: The Sense of an Ending – Julian Barnes
I first read this in 2011, because it won the Man Booker prize. I read it on tubes and while walking and always because-I-thought-I-should. I was glad when it was over, and couldn’t see the point of it. When I re-read it this year (in order to teach it), it took my breath away. There was a philosophical undercurrent that I missed on first reading, and ruminations on ageing that I wasn’t ready to understand. This read taught me that enjoyment of a novel is all about timing, and that you perhaps shouldn’t read while walking if you’re hoping for a profound literary experience.

The Tom Waits Award for Experimental Fiction: Grief Is The Thing With Feathers – Max Porter

For the line ‘OH NO YOU DON’T, COCK-CHEEK’. But also for the beautiful rendition of romantic love in a way that celebrates friendship and childishness. For the fact that it is both poetry and prose, both terribly sad and terribly funny, and it has a massive crow in it.

Honourable Mention: Zadie Smith – On Beauty

 

New Year, New You: Creative Resolutions

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Is January 12th too late for a New Years Resolutions blog post? Maybe. Never mind. George Eliot wrote that “it’s never too late to be who you might have been”. Lovely Mary-Ann Evans: she gave me so much to think about for my undergrad dissertation, and she’s still teaching me now. Homegirl was a trailblazer, no doubt, as a writer and a feminist. But she also championed the right to change one’s mind. Evangelical Christian one minute, atheist the next,  a writer who sought to challenge literary stereotypes of women but who rejected women’s suffrage, Eliot’s/Evans’ life was anything but a straight line. When I was eighteen, and for some time after, I believed in the straight line. I knew everything about my life and the path it would take, and I was anxious and impatient to get going. If you’re an ex-boyfriend and I was sure about where your life was going too, sorry. Now, at 27, I’m less sure than ever what the right direction is. But I’m also less anxious. I think the paths probably overlap, and reconnect, to paraphrase Robert Frost. I think it’s not too late, to be who I might be. I think it’s not too late to be unsure. I think it’s never too late to be unsure.

Anyway, I like January. I like resolutions. I enjoy the monastic celebration of sobriety and the optimism of new beginnings. But I’m a realist, too. Fuck abs, man. I like carbohydrates and Netflix too much. My resolutions this year are about reading and writing. ‘A writer’ is the current version of me I’m enjoying trying to be. And because you can take the girl out of the secondary school but you can’t take the secondary school out of the girl, these resolutions are all written in the form of SMART targets: i.e. they are Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Rewarding and Timely. That means that when NYE 2018 rolls around, I can accurately assess if I stuck to them.

  1. Blog twice a week – to achieve this, I intend to include book reviews, records of literary achievements and reflections on the writing process.
  2. Write daily – A minimum of 500 words or a poem. Every writer worth their salt advocates for this habit. In the morning, preferably.
  3. Get an agent – All I can do is write to them. All they can do is say no!
  4. Enter competitions – At least one a week.
  5. Complete another manuscript – pressing save on my first one was up there with crossing the finish line of the Amsterdam Marathon.
  6. Read 30 books – I read 23 last year (that I can remember), so this seems manageable. I’d like to set a more ambitious number but I’m not the quickest reader and these targets are supposed to be Achievable. Six of last year’s reads were re-reads (usually for teaching purposes). I’d like to avoid that as much as possible, this year. There are plenty of never-read books already on my bookshelf, patiently waiting their turn.

Emily x

 

 

Site Updates: am I a writer yet?

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In my classroom on World Book Day with Emma. Saigon, 2015.

When I was a teacher, I felt very confident that I was a teacher. It said it on my PGCE certificate. It said it on my GTC membership certificate. It said it on my job contract. It said it on my payslips. When I turned up to the building known as ‘school’ five days a week, I was regularly addressed by small people as ‘miss’, which is of course shorthand across the Western world for ‘female educational professional’ or ‘teacher’. There was no doubt then, that I was a teacher.

So when am I allowed to call myself a writer?

Well, I write most days. I send bits of writing to contests often, and last year I poured a sizable chunk of my savings (from teaching) into obtaining a qualification that would declare me a Master of Writing. I’m currently working on finding an agent to represent me in getting my first manuscript published.

But there is no job contract.

And although my certificate declares that I have mastered the skill, this is more of a comment on what I’m capable of, as opposed to an entry pass into the magical theme park of paid writing opportunities.

And there are definitely not any pay slips. (Rough calculation: money made so far from teaching: £100k +. Money made so far from writing: -£10k +).

Perhaps most disheartening of all, there is no building that I can go to in order to be referred to as a writer. The boost in esteem that came with being a teacher (and the positive impact that allows you to make) was, for me, enormous. By contrast, the process of writing stories and submitting them to strangers who – 95 times out of 100 – will ignore or reject them, is the equivalent of shoving your self esteem into a tumble drier full of rocks and rusty nails.

So. If a writer writes and no one is there to appreciate it (or pay them), are they actually a writer?

Well, in my case, yes. Because as of today, I say so.

I didn’t feel the need to get below a certain pace before I started calling myself a runner.

I don’t feel the need to have visited a certain number of countries or to have read a certain number of books before calling myself a traveller or a reader.

I am a writer because I write. Being paid to do it would be nice. Being paid and acclaimed would be even better.

But for now, I am a writer, because I write. And for now, that is enough.

If you’re reading this and you have aspirations of being a writer, I hope you’ll take this as encouragement. If you want to be a writer: just start writing. As often as you can. Every day if possible. The rest – I hope – will follow. 🙂

Emily x

P.S. I have made some little changes to the title and subheading of the site (though the URL hasn’t changed yet) to reflect the fact that – now that I’m a full time PhD student of writing – I’m hoping to start including posts about the process of writing and my attempts to embark upon a career in writing.

Bed Riddance

I wrote the following monologue in response to a writing prompt from my friend, Natalie. She asked me to write from the perspective of someone who can’t get out of bed.

The prompt reminded me of my nana, who spent a month in hospital this summer after fracturing her leg. While she was in there, I visited her a few times a week. On some of those occasions, she had been given codeine to help her with her pain. Codeine and my nana’s imagination make an interesting combination…

The story went on to win first place in a contest run by domestic violence charity Equation, and I got to perform it at Waterstones, Nottingham. It’s being published in an anthology with Global Wordsmiths, coming out in January 2017!

Emily x

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Nana, my brother and me, Le Touquet, France. June 2012

Bed Riddance

Hello, my name is Lily Thompson and I am ‘Bed Ridden’. Have you ever thought about that phrase? ‘Bed Ridden’? What does it mean? I’m riding the bed? The world’s got rid of me at last: sent me to bed? I’ve heard the phrase all my life, bet you have too, but I’ve never really sat down and thought about it for long, realised how silly it is. I’ve plenty of time to sit down now. Maybe there’s another meaning of ‘ridden’ that I don’t know. Probably. There’s lots of meanings I don’t know: I left school at fourteen. Didn’t want to wear glasses to read the board, see. Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. Worked though, didn’t it? Married before my twentieth birthday. For what that’s worth, now. Now that I’m bedridden, no husband left to visit. And the NHS would have given me a bed anyway, whether Derek had been able to afford it or not.

My daughter Elaine was an English teacher, before she retired. She’ll know what bed ridden means. Or my granddaughter: she’s an English teacher too. Makes me wonder if being stupid isn’t in my bones after all, as me mother was fond of saying. I did a test for dementia once, with one of the carers. My score came up as ‘mild something impairment’. Can’t remember the middle word. Typical. Elaine told them about me leaving school at fourteen and they noted it down, said it was a handicap, gave me an extra point. Didn’t matter, I was still mildly impaired. Not impaired enough for a diagnosis, too impaired to rule it out. None the wiser then, on the stupidity front. I said to them – what’s the point in all of this, anyway? To embarrass me? Isn’t Parkinson’s and a missing breast and a dead husband handicap enough? The only handicap Derek had was a ten in golf. That bloody man breezed through life. I’ll always look after you, Lily love, he told me. Stick with me, duck, I were born lucky. Well where are you now, ey, my lucky duck?

Bed ridden. Chair ridden. Same blummin’ difference. I’ve been ridden one way or another for years, since Parkinson’s lost me my licence. Well, the two crashes lost me my licence, but it was Parkinson’s fault. I’ve been doddering on me zimmer from bed to armchair for three years. Carers to make breakfast, carers to make tea, carers to wash my blummin’ privates. One cup of tea I wanted to make myself, tripped over me own feet. That’s what’s landed me here. But the bloody joke of it is that now that I’ve got a fractured leg, now that I’m bed-ridden, I’m on my feet more than ever. Blummin’ physiotherapy. Blummin’ nurse, barely out of nappies, telling me to think positive, think myself well. I lived through the war, duck! Ration books! I tell her all this, tell her to shove her positive mental attitude. She walks off, mutters what a sweet old lady. She says it so as I’ll hear, so I let her hear what I’ve got to say, too. I shout it. ‘If you want sweet old ladies, go to a W.I. meeting, duck, not a hospital ward! Old age is serious business, you cheeky cow!’ Sweet old lady, indeed. I was never a sweet young lady, why should I start being sweet now? I’m a human being, not a Werther’s Original! What was that poem Elaine was always going on about, for her O Levels? Rage against the dying of the light! No one told Dylan Thomas to keep his bloody chin up, I doubt.

The think positive nurse comes back. Gives me some pills, ‘for the pain sweetheart‘. ‘Thanks, love’. Even under all these wrinkles, even with the blue of my eyes dimmed to grey, my evil eye’s better than hers. Still got it, old girl, Derek would say.

I only realise its Codeine once it’s too late. They’ve been warned not to give it to me. On my little wall chart it says: ‘Lily, milk no sugar, no opiates (hallucinations)’. Too late. She’ll get away with it. Overworked NHS. Ah well. How much worse can it be? What was that advice mother gave me about my wedding night? Lie back and think of England? Poor mother. Who knows what she’d have made of the sixties. My wedding night was a blummin’ riot. Wouldn’t mind being that kind of bed ridden again.

Anyway, I don’t think of England. Not this time. In fact, I think of Kilimanjaro. That’s in Africa! My grandson went on an trip with his university a few weeks ago – he says he doesn’t mind doing it again if I fancy it, he wants to show me the view. We have fruit trifle in the cafe at the top. He has to leave for a cricket match, so I ask him to drop me off at the theatre on the way. Barbara and I tour London together. She looks amazing – best she’s looked since we were at school – her blonde hair in a bob, polka dot dress like she’s Marilyn. You don’t look bad for eighty-six Barb, I laugh, and she says we’re only young once, Lil, you’re looking pretty grand yourself, and she’s hoisting me up on to the stage. The actors don’t seem to mind, they’re clapping. Really, I ask her, you don’t think this is too much? I’m pointing down at my bush, which is as blonde as Barbara’s bob. Too much? She laughs. Do you see anyone complaining? If you’ve got it, Lil, flaunt it! So I do, firing rainbow lasers from my nipples which I don’t remember getting pierced but I tell you what, it looks blummin’ good: I should never have kicked up such a fuss when Elaine got her ears pierced, I should never have kicked up any fusses, I should have spent more time tap dancing naked under the spotlight. I will from now on.

I’ll wipe the ‘no’ off my little board, when I get back to the hospital. And the bit about hallucinations. I’ll add an exclamation mark, add three, I reckon I can get out of bed for that. Lily! Milk no sugar! Opiates! My granddaughter’ll complain, no doubt. ‘Come on, Nana’, she’ll say, in her concerned teacher voice. Bless her, she means well. ‘Come on Nana’, she’ll say, ‘we want you to walk again’, and I’ll say ‘listen ducky, I don’t need to walk, why walk when you can fly?’

 

Good News, Like Bad Buses…

There has been a huge hiatus since my last post, but not because I’ve given up on writing – rather that I’ve been distracted by it, and by various pieces of good news about it.

  1. My children’s novel, the opening of which can be found here, was longlisted for the Mslexia Children’s Novel Competition 2016. Yay! The novel is a middle reader called Dream Catchers, and the main character is based on my best friend, Esther. The previous winner (and one shortlisted author) got published! More news on Dec 5th.
  2. A monologue I submitted to a contest run by Equation (a Nottingham based domestic violence charity) won first place in the Over 16 category, and I got to perform it at an event at Waterstones, Nottingham! I’ll post the monologue in another post as soon as I’ve clicked ‘publish’ on this one…
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Here’s me receiving my prize from the mayor of Nottingham…
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And here’s me reading my monologue. If you lean in and listen really closely, you can hear it…

3. A short story I submitted to a radio show called Tall Tales on Brum Radio is being performed this evening at 10.30pm. You can listen live, or listen to their archive of stories at any time. The story is called ‘Waiting’ and I originally published it on my blog in this post. 

Emily x

Flash Fiction: Dark or Light

I wrote this piece yesterday based on a prompt from a friend: 300 words that take place in the time between putting a piece of bread in the toaster and it popping up. I wrote it on breaks between rereading Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending (which makes much more sense, for some reason, at 27 than it did at 22). As a result, the characters came out a lot like Tony and Sarah West, from that novel.

Emily x

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Dark or Light

You’ve chosen well with Kerri, Mrs West mused, slotting two slices of granary into the toaster. Girls take after their mothers, you know, so she shan’t lose her figure. Dark or light?

Dark, I lied. Mrs West turned the dial from three to five.

The measure of a man is how he treats his mother, supposedly, she continued. Her dressing-gown was silk: a peacock feather pattern. Something her undeserving husband had picked up on a business trip no doubt; a guilt purchase, when exiting some sleazy spa. It billowed open as she moved around the kitchen balletically, plucking jam, butter, teaspoons. I tried not to look. How about your mother, Dominic, Mrs West was asking now, do you treat her well?

Oh yes, I began, hoping that something witty might materialise after. It didn’t; I left the sentence trailing upwards, a rollercoaster track without a dip. Mrs West’s hair was still bed tousled, I realised. But her lipstick was perfectly applied; pillar-box red.

Then she was looking at me. Hands on the counter (and I noted that her fingernails were pillar-box red too), her lips parted, her eyes daring me to confront her clavicle. I could smell burning. Is this what love feels like, I thought, burning? Or lust maybe, real lust, and my heart was pounding: I could hear my blood in my ears, and I wondered if Mrs West could too. Do it Dominic, I thought, she wants you to, there’ll be other Kerri’s, and I leaned forward an inch before Mr West had burst in and – BANG! – slotted a bullet into my skull.

Except of course not, but there the toast was, in its blackened glory, with Mrs West saying shall I ask you again Dominic, or are you hoping I’ll guess, is it marmite or jam?

Flash Fiction: Inspirational Neil

 

This is a quick piece of flash fiction I wrote yesterday. The jumping off point was a prompt about a cliff and a lily, but the finished product ended up nowhere near that.The word count, this time, was 500 words. I did 498. Flash Fiction – I am learning – is a real challenge. There’s really only room to introduce one character, one scene, one idea, and doing so with any kind of depth is prettttty tricky.

Emily x

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Joz and me jumping into a lake in Kampot, Cambodia, October 2014. The kind of picture that you might find online emblazoned with ‘LOVE LIKE YOU’VE NEVER BEEN HURT’ in swirly pink cursive. 

Keep Calm and Carry On

I’ve a pad of inspirational quotes – one for each day – stuck to my fridge. My sis gave ‘em last Christmas. ‘Big ideas for yer little head, Neil, maybe you’ll be inspired and like, leave the house?’ Princess Angelica, I think, I see your idea and raise it. I’ll live that pad, 365 days of inspirationeil. I say that, laughing, but she walks out shaking her head. Probably to give our parents the pity report. Bide your time, Neily, I think. Christmas 2017, show ‘em all then, just bide it.

Jan’s great. I dance like no-one’s watching and it’s easy: no-one is. I twat around to Queen, get my hooverin’ done too. Next, I live, laugh and love – bit more abstract but fully doable: Terry and I watch Fools and Horses on G.O.L.D and laugh our arses off. Terry’s my hamster: I love that furry bastard. I give him double treats as a random act of kindness, no stress. Terry’s over the bloody moon.

Feb I have to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Metaphor, I know, but I’m leaning in 100%. I pick Patrick – homeless fella on the high street round the corner. Never knew his name before, he takes some persuading but eventually he takes my Doc Martens as a holding deposit and I march his bashed up Cons along the canal. I have a good think about Patrick the whole way, really empathising. I’m practically in tears when I get back, but the bastard’s done a runner. Unlucky for him, he picks the shop doorway below my flat to hide in. Lucky for him, I’m still down about his parents lettin’ him sleep outside Debenhams, so I say keep the shoes, come for tea.

I do us waffles and beans. Pat wants sausages but I’m veggie, I say. Since I got Terry, I tell him, not got the heart. Pat just eats. I point out the pad on the fridge, explain all, how it inspired today’s events. He shrugs, asks what’s tomorrow. It’s not protocol, but he’s a guest so I check. When you get knocked down, roll over and look at the stars. It’s a clear night, I say, let’s go on the roof. I been knocked down and looked at stars enough, Pat says. A tinny convinces him.

Roof’s quiet, Orion’s Belt’s out, inspiration feels like it’s working. Friends AND hobbies, I think, next Christmas Neil, you’ll show ‘em. You feel any calmer, I ask, more inspired? Calmer than what, says Patrick, I need a piss. I give him a key to get out and back in. When he slams the door it’s the only sound on the street.

Thirty minutes, no return. Don’t be hurt Neil, I think, he doesn’t know it’s the only key. I stay lying down in the peaceful silence, wondering whether today is a day when good things come to those who wait or a day to take a leap and trust I’ll land on my feet.