Lounge on the Farm 2013: telling stories (no tassles yet)

Will Sutton, Chris Tinniswood and I just told stories at Lounge on the Farm, a music festival near Canterbury, Kent.

Somewhat to the surprise of the people in the Peaceful Progress tent, we not only read stories - what was much more fun, we wrote new ones while they watched, using words they'd just given us.

We hoped to show our audience that you can write anywhere, you don't have to wait for the muse (who is she?), and anything can inspire you. And it worked - not only did they give us loads of words, but they clamoured for us to write them stories, and some even stayed behind to write their own.

It was far less terrifying to write in front of an audience than I at least imagined, mostly because we explained that one of the best things about being a writer is giving yourself permission to take risks, and not worrying that the words appearing on the page might be rubbish. Just seeing what happens with an idea or a word is all part of the process.

When we'd finished, we had a great weekend listening to the bands, and boggling at the Boom and Bang Circus. Will says they've given him some ideas for our next outing. I'm just hoping he's not thinking about their flaming nipple tassles!

It was this big! at Lounge on the Farm 2013

It's almost time for Lounge on the Farm - my third visit, but first as a performer - and I'm staving off my terror at agreeing to write flash fiction live in front of an audience, using words they've just given us, by making a poster. Very primary school. Very soothing.

I'm working at Lounge with two friendsfrom the ReAuthoring Project, Will Sutton and Chris Tinniswood. Will's first novel - a Victorian detective extravangaza - launches next week, and I hope he'll be telling our Lounge audience a new story featuring his splendid lead character Lawless. Chris's Nostradormouse has gone international, but is keeping quiet for Lounge, as Chris is revealing a very different kind of story on Saturday.

I'll be telling two stories - one incredibly short, and one rather longer, and that's all I'm going to say for now.

And finally, Will's written us a song - he sent us over a sound file this morning, and I rather suspect I'm supposed to be practising.

Bus stop graffiti

I caught the bus into town and because I hate to miss it (there's only one an hour) I got to the stop ten minutes early and I had lots of time to admire the graffiti.

The first graffito, just above the bench, was the kind of thing you might expect:

But then someone felt all pastoral on the side wall:

And someone else got all philosophical opposite:

For some reason no one makes graffiti on the outside of the bus shelter, but its surface is completely covered in staples:

They're left over from years of posters advertising plays, sports, music and campaigns, and I'm sure that the poster stickers don't see themselves as graffiti artists ...

My Unclear English Prize 2013: a basic holistic of chunky granularity

When it comes to disentangling jargon, Google is our friend, but even Google struggles with chunky granules:

I don't think I did. So here's Google's next best offer: a piece of Chunky bar, to give you strength for what's to follow. 

Take a deep breath before you read the paragraphs below. They're from a real email, sent yesterday to someone I know. If they make you feel ill, remember the poor sods to whom they were sent - they had to make sense of them and find some way of replying. They weren't allowed to shout, scream or in any way abuse the sender. All I've changed is the names. In case you're wondering, this isn't technical language that made sense to the recipients, it's gibberish. 

On chunky : the principle is not compromised at all, it is the principle of chunky not the principle of “giganagarous”  (very very very large)…  the trick is to be chunky at the right level of granularity for re-use/multi usage, business need and future proofing (chunks at the object level not at the entire data set size)…  it is not about breaking the architecture with giant messages for the sake of it.  In short, we simply need to make sure that the chunks are the right sized chunks… 

D;  please review B’s mail and give me your view of the right way forward and how the data team can support the project to strategic and right sized immediate success. 

B, review with the data and integration team the chunk sizes and ideally we can define a basic holistic of chunky granularity or similar guideline to help people get the granularity right going forward. / or simply the data team can propose the chunks to SIG…

Is this the first time 'holistic' has been used as a noun? A small point amongst such horrors, but it's surely a development that's worth noting and fighting vigorously.

It's stuff like this that makes the job of a writer feel like a noble calling.

In which I lose my appendix and find a flurry of flowers (and a chilli)

OK, so this isn't my appendix - when I came round from the anaesthetic a couple of weeks ago and the surgeon thrust a photo in my face of what they'd just chopped out of me, I wasn't entirely with it. All I remember is  something blurry and alarmingly multi-coloured. Various people have expressed their disappointment that I didn't ask to keep the offending gangrenous organ in a jar. I'm sorry. I hope this half-mouldy chilli from the bottom of our fridge is an appropriate substitute.

Since my surprise visit to hospital, I've been convalescing. What a splendid word. For the first time I can remember, I've lain in bed or on the sofa doing absolutely nothing. I didn't really have thoughts either, just vague observations - it's raining again, there's the starling in the roof above my head, I wonder what's for dinner. And once a day I'd walk slowly round the garden, stopping every few steps to gaze at the unfurling leaves on the dog rose, the frog spawn wiggling and then hatching, the blue tit starting its nest in the tree by the kitchen. Then I'd head back to the sofa.

I'm recovering now, and yesterday I went for my first proper walk. I  headed out along Burrswood drive and here's what I found along its verge - spring flowers exploding into action, all at once, an awesome display of what's been waiting all these weeks. They're not great photos - I took them on my phone - but I just had to record finding sixteen different flowers in a few hundred yards.

 

If you're wondering what they all are, here's a list, reading from left to right, top to bottom: wood anemone, cuckoo flower, daisy, violet, daffodil, dandelion, dead nettle, wild strawberry, ground ivy, fritillaries, cuckoo flower again, hawthorn, stitchwort, bluebell, lesser celandine, marsh orchid, primrose, and one final shot of fritillaries, dandelions and violets.

I think I rather fancy being a Victorian lady who reclines on a sofa and sketches wild flowers all day. It won't last, but I'm making the most of this strange and luxurious disconnection from my everyday life.

Writing the London Marathon

I’ve never run a marathon, but I’ve written one and my piece about the finish line of the London Marathon went live at 26 Miles today.

As the crow flies, Greenwich to The Mall is only a few miles. Back in the 17^th century Pepys used to walk it often to do deals in the royal shipyards (and stash a little more cash in his personal coffers). On Sunday, though, thousands of runners will take an all-round-the-houses-pubs-docks-and-offices 26 miles and 385 yards to get from A to B.

Rather them than me. I had way more fun writing the marathon than I would have running it.

As part of the 26 Miles project I’m the last of 27 writers who’ve each examined a mile of the route and, with a collaborator, created something about what they found – a poem, a story, a film, a documentary.

I worked with photographer Mark Cocksedge. We wanted our piece to reflect the constant flow of people, like blood through veins, through and around St James’s Park. Why were they there, in a place with no homes, offices, shops or warehouses? When we didn’t get permission to take photos in the park (though thousands of tourists were snapping away around us), nor to interview people, we knew what we had to do.

Mark created a really great slide show - it's at the end of my piece - so we hope you'll take a look and celebrate the  people we met and the strange place they were passing through.

If you'd like a bit of background history, here's a neat potted version by a London cabbie, and a longer one from British History Online. Poor old lepers, thrown out to make room for Henry VIII’s deer.

New shoes, new story

 

That's me, walking in my new shoes. Exciting, isn't it?

I have to admit that I am excited, because these shoes stand for the start of a new project.

Like pretty much every writer I know, I walk when I write. It's where I think, try out new words and rhythms, and let ideas float about. Walking is essential to writing for me. I don't know if it's the regular pace, the doing of something only slightly distracting, the being away from my desk, but it works every time.

I'm about to start a really big piece of writing, one which I've been thinking about for years. There's going to be a lot of walking involved, so my news shoes are my biggest investment in this story.

I'm not going to say more about it, so instead, here's a link to a beautiful poem, Walking Around, by Pablo Neruda.