Some Words On Satisfaction From W. Somerset Maugham

In the foreword to Of Human Bondage I found some words from Maugham which seem to sum up the writer's predicament:

Though authors are touchy about their productions and inclined to resent unfavourable criticism they are seldom self-satisfied. They are conscious how far the work on which they have spent much time and trouble comes short of their conception, and when they consider it are much more vexed with their failure to express this in its completeness than pleased with the passages here and there that they can regard with complacency. Their aim is perfection and they are wretchedly aware that they have not attained it.


We strive for an excellence we'll never achieve but where do you draw the line? When do you give up on perfecting something and settle for what it actually is on the page? Anybody who's serious about their craft knows that the first draft contains a myriad of errors. You have to resolve these to your satisfaction. But then you may think that your second draft is as incomplete as your first. So you try it again and again. You could spend your life trying to perfect one manuscript but if you manage to get it up to your exacting standards on one draft you'll become disillusioned with it on the next.

You have to let go. I'm terrible at this. I have two manuscripts I've redrafted four times apiece. I'll concede that they are a lot more coherent and structured than they were in the first draft. I'll admit they make me smile, want to cry and also ache in appropriate sections. My characters are much more rounded and realistic than when I first started and, for the most part, I think they sound more individual too. Yet I'm still not happy. I'll never be happy. I want to rework them a million times. If I allow myself that luxury there's no chance they'll see the light of day.

A good way of fighting this is passing your writing onto other people who will give you relatively honest criticism. If you let go long enough to allow one person to take a peek then you might be ready to face the hurdle of submission. I'm almost there. Actually, I am there. Maugham reminded me that absolute perfection is unattainable and you have to compromise with yourself sometimes.

Book Review: Flick by Geraldine Meade

First off, may I say thank you to Little Island and the Book After Book blog for this book, which I received free as a winner in the LGBT Book Challenge 2011. I'd urge anyone interested in LGBT fiction of any genre to go take a look and participate. Details can be found on the sidebar.

Flick isn't the type of book I would've picked out for myself, primarily because it isn't the kind I would stumble across in my searches. It's aimed at young adults, in the 15+ category, and this is backed up by the extremely difficult themes and, occasionally, language used in the novel. The blurb describes it as a 'searingly honest depiction of teenage life as it is lived today', and I'd say it lives up to that label. The novel deals with Flick (Felicity) who is struggling to be 'normal' when she feels anything but. Along the way she makes some huge errors but is finally forced to confront the underlying issue about her sexuality.

This book was very readable. As suits the audience, it's not very long and it's cut up into bite-sized chapters. This interrupts the flow a couple of times but it suits the tone and style of the book. The narration of Flick feels very realistic and honest. I'd say that perhaps the interactions with some of the adults in the novel are slightly patronising but perhaps realistically so. I love the portrayal of Flick's father, along with that of her brother Kev. Meade portrays a family with differences but one which is built on a base of love. As far as structure goes, it doesn't waste time before pushing you into the action. It also isn't predictable. I found myself more than once surprised at where we were going.

I liked this book, especially the depiction of family life as the flawed and difficult thing it is. Give it to a teenager struggling with being different in any aspect of their lives or read it as a parent to understand a little more about the psyche of a teenage girl.

This book was read as part of the LGBT Book Challenge 2011. Learn about the author here.

Book Review: The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford

The Good Soldier, published in 1915, is one of the most powerful Modernist texts I have come across. It's fairly short at under two hundred pages but I would urge anybody reading it to digest in as few sittings as possible. It's one of those novels where every word matters and you're expected to analyse every action dictated to you.

The novel tells the tale of an English gentlemen, Edward Ashburnham, and his wife (Leonara) as seen from the perspective of narrator John Dowell. The Ashburnhams seem like the perfect couple, the traditional concept of 'good people', but their marriage is a lot more complex than at first sight. Slowly, as you progress through the novel, you discover that Dowell himself in the most interesting of characters, the unreliable narrator who frequently contradicts himself. The narrative flow means the reader is trapped in Dowell's head, travelling back and forth in time with him as he sees fit. It may make the text difficult to follow at times but it is certainly reminiscent of a person searching their own memories - recollections rarely occur in a linear manner. Dowell explains his predicament at the beginning of Part Four (there are five sections to the novel):

I have, I am aware, told this story in a very rambling way so that it may be difficult for anyone to find their path through what may be a sort of maze. I cannot help it. I have stuck to my idea of being in a country cottage with a silent listener, hearing between the gusts of the wind and amidst the noises of the distant sea, the story as it comes. And, when one discusses an affair - a long, sad affair - one goes back, one goes forward. One remembers points that one has forgotten and one explains them all the more minutely since one recognises that one has forgotten to mention them in their proper places and that one may have given, by omitting them, a false impression. I console myself with thinking that this is a real story and that, after all, real stories are probably told in the best way a person telling a story would tell them. They will them seem most real. 


That last line sums up the danger of the novel: things seem real but, with Dowell as your only portal, they may very well not be. It's up to the reader to analyse Dowell's motives as best they can. It might make reading the novel a little challenging, but no one ever said Modernist texts were easy to read. I enjoyed the book. It reminded me of my love for Modernism, prompted by an unit on my undergraduate degree. Although The Good Soldier is considered to be Ford Madox Ford's greatest work, I certainly plan to read more of his books in the future.

My Heart - Doris Day

There are so few women still around who represent what I consider to be the best of old Hollywood. These women had voices and talent beyond the realms of modern experience. They could act, they could sing and they could dance - compare that to some of the lifeless performers of modern cinema these days and see where it gets you. The likes of Debbie Reynolds, Angela Lansbury and Mitzi Gaynor are fortunately still with us. However, until the last few months, everybody who didn't know otherwise believed Doris Day had left us. Doris has actually spent her years out of the spotlight caring for animals in a small town in California. This new CD of songs includes some beautiful unreleased tracks which she mainly recorded in the 80s. They include some more modern standards: 'Daydream', 'Disney Girls' and 'You Are So Beautiful', along with other songs that she picked because they demonstrate her love for her late son, Terry Melcher, and her passion for animals.

It's an outstanding CD. The whole thing melts together so perfectly that it's very difficult to pick favourite songs from it. Every track is so wonderfully Doris, the smile that's evident in many of her recordings is more than evident here. Her version of 'Daydream' beats most others for me - it's a finger-clicking smile-fest, perfectly suited to her smooth voice. Equally, 'Disney Girls' is gentle and wistful and 'You Are So Beautiful' is - there's no other way to say it - absolutely beautiful itself. The album includes a tracked called 'Happy Endings', sung by Terry but introduced, quite bravely I think, by Doris herself. 'My Buddy' is probably the most painful recording to listen to if you know anything about her close relationship with her son. 'Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries' is included on the album because it was Terry's favourite song of hers, and it truly is gorgeous.

If I had to pick one song that stands out a little above the rest it would be the song that has been picked as the UK single and was consequently played quite a bit in the build-up to the release - 'Heaven Tonight'. It's an easy-going love song that snared me at first hearing. But, to be perfectly honest, there isn't a dud track in the bunch. I know Doris fans will be delighted with this album and if, Doris has any further inclination to check her archives for unreleased material, I can guarantee there will be several million people interested.

Climbing Back to Progress

The other week I went indoor climbing for the first time in six months. Prior to that, I hadn't been for about eight months. So I was somewhat out of practice. Add to that the fact that my fear heights usually consumes me each time I manage to get a few feet off the floor and you'll understand why I was apprehensive. However, after conquering my first (very high) wall by nervously singing songs from Sweeney Todd under my breath, I did something I'd never done before - literally threw myself into climbing until everything hurt and I was dangling precariously on a rope while reaching for a hold I could never get. Previously, I wouldn't go for anything remotely out of reach, my fear of slipping and bashing myself was too vivid. But I actually did slip and bruise my knee quite badly. The worst sort of happened and I was still climbing.

This past weekend I opened up a WIP I abandoned a few weeks ago when my PhD schedule became all-consuming. I'd left it at around 28,000 words. I'd finished Part One (of three) and faltered as I couldn't fathom how to progress. Taking a leaf out of climber-me's book, I just started writing. I knew my characters pretty well; I had a vague idea of where I wanted to go - why shouldn't I write? Well, on Saturday I added 3,500 to my word count and at least another 1,000 on Sunday. By forcing myself to begin writing, much as I forced myself to begin climbing, I found that I soon got into the swing of it.

One final note: after climbing I was in agony for two days. My forearms burned to the extent that reading a book was painful. When I awoke one morning I thought I was fine, then I moved and pretty much started crying. I've experienced something similar with the writing: by devoting my weekend to this novel I woke up on Monday utterly drained and lacking a weekend break. My head feels like sawdust and, I suspect, my PhD work thus far is demonstrating that. Still, progress in one area is better than progress in none...

Book Review: Women Who Did ed. Angelique Richardson

The full title of this collection is Women Who Did: Stories by Men and Women 1890-1914. The individual stories by authors such as Katherine Mansfield, Thomas Hardy and Kate Chopin examine the 'new woman', the turn of the century female who was beginning to demand and expect equality with men. The introduction by Angelique Richardson is well worth a read as it sets up the context nicely. There are also short biographical notes at the end of the book for the twenty-five authors included.

Most - if not all - of the stories in this collection can be described as exquisite. Even the satirical 'She-Notes' by Borgia Smudgiton (Owen Seaman) was charming because of, rather than instead of, its satire. Many of the stories have a didactic tone and the occasional lighter moments offset that quite nicely. Some of the stories I'd encountered in other collections but as a whole they point to one huge shift in the way women viewed themselves and were viewed by others.

I didn't dislike any one particular story but there were some I enjoyed more than others. 'The Yellow Drawing Room' by Mona Caird tells of a woman who has painted a room this disgusting shade of yellow but is nevertheless attractive to the male narrator who wants to marry her and change her. He courts her sister to make her jealous, something which the object of his affections could never forgive him for. A couple of the stories deal with race and the 'taint' of black blood. The most striking of these for me was 'Desiree's Baby' by Kate Chopin. A man rejects his wife on the basis of their baby obviously having a black ancestor, prompting her to walk into a river with her son. Thomas Hardy's 'An Imaginative Woman' was a story I was already familiar with but fitted into the collection perfectly. It tells of a aspiring female poet who develops an attachment to a man she has never met and the grief this causes both her and, later, her family. George Egerton (Mary Chavelita Dunne) supplies several stories, my favourite being 'Virgin Soil' where a young married woman condemns her mother for hiding from her the truth about married life.

My absolute favourites from the collection are two of the shortest. Kate Chopin's 'The Story of an Hour' tells of the reaction of a woman when learning of her husband's death. It was so potent that it stayed with me long after I'd finished the two pages it covered. My second favourite was Katherine Mansfield's 'Leves Amores', primarily because of the lesbian content and Mansfield's intense use of imagery, despite the small space in which to do so. I'd read this before, in relation to Claire Tomalin's biography of Mansfield, but included in this collection it certainly had a new resonance for me.

The most famous piece included in this book is probably Charlotte Perkins Gilman's 'The Yellow Wallpaper'. I have to say, that story never bores me. To be honest, I think that sums up my view of this entire collection - none of the stories bored me and all I would want to read again.

The twenty-five authors included in this book are: Mona Caird, Willa Cather, Kate Chopin, Gertrude Colmore, Mary Samuel Daniel, Ella D'Arcy, Rudolph Dircks, George Egerton, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, George Gissing, Sarah Grand, Thomas Hardy, Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins, Katherine Mansfield, Alice Meynell, George Moore, Clarence Rook, Saki, Olive Schreiner, Evelyn Sharp, Borgia Smudgiton, Edith Wharton, Oscar Wilde, Virginia Woolf and Zitkala-Sa.

A Little Friendly Inspiration

I was reminded recently how much speaking face to face with other writers can give your lagging enthusiasm a kick up the behind. Oh, I know that the Internet is a fantastic tool and allows you to interact with people you've never met. It can open so many doors. But it can also leave you feeling a little solitary on one side of a computer screen while the writing world trundles on somewhere else.

During my MA I was thrown together with some very vivid personalities. Some I liked and some were creepy. I remember many an evening sitting with people and talking about our work, talking about the rest of the world and our lives, even talking surreptitiously about which tutors we thought were talking out of their...well, you get the picture. While discussing your writing with sympathetic family members is something of a solution, they can become a bit vacant half way through an explanation. They might appreciate what you're trying to do but they may not understand the driving force behind your work.

On Saturday, as Sal and I (she won't mind me mentioning her name) were chatting over coffee, I suddenly felt a rush of enthusiasm for the stories that either I'd abandoned or I was trudging through like an obligation. I wanted to get home and get writing. As it happened, I couldn't do that due to other circumstances, but the feeling lasted. I want to write. That's a sensation I may have been lacking recently.

I wish I saw my writing friends more often. However, in the meantime I'll enjoy it when I get the chance and always keep a notebook handy when I do.

Oh, and Sal (@Bamdaph on Twitter) has recently started a blog about learning how to drive. It's going to be funny so you may want to take a look!