No, they’re better…

Just caught sight of this article by Susan Hill of Spectator.

I am appalled.

Susan blathers on pretty much to say (in many, many more words) that she is incensed and horrified and insulted to be asked to write a short story to be placed alongside other short stories on a display wall at a Fringe Festival. The other contributors will be a mix of established authors and new, young budding writers. Some of them children. Some are (allegedly) “marginalised, displaced, disadvantaged, bottom of the heap, discriminated against, asylum seekers” who are contributing.

Ms Hill goes on to illustrate how she was trained (and trained hard!) to be a writer, by doing a degree and studying long hours over brilliant authors’ works. Well, good for you, Susan. I too intend to do a degree in writing and the English language, only because I never went to university at 18 (at the time, my chosen career didn’t require a degree, rather a lot of practical experience instead).

But, let’s just hold up a minute. Susan says, because she has training (and apparently skill, though I can’t comment on this because I’ve never read any of her work) then she should not have her work displayed on the same wall as these ‘lesser mortals’. Hmmm.

I think we can safely say that Susan is an arrogant, self-centred writer (yes, sadly they do exist) who cannot see beyond the nib of her own pen. She is missing the key point of this entire collaborative wall exercise, and that is encouragement.

Certainly, the organisers of this festival are not going to accept just any old drivel to put up. They’ll understand that not everyone is a writer. But they will be choosing writers who show a little talent, promise and enthusiasm. Why? Because among these young, budding, aspiring writers of today, are tomorrow’s Susan Hill and Samantha Priestley and Stephen King and J K Rowling and Michael Crichton… get the idea? Sure you do.

So, no, Susan. Amateur writers are not as good as well established authors. We don’t expect them to be. We do, however, need to continue encouraging them to learn, and grow, and experience and better themselves in their writing. How do we do that? Well, I’m certain it isn’t by ranting about how crap they are in an online blog.

It might just, however, involve writing short stories to go up alongside their work on a public display board. To show support for these new writers and help them see what they can do, if they keep practising their skill. Just like you and I and Stephen and Sam did. Hey, you could even volunteer your services to go and do, oh I dunno, maybe a workshop for these young writers? Share with them a little of your skill and knowledge like your tutors once did for you perhaps? Help to improve the standards you say you are so passionate about.

Or you could just sit high and mighty on your blog and continue ranting about how standards are falling.

The Wonder of Story and Truth

I’m getting worse at blogging, sorry. I keep blaming it on being knackered when I get home from the DDJ, but I guess that excuse will only go so far. In other words, I’m just procrastinating. Honest.

Anyway, back to business.

Waiting for the late bus the other day, I let my mind idle (as we writers often do) and start connecting random thoughts and ideas in a string. A young girl had got on the previous bus into town at the same stop as me, high as a kite on weed I’d guess. She could only be about fourteen.

In the bus station, she sat down on the next stand to me, and I began to think that she would be a perfect victim in a longer story I’m playing with. (It’s not being written yet, just ideas gathered.) So I got my iPhone out, booted up WriteRoom and started typing away, describing a scene where this girl is being watched by a protagonist, is in danger from some form of supernatural entity, and is then attacked, in public, and killed, before the protag can get close enough to intervene. One of those ‘red-shirt’ deaths, I suppose. At this stage in the writing, it doesn’t matter. The victim can become more involved with the story later on.

As I was writing, I became aware of two plastic plods police community support officers ambling through the bus station. They also got added into the scene, purely by chance, and would be the first officials to arrive in the aftermath of the carnage I was about to inflict in the scene.

And then, reality proved to be just as strange as fiction. The two PCSOs approached the girl who I had written in as a victim. I was listening to music on my iPhone, so I couldn’t hear any of the conversation that ensued. Suffice it to say, I kept writing (I was actually in the groove by this point) and the girl continued to give disgusted lip curls in the general direction of the two wannabe bobbies.

Eventually, the small crowd the girl had joined when she sat down sauntered on to a bus, and the girl begrudgingly followed the two PCSOs past me, out towards the main door of the bus station.

Bemused by this, I concentrated on finishing my little snippet when I heard a loud yell from behind me. The girl then zipped past me in the opposite direction, having got quite a good head start on the two yellow jackets. She was actually going like a champion sprinter, so I was impressed.

I presume they caught up with her just outside the other exit of the bus station. A few minutes later, as my bus pulled out, I saw two full plods jog through the station. A van was parked outside, and another pulled up at the side of the road as I passed.

Got me to wondering just who this girl was, what she had done to warrant their attention. Runaway maybe? Something to do with drugs? She was high, as I said. Her stay in the bus station had been calm purely from her being doped up on something, her eyelids slowly drooping as she sat. This is why I (and probably the two PCSOs) was surprised by how fast she could run, given how lethargic she had been only moments beforehand. I guess I shall never know.

But it did strike me as odd, how I was first intrigued by this girl, got to thinking about who she was and writing her into a scene as a believable victim (don’t be disturbed, we writers do this all the time. I can guarantee, if you know a writer, or have been seen by a writer somewhere, chances are you may well have been written into a scene, story or book. But you’ll never actually know) and then she turns out to be involved in her own, real-life drama.

Which is stranger, truth or fiction?

Canterbury, Bats and Billy. Very Talented.

Of the gigs from my birthday weekend, there were two I was really looking forward to: Black Stone Cherry was the first, and I’m still gutted that I had to miss it. I did get a second chance with the other gig, though.

The Billy Talent gig at Leeds O2 Academy was rescheduled, to this Monday night just gone. So, after a first day back at work getting back into the swing of things, I rushed off, met Matt and Ceri in town, and trundled off up the motorway.

Matt’s navigating (even with the help of my iPhone’s Maps app) proved a little… interesting… to say the least, and after some creative guess work by me, we found a parking spot. Which was nowhere near where we were going, so there then ensued a brisk walk in the cold night air. Before I realised we were going in totally the opposite direction to what we should’ve been, and ordered an about-turn. Ten minutes later, after discovering that at one point we had been on the right road, heading in the right direction in the car, we found the Academy.

Inside, Canterbury were already in full swing, and we caught the end of their set as we grabbed drinks at the bar under the balcony. Though sounding quite young, Canterbury were a good opener. They disappeared, and we took the opportunity to check out the Merch stall, picking out which tee-shirts we were interested in.

Cancer Bats were next up, more my kind of music with lots of screaming, grunting, and heavy riffs. I was in my element, though Ceri looked a little nonplussed.

Cancer Bats left the stage, and we all shuffled forward a bit, to get just a little closer to the action. We didn’t go too far into the melee, the mosh pit had been looking like a meat-grinder during Cancer Bats’ set, so I wasn’t going to risk it. Ok, I’m a wuss at times.

Finally, the lights went down, and Billy Talent took to the stage. They rocked. Ben bounced around the stage like a man possessed. Jon and Ian framed him like towers of power riffs and chugging bass. And Aaron finished the quartet off from his perch at the kit, unable to keep the smile from his face at times when the crowd joined in with Ben and Ian’s vocals.

I can genuinely say it was the best show I’ve ever seen. Each song brought more crowd participation than the one before (I admit, I was singing my throat hoarse on the songs I knew) and it was an amazing atmosphere. Ben was slightly confused when the crowd started chanting “Yorkshire!” (customary for Yorkshire based fans at home gigs) and at first thought we were saying York-shit until Ian whispered something in his ear, and Jon pointed out that Yorkshire is a county, not a town. Ah well, he’ll learn.

It was a brilliant night, and they left the stage all too soon, after the closer of Red Flag. We shuffled to the Merch stall again, and I bought the Billy Talent tour tee-shirt, the album shirt, and a Cancer Bats shirt as well. Matt had a tee-shirt too, then we shuffled through Leeds to find an open McDs for energy food, and then home and in bed by half past midnight.

So the birthday wasn’t a total disaster, after all.