Everyone Else has it Easy

I forget what we're blaming for diminishing attention spans these days. Is it still television? Or have we shifted the blame on to Twitter yet? Are we even still decrying the general inability to concentrate on one thing for more than a few minutes without our minds wandering, fingers and eyes not far behind, or is it just taken as a given that anything more substantial than bite sized chunks will go untasted?

I'm a writer, and those who practice every single other kind of artistic expression have it so much easier than I do. Among the finger painters designers I work with, Dribbble is becoming more popular. I am deeply envious of both it and them. I wish I could get feedback in a similar manner. Images lend themselves to quick inspection and comment. The visual is visceral, it elicits an emotional reaction (or lack thereof) immediately. Sure, a great first line does the same, but then you've got to follow it up with a second, and a third, and keep going until you've got where you want to take the reader. And let's face it — reading takes a lot of time and effort.

It's often been commented on on Writer's Cafe — my sometimes literary haunt of little choice — that the only writing that gets reviewed is the poetry. This isn't surprising. Poems tend to be short, hardly more than a single sparsely-covered page, and therefore quick to read, to form an opinion of, to finish with, sum up, and move on. (It doesn't help that the site is populated with writers — rather than readers — but that's another complaint.) There are few art forms which require such an investment of time from their consumers as the written word.

I publish the few things I write in order to get feedback so that I might become a better writer. I write short fiction because it allows me to experiment quickly, and I had hoped that the shorter form would encourage more reading and more feedback. That doesn't seem to have happened. So what's the solution? Simply, to go long. My one full-length piece of work has received more downloads — paid downloads, no less — that all my short pieces together. I'm sure there's some interesting psychology at play here: maybe by taking the time to publish to a store, and make the decision to charge, you're signalling to the potential reader that what you've written has value and is worthy of their precious time.

Maybe. Whatever. So it looks like I'm bringing my plans forward, skipping over the remainder of the learning to write through dozens of short stories part, and going straight to the first novel. Well, probably a novella. Let's not go crazy. And maybe I should actually write it, rather than writing about it...

A Quick Walk

I went out for a quick walk yesterday. Since my new route home from work has been taking me over the canal at the edge of Regents Park, I thought I'd take the time to have a wander and explore it. I headed west, arriving after a short while — and a single, rather confusing detour away from the canal side — later at Little Venice.

There I left Regents Canal curving southwards and followed the Grand Union further west, passing this collage / mural along the way.

My target was an intriguing patch of green which had previously leapt out at me from the map. Named "Meanwhile Gardens", it of course couldn't hope to live up to its name. Long and narrow, like most areas of communal land in London it featured rough tracks meandering through green hummocks. There was a concrete bowl of a skatepark, various assemblages of adventure playgrounds with swings and climbing frames, and a series of stagnant ponds, falling in steps of thick green weed. There was also this handy plaque, showing you where you were — spatially, in relation to the planets, and chronologically, in relation to the dinosaurs. Handy.

I followed the tow path further west, to the next easy exit point, which happened to be close to Kensal Green cemetery. Now, say what you like about the Victorians, but they certainly knew how to do death. The weather was just on the wrong side of bad for it to be really atmospheric, but there was a pleasing dampness in the air which leant a spring to the dark, pine-covered earth and brought out the green of the moss coating the granite tombs.

Then it was down Ladbroke Grove — somewhere I know chiefly through the writing of Michael Moorcock, and which had until then been as unreal to me as Tanelorn — and then home.

"The Worlds of Mervyn Peake"

The British Library has put together a small exhibition, The Worlds of Mervyn Peake — about a half dozen display cases against the far wall of the Library's cavernous atrium — to celebrate the author and illustrator's centenary. It presents a chronological tour through Peake's eventful life and work — from his early years in China, his work as a war artist, his time in London and as member of a artists' commune on Sark — using material including his own workbooks and correspondence. The later includes a few surprises, including a firm-but-fair assessment of the first draft of Titus Groan from Graham Greene, and a note from Caitlin Thomas wondering if Dylan couldn't borrow a decent suit.

I must admit that I knew little about Peake beyond Gormenghast, so the emphasis placed on his drawings came as a surprise. His work immediately after the Second World War, including sketches of those he found in Belsen, are particularly moving. Other parts of his work, such as his illustrations for an edition of Alice in Wonderland, I found a little disappointing — in this case, although technically brilliant, I thought they were a little too like the more famous ones by Tenniel. The sketches to the left come from an idea he had for a television programme which was never produced.

In all, well worth a look, whether or not you're familiar with Peake's work.

Garden Barge Square at Downings Road Moorings

If you've ever ventured down to the south side of the Thames just east of Tower Bridge, past the Design Museum, you can't have failed to notice a cluster of long boats and barges, sprouting intriguingly incongruous greenery, moored there. This is Garden Barge Square, and for years it has held a casual fascination for me as one of those private-but-in-plain-site parts of London, there for all to see but non-the-less inaccessible. Last month, as part of the National Gardens Scheme charity open day, the veil was lifted, so I went along to have a nose around.

I'm sure that it would make a wonderful setting for a scene or two in one of the London Novels which I'll probably never get round to writing. In the meantime, the sensation of standing among a traditional English cottage garden, with borders full of rose bushes, while being buffeted by the swell of a passing tourist boat, will stay with me for some time. I don't think I've ever felt seasick in a garden before.