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Hey, Fair warning: it was my birthday yesterday and I rather overindulged so don’t expect much from me today, other than idle musings. As I lay on this blessedly cold concrete floor, I am reminded that I share a birthday with Alfred Hitchcock, Fidel Castro, and Annie Oakley - quite the pickleball foursome. I’d have to widen the circle to all of August if I wanted to include Isabelle Allende in the party, who would certainly spice things up. I remember her solving an age-old argument about a certain dividing line in literature by stating that, “erotica is the touch of a feather, but pornography is when you use the entire chicken. Dorothy Parker too; her birthday falls next week - or would do, had she not rudely passed in 1967, leaving a trail of bodies in her wake (vanquished by her cutting wit). One of her most well-known barbs is one we often feel deeply. “I hate writing; I love having written.” Or if you are on the downslope like me, “time might be a great healer but it’s a lousy beautician.” THANKS DOROTHY. If we’re moving from the pickleball court to the banqueting table, I might seat her next to Jorge Amado, the Brazilian author of Gabriela, Clove and Cinnamon, whose birthday was on Monday; they would get on. Bukowski is coming, obviously, qualifying by dint of his August 6 birth, although we might have to keep him away from the slower nags. Which reminds me of the name of one of this poetry collections: The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills. He did like a good title. Another I always remember is The Captain Is Out To Lunch And The Sailors Have Taken Over The Ship. CS Forester would be less of a handful, but perhaps not if he finds out that I’m mostly inviting him so I can pester him for tips on nautical fiction. I’m in a hole with my WIP. Doing everything possible to keep my MC off a boat because, well, I’m too lazy to research ships and waves and whatever the hell poopdecks are. The two great Argentine short story writers - Cortazar and Borges - share a birthday month as well as a love of brevity but would be strategically placed at either end of our imaginary table. There’s already sufficient danger of duelling egos with a group of writers, without putting putative national laureates face-to-face. Not least when Beryl Bainbridge (Aug 2) walks in with her for five Booker Prize noms, or James Clavell (Aug 6) starts boasting about his 1,000+ page counts. Avoiding all this, I might plonk myself down besides James Baldwin for a while (Aug 2 also) and just listen to his life story. Fresh out of high school, he witnessed The Harlem Race Riots and suffered the death of his father. He tried to plot a path as writer, working menial jobs by day and playing guitar in Greenwich Village cafes by night. Eventually he gained a fellowship, carved out the space to write his first novel, and then moved to Paris in 1948. He famously stated he left America because of racism, and Harlem because of homophobia. “My luck was running out. I was going to end up in jail, I was going to kill somebody or be killed.” He’d probably like discussing 1970s Belfast so I’d put him next to Glenn Patterson, novelist and screenwriter of Good Vibrations (a great movie if you’re looking for something different; it totally nails the vibe of Northern Ireland and the chancer spirit of an Irishman). But James Baldwin might find even more in common with Mary Shelly (Aug 31) whose life story might be even more dramatic - and certainly more tragic - perhaps appropriate for someone who basically invented gothic fiction and the horror genre. Mary Shelley’s mother - a renowned philosopher and women’s rights advocate - died mere days after giving birth. And then her distraught father remarried just a few years later... to a neighbour who Mary had a difficult relationship with. Perhaps you could view this next step as an act of rebellion, but she began a romance with one of her father’s political followers at the tender age of 17 and then absconded with him to France. The paramour in question was another August literary baby - Percy Bysshe Shelley - and they returned home a couple of years later with a baby of their own in Mary’s belly, which was a shock to both society and Percy’s existing wife, who then took her own life. Dark thoughts were surely on Mary’s mind that summer as she conceived of Frankenstein (and Frankenstein’s monster, I guess). And even more so when she suffered the death of two children and her husband as well. Perhaps returning to Alfred Hitchcock will provide some solace. People naturally think of him as a director, but he was a writer first and foremost. (“To make a great film, you need three things: the script, the script, and the script.”) He wrote most of his early films and was always heavily involved with the narrative process - often collaborating with his wife, Anne Renville. Like all great screenwriters, Hitchcock has plenty to teach a novelist. Including the big lesson Spielberg surely took to heart before filming Jaws. “There is no terror in the bang, only the anticipation of it.” He also succinctly helps us draw genre lines. “Mystery is when the spectator knows less than the characters in the movie. Suspense is when the spectator knows more than the characters.” Writers usually know that it’s a good idea to inject a little mystery in your novel, regardless of the actual genre. Take this as a reminder to indulge in some suspense too. (Normal service will resume next week… one sincerely hopes…) Dave P.S. Recovery music this week is Yazoo with Only You. |
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