The Book Thief stole my mojo

I’m reading The Book Thief by Markus Zusak and am feeling completely dwarfed by the mastery of the writing. Zusak has set the whole story up by announcing from the start that the protagonist – with whom we are yet to get to know and feel connected to – will nearly die, or be near death, three times. We see the first episode straight away, where her borther dies. I forget the second instance, but the third is yet to come; all we have is a snapshot of her surrounded by rubble, screaming (?) and covered in blood (?) if memory serves. We guess that this is probably her own death. But how she gets there is the compelling question that drives the narrative. That and the hidden Jew in the basement, which is always a good suspense teaser. (Hmmm, I wonder if it is too late to insert a Jew hiding in the basement of my story…?)

The cleverness of Markus Zusak’s suspense  and mystery building is further layered by the fact that the story is told by Death. Don’t worry, this is not a spoiler, you find it out on the first page of the book. We get to know Death, we get to like Death, and we learn not to blame Death for, well, people dying. ‘He’ is a likeable character beause he has sincerety and value in what he does, and it is just a job – and yet one that he values highly. The narrator’s role is not overdone, nor does it get in the way of the story. In fact, you often forget that you are reading this story through Death’s eyes, and you don’t ever wonder what gender he (for lack of a gender specific) might be, or what he looks like, yadda yadda yadda.

At the beginning, yes, you do have to work a bit to suspend the disbelief; you are after all, limited to what Death can see (as with any narrative POV), and this raises some questions. Death is present wherever there is.. death. Right. But if “he” is just one “person,” (the guy telling us this story) then it’s a bit like Santa Claus – how can he be delivering children’s presents all over the world at exactly the same time? And why does Death focus in on this little girl’s story when he’s constantly got so many other places to be? And how can he even see her story when she’s not dying all the time?

But the disbelief is successfully suspended because the compelling mystery that propels the story is so strong. And the writing is incredible. Zusak is a master craftsman of words. He chews them up and spits them out. He makes them do acrobatics and dance moves they’ve never done before. They turn pirouettes and paint the sky and laugh and shriek and murder and dive into the sea. It’s an enviable imagination with language that puts me off my own simple expressions (and at the same time opens up a universe of new possibilities).

I wonder of my own story:
a) do I have a compelling enough question (Why did Mother leave?)?
b) am I tantalising the audience enough; revealing jigsaw puzzle pieces at the right time, keeper the reader interested in the quest?
c) am I telling it through the right voice? It feels clunky that I’ve given up one POV and shifted to the Mother without the transisiton. I have inserted dates instead of ‘chapter one… chapter two…’ and I wonder if that will allow me to splice the two strands together for effect?

Or.. I wonder if there is a better way to jump to Mother’s POV. In the same way that ‘Death’ can see all, therefore ‘Death’ takes us on the journey, peppered with moments when he reflects on his ‘job.’ What is the linking voice or narrative that holds my story together?

Perhaps I’ll just keep writing. Keep reading. The answers might just come as I tick along. That is all I can really do.

Waiting for Godot – St James, Wellington

There is nothing more tragic than an out of work actor. He is the ultimate metaphor for a man without purpose. Sean Mathias drew very cunningly from Shakespeare’s suggestion that ‘all the world’s a stage’ when interpreting this Haymarket production of Beckett’s Waiting for Godot,  by presenting this infamous piece of existentialism on the hypothesis that if this wooden ‘O’ is indeed the world, then what happens if the stage, the theatre, is derelict and the actors have no audience to play to?

Suddenly the plight of Estragon (superbly played by Ian McKellen as your grandfather with memory problems and an exhaustion with the world around him) and Vladimir (matched with a carefully balanced, physically ailing portrayal by Roger Rees) as two old Vaudeville actors without a theatre to play in, seems to make perfect sense, and draws Shakespeare’s metaphor into a thought-provoking post WWII understanding. The line is blurred between Beckett’s intentions and Mathias’s understanding, so that I am left wondering how it could possibly be interpreted any other way.

Upon entering the St James theatre, we are faced with another theatre on the stage; complete with jaded opera boxes on each side, a proscenium arch with falling beams above which threaten to collapse at any moment, a back wall to the stage that has been bombed and now reveals the exterior bricks of the building behind, and wooden floorboards showing the rake of the stage, complete with trap door (minus the door), and the iconic, barren tree of the script that has grown through the stage floorboards.

Vladimir and Estragon (affectionately known to each other as Didi and Gogo) don’t know why they are there. Through out the whole play, they don’t know why they are there. Quite possibly because it is the audience who defines theatre, and the audience is simply not there. They are a double act; the bowler-hat clown routine that Beckett has written in and the snippets of a double act dance routine, work perfectly for these homeless actors. We are even treated to a glimpse of their glory days in the curtain call, when the music accompanies their polished dance routine. They are, as Richard E Grant’s Withnail so memorably epitomised in Bruce Robinson’s autobiographical film,Withnail and I, “trained actors reduced to the status of bums.” We see evidence of the mindset of actors when Vladimir and Estragon engage in a game of insults and the ultimate abuse comes from Estragon: “Critic!”

Then along comes Pozzo and his side kick Lucky. They do know this place; it is their old theatre which has been bombed and is no longer.  Their relationship further represents the deterioration of actor-representing-man; their purpose, their audience, their theatre, their world, is shattered and gone and they have become dependent on each other (in their first appearance, Pozzo ’drives’ Lucky on a rope, and in their second, when Pozzo is blind, Lucky is essentially his guide dog). Pozzo (an appropriately melodramatic and camp performance by an unrecognisable Stars-in-their-eyes Matthew Kelly), is a star actor reduced to the status of a bum who has not forgotten his halcyon days; he mentions his ‘manor,’ loses his ‘fob,’ performs a beautiful monologue about the night, and because he has lost his audience’s approval, he now turns to Didi and Gogo - “I have such need of encouragement! (Pause.) I weakened a little towards the end, you didn’t notice?”

Lucky (easily the most physically demanding part, and representing the lost and struggling man, hauntingly performed by Brendan O’Hea), performs a tragi-comic piece of modern dance – his first moment of expression in about half an hour of standing still, holding a large bag (later to be revealed as containing nothing more than sand) and a picnic basket. Pozzo tells us the dance is called “The Net. He thinks he’s entangled in a net.” Lucky, ironically named, dances this while still attached to the rope around his neck which Pozzo loosely holds on to. Let the metaphor of man’s struggle play on… Pozzo goes on to tell us, and we can’t help thinking of a bright and shining theatre where these two might have starred, “He used to dance the farandole, the fling, the brawl, the jig, the fandango and even the hornpipe. He capered. For joy. Now that’s the best he can do.”

One can’t help drawing a comparison back to Stoppard’s Rosencrantz and Guldienstern are Dead, a piece inspired by this Beckett classic, where we see again two lost souls being dealt some wisdom from the Player who passes through and muses on his glittering past, “You should have caught us in better times. We were purists then.”

Mathias has hit the nail on the head. Beckett, like others in the theatre, have, perhaps ego-centrically, realised that the actor and the stage represent man and the world. The metaphor makes sense of the absurd, and the most poignant moment hits after Vladimir, Estragon and Pozzo whip up a comedy routine around why Lucky won’t put down his bags (the pay off climax/ gag: “Since he has put down his bags it is impossible we should have asked why he does not do so.” “And why has he put them down?” “So he can dance.”). Suddenly, the whistling wind in the background stops, the actors halt their breathing, and Estragon faces out front. He realises his trauma.

“Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful.”

 

The End of SoCNoC

So it’s all over today. July has arrived and the end of the novel quest is here.

My total word count over 30 days? 28,599.

I didn’t know how difficult 50,000 words could be and I could really, truly have done more than this – maybe even reached 40,000. But I succumbed to that evil demon, futility. Gave up about a week ago burning the midnight oil because I knew I was never going to make it in time.

If I would do one thing differently, it would be to write something on the novel every single day. I had heard this advice, but didn’t heed it; even if it is only 50 words, one must write something, move the story forward just an inch… Because if you skip just one itsy, bitsy day, as I did, you suddenly realise that no-one is making you do this, and you can ‘wag’ if you want to, for a day. Then it become 2 days. Then you realise it is impossible to claw your way back into the game, and before you know it, you’re off playing truant and the month is over.

But I have learned a lot:

1. That I always start things with great gusto and lose momentum, and never finish the project.

This one hit me pretty hard, so I am determined to keep writing this novel to my own time frame just so I can feel better about finishing something. A great saying drifted into my ether too: “perseverance is just as important as talent.” I really gotta work on that one.

2. That writing is daily grind work.

I kinda knew this on an intellectual level, but now I know what it feels like. It’s not romantic after all, and there goes that motivation. Along with this, the quality of writing does not equate with ‘being inspired.’ That was a big one, took away a major excuse I’ve always used; there is no magical muse after all. There’s just a pen and paper.

3. I’m not sure if I have it in me to be a writer.

Given the above two points, I wonder if I actually have what it takes. Which is basically just perseverance. I’d like to prove myself wrong, but it doesn’t seem so easy now. But I guess I did do this the hard way. Others take 6 months to write a first draft. The door isn’t shut just yet…

SoCNoC – when to admit defeat

It’s the 23rd of June today. There are seven days left in the competition. One whole week left to reach that impossible figure of 50,000 words. I am now just under 28,000 and having to admit to myself that I am probably not going to make the goal. Was the objective too lofty? Am I too unfit to run in this race, having never written a novel before and expecting so much of myself on top of a full time, highly demanding job? Is it time to admit defeat and see the glass as half empty, or is it time to look at what I have achieved, feel proud of myself for doing something I have never done before; for carrying the torch this far and being inspired enough to actually get off my arse and put my money where my mouth is. The competition is free, and yet is has been one of the most valuable experiences of my life. You don’t need to pay to do a creative writing course; you just need the spur of competition to get you going. If I’ve learnt nothing else, I know now that creativity springs from pressure and restraint.

And this isn’t over by any stretch. I’ve eased off and learnt to pace myself, but I will keep going after the competition ends. School holidays start 3 days after June ends, and I hope to reach my target in that time. I’ve written too much to stop now. So, yes, it is a success. I do not admit defeat.

In my moment of reflection, and having a brain now wired for counting words and dividing numbers and looking at stats, I find some comfort in looking at the numbers of others, all posted for other entrants to read, on the kiwiwriters website.

It is some consolation to analyse the statistics:
Around 100 people entered the competition.
2 people are over the post already. Hit the 50,000 words. Probably professional writers or people without jobs at all.
4 people are over 40,000. Will easily reach the target in time.
7 others are around about on target. Late 30,000s. They’ll likely make it too.
Of the 100 total, around 26 are still in the race. I include me in this. Yes, there is still hope for those of us in our late 20,000s to pull a few late nighters and maybe, just maybe, reach the finish line.

And of the 100 entrants, 20 haven’t even written one word. Or at least, they haven’t told us about it. Their score has not moved from zero. Did they not work out how to update their word count? Did they join up in a moment of inspiration only to wake up the next day and think “Oh, nah, fukkit.” Or are they holed up somewhere in a deserted bach with a dogearred exercise book, writing the best novel ever written and ready to spring out from nowhere and punch in their grand total at midnight on the 30th of June. Hope not. Bastards.

So I shall see the glass as half full, continue writing and reading my snippets to my husband for scrutiny, and I shall continue pursuing the dream of maybe one day being a published writer. And I thank kiwiwriters for suggesting an idea that may have changed all our lives. Maybe even all 100 of us.

SoCNoC week three – falling off the horse

I can’t believe how easy it has been to slip off the horse and tumble to the ground. On Sunday I was feeling guilty about the four classes worth of marking that had piled up in my pursuit of the novel, so I allowed myself a day off SoCNoC to catch up with school work. This was the first day all month where I didn’t pen a word towards the elusive 50,000 word goal. I needed to have a break though, my work was suffering and I hate feeling snowed under.

Then the in-laws dropped around for a much needed catch up and I realised how little contact I had had lately with people other than work mates and husband – and I allowed myself some more time off to enjoy their company. Result: I only got through one pile of marking, but on the plus side I finished off two task sheets for our current Y12 Drama standard. But no writing on the novel.

Monday rolled around and I had a moderation meeting until 5pm… came home, cooked dinner and had no more energy to write. Husband tried counseling me back on the page (“So where is that character going next? Why did he end up there?” etc etc) but it was no use. I was tired and petulant and went to bed. Yesterday I got through marking pile number two, stayed late at school to see a show with my y12 Drama students, and had another excuse for not writing. But the the horse had well and truly bolted now; I switched off. I got stubborn. I would not be shaken into believing that my writing is worth continuing with. I even tried reading someone’s very badly written, self-published novel to try and convince myself that my work isn’t that bad, but it didn’t work. I hit the dirt even harder when I tried editing a couple of scenes together to enter into the Katherine Mansfield (BNZ) short story comp. It didn’t work. The writing lacked the precision and careful selection required for the short story genre. I could only see rambling, ‘telling’ nonsense, badly written and unconvincing. Sigh.

I’m worried I don’t have enough material to fill another 25,000 words. I don’t have enough conflict to sustain a novel. I feel like I’m cheating by considering telling the whole story again from the mother’s point of view, just to make up numbers. The idea of ‘fix it in the re-write’ feels like a giant migraine waiting to happen.

So today all I could bring myself to do was bullet point some ideas in a scene from the mother’s point of view that I don’t feel compelled to write. I sketched maybe 200 words. But it feels like that horse is galloping off into the distance, and I can’t see yet how I will get it back, let alone climb back on it.  A glass of wine in front of the telly just seems so much more appealing….

In response to Anne Tolley

http://msn.nzherald.co.nz/education/news/article.cfm?c_id=35&objectid=10651088

Yes, Anne, I agree with the report. Entry requirements are relatively low and do not attract the top graduates into the teaching profession. Some of the people I trained with did not have the ‘disposition’ to become teachers. They should not be sent marching into classrooms to teach our young and shape our future. It was the wrong career choice for them, and they will most likely have a miserable time of it. They were desperate people; many had tried other professions and ‘fallen’ into teaching for lack of any other options. Yes, the fact is, a recession sends people running to teacher’s college for a ‘secure’ job.

Why else would anyone want to turn to teaching? I know the reason why many don’t. Who would want to face 5 classes of 30 students a day, with hormones and anxieties and too much energy? Who would want to face (for some a minority, for some a majority) students who abuse them verbally on a routine basis – or in worse case scenarios – produce a knife at their back? And then face the media saying ‘well, the teacher must have bullied the kid to deserve that.’

Who would want to be blamed by students for not helping them over the moveable bar of NCEA and face accountability for Generation Y’s own laziness? Who would want to face phonecalls and emails from parents demanding to see lesson plans and know exactly what they are doing to ‘fix’ their child – one child in 150 that they see each day? Who would want to be told to ‘stop whinging; you get 12 weeks holiday’ and to have to constantly explain that they work on weekends, on evenings and all through those precious ‘holidays’ marking, planning, reporting, and a million other bits of paperwork?

Who would want to face regular controversy in the media, to be represented by the odd twat who gets turned on by kiddy porn, to be tarred with the same brush?

Who would want to have to fight to keep their working conditions every few years, and face the chance each time that classes will grow bigger, wages will go down, workload will increase? Who wants to look at what their profession gets paid overseas and wonder why they don’t get the same deal? Who wants to face the general public who thinks this is an ‘easy’ job, telling them to stop being so greedy and stop striking (think of the children) for such petty details?

I’ll tell you who. People who have a ‘disposition’ for teaching. People who see past all these petty and minor details because they love working with young people. Because they see the light go on in young people’s eyes and they get to see that inspiration spark. Because they enjoy that constant, exuberant energy and see life as a game with so many wonderful things to embrace. Because they can see potential and they love the chance to foster and nurture the next generation into thinking with open minds and warm hearts and hope that they can make a difference on this planet.

Because they can sometimes be the one good thing on some children’s lives, and because hearing a young person thank you for helping them on the road to their dreams can be the most rewarding thing you ever experience.

Is that what the report means by the ‘disposition’ to be a teacher, Anne? Is that the kind of criteria you’ll put on the teaching qualification course outlines? Are those the people you hope to attract into the profession? I certainly hope so. I know that the world could be a better place if all our teachers were like that.

But guess what Anne? Those people won’t even pick up a course brochure if you’re going to treat them the way you do. If you want those people, you need to acknowledge what they are worth. Teachers need to be paid the wage of a respected profession. Teachers need to be able to teach in conditions that support the work that they do.  They need time to prepare and mark work and report on students. They need class sizes that they can make a difference in.They don’t need a one-size fits all set of standards that is supposed to ‘fix’ every child in the same way. They need to be able to work with each child and foster their development based on their own needs.

And if they don’t have those conditions?

The smart ones will find another job. The not-so-smart ones will take shortcuts in order to survive. They will become the kind of teachers that you don’t want, because what you want takes a lot of hard work, selfless dedication and passion, Anne.

Think about that.

SoCNoC progress – motivation

I told my year 9 English class I was writing a novel. This was in response to one of the kids whinging that I made them write too much (after 50 words of dictation). I said, “Guess how many words I’ve written in the book I’m writing?” The highest anyone guessed in the class was 1,000 words. Ho ho ho. Imagine their little eyes popping out of their little heads when I said “try EIGHTEEN THOUSAND WORDS!” They went crazy. “What’s it about???” “Can we buy it in the shops???” “Are you a real writer???” “When will it be finished????”

Try that one on for motivation. I can’t bear the thought of letting them down now.

I’ve also nicked a student whiteboard and cello-taped it above my desk, where I update my daily word count. Colleagues are depending on my word count to go up each day. It gives them inspiration. And they also scribble notes on the whiteboard that keep me going too.

The more people you tell, the more people you will let down. And being in the business of inspiring other people, that’s a pretty tall order.

Back to work.

SoCNoC Progress – uh-oh, I think I’m blocked

I’ve made it to the 10,000 mark (18,000 if you include the pre-SoCNoC stuff) and I can feel the inevitable brick wall hitting me hard in the face.

For three reasons:

1. When I read my work out loud to my husband, it now feels contrived. Addled with imagery for affectation and is not pulled off because of my limited imagination and vocabulary. I have stopped believing his positive enthusiasm and now think that he is merely humouring me.

2. I suddenly realised that this novel could be misconstrued as an anti-abortion novel and I can’t stand the thought that I have written such a didactic and moral-driven piece. It wasn’t my intention at all.

3. I’ve written myself into a corner. Created a mystery for one of the characters that I can’t solve. I’m going to have to do some significant back-peddling to get out of it and change direction. Aarrgghhh!

It’s the Big Test time. Make or break time. Wondering what I’m doing this all for time.

SoCNoC Progress – staying motivated

I am tackling this project with Julia Cameron by my side. She really works for me. Her book The Right to Write really inspired me a few years ago, and the book is written in bite sized chapters; so convenient for a quick read before I tackle my daily writing. Her words of wisdom come from different angles in each chapter, so I usually get what I need to get going.

One of the more poignant messages that has rung true for me this time, is her chapter regarding ‘mood.’ To paraphrase, she makes it clear that mood should not be confused with the quality of writing. And that ‘being in the mood to write’ has nothing whatsoever to do with how good your writing will be. I like this, because it’s the first port of call in a slippery slope to procrastination – if I am ‘not in the mood’ to write, then I won’t. And if I force myself anyway, it feels like constipating on the page; I struggle to piece together a coherent sentence, I don’t know where I’m going, I feel uninspired and only capable of dumbshow and noise. Cameron talks about a student of hers who echoed this sentiment exactly, and then went on to remark, ‘But how is it that when I read back what I have written when I am not in the mood – the utter crap (again, I paraphrase here…) that I have shat onto the page – it’s actually not that bad afterall!’ She’s absolutely right. I have several times now lined my husband up for his daily serving of what I have written, only to warn him that, because I was not ‘in the mood,’ what I have written is nonsense and I’ve only done it to keep to the word count. As I read it out loud I discover it’s exactly the same standard as when I am in the mood! Revelation. You do not need to be in the mood to write. Mood has nothing to do with good writing. So there goes that excuse.

The other trick I have discovered, is that I have deliberately left mistakes in my work. I know what most of them are,  and as the story evolves, I know I have to go back and change a few things. Some of them I make a list of  to do later, but I am purposefully letting most of them go. Why? Well, at the start of the project, it was so easy to write because I could not possibly get things ‘wrong.’ I had a very sketchy idea of what to write, so whatever went on the page was a success. Then, after around 6,000 words, when more plans and roadmaps began to develop, and I got excited about the cleverness of me, (big mistake) I had to ‘get it right,’ according to the grand plan. Some ideas were ‘wrong’ and did not fit. The story must be logical now, must have the right choices, and so the very idea that I could cock it all up is another reason to procrastinate and worry and stop writing. So, in order to keep reminding myself that this is the ‘bad draft’ (for I would never even attempt to complete this if I believed it was meant to be the Best Novel Ever Written), I have consciously made little errors to ward off the perfectionist in me. As soon as I go back and start correcting, I know I’ve lost the forward motion. And it is the forward motion that I must focus on. No rear view mirrors. Allow the muck to stay in so that I give myself permission to keep going and keep making mistakes and writing that ‘bad draft.’

Right, no more excuses, back to work. I have 4,000 words to catch up on today. Eek.

SoCNoC progress or ‘How to develop a theme’

So I have managed to put in some catch up time and am guessing I’m around 6,000 words now. (Plus the perviously written 7,000 brings my total total to 13,000) Not quite enough to be on track, but in the edit from long hand to computer I’m hoping to flesh bits out and up the count some more.

I started the quest with the theme of ‘mothers and daughters,’ becaue I asked myself what was on my mind right now, what was important to me. it was a good starting point.

13,000 words later and I started feeling like my character was too dysfunctional – she can’t seem to get on with anyone and the key players in her life are all flawed and dislikeable and why does she not have any ‘successful’ or ‘easy’ relationships with anyone? I felt this was a ‘fault’ in my writing (and Julia Cameron whispered to me “ours is to write, not to judge,”) – a tendency to be morbid and to be unable to capture the ‘light’ in people, the truly good without sounding fake or twee. So I’ve cast everyone in shadows and worry that it is a pretty grim read.

But then I realised it is as much the character telling this story as it is ME telling this story; and of course she is dysfunctional! She is damaged in all her relationships because a key one – perhaps the most key one – was severed and left bleeding at a vital age. And because we follow the story through her eyes, we see people the way she does; warts and all and the lack of human connection and a resounding loneliness and isolation that she cannot resolve. What if they suddenly confronted her and we realise our guide through this story is fallible too? Hmm.. a good thought.

And I hope I am not just justifying my cynical writing, but having this moment of lucidity where I ended up studying my own work like an English teacher might, allowed me to convince myself that I have something interesting to say and to push on for the next few thousand. Whatever works, right?