June 2008
Most people who go to literary events judge them by how well the writer performs. Does she say anything new? Does she sound fresh or on autopilot? Does she read with gusto or in a monotone? Does she answer questions openly or act like she has something to hide? Does she make a connection with the audience or is she thinking about dinner? Can you actually hear her?
These are legitimate questions, and the answers depend partly on the writer’s personality and partly on how prepared she is. It’s painful to witness a shy writer thrust into the limelight, but these days it’s hard for writers to refuse to do the publicity expected of them. It does help if they’re prepared, however. It drives me wild when a writer enacts the too-cool-for-school approach of not being prepared, as that might make it look like they actually care. So they flip through their book muttering, “Hmm, should I read this bit or that bit?” Whatever they do read is unedited, unrehearsed and generally impossible to follow. They look like idiots and alienate the audience.
I have to say, such performers are often men. For better or worse, women are trained to care about what others think, and want audiences to have a good experience. So we work at it: we edit what we’re reading so it works out loud, we rehearse it to make it easier to follow. We speak up, and at the Q&A we try to sound spontaneous and pleased to answer, even if we’ve heard the question many times before. We try to give of ourselves. At the signing, we make eye contact.
But that’s a good event for you the reader. What about from my point of view? Funny enough, it’s rarely the event itself that’s the problem. I almost always get energy from an audience and have fun doing it, even if I do end up repeating myself. No, what’s hard are all the logistics surrounding events: the long, lonely train or plane trips to and from the venue; the relentless beige/grey/mushroom colour of most hotel rooms, no matter how expensive; the stale sandwiches wolfed down in a corner; the endless parade of strangers, which is exhausting even when they’re all friendly.
We also don’t like feeling we’re cogs in a machine: reading at a bookstore where as we leave they’re hyper-efficiently replacing our poster with one for the event the next day; leaving our festival reading to walk past the audience already lined up for the next event.
What writers do like are events where we’re looked after, and feel special. Two recent events I did achieved this beautifully. The first was at a festival at Charleston, a house in the English countryside near Brighton where Virginia Woolf’s painter sister Vanessa Bell and her husband and lovers lived in various combinations. The house was decorated by its inhabitants and has a wonderful shabby-chic feel about it. We writers were given a tour of the house, and then lunch and tea in the original kitchen, with delicious food and a wonderful variety of literary folk drifting in and out. We were also given a voucher to spend at the gift shop. I took home a scarf designed by Virginia Woolf’s grand-niece Cressida Bell. Every time I wear that scarf I’ll think fondly of that charmed day.
The second event was at the literary festival at Althorp, the country estate owned by the Spencer family, famous because Princess Diana is buried there. Writers and their partners were invited to stay overnight at the house before doing their event. I had a glorious pink suite with mismatched old furniture and a huge bathtub I could stretch out completely in. We had the run of the house, and I had fun poking around in the huge library and seeing lots of paintings. Earl Spencer hosted a barbeque, and was humble and kind and good company, as well as an excellent chooser of wine. I loved it, as I did Charleston, because both made me feel unique rather than simply another producer of a “product.” I would go back in a flash if either invited me again.
May 2008
On April 23rd I was in Barcelona for Dia Sant Jordi – St. George’s Day – he being the patron saint of the city. April 23rd is also Shakespeare’s birthday, and on the same day – 23rd April 1616 – Shakespeare and Cervantes (author of Don Quixote) both died. All of these factors have combined to produce a unique celebration in Barcelona: since the 1920s on that day men have given women roses, and women have given men books. It’s kind of a valentine gesture, though it has now broadened out so that people of both sexes give friends and family both books and roses. A boss might give all his female employees roses; or a woman might give her mother or her best friend a book.
The streets of Barcelona were lined with hundreds of stalls selling books and roses, and crowded with people all clamouring for books. It was wonderful seeing the thing I spend so much time producing being worshipped in this way! If the stalls hadn’t been piled high with books in Spanish and Catalan (neither of which I speak) I would have gone crazy and bought stacks.
One of the things I particularly liked about it all is that it’s based on a tradition that was not dreamt up by a marketing department somewhere, but has grown up naturally. I kept wondering if the celebration could be transferred somewhere – to England, perhaps, given the Shakespeare and St. George (England’s patron saint too) connection. But I suspect it would feel a little forced and artificial and marketed. Apparently Dia Sant Jordi has been tried in other Spanish cities but never caught on. Perhaps it’s best to keep it unique to Barcelona.
I can’t think of a more civilized thing for a city to do than champion books and flowers. Bravo, Barcelona!
March 2008
Last week I spent a very funny two hours working in public.
You know how people sometimes set up easels outside and paint, and you can go up and look over their shoulder at what they're doing? I've never worked out if artists are irritated by that or not; actually I think they're secretly thrilled with the attention.
Anyway, I did a similar thing as part of my writer-in-residency at York Art Gallery. I set up a table next to this painting:
It's by Harold Gilman and it's called "The Artist's Daughters." I put up a "The Writer Is In" sign and began scribbling. Not for long, though: people came up and asked what I was doing, I showed them, and we got to talking about the painting. Before long there were 15 people gathered around, discussing which girl was older, what the girl on the left was wearing on her hands (red mittens?), what names I should give them for the story (someone suggested Georgina; I used it for the girl on the right, and the girl on the left is Flora). Someone told me that dolls in those days were all called Abigail, as were servants, whether that was their name or not. I hadn't known that. I used it.
The gallery got noisy. Some people pulled a bench over so they could sit and watch me. (That was a big deal; it was a heavy bench, and English people just don't do that sort of thing!) They chatted to one another. They looked at other paintings and talked about them. They wandered over to see if I had added any new sentences. Some asked advice about their own writing, and I began to feel I needed a doctor's prescription pad, especially when at one point I ordered, "Cut out the adjectives and adverbs." Maybe I should have added, "And eat more fresh fruit and vegetables, and cut the carbs."
I confess I only wrote two paragraphs in two hours because I got interrupted so much, but I expected that, and it was a lot of fun, and something really good happened. Not only were benches moved, but barriers got broken down: between writer and reader, word and image, gallery hush and high spirits.
I'm going to do it a few more times - next one is 7 May, 2-4 pm. This time I'm not nervous, but really looking forward to it.
For another perspective on that event, see York Art Gallery's 18 March blog about it.
And here is a recent interview a York University student did with me about the residency.
January 2008
Happy New Year to all!
One of my New Year's resolutions is to read one classic book per month, to fill in some of the many gaps in my reading. These include David Copperfield, War and Peace, The Brothers Karamazov, Moby-Dick, and - sigh - Proust. Why oh why do they all have to be so long? I expect this resolution will fall by the wayside, as so many resolutions do. You can see for yourself how I get on if you check What I'm Reading. I've decided to start with something of a more reasonable length - Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native, which clocks in at a mere 496 pages! Wish me luck.
December 2007
I have been very remiss in including news here, for which apologies. It's a little late in the day, but the BBC have serialized Burning Bright for their "Book at Bedtime" last week and this week, as a tribute to William Blake's 250 anniversary on 28 November. There are 10 episodes, played every week night at 10:45pm (GMT) for 15 minutes, from Monday 26 November through Friday 7 December.
Happily there is a "Listen Again" feature where you can hear many of the episodes. Click here for the link to the BBC website page.
September 2007
I had a long, much-needed break over the summer, most of it spent in Dorset, a county in southern England. For those who have read Burning Bright, it’s where the Kellaway family comes from. It’s also where I am setting my next novel, about the 19th-century fossil hunter, Mary Anning. That made it easier to justify spending so much time away from home, from my study, pen and paper, and computer. To help my book I was soaking in the landscape and doing some hands-on research – literally!
I spent several days in Anning’s home town of Lyme Regis, walking its streets and beaches, and learning how to look for fossils. The Jurassic Coast of Dorset, named a World Heritage Site a few years ago, every day releases from its cliffs onto its beaches thousands of 200-million-year-old fossils, and draws fossil hunters from all over, just as it did in Anning’s time. It is easy enough to find common fossils such as ammonites and belemnites, but with a little patience and a sharp eye you can also find fragments of the ancient marine reptiles Anning made so famous, the Ichthyosaur and Plesiosaur.
I searched and searched and searched, hoping to turn up some vertebrae or ribs or teeth, or even a coprolite or two (dinosaur poo). After days of frustration, feeling unobservant and impatient and fed up, I at last hit pay dirt and discovered this:
It’s part of the shoulder bone of an Ichthyosaur, and it is very beautiful, to me. It was just sitting among rocks already passed over by hundreds of hunters that day. When I spotted it I knew right away it was something special – it has that clear bone shape and texture. It fit perfectly in my hand, and I wouldn’t let go of it for several hours after I found it. Immediately it has gone to the top of the list of things I would save from a house fire, after family and cat.
It was one of the most thrilling moments I’ve ever had in research for my novels, up there with holding William Blake’s notebook and touching the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries. (Funny how all those moments involve touching something.)
It also made me understand why Mary Anning spent years going out on the beaches in all weather, so she could experience such moments of visceral wonder.
July 2007
On June 5th my father died, and the voices of the characters in the book I am working on fell silent. Perhaps it was because I was in shock, or that suddenly writing seemed unimportant. Or, more prosaically, I had a lot to do and think about, and had to make space in my head by throwing out the novel that was taking up so much of it.
Three weeks later one of my characters reappeared. I was walking down a hill, thinking about my father, when a voice popped into my head. Elizabeth Philpot, a 67-year-old spinster and collector of fossil fish, complained that her feet hurt as she walked down a hill. I have never been one to believe that characters take over and write themselves, but just this once I am willing to accept that Elizabeth was talking to me. She didn’t say much – just about her feet – but it was enough, a little nudge I needed. “We are here, waiting,” she was reminding me. “It’s all right to write about us now.” So I did.
And I’ve done something I never did with my other books: I’ve written the ending before writing the rest of the book. I remember, a few Harry Potter books back, seeing an interview with JK Rowling, who held up an envelope and said it was the last chapter of the last Harry Potter book. So she knew what she was writing towards. I wonder sometimes if her ending changed much. (I guess we’ll find out soon!) Mine probably will. But there is something comforting about knowing what you’re writing towards. A lesson for life, too.
Thanks, Dad.
June 2007
On 3rd June I took part in the future. How often do you get to say that? I sat in my study in London and signed copies of my new novel Burning Bright for people at the Book Expo America in New York. How? By using a LongPen machine, a device conceived of by the writer Margaret Atwood. (See? We do other things than write!)
Basically LongPen sends your handwriting over the airwaves, rather like a fax machine, and inscribes it in a book, or on a piece of paper, or whatever someone wants you to sign. There's a video link-up too, so you can see and talk to each other. Readers and I chatted merrily, mostly about how incredible the LongPen was, though occasionally we remembered to talk about books and stuff. There is an awkward silence as the machine does its thing and the recipient gapes at the signature appearing on the page, but once we all get used to it, and even become blase about the technology, that silence will be filled with all the stuff that normally gets said at signings.
It's funny, you would expect the experience, so mediated by technology, to be a little impersonal. Instead it was strangely intimate. Because of the way the camera was set up in New York, I could only see the person getting their book signed, and not the long line behind, so I could focus on them without being distracted by the hubbub around them. And readers got to see a slice of the private me, sitting in the place where I write my books, with an old tattered poster of Girl with a Pearl Earring hanging behind me, and stuff pasted all over the walls to do with the novel I'm working on now. Some of them even saw my son peeking over my shoulder, curious to see this new-fangled machine. And if they were really lucky, they got to see him knock over my gin-and-tonic and me scolding him. How domestic is that? You certainly wouldn't get that at a normal bookstore signing!
Of course maybe it's different at the other end. For that perspective, have a look at this blog from the Library Journal.
Will LongPen take off? Well, you know how for years people have kicked around the idea of a video phone where you can see the person while you're talking to them? And how that technology has been available for a while now, and some people use it, but most don't? It is just possible LongPen may turn out like that, once the novelty has worn off. But I hope not. It is very useful, for one thing, in a way that video calls just aren't. It has lots of applications other than book signings; you could use it to sign contracts, for instance. It saves money and time. For me, by using it I will be cutting down on carbon emissions, reaching readers I wouldn't otherwise, and giving myself more time to write rather than sitting in airports. Everybody wins.
May 2007
Last month I wrote that I wished there were a way to fly less while promoting a book. It's not just the hassle of travel that bothers me; I'm also concerned about the massive carbon footprint I'm leaving with so many flights.
Well, I've seen something that might just take the place of a flight or two. The Canadian writer Margaret Atwood has invented the LongPen, and demonstrated it in April at the London Book Fair. It's a machine that transfers a signature across airwaves and writes it into your book. In London I stood in front of a video screen and chatted with Dean Koontz, who was sitting at his kitchen table in California thousands of miles away. Then he signed for me a copy of his latest book Velocity (I know, not the kind of book I normally read, but hey, I'm open-minded!), personalizing it and everything. I placed the copy on the machine, and the pen at my end was activated and scrawled his words on the page. How weird and wonderful was that!
I had heard of the invention before and frankly had been sceptical. I have done enough signings to know that what readers value is the face-to-face contact with me, and the knowledge that I have actually touched the book they're getting. Who wants a book touched only by a machine?
Well, I eat my words. Not only did Dean's "signature" look authentic and not machine-made, but I did have face-to-face contact via the video link-up, and that was almost as thrilling as seeing him in person. Certainly his fans in the line with me were thrilled to talk to him that way.
LongPen is not the same as being in a room with an author, but it's a much better second-best experience than I'd expected. And if it means we writers can reach people we wouldn't otherwise, and not ruin the planet doing so, then I'm all for it.
It has been a chaotic couple of months promoting Burning Bright, and I am relieved that I don’t have to face another airport or hotel room or room-service club sandwich for a while. I love meeting readers and doing events – it’s just all the travel in between that gets to me. I wish there were a magic pill I could take that would send me to sleep immediately after a reading, and when I woke I’d be at the next bookstore in the next city.
Some high points of my trips to Italy and the USA:
But never mind all that. How is Burning Bright doing? That depends on your criteria. It has had mixed reviews (though in France they have been uniformly excellent – merci beaucoup, la France!) but is selling really well, making it onto the bestseller list in all four countries where it has been published so far. Moreover, I’ve had great feedback from readers, for which I am truly grateful. It reminds me that I write books for readers, not the critics.
Although I am continuing to do events throughout the spring and summer, the bulk of the promotion for Burning Bright is done (I hope!) and I can focus on the next book. On that front, over the spring break I did a little fossil collecting down in Lyme Regis, and it made me ache to start writing. Indeed, the book has been at the back of my mind throughout my travels, to the extent that I wrote the first page on various flights around the US. I will share with you the first line, which I wrote on a flight from New York to Milwaukee:
“This morning Diana Burtt climbed all the way up the hill to Silver Street to tell me Mary Anning was not likely to last the night.”
There, now I’ve really started…
Feb/March 2007
The moment has arrived : my new novel Burning Bright is published at last! Italy publishes it first, on 1 March. The Italians have discovered that the English title – which comes from the William Blake poem “Tyger, tyger, burning bright” – doesn’t work in Italian. They have renamed it L’Innocenza [Innocence], and I suspect that will be its title in other countries too. Sorry, non-English readers! Why is Italy first? I don’t know, but Italians love my books. Grazie, Italia!
Then the novel comes out in the UK on 5 March, and in the USA on 20 March, before heading for France, and other countries later in the year. I will be embarking on a book tour across the USA in late March, as well as speaking at various events and festivals in the UK. (See Appearances.)
Though I’m glad to be publishing at last after three years of immersion in the bizarre world of William Blake, I’m also hesitant about going into the public again and leaving behind the lovely quiet time I’ve had in the hiatus between books. For the past five months, while Burning Bright has been in production and little was demanded of me, I have been able to quietly work away on the next book, revelling in research on fossils and dinosaurs – topics far removed from Blake. (See What I’m Working On). Now I have to wrench myself from that world and reconnect with Blake’s radical politics and visions of angels in trees. It feels schizophrenic. But then, a writer’s life is often like that. We spend so much time on our own, creating fictional worlds. Then we’re allowed out for good behaviour and thrust into the real world to talk. Some of us are good talkers, and some of us aren’t. It’s strange and disorienting. I’ll let you know how it goes!