The Critic

I have written previously of the Hints and Tips for writers that I hate so much. A reoccurring theme is that a writer must read, all things, good and bad. I spent my life reading, and now I’m writing. During my holidays which are sadly over, I entered a prestigious writing competition, wrote a 160 word piece of flash fiction, a story about my house, a 500 word story for another competition and a story for an Irish radio show. I also did some reading.

I finished The Black Cloud by Fred Hoyle, described by Richard Dawkins as the greatest science fiction ever written. It was OK. It begins like a science detective novel in that all problems are resolved with science, then it goes a bit soft, but the ending is impressive, it ends the only way it could and it makes rather profound statements, for example that in order to understand what I am saying you must first learn my language. Obvious yet powerful, how for example can my students understand what I am saying if they have limited vocabulary?

 I then read Old Country by Leonard Donofrio, not a book I would have chosen, but it was written by a friend and I felt obliged. I know how difficult it is to get people to read your stuff. I have family members who don’t read my blog, who are quite frankly uninterested and it seemed only right to read the works of a friend. This task was laden with obligation, what was I to do if I hated it? How insulting would it be to repeat what is done at reading groups “I liked the bit when ..”?

I read Old Country with an attitude not applied when I read Death and the Dolce Vita, The English Patient and Orlando. Why? Because they were published, they had quotes on the cover that made them good to read: recommended. All three are partly read.

Maybe I read Leonard’s book because I had to. I said I would. I didn’t have to read those that remain unread. I read Old Country in a different way: critically. Why am I not critical of published books? I saw my own mistakes in Leonard’s work, mistakes I will fix eventually if I ever manage a novel that is complete.

Everything Leonard wrote I turned back on myself, I do that, I wouldn’t do that and so on. I don’t apply these same rules to published writers and yet it is clear that I should. Reading can be an active occupation if you read as though you are giving advice.

Who am I to tell Stephen Gundle to get on with it, or Michael Ondaatje that his story appears to be going nowhere or Virginia Wolf that the poetry is pretty but the story is too ambling?

I am a writer. I'm a reader too. I may not have the sort of backing some writers have and neither does Leonard, over three evenings he took me to Italy and nearly made me cry. Yes there were faults but, there are faults everywhere. 

Feeling Lost

There is a train station, only two streets over from us and you have to flag the train if you want it to stop. How quaint! Not nearly as quaint as Calstock which is fast becoming one of my favorite places and perhaps where I should like to live when I’m earning big money.

It is lush; heavy with foliage, rich with the river, ripe with character and steeped in history. It is the sort of place that seems as though every other house homes an eccentric ghost.

On previous visits, we have taken country paths, and gotten lost, we have gone blackberry picking and gotten lost, one occasion we had the dog with us and got lost. 

This time the boy and I decided to walk from Calstock up to Cotehele house. A glorious walk if ever there was one. I believe the boy was having jungle fantasies as he clambered among the giant foliage. I was hoping for inspiration for a story on the theme of Haptics and instead found that I was happily vacant, thinking of nothing, nothing but peace, the kind of peace you expect to find on holiday. Until we got lost.

It was towards the end of our full day and neither of us could recall how we came upon the house. We followed a steep hill, saw the sign and walked in. Which way was the steep hill? Panic set in. I could see the viaduct in the distance, but how to get there?

View down into Calstock, we needed to get to the Viaduct.

I ranted to the boy for a bit then asked people, which way to Calstock? Several pointed us in the wrong direction,  it could not be along the tarmac road because we didn’t come up that way we came up a hill. No one seemed to know about the hill. Eventually we followed the complex directions of a man who orchestrated the way with his walking stick. We remained unconvinced until we found three people also walking to Calstock, we were on the right road and suddenly everything felt safe, Ah yes we said look there is the bench I rested at, there is the place he found the big stick. We would have plenty of time to catch the train, we would even have time for the pub!

Today, I am again feeling lost. My holiday is rapidly running away from me and I have achieved so little. The bathroom is still not complete. The park project is only barley begun, the piece of flash fiction still on the lap top, the ironing pile imposing. Other than this blog entry and the dishes I have achieved nothing today. The world is heavy with directions. I must have a routine, I must write every day, I must do morning pages, meditate, share, publicise, enter competitions, short stories, novels, and now suddenly I have decided a graphic novel might be a good idea.

I suppose what I’m looking for is the break through, that acknowledgement that I am on the right path, that not only will I be able to get there, but there will be time to do the ironing too.

Choices

 Taken from The Stanley Parable http://www.galactic-cafe.com/

Along with growing my own tomato, slicing it, garnishing with sweet basil (grown on the windowsill) and adding it to a cheese sandwich, week three of my holiday has also seen me take several walks, partake in a little DIY and complete The Stanley Parable.

One of the questions I ask my game students is how they intend to persuade the player to take a predetermined path without specifically instructing them to do so? The Stanley Parable turns this concept on its head in a clever, entertaining and engaging manner.

At one stage the narrator was aghast to see that I had made a “meaningful choice” and that started me thinking. One afternoon this week I listened to a radio show regarding the migrant situation at Calais, a caller announced that “it was their choice.”

Where is the choice when ISIS is chasing you down? In terms of game balance this would be unacceptable, do you head, A: for certain death, or B a safer alternative? You wouldn’t put that in a game, there would be no balance; it would be too obvious.

Taken from The Stanley Parable http://www.galactic-cafe.com/

It was my choice to go to work, was it? Is it still a choice when the only alternative is starvation? Is a choice well taken when only half the information is available? Can you make a meaningful choice when you are only aware of one potential outcome and have not the background knowledge to accurately assess the alternative?

Indeed there is some level of excitement in the unknown; in a little risk taking and not everything can be known ahead. For example you may be in a comfortable lifestyle, perhaps with one child, you might consider yourself well informed on the country’s economic situation and when you discover that you’re pregnant, you might feel that yes this is a baby you want to keep.

How the hell were you supposed to know that there was going to be a massive global recession? Tell that to the people on Question Time.

Your entire life is the making of meaningful choices, but in a game you all start at the same place, with the same information. Some players might put more into it than you, they might read the wiki pages, might play longer, join forums, but all players begin at the same place, the same information is available even though some information needs to be hunted down and sought out.

Taken from Bioshock Infinite

Well I have been seeking out information and still remain directionless. It seems to me that I can, if I choose just get on with it and be a writer. All my research suggests that in order to do this I just have to write. All my reading implies that I don’t even have to be very good at it. I just have to do it, to be it, to believe it, to become it.

So I have a plan: To reinvent myself and make the transition from teacher to writer. I’m thinking this would be an interesting experiment. Could I change the way I think and the way I am perceived and so change the choices available to me? Wouldn’t that be a good idea for a project?

Watch this space.