Life Writing

Made a tentative start on the Life Writing chapter of the workbook. I also listened to the CD on my way to work. I wasn't particularly enamoured with the Writing Fiction CD - far too much earnestness and plaintive tones from the authors, and too much mush from some of the teachers. All in all a bit of a miss for me. The poetry CD pulled it back round; thoroughly enjoyed Sean O'Brien and Douglas Dunn and thought them very illuminating - even Bill 'the bad bard' Herbert was OK. Then again I seem to be in a minority of one in rather liking bad Bill's style in the workbook, but that's another story. Psst..! whisper this ever so quietly, I thought The Ode Less travelled to be condescending crap - again, for another day. But what of the Life Writing CD I hear you scream? - Get on with it, I hear you cry!

I thought, think, the CD part of Life Writing was, is, excellent. I listened to the first part late at night whilst on the M56 on my way to Manchester Airport, generally tired and pissed off about, well, loads of things and consequently I thought it dry and boring. But I listened to the whole thing this morning on the A55 during daylight, morning sunshine actually, and immediately felt more positive towards it. The first part with Michael Holroyd and Blake Morrison still not sparkling, but with some interesting nuggets. But the next part I thought was brilliant. Richard Holmes take a bow.

I initially thought it was going to be Professor Richard Holmes, an excellent military historian - one of the best in my view. I was getting ready to be all sad as this estimable fellow died last year and thought that this might have been among his last work - a little teaching advice for creative types attached to the OU. But no. Richard Holmes the biographer whose book on Coleridge I must have read 20 odd years ago. ( I've always had a thing about Coleridge - shared birthday and birth town must be behind it rather than the poetry and the pantheism,) And Holmes was/is superb on this CD. But this is not a review so I wont go on about it except to say, suddenly I can't wait to start Life writing after hearing him speak.

Blog entry with no name.

Far too tired to blog this evening. And I'm bloody annoyed that my poem and commentary didn't land in my inbox after I emailed it to myself from work. I work on some of this stuff while at work you see. I never get too involved when there - just sketching and tweaking, I don't think even I could pull off having a focused, head stuck in, deep session whilst I should be filing reports and sending in returns for this and that. But the bits and pieces I did today are pretty much wasted as my intention was to give whatever it was the deluxe thinking treatment tonight now I'm ensconced in my study for an hour or so. And no email. I'm thinking, theorizing really, that those chaps in IT are intercepting my emails and - what's the word - imprisoning them (not the word I was looking for) and compiling a file of evidence that will prove I'm wasting company time at work writing short stories and hatching poems from my sub conscious when I should be working. I wont have a leg with which to kick my arse if that's the case, and I'll be down the road next week clutching my cards. Do people still collect their cards I wonder?

What was that bloody word? Corralling, no. Sequestering. No that's not it either. Tired brains are not good for vocabulary selection, ergo not good for writing unless you can write your way to liveliness, which to be fair, I have done before. Damn, it nearly came to me then. Sectioned. No, that's what happens when it's proved that you're mad. It's when something is separated segregated and stored. It'll come to me. It always does. I'm on a writing course damn it! Isolating. No, not that either, dumb-ass. Quarantine! That's it. My emails are probably being quarantined. *wipes brow* *prepares for bed*

Note book opportunities.

I had plans to work on my writing today. Sadly normal life has intervened and I've been recruited by other members of the family to do other things. Yesterday was no different, and I ended up at the Trafford Centre at about the time I thought I was to be back at my desk doing my best at unraveling the poetry chapter to help me pepper my 03 commentary with enough technical terminology to leave my tutor's head swirling as if she were 10 years old again and masochistically volunteering herself over and over again for a games of 'head down spin and run and make everyone else laugh by your gormless efforts.' Actually the person who needs help in gormless efforts avoidance, is me.

Two good things did come from yesterday, and they are classic notebook jobs. Not that had it with me. Not that I ever do have it with me. Not that I even properly own one in the truest sense of the word - my drawer is full of them, most with one or two pages with optimistic starting, quickly followed by acres of white barrenness. Or pages are loose, or this is my least favourite observation because I simply cannot find a way to stop this - the spiral unraveling - twice I've used that word this year and minutes apart! But I did have my phone with me - everyman's gadget for all matters note taking. I'm even sad enough to have run keeper installed on it and sadder still I was monitoring the steps I was taking in the mall together with the calorie burn. See my life is full of incident.

So, I made a couple of phone notes, and any day that is lived whilst on A215 that is taken up with a few live notes is not a wasted day - even if you do end up traipsing around shopping malls with fussy wives and tired feet. Here is a snap shot of my notes taken whilst waiting in various ladies clothes shops.

'Standing high up in the mall looking down at the hubbub of people rushing headlong in ever direction reminds me of when as a 7 year old I first lifted the edges broken paving slaps from my father's geranium borders and revealed an ant universe of streets, boulevards, and paths. Twisting this way and that I was taken by how the ants with great industry moved quickly and efficiently and with good manners made deft almost psychic jinks to left and right managed to avoid bumping into each other. Occasionally there would be a juddered halt as two ants failed to synchronize their thoughts and would end up staring at each other for a second or two until a solution could be found whereby one would go left, the other right.

Some carried parcels, other were empty handed. Every ant whether with or not with another ant seemed to operate entirely alone.

In the mall I thought the people I could see as I looked down, acted in a very similar way. '

Note over. I have padded a little, but perhaps this note taking thing is no bad thing. Note to self in new note book: 'must use note book.'

Oh and I've forgotten the other thing. It'll come back to me. Oh yes: 'Market House'. The Market House from my home town features heavily in my 03 poem and during the poem's development I have had difficulty accessing information about it- for once the Internet has been a disappointment, how often do we say that these days? But I knew that I had a book somewhere in the house that had a chapter all about this building. I remembered that it was built somewhere around the 1700s and consequently had many functions and has witnessed many things right up to the present day. And I wanted to get some of this in my poem. Obviously I cannot divulge any more otherwise I will have to shoot myself; suffice to say that I found the book languishing in a box in my loft and I have since had a chance to flick through it. I can report that everything I wrote about it is more or less true so I won't have to do very much last minute tweaking. Maybe a little but I'm almost there with it.

So in the note book the following: Market House was decorated during various celebrations including throughout 40s 50s 60s and 70s. That's it. Means a lot to me this note entry for reasons that will have to remain private for the time being.

The only other thing I have done is found a writing magazine called rather inventively 'Writing'. I've never been much of one for magazines of this kind, they're always expensive and seem a little bit obsessive, earnest, and full of shallow optimism about things like tips lists of what you should do to guarantee publication etc. But this one has a quite a few competitions in it - stories and poems, and I can't think of a better thing to do with my old TMAs as they start to proliferate than to start sending them in to these various competitions, then sit back and wait and see. They're written anyway so I might as well see if I can get them to sing for their supper, otherwise I might as well give up now.

Thoughts of the day

People are always asking me why my OU blog has been set to private. I have to tell them, though I'm not sure they believe me, that it's necessary due to not having an HTML editor functioning along side it which seems to preclude, among other things, paragraphing capabilities. The lack of spell and grammar check I can just about manage - might even be a help sometimes, particularly writing poetry (earnest face). But this lack of paragraphing (unless I spend ages and sweat droplets of that red frightening stuff creating little 'ps' and 'brs' and the like and hope that my efforts at coding are taken seriously) makes the writing look bad so, for the time being it stays as private as the contents of my underpants.

I had a look through the Study guide this morning as I'm conscious that I haven't been reading it at all lately. It makes grizzly reading for the reluctant student. Page after page of well meaning exercises, tests and advice. Most of which, nearly all of which, I have avoided. What will this mean ultimately I wonder? By ultimately I'm really referring to the course and its progression towards these next three TMAs, and of the EMA, the elephant that hangs out in my study playing old Louis Armstrong numbers whilst threatening to turn my chaise longue into matchwood. I still know nothing about the EMA - what I intend to do with it, how it's submitted etc. I shall for the time being ignore it. Like Jumbo, I know it's around, but it dosen't mean to say I give it or him any of my precious time until it's unavoidable.

That's my column done. More later. Diary of a reluctant poetry student who has still only written one poem.

Poetry Updates

My tutor has just posted an activity about theme on the tutorial group site. It involves thinking about theme. This is fine, but I've already written my poem so I don't really feel like tackling it. But then again I keep hearing those funereal threatening voices in my head, 'don't forget the EMA,' But this is the problem I have, I don't know what I'm going to do for my EMA. I certainly don't believe I'll do poetry at this stage as I have absolutely no idea whether I'm any good at it. I've scored high 80s for both of my shorts, so a short would have to be favourite, but then again I'd never really written a short story before this course, so maybe I should stop while I'm ahead on that one in case one more story and I get found out.

If I score well in this poetry element of the course I may embrace it, call myself a would be poet, and write nothing but for the rest of the course - pausing of course for a bit of life writing (whatever that's all about). If I score badly in poetry and this is a distinct possibility, I pack up my poetry tools and put them away and refuse to show them the light again. Quite exciting really isn't it?

Do you know what I'm looking forward to, I mean really looking forward to? Seeing other people's poetry a matter of days after the cut date for the 03 submission. Over at Facebook people are really generous with letting others know of their marks and showing their work. It's going to be very revealing if a couple of clumsy non iambic pentameter sonnets and a couple of dodgy haikus can score a 90, then we'll know what's going on. You cannot make a poet in a few weeks. It simply cannot be done. Fancy becoming an airline pilot? - here read this chapter on the basics of flying and test yourself to see how well you've understood the material. Then when you're sure you know what you're doing get yourself down to London as there's a passenger flight to Crete timed at 1730hrs from Heathrow, and you're flying it. What's that, you want to be a lawyer. No problem, read this case law book, test yourself a couple of times and when you think you've got the hang of this law malarkey, there's a chap standing trial at the Old Bailey for conspiracy to defraud the state, he knows all the angles and has a team of international lawyers to defend him Your job is to secure a conviction, you have read the book haven't you?

I reckon if the scoring is high, that's fair enough, because the work is going to be basic, hard working and earnest and full of effort, but it's not going to be poetry. That's not to say that some on the course may have talent and promise, but in a few weeks? No. when you read the published poets you see the difference immediately. It takes years to get it it right. Just like our airline pilot and lawyer friends, their training took years and years. If you doubt this just sit down and read Derek Mahon's Disused Shed in Co. Wexford. Does yours look like that? Didn't think so. Nor mine. It's too soon. That poem probably took him the length of this whole course to write - and he's a proper poet!

I think I will have a go at this weeks theme after all, which is 'theme'. I think I'd like to get good at this poetry lark as I'm desperately short of hobbies. And of course the EMA is standing in the background with a baleful smirk on its face.

Oh 3! You're, pissing me!

Question: When is a poem finished? Answer: Never. Good God! I must have changed my poem that I have been writing for TMA03 a hundred times. Seriously, it could be more. How many finals I have sat back and said, 'that's it, my work is complete.' Saved as 'Final Cut', 'Finalment', 'This is it',or even the rather less inventive 'TMA03' which should give it an air of finality. It doesn't. Nothing does. And as soon as you think you're finished, you look at it a few minutes or hours later and make yet more changes because of scansion, word meaning, repetition, factual error, syllables, beats, or just falling out with this or that or the other. Jeez, I have never known the likes of this. It's not as if I'm a tortured artist or tormented genius striving as usual for unattainable perfection. This is my first ever poem. Yes you heard this right, I have never knowingly written a poem in my life - and here I am going for a masterpiece. Poor deluded fool.

I will send in my effort next week, even if I hate it. And that's the thing, I have never known such a fickle business. I love it, I hate it. Followed by I love it again, then hate it again. It's brilliant. It's awful. Over and over and over again. I actually need to send it in and get on with the next chapter tout suite otherwise my sanity, fragile at the best of times, is seriously in danger.

Thoughts on TMA03

I think I've completed my poem for TMA03. I can't think what my tutor will make of it as it's the first real poem I've attempted since I was at school many, many years ago. In fact that's just what people say isn't it? this is my first, whatever, since I was at school. In truth I don't ever recall writing a poem at school, or anywhere else. This could be a life first.

Under the strict university code I can't divulge either the poem or any details about it in public. Well that's not entirely true, I've bothered my partner about it often enough, and for all I know, though I seriously doubt it, she has shared the poem I sent to her with all her friends and family, together with all their friends and family, their tennis partners etc, you know the joke. I think what I'm saying is that I should not write it down anywhere lest it gets caught in the OU's searching software and later defined as plagiarism when the TMA is first read as a putative original work. So specific mention of it in public written form will have to wait.

That said I've elected, against the advice of everyone it seems, to go with a forty line poem - making the forty lines in one hit, a single amorphous lump if you will. It was almost a sestina - get me - until I learnt that sestinas are 39 lines with recurrent endings throughout the stanzas. Bit late for changes now and in any case turning it into one of those would be poetic suicide as it would doubtless unsettle the whole work if I messed with it now. I've also found some other technical terms that I've forgotten that by complete chance this poem, structurally might be described as being. If I remember I'll be sure to blog this as it might help fix them in my mind for when I do the dreaded commentary.

The poem itself is a mighty work of effort on my part. But only because I'd no idea what I was doing until I started it. Rather than mess about with the Workbook and struggle on with W N Herbert, about whom more later, and attempting all those exercises; I thought I would craft something that would always be my final work, and as I learn things along the way, allow the poem to evolve by constantly changing it: adding and removing words and phrases, introducing new helpful sounds; manufacturing alliteration and assonance, sharpening the beat counts, alternating form through experiment, constantly trying to improve flow, inventing new ideas to link in with the old; all whilst reading the chapter and learning about ideas and techniques - but always working on this individual poem and its ultimate purpose: to be submitted as TMA03.

So this poem might well be the result of much effort, but only because I've avoided many other exercises from the chapter by working constantly on it. Many other students would've done a lot more work and in some cases doing it still before embarking on their submission work. I'm really not sure whether I would recommend my form of studying, it works for me but I somehow doubt that it would work for others. It's a kind of inverted study where you start as if you know everything and then gradually confirm what you already knew, that you know nothing, and then steadily apply the new you to the page. I suppose it's a bit like a painter with a blank canvass that's begging to be transformed into art, bits of ideas, inspiration, choice. It's like learning your craft and what you might be able to do with it, along the way whilst others, in this case, encumber themselves with WN's lists, and experiments with onions and marrows (write from within etc). Then, and this is crucial to why I do what I do, leaving the TMA - the only thing that really matters, the only thing that will determine whether you feel in your bones that there's a writer in you and or a decent degree result - to the last few panicky days or hours in some cases, when maybe, maybe, it's too late.

I've promised to re-acquaint myself with the Herbert chapter today now that my poem is very nearly complete. I actually think he appears a rather engaging fellow and there is some good stuff in his chapter that I will take fresh note of as my poem goes through its final buffing. I refuse to join others in ripping his poetic heart out and feeding it to the wolf pack and joining the braying fray who are busily learning poetry from Stephen Fry's Ode Less Travelled. Herbert is a published poet, Fry is a dabbler who rages against free verse and is great as General Melchett. That's it.