Some Sad News

I recently learned the sad news that my friend and political mentor Rodney Willett had died. He'd been ill for quite some time but, of course, that doesn't make it any better.

It's no exaggeration to say that, without Rodney, I wouldn't have become so politically interested and motivated. We encountered each other online several years ago and teamed up on a political website along with several other contributors. The difficulty was making it more than a few people shouting in the wind and Rodney's ill-health, along with several other factors, prevented our dreams becoming a reality. However, I'm deeply indebted to Rodney for helping shape my ideas and allowing me a platform to speak long before I had anything useful to say.

In April, having seen his bad news, I emailed to say that I'd passed my viva and to thank him for his influence as I prepared to stand for Yorkshire First in the local elections. When he responded I was deeply, deeply touched by his words. In fact, as I recall, that email made me cry.

He did offer to exchange emails and ideas with me but, whether it was right or not, I didn't want to take him up on that. I felt he had far more important things to do with his remaining time so I left him alone, and I do hope he interpreted that the right way. His friendship and his advice meant a lot to me over the years and I never felt the age gap between us or the physical distance. It's very rare you find people who are truly on your wavelength and I feel privileged that I got to witter on about politics with him quite as often as I did.

In his email he told me that he was devoting time to creating an online companion to his wife's novels (Marcia Willett) and I'd take it as a personal kindness if some of you glanced over that blog. You do get a flavour of Rodney's personality from his prose and he was a very engaging and generous man. I owe him a lot.

Edmund Yates and Dickens's Postbox

Maybe this is something that only people researching obscure or at least lesser-known figures will understand but, while reading an article on the BBC website the other night, I got slightly giddy. It's not very often I see references to Edmund Yates on anything apart from the papers piling up on my desk. In fact, when I woke up the next morning I was pretty sure I'd dreamed it (come on, I'm not the only one who dreams about Victorian authors...right?) but, nope, in an article about Charles Dickens's postbox at Gad's Hill hints that Yates helped him obtain it.

I like that. One of the less-complimentary references to Yates I've found came in a biography of Dickens from the 1940s where the author called him 'sycophantic' in his attentions to his mentor. Now, while I think that's a little unfair, it does have a ring of truth to it and that's why I find the idea of Yates rushing to discuss postboxes with Dickens rather enticing. After all, it's not very often your day job at the post office means you can be useful to one of your living heroes.

Commemorating Reading Time

Last night I was tidying my room (don't ask) when I came across a very grimy jelly candle on my DVD shelf. It should've really been thrown out years ago, maybe when the dirt began seeping into the jelly, but I've clung onto it. Because, of course, there's a story behind it.

When I was working at a company in Stockton in 2008-2009, I travelled in a little early every morning. Better to be early rather than late. And, being me, I took a book to the break room and sat there munching crisps from the vending machine (wasn't big on proper breakfast, sue me) reading until I reluctantly went to do some work. For the most part, I had the break room to myself. It was always half dark, always gave the impression that I shouldn't be in there and should just start working early instead. Towards the end of my time there, though, I found I had company. Whereas I chose a table, she chose an easy chair and read over there. I smiled at her as I walked out of the room and we had one proper conversation - one. Nevertheless, she became a part of my morning.

On the day I left I saw her in the break room and told her it was my last day. Later, I was just getting back from lunch when I saw a little bag on my desk. It was this little candle. I was perplexed, having already been given my HMV vouchers as my leaving present, but my supervisor told me a woman none of them really knew had just dropped it in. When I walked past her desk later (it was the first time I realised she worked on my floor), she smiled and asked if I liked it. I said thank you, she waved it away and that was that.

You know, I never even knew her name. It's a bit perverse that I've kept a memento commemorating the amount of time I sat silently in a room with another human being while both of us read but, then, it's me. So maybe it's not that perverse. I appreciate the fact that a virtual stranger was going to miss my presence on a morning, as I would've missed hers had she been the one to leave.

I'd include a picture if it wasn't really, really grimy. Everything on that shelf is. Perhaps I'll just clean around it this time, see how long it'll last for.

Classic Film Review: Murder on a Honeymoon (1935)

 Murder on a Honeymoon is the third in a series about amateur sleuth Hildegarde Withers and is the last of the films to star Edna May Oliver as the protagonist (I previously reviewed Penguin Pool Murder, 1932, here). Miss Withers is travelling to Catalina Island on a small plane with a few other passengers but when it arrives at its destination one passenger doesn't disembark - he's dead. Learning that the dead man was an informant against a gangster, Miss Withers' old sidekick, Inspector Piper (James Gleason), hops on a boat to help her out of what could be a sticky situation. There are plenty of twists and turns and some serious peril for our heroes in this one.

As with Penguin Pool Murder, I thought this was just wonderful. Edna May Oliver and James Gleason bounce off each other perfectly, with the mutual affection between Miss Withers and Inspector Piper coming through in their own grouchy ways. The characterisation of these two is ideal. Piper isn't the brightest and he also tends to rush into things whereas Miss Withers will hold her tongue and watch from a distance. Even so, her beliefs do put the pair of them in danger towards the end of the film and, even before that, she ends up tied up in a closet for getting too close to the truth. Although I had no real fear either character would be killed, there was the sense that some damage could easily be done in the final scenes.

The supporting cast is mostly unremarkable, with Lola Lane as Phyllis La Font probably the best of the bunch. There's a heavy reliance on stereotypes with the island doctor and police officer but since they're incidental characters it doesn't really impede the film much. The focus is on Miss Withers and her friendship with Piper as they solve the murder.

I can't help but think it's a pity this was Oliver's last portrayal of Miss Withers. The potent partnership between her and Gleason could've lasted a long time.

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!

Just A Perfect Friendship

If you're in a jam, here I am,

If you're ever in a mess, SOS,

If you ever feel so happy you land in jail... I'm your bail.

So the immortal Cole Porter wrote.

I've been thinking recently about the social state of my protagonists. It's rather like siblings, isn't it? One of the first pieces of writing advice my brain retained warned me that only children were the best kind to write about, unless it was integral to the plot, of course. Siblings were irritating, a blight on already-hefty plots. For extra brownie points, kill off your protagonist's parents. Well, that might be a bit extreme, but the point still stands.

Your reader encounters your protagonist at a specific point within their life. Although it's a given that life has been proceeding nicely up until this point, you don't want to overload your reader with too many details at once. But what if cutting out those pesky family and friends detrimentally impacts your plot?

In the two novels I'm rewriting at the moment, I've offered family instead of friends. Now, in the first instance, my protagonist, Lily, has family problems which have led her to shut herself off for years. She's steadfastly avoided making true friends, although she does gain a couple in the course of the story. But in the second novel, I don't feel like I have a leg to stand on. Before everything goes wrong, Danni, is a perfectly sensible and healthy human being. She's well-liked at work and seems to have a social life. But I haven't elaborated on the social life. No, I've just incorporated her parents into the mix, along with a few people she's with out of necessity rather than desire.

It's a tricky balance. Where do you draw the line between showing a healthy social circle and just providing lots of characters who do nothing for the plot and help to confuse your reader? I found that Landing by Emma Donoghue (reviewed here) was a good example of how to incorporate social lives into a novel. However, the theme of the book was home and what constituted a home. The analysis of people around the protagonists had to be a factor in that.

Perhaps it is best to cut out friends, siblings and parents. It certainly makes for easier writing, and probably easier reading. However, then you get into the minefield of character amnesia, which can be as dangerous.

It takes a light authorial touch for a book to cover all these points and not feel lacking in some way. I know I keep talking on and on about this novel (and I'll be talking about it for LGBT History Month on Friday at university hopefully) but Fiona Shaw's Tell It To The Bees is a good example of managing to mix friendships with a fantastic central story. In fact, the whole book is an exercise in characterisation I'd love to emulate. For anyone who missed the review, it's here.

How better to finish such a post than with the anthem of friendship?

Yes, I just wanted the excuse to include that... but I'm not apologising!