Monthly Archives: August 2009

Be Better Than Yourself…

‘What I write is so inadequate … the worst trick God can play is to make you an artist, but only a mediocre artist.’

According to my NME rock annual (and frankly I don’t know how reliable it is as a source) David Bowie said this in September 1980.

I really like this quote, to the point that I have carefully copied it out and stuck it on my study door.

First of all I like it because it simply expresses what anyone trying to achieve something creative has probably come up against more than a few times. It suggests, and I’m thinking here purely in literary terms to suit my own purposes, the morning-after feeling in the bitterness of the word ‘trick’: that initial moment you get an idea, the giddy feeling of getting a rough draft down on the page, when you really believe you’re on to something, that you’re creating something outstandingly brilliant. And then there’s the bit where you reread what you’ve done, in what often seems to be the very cold light of day, and realise it’s not everything you had hoped. The difference between what you feel, the impetus for creativity… and the end result. The chasm can be, at least in the mind of the person who’s written it, all too vast.

It’s also a rather inspirational quote – for obvious reasons. If Dan Brown had said it, we’d all just be nodding our heads in tacit agreement, glad he recognised his own limitations – how refreshing! But it’s Bowie. I don’t know exactly how he meant it, but to me I like it because it seems unusually honest. A lot of successful people are happy to reveal anecdotally (and safely) how they struggled to produce what turns out to be a critically acclaimed work of art, but Bowie seems to suggest he will never achieve what he wants to, that he doesn’t rate himself much at all. Yet by 1980 he’d already written some of the greatest songs of all time.

I always harp on about it but The Paris Review Interviews – which can be found in each issue of this incredible magazine and in several collected volumes you can buy in bookshops – are goldmines of information to aspiring writers. William Faulker’s interview is one of my favourites. In it he comments:

‘He [the writer] must never be satisfied with what he does. It is never as good as it can be done. […] Don’t bother just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. Try to be better than yourself.’

There is that sense of struggle that all writers who have seriously applied themselves, whether to good or bad effect, will recognise. And anyone who has sent work to publishers or magazines or agents should recognise that feeling that the piece is never finished, is never quite right.

I also like it because it makes me consider, what is the value of writing, and by that I mean, just writing and the act of writing itself? Bowie’s words seem to suggest that not-often considered concept – that you can be born an artist with a true and real vocation, even if you’re not a very good one.

The oft-asked question: is it possible just to write for yourself? To me the answer is simple: no. There is always an audience whether it is imagined or real, or both. The act of writing is one of communication. But if no one ever reads it, does that mean it doesn’t mean anything? The answer, to my mind, is still the same.

Quite some time ago a friend mentioned that his father had written a memoir, a swinging-sixties-in-London affair, but that it had not been picked up by any publishers or agents. ‘Oh well,’ I remember saying, ‘at least he wrote it.’ To which my friend shook his head, implying that there was no point if it was not a success, if it was not published and recognised. I’m not suggesting this opinion isn’t valid – it is – but for some reason I’ve often thought about this instance. Was it a complete waste of time for this man to have written his memoirs, which he wrote with publication in mind, if no one would ever read and appreciate them? I go back to what Faulkner’s quote implies: that writing is a battle with yourself more than anything else, though you write for the world outside yourself.

Ana Silvera, a great songstress and writer (we published her excellent piece ‘Becket and Madness’ all the way back in PP2) recently sent me a piece about sentimentality, which might, in some form, be published in Pen Pusher in the future. In it, she considers how generic forms of expression are the mainstay of communication in the modern world. That people describe their deeply personal emotions and experiences in often near-identical and highly sentimental ways – a worrying and slightly creepy trend that belittles human experience.

Writing is a way of trying to find a means of expression, and the novel, short story or poem places human experience at its heart. If a writer has really applied him or herself to the writing, whether the note they receive six months later is in acceptance or rejection, they have gained something.

Writing can be seen as a way of trying to, often sub-consciously, fight against limits that are placed upon expression by category and trend. A way of fighting against the brain’s wish to adhere to habit and safety. And surely that is a good thing?

(And at the opposite end of the scale, when you read something that you consider to be a work of exceptional imagination, thought, etc, you get that uncanny feeling that the reader is unnecessary to the text: it exists as it is, without need of validation by the reader. I think, most recently, of Austerlitz by WG Sebald – an extraordinary book I’d recommend to all. And perhaps this applies to everything?)

And all this is why I like to read Bowie’s quote. It validates the creative process and understands and represents its frustrations. It is a comforting and an encouraging quote for these reasons.

The Short and the Short of It: a review of two very different short story collections

Punk FictionAn Anthology of Short Stories Inspired By Punk
(Portico, London, 2009)

The Oxford Book of English Short Stories
edited by AS Byatt (OUP, Oxford, 1998)


When I was trying to get in touch with Johnny Marr to ask him to contribute to PP13, I was put in touch with his PR, who turned out to be Janice Bullman (née Warren) whose excellent short story ‘This is the Sound When a Dog Cries’ we published in PP8 in 2008. Strange, huh…?

She has also recently edited Punk Fiction, a collection of short stories by music journalists, writers and musicians each taking a song from the punk era as their starting point. The musical influences range from the Ramones, to Iggy Pop and The Stooges, to The Sex Pistols, to X-Ray Spex and much more. And it’s ultimately a joyful celebration of that era and an attempt to capture why it meant so much to a whole generation. As Marr himself puts it in the introduction to the book: ‘The punk movement began as a covert reaction to the uninspired drabness of the UK’s straight culture; it was sharp and funny and switched on. It was about excitement and subversion and being young. But mostly it was about ideas.

PF contributors include the newly appointed editor of the NME Krissi Murison, Kele Orereke (Bloc Party), Paul Smith (Maximo Park), and Kate Jackson (formerly of The Long Blondes).

It’s true that in part the collection demonstrates that being in a band or loving music doesn’t necessarily make you an exceptional fiction writer, but there’s a lot of interest and energy in the stories, even when they don’t quite hit the mark. (That boring old adage about writing about music, if not strictly meant in this sense, does hold water, and there’s a sort of inevitable self-consciousness to the writing at times.)

But there are notable exceptions. Billy Childish’s ‘action time and vision’ is a funny tale that captures those listless random happenings that are the mainstay of teenage life as you set out, ever-hopeful that something good will happen. It’s funny and the language flows along in an addictive, catchy way.

Cathi Unsworth’s ‘Sheena is a Punk Rocker’ is very plainly written, but that only serves to make the final horrific climax more terrible and unexpectedly moving, and she captures the narrator’s pity but desire to distance herself from her central character very well – the unalterable distance between the poor and abused, and those who are more fortunate.

The stand out contribution from the musos was definitely Alison Mosshart’s (she of The Kills, and now of The Dead Weathers) short, ‘Psycho Killer’. The tone is a familiar suburban mundane, but not even trying to be funny, which is the usual resort of this type of voice, and it’s strangely effective. Mosshart is tapping into the classic legend of middle-of-nowhere America: a couple, loners, aimless misfits with regular bouts of extreme and casual violence. Reading it, I considered that perhaps Mosshart was one of the few to really successfully bring together the two worlds of music and language. I don’t actually know if she writes lyrics or not, but after reading her story, I’m assuming she must do. At times it was like reading the words to a song on the record sleeve, before you know the tune:

‘He and I have our differences. We argue. Yes. We curse and we fight. We never apologise. But we used to. We used to.’


‘“I’m too bored now,” I says. “But even if you want me to take it out on you I won’t. I just can’t sit in this hotel with you, like this, any longer … I was talking to my boy.”’

Influences of Easton Ellis, and even Salinger, maybe, in some more obscure way.

Overall this is a really good collection, that’s also a bit of an education in punk, if you, like me, don’t know an awful lot about it. Plus buying it helps raise money for the Teenage Cancer Trust, so doubly worth a purchase.

* * *

If Punk Fiction is a rebellious fiction party of school truants, AS Byatt’s selection of English short stories is more like a masterclass. I picked up this collection of short stories in Clerkenwell Tales (a new bookshop on Exmouth Market, that PP really recommends).

Almost everything in here has been written with what Sebald described as ‘acute, merciless observation’, and I also liked what Byatt had to say about the English short story in her introduction:

‘I found, reading in bulk, that I was developing a dislike for both the ‘well-made tale’ and the fleeting ‘impression’. Manuals on how to write short stories … stress unity of form, stress that only one thing should happen … Many of the stories in this collection break all the rules … The workmanlike English story is even-toned and neatly constructed. The great English story is shocking – even the sparest and driest – and hard to categorize.’

One is left nodding one’s editorial head vigorously at this. And Byatt’s choices live up to her introduction. I haven’t read the entire collection yet, but it’s hugely enjoyable and, as I said, something of a masterclass to anyone interested in fiction writing. Some favourites so far:

Aldoux Huxley; ‘Nuns at Luncheon’ – a consideration of the art of writing and storytelling as much as anything, but also social satire, grotesque and sharp.

Ronald Firbank; ‘Tragedy in Green’ – very funny and deliciously tongue-in-cheek

Thomas Hardy; ‘A Mere Interlude’ – a morality tale at its heart. Beautifully written, as if effortless.

Angela Carter; ‘The Kiss’ – a very short tale of exquisitely controlled writing.

I heartily recommend this to anyone interested in how to write short stories, or, more simply, anyone who values the most exceptional fiction writing. It’s a treat.


Jetlag and Determinism… !

Just got back from a short holiday in New York… What is it about that place? I just wander round taking pictures on rubbish disposable cameras not really doing anything much, and not wanting to go and see anything and I love it. My personal favourite parts of town are Lower East Side and down Tribeca way, via Canal Street with all the weird tacky shops. (Though a brief trip to Williamsburg this time suggested it was another really good place to hang around in for future trips.)

My best find this time was, I think, somewhere on Rivington. We were walking back from dinner and walked past this window on a lower ground bit, down below the street. Inside there were loads of cats in the window on various shelves, sprawled out, including some tiny, tiny little kittens.

I once saw this nasty pet shop uptown near the Whitney Museum, which had puppies for sale all asleep in the window and at first I thought it was one of those. But there was a sign explaining: it was a pet rescue centre. It was amazing: about twenty cats, some in the window, some in cages or on the floor all stretched out, warm and fast asleep, and beside the cats two or three dogs doing the same. No fighting or whining, just all sleeping peaceably together.

Anyway, I got back from NYC at 6am. Because I don’t travel a lot I always find the ensuing jetlag a curious thing. Sometimes I just feel plain sick; sometimes I get very over-emotional – in fact, I always get emotional on planes, most embarrassingly when I have openly wept over appalling films that aren’t even sad: the hideously dumb (whilst thinking it was clever) and terribly acted Match Point and that Jennifer Lopez classic, Angel Eyes spring to mind as my most shameful tearful episodes always next to bemused fellow travellers whom I don’t know. Sometimes, however, I get into this exhilarated hyperactive mood where everything seems ridiculously good, although I am dimly aware that this feeling balances precariously on feeling gloomy.

Landing in Heathrow this time, I really didn’t know which way it would go, having been kept awake all night by a screaming child whose parents refused to tell her to shut up out of misplaced politeness to a four-year-old rather than the 100s of sleepless people in the rest of the plane.

Turns out, and it was a surprising result, it was the last option & so I tripped giddily down to the Duke of York in St Martin’s Lane to see Arcadia the next evening. Heck, even a Piccadilly line full of Gooners couldn’t spoil my mood – see what I mean about hyperactive cheerfulness?

So perhaps it was my jetlag… but I don’t think so. It was one of the most enjoyable nights at the theatre for a long time. Beautiful set, fantastically cast, and the play is really the thing. Yes, it’s Stoppard, you have to concentrate… but it’s Stoppard without his voice booming in your ear going on about how wonderfully clever he is. It’s funny, it’s full of joie de vivre, and I find it moving. It’s a wonderful play.

The play is set in one location – at a large table in a room in the country estate of Sidley Park. The action takes place, however, at two different times, 180 years apart: 1809 and 1989. In 1809 we see a brilliant young tutor, Septimus Hodge, teaching his even more brilliant pupil, the precocious thirteen-year-old Thomasina. In 1989 we find Hannah Jarvis, an academic working on a book about the gardens and the hermit that lived and died there, having gone insane and only leaving reams and reams of calculations on paper, and the son of the house and maths whiz, Valentine, occupying the earlier characters’ places. A comedy of errors unfolds across the two eras, as well as an exploration of the nature of time, fate and history.

Lurking in the background in 1809, the figure that history and scholarship will remember, Lord Byron, is a school and university friend of Septimus’s though he never appears on stage. Ironically, he is the main topic in 1989 when an arrogant scholar Nightingale visits Sidley Park and creates an entirely logical academic “discovery” partly based on fact and partly on perfectly reasonable supposition. His folly, of course, constantly being underlined by the scenes from 1809 that comically reveal that all his ideas and assumptions are entirely wrong. Stoppard is always reminding us that truth is not a fixed ideal… it changes with every tiny nuance of human behaviour. An equation that works for one second of reality, must be changed for the next.

The play deals with some fairly big topics (!): sex & death; fate vs free will; innocence vs experience; chaos theory vs determinism; classicism vs romanticism. It is also a brilliant satire on scholarship and the futility of knowledge as well as, paradoxically, a celebration of the search and desire for knowledge.

It’s about structure – can you plot the shape of a leaf using equations and does it matter? Chaos seems to rule, yet the play itself is perfectly constructed and its own form demonstrates that it’s not necessarily what, but how, that ends up counting.

The cast includes Samantha Bond, Dan Stevens, and Neil Pearson, excellently cast as the slimy scholar, Bernard Nightingale, as well as an very good turn from Jesse Cave as Thomasina. If you can find the free will to tear yourself away from whatever it is you should be doing, I really recommend you go and see this…

Also, there’s just time for a big thank you to Nick Scott who took some amazing photos of the Pen Pusher party on July 23rdsee our website… Thanks, Nick!