I just felt I ought to put up a few more Autumn tree posts (like probably millions of others on the internet but, heigh ho, that’s life). So here are some oaks and beeches being magnificent earlier this afternoon.
Autumn Sunshine
I am taking a week off of social media, just to help to keep what remains of my sanity intact. So I think I’ll absent myself from WordPress, too. So for now, here are a few photos of last week’s gorgeous Autumn sunshine.
Tipping Point by Jane Lovell
Our planet is warming. And we are approaching a point at which this process is likely to accelerate rapidly with little prospect of hauling it back, with dire consequences for all of us. This tipping point will be felt strongly in the arctic, where the traditional ways of life of the Innuit and the ecosystem itself are becoming more fragile year on year. These poems explore this ecosystem now, look into the past, and explore what the future seems likely to hold. Each one evokes the ice and the bleakness, the life and the dwindling. The language is languid, but the message is urgent. And if it does not end on a note of hope, it is because we have much to do to avert disaster.
Yet this is a work of beauty, each poem both powerful and fragile, something to savour. The physical book is a creature of beauty itself, especially the cover illustration by James Roberts. Certainly a five-star publication.
After The Event
Yeah, the book’s out. I’ve gone through the motions, but at the moment I feel I don’t really care what happens to the thing. I feel flat. Is this normal? I can’t remember if I’ve felt this way after publishing previous books. Perhaps it’s because it took so long this time around. I love the process of writing but the marketing sucks. I hate the feeling I’m pressurising people into buying something. Partly, I think, it’s a typically English sort of thing – I feel really embarrassed about self-promotion, about blowing my own trumpet. It’s ‘not what we do’.
Except, of course, we do. That’s just a caricature, really, although inevitably some of us do fit into that description. Some of this feeling I think is wanting to get on with a new project. A need to move on and explore something different. I’ve lived with the damned thing for so long, thought about it, talked about it, agonised over it, I just want to get stuck into something different! With no distractions.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m proud of the book. I’m pleased with how it turned out. The characters, the story arc…but I do hate the promotion. I suppose it’s a particularly personal thing; I was asked if I would do a book launch, to which I replied no, I wouldn’t. I don’t like reading in public, I wouldn’t really want to do a question and answer interview. That’s the introvert in me. But if a few people get to read it, and if they get something from it, then I guess I’ll be pleased. I know that doesn’t seem like much of a return for ten years’ work, but there you go.
But I find I’m writing notes frantically, and I’ve begun a small project, a poem, or perhaps short poem cycle, that I’ve had in mind for a while. And the notes will either end up as ‘zine articles, or even another novel.
Maybe both. Who can say?
The Other One…
I have been so focused upon getting A Persistence of Ghosts out into the world recently, that I sort of forgot I have other books. One of these is Making Friends with the Crocodile, which is another novel set in India, but this one focusing on Indian protagonists. Blogging friend Smitha recently bought a copy of this, and Smitha’s very generous review of the book can be found here.
The blurb:
There is an Indian proverb: If you live by the banks of a river, make friends with the crocodile.
Set in India, this is a novel about the corrosive relationship between a mother and daughter-in-law, and the position which women hold within that society. Siddiqa’s son has brought his new wife, Naira, to live with them, so Siddiqa is no longer the lowliest in the household, for she now has a daughter-in-law to assume that role. But when Naira accuses one of her husband’s friends of sexually assaulting her, all their lives begin to spiral out of control.
Go on, you know you want to!
A Persistence of Ghosts
So, it’s gone out into the big wide world.
My new novel is released today. I don’t write many of the things and the last one came out ten years ago, so I guess this counts as an Event (note the capital letter).
Woohoo!
And I suppose I should tell you what it’s all about:
‘After Independence in 1947, Stephen Chapman’s family are one of the few British families who decide to stay on in India. Life in the peaceful Northern Indian hill station of Khodiganj goes on much the same as before, yet in 1951 his parents make the sudden decision to return to England and afterwards refuse to even talk about their time out there.
In 1988 Stephen returns to Khodiganj, determined to find out the reasons for their sudden leaving, even if those reasons might have been better kept hidden. And during the following weeks he finds he is drawn inexorably into the small English diaspora remaining there, with their own secrets and ghosts.’
And where to find it: It’s on Amazon, both as POD paperback and Kindle.
And for those of you in UK, you can order signed copies from my Etsy shop (if you’d like a dedication, message me), or just message me anyway and I’ll send it privately and take a quid off into the bargain (pay by PayPal).
Tell a friend or two. Spread the word!
And, of course, if you could leave a review somewhere, that would be most helpful!
Words Words Words
Words are abstractions. The word ‘leaf’ can conjure up a million different images, but fails to describe any single one of them. One needs a hundred – a thousand – or more words to just come close to a perfect description, but even then it falls short.
In the well-known phrase, a picture paints a thousand words, but you would need many more than that to accurately describe said picture. We still think largely in pictures – naturally, we would have evolved that way. In the days before we had language our thoughts would inevitably have been composed of images. We may put words to these images as we think them, but they are still there. When we think through a plan of action, or instructions, for example, we tend to accompany those words with visual imagery. Even if we are engaged in mathematical reasoning or language learning, I think we tend to visualise those figures or words as we work. And when we dream, our dreams are overwhelmingly visual.
My copy of the Georgia O’Keeffe Painting Yellow Hickory Leaves with Daisy
But sometimes, even as a writer and compulsive note taker, I can get so absorbed into a landscape that I have no wish to try to describe it, no matter how many words I might use. I just want to observe it, to be in it. Words feel redundant. And I’ve said this before, but this sort of compulsion to record things, or photograph them, feels like a way to try to own them.
And words are noise. More than noise. They get in the way and distract from what they are representing. They are like the finger pointing at the moon in the Buddhist parable, where ironically attention is drawn to the finger, rather than the moon which the finger is attempting to draw our attention to. The famous painting by Rene Magritte The Treachery of images pictures a pipe with the writing: ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’ beneath. But it is this very caption which names it.
Conversely, though, a single word can suggest an entire world. Sometimes their power isn’t so much in their ability to define something, but their ability to conjure images and memories seemingly from nothing. Like an incantation. And each word contains maybe hundreds of meanings and nuances, different meanings to different people. I am reminded of two of Borges’ short stories: The Mirror and the Mask, and Undr. In the first story, a court poet reduces the literature of Ireland to a single line, and in the second a fictional Nordic people have a poetry that consists entirely of one seemingly mystical word, Undr (although, naturally, it’s not quite as simple as that…). And this makes me think of the importance of the spaces between the notes in music, and the rests – we need the spaces between the words to think. To listen properly.
Over the years I have been drawn to painting or photography, or to writing, depending on what I want to say. To draw attention to the way the dawn light strikes the tops of the trees, for example, undoubtedly the visual arts are best. But to describe the anguish experienced before taking an important decision then clearly words are required. But note that in each case, it would be possible to get results with the other forms. And poetry frequently straddles them all.
And then there is the myth that God has a name not known to anyone – His real name, from which all His power is derived, and which must remain secret. For once a name is known, it loses its power.
Words are illuminating, words are abstractions, words are dangerous, words are treacherous.
Words are overused, like this…
A New Novel
Well, it’s certainly been a while. Two complete revisions and countless edits – a total of ten years in the making! Just as well I don’t create series (unless you count the zines).
(cover mock-up)
So, the lowdown. The title of the book is A Persistence of Ghosts, and it is set in India, as was my first novel. But where the first novel was set on the North India plains, in a small village, this one is set in a fictitious hill station in the foothills of the Himalaya. Whereas the first one had an entirely Indian cast, this one deals with the British community who stayed on after Independence and their interactions (or not) with the Indians there. I’m planning on a release date of 18th August, although I might yet bring that forward (or push it back if the proof copy shows up a lot of errors!).
The tease:
After Independence in 1947, Stephen Chapman’s family are one of the few British families who decide to stay on in India. Life in the peaceful Northern Indian hill station of Khodiganj goes on much the same as before, yet in 1951 his parents make the sudden decision to return to England and afterwards refuse to even talk about their time out there. Then in 1988 Stephen returns to Khodiganj, determined to find out the reasons for their sudden leaving, even if those reasons might have been better kept hidden. And during the following weeks he finds he is drawn inexorably into the small English diaspora remaining there, with their own secrets and ghosts.
New Zine – An Atheist Buddhist
Back in March I wrote that family issues were keeping me busy. They still are.
But I finally have a new ‘zine out. It’s a project I’ve had in mind for some time, and which I’ve been putting together for about a year. This doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon Echoes and Imaginings – issue 4 is also being slowly put together at the moment – but it’s good to try something else occasionally.
In many ways this is an indulgence for me, an excuse to put together some of my favourite photographs from places such as India, Sri Lanka, and Nepal. And to slot in a little of my poetry. It’s my slant on Buddhism, really, from an atheist point of view.
Hence the title. The link to my shop is in the right-hand sidebar, or here if you prefer.
Or contact me directly.
And at forty eight pages, it’s longer than my previous zines.
Nothing Special
I’ve not done any writing, recently. Partly, it’s family issues keeping me busy, and partly a, well, disinclination to do any writing at the moment. But I’ve been walking and reading, when I’ve had the time, and had the occasional beer with friends. This afternoon I took a walk through the woods nearby. They’re nothing special, in the sense that there are many other patches of woodland like them, although they’re all special, really. I just enjoyed being there.
But having said I’ve been disinclined to write, I’m looking forward to getting stuck into writing a new novel shortly. Don’t get too excited, though, if the last one is anything to go by it’ll be ten years before it’s finished. But there will be trees and darkness, a bit of the occult, and who knows what else. A hero, I suppose. I guess there has to be one of those. Or maybe a heroine instead.
We’ll see. I’m hoping the walking and reading and beer will inspire me.
Nothing special…
At certain times of the day the woods are quiet, the dog walkers back home, and that’s when I prefer to go out.
There was plenty of birdsong, lots of birds out. Nothing special, but again they’re all special. Blackbirds, robins, blue tits, a raven…I walk past the portal to a nether world – I always speed up a bit here – then head towards the stream. I have no aim other than to eventually return home.
And as the German poet Novalis said, we are always going home.
