On Pretending

04 November 2014

[Note: as of now, a superior and updated version of this piece with fewer repetitions and better metaphors is available on the Independent website. It’ll be in i on Thursday 13th Nov if you are in desperate need of a paper copy, and features among other things an image of me in which I look like Rhys Ifans as Mycroft Holmes. Which is either cool or really, really alarming.

 

Also, I’ve just noticed that even in the updated version I somehow failed to namecheck Ian McEwan, which is unforgivably goofy of me. Sorry, sir.

 

No, he doesn’t read this blog.]

 

TigermanChipKiddRyanHeshkaI do a lot of pretending. I’m a novelist: I spend a great part of my day pretending to myself that I’m in a different world, being a different person, faced with decisions I pretend I haven’t created. I pretend I don’t know about the traps and disasters lying in wait for that person, dangers I’ve imagined for them to drag them through the narrative I pretend I’m not creating to the place I want them, often in despite of their own good sense and to their considerable disadvantage.

 

But more than that I pretend I don’t care.

 

Perhaps that’s about being a Brit, some kind of cultural aversion to taking things seriously. If you take something seriously, after all, you might have to defend it, fight for it, be rude to someone about it. David Niven, in 55 Days At Peking, makes the perfect British statement of self: having refused to flee the city and thereby compelled the ambassadors of the other national powers to remain also, he is asked how the minutes of the meeting can possibly reflect the situation without causing great embarrassment to his fellows. Simple, he replies. We shall record that in the initial vote on the matter one person was at odds with the others, but that – after some debate – unanimity was achieved.

 

It’s a posture we love, and one that we share with the Hagakure: matters of great significance should be treated lightly. You can see it in the way we approach sport, at least sometimes. It almost seems as if trying too hard is cheating. It begins young: I remember going on a school sport trip to Holland. The team there practiced every night of the week for at least two hours. We had perhaps four hours a week. We lost, of course, but we just about made it look even, and counted ourselves moral victors because we didn’t practice sport as a religion, but a hobby.

 

We pretended we didn’t care.

 

I still wish we could have won that last game – but I also don’t. It would have been glorious, but it would also have been a shame. It would have made a mockery of the hard work of a group of people who cared more than we did. They deserved that victory. Hard work, ironically, is the other virtue the Brits are supposed to respect. In fact, “sweat of the brow” is the basis of copyright here, rather than the US argument from utilitarianism or the German one that proceeds from identity.

 

And so to the stage. I do public appearances. I’m bluff, hearty, goofy. I wear loud clothes and I read the funny bits. I occasionally get taken to task for one thing or another, and I acknowledge my fault, my flaw, my failure, and I move on. Usually I mock myself to grease the wheels. Part of the job, the show. Prize lists are out and you’re not on them? Nature of the world, means nothing, prizes are a lottery. It’s a problem for your publisher, who needs to sell more copies, not for the artist (and never mind the commercial corollaries, the reflection in the size of your advance, for the moment). Review in some paper or other is negative? That happens. People can respond badly to a book, even a book others like, just a shame it had to be the critic chosen to write about you. Other papers will be positive. Amazon, Goodreads, book blogs. The local paper. Friends.

 

I never engage negatively with reviewers. If someone says something that enrages me – and they do – I do what I do on stage. I make a joke about myself and move on. Sometimes people say things that are manifestly wrong or even apparently malicious. That’s fine, too. It’s a response. Don’t read it, measure the column inches. Love the controversy. My skin is thick with various forms of privilege, after all. As an example of a type, I can take it. As a person, I can slide it off, as long as I believe I can. I pretend to myself, and leave the hurt behind. It’s not much of a hurt, after all. A brief sting. A day of self-doubt. A chocolate bar, an episode of Penny Dreadful.

 

An enormous amount of a writer’s life is performance. I find myself wondering, at the moment, whether I do too much of it. I feel it might be nice to retreat into a more Pynchon-like performance by absence. I love the stage, but it also eats me alive. I’m caught somewhere between introversion and extroversion. Performance is natural to me, joyful, but it is also exhausting. I can feed on it, but the expense is high too, like being a carnivore: I have to chase down my meals. I’d quite like to eat more vegetables, quietly, on a hillside somewhere, and butt the occasional tiger off a cliff with my horns.

 

This kind of piece, by the way, is completely forbidden. It represents the moment when a duck, running across the surface of the pond to take off, catches one webbed foot in a wave and goes nose-down into the water. It means recommencing take-off, lurching and flapping and spraying mud-brown spume everywhere, quacking and flailing to achieve escape velocity so that I can return to my new book, believe in my own choices, and be the me I need to be do make it all real.

 

So what brought this on? What on Earth could motivate me to say any of this out loud, break the fourth wall and perhaps more importantly the first one?

 

Honestly: it was the Goodreads Choice Awards Fiction list for 2014. Tigerman is in there.

 

Let me just gloss that for you, because it may not seem like much, but it stopped me just now like walking into the corner of a table, and I’m still struggling with it.

 

Tigerman is listed in the Fiction category.

 

Two years ago, Angelmaker was listed in the SF section. My books are hard to categorize, they’re crossover with elements of the fantastical, so they usually end up in SF. SF is also my natural starting place: it’s what I read as a kid, and it is a literature that challenges the real, which is what I like to do. But even now, with the fantastical waterfalling into the mainstream and the world more SFish than it has ever been, the label still closes doors. Talking to someone the other day, I mentioned that I’ll on stage at the BFI this month talking to William Gibson about science fiction films, and I saw his interest falter. SF wasn’t proper writing to him. In an effort to stop the conversation dying a cold death, I explained the kind of thing I write about. “You’re crossover,” he said immediately. And that made everything okay. I don’t want to think about that right now, about the reasons for it or why it’s absurd.

 

Tigerman is listed in the Fiction category. It has escaped that moment, at least today.

 

Tigerman is listed in the Fiction category. That means it will almost certainly lose.

 

Why? Because Haruki Murakami is listed in that category too: arguably the world’s most popular author of the not-quite real right now, an international bestseller of the kind of thing I do. (I had an urge to write “try to do”, but no. Be honest. It’s what I do.)

 

When I grow up, I want to be a bit like him.

 

Margaret Atwood is listed in that category. Shortlisted five times for the Booker. Winner once. Icon. Pioneer of the odd in English language literary writing. If Murakami is Hephaestus the smith in my personal pantheon of craft, Atwood must be Arachne.

 

David Mitchell is listed in that category. Author of Cloud Atlas. Twice shortlisted for the Booker, listed in 2007 among Time Magazine’s 100 must influential people in the world. Like Murakami and Atwood, someone I need to learn from. My classical knowledge does not extend to a Greek divinity for him. Apollo, perhaps, or Dionysus.

 

And it goes on. Roxanne Gay; Emily St. John Mandel; Jojo Moyes. Names to conjure with. Names I admire. I cannot imagine losing in better company.

 

I have to acknowledge, today, that I do care about this. I don’t care about winning, but I care about being seen in this way. I care about my book being alongside those books, been considered in that mode. That is something I wanted, partly without ever knowing that I wanted it because until it happened I was pretending I was just pretending.

 

So thank you, world. Seriously. Thank you.


Puppy

10 October 2014

Google says David Tennant is my puppy.

Who wants to touch me?

David Tennant appears in a list of Google images associated with a search on "Harkaway puppy"


Other Prizes

09 October 2014

old book

I feel this morning that there should be prizes in literature for the following:

Most Ignored Really Good Book

Best Serious Novel With Sex You Would Actually Want To Have

Worst Book To Teach Other Writers A Great Deal About Storytelling

Best Sad Book That Is Not Egregiously Manipulative Or Contrived

Book That Stays With You And Actually Changes The Way You Think

Book That Made Most People Who Read It Happier And Nicer

And possibly also:

Best Novel Written Entirely Whilst Nude

Best Original Fiction Featuring A Duck Or Other Waterfowl In A Major Role

Because we ignore outliers at our peril.


Dear Politics (a rant)

06 October 2014

Dear Politics,

I’ve given up on you.

I used to love you so much. I spent hours learning your every mood and mode, your history and form. Now you just depress me. You’re empty, meaningless and stupid: a machine for getting nothing done and costing money and lives.

I thought the Liberal Democrats could help. I was so excited when they were polling high before the last election. Then they decided to expend that huge bump on an experiment to prove coalition government could be made to work. In pursuing that completely unexciting agenda, they ended up proud enablers of the latest toxic Tory throwbacks. They put their weight behind illiberal laws, stood mute on reactionary policies, toed the line. To prove what? That everyone hates the tagalong? We didn’t vote for the party of facilitation. We voted for the party that was making waves, that was going to change the dynamic of Westminster, and that was what they threw away.

And then there’s Labour. Oh, Labour. To choose between David and Ed – the first a handsome devil with a lovely smile, the spitting image of another bold charmer in whose government he served; the second less polished and therefore more trustworthy, but by the same token uninspiring, at least to me. This is the party you vote for because you loathe David Cameron and his neckless, feckless Etonian cadre so much you don’t care that you’re giving yourself to someone every bit as feckless but pulling in a fractionally different direction, in hock to fractionally different versions of the same polluting industries, the same bankers and transnationals, the same braying tribal drivel.

Which brings us to David Cameron, and the moaning, thrashing zombies of his party and the weird little cannibalistic homonculus growing from its shoulder that goes by the acronym UKIP. There was a time when Conservatism embraced an uncompromising allegiance to personal liberty, to the rule of law. Now, just writing that, I actually have to explain what it means: it means that no one, whether they are the driver of a rag and bone cart or a senior officer in our intelligence service, may break the law with impunity. It means that the executive branch of government obeys the constraints imposed upon it by treaty, by law, by precedent, and does not seek to weasel out from under. It means that laws are made with the intention of being imporus and impenetrable, not looped to create backwaters of tax avoidance and torture. It means that law applies to government, and that justice is available to all, and the process of justice is public and can be seen to be done. Spying on citizens, stripping them of their rights, obfuscating crimes committed by allies or by our own agents – no one should have the gall to do these things and stand before Parliament, let alone before a good Conservative local party. The mere suggestion of such horrors should see a candidate driven out of Kent or Sussex with switches made from thorns. Today’s Conservative party and its dependent sack of anti-EU nonsense have no conviction that doesn’t profit Russian oligarchs, American food giants, or Canadian pharmaceutical companies. They bleat about immigration and then open our borders to the grimmest sinners in the world.

Note to the glorious leader: You’re not in trouble because you’re a high Tory, Dave. You’re in trouble because you’re an empty shirt.

Where did all this come from? This pointless thrashing? Why am I inflicting it on you? Because this party conference season has yielded nothing but risible nonsense from a parade of clowns. Chris Grayling and Theresa May on the Human Rights Act and the ECHR: is the need to be able to move traveller convoys off vacant lots so profound that we will withdraw from a treaty authored by Britain in the image of our convictions? Nick Clegg telling his crew to savage the Tories on tax after spending four years facilitating their evisceration of the NHS and education. Ed Miliband’s failure to engage with the deficit – whether a slip or an omission hardly matters, it’s like not mentioning the sea in a debate about fishing.

All my interests are notionally represented. I’m a white, middle aged, married middle class male with kids. I couldn’t be disenfranchised if I tried. But there is no one speaking to what I believe, no one offering anything in this soup of stupidity, imbecile headline-grabbing and brattish petulance that lifts my heart. On this showing, whoever wins next year will be as vacuous and ineffectual as any government we’ve ever seen. Victory will be expressed in negatives, if at all: the NHS didn’t get destroyed; the education system didn’t get wrecked; we didn’t leave Europe; we didn’t frack; we didn’t kill welfare or penalise the poor.

I don’t want someone to light a great revolutionary bonfire. I’m not Russell Brand or Emma Thompson, marvelous though they both are. Perhaps I’m a bit petty: I just want enough political heat to warm my hands, enough to feel that someone sensible is doing something ordinary to fix what is broken. It’s not as if there’s a paucity of problems to tackle.

Revolutions come in two stages: the bit where everything gets smashed and the bit where you have to build it again. The first is great fun, the second is so very hard. I don’t really look around – in the aftermath of a referendum on Scottish Independence that has let the English devolutionary genie out of its radioactive bottle, in a country whose parties propose at the same time to spy on its citizens and deny them access to the courts to save money, in a nuclear nation that cannot afford healthcare, in a democracy where mineral rights to an entire region are still given over to the personal maintenance of the heir to the throne, in a nation of laws which will shortly begin the process of taking away rights, where women still get hounded for having opinions, where charities should stay out of politics and “stick to knitting” – and see much that isn’t broken. Bollocks to the revolution. I don’t give a damn for speeches any more.

I want a politics that gets on with it. Isn’t that the most British virtue? We’re supposed to be a “nation of shopkeepers”. Shopkeepers show up to work, do the job. They take stock, they see what needs doing the next day, and they get up and do that.

I want politics in a greengrocer’s apron, showing up to work. I don’t want flourish or anger or debates over foxhunting or the Alternative Vote or MPs’ pay. I. Do. Not. Care.

Show up.

Take stock.

Do the bloody job.

 


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