My Market Performance

I’ve mentioned Leicester Market a few times on this blog. It’s the largest outdoor covered market in Europe and it has a special place in my heart. Long ago Mum and Dad sold costume jewellery there and I loved going with ‘to help’. I was free to wander, in a way that children sadly aren’t able to do today, and I have rich memories of colourful market characters each acting out a performance just for me… or so I thought.

This cartoon of the light bulb man was drawn 

by Mick Wright for my Jewish Voices book. 

You can order one of his excellent cartoons 

or caricatures from Mick Wright.

Enter stage left, the light bulb man waddling and swaying from one empty stall to the next, wearing a special jacket which had one enormous pocket spreading around his body. The pocket bulged and clinked with light bulbs as he leapt across wooden-planked stalls, inserting bulbs with an expert twist of the wrist into the hanging flexes. In the winter that swinging bulb was the only source of warmth for Mum and Dad’s frozen fingers.

Next came the skip boys, pushing fully laden wicker skips from the cellar store rooms beneath the old Corn Exchange. The skips smelt musty and the skip boys strained to push their weight across the cobbles.

By now shoppers were arriving, their stiletto heels clicking, voices rising into a cacophony of sounds with brash sales patter, promising only the best, only the cheapest. "This jumper was made for you, me duck." And the rhythmic call from the fruit and veg section. "Get your oranges, lovely and sweet."

Sometimes I’d skip through the arcade to a clearing in the stalls, an open space for the pitch boys. They towered above my head, balanced on boxes, singing their sales patter to gathering crowds. Their assistants held up sets of matching plates, packs of saucepans. There was always a bargain and always someone in the crowd who appreciated a cheeky aside. "But to you, sweetheart, a special offer!"

And so I wandered on into the dusk and the market’s closing performance, the street sweepers, pushing wide brushes of mounting debris, vans and cars hooting, the skip boys returning refilled skips to their dusty dungeon home, the light bulb man, thin and ordinary, feeding his jacket with hot light bulbs until he was full and waddling again.

It was time to return to our stall, to help pack unsold jewellery into boxes and sit on the wooden planks swinging my legs and ‘guarding the stock’ while Mum and Dad packed up our little car. I always waved to the light bulb man as I squeezed into the back seat and perched beside piled-up boxes, but I don’t think he ever saw me.                 

What's it like to be five?

I suspect most people can remember being five but can you remember what it felt like to be five? I don’t mean what TV programmes you watched or which school you went to. I mean your emotions and reactions as you saw those cartoon cats or Dr Who’s daleks. The programmes may have changed but the emotions are still the same.

Even if you remember the emotions, it’s not always easy to put them into words. I can remember watching the grey and white flower opening up on the TV screen at the beginning of ‘Watch with Mother’ but how can I describe the feeling in simple terms? It was a mixture of excitement at the anticipation of a familiar programme and the exclusivity that this programme was being screened just for me. There may have been more emotions going on inside me. I can’t remember.

And I’m really not sure how I would describe my emotions on my first day at school. The other children were confident, comfortable in their environment, or so I thought. I was scared to step on each strange section of floor in case it sucked me in and ate me up and I cried until I made myself sick. It was probably a way to try and get Mum to come back for me. I’m not sure. One thing I do know is that I was a real pain!

So what’s brought on this latest bout of introspection? I treated myself to the 'Children’s Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook 2012'. The last one I bought was the 2005 edition. This new one is much thicker. Excellent, I thought, that means there’ll be more publishers waiting for my manuscripts. Wrong! There are more articles about writing for children though and it was an article by Anne Fine that got me thinking.

Anne fine in ‘Writing Books to Read Aloud’ says that a child has to care about the character in a story so we must make sure that we give the character thoughts and emotions that young children will recognise. Her example is, rather than saying what a shame it is that it’s raining, show the water dripping down the child’s neck. It’s the old adage of ‘show don’t tell’ but does it go far enough to touch those real emotions, the disappointment when rain has stopped a longed-for activity?

Another article by Geraldine McCaughrean called ‘Writing for a Variety of Ages’ tells us that she embarks on a picture book as she would poetry rather than prose, “pouring on the word play and euphonious vocabulary, making the most of the aural splendour of words.”    [aural splendour... I like that. I must try and use it in conversation today!]

I can do word play. I can even do euphonious vocabulary, but I’m still not sure about the feelings. Does the English language have enough child-accessible words to accurately describe those childhood emotions?

How would you put into words the way it felt to have a story read to you at night?

Or the emotions you experienced during your first funfair ride?

Or is there another childhood emotion that you could share in words?

   

Talking to yourself...

... what’s so wrong with that?

She wears fluorescent green wellies, her jeans are turned up a little too much to be fashionable, and her blue waterproof coat is one size too large. Her dog trots along beside her and she is talking. She could be talking to the dog but, as he never appears to reply, she is in effect talking to herself. The writers among you will be preparing to use her as the batty lady who inadvertently becomes a key witness to a crime in a who-dun-it, or as the under-cover witch with awesome magical powers in a children’s novel, but before you unashamedly include her in your next piece of creative writing I must warn you that the lady is me.

I often talk to myself. It’s not a new phenomenon brought on by the recent stresses of an ill husband. I can clearly remember many years ago a teacher colleague looking round my classroom door, her brow furrowed at the sight of me chattering away to a pile of Year 3 artwork and an emerging wall display.

But why is there such a stigma in talking to yourself? I bet loads of you have done it in private and would happily do so in public if it wasn’t for those worried glances from passers-by in the street. Even in a crowd I’ll bet you’ve muttered things under your breath, keeping the tone way down low so others won’t hear, but why should you keep the tone low and why shouldn’t you talk to yourself?

Talking to yourself can clear the mind. When you read a manuscript out loud, you get a better awareness of the lumps and bumps that need ironing out. It’s the same with your thoughts, concerns, plans for the day, anything that’s going round and round in your head. Say it out loud and you can more clearly see what the problem is and what needs to be done. It’s also an excellent way of letting off steam, like shouting out ‘I don’t believe it!’ (or similar phrases) after running for a bus only to have the driver pull away as you reach the door?

Even if you’ve never, ever had the slightest desire to hold a conversation with yourself, there is one thing that I would urge you all to try at least once. You see, it is possible that when people thought they saw me on the park talking to myself they were mistaken. I was probably singing. I wouldn’t suggest trying this in a crowded street. If my voice is anything to go by it could well offend, but when I’m on my own I stride across the field in my fluorescent green wellies with my jeans turned up high enough to avoid the long wet grass and I sing to the birds and the trees, to the bushes, even to the rising sun. What's so wrong with that?

Local dialects – long live the difference

Do you have a regional accent, with words that are peculiar to where you live?

Do you enjoy reading a book with characters who have regional accents, or does it get in the way of the story?

There was a time when you could walk through Leicester market and every other stall holder would be saying ‘Ey up, me duck’ which roughly translated means ‘Good day, fine Sir.’ There are people who have taken exception to being called ‘me duck’ but I can assure any ruffled readers that no offence is ever intended. It’s just our local way of talking, or at least it was. I don’t hear the phrase anywhere near as much as I used to.

Words fascinate me and dialects are just an addition to this fascination. Take the word for an alley. I walk Josh-the-dog down our local jitty when I’m going to the park but if I lived in York I’d go along a snickleway. In Hull I might cut through a ten-foot and then there’s a snicket, a ginnel, a jennel and they all mean the same. Good, isn’t it! I love regional accents too. When I was a child Liverpudlian was so unusual that it made me giggle and then the Beatles came along and turned it into the sexiest accent ever.

I sometimes find it difficult to distinguish between characters in a novel. I’m hopeless at remembering names and so I need some other way of differentiating them. A book I read recently had all the characters speaking with the same voice. I’m guessing that this was the author’s voice too. Needless to say it wasn’t a riveting read. One way of bringing a character to life is to get them speaking with a local dialect. It has to be a mere sprinkling otherwise it would get in the way of the story, but it’s a useful addition to all those ‘creating your character’ prompts for writers.

I don’t think it’s my imagination that regional accents are far less pronounced these days (although I still can’t understand a Glaswegian when he’s talking at full tilt). I blame the TV. Yes, I know, I blame the TV for a lot of things but only the TV and radio has the power to destroy regional differences. Accents are so easy to pick up. Within months of my cousin moving to London she sounded like a Londoner. She didn’t even realise that her speech had changed. So if we’re listening to a certain sort of BBC English a lot of the time then we’re all at risk of sounding the same which would be a shame.

On the radio the other day they were talking about language in Singapore. English is encouraged as the language of business but there is a dialect called Singlish. This is spoken on the streets but banned by Singapore TV. I hope nothing like that would ever happen here. The BBC has relaxed its rules since the 1950s days of clipped Queen’s English but I can’t help feeling that there are subtle influences towards centralised uniformity. Here’s hoping that we can fight them off and retain local dialects and accents. They’re part of what’s good about being English. Long live the difference.

I just wondered: Accents can denote class as well as regional differences, less now than in the past, but there is still a certain upper-class way of talking. Is it the same in the US, or in Australia or New Zealand? Or is this just a UK characteristic?

Seven trains for seven story-starters

I had an adventure this week. I made an impulse journey to Manchester to cuddle my newborn grandson, my proud son and my exhausted daughter-in-law. I’ve never been on seven trains in one day before. It should have been six. One was a mistake but they provided lots of material for my writer’s notebook.

Train No. 1 – Leicester to Sheffield

Opposite me a suited business man tapped out a report on his laptop while his headphones fed a gentle suss suss into his ears. He was unaware of the drama unfolding in the seat behind me, of an anxious voice on his mobile,

‘We have to close the deal today.’ ...pause... ‘Because I’m leaving the country tomorrow.’ ...pause... ‘You’ll have the money by 5 pm, right!’ I didn’t see his face but he was fast becoming a character in my mind.

Train No. 2 – Sheffield to Manchester

I was on the Trans-Pennine express, not as romantic as it sounds. There were no seats, hardly a spare piece of floor. A man took pity, stood up for me and I fought my pride and accepted. We travelled side by side, him hanging from the overhead rail, me squashed between people and suitcases. He looked as if he’d missed a night’s sleep, eyelids drooping, hangdog jowls. Shame he hadn’t got a seat! As we approached the station he tapped out a text, one-handedly. The reply was swift. His face was no longer hangdog. He pushed his way to the doors and was the first to leave the train.

Train No. 3 – Metrolink Tram to Eccles

I hadn’t seen the centre of Manchester since 1968. It’s changed. The tram provides an excellent vantage point for sight-seeing/nosying. We passed Salford Quays, a square of water surrounded by newly developed flats. The place was deserted except for a man sitting on a bench, his legs outstretched, his head hanging down. The tram veered to the right and he was gone but for a moment longer his despair travelled on in my mind.

[At this point the above photograph should be inserted but Blogger won’t let me move it down.]

Train No. 4 – Metrolink Tram to Altrincham

Yes, I know that I shouldn’t have been on this tram but it didn’t take me too far out of my way and it provided a colourful character for my notebook. He was with his mates. He spoke with a gentle rap rhythm, shoulders undulating, hands gesticulating. The closer we got to the City the more animated he became.

‘We is gonna have, right, one hell of a night, right!’ At Market Street I left them to it. I only hope it was a good night he had rather than a hell of a one.

Train No. 5 – Metrolink Tram to Piccadilly Station

A short trip. I stared through the window until we entered a tunnel beneath the station and a row of faces reflected back at me. My own was tired. I glanced away to the face behind, a young girl, long black curls, red lipstick and a tear rolling down her cheek.

Train No. 6 – Manchester to Sheffield

The train had come from Manchester airport and once again was packed before I even got onto it. I squeezed in beside a young boy and his dad.

‘We’ve had a great adventure, haven’t we?’ said dad. The boy nodded, a plastic aeroplane in each hand. I didn’t mind as aeroplanes dived-bombed across my bags. I’d had a great adventure too.

Train No. 7 – Sheffield to Leicester

At Chesterfield an elderly mother waved as her son got onto the train. She walked back along the platform alone, trying to hide her tears. It’s hard to say ‘goodbye’ to your son and then go back to your own life while he gets on with his, even though that’s why you brought them into the world in the first place. I took another tissue from my handbag.

What a Character

The other day I was walking past a shop when I noticed a middle-aged version of my Mother in the window reflection. It all happened in a moment’s glance but the hurt lingered on. I was that reflection. Yes, I look older than I think I look but it’s more than that. The facial expression, my way of walking, everything visual is out of kilter with my perception of me. My friends know the visual aspect of my character better than I do, although they don't know my inner me. A character is made up of complicated layers. I have fears and hopes that others will never know about, but there’s also stuff in my mind that even I’m not aware of. I don’t really know my character very well, do I? I suspect that an editor would reject me as being one-dimensional.

I try to create well-rounded, three-dimensional characters in my writing. I indulge in people-watching. I make notes in my notebook. I jot down strange mannerisms, unusual items of clothing, snippets of speech, all useful in building up a character but they are only a tiny fraction of a complete 3D description. Looking through my old creative writing notes I am reminded of what Malcolm Bradbury said about the power to create and develop character being at the heart of all fictional writing. It was our first lesson. There is no story if there are no characters and I still have the exercise we did to help us to create juicy, well-rounded, three-dimensional ones. Maybe it will help me to better identify the character behind my window reflection.

It’s called ‘Interview your character’.

After name and age I'm supposed to ask my character what she looks like.

I guess I’m a bit shaky on that one.

What is my character’s personality?

Now I’m really struggling.

Best character trait?

Pass

Biggest fault?

Pass

Favourite food?

Not sure. Maybe chips, or cheese, or chocolate.

Likes?

At last a question I can answer. Cats and dogs.

Dislikes?

Cruelty and clotted cream.

Secret desires?

If I answered that then they wouldn’t be and I can't think of any anyway.

How am I doing? Not too well I suspect. The next lot are the more in-depth questions.

My character is cleaning out the cupboards. What does she find easy/hard to throw away?

Pass.

My character is remembering her childhood bedroom. How is it decorated?
I can’t remember a thing about it.

What does my character have in her fridge?

Not sure. Butter, milk, maybe cheese.

My character has been invited out to dinner. What will she wear? What sort of restaurant would she go to?
What to wear? Trousers or skirt? Should we go Italian or Indian or maybe the pub? So far I can identify myself as indecisive with a bad memory.

Does my character keep her socks in pairs? Are they in a drawer or a cupboard?
That’s easy. They’re in a pile in the washing basket so I can add disorganised to my list of characteristics.

I’m afraid I haven’t discovered anything significant about the me that lurks behind my window reflection, and yet these questions work for fictional characters. If you’re a writer and you’ve never tried it then I urge you to do so. Any questions will do. The important thing is to talk to your character, sit them in a chair or take them down the garden and give them a good grilling.

It’s strange how you can do that with a fictional character but you can never map out a complete three-dimensional picture of a real person, not your best friend, your partner or even yourself. In other words, I don’t know that middle-age woman in the window reflection half as well as I know Kat who lives in my head and on my computer screen each time I add a daily 500 words to her life.

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Help! I have a newly retired husband?

Suggestions in the comments box below, please.

Cups of tea appear beside my laptop at regular intervals, with a biscuit balanced on the saucer and his 'next new project' to be discussed. My husband has retired from work. It's not that he doesn't support my writing, it's just that he's there... all the time. I used to be able to stare at the window for an hour or more if an idea needed thinking through, or sit at the computer all day if the ideas were flowing. Now we have lunch at lunch time, a set routine to the day and he's trying out things in the kitchen. A few weeks ago it was the making of pastry. Every afternoon my cups of tea arrived with tarts of varying texture and colour placed on the saucer. By the end of the week he was moderately satisfied with his dough technique but issued threats that trials would begin again just as soon as I'd bought more flour. He's a determined man. This week he cleaned out the kitchen cupboards. Yes, yes, I can hear you all slapping your cheeks in envy and amazement but, no, it's not as wonderful as it sounds. I can't find a thing.

It was the right time for Rod to retire. He struggled through last year trying to get into work while he was on the Valcade chemotherapy treatment. When he was not well enough for work he lay around feeling guilty. Even he agrees that he's earned a well-deserved rest. At the moment he's halfway through a course of Melphalan taken at home in pill form. As I commented in an earlier post, thankfully he's tolerating it quite well. He's been out walking Josh the dog most days and that's my benchmark for his fitness level.

Which brings me to another problem linked with his retirement. I hardly ever walk the dog anymore. I'm becoming increasingly unfit and I've put on weight. I could go with him but this way I get a full hour's concentrated writing time. I do miss the people. Dog walking is good for writers. There are so many fascinating characters on the park. If you have a dog they always want to stop and chat and there's often a whole pageful of incidents and observations to jot down in my notebook when I get home.

Of course I still walk Josh when Rod is having a bad chemo day but as I no longer walk him regularly I'm out of the routine. It's a real ordeal to have to pull on all those layers of clothing and go out, especially on a cold winter's morning. Josh is a big dog. He pulls me along on the ice and he always prefers to walk across the muddiest fields on the park. But as soon as I'm out there on my favourite field, surrounded by frost covered trees and birdsong, I feel totally exhilerated... Yes, you're right. Tomorrow I'll go with him. The writing will just have to wait.

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Waiting

Waiting rooms and people watching... or just waiting my life away

This has been a week of waiting around. The other day I had to sit next to Father Christmas in the hospital waiting room. It was the only seat left. He wasn’t real. I could tell that by the way his foot fell off when I shifted his knee away from mine, but it made everyone smile, even though we knew we’d be waiting there for the best part of the morning. My husband, Rod, is on chemotherapy again for his Amyloidosis and so we have to go each month for them to check him over and write out the next month’s prescription. There’s always a buzzing atmosphere in the clinic’s waiting room: friendships forged on the oncology day ward, people chatting, comparing side effects, number of courses this time, what to get the Grandkids for Christmas.

Waiting rooms are excellent places for gathering ideas for new characters. This week it was the grown-up daughter who was trying a little too hard to keep up the spirits of her anxious mother, buying her packets of crisps, taking photographs of her with her mobile phone, giggling a little too much. I slipped my writer’s notebook out of my bag and jotted it all down. You never know when she might want to appear in one of my stories.

From the clinic we went straight to Pharmacy. The sign said ‘one hour’s wait’ and we knew that meant ‘at least one hour’ so we resigned ourselves to more waiting in the WRVS cafe. The cafe is good for a different kind of people watching: nurses, doctors and assorted members of staff rushing in, grabbing a sugar fix and rushing out again. The care assistant with the glitter on her cheeks, reindeer antlers on her head and a miserable look on her face was a great character to capture in the pages of my notebook, so too was the volunteer working behind the counter. He had a Santa hat on his head and was singing Christmas Carols and joking with us all as he provided us with mugs of coffee and mince pies.

The next day I took my mother to the dentist. Another chance to people watch, or so I thought, and I went fully prepared as usual with my writer’s notebook and pen, but what a difference from the atmosphere in the hospital clinic. Everybody was sitting in silence, looking down at their feet, glancing up each time the nurse came in with an expression of gloom and the end of the world on their faces. I think we need to get things into perspective here.

Even the dog’s waiting

(a shameless excuse for sharing with you a picture of Josh the dog)

This week saw more waiting with the promised delivery of two flat-pack wardrobes. Why is my address always the last call of the day and why couldn’t they tell me first thing in the morning instead of making me wait? It’s the same when we need a plumber or electrician. Who are these people who have the first call of the day? I could now start complaining about waiting for buses and the way that they always sail past our turning just as I get to the corner but that would make me sound like a grumpy old woman and that would never do.

Waiting does seem to take up a large part of my life. I am forever waiting to hear from a publisher, and it’s a lovely phone call that I mean, not a rejection letter. For some people waiting is how they pass their entire lives: waiting to grow up, waiting for the right partner, waiting until they can afford to have children, waiting for their summer holiday, waiting for Christmas, waiting for retirement. Let’s stop all the waiting and do a bit of living instead otherwise before we know it we’ll be waiting to die – the end.