New: Creative writing. Who invented such a silly phrase?

Updated version of the original post of 11 March.

This is dedicated to Dr Kate Maguire, a living legend and visionary. 

In my view, there is no such thing as "creative writing". All writing is CREATIVE, whether it is academic, journalistic, prosaic, poetic - or a gadget manual. And the small print on any legally-binding document. Like my beautifully clear travel insurance policy. 

There is either bad writing, or good writing.

Dan Brown is a bad writer. He ought to be shot. Oh, please don't tell me that what he wrote was interesting. The fact that his prose is so appalling makes me want to throw the book out of a window. And, I really don't like littering, you understand.

Too many books to read in one lifetime. Why mess about with drivel? If a book doesn't grab me by the first page or, sometimes, first paragraph - I am NOT interested.

The Bible is very badly written. All that begat, Poo, begat Who, begat this person and that person. OK, the themes might be pretty universal. But for crying out loud, has someone written a crystal mark plain English version of it yet? Pray tell? Good old Chrissie Maher, OBE, and her team. What a pioneer.

A lot of academics who write those papers, books, and more dreadful books. Where the writing is so condensed and only speaks to the elite, i.e. people educated by Jesuits, or British public schools. They can all piss off. I only like elitism when it is INCLUSIVE, not exclusive. I mean any of those types of academics - of any specialism.

I have a friend who recently obtained his MPhil in Fine Art. No small feat for a person who is registered blind, with a very rare degenerative eye condition. I remember reading a draft version of his proposal years ago. I read it, re-read it, read it again. It was only two sides of A4, with about 17 footnotes. All academics know footnotes are a way of beating the tyranny of the word count. It was probably about 4 months of research (at a guess) on two bits of paper. I couldn't understand it. And I'm not stupid. It's just another language that doesn't speak to me.

When I was at City University, there was a crucial paragraph that I needed to understand, by one of Dem acaDemics. I was close to tears. Though I wouldn't go anywhere near to the brink of tears. I get angry and frustrated instead. More, much more about crying at a later date.

My boyfriend at the time suggested asking his flatmate. Jack? Why Jack? He was the guy that used to fall asleep in the '50s armchair and piss himself on a regular basis. I never got more than a grunt or mumble from him when I used to say "hello"  to him. Go on, Jim insisted. Ask him. He'll know. 

I was astonished. Jack translated the nightmare paragraph in simple English in a thrice. I asked him which school he went to. Dulwich College was the answer. No wonder. I realised that Jack was shy. Maybe he got the shit kicked out of him at school. Who knows?

Funny that Jack was like a much cleaner, healthier and younger version of Father Jack, of Father Ted fame. Funny that's what the household used to watch religiously every week. I ignored it at the time. I eventually caught on years later. While watching it with previously mentioned Doctor of Fine Arts friend from Belfast. The pennies dropped, during 'The Fairground' episode - and it had to be explained to me. Things like the cat going round on a '70s record player. And the the mad kulchie that kept telling the priests that he'd shot a man, though Father Ted couldn't even 'hear' him. There is still a lot of humour on English television I don't get. Or maybe can't be bothered with ...

Good writing:

Jane Austen, Truman Capote, William Boyd (at least , Armadillo, as that's all I've read and I want to read everything Mr Boyd's written on the back of that), Oscar Wilde, Sam Keane (The Disappearing Spoon), Foucault on the Birth of the Asylum, Dr Kate Maguire are just a few brilliant writers that immediately spring to mind. I wouldn't even say I'm a particularly well-read person either. I'm lazy. 

Plus, I've been doing that vocalisation of words thing while I read. So I'm a Slo-Mo reader which doesn't help. That was something that happened when I was about 16. When the pressure of O levels really kicked in ... and the parental pressure to do well at school. To well at the Royal Academy of Music on Saturdays. That's also when I became myopic. I used to be a fast reader, and had 20/20 vision before that. The paragraphs in the Walpole Grammar's modern history 20th century History text book started to swim in front of my eyes. The manuscript of piano music started doing their own visual retrograde and counterpoint-merging all by themselves. It was a bit like a Bridget Riley painting. Instead of colours merging, the notes would start fusing together on the sheet music in front of my face. At least the staves, the treble and bass clefs would stay the same. Funny that, don't you think?

I deviated. Back to good writers.

Salena Godden, Tim Turnbull, Tim Wells are just a few poets that are dear to my heart. They are consummate performers. A must-see. They've all stuck at it for years. Tim Wells encouraged me to perform poetry. I remember being really chuffed at performing at a dive in a road adjacent from where I lived at the time. Sandringham Flats, Charing Cross Road. It was in Litchfield Street, WC2, and the name of this underground venue escapes me. I remember that the walls used to drip condensation if there were more than about 10 people present. The top drawer Tim Wells reminded a few days ago of the venues name: Bunjies. What a memory, maestro! How do you do it, when you've caned the booze most of the while? Amazing.

Looking back, I guess I used to perform 'sound' poetry. The meaning was personal to me, but may not have made much sense to anyone else. This may've been 'cause at the time I was studying a degree in Sound. That's how I can best describe the BSc (Hons) in Music, City University. And the idea of music being a science was a medieval one. Very linked to God Almighty. Music of the Spheres. My fledging poetry was a art-form all to itself. It was about stress, crescendo, ritardando, prestissimo, largo - accompanied by the sexiest and angriest hand and body gestures I could muster on the night.

I was chuffed because John Cooper Clarke was performing the same night at Bunjies. He had been one of my teenage 'heroes' when I listened to John Peel, instead of studying for my O levels. I think Peel only broadcasted between 11.00-midnight in those days. Way past a teenager's bedtime.

I have an anecdotes about John Cooper Clarke, and one of John Peel. But too tired to go into now.

Wow. It's trying to rain here in Mascot Beach hotel. Darkish clouds, a few fat rain drops, and very windy. It'll make the air fresher. Yippee.

Ooh, it's raining properly now. Better still.


p.s. So what does all this drivel make me then? Verbal diarrhoea, I reckon. Or, seeing as it's raining - how about Verbal Precipitation?

Note well:

I owe this piece of writing to Dr Kate Maguire. She put this seed of thought into my head a very long time ago.. She very gently scoffed at the idea of me doing a short creative writing course at The City Lit, London WC2. It was a course run by Michele Roberts, then a well-respected writer, and now even more so. I had something called writer's block. Far too self-conscious. And didn't manage to write much. It was galling and somewhat mortifying when I bravely shared with the small group what I had written. There was a very young lad called Tom. I recall. I had sat next to him and it was off-puttingly intimidating that that he was writing furiously. Afterwards, Michele said of his work: You have discovered, what we call your 'writing arm'. 

She asked me how many great writers had gone along to Creative Writing classes or studied post-graduates in Creative Writing?

Quite, none. Couldn't exactly imagine Ernest Hemingway trotting along to The City Lit, nor Graham Greene. Or George Orwell for that matter. Alice Walker? Nah, leave it out.

Also, what a tragic thing for me to compare myself with this young pock-less bourgeois kid. Pointless exercise comparing oneself to someone. Yet, I guess that with the upbringing I had. That was what I did for the greater of my depressive years over the last 45 years or so. Thanks, Dad. I still love you to bits though. You are my One and Only Planet Dad. And you Rock. Can't wait to celebrate your 80th Birthday this June.

[Cue: B52's Rock Lobster]