The Booker, my Book group and my M. A. in Writing
It was my own monthly book group meeting yesterday evening, but while we were discussing Sebastian Barry’s ‘The Sacred Scripture’, (together with all sorts of non-book related topics ) none of us remembered that the winner of the Booker prize was being revealed at that very time. It wasn’t till I opened my daily briefing from the Bookseller after work today that I discovered the winner.
I have to say that I haven’t yet read any of the 6 books on the shortlist, but I’ve thoroughly enjoyed dipping into various book blogging sites and reading reviews. (A few of my favourite sites are mentioned below) Not only do these act as an enjoyable displacement activity taking me away from my own writing projects, they can almost persuade me that I’ve actually read these books!
I did say ‘almost’ but that itself is a gross exaggeration - or is it wishful thinking? No, the reviews inspire me to be reading these books, not to have read them. It’s the state of being in-the-middle-of a good book that I love. The state of having-just-finished one can make me feel bereft.
Mmm. I’ll have to think about that. Actually, there is also pleasure in reflecting on what I’ve just read – a kind of mental meandering around the edges of the book’s territory, and making forays back into its heart. But that’s enough aimless musing for one day.
Back to the Booker winner, HilaryMantel. I’ve just googled her to check out the names of the two of hers that I read and enjoyed, ages ago: Mother’s Day’ and ‘Fludd’ . I was fascinated to see the speed with which Wikepedia gets updated- the wording of the short extract below makes it seem as if 2009 were already done and dusted – as if the year isn’t rattling past fast enough as it is.
“The long novel Wolf Hall, about Henry VIII’s minister Thomas Cromwell, was published in 2009 to high critical acclaim.[3] The book went on to win that year’s Man Booker Prize and upon winning the award, Mantel stated “I can tell you at this moment I am happily flying through the air”.[“
Reading the various articles about Hilary Mantel has taken me back about eleven years to the lecture hall at Nottingham Trent University where I was doing my part-time MA in writing – two evenings per week for two years. One of the joys of that course was the ‘Core’ module. All we had to do was to turn up on the Monday evenings, sit back and listen enthralled to a visiting author who’d been invited to inspire us to follow in their footsteps to fame and fortune (or at the very least, to publication.)
One thing I remember from Hilary Mantel’s visit was her advice to make sure we were working on our next novel well before the one that had just been accepted came out in print. That was the first time I realised that it could take up to two years from acceptance to publication. There were other authors too, who spoke in an equally down-to-earth manner about their journeys towards publication. In a strange way, this made the possibility of our own eventual publication both more, and at the same time less, attainable.
At that time I don’t think I really believed that a novel of mine would ever appear in a book shop. How wrong I was! Here’s a link to an article about my own experience of what happened after my novel was acceptedfor publication.
A chance to read novels, and Poem of the Week 14
I was in Sussex visiting my mother this weekend, and for a change, Gardening Husband came with me. I’m always happy to let him drive, because it means that I can have a good long stretch of reading time. (Something I often find hard to do at home). I’d just started Breath, by Tim Winton, 
and was able to finish it by the time we arrived. I need more time to mull over this book – I found it enthralling, but haven’t sorted out my thoughts and feelings enough to write anything coherent about it yet.
My return journey took me about a third of the way into RJ Ellory’s A Quiet Belief in Angels. I wish we’d been driving up to John O’ Groats, and back to give me a chance to finish it. I don’t think I’ll get much of a chance to read more long chunks of it this week. I’ll just have to be patient, and wait to find out what happens next.
Yesterday was cloudy with an almost gale force wind. Coming down over the brow of the hill towards Seaford, I could see the white horses scattered across the dark green and purple sea, but today has been another one of those Indian summer days, with a clarity of light that I associate with fine weather in October.
That leads me nicely to this week’s poem – especially as it’s the traditional time of Harvest Festivals.
Light Harvest
October is the time to harvest light,
on days when lingering strands of summer
drift into a sky that rings like glass,
honing the dulled edges of your sight
to gather all the shift and shimmer
of slanting sun on trees and tawny grass,
gilding the familiar with surprise.
This morning I escaped into a park
where light lay ripe and waiting for my eyes,
trapped on wet black mud – splintering on dark
green spikes of holly into shards so bright
I’ll feast all winter on this hoard of light.
The original inspiration for this poem came while I was on my MA course at Nottingham Trent. We had one of the occasional Saturday meetings, and went out into the nearby countryside. The sky was absolutely clear and blue, the sun was warm, but there was a hint of chill in the air, and we gradually became aware of strands of tiny threads of cobwebs drifting around us and glistening in the sunlight.
I was delighted when this poem was accepted for publication in Acumen 2000. It’s one that I’m still happy to be reminded of at this time of year.
Enrolling on the M.A. in Writing
This post might make more sense if you read the ones below first – or at least An Arvon course and a poetry prize
It’s the half term break, but I was at work anyway – I know that lots of people would be envious of my 10 weeks annual leave, but to be honest, it was partly because of the long holidays that I went into teaching in the first place, and when I started working in Adult Education, I got 14 weeks, so having that reduced to 10 in the last few years, hit me quite hard – but at least I still get a certain amount of satisfaction from it, and I’m pretty sure that this is due to my other ‘career’ – my writing.
I’ve already mentioned that the Arvon course at Lumb Bank changed my life, but there was a lot more to it than winning first prize in the Envoi poetry competition, and being invited to be part of the poetry ensemble, Late Shift.
I’ll be saying more about Late Shift soon, but first, there are other opportunities that can also be traced back to that same course. Maybe the most important for my writing development was the fact that I became a life member of the Friends of Arvon, and this entailed a regular news letter. The first one I received mentioned that there were still a few places left for the M.A. writing course at Nottingham Trent. The part-time option would involve a two year commitment of two evenings per week during term times.
I rang for more details, and liked what I read: This didn’t seem like a strictly academic approach, involving huge amounts of research into Eng Lit. It sounded very practical – everything would be based on our own writing and on critiquing each other’s work, with guidance from a small team of lecturers. There was a compulsory core programme which comprised weekly lectures given by relevant members of the university staff, and by visiting published writers. The other evening of each week would be set aside for the chosen subject area, one for the first year, the other for the second. I chose to start with fiction and then move on to poetry.
Just as I had sensed the need for a poetry writing group that would offer me challenge as well as support, I had already realised that, for my fiction in particular, I needed to be mixing with other writers who had the same needs, and taught by those who had already enjoyed some level of public recognition for their work.
To start with, though, what I felt I needed was support. In bucket-loads.
I had become (gradually) a confident , outgoing, outspoken person in my workplace. I enjoyed my job, which brought me into daily contact with all sorts of people. In fact, one of the unforeseen benefits of enrolling on the MA course, was that it would force me to cut back on the ‘gift time’ I was donating to my job, often working four evenings a week, instead of the expected two, simply because I found it so stimulating working with the students, constantly trying out new ways of helping them to use the wealth of the English language to express their own ideas more effectively.
I knew who I was in that environment – but here, back at university after all those years, conscious of being one of the few, much older ‘mature students’, unsure of the quality of my own expressive skills and creativity, I was suddenly as vulnerable as my teenage self had been.
