NaNoWriMo - WTF?

One of the things I don't write about is writing. And one of the reasons I don't write about writing is that I don't feel I do enough writing to write about. There are other reasons too, not least of which is my assumption that writing is a solitary pursuit, something to be done in private with the curtains drawn. When people ask how the writing is going or, hell, even what it is that I am working on, I feel embarrassed and unworthy of their interest. Compared even with the average Brit I am allergic to the notion of self-publicity; here in America, I might as well be a ghost.

Anyway, it is slowly dawning on me that I may have got a lot of this wrong. If I am lacking in confidence, it may have something to do with the fact that I am only asking for my own opinion on what I have written. Hopefully. And it may also be the case that talking about writing, writing about writing, and (gasp!) socialising with writers might be beneficial. I'm queasy having typed that - stay strong Michael.

So what has brought me to this? Well, mainly it's the fact that I've been (re)writing the same story for four or five years and I'm no closer to understanding where it is I need to go with it next. And going round and round with it is making me like it less and less. That's a heavy hat to doff at passers by.

Luckily that's just the dull side of a coin that also has a very shiny side. One point of light is my incredible friend Chris has, through hard work and natural brilliance, had several books published since he began writing full-time a few years ago. His success shows what can be achieved and, whilst I am happy for him, I am also grateful to him for setting such an example.

Another sunbeam struck earlier this year when Chris, my just-as-incredible friend Jamie and I were able to work together and entered a short story into a competition, only to be selected as one the winners. Our (excellent) story will be published early in 2011 (I think - still not taking to the self-promotion) but I didn't enjoy the winning as much as the process of collaboration. Sharing the words and ideas was wonderful and perhaps it was this that made me appreciate that it doesn't all have to happen in my head.

And then here in Houston I have my friend Caroline who is also writing hard, albeit in a more organised fashion than me. Now that school has started back up, we are both shot of our children during the day and we've started meeting up to write, not together, but at the same time. It's extremely helpful, applying just the minimum pressure, enough to make us sit down and do some work, even if we're not in the mood. Even better, it's fun too.

Because Caroline is organised (she may dispute that, but in relation to me she is) she recently spotted another competition.Something with the unlikely name of NaNoWriMo. This is National Novel Writing Month which, despite my initial cynicism, seems to be an utterly altruistic exercise. The idea is that you sign up to write 50,000 words between during the month of November. From scratch - it's not supposed to be something you have been working on previously. The thinking is to promote unfettered creative writing: have an idea and just write it without worrying about revising, editing or questioning it. By setting aside one month to do it, the participants set themselves an intensive challenge. I suppose the organisers are providing a false deadline for people who endlessly mull over the thought of writing a book without ever achieving it. People like me, in other words.

There's no cost and no prize. At the end of the month you submit your novel and they validate the word count. Then they delete it. The books are never read. But what you do next with what you have written is up to you.

Last year, 165,000 people took part from all over the world and 30,000 ended up writing 50,000 words or more. This year 57,000 people have signed up with little over a fortnight to go, but the writing itself is only part of it. It also serves as a way to get writers together, both online and in the Real World, to support each other, to socialise and to swap ideas. There are, amazingly, 1772 in Houston alone and Caroline and I are two of them, which is both very exciting and ever so slightly scary.

So there you go, I'm going to write a story from scratch. I'm telling you because I'm worried that I might not manage it but also because I'm going to try to be more open about my writing.

If nothing else, it should be something to write about.

1998 and All That

When writing the history of things, beginnings are nearly always murky, confused and badly documented. But eventually the historian can latch upon a key first date, an anchor that can be relied upon as a sign that things had irrevocably changed.

Today is the anniversary of such a date. On this day, the 14th of October, an historic and fateful encounter took place near Hastings in Sussex. The year was 1998.

No, for once I am not talking about the history of England, but personal history. For whilst my relationship with my then wife-to-be was already a few months old and had already had its fair share of Athelstans and Canutes, it was the day we accidentally spent at the site of the Battle of Hastings that I now look back on as a key moment.

I say accidentally because it was pure coincidence, or serendipity if you will, that took us there on that particular day. At a loose end with spare time together during what was then an uncertain and somewhat loose association with each other, we found ourselves driving around Sussex in an October fog looking for something to do. One of us, I forget who, mentioned Hastings as being nearby and it turned out that neither of us had visited the famous battle site. And then, as one, we both remembered the date of the battle and we turned to each other and said in unison, "but hang on that's today!"

To demonstrate the same knowledge simultaneously to each other was a thrilling moment of connection for a pair of nerdy show-offs such as us and after that we had a wonderful time. Being a drizzly Wednesday, we all but had the battlefield to ourselves which made it beautifully empty and evocative. After stomping around we eventually came to a large stone slab that had been laid to mark the spot where Harold II was supposedly killed. Totally spurious of course, but someone had left a bunch of yellow flowers there, the only bright colour amongst the mist and the October afternoon shadows.

As I get older, memories become increasingly blurry and I am appalled at how often people remind me of things that I have utterly forgotten. But I don't think I will ever forget those flowers, or that day together with the wonderful woman who is now my wife.

Nor will I ever forget that everything we have here - our lives in America, our marriage and, of course, our children - are all as a result of what happened at Battle on the 14th of October.

Oooh, Blogging.

Why am I not writing? Or, specifically, why am I not blogging more? Why not flood these pages with all the little details and incidents of my life?

Well, largely because I don't do very much and my life is currently luxuriously easy and therefore devoid of interest. I can't really bring myself to describe how lovely the weather is or how much improving reading I have undertaken. It is not, I am not, blog-worthy.

But there have been things that I have nearly written. I drafted something about the Chilean Miners' rescue for example, and I was temporarily inspired by the death of Dame Joan Sutherland and by the US school systems' notions of patriotism - but no postings will come, I promise. Why not? Because I dursn't. I have a deep-seated horror at the thought of causing offence and little confidence that a clumsy rant (inevitably directed, largely, at people I love and admire) could be justified.

In an email to a friend recently I was very rude about the extreme right-wing of American politics (the Republican party they're called). "You should blog that," he said. I don't think I could. In private conversation I will often overstep the mark, especially amongst friends. But this is a public forum: I am basically standing in my garden and shouting things at passers-by. In itself, such activity might be enough to alarm those within ear-shot; I'm not going to compound the sin by being interesting.

Obligatory Chilean Miners Post

I was, of course, delighted by the rescue of the Chilean Miners yesterday. I was inspired by the way that different individuals, organisations and governments had focussed their talents, resources and determination in order to accomplish a moving humanitarian mission. It was great, a triumph of engineering and resolve over adversity.

I feel that I have to state this for the record because I might have appeared slightly curmudgeonly yesterday. Whilst I was glad of the rescue I didn't seem to feel quite so emotional as others, but anything less than full-heartedness seemed to be an inappropriate reaction. Partly, I have become cynically dubious of any event which seems to be so perfectly suited to 24-hour rolling news coverage, as this was. Partly, I was wary of the massed collective response: Twitter, Facebook, emails - not to mention Real Life People - everyone seemed to be overcome. I seemed only to be merely happy and this seemed to be deemed an insufficient response.

What was actually happening was a re-enactment of the most profound kind of human drama, perhaps the oldest story, redolent with primal imagery. Descent into and escape from an underworld is a cornerstone of many early myths, some of which date back to the earliest European societies whose rites of passage, like modern shamanic practices, achieved re-birth by ascending from the depths.

In 'A Short History of Myth', Karen Armstrong discusses the role of caves such as Altimira or Lascaux in Paleolithic spirituality.

These grottoes were probably the first temples or cathedrals. There has been a lengthy academic discussion of the meaning of these caves [...] but certainly they set the scene for a profound meeting between men and the godlike, archetypal animals that adorn the cavern walls and ceilings. Pilgrims had to crawl through dank and dangerous underground tunnels [...], burrowing ever more deeply into the heart of darkness until they finally came face to face with the painted beasts. 

Armstrong also emphasises the role such places played in initiation rites.

Initiation ceremonies were central to the religion of the ancient world [...]. Like the journey of the shaman, this is a process of death and rebirth: the boy has to die to childhood and enter the world of adult responsibilities. Initiates are buried in the ground, or in a tomb; they are told they are about to be devoured by a monster, or killed by a spirit. [...] The experience is so intense and traumatic that an initiate is changed forever.

The link with surviving shamanic practices provides this thought (here Armstrong includes a shaman's words quoted from 'The Power of Myth' (New York, 1988) by Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers):

Like the dangerous expedition of the hunter, the shaman's quest is a confrontation with death. When he returns to his community his soul is still absent form his body.and has to be retrieved by colleagues who 'take hold of your head and blow about the sides of your face. This is how you manage to be alive again. Friends, if they don't do that to you, you die... you just die and you are dead.'

These brave men have descended into the utter darkness and confronted their mortality. They have passed through death and have risen, miraculously, from their underground tombs. But although reborn, they are not yet fully alive. As they return to the world, it is the job of their families and friends to hold them and to breathe life back into them. Their journey back from death has not yet ended.

Highs and Lows of Chicago

Last weekend we all dashed to Chicago; L was working and the boys and I tagged along because we are now Official Travel Boffins of America or something. When L first suggested the trip I didn't want to bother, frankly. It seemed too soon after our epic road trip for one thing.But I am trying to stop saying 'no' to things out of laziness, and off we went.

The actual flight was ridiculously easy, despite having to get up at 5am. For one thing, I keep forgetting how straightforward domestic flights are here in the USA. For another, suddenly sitting still for two and a half hours en famille is easy-peasy after all the crazy cross-country driving we have done. Almost immediately we were descending into a Great Lakes rain storm and a few minutes after that we were in a taxi ploughing through the downpour to Downtown.

The city is beautiful, naturally: an uproar of towers and skyscrapers from the last 100 years, steel and glass and stone and brick, blending and reflecting off of each other and looming over the broad streets and spacious parks. Through all this weaves the 'L', the elevated railway with its silver rolling stock. It completely covers some streets, making the sidewalk feel like an undercity from a 1930s dystopian version of the future - which it probably is to be fair.

Our time was limited so we tried to cram in as much as we could. On Saturday we did the Art Institute and managed to impress Christopher with some paintings - albeit only because he recognised them from Doctor Who. Still, he got a real frisson out of seeing Van Gough's bedroom and his self-portrait, so well done the BBC. Bless him, he does think Van Gough's first name is 'Mister' though.

On Sunday L had to some actual work so we left her behind and caught the bus to the Museum of Science & Industry. More on that, and the Sears Willis Tower in a minute.

Our flight times on Monday allowed us just enough time to have a stab at the Field Museum, Chicago's answer to the Natural History Museum. Again it was astoundingly good - excellent evolution/life on Earth/dinosaurs exhibition, wonderful recreation of an ancient Egyptian tomb and a great set of rooms on pre-European American civilisations. Then it was back in the taxi, back on the plane, 'oh, we've landed' and then back home for dinner. Bang, job done.

Now rewind to Sunday for the highs and lows.

Lows: Ha ha, I'm so clever. The low point, of course, was going up to the top of the Willis née Sears Tower. The ride in the elevator (24 feet per second, fact fans) was enough to make me giddy all by itself. The views from the top were spectacular, but they had to ruin it all by installing some glass flooring in a bay window so that my boys could stand on it, jump up and down and watch me beg (from a safe distance) them to get off.

Highs: Ha ha ha! Did I mention how clever I am? The high point was to be found down in the bowels of the Museum of Science & Industry where they have the U-505: a 250ft long, 750 tonne German submarine that was captured by the US Navy off the coast of Africa in June 1944. The boys may be able to cope with heights, but they clearly didn't take to the claustrophobia-inducing interior. With the doors shut, the lights dimmed, and the recorded noise of the engines echoing through the hull, our short guided-tour was very atmospheric. In hushed tones the guide describes the location and capture of the sub as if it were happening right now, above us. Chilling.

Unusually, the 54 crew members were captured/rescued after the sub was depth-charged by Hunter-Killer Task Force 22.3. Even more unusually, the Germans failed to scuttle their ship resulting in a great intelligence coup for the Allies. U-505 was disguised and towed to the Bahamas to be pored over by Naval Intelligence; her crew were sent to a POW camp in Louisiana, just for them, where they played baseball and picked cotton for 25 cents a day. At the end of the war they were all offered American citizenship and six of them took it. Meanwhile, the U-505 was scheduled for use as target practice as German military assets were put beyond use. But the captain of the US task force that had captured the sub intervened - he pulled some strings and got it saved, and he was able to donate it to his local museum in his home town of Chicago.

There it sat, on the front lawn, until a purpose-built underground chamber was constructed for it in 2005. It's amazing, straight out of The Spy Who Loved Me. Most beautifully, one of the six Americanised crew members moved to Chicago, just to be close to his old ship. In fact, he became a volunteer at the museum and himself gave tours of the vessel for many years until he died.

Of the 1200 U-boats that survived World War Two, there are only 5 left in the world. And the U-505 is the only one outside Europe.

As you might be able to tell, I was suitably impressed.

Or, to put it another way...

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We can't all be victims, can we?

I do get angry. I try not to, but I am weak and I get very, very cross, especially when people disagree with me. It is a terrible failing, perhaps, but it might seem occasionally that it is born out a very real and sincerely held belief that I am right about everything. I promise that - on some level at least -  I do accept that other people are allowed to disagree with me and that they may even be correct to do so. What actually infuriates me is the possibility that they might be unable to concede the same point to me.

Take, for example, his holiness Pope Benedict XVI, who swept into the United Kingdom this week. Infallibility is in his job description, for Darwin's sake, so it's inevitable that he is going to upset people whilst he's lecturing to them about the evils of their atheism/homosexuality/feminism/AIDS prevention methods. To  make matters worse, his (literally) dogmatic approach to these issues has caused his opponents to adopt similarly uncompromising attitude, with 'militant atheist' Richard Dawkins now leading a cadre of hardline extremists. Both sides are now well dug in to increasingly entrenched positions.

The same thing has been happening politically here in the USA for years, of course, but the divisions have widened dramatically since the election of Barack Obama. Without a Republican president, the right has no responsible authority figure to keep it on the leash and so various unpleasant types like Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck and the Tea Party movement have seized the opportunity to push their more extreme agenda. Last month Beck led a rally of, possibly, several hundred thousand people at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC - ostensibly to reclaim the civil rights movement for white, right-wing Christians.

What disturbs me most is that all sides, in all these conflicts, see themselves as the victims. The leaders, possibly, are overstating the perceived threat posed by their opponents so as to energise their base, but the effect on their supporters is dramatic. Here Tea Partiers are genuinely afraid that the gays and the Muslims and the socialists are coming for them. Liberals feel swamped, scared that the political system is being run by Big Money and Fox News. Muslim American citizens have to put up with the terrifying antics of half-wits like Terry Jones and his mooted Qu'ran burning, whilst the non-Muslims majority is largely horrified by the thought of a mosque at Ground Zero. In the US, atheism is a dirty word whilst in the UK blasphemy is still a criminal offence in Scotland and Northern Ireland. At the same time, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the Pope does genuinely believe that his religion is under siege by the forces of "aggressive secularism".

I can't say how many of these myriad fears are justified, but it can't be true that all sides are simultaneously so greatly threatened. But this is the nature of the debate: polarising and utterly poisonous.

And I'm guilty of it myself - I read the news I want to read, because it reinforces the positions I've already decided to adopt. I forward on opinions and stories, but I only send them to friends that I know will be predisposed to like them too. And if I do get into a conversation with someone who thinks differently to me, I've already closed my brain down to the possibility that I might be persuaded.

But then, the only other option would be to get very, very angry.