Tag Archives: creative writing

Taking the reading cure


There are 1.6 million voters grieving here in Scotland for the loss of the independence vote. Myself, my family, my friends, the people who spoke to me in the street with hope in their hearts. What to do, in the midst of loss? And now in the newspaper headlines ‘Public funds to decrease to Scotland, says no.10’ and ‘English votes for English laws’ usurping the priorities of the promised powers (on tax, welfare) that were supposed to go to Scotland on event of No (a vow signed by three leaders, a vow that looks likely to crumble under their shrugs of indifference). Now bloody strikes with ISIS, with a multiheaded concept, at the behest of America, likely. Meanwhile the shadow Labour government of Westminster say they’ll cap child benefit, as a way to help fix the economy they told us was so much more robust that Scotland on its own. Dystopian.


What to do?


What we can. I’ve been reading. Burrowing down into books, though none of them comforting. Thirst, by Kerry Hudson. A heartache of a book, all tactility and full of fumes and grime and hope. The Awakening, by Kate Chopin, that reclaimed feminist classic, gloriously landscaped, which nevertheless suffers for its undercurrents of racism, classism that go unacknowledged. Revenge by Yoko Ogawa, a series of strange, interconnected salt-sweet tales with a smack of coldness to them. Now biting into Gone To the Forest by Katie Kitamura, placeless colonial tension in a world of violent men and arid fields. All in the last three days.


What else?


Writing. I’ve finished the flash novella of island-bound witchy girlhood and charismatic monsters and abandonment – Villain Miriam. Looking for where to send it to, this tiny shattered fairytale. Aside from this, I’ve been job searching, for work in Creative Writing, for ESL, for volunteering opportunities that fit the skills I have to offer. This takes time. And in between the leaves still fall and the nights creep closer, huddling in. Seasons change – at least there is always this.

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Delicate things: creative vs critical




I recently read James Franco’s essay in Vice magazine on Baz Luhrman’s version of The Great Gatsby, and my friend Quintessentially Quirky’s brief take on it made me stop to pause. I do hope she won’t mind me quoting her words:


James Franco’s review of “The Great Gatsby” for Vice reads like your 9th grade English essay with some graphic personal details. This is what it takes to be a Yale PhD candidate, ladies and gentlemen.


What seems to be QQ’s issue with Franco’s piece was that it was very poorly and awkwardly written. You can go and take a look at it if you like and probably you’ll come to the same conclusion she did. It feels repetitious, occasionally jarring, and the arguments aren’t strongly put enough to hold up a washing line of slightly damp socks. I don’t particularly want to write a long post on Franco’s talent or lack thereof. But what I did disagree with was QQ’s last line ‘This is what it takes to be a Yale PhD candidate’.


To be honest, it’s because it stung me. As you might know, I have a PhD in English literature. The journey towards getting that PhD was one of the hardest I’ve ever made. And not, perhaps, for the reasons you might think – that the work itself is hard, mentally wracking.  Which it was, but. This was not a science-based PhD. There was no theorising formulas. No collation. No ethical ramifications. My PhD was 80% novel writing, 20% essay. And while I threw myself into the novel, while I cried and fought to make it as good as it could be (and for nearly a year, failed utterly, before turning it around), it was that last 20% that was the worst.


There is a difference between writing fiction and writing criticism. For some people, there is a huge and unexpected disparity between their ability to write creatively and their ability to write a sharply-tuned, intelligent essay. Just as a writer might be unable to manage their personal finances, or work out how to succeed in business, or (as the stereotype goes) act on reasonable health advice regarding alcohol consumption, or even spell words correctly, so they might be unable to point to a story, any story, and say eloquently what is going on there and how and why.


There is a difference between being able to construct a cogent argument on the worth of a film and being able to write and direct a film. There is a huge difference between being able to read and get a lot out of, say, Wide Sargasso Sea and being able to enlighten someone else’s mind on what you found so wonderful there. I can’t speak much to Franco’s talent, or his particular PhD programme (nor on the American system, which holds PhDs out of the reach of so many through outrageously expense, unlike here in Scotland). But I can say this – it doesn’t take a genius to do a practice-based English PhD. All it takes is drive, and openness to the criticisms of others, and a willingness to find out which criticisms to take into account.


And something else  – I did a PhD because I still needed to learn. Franco, given all his bouncing around and taking up of various degrees, clearly feels the same. A passion for learning. For the process of discovery that he is afforded. Taking a PhD, being accepted by a programme, does not mean you know, nor can enact your thoughts as clearly as some people who will never take a degree. Some people are by inclination critically minded, articulate, devastatingly smart. Some of the rest of us, not particularly.  We might be trying very hard though.


Sometimes I feel awkward mentioning my doctorate. I’ve been given so many opportunities in life, and this is one extra. But more than that, I feel that my lack of eloquence lets me down in the eyes of others. I feel that my talents are not in areas that people expect. I struggle to read theory. I occasionally struggle with my book reviews, when I want to say more than how the text made me feel or what textures and tastes it had, the swirl of believability and linguistic verve. And although I am an ESL teacher, I might not always speak in clear full sentences, because my mind is slower to run with critical analysis. That, and my introversion, and the sense of distraction I have: If I’ve just come out of a cinema, or a theatre, my mind is blazing with imagery. Anything I have to say will take time to come out. Rush, and it will be just as awkward as Franco’s essay. With more pauses and umms.


It takes a rare spark to be both a writer of fiction and an excellent critic. That’s why there is a place and a need for both. A need for someone to create – and that someone might not be the best person to talk about their creation. A need for a critic, many critics, who can draw out all the threads and make them clearer. Enrich the text in a thousand different ways. Personally, I loved journalist Sady Doyle’s take on The Great Gatsby, in which she shows that Luhrman uses the space of his film as a kind of critic of the book. At the same time, I also enjoyed this interview with Franco, and am looking forward to his version of As I Lay Dying when it comes out.


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