Made in Lancaster

If you don’t know about Made in Lancaster then I’ll tell you all about it.

Sitting comfortably, are we?  Here we go.  Made in Lancaster is made up of  a diverse group of artists, including dancers, musicians, film-makers and photographers, artists, playwrights, writers, poets, and actors  whom have been inspired by a vision from the very lovely Ceri Mumford to bring together different disiplines in art to collaborate on projects and/or events of our choosing. This has lead to some weird, wonderful, or just plain whacky ideas which in turn lead to the idea of a festival of new works produced by the group.
There is no heirachy, everyone’s ideas are valid, and we aim to support and encourage each other in our endeavours.
That said, it’s also a lot of fun!
There will be several premiers  in the festival, including  films, plays, music and art so it will be very well worth the effort of attending: I’ll let you know the details nearer the time, whatever and whenever that may be.

If you think you might be interested in taking part or attending any of the performances then let us know, somehow. You could email: madeinlancs@gmail.com, or me at: storytellerbard@gmail.com  or put a note on either this blog or on madeinlancaster.wordpress.com

Long time standing

I’ve been on  a nice holiday in the Cotswolds with my sister, Wendy. We went on a coach trip;  I know, we got all the jokes when we foolishly told people we’d booked it but it was great. We thoroughly enjoyed every single moment of it, so there!

I always fancied a coach trip; when you’re a driver you go to these lovely places but never get to see anything of the actual journey apart from the road straight ahead, so just the thought of sitting back, not worrying about traffic jams and letting someone else deal with the inevitable (when I’m driving) road-rage while I sat serenely gazing at the scenery, was great.  Don’t let anyone ever tell you coach trips are for fuddy-duddys: we met some truly mad and remarkable people, we stayed in a wonderful hotel, had fantastic food and astonishing entertainment, but more of the entertainment in a minute.

I know the Cotswolds quite well, having taken my Aunt down there half a dozen times to see a  friend whom she knew as a young girl in 1942-43 in India. That’s a story in itself, but not for just now. I particularly love Bourton-on-the-water and beautiful Broadway and we got to go to these places on the day trips. Not having to worry about finding somewhere to park or stressing that I’d get fined for overstaying parking time was just wonderful.  The villages and market towns we visited were lovely, the weather was fantastic and we had a great time; I’d recommend it to anyone.  We met some great people too; fellow passengers who were mad as moles and well up for a laugh.

Anyway, the entertainment. Friday night, pissed off with that own goal in that football match, Wendy and I decided to doll ourselves up and go down to the bar for a drink. We’re both usually teetotal by the way, although that may not be apparent by the end of this post!  Now, this wasn’t a big deal for me: I hate football, always have and always will, but Wendy has a house full of soccer fanatics and is, in fact, a fully qualified referee: there, you weren’t expecting that were you?  She’d been quite looking forward to the football and I’d planned on a leisurely bathe while she watched the match in our room.  The bar was packed with disgruntled soccer fans, so,  feeling adventurous,  we got half a lager and lime each and wandered out into the foyer to see if there was anyone interesting to talk to.  Wendy peeked into the dining room to see if there was anything going on, as we’d heard a rumour at dinner that there may be a band playing that evening.  She quickly closed the door, said, “You gotta see this!” and shoved me at the door. There was a band on; the rumour was true: hurrah! 

I only wish you could have been there with us. We entered the dining room and sat at a table by the window; I couldn’t look at Wendy for fear of bursting into maniacal laughter and hurting the feelings of the ‘band’.

The singer would have been lucky to come last in a ‘Vera Lynn’ look-alike contest, the keyboard player was obviously used to playing solo organ in church, as she took not a blind bit of notice what the other two members were doing and never played the same tune as the guitarist, and the guitarist… I know about guitarers; my son, son-in-law and nephew are all guitarers, my son-in-law plays in 2 bands and my nephew is lead guitar with NYK, so I have a pretty good idea of what guitaring should sound like. This one didn’t sound like any I’d heard before. He played tunes known only to himself, but heavily influenced by Iron Maiden and John Denver, sometimes in the same song. 

If their combined ages were less than 180 then I’ll never let alcohol touch my lips again.   

I have never seen a performance like it. Ever. And I’ve seen plenty of strange performances. 

Vera was resplendent in a little off-the-shoulder baby-pink shift dress, it wasn’t designed to be off-the-shoulder, it just ended up that way.  She sported a Veronica Lake suicide blonde (dyed by her own hand) hairstyle, and wore the sweetest silver open-toed, backless, kitten-heeled shoes, which were obviously causing her some problems, as she frequently walked in front of the organ and the guitar to sit on a chair, remove the shoes and rub her feet: while the band played on.  Then she placed something around her neck which can only be described as a kipper-tie-shaped washboard, you know, of the type favoured by Lonnie Donnegan in his skiffle days.  She attempted to play this by running her now thimble-clad fingers up and down it, at least, she did until the string broke. 

Now, I was at the bar getting our glasses re-filled with more of this alcohol stuff that we don’t normally drink, and maybe that had something to do with our lack of control later.  Wendy described the incident in detail when I got back. 

Vera was mid-skiffle, not in time to the rest of the band of course, when the kipper-tie thing took on a life of its own.  Perhaps in a bid to escape her atrocious vocals it  began to slide down her chest until it became hooked on the neckline of her dress.  Unnoticed by Vera, but to the delight of the audience, her neckline plunged deeper and deeper, showing off her décolletage, encased in a pretty black and white polka-dot bra, to its finest advantage until it became too heavy for the frock and crashed to the floor, amid howls of laughter.  Unperturbed and ever the trooper, Vera simply kicked it behind her and carried on singing as though nothing untoward had happened. 

I returned to the room at this point. 

Vera  must have thought the music then lacked a certain something because she  produced  two wooden eggs from somewhere and commenced to shake them, but not in time to the music, at least, not in time to any music we could hear.   Meanwhile, the organist was having a problem with her mic.  It wasn’t the mic’s fault, I’m sure it would have been perfectly fine for anyone else, but she was in the  habit of nodding her head vigorously in time to some beat or other and often caught the mic with her forehead on the upswing and sent it spinning round on its boom stand, well away from her mouth, but as she wasn’t actually singing anything it didn’t make a great deal of difference to be honest, although she dutifully pulled it back round when time, and music, allowed. 

She was also having a bit of a problem with her left leg.  She was using both her feet on the pedals, as a good organist surely should, but occasionally the left leg found itself with nothing to do for a couple of beats, so it would amuse itself, and the audience, by flying up into the air to a point perpendicular to the floor, hovering there for a moment, and then dropping heavily back onto its pedal.  The guitarist, who’d introduced himself as Johnny No-Cash, played on irregardless.  He was a serious guitarist, you could tell this by the way he kept his eyes closed throughout each song (although that may have been the only way he could get through without breaking down)  To be fair, he wasn’t that bad: I suppose I’ve heard worse somewhere, but I can’t really remember.  He played mostly recognisable songs but with lots of little twiddly bits that the original composers would surely have written in to the final drafts if they’d thought about it. 

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the situation where you know it would be so, so wrong to laugh out loud?

I have: often. This was worse. 

I really couldn’t decide whether they took themselves to be serious musicians.  Perhaps they did.  Perhaps this was just a stopping-off place on their road to stardom, it had just  stretched out a bit longer than they’d probably thought it would when they were fresh-faced teenagers, anxious to make their mark on the musical map.

So I tried not to laugh, really I did. I couldn’t look at Wendy, although I knew she was desperate to catch my eye; she told me later that for a moment she thought I was on the verge of crying, as my eyes were full of tears.  I held on as long as I could.  I mean over and beyond the call, I almost strangled myself in my attempts to keep rising hysteria under control, but I just couldn’t go on. 

As Vera and Johnny No-cash began a duet of ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ my resolve cracked; I went; big time. 

I laughed until I could barely breathe. 

My back ached, my throat hurt and all my carefully applied eye-make-up washed away in the torrents of tears which flowed down my cheeks.  

We had been joined at the table by a couple of late-comers.  The chap was a bit po-faced and serious looking, the wife looked like she could do with a good laugh too.  She got it. And so, surprisingly, did he. A lesson in not judging a book, etc.  Across the room from us, to the left of the performance area, sat another po-faced man.  On one of this po-faced man’s frequent trips to the bar, during which he had no choice but to pass in front of the band, Vera caught his eye.  It was the  chance she’d obviously been waiting for.  She sang her little heart out at him, opening her arms, ready to receive his congratulatory embrace, but it wasn’t to be.  Poor Vera.  Her face fell as he sidled past her and out the door, but she hardly dropped a note; not that we’d have been able to tell.   As the evening wore on,  the po-faced man (not the one at our table, the other one) began to get caught up in all the magic.  He sang along with Vera.  Vera noticed, crossed to his table and stuck the mic in front of him; he mumbled a few words which may very well have been the correct ones for the song Vera was supposed to be singing, but we’ll never know.  He took a coughing fit and she had to retreat.  He then proceeded to act out managerial comments and instructions to the band.  He mimed winding them up with a key;  he exaggeratingly conducted them with all the aplomb of James Last on ‘Sunday Night at the London Palladium’.  We truly didn’t know where to look for the best entertainment.  The po-faced man sitting across from us did though.  He watched the other po-faced man’s antics until he himself was crying with laughter, while his wife tried unsuccessfully to stop him.  In the end she subscribed to the “can’t beat ‘em” brigade and laughed along with Wendy and I.

It has to be said: a good time was had by all, at least it was up until 11pm, when the organist announced it was getting late: well, she probably had to be up at dawn to play vespers or something.

So we ended the night, waving cheap plastic St George’s flags, placed there by the optimistic management in anticipation of England’s glorious victory in the World cup (shnur shnur) while the band played,  and we all stood up,  joined hands and sang along to ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’: a finer rendition was never heard, it would have brought tears to the eyes; if they weren’t already there from laughter.

It was astonishing.  Really.  Astonishing. You had to be there.  I am so,  so very glad that I was!

To be continued…

Next time:  What did the coach driver overhear which caused him to take a wrong turning?

Lies, damned lies and statistics

We tell stories every day of our lives;  how we tell the story is often determined by who we are telling the story to.  Think of the range of people in one’s life – parents, spouse, children, friends, lovers, in-laws, doctors – the list goes on and on. As we tell these people our story, we add or subtract, exaggerate or play down, tolerate or condemn, depending on the identity of the person to whom we are telling our tale.

Using the follow scenario pick two people to whom you would relate the incident and write down what you imagine you would say. This is an exercise you can do alone, but it works better in a group situation.

 In a ‘live’ writing workshop I would ask you, at the end of the exercise, to read out your work, but not to say who the characters are: we would all try to guess the relationship between you and the person to whom you are relating the event, by simple analysis of language (and don’t worry, it’s easy!) I guess you could use this with a group or with writing buddies: I’ll elaborate on writing buddies in my next post! Try spending just 5-10 minutes on each person.

You have just stepped away from a cash machine on the busy High Street, having withdrawn £50; a person asks you the time, then knocks you to the ground and grabs your bag/wallet/purse before running away.
Now, pretend you are telling the account of this event to two of the five  people listed here:

• your mother or father
• your best friend
• your girlfriend/ wife/ boyfriend/ husband
• a journalist
• a police officer

Think about the language you would use with each person; for instance you might use swear words in your description to a friend, but not when talking to your mother!

 

©Lynette Shaw McKone 2010

Roswell, here?

Area 51a is in my back yard

I often converse with visitors to my garden

We swap recipes and gossip

we chat about the weather

and the space/time continuum

and how hard it’s getting to find a quiet spot to land

I make coffee and roll cigarettes to share

And in return

They promise not to tell anyone I exist 

© Lynette Shaw McKone

 

Location in Poetry

I had hiccups this evening.  I can’t remember the last time I had hiccups; it was years ago.

Not that having the hicupps has anything whatsoever to do with anything else: I just thought I’d mention it.

I’ve posted another writing workshop this evening, it’s about choosing locations in which to set your story, but it could equally be about setting a poem.  We don’t usually see location as a primary factor in poetry but it’s one of the important ‘unconcious’ things in poems.  

We probably  all know about ‘The Lake Poets’: William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey, although only Wordsworth actually lived in the Lake District (which is actually where I live too: it’s awsome!) 

The collective term of ‘Lake Poets’ was first mooted by Francis Jeffery, editor and critic, in the ‘Edinburgh Review’ 1807.  He  didn’t have much time for the Lake poets and wrote disparagingly about them, preferring the writings of Keats, particularly ‘Endymion’, which was trashed elsewhere; no accounting for taste I suppose. 

I would hazard a guess that Wordsworth’s ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ is the most famous poem in the history of poetry, I would also hazard a guess that almost everybody who has read the poem has a image in their mind of the setting of the poem: ‘Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze…Along the margin of the bay…The waves beside them danced…’  How else could this be envisaged but as a typical English lake?  The setting of the poem.

Anyway, location. It’s good to know where your poem is set, even if you don’t share that knowledge with your readers.  That way you  know where you are going with a poem, it helps to set a concrete image in your head, which gives your writing a touch of authenticity.

Now, this may seem at odds with my Immediacy revolution, but it’s not really. 

When I say that raw writing needs to be words straight from your head, I’m not suggesting that you don’t ever do any mental preperation.  You can think about your words as much as you like, in fact, if you are like me you’ll be thinking about words most of the time.

I’ve found some more Immediacy poetry, from a workshop I attended about 8 or 9 years ago, run by my very good friend, Thom the World Poet. I’ll post it on the poetry page, please let me know what your reaction to it is, it’s called: Roswell, here?

Location, location, location

Setting the scenes for your story is as important as knowing who your characters are.  You would hardly expect to have a believable story about a polar bear set in the Sahara desert.

Once you have decided on the main character (the protagonist)  of your story,  you need to give careful consideration to where the action takes place, and unless your story is a fantasy, you need to make your setting believable; in fact even if your story is a fantasy it still needs to be believable!

You can have a fictional setting, made up of different components of places you know, or you can have a factual setting, for instance, Aberdeen, Scotland.  The main problem with using factual settings is that, unless you have actually been to the place, how do you know what it’s like? It is common knowledge that Aberdeen is also known as The granite city , but what does that actually mean? (In case you are wondering, it’s because the city buildings are mainly constructed of granite, a very hard, usually grey, stone; the kind they make Curling stones from)

It is always a good idea, as I have said before and often, to write about what you know.  That way, your stories will have the ring of truth about them. 

You can put money on the fact that if you get it wrong, someone, somewhere will take great pleasure in pointing out that, actually, the railway station is Kirkby Brough is  not next to the Flying Pig public house, thank you very much.

If you decide to use a fictional setting then plan that setting, draw a rough map of the place, mark in the locations you are likely to use in your story; where is the dental surgery in relation to the bookies, the surgical appliance shop in relation to the barbers shop? Essentially, make up a little guide book to guide you through the little places in your world.

There have been very few successful stories which have been written without a cast-iron geographical  setting, real or imagined. 

One that comes to mind is ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’, which is set in a psychiatric hospital that could, more or less, be anywhere.  Most of us ‘less gifted’ writers will rely on using location to give our stories an element of believability.

Once you have decided on your location you will need to stick to it, make sure it is consistent throughout the story, this is where your map and guide book will be invaluable.

Another tip is to refer to pictures or photographs , using your sight as well as your imagination, picture postcards can be a useful tool here.  It is no good describing to your reader that the protagonist is looking at the wild, churning sea through the sitting room window when later you have him watching ambulances coming and going from the local hospital, unless the hospital is actually on the beach: not really believable, eh?

Of course the problem with these tools is that you can’t experience smell or noise or ‘atmosphere’ which may be a bit of a drawback.

You may be surprised to find that you seem to be spending a lot more time planning your story than writing it, this is often how it works.  What you will find, I’m sure, is that your writing will improve no end with the consistent use of carefully thought out plans.

Have a go at writing a descriptive scene about a man cycling to work: describe the route he takes, the sights he sees, the smells and the sounds as he travels through from one side of a busy city to the other, use pictures from magazines or from the interent to make your location plan. (Or you could have a go at using the Googlemaps  service which allows to you take a virtual journey through real places.)

 

Notes on ‘Missed Chances’

I wrote this poem in 1990, in a series of layby’s between  Grantshouse on the A1 and Glasgow Docks.  I was driving a wagon to deliver a wood chipping machine for forwarding to somewhere in the Highlands.  My cousin and Auntie were talking about going to India and asked me to go with them, but I couldn’t afford it.  I was pondering this when the first two lines popped into my head.  I pulled into the next layby and wrote them down, then set off again.  As soon as I pulled back into the traffic, the next pair of lines arrived and I had to stop at the next layby to write them down.  I knew that I had to get the lines down asap; I am famous for my terrible short-term memory and would have totally forgotten the words by the time I returned home. I had to stop at every opportunity to write the lines  as they popped into my head. It was very tiresome but this was just after I’d discovered I could write some passable poetry and I think it probably all went to my head.   I have published the much-edited and refined version of this poem, which takes away the repetitive line beginings and replaces them with words more fitting to the subject of each line.   I may put the polished version up if anyone’s interested!

An early Immediacy poem…

(take a look at the Immediacy Revolution page for notes on this poem)

Missed Chances

 

I could have gone to India, but I didn’t have the money,

I could have been an Beekeeper, I don’t care much for honey

I could have been an Astronaut, but there’s no men on the moon,

I could have been a Singer, but I couldn’t hold a tune.

I could have been a Farmer, but it’s cold out on the land,

I could have been a Miner, but I don’t want dirty hands.

I could have been a Hippie, but my flower was all wilted,

I could have been a Bride, but with my luck, I’d be jilted.

I could have been a Dancer, but I’m not light on my feet,

I could have been a Butcher, but I can’t bear to handle meat.

I could have been a Carpenter, but then I lost the nails,

I could have been a Sailor, but there’s no wind in my sails.

I could have been a driver, but I couldn’t pass my test,

I could have been an Insomniac, but I really need my rest.

I could have been a Diver, but I don’t know how to swim,

I could have been an Acrobat, but I’m not too good at Gym.

I could have been a Croupier, but it wasn’t on the cards,

I could have been a Train Driver, but they only wanted guards.

I could have been a Dentist, but I was down in the mouth,

I could have been an Explorer, but I don’t know North from South.

I could have been a Baker, my cakes always burn,

I could have been a Teacher, but I’m far too old to learn.

I could have been a Record Producer, but I haven’t got the hype,

I could have been a Secretary, but I don’t know how to type.

I could have been an Electrician, but it wasn’t in my power,

I could have been a Gardener, but my seeds just wouldn’t flower.

I could have been a Watchmaker, but I never had the time,

So I’ll stick to being a Poet, because I’m not too bad at rhyme!

A ton of stuff

I’m amazed and delighted by the responses to my last posting.  I do know my Immediacy fetish isn’t a new idea, but I think it’s an idea which has chosen it’s time to reappear.  I have always had respect for words; I believe that words know what they want to do, how they want to be arranged on the page.  People have occassionally scoffed at this, and that is their perogative, but I know that when I pick up a pen and the words begin to flow I often have no idea where they are going to lead me.  I’ve had some pretty amazing  journeys over the past 20 years or so, some of which I’ve shared and some of which I’ve walked alone.  I only recently thought about why I have kept a lot of stuff to myself, and have concluded that  it is because I was worried that my work would be viewed as ‘unfinished’.     I have read all the books, attended all the workshops, been on all the courses and on every single one I’ve been told that editing is king.  Everything must be edited and re-drafted and re-drafted again until it is sterile enough for human consumption. Well, where I come from there is a saying: you’ll eat a ton of muck before you die.  So, read a ton of unedited, raw writing and you’ll probably live to tell the tale ( cliché is frowned upon too!)  I’ve found some more raw writing from amongst my early poetry so I’ m going to post those on the Poetry pages; please feel free to comment, critisise or otherwise speak about them.  I truly, truly value ALL comments (doesn’t mean I’ll always take any notice though!) but I will read, analyze and probably enjoy your feedback. So, send me stuff: comments, your own writing, especially if it’s raw, I’ll savour every sentence and stanza.

Nets, unfurled

The men were watching

breath held waiting

the nets unfurled

anticipating

the fish below

unsuspecting

Haul away

the winch was turning

fish like coins

into the hold slipping

The men were happy wages earned

home to wife and child they turned

More destruction

another chapter

Whales and Dolphins

doesn’t matter

‘incidental kills’

shouldn’t be there

they eat our fish

Ours

not theirs

So throw them back

make sure they’re dead

they’ve got no rights

they steal our bread

They don’t contribute to our world

just get in the way of nets unfurled