richard pierce

richard pierce

19 October 2009

Charlotte's birthday poem



October

A cloudless sky,
One month, almost, into autumn,
Colding nights,
The scent of burning leaves;
Crisp shadows
Under the fullest moon.

Birth,
The holiest miracle,
Brought us you,
One more treasure
Of our lives.

A beautiful note,
One chord, almost, into the song,
Clear crystal,
The scent of new perfume;
Voices dancing,
Flower in fullest bloom.

16 October 2009

Football poetry

This poem is being read tonight (16th October 2009) at a poetry reading preceding the Kicking & Screening Soccer Film Festival in Washington, D.C.

And it's being read by Josh Wicks, a keeper himself for DC United.


Lev Yashin

He dreamed he was in goal again last night,
watched the ball in flight,
caught the star with an outstretched arm
against the gleaming night, the golden night.

He dreamed he was out on the green last night,
heard the crowd call him,
flew through the heavy air like breath,
black against the shining light, the silver night.

He dreamed he was whole again last night…

(c) RPS

1 October 2009

On theatre

What makes good theatre? Is it supposed to make us feel happy, feel good about ourselves, or is it meant to challenge us, make us feel uncomfortable? Is it meant to lull us into suspending our disbelief, or should it shock us our of our everyday complacency? Answers on an electronic postcard to me...

I first virtually met Sabina England on authonomy, a writer's web site (or online game, depending on how you look at it), over a year ago. She was a brash newbie in that community and shocked many of the writers there by using the c word as a term of affection. An interesting addition, you might say.

Sabina has been entirely deaf since the age of 14. She's a Muslim, a punk, a woman, a novelist and a playwright. She's now 26, and has probably lived more lives in those years than I have in my almost 50.

I went to see Sabina's play How The Rapist Was Born earlier this week. It's on at the Tristan Bates Theatre at 1A Tower Street, London, WC1 (near Covent Garden) until 17th October 2009 until 17th October (but not on Sundays).

Having read some of Sabina's ten-minute plays on her blog, and having read chunks of her novel, I knew she could write, but what I saw in London exceeded even my expectations.

How The Rapist Was Born is an outstanding play which challenges men and women to look at how they deal with provocative sexuality. Performed entirely by women, it's a blinding storm of words and lights and music, an uncomfortable piece of theatre which would not be out of place in Bertolt Brecht's portfolio. At 1 hour 10 minutes, it's not particularly long, but even that time flies by. It's a prose poem, a whirling dervish of a piece. Language, memory, pain.

I liked the repetition of the opening lines throughout – it created act changes, which I thought was really effective. Brecht is one of my favourite playwrights, and the impact of having the "manga" girls hanging around the theatre before the beginning of the play (and of having Charley, the main lead, pass the rapist's cock to the audience and shaking the hand of the audience during the play) made me think of his alienation effect – drawing the audience into the play at the same time as making them understand it was a play.

The sexually provocative schoolgirl outfits create a conflict for men watching the play, because making the girls “attractive” immediately created guilt/self-examination in male watchers – let’s face it, men always check out girls, consciously or subconsciously, and one of the central themes of the play, as I saw it, was digging down into the rapists’ self-justification (“she deserved it because of the way she was dressed” – ie denying women the right of self-expression and choice).

What really interested me was the choice of music, bearing in mind that Sabina can’t hear music. The soundtrack which accompanied the words and pauses fitted perfectly.

And, of course, the play adhered to Aristotelian principles. The claustrophobia of the hospital room in which the action takes place was emphasised by the increasingly agitated behaviour of Charley and her gang.

The ending of the play was totally unexpected for me, but I'm not about to give it away here.

If any of you reading have time to go and see it, do. It's on a double bill with another play, so you get 2 hours of theatre for twelve quid. Can't say fairer than that, guv.

25 September 2009

Die Angst des Torwarts beim Elfmeter

The title of Peter Handke's book translates as The Fear of the Goalkeeper at the Penalty Kick. The title sprung to mind when I was thinking about editing one of my novels. Why? Is there such a thing as The Novelist's Fear Of Editing?

We sit, separate from our families, for months on end, in dark rooms, lonely rooms, silent rooms, tapping out words which well up from the very core of us. And then we’re finished. We surface again. We spend time with our families. We live normal lives again. Or as normal as we can. And then? And then there’s a new torrent of words, another idea. But the last project is possibly not as perfect as it should be. But it’s still our baby. We fear changing it – or at least I do – because we’re afraid of destroying something we have created, something we love.

Or is it boredom with one project which drives us on to the next, instills in us a resistance to going back and tinkering and manipulating our words into different shapes? Boredom rather than fear? And yet those words lie there, long-hand in notebooks, or digitally on our hard disks and back-ups, goading us with their imperfection.

The new idea or the old one? So easy to create, so difficult to change. So impossible to read objectively, with one eye on our art and one eye on the market. Editing can be a nightmare, not just because we’re not word surgeons but wordsmiths. Because when we write our first drafts, we’re gods creating new worlds. When we edit, we become bureaucrats of form and shape and plot. Such a comedown. If the butterflies of our beginnings change the shape of their wingbeats, something somewhere down the line changes, too. A logistical nightmare. We have to make up rules and laws and regulations. Have to make sure everything fits, everything. We were anarchists of creation, and now we’re dictators.

I have not yet discovered the secret of how to overcome this fear, of how to overcome the boredom. I have a new idea in my head, but it has to stay there for the moment. I have to pull up the manuscript of at least one of my books and rip it apart and start it all over. Because real life demands it. Because I need to be pragmatic, not impulsive. Because I need to fashion my voice into one which will be heard and recognised.

21 April 2009

An Unpublished Writer's View of the London Book Fair 2009

My background is such that I've been to a great many industry exhibitions, mainly in the information business, and have become quite blasé about them. For some odd reason, as an unpublished writer I suppose, I had anticipated the London Book Fair to be different. I guess that comes from not being involved in the publishing business, and from the naivety which comes from that, regardless of age or background.

I must admit that I was off on one of my blue sky endeavours here, especially knowing that I'm not the most forceful or resourceful of men when it comes to cold selling. And that's what walking into the London Book Fair with a combat jacket full of promotional postcards is, let's face it. The hope being, of course, that someone would take mercy on me and talk to me. Because I can talk the hind legs of a warmed-up prospect.

Anyway, let me just go through the way I perceived the general setup. At all exhibitions I've been to, the picture is one of a load of exhibitor badges talking to another load of exhibitor badges about how good or bad business is, and frowning on the folks collecting lots of freebies or seeking appointments not previously arranged - time-wasters, we used to call them when I was a stand-shark. Their perceived value to the exhibitor badges is nil. So they generally get ignored. Same here, unfortunately.

The fronts of the stands here are manned by, more often than not, very beautiful, thin young women who are obviously impeccably house-trained. Very decorative, and actually very clever, all of them. However, one of their greatest skills is reading badges very quickly, and, as soon as they see author on your badge, a great look of pity comes over them, and they greet you, not with hello, but with we don't take unsolicited submissions; best to go through an agent. A great shame, and, unfortunately, a beautiful stonewall is nevertheless a stone wall. But if you're not married and are looking for eye candy and a potential wife, the I suppose the London Book Fair is the place to come.

I did manage to coral a couple of commissioning editors who took my Bee Bones card, made kind noises about checking out my web site, and shook my hand very strongly and sincerely. And I was engaged in very pleasant 10-minute conversation with a lovely front-of-stand lady called Jennifer who hails from New Zealand and who promised to pass my details on to her commissioning editor. I live in hope, but I won*t be holding my breath.

You see, past the lovely ladies, there's an outer circle of sales & marketing people who are all trying to sell to each other and outsell each other. Then there are the rights managers who are really sales managers with an extra bit of intellectual property rights know-how built in. And then, right at the back of the stands, there are the conclaves of the real power brokers, the movers and shakers, the people who you really need to know to get anywhere. And getting to them, especially for shy and retiring people like me, is nigh on impossible.

Interestingly enough, all the agents seem to be ensconced in the crow's nest of the International Rights Centre which, unless I have misinterpreted something, you either need to pay extra to get into, or must have been specially invited to. Bummer. Back to querying by email, I guess.

One very interesting thing I did see was the Espresso Book Machine 2.0 in action. This print-on-demand machine produces a 250-page book in 6 minutes. Unfortunately, the Americans who were giving the demo of the machine, had bought the wrong weight paper, because they couldn't work out the metric equivalent of the paper they normally use. The 80gsm paper they were using was too thin, so the spines of the books weren't the right thickness, and every book coming off the machine didn't look too good. To add insult to their own injury, they were taking any old book file from LightningSource, a lot of which was very poor quality writing - the sort of thing that gives self-publishing a bad name, because it is not quality controlled, and because the writer can't write. I've got one of the books in my bag, and it is dreadful in content, layout, and physical presentation.

There are 12 machines in use at the moment at World Bank InfoShop, Washington; New York Public Library; New Orleans Public Library; Internet Archive, San Francisco; University of Michigan Library; Northshire Bookstore, Manchester Center, VT; University of Alberta Bookstore; McMaster University Bookstore; Newsstand UK, London; Library of Alexandria, Egypt; Angus & Robertson Bookstore, Australia; University of Waterloo Bookstore, Canada. There are plans to install some more (as 2.0 beta sites) at McGill University Library, Montreal; Blackwells in London; and Brigham Young University Bookstore. The machine still needs an operator to run, but I believe the potential is huge. But only if used properly, with the necessary quality control to ensure high editorial standards. That day is some way off, though, as the costs are not insignificant - USD96k per machine plus operator salary and on costs, plus 1 cent per page in other production cost (I don't know if the operator I spoke to had a full handle on all the costs, so I don't know exactly what's in that 1 cent cost).

As far as attendance is concerned, I can't really judge. What I would say is that it was by no means very busy, and certainly not heaving. There were no gangway crushes. A reflection of the current economic climate, I would suggest. And by 17:30, the bigwigs had either left or were swilling wine on their stands, looking relieved that there was only one day to go.

My intention with this post is not to be negative. It is to tell of one day at the London Book Fair from an unpublished writer's point of view. Walking away with any number of free books (although they are proof copies) made me think, though. (I hasten to add that I saw no such freebies on the HC stand). When I first registered with authonomy, I made a suggestion as to how HC might deal with those top 5 books they thought were good but didn't fit into a list (ie well-written, well laid-out and worth taking a small punt on without creating reputation risks for HC). That proposal was to create an authonomy imprint, do a short trade paperback run of the top 5 books, say 1k per book each month, and to sell them for GBP2.99 a copy. Having been here today, I am more convinced than ever that this would work, and that HC would have at least one bestseller a year on their hands, as well as significant kudos in the market place as a result.

Conclusions? No different to any other industry conference in that it involves a lot of preening. However, it’s obvious to me that many of the people employed in publishing who are further down the foodchain than the folks at the very top actually put in some significant hours. It also became apparent to me that, for people like myself, who are very good writers but not marketeers, and who want to break into mainstream publishing, having an agent is extremely important. For me, in the wake of all the anti-agent bluster that’s been going round twitter and the net in general, this is a really important recognition. The other side of the coin is that serious self-publishing is still an option, but with the proviso that we’re able to persuade readers that our writing is not to be compared with 95% of self-published material which is dross.

15 April 2009

On Writing

Where do they come from? The words? The poems? The stories? The books? From the booze, the fags, the sex, the despair? From happiness, ecstasy, joy and hope? From the dreams we never achieved? From the voices we hear in our nightmares, our jealousies, our fears? Because we see things we hope will never happen? From a desire to escape our realities? Because they are too painful to confront? There is no happiness in writing. Even a happy ending does not promise better things. There is always betrayal, decay and death beyond the final sentence.

So, why write if there’s never a happy ending? Because we have to. Because we want the answer to all our questions. Because there has to be an answer. Something out there that makes all our moments and seconds worthwhile. Because we’re on a quest. In our books. In our thoughts. In our lives. Because what keeps us striviing is the need for redemption. For ultimate salvation. For knowledge of what comes next. Although we will never know. That’s what drives us.

Every book is a quest wrapped into another story. Every poem. Every sequence of words ordered into the semblance of a sentence. A greater whole.

I can’t stop the words. They appear out of nothing. In dreams. In shapes. In colours. In sounds. The voices never stop.

Take an empty notebook and a pen. Carry them around with you. Listen in on other people’s conversations. On buses. On trains. In cafes. In restaurants. In the street. Walk slowly. Loiter. Mishear lyrics from songs on the radio. And write it all down. Cannibalise the world around you for every ounce of mangled word you can gather onto your paper. Scribble. Jot. Doodle. Invent.

Go into a pub. Buy a drink. Sit outside and light a cigarette. The people who talk to you while you’re smoking are infinitely more interesting than the non-smokers inside. As you drink, the people who walk by without talking to you will become more beautiful, more weighed down with secrets and meaning. And all the time, scribble, scratch, draw. You may even fall in love out there.

Allow yourself to be tortured by your thoughts. Don’t be pragmatic. Don’t accept the world as it is. Fight it. Fight to change it. Gouge holes into the present’s fabric. Distort it. Bend it. Nothing is real.

You will wake one night, with or without someone by your side, your head full of sentences. You will have left your notebook in the other room. You must resist the temptation of the warm bed or body. Jump up. Race to your desk, and scrape those sentences into any piece of paper you can find. And don’t stop with the words that woke you. Carry on, carry on, until you are no longer able, until your hands tremble with exhaustion. And then go outside into the coldness of just dawn and wash your face in the breeze that always guards that time of day.

One day you will be happy. That will be the day you can write nothing useful. Nothing that matters. Nothing that will mean anything. Happiness breeds empty pages.

We are incomplete. We are sinners, and not necessarily in the religious sense. We commit, every day, crimes against those who share our lives. And not just against the people we know. We are guilty of not caring, not paying attention, not agitating. We carry the sins of omission with us forever. As do our characters. And through them we seek redemption. Feels like heaven. Then crash and burn.

Don’t look around. Don’t stop when your words make no sense to you. Keep going. Keep going. You can always change your mind later. But you can’t change yourself if you stop. The moment is gone then. If you stop, you might never write that great line you were meant to. Then it will all have been for nothing.

There. A fully-formed character jumps into your life. Suddenly. Without warning. And then another. An enemy. A lover. A child. They will decide what to do. You cannot guide them. They will guide you. They will drag you through their lives. All you have to do is to write it down. And you will fall in love with them. Become a part of them as much as they become a part of you. And you will remain intertwined for the rest of your life, past the last page of the book. And then? Only death will tell.

In a darkened room, a solitary light. A bottle of red wine. A half-full glass. An overflowing ashtray. Paper upon paper. Mountains of paper. Desk. Floor. Bed. Everywhere. And a shadow. A moving, chasing, writhing shadow. You.

Allow the words their balance. Read. Read. Read. What others have to say is part of your journey. What others have suffered. What the suffering of others has created.

Allow the words their rhythm. Dance with them. Scatter the dust. Scatter the ashes of the dead. Dance with your ghosts. Fast and slow. Hate and love. Say what you feel, not what you feel you should say. Shout. Skip. Scream. Dance. Smile. Laugh. Cry. Live. Die.

Where is the truth? There is no truth.

Where is the answer? There is no answer.

When will the words come? When you least expect them. Ninety-five percent of the brain’s activity is taken up by daydreaming. So daydream. And don’t throw away a single word. Even if you don’t use it.

I’ve locked myself away now.
Finally.
Being on the outside was too much to bear.
All the wind and noise,
All the confusion of living,
Of loving and being loved.

That’s over.
The pain is ended.
The glistening torture
Of dreaming shadows into being
Has gone.

A single room.
A single bed.
A single light.
A desk.
A chair.
A book.
A pen.

This is where I live now.
This is where I die
When the last page is turned.

Richard Pierce, 15th April 2009