The Word Cloud

 

It was Mother’s Day on Sunday and as we sped along the M1 to visit Chris’s mum, I remembered visiting my own mother a couple of weeks earlier...

 On that occasion we’d been driving into Harrogate, and from our direction the road passes Stonefall Cemetery, which is Mum’s last earthly residence. “Do you want to pay a visit?” asked Chris as we went by Rudding Lane and began the uphill section that would take us past the cemetery.

Two thoughts wafted into mind, one after the other. The first was: Duty Visit (don’t fancy it). The second: Spontaneous Visit (might be fun). I let them fight it out till a whim of freedom gave Spontaneous Visit the victory. So we pulled into Sainsbury’s car park, crossed Wetherby Road, and strode into the cemetery (noticing, by the way, the swarms of pushed-over headstones – victims of health-and-safety silliness – and which looked, if anything, worse than the desecrated war graves in Benghazi).

My decision to visit was a good one because something unexpected happened. We stood at the foot of the grave, commenting on the cleaned-up marble headstone and the arrangement of (mostly) plastic flowers. “We did a decent job last year, lot whiter now... Flowers look faded; plant another rose bush maybe...”

After a while Chris wandered off to read some other headstones and imagine some other lives, while I stayed where I was, conducting the sort of internal conversation where you imagine the answers even if you can’t exactly hear them.

“Hope you like the headstone now.”

“Well done, thou good and faithful...” (Mum did love her cheery quotes.)

“Weather improving now.”

“Ruddle ob Sprig...” (Blocked nose + “Rustle of Spring” – a favourite joke.)

And so on.

Except that isn’t how it went. I didn’t feel or imagine any words of reply. Nothing cheery, nothing jokey. Instead I felt something else, a sense of contact. Let me tell you how such a contact feels. It’s like a shining across the upper back – the shoulder blade region, the upper spine region – where angels’ wings would grow if I had any. Such sensations always come to me with a sense of authenticity. You might, of course, wonder if I imagine the authenticity. Fair enough, but I don’t share the wonder. To me the contact feels entirely real – with a capital ‘r’ – Real. And that, for me, is that.

Naturally, there’s not much substance to such a contact. It’s an inner thing, not outer. Words, meanings, messages are all unlikely, because its savour is beyond limitation. It feels further. Freer.

I’d not expected this because it wasn’t Mum’s style, or at least didn’t use to be. Imaginary chats would be more in line with her persona, and always feasible enough because so many of her catch phrases have become part of family lore. (“We’re in MacGregor, we’re in... I’ve got to be up at Sparrow-fart [= dawn]... Home James, and don’t spare the horses...”) So it was natural to imagine her as staying close to the Earth plane, within chatting range, available, accessible.

Not any more, though. That contact I sensed did not seem limited to the Earth plane. It seemed subtler, softer, a glimpse of opening vistas. So what had happened? She is, of course, fully entitled to move on in the twelve years since her departure. Is that what has happened? Has she evolved deeper, further into the great magnificent Beyond?

Or is it just me? Have I become more susceptible to such touches? Either way, it feels like contact with her is more a matter of essence now.

Less of the everyday; more of the essential; less of the Earth-moulded persona; more of the Being who inhabits infinity.

So there I was, standing by the grave as Chris went off wandering and wondering. And what I did was remain there. I did try moving away but it seemed preferable to stay. I tried again, but once more it seemed a better idea to stay. After all, that sense of contact – that shine along the upper back, that glow in the shoulder blades, that subtle light along the spine, that hint of quasi-angelic wings – it was all worth sticking around for. You don’t get a lot of such things in everyday life, so you may as well linger when they happen.

Eventually I went, of course. Said hello to Chris. Walked back. Passed the officially vandalised headstones. Returned to the car. Drove on to Harrogate. Had a nice day. Visited places Mum used to work and walk, especially the Valley Gardens. (Everyone who knows Harrogate knows the magical amazing Valley Gardens.)

And that’s it. In one sense, nothing much happened – just a sensation along the upper back.

In another sense, though, a huge amount happened. A door opened, one that rarely swings open so easily, a door onto the great magnificent Beyond, a vista where I can now begin to envisage my mum. Gosh, what a great holiday for her.

As for me, good job I chose the Spontaneous Visit option.

She glares with anger in her eyes,

A deep, dark fear lurking inside.

Too scared to yet again flee,

As for her freedom I am the key.

I hold the secrets from the past,

When years ago a spell was cast.

And whilst trying to escape my life,

I ended up in all this strife.

A war between ancient enemies,

One side of which my death shall free.

Although nothing makes sense to me yet,

My heart grows heavy with leaden dread.

At this point, when I've done an awful lot of these blog,s I have to check back every now and then to make sure I haven't already talked about someone, especially when it's someone whom it seems like I should have already covered. How To Marry a Millionaire (showing on film4 this Wednesday at 12.55pm) was written by Nunnally Johnson, about whom I have considered writing on several occasions but have always gone with someone else simply because I knew that there would be another chance to write about Johnson. He's one of a handful of writers who seem to have written almost everything during the golden age of cinema. So where to begin? Well a full career overview is out of the question, IMDB lists 72 writing credits and although that includes films based on his earlier scripts that's still a lot to cover. Plus, unlike many writers of his generation, Johnson's career did not seem to peter out as he grew older, his last film credit at the age of 70 was for The Dirty Dozen. He didn't exactly get off to a slow start either, writing the story for the silent film Rough House Rosie in 1927, a Clara Bow vehicle. Despite this start he apparently was not looking for a screenwriting career as he continued as a journalist and short story writer for another 6 years before relocating to Hollywood in 1933. Like most writers of that era Johnson's screenplay is a mix of the good, the bad and the ugly, there are westerns, war films, dramas and comedies, and, of course, there's a lot of uncredited work because that's how it was then. The stand out is The Grapes of Wrath, and when a writer has one script that stands head and shoulders above 70 odd other films it's quite tempting to give credit to the director, especially when that director is John Ford. That's probably fair but does also raise the question; would more of Johnson's films be better known if they had been directed by men of Ford's calibre? Who knows? but I think it's interesting that another of his best films The Three Faces of Eve was one of the rare ones he directed himself. We always remember how directors enhance the screenwriters work and are quick to give credit (quite rightly) to men like John Ford, David Lean, Alfred Hitchcock et al, but we sometimes forget how many great scripts were ruined by incompetent direction. And there's a lot more incompetents than there are John Fords. I think it's fair to call Johnson one of the backbone writers of classic US cinema but, given the paucity of 'classics' (by which I mean films we remember today) he wrote, it might surprise people to learn that he was the highest paid screenwriter of the 1950s. This certainly reflects his reliability and versatility but I think also reflects how few films make the posterity cut. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was one of my favourite films of last year but will it be remembered in 50 years time? If reading about Nunnally Johnson has taught me anything then it's that there are more great films out there than the list of approved 'classics' would have us believe.

Food can be sexy as all heck. Its used in all manner of ways within the film industry to gloss over events or allude to certain actions. What romance novel is worth its salt if there isn't a bit of melted chocolate dripping from a buff chest - in desperate need of the heroine to ..well.. thats enough of all of that... you get the picture.

We all know how sexy food can be – but how boring are some recipe books?  This innocent question was posed at an online writers group a few months ago and received a flurry of suggestions and comments; prompting Sylvia Petter and I to launch a collaboration in order to bring balance back to the universe.  Think about it - erotic stories backed up by luscious recipes drawn directly from the action within the tale - a match made in heaven.

Raunchy Recipes aims to put a halt boring recipe books,  turning up the heat in the kitchen with a  resource spilling over with sensual stories, backed up with glorious recipes and simple line drawings. Given the popularity of kindle, ipads and the like, we believe this collection of short steamy stories and recipes are best delivered in electronic format.  We intend on launching it through ether books  initially and branching out to other outlets later on.

Depending on the popularity, we might consider some print on demand hard copies in 2013. Apart from the fame and glory of being involved, successful contributors ( authors and artists) will be sent a copy of the ebook version; with the promise that if the edition is published in hard copy format the following year, a copy of this will be forwarded to them. So! Sylvia and I are excited about working together to produce a fun, saucy and delectable anthology of erotic short stories, liberally peppered with luscious line drawings.  We welcome emerging authors and artists as keenly as seasoned creatives.

Submissions are being accepted between the 14th of February and the 1st of August 2012. Publication for the ebook is aimed for mid Dec 2012. Full details and submission guidelines can be found on Submittable. For more information about Raunchy Recipes check out  the  website , follow on Twitter or stalk on Facebook Fan Page  or contact us via email

For anyone who's confused by the plethora of options for getting your book 'out there' (apart from a deal from one of the big 6 trade publishers) this  very useful  post from Writer Beware tells you what to look for.
http://www.sfwa.org/for-authors/writer-beware/small/

I write this on three hours sleep after a day at Covent Garden (rubbish sales as half brings only hordes of families trying to distract them selves by looking at bright lights) followed by a night of extreme mayhem at my favourite club. There will be more pictures to follow, not for the faint hearted, but here is a little mobile camera number to wet your appetites!

What will be revealed in better images is the fab deer skull with a watch face inthe eye socket I am wearing on my head, I foud it years aso washed out of the ground in a flood, can't say more halloween than that!

Check out the 'Blue Steel' onthe man in the hat - Mr Flux in all his glory!

A tribute first to Barbara Kent who died earlier this month at the age of 103. She was one of the last surviving actors of the silent era, having started her career playing Hertha in the classic Flesh and the Devil alongside  John Gilbert and Greta Garbo.

Back to normal, and as normal I'm cheating by picking a film from last week. You may have noticed the classic Astaire and Rogers film Follow the Fleet (1936) on Saturday, directed by Mark Sandrich and co-written by Allan Scott who worked on a total of 6 of the 10 Fred and Ginger films.
For that alone Scott should be remembered, the films are light, frothy and fun but that should never be taken to be criticism, they are beautiful films, elegant, classy and effortlessly funny. As well as Follow the Fleet Scott worked on possibly the best known of these films Top Hat, a personal favourite of mine. In some ways it seems like odd work for a man who was known for his strong political and moral sensibilities (his brother Adrian was one of the jailed Hollywood ten) but Scott's answer to this was simple 'It was fun work.' which is an attitude I hugely admire.
Not that Scott did not write more serious films. He recieved an Oscar nomination for his screenplay of So Proudly We Hail, and did uncredited work on The Defiant Ones and Inherit the Wind; all deal with big serious subjects but shape that serious material into compelling stories.
He had a reputation as a great women's writer, much in demand amongst the actresses of RKO where he worked. But again, in his interview, Scott was happy to brush this off; there were more big name actresses than actors at RKO, who else was he going to write for? He seems to have been adept at tailoring scripts for specific stars and there's a lesson for all of us there; even if there's no way in hell you're going to get that actress it can sometimes help to create a character if you can picture them, imagine how they move and speak.
Finally, something a bit different; Scott worked with Mark Sandrich 12 times and the man directed 5 of the Astaire Rogers vehicles as well as So Proudly We Hail. And yet film history seems to have overlooked him in comparison to musical directors like Vincente Minelli or Stanley Donen. True, his CV is not quite up there with his contemporaries but that is at least in part due to his early death at the age of just 43. And even so, I would say his musical work is more than enough to make him deserving of a bit more praise. So, in a rare moment of magnanimity from me towards the directing profession; let's hear it for Mark Sandrich... and Allan Scott.

Have conceived a wizard wheeze, a challenge to one's writing skills:

Write a complete story in a single sentence. You are allowed a title, but the story itself must be a single sentence, normally constructed (ie, not a 500 word opus without punctuation).


Example:

From the diary of Sir Montague Fotherington-Bongwater, K.F.C.

Had to call out the Fire Brigade to get the groundskeeper down off the flagpole; still, at least he finally managed to get the fountain unblocked.


Please post your efforts below, and feel free to comment upon the efforts of others.

Come and stay with us in our Irish country house for a creative writing weekend 23-25 September 2011.
Small, supportive group mentored by novelist Denyse Woods.
Fast-track to publishers with literary agent Faith O'Grady.
Entertaining readings from the wonderfully witty Kevin Barry.

Elegant surroundings,  houseparty atmosphere  and glorious countryside to inspire you.

£350 to include accom, meals, all tuition and transfers from Shannon (Ryanair) 
www.writersweekend.net 

I got around to watching Johnny Guitar and to be honest I wasn't that impressed. I can see why it caused interest, its malice fuelled plotline was unusual at the time and the edge of surreality it boasts also marked it out as a bit different. But I don't think any of that, at least when viewed today, elevates it above its endless dialogue scenes and stilted performances. This week's pick is Heaven Knows Mr. Allison (1957) directed by John Huston and on... sometime this week I think on More4 (I'm away from home at the moment and don't have a Radio Times to hand, but trust me it is on). It's another film I haven't seen and one I would like to and it gives me a chance to look at a very different type of screenwriter to those I usually write about. I don't know how many times I've mentionned the Blacklist in writing these blogs and always from the point of view of the left-wing writers whose careers it ended, but there were right-wing screenwriters too. John Lee Mahin was a staunch conservative who was convinced that the original screenwriters guild had been infiltrated by communists. To his credit (and I'm once again relying on a Patrick McGilligan interview) Mahin had no time for McCarthy and had the good sense to acknowledge that many of the films accused of having communist subtext simply did not, but, like so many others, he did nothing to help those who were accused and suffered the consequences; in Mahin's view they had made their own bed. As you might expect, Mahin was mainly a writer of 'men's films', adventure pictures often in exotic locales. A favourite of Victor Fleming he also worked repeatedly with W. S. Van Dyke and Jack Conway, as well as occasional jobs for Howard Hawks and John Ford. He was prolific and was responsible for such classics as Scarface, Red Dust, Captains Courageous and John Wayne's North to Alaska. But he also had range as a writer, making uncredited contributions to A Star is Born, Gone with The Wind, and The Wizard of Oz, as well as having a flair for comedy (he co-wrote The Devil is a Sissy; best film title ever!). The other way in which Mahin was different to many of the writers I've looked at is that he was generally happy in what happened to his work after it left his typewriter, possibly because he ws friendly with so many of his directors. He was that rarest of beasts; a contented screenwriter. I'd also like to mention briefly how Mahin startd in pictures (according to him at least), he was a journalist and through that he met Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur (ex-journalists beginning to make good as writers), they asked him to ghost write Unholy Garden (1931) for them while they worked on a play and guaranteed him more screenwriting work at the end of it. I wish it was still that easy to get into the industry!