Ian Sanson - Expressionable Joy; also Carlo Gebler's opening Practice of Writing class

Practice of Writing - Ian Sansom 16 March 2007

Expressionable Joy

Till today, I wrote a weekly 500 word account of Practice of Writing sessions with the aim of summarizing the information dispensed from the echelons of literary wisdom, in a small neat package, where I might access it again if I should ever want to access it again.
Not any more. Today, as directed by our tutor, Carlo Gebler, I write subjectively.

Starting with Number five. The title of a novel by Glenn Patterson but, on University Square, simply the wrong the door. I enter and note wallpaper in a Byzantine shade of red. There is a notice which states, “Greek tragedy and the modern world”. I wonder if it shouldn’t it read “Greek tragedy is the modern world,” before going back outside and finding the correct door. Yes, there’s my class, loitering on the staircase of number four. Carlo and the visiting lecturer are on the landing, discussing the rightwing press.

“Ha,” I say to Yvonne, “that figures.” She nods in agreement and rolls her eyes.
The visiting lecturer renders his name mnemonically. Ian S-A-N for nutter, S-O-M for mad. He notes the ceiling above our heads. The ceiling of our seminar room is a lavish survival of the age of optimism which has, on two previous occasions, been the object of subjective reference in my otherwise objective rendition of Practice of Writing. Ian Sansom’s attention to the ceiling wins him a niche in the cluttered storeroom of my subjectivity.

He wears gold rimmed spectacles on his forehead. His sage green tie matches his sage green waistcoat. He is bearded and communicates with the rapid speech and energetic gesticulation of an early Ealing studios stereotype of a London barrow boy. And barrows do have relevance, I find, as Carlo Gebler and Ian Sansom, exchange fond memories about which barrow boys, where, offered 10p for unwanted review copies of otherwise new books. First editions of books that would be valuable today, says Ian Sansom, with gleeful regret.

Once again we are informed that writing does not generate sufficient income on which to live, unless one is kissed by the Gods. Consequently, one will eke out supplementary income by reviewing. Personally, I’d rather prep vegetables in the Smugglers’ kitchen at minimum wage. It would be more fun and would probably pay better. Samantha’s protest exceeds propriety this week as she extends an indignant nazi salute to Carlo and Ian. Oh dear. But I see her point. Since when has writing been about making a living? Isn’t that why Nora Barnacle took in laundry?

Ian drops a superb word into our midst. Sitzfleisch. The ability to sit down and actually do the job of writing. I knew I didn’t have a fat ass for nothing. It’s a fine piece of sitzfleisch and for the future, I will respect it as such.

Ian Sansom urges us, as MA students, to read at whim. Because there is an intimate connection between reading and writing. Because reading is an aspect of expressionable joy.

And so is the ceiling, I think, not in a spirit of mockery but of expressionable joy.

Practice of Writing - week 1 with Practice of Writing tutor Carlo Gebler who ha requested 500 words, no more, no less, per week. I ahve buried my verbosity in footnotes.

Practice of writing: Week 1 (500 words. Precisely. No more. No less.)

We introduce ourselves. I discover a lot about the lives and ambitions of my classmates. I try to say something about the episode of block that brought me to 102 MA CREATIVE WRITING: PRACTISE OF WRITING. Six years of block. Actually more but I don't count it all. I can cope with saying six years. [i]

The first point concerns management of failure.[ii] We didn't actually deal with the first point. Just elaborated a little. Literature is dead. 70 percent of humanity, English speaking humanity, presumably, doesn't read. I suspected that. I've been a teacher.[iii]

I note the superb ceiling mouldings in room 105 but can’t observe them in their excruciating detail because I have to pay attention and answer the question, "Why are you here?" I answer the question but I am RETICENT. [iv]

I am so intimidated by the overpowering presence of the speaker who probably does not at all intend being intimidating or overpowering, that I think I should ditch my Marchlands which is more or less for mid-teens though maybe it will cross over a bit, and write a post modern book about writing a book about writing a book about writing a book, which I also have in mind. I am indecisive on the issue. Prior to the first class in 102 MA CREATIVE WRITING: PRACTISE OF WRITING, I was going to ask Glenn's advice about changing to a new piece of writing but feel uncomfortable with that now. I've dumped two episodes of Marchlands on his class last term and this, so I ought to explain myself if I move to doing anything else. But now it's not Glenn's class any more and switching novel seems somehow disloyal.

So that's one thought arising out of my class. And here's another. I've made a note about Lisa. She's flirting with the speaker while she tells her life story. I wonder is she aware of it. [v]
We are shoeless peasants (ie writers). The robber baron (publishers) has all the money in his castle. How do I get in there to get a jewel out of his treasury? I'm elaborating. The speaker didn't say it in quite those words, but close enough.

Nineteenth century literature had the impact of Premier football today. 20th century literature has the impact of lacrosse, not counting Canada. I take it Canadians care about lacrosse.
TV and music are today's media. Reviewing books that you hate gives you cancer. [vi] Narrative = inner change; plot = incidents. For difficulty in ending story. Write an end, put it in a drawer. Use or not, as the story dictates.

Do people recognise themselves when you use them as characters? No.[vii]

Hugo Hamilton writes dramatisations, not autobiography or memoir. He said so himself. Somewhere. Recently.[viii] The novel is dead. Write non-fiction memoir which doesn't need to be true.[ix] Read JR Ackerley My father and myself superb example of previous sentence.
Then we did layout. So what did I learn? Write a fictional memoir, not a novel.[x]
Footnotes:

[i] On 8 April 1998 I promised a New York editor a book about N. Ireland. He had just flown into Dublin to meet me. No other reason. Opportunity beckoned. So what did I do? I died and stayed dead. The NY editor had flown in from Bologna where he had picked up US rights on a couple of books. One was mine. The other was the first Harry Potter. Rowling delivered. I didn't. It looks as if I have a built-in fail device. I spent whatever number of years it has been, sitting at my desk, looking past my computer screen at the beach and the sea, noting whether the tide is in or out, whether the brent geese have come or gone.

[ii] I am trying to wipe the silly grin off my face. I googled the speaker's name when I received the email notification of the change of lecturer. Gebler, it was familiar but I lacked detail. Google revealed the son of the author who upheaved the supplementary reading room in 1964 or was it 1965? There we were, Esther Rafferty and those girls from Armagh whose names I have forgotten and two or three from Derry who hung about there, all of us getting hot and bothered and dying our underwear sinfully black under the influence of The Country Girls and the Girl with Green Eyes.
I have a view of an ear and some grizzled curls belonging to what was biological speaking, the cause, historically speaking, the consequence, of that hot and bothersome fiction/memoir. I wipe the silly smile off my face and concentrate on listening.

[iii] I died there. Today I finish mourning my death.

[iv] Nobody in Belfast is going to find out that I was ever a depressive burned out writer.

[v] And are those diamonds flashing on Lisa's ring finger? Has the fellow up the Malone Road made a proper commitment? Good for Lisa. I will ask, next week. I could email, better not. Beats hitting him with a full wine bottle garnered at a reception held in the Famous Seamus House for a poet laureate. Eh, Lisa? (Added comment, 26 Nov 2007, Lisa is up for a caesarian section on 3 Dec. How's that for committment? Will she make it to graduation on the 14 Dec?)

[vi] Not true. Reviewing books at all gives you gnawing jealousy that is a literary, intellectual cancer. I know. I've reviewed for the Donegal Democrat Arts page. Till Vinney Britton waylaid me in Ruby's shop to say, stop writing about other people's books and fucking write your own. Well said, Vinney.

[vii] But they recognise themselves in characters that they didn't inspire. eg Surf Summer. Surf dudes think they know who is who there. No, Jill Murphy didn't inspire the pyromaniac. Patrick B inspired the pyromaniac and then Poolbeg insisted on giving him a sex change because 1) boys don't read books 2) girls don't like boy protagonists . . . such as Harry Potter? Jill did plant the initial idea for a pyromaniac who became a boy one afternoon I gave Patrick a lift from Sligo and he told me what inspired him to burn down a prefab classroom. I left a tame prototype of him in the story but moved his pyromania to one of the girls. And as for the hotelier in Surf Summer, no he doesn't live in Rossnowlagh or Bundoran or even Donegal. I didn't write the blurb. You won't find a mention of Donegal or Ireland anywhere in my book. It is an anyplace book. Anyplace there is a beach with waves.
Surfers don’t even know who Patrick is. As for Jill, last time I heard, she was in Afghanistan living the great adventure as a US Marine. She can burn anything she wants now, I suppose, and get a medal for it.

[viii] I'll have to make more detailed notes. And listen to the detail as it's uttered so that I’ll know what to write down.

[ix] As in Defoe, Moll Flanders, Robinson Crusoe et al? Possibly.

[x] Isn't that what Marchlands is? Barney Timoney and my mother's separate stories from Whealt 1922. So maybe I'll go on writing it for now. I have about 2 weeks to make up my mind.