Religion, according to Yuval Noah Harari, is one of the fictions we create to bind our tribe together. It is a cohesive force similar to Kings (presidents), Nations and money. They are all fictions we have created that we give great importance to – sufficient to even die for. We have to believe in them or the structure of our society falls apart.
I believe that is what we are seeing right now. The structure of our societies is falling apart. People no longer believe in fictions like they used to. They are not prepared to put their bodies on the line for the old fictions of God, King and Country.
Many do not believe in god.
Many do not believe in nations.
Many do not believe in politicians.
Many do not have faith that their money is going to be stable. It could collapse again.
A world-wide communication has opened our eyes to corners of the world we do not normally see, to ways of life, religions, worship and human nature.
We see different people being devoutly religious but believing in totally different gods, heavens, rituals, customs and dress. We know they can’t all be right. It calls into question what we believe in.
We see that nations were artificially drawn up and their boundaries change. War, politics and arbitrary decisions have created nations. What are we prepared to die for?
We see lying politicians, tyrannical leaders, lies and lust for power and we doubt the wisdom of their leadership or veracity of what they say. We are no longer prepared to believe them or follow them into battle.
We see currencies and banks collapsing. We know that money can cease to have value, house prices tumble, markets dive. It undermines our trust in the stability.
Our belief in these fictions that we have based our modern way of life is crumbling.
We have to base our lives on a new and better fiction – I would suggest that a universal brotherhood/sisterhood and a peaceful, sustainable future valuing nature and helping it thrive might be a worthwhile fiction that could be worth dying for.
My Life on the Sun – poem
My Life on the Sun
My life on the sun was very bright;
Each day filled with radiance,
No day marred by clouds,
Never cold,
Never wanting for clothes.
But the seasons were lacking
To change the spirits,
And the days were endless.
After time I yearned for rain,
For dark and ice.
I longed for a shadow
And wished that I were on the moon.
Opher – 29.4.2018
Too much of anything leaves us yearning for something different. We are creatures of change. We crave variety; we covet what we do not have.
It is no wonder that the paradise of the desert living tribes is full of cool fountains and willing virgins.
Writing – Now – Writing into the future as the horse slowly walks off round the bend into the sunset.
Writing – Now – Writing into the future as the horse slowly walks off round the bend into the sunset.
I worked for thirty six years teaching and I loved it. The kids were brilliant. I couldn’t have wished for a more fulfilling career. The classroom was my university. All things were possible, minds were stretched, exchanged and throttled up, awe and wonder was revealed. I learnt as much from them as they did from me. I’d come out glowing and buzzing. But all the time I was nurturing a need. I still was a writer in my head. I had written some forty books.
I promised myself that when I retired I would write, read and travel to my heart’s content.
That’s what I’m doing. This is the writing bit.
I have been retired for seven years now. My project was five fold:
Firstly I was going to write the books that were still cluttering up the attic space in my cerebrum
I was going to rewrite, edit and hone my books into a publishable standard
I was going to self-publish on CreateSpace and Kindle
I was going to market and promote my work
And lastly I was going to attempt to secure a Literary Agent or publisher to further edit and properly publish my books.
It is going to plan -ish.
Stage 1 and 2 are going nicely. I have written and rewritten to my fill. I now have around sixty books written in one form or another. I have rewritten and published about fifty.
Step 3 was great. I found it pleasurable to download my files, use my photos and art as covers and be able to hold a book in my hand; a book that has come out of an electrical blizzard in my head; a book that looked real, felt real and read well. I loved the covers I had designed and I was happy with what I had produced.
Step 4 is still to come. The blog is the only thing I’ve done in the way of marketing. I seem to spend more time writing on the blog than I do on my books – which was not the intention. But I’m enjoying it. The trouble is that I am still writing new books and still have twenty of my old ones to type up. I don’t know when I will get on to the promotion side. I find the idea daunting and a turn-off. I cannot be bothered thinking about tailoring things for a selected audience. My stuff is real. It’s the inside of my head with all the flaws and imperfections. I know I can be offensive and come over as opinionated and arrogant. I don’t think I’m arrogant. I know I’m opinionated. I like to think of myself as obsessive and passionate. I should perhaps be more professional and temper my stream of thoughts.
Writing is fun. Promoting is work.
My books are selling slowly. I get some great reviews and comments. Maybe I should move on to Step 5 and find a professional who will handle all the bits I hate doing?
I just want to write.
But I would like an audience and a small income would make a difference.
But I just like to write.
Writing – What do I need?
There are a lot of things that I need right now.
Let me count the ways:
I need the time and energy to complete my writing projects
I need a Literary Agent to appear on a great stallion with contract in hand – which says ‘Have no fear. I will take on all the rotten parts and make the stink of proof-reading, editing, marketing, selling and business all melt away’ – Sign here.
I need a publisher to arrive unbidden on a spaceship with a contract in hand which says – ‘Sign here in blood. I am desperate for sixty novels from a strange quirky man who refuses to do things the normal way, who writes about whatever comes into his head in any genre, style he likes but is authentic.’
I need clever souls who will want to read my books, proofread and edit to make them perfect.
I need hundreds of people to write brilliant reviews on Amazon.
I need thousands of people to buy my books and provide me with the audience I crave.
I need to hold my sixty precious babies, feel great about them, proud and happy, and know they are being properly cared for in new homes all over the world
I need to feel that I have contributed to a positive zeitgeist and helped change the world for the better.
That’s all. Not much to ask. Is it?
Writing – The Publishing Fiasco.
Writing – The Publishing Fiasco.
Even when I finally got published it turned into a fiasco.
I had been producing these multi-skill, multi-task practical assessment projects at school. They were my attempt to solve the GCSE Biology assessment mess that the government had created by rushing in the GCSE. They had created an impossible task. You could not do the practical assessment. The exam board did not know how it could be done.
I sat down and produced practical assessments that solved the problem. They were multi-skill, multi-task and multi-ability.
We had an inspection. The inspector was eulogising about my practical sheets. She saw what they did and was amazed. She told me I had to publish them. They were the answer to the problem of how to carry out the Biology assessments. I had solved it. She had contacts at Oxford University Press. She would put me in touch. She insisted I sent them off.
I did.
They wanted to publish. I went down and we sorted out thirty to come out in a book. They were complex and detailed. I spent ages on them. They were honed and crafted. The publishers wanted to be certain. They sent them out to schools for feedback. The feedback was great. They then set about honing them some more.
Time passed.
Other people produced materials. Other publishers rushed out books. The market disappeared.
I received an apologetic phone call from my publisher. They had been too slow. The market was now flooded. They were pulling it. He was so sorry.
However if I wanted to produce a book on Biology practical lessons, he informed me, they would publish it.
I was not happy. In a highly disgruntled state I sat down one weekend and literally scribbled out a series of practical worksheets that I had devised. I wrote them out in long-hand with rough sketches. I put the wad of rough sheets in an envelop and posted it off. I was paying lip service. I had no expectations.
Never have I spent less time on doing any project. It took me one weekend. It was the roughest, ropiest project I have ever done.
Needless to say they published it. It went into three languages and sold quite well.
What does that tell you?
Writing – Writing through the 90s and into the 00s.
Writing – Writing through the 90s and into the 00s.
I’d had my fill of rejection slips, nibbles, promises and cheques that never arrived. It was too much effort being turned down, messed around and let down.
I continued to write. The ideas kept coming. Meanwhile the teaching career took off. I had a car and my friends and I headed off to Roy Harper gigs, Nick Harper gigs and others.
Late at night and into the early hours I would type my books into my new Amstrad computer. At regular intervals disasters would occur.
Computers have a malicious side to them. Late one night at three o clock, following a particularly productive five hour session on a novel I had high hopes for, I accidentally pressed the wrong button and had to sit and listen while the old Amstrad, chuntering to itself, erased the nineteen pages I had typed.
The books built up. There were Rock books, Sci-fi, novels, biographical works. I was utterly free. I would write them and print them off. My collection of A4 bound tomes was filling a shelf or two. My wife and children paid little heed, friends stopped being interested. But the ideas flowed and the books appeared. I no longer bothered sending them off.
Occasionally someone would read one and say how good they found it.
I had no constraints. I wasn’t producing material that was aimed at a market or for a publisher. I had a career and we were no longer poor. My dream of subsistence living as a creative writer was long gone.
I wasn’t the writer I thought of myself as; I was a Headteacher. Only in my head was I a writer.
Writing – The Roy Harper biography
Writing – The Roy Harper biography.
After having produced a series of Sci-fi novels and my Rock Music failures I had this idea of doing a Roy Harper biography. I’d been friends with Roy since 1967 and been to hundreds of his concerts. When living in London I used to catch two or three gigs a week, was at his recording sessions at Abbey Road and regularly popped round to his flat.
Since then we’d both moved. Roy had moved from Kilburn to Brixton and I’d moved to Hull. We saw a lot less of each other but I still hitch-hiked to gigs of his in York, Leeds and Liverpool. At that time we couldn’t afford a car.
I met up with Roy and shared my enthusiasm. I hit him at the right time and he was keen. He agreed.
I was ecstatic.
I organised what I was going to do. Roy came to stay a number of times and I recorded our interviews on a grotty old tape deck. It was appalling sound. We had a great time doing them. He was completely outspoken and honest.
I then made transcripts of the tapes and began organising the book.
I’d promised Roy that I would be completely up front and open; if there was anything he did not like I would omit it.
I showed him the raw transcripts and I could see he was not happy. He was not so keen. It had personal information about his mother and family that he was not sure he wanted putting out while people were still alive.
I put the biography idea to one side. We decided a book focused around the songs would be in order. I set off again.
Writing – The Roy Harper lyric book in Four Volumes.
Over the course of the next twenty years I worked on and off on the Roy Harper Lyric Book. My idea was to feature the Harper lyrics on one page and opposite have photos, explanation, anecdotes and gig talk to illustrate.
A lot of the lyrics were autobiographical so the story could come out through the songs.
I went to visit in Brixton and then in Spilsby in Lincolnshire, where he had moved to in order to escape the traffic congestion of the city, and finally to Ireland where he had set himself up with a house and studio.
We recorded tape after tape and I have thirty C90 tapes full.
Making the transcripts was slow and painful. I had to press play, type with my one finger, and rewind. It took forever.
I started patching things together and the project grew into four volumes. I had the finished article and gave it to Roy. He was happy with it. He called me up on stage and presented me with it, introducing me to the crowd and telling them it would soon be out. I released extracts from the book in the Roy Harper magazine Hors D’ Oeuvres.
It was going well. There was a final visit to Ireland to tidy up ends. We had a few disagreements about including some of the lesser songs and flow charts.
Then it went wrong. Roy decided it wasn’t right. He pulled it and produced his own book of lyrics.
I was stunned. I’d had twenty years working on it. I had hopes of it being a springboard to get my other writing out there.
I threw it in my crowded bottom drawer and moved on.
Writing – The Big Breakthrough!
Writing – The Big Breakthrough!
By the eighties I was not making any impression on publishers. I had two bites at the bait. One of my Sci-fi books was considered, professionally read and ummed over. They decided not to go ahead.
I had been running a History of Rock Music course as an adult Education class. Times were tough. Teaching was poorly paid. The kids were on free school meals and we could not make ends meet. I moonlighted at a Youth Club and teaching evening classes in A Level Biology and Rock Music. It brought some money in.
I had a big collection of vinyl albums that I added to substantially in the process of teaching that course. Instead of bringing money in I was spending more than I was bringing in. Not a good idea.
I decided to write a book on what I knew best – Rock Music. I launched myself in with gusto, using my notes from the Rock Class, producing charts of influences, track lists and descriptions of genres and artists and liberally sprinkling anecdotes. By the time I had finished I had produced a four volume definitive history of some one thousand two hundred pages. I called it ‘Rock Strata’.
I sent it off and a Literary Agent was highly interested. Within a week he had got a publisher interested. I went to London for a meeting. The Publisher loved it. They wanted to publish.
I was delighted.
The only problem was that he was not willing to produce four volumes and one thousand two hundred pages. He thought it was too risky and would cost too much. He wanted me to base the book around the flow diagrams and cut it down to two hundred pages.
I was dismayed. What he was talking about was a different book altogether.
I went home and spent the entire summer holiday writing the new book. I got it down to two hundred and twenty five pages with twenty flow diagrams. I called it ‘Rock Streams’ and sent it off.
He was delighted. He loved the writing, concept and knowledge. He loved the flow charts. We talked technical issues concerning designing and producing the flow diagrams. He was worried about the cost. We sorted it.
I went down to Portsmouth to their publishing house and negotiated the deal. I was to receive an advance of £200. That was a substantial sum to me and solved all my financial worries.
I went back home and started writing a follow-up which I called ‘Under the Covers’. It was a great idea and one that I will rewrite one day.
It was just before Christmas and the cheque was due to arrive in late November. We rushed out and bought the kids Christmas presents – mountain bikes and gear. The cheque never arrived.
I rang and it was always in the post.
In January, after many awkward conversations with my bank manager, the publisher admitted that the book had been pulled. The board had considered the cost of the flow diagrams was too much. They also thought that it might be competing with Pete Frame’s Rock Family Trees – though the concept and execution were completely different. There was not going o be a cheque or a book.
My Literary Agent was apologetic. He thought it had been an unprecedented piece of bad management and I had been let down badly.
I went home and threw the manuscript in the bottom drawer along with the follow-up. I did not continue with the Literary Agent and just let everything lapse.
Writing – The early days – writing through the seventies.
Writing – The early days – writing through the seventies.
Over the ensuing years the pattern continued. I felt the urge, had brainstorms of ideas and out would pop another novel. I would send it off and garnish the rejection slips.
I got used to it. At regular intervals I would start another project. My mind would fill like the memory cache of a computer, and it would splurge out of my one finger (I am a one-finger typist) until there was a great wadge of typed sheets with one that simply said – ‘The End’.
I started taking them in and using a machine at school to punch holes in the sheets. I purchased some spines and designed my own cardboard covers and made them into my own A4 books. They were rough and ready but I had a collection of my own work. I could see the end product of my hours of work.
I worked out that each one, with rewrites, notes and associated effort, took about a thousand hours of work. I’ve got a lot quicker since then.
My wife and friends stopped seeing me as a potential author. It was accepted that this was now a hobby and I would never achieve my aim of publishing and having a living off my creativity.
But for me the ideas refused to stop coming and I was still as enthusiastic about every venture. It was an obsession.
Sleep became my enemy and tiredness my limitation. I could happily work through the night. When the ideas were flowing it carried me along on a torrent and I could not stop. I did not get tired. But I had to limit myself. I made a deadline of three o clock. At that time I would stop and get some sleep. I knew that I would not function in the classroom without at least four hours sleep. If I had not been at work I would happily have continued writing until I dropped from exhaustion. I found it exhilarating.
The books piled up and the rejection slips sat in a file.
Writing – How my writing continued.
Writing – How my writing continued.
Following the utter failure of my ambitious first book I found myself a teacher with a young family. Life was pretty full on. Particularly as I was determined to keep my creative urges satisfied, keep my social life, go to as many gigs as possible and find time for my writing.
This was not helped by moving out of London and up North to Hull. It was a new way of life and a new bunch of friends.
Life rapidly becomes a routine.
I had reasoned that I needed to structure my next book into a more orthodox narrative, develop characters and have a story. Rudimentary you might say. As I was a Sci-fi buff and had lots of ideas I married them together into a Sci-fi novel. It was an interesting venture. Writing a book in that way was a whole new ball-game. I had to hold it all in my head.
I would get up at seven thirty and do a days teaching, get home do my preparation and marking, play with the kids and get them to bed, watch a bit of TV or see a few friends, go to a gig every now and then, and try to fit everything in. At ten o clock I would usually start writing. I typed my stuff on an old Remington. I would be there writing until two or three in the morning. It would take me about four weeks to do a first draft. The ideas flowed and streamed through my head and on to the sheets. While I was writing I was consumed by it. At school in free periods and lunch I would be scribbling away. I’m sure there were even times in lessons when a thought, idea or bit of dialogue came into my head and demanded to be written down.
I could keep up the intensity and manage on four hours sleep a night for about four weeks. I would reach the last chapter with a weary mind and body. By then I was shot. I’d force myself to complete it and collapse.
After a brief period of weeks the next book would be crowding into my mind.
My second book was called ‘Pornographic Syndromes’. It was a Sci-fi book with a difference.
I sent it off and collected the rejection slips.
Writing – How I started writing and my first project – ‘Reality Dreams’.
Writing – How I started writing and my first project – ‘Reality Dreams’.
I started writing ‘seriously’ (ha-ha) in 1970. I was in my final year of college and realised that I had a great desire to be creative. I had absolutely no desire to seek a career and earn money; I did not want to fit in with a society that I despised.
I tried doing some art and greatly enjoyed myself. I could see myself as the starving artist in the garret, happily daubing away. I rapidly saw that it was not going to enable me to make ends meet even on a starvation level so I kept that as a sideline. Writing seemed a good way forward. I had a head full of ideas, great passion and I thought it was easy. Everyone could write, right? All you needed were the notions and I had them in spades. I was not after wealth and fame, an audience and modest income sufficient to keep me and my partner – nothing extravagant. I thought it would be a breeze.
I was so wrong.
I had this concept for a first book (Reality Dreams) – a series of vignettes that slotted together like a jigsaw that told the story of my main character – one Messny Krapbutt – complete with poems, cartoons, art and strange interludes. It started with the egg and sperm and proceeded to death. The book had three parts. The first was Messny’s life, the second was god, infinity and the universe, and the third was surreal (as if the other two sections were not).
I considered it extremely radical, highly original and a multidimensional masterpiece. I was passionate and enthusiastic and bent everybody’s ears until they were sick of my spoutings on infinity and mysticism.
Confidently I sent it off to various publishers and received a bunch of rejection slips – some bland and one scathing – he could detect nothing interesting in my writing style and I should stop right away.
It was salutary but it did not put me off. Even when my friends read my written work and found the process tough, I was undeterred. I tried to look objectively at what I had done and I could see that maybe the writing was pedestrian and there was no evident narrative to pull people in to the story. I had a lot to learn.
It was obvious that I was not going to get my first book published and my dream of earning a scant living from my writing faded. Reality was not dreaming; it was knocking at my door. I had a wife, son and need of a secure income. I went in to teaching to bide me over until I could get my writing ‘career’ off the ground. It was to be a brief interlude.
In hindsight my first effort ‘Reality Dreams’ was a typical sixties bit of crazy metaphysical rambling; typical of its time. It was unpublishable even as a sixties ramble.
I have since rewritten it (back in the 1990s, still on typewriter) which has improved the writing but could not do anything about the concept and structure.
At the moment it sits as two volumes of typed script. I am quite attached to it for nostalgic reasons. One day I will type it up digitally and publish it for my own interest.
Reality Dreams was a toe in the water.