Of Time and Fountains

As promised, there’s a story available to read as from today, and without a pay-wall. Thanks to the lovely folk at the Mechanics Institute Review, for publishing it.

An odd piece, and one which I’m still not sure is entirely successful (though how we choose to make such judgement is itself an interesting question, and one for another time, surely.)

Hope – or its continued reappearance – is a damaging emotion, that’s the premise. The scars we carry around are easier to cope with than when the wounds were fresh, and we can pick at them every once in a while to remember why and how they came to be.

Read here, Some of the Fountains, and decide how you feel.



You…you what?

Or, more precisely, you whom?

When we write in the second person who are we talking to? Who is this undefined ‘other’, this addressee? In poetry readers often imagine that the poet is talking to a specific individual, a person and personality who the poets want to aim their words at. Or the poem is a wider ‘you’, encompassing a relevance to the reader(s), both singular and plural. Often the poet is talking to both parties at the same time, using the voice to convey past the individual to the human experience being explored.

But fiction? What then? We don’t expect that kind of individual attention, do we?

There’s the second person, present tense kind of story, the type where a narrator follows the character around, describing what s/he does, perhaps hinting at why, from a position of oversight. A sort of imposing, almost dominant voice, casting shade and light on hidden motivations. I like those, though to me they’re sometimes intrusive, invasive. There’s the kind where the narrator is speaking directly to the reader (or appears to be) – Calvino springs to mind – and I’ve used this too, at times, for effect…it’s fun also to break the walls, even if the reader won’t always notice because it’s a collective, cultural ‘you’ – ‘a large desk like you’d see in an office’, for example.

And yet. Second person, past tense. ‘You did this, you did that.’ Why is the narrator telling the character what they’re already done? The natural answer would be for the character to turn round and say ‘Yes, I know. It’s my life, remember?’

I’ve written a story in this voice, and it’s an odd experience. To me, the blurring between narrator and narratee. If the narrator is engaging directly in dialogue with the character, even in a sub- or contextual manner, this implies a relationship between the two participants: given that this narrator (or narratorial viewpoint) is an authorial construction, created artificially to relate the circumstances of the story, what does this do or say about the protagonist ? I started to consider who this character was, and whether s/he was indeed anything more than a vision, an imagined (or idealised) listener/reader. In redrafting it seemed to me that s/he was possibly only a narratee, less an active, involved protagonist and more an impression or a suggestion of a character.

I’m happy to say that the story is going to be published very soon by The Mechanics Institute Review, and will be available to be read (without a pay-wall!) here: Some of the Fountains, Some of the Time (yes, I know it’s a strange title.)

If you’ve any clues as to who this character is, or what their relationship is with the narrator, please do let me know. It’s a learning business, this.

Of Intimacy and Intricacy

Another story of mine is going to be published soon.

I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Let’s be clear – I’m delighted, thrilled…but when the email came through with the news, it confused me. The story is small, intimate, personal; in some way it feels like an invasion to know that it’s going to be seen by others. I must have wanted this to happen, or I wouldn’t have submitted the thing, and yet when it came to releasing these words and thoughts into the world I hesitated.

I wrote to the editor, asking for some time to address a couple of issues (not least a change of title!), but for the most part I was simply having to consider whether or not I was willing to share. It’s fiction, of course, but in fiction there are ‘truths’ of a sort – moments or mimics of ourselves, of those around us, of what we see and hear and feel. Should these not be kept private? Am I exploiting my imagination somehow?

Readers will often (wrongly) ascribe the actions and emotions of poetry to the poet, especially when the work is in the first person. We’re intelligent, sensible people, we know it’s narrative voice, an artificially created narrator relaying a constructed story, an impression of life, but something urges us to give the work more emotional resonance if we feel that we are being spoken to directly, about real events or feelings. It’s the same with prose too, and the first person narrator will be imagined to be the same voice of the author. So are we as readers giving inaccurate credence to writers’ works, or are writers hiding behind their fancy terms of overt diagesis and dialogics to make us think that what’s being read is made up?

We leave marks behind, whatever we do. Scars remain. If that comes out in our writing sometimes, consciously or not, then we can’t really complain. If we then choose to publish the work, to expose those scars – or the artificial, narrative creations partly driven by the memory of scarring – then we are choosing to risk readers creating the same misattributions and misrepresentations. Perhaps that’s why I stalled for so long – I wanted some form of ‘permission’, a rationale or acceptance that these things needed to be said out loud, that the intricacy and intimacy of writing the story, the communication within it, was worth saying. And if I’d wanted to say it only to myself then why did I submit it for publication? So, happily, here it comes.

I’ll post details of the where and when in a couple of weeks, when we’re nearer the event – or on twitter – @SimonJHolloway – so you can read the story and see if I’m abusing my imagination. Such endless worries…you’d have thought it would be easy just to make up a story or two…

Fragments of Hiding

Leaning on the ledge, each of them with arms folded. Foreheads resting against the dulled, damp wood, like so many before. Terns and whimbrels and redshanks sheltering as they could from the sky. In a long, slow measure he told her everything he wanted to say, everything she wanted to hear, everything that ever mattered in that moment, everything that ever could. Rain fell like a shield of promises.

…coming soon

What We Do Not Have

His smile on leaving, the idle phrasing of ‘an hour or so?’, even the feel of his leg, all hung in the piles of the deep blue carpet like suggestions.

She lay down and rested the same cheek on the floor, protecting it from feeling the absence of his thigh. There were stray hairs weaved into the carpet. Mostly hers, longish but not too long, shades of brown from tip to root. She spotted a few of his lighter hairs yet they were so short there could have been more. But she had sat on the chest to brush her hair every day for, how long? In the mornings, her weight keeping it tightly closed as she got ready for work. The space beneath her.

…coming soon.

Safety Measures

“Fancy forgetting to buy vanilla essence,” she says to the cake tin. It will have to do without. Bran won’t notice. Or if he does, he won’t say anything. She smooths the batter and layers apple in concentric circles, harder to cut once cooked but prettier to look at. The oven is hot. The last shake of sugar on the top of the cake will burn nicely. She picks up the red, egg-shaped kitchen timer, a present from her two-year old grandson, or so the label said on the wrapping paper, and turns the dial past the wide segments of four and five minutes of egg-timing to the narrower bands of ten.

from “Safety Measures”, in Issue 4 of The Bolton Review, out this week.

Of Competitions and Competition

“We regret that your story has not been successful on this occasion.”

…as familiar as the rejection slip or email. So I didn’t get short-listed for the 2016 Commonwealth Short Story Prize . This is not a surprise, of course. Nor is it particularly disappointing. “We again received nearly 4,000 entries,” they tell me, so the chances of making the 26-strong short-list were somewhere in the region on 0.0065%.

3974 of us didn’t make the cut. That’s a lot of competition to handle. I’ve dutifully entered the BBC/National Short Story Award, with similar expectations of greatness being thrust upon me – I have no idea how many entries that will have received, but the odds must be equally long. And this is basing the chances purely on mathematics, rather than aesthetics; should I worry about whether the stories I’m entering are any good, given the weight and strength of others’ work? No, better not to, for that way lies a falseness that ruins the point. Far better than I should simply write them as well as I can, because I need to tell a story, and leave the judging to the judges.

I’ve entered other competitions, too, and over time won a few of them – smaller ones, where the odds may be higher and the returns lower but the feeling of reward is just as great. Nothing will stir you to break that empty page more than having a stranger say they like what you do. We should all enter these competitions and ignore the ‘big’ ones, that can look after themselves.

Focus instead on the regional, the collective, the festivals…they need our help to survive and to promote what they do, to make voices heard, to give space in which those voices can speak. Let’s celebrate the small and the innocent, where writing happens not to make money or create fame but because it needs to, because expression is all we have, and if from time to time our writing is noticed then that’s good too. At least 3974 other people should all be feeling the same way today.