Poetry & Pieces of Soul

   As last summer came to a close, back when I had first begun submitting that rather rambling first draft, I started to attend some poetry nights. I had become aware of the scene via my terribly talented friend Moden and slowly the enticement won over. My prose style had always had a poetical leaning, and this creative transition was to mark the beginning of a refinement in my writing style. I think. I hope.

And poetry has that habit, of coming from a much rawer place within.

Which contrasts strangely with that next uncomfortable realisation: the confrontation of an audience. When you are writing long form you have to get lost in your world, your narrative, in the story. It is easy to lose sight of the outcome of publication. Being that people are going to read the bloody thing.

And that seems like losing a valuable insight, a way of writing aware of impact.

Because there they are, these faces; anticipating, shuffling beyond this strange, intimidating contraption that is the mic. As you may have guessed by the saturation of adjectives that this situation makes me rather nervous. The first time I shook like a leaf in changing winds, turning colours and twisting on an uneven stem. I read a prose-poetry extract from Song of Sorrow to the wonderfully supportive, lyric twisters of Fenspeak, a group run by Elaine Ewart and Leanne Moden, with Atlier East. I explored the scene a little more with Allographic hosted by Faye Roberts. Slowly growing more comfortable, confidant enough to enter a slam or two at Russel J Turner's The Birdcage in Norwich, and Hammer & Tongue. Starting to memorise poems, to shed that barrier of paper.

I want an audience to be spell bound, to rouse that fire and let it burn bright...

Fire there was in plenty, born on the darkside, following an experience of sexual assault. Another, and I doubt the last. And so I thought of this, trying to remember hope, scratching scraps of words on envelopes, stuttering and starting with the final chapters of the book. Remembering to take time and breathe, embrace routine and easy moments.

An opportunity came up for a set on the Wild Strawberries Stage at Strawberry Fair. I took it. Planning to perform, from memory, Naturalising and the new poem I was working on.

As Anthem began to coalesce I also thought of 'we', of what feminism meant to me, to others. Of the need. Of the hundreds of missing Nigerian schoolgirls, of pictures of the two Indian girls who were gang raped and hung, of the tumult of shared voices via The Everyday Sexism Project and #YesAllWomen, of the women that were murdered in the Isla Vista shooting.

The morning broke with storms, of course, but the sun burned them off and talent spilled golden. The usual suspects that are always good to hear and talented new voices too; Meg Burrows and Joe Navarro.

I asked the audience to repeat the lines that began with 'we', to catch the rhythm and spit it back at me. The first set went well, they heard, words caught and were called back. Lyrics flowed but my nerves hemmed me in... I also entered a later slam, a smoother performance perhaps though with a greater constriction of allowed time. This time their perception was cooled by the judging process, though I hope my words still stirred.

Anthem

We are hurt
Shot, stabbed, raped
and we are leaving
the false safety of your sails

No longer knotted in conforming
contortions of genteel glamour,
but teeth bared
gritted with a rage that clamours

We are marching
Weary, wary, ready
and we are speaking
denouncing the lies that pale

And I find myself betrayed,
wearing beauty like a blade,
my body made political when
I fight the force of fingers seeking

To strip me from my autonomy.
My sisters,
denying repression, suppression,
this is expression

And you will listen
And we will rise
With rage and words
tears mixed with ink upon the page

Its time for a new age.

We are hurt
Shot, stabbed, raped
And we are fighting
We are speaking

Its time for change.

Reading Habits: Gender Parity

   The last couple of years have seen an increase in discussion regarding diversity in the genre community, from heroes other than straight white males to visibility of women authors. Yesterdays article "Women's fantasy fiction: join the quest for a world unknown to bookstores" in the Gaurdian highlights some of the inherent misogyny at work, references the Twitter side of the discussion (which prompted the article, in part, to some criticism of the said paper's representation)...and the comments are full of wonderful recommendations (always a bonus as usually such articles call the tiresome trolls out of the woodwork to rave about biological imperatives and washing up). There have also been a number of reading challenges asking folks to take a good hard look at their own habits, how they may be influenced by marketing and SWM dominated fandom chat...and amend by purposefully countering the lack of representation. This has sparked quite the furor on certain blogs and comments sections, nigh on screaming rage at the audacity of these uppity femmes demanding attention. Which really only goes to highlight the necessity for such a discussion.

So I thought I'd have a quick tally. I've roughly broken down by genre. Women (W), men (M), unknown (U) and co-authored by both men and women (B). The figures are number of books: number of authors.


Fantasy:
Books:
W- 76:22
M- 57:20
U- 1:1

YA/Children
W- 23: 5
M- 3:1
B- 1:1

Classics/Odd/SF
W- 20:17
M- 44: 28

Urban/Horror
W- 74: 12
M- 13: 8
B- 4: 1

Totals
W- 196: 58
M- 116: 57
U- 1: 1
B- 5: 2

These are the books immediately visible on my bookshelves, not including those lent out, lost under the bed, borrowed, non-fiction and other myriad reasons for not being available for counting.

An even parity between gendered authors is nearly achieved, with a slightly more women authors which increases greatly when viewing total books. I seem to be a third more likely to read a book written by a woman.

However, let me add some context. I'm poor, and whilst I'm far more likely to buy books than, say, clothes or other such items, my purchases are dictated by price to a certain extent. Most books are bought from cheap shops such as the Works, or charity shops, online promotions and auction sites. I usually reserve full price purchases for favoured authors or books I've heard a lot of good things about and have been tempted by for awhile. These are nearly always women (based on story attraction, gender noted due to above).

In fact up until about five years ago nearly all my books were written by women. Gifts of books tend to be written by men (giftee's shopping influenced by known genre preference and marketing visibility?), and if I like them I will be more likely to read more of the same author, or authors who have been favourably compared. And most comparisons are to men authors. This time also saw more of my time spent online in reading/writing communities where there is more recommendations of men authors.

Do I begrudge? Yes, of course. I'm a woman and a writer and when my publication time comes I want equal visibility and oportunity to my fellow men writers. As a reader I want to have the best books pushed under my nose, not limited by ridiculous and harmful traditions.

But this is changing in light of critique, and now my wishlist is very much dominated by women. Again. :D

So how falls your parity?

Foray into Jounalism: Part 2

What I liked most about the newsroom was the quiet hum as you filtered info.  Desks arranged in L's back to back in the open plan office, windows blinded against the blue and grey skies, against distraction. The book and the tray forming the interstices.

The book filled in advance with local interests, events, advertising, interviews, court proceedings ect The photographer will attend, and journalist if of particular interest. The photos with contacted details, notes, press release (as applicable) are then put into the tray. This is worked through, writing copy for each edition that is then sent on to the deputy/editor and allocated a position (unless it is considered more newsworthy and given more space, then you'll often work within the page layout).

Of course I was a newbie, by the end of the week I'd added a couple of entries in the book. Established journalist also have their own on going research for longer articles, or running news, or investigative pieces. They have areas they tend to cover, known with regularity, meeting each morning to discuss what's on the agenda, leads, the shape of the next edition. I started by grabbing a few pictures from the tray and set to. Bake sales, cheque presentations, charity events, art exhibitions. Read info (often very little), call for quote (often no answer), research as necessary, write up. I found it useful to have several of these overlapping, plenty to keep busy with when awaiting callbacks and such.

Short, sharp stories swiftly let go, research teasing out leads.

On my second day I was looking for a quote for a certificate presentation photo which coincided with an opening of a community run cafe later that day. The second of cafe following the success of the first, as part of a scheme helping those who have fallen through cracks of society due to redundancy, poverty & benefit sanctions to re-enter via training, jobs and tenancy. The photographer was going down to take pictures, the brief write up gained momentum, and the dep ed gave the go ahead to my suggestion to attend and talk to the organisers directly.

When I arrived the opening was in full swing and busy with those involved, the local community, press and radio. I mingled a bit, introducing myself and quickly found myself interviewing the organisers, sparking an impromptu press conference before chatting to those gathered and listening to the presentation. In and out in an hour, head spinnin a bit from the abrupt change of pace, then back to the office to report back and write up.

On my third day I finished the article, which contrasted interestingly with being sent out into the town centre for a vox pop re Osbourne's latest mandatory poverty punishing welfare reform. Along with a myriad of other small articles from the tray in preparation for the Friday edition. This quick turnover, eating lunch at your desk, was interrupted by the odd cigarette break and quick beats on the street to get videos for web content (which I was actually nervous about due to my complete inexperience with fancy touch screen mobiles) chocolate vouchers, reports of a fire (someone, an anonymous witness told me, fell off a chair).

 OBR2 was on the back burner but a flashes of inspiration found me scrawling notes as I hurried along the river, in the rain or glaring morning sunshine, between school and office.

 The final day on an article about a Stop Start group, enabling the voices of women who are survivors of child sex crime to be heard. Following Yewtree and recent crime reports of local offenders, including a police officer.

In my wrap up chat My Headlines were Criticised for being Victorian. I'll own that, with a wry smile. And I was reminded that this was a local paper, not one of the big nationals...which I'll take as a compliment. I really enjoyed my time there, the fast pace, finding my plotting habits melding well with the process. Even just about getting to grips with the dastardly programmes. I was offered another week but as it was unpaid and childcare difficult to get I had to decline.

Freelancing is definitely something I would like to do alongside my pursuit of publication for A Song of Sorrow and writing OBR2 and this experience was worth having.

A foray into Journalism: Part One

   A few weeks ago I submitted a business proposal to my local paper. An idea occurred to me, one that had been bubbling over for awhile (and that I still yet may pursue...) so I popped into their office. I don't know what I expected, but I got a meeting for the next day with the deputy editor. Things took a serious turn, the nebulous idea now had a stake in reality. I would need a written proposal clearly outlining my idea. It was already after lunch, only a two hour window of availability for a printer (via my mother at work) and I had never written, nor knowledge of, a business proposal. But I have written a number of submissions, and had a clear idea and inception/hook.

 The meeting went well, my idea intrigued. The deputy editor needed to confer with the editor before getting back to me. They turned down the proposal, maintaining their strength as local news, but praised the proposal. A relief. They also offered me a weeks work experience, unpaid. I took it: a good opportunity to expand my writing skills, add to my CV and possibly get some publications.

Of course it wasn't as simple as that. An awful lot of life shuffling and negotiation ensued. Luckily a week came up on the calender where Rowan, my 5 year old son, could be picked up from school by his dad. Being a single mother poses all sorts of problems when it comes to flexible working hours- or rather lack of them.

Arrangements settle, nerves kick in and my first day arrives. I receive a friendly greeting, a quiet buzz filling the office. The paper goes to print on a Tuesday and Friday: Mondays start with a deadline: sink or swim. Untested, I suspect they do not know what to do with me. And I'm not relly sure what I expected...perhaps to shadow someone, fetch hot beverages and get tossed bits that no one else wanted. Ha.

Instead, once my attire is checked and approved (forest green dress and flat black boots), I'm sent out with the photographer to look for Prince Philip in a bog. For serious. We head out, swinging by a local buisness for advertising shots, then into the woods. We have little info, no press release. Just that it is something to do with giving out certificates.

It's a beautiful autumn day, golden sun filtering through the tree's as we turn down a winding lane near Sandringham. There, in an almost car park like verge waits a sinister black car, polish gleaming. Inside waits the Duke's personal security guard: suited and booted, eyes hidden by sunglasses tracking our movements. An old wolf prowling the edges of the wood.

We're in the right place, we realise with a frisson of excitement. The photographer gathers his camera, I my pen and mole skin notebook. A gift from a friend, softly speaking of support. I remove my sunglasses.

Beyound the security is a gate, of course, and here we encounter a problem. The royal PR team will allow only one photgrapher and a rival has been chosen. There is a bit of banter between the dejected photgraphers. As he calls to check in with the editor I make polite conversation with the gatekeeper. The event is to present certificates to voluteers on the conservation site, she is friendly and proud of their achievements. She invites me in, as long as no photos are taken.

I'm offered a coffee as I mingle and although I'm rather desperate for a cuppa I turn it down. I'm clumsy at the best of times. Juggling pen, notebook and hot liquids around royal pesonages? Not the best idea. Instead I listen, I engage, I take notes. Its amazing how much people are willing to talk if you are interested. There's a stir as the Duke returns from his ramble. He speaks quietly when he gives his speech, the wind nearly stealing his words. Yet it is clear that this is a place he feels at home in. Despite his notorius habbit of saying terrible things the presentaion is relaxed. I mind my manners, choosing a spot amidst the fading ferns, birch leaves tangling in my hair. Jotting down notes and qoutes but not intruding. Despite this I'm included, the Duke catches my eye, steers over a lady of some consequence to continue their conversation.

I didn't expect this. I pause my scribbling when he addresses me, smile at the curiosity in his eyes. The moment passes and he's swept away with other duties. Though every now and then, as I spoke with others I would catch his eyes upon me. I wonder what he thought. Between us we represent such disparate parts of British society. He the Queen's husband, I an olive complected, impoverished, single mother.

Oddly someone knew me there. She is now on the Natural England council, but remembered me from her days working in the local bookshop. I practically haunted the place as a teenager, finding immeasurable comfort in the scent of books and all those words, chatting with other book lovers and discovering stories old and new.

The photographer mostly leaves me to it, checking in every now and then. The rival photographer will let us use some of his unwanted shots, I'll get space for a small write up. When we get back to the office I'm shown a desk and the (extremely complicated) programme. They seem pleased I have a qoute, tell me to write. That's it. I had no idea on how long it needed to be. The deputy editor pauses a moment, watching me the tells me to write it up: they'll give me a lead article. So I do. They liked it, though it needed some light editing to keep it in line with the paper's style.

The next morning I had my first by line in print. Then it went to web. And also printed in the local free paper on the Wednesday.

A bizarre experience, thrown into the deep end, but fun.

In part two I'll share how the rest of the week fared and ins and outs of journalistic process.