nolanparker

Phil: The first exercise we were set, was to write for 10 minutes. No warning, just turn off your inner critic, and write something. I was a proper rabbit in the headlights – a serious case of writers block, and a room full of people scribbling away. In that situation, I needed to get stuck in. So after nine-word false start, this is what I came up with.

I have no idea. No idea what to write at all.

The trouble with ideas, is that they are like clouds. They float around, and it’s very difficult to catch one.

Perhaps what I need, is a sort of fishing net. Not one to catch clouds. That wouldn’t be much use, as the steam would go through the holes in the net. Pehaps a saucepan would be more usefu, but then running around waving a suacepan, trying to catch clouds, would likely attract the attentions of the police. Especially a saucepan with a long enough handle to reach clouds. I think we are talking at least 500 feet – unless I’m on top of a mountain or very high hill. That’s a very long handle, probably far too difficult to control.

Even if I caught a cloud, what would I do with it? I’m need a keep net. Perhaps a thermos flask, or water bottle.

No, I need an ideas net. I think something like a butterfly net. Light, and easy to wave around.

The problem with ideas though, is that they are invisible. Catching them in a net involves running around waving the thing, again, probably attracting the attention of the police, who will want me to explain what I’m trying to do. “Catching ideas” isn’t likely to impress a copper. And how do I know I caught one? Do they have weight? Are some ideas heavier than others? Are heavier ideas bigger? Will the lighter, and funnier ideas escape through the holes in the net?

What do I do with the ideas if I catch them? Ideas live in your head, so do I stuff them in my ear? They also live on the pages of my notebook, so perhaps I can tip them in, and slam it shut, pressing the idea like a flower. Forever encased in the pages.

OK, it’s rubbish, but you know what? Once I started, the words flowed out of my pen. The lesson being, I suppose, that if you get started, and aren’t too self-critical, the “getting it down on paper” part, isn’t as hard work as it seems. Mind you, this is the longest session of hand-writing I’ve done for many years, and I could feel it in my wrisit!

Phil: Yes, after more than a year of life getting in the way of our writing, we will be trying to find a way back into the literary world.

The first stage involved a day with author Mike Gayle, and his session “Getting started with your novel”.

A few hours of talks, and exercises later, and some rather fabulous cake to discuss it all over, the big takeaway is:

You just need to turn up and write. Even 10 minutes a day will see your first draft completed in a year. Turn off your inner critic, and just write.

So, that’s what we plan to do.

Phil: When I first picked this book up, I assumed it was a slightly crude cash-in on the film, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, which has just been released ten years after we first read the book it is based on.

That story followed Harold, who decides to hand deliver a card to his dying friend Queenie. By walking. Hilarious (and somewhat unbelievable) japes ensue.

The author, Rachel Joyce, followed it up with The Love Song of Queenie Hennessy, which tells the story of their relationship (they were colleagues and she loved him, but never said anything) from Quennies point of view. To be honest, I think is the better of the two books. More believable than Harold Fry, and does a good job of describing the feelings you can have for someone you work closely with, but can never reveal.

Anyway, along comes the film and we have a short novel, 127 pages, centring on Harold’s wife, Maureen.

She goes on her own odyssey, by car this time, to visit a garden Queenie built before her death, at the seaside. There, she believes there to be a shrine to her and Harold’s son, David, who died by suicide due to a combination of stress and drugs.

David’s death has affected the couple in different ways – Harold went for his walk, but seems to have got over it. Maureen is eaten up by anger. Anger at Harold. Anger at the world in general, and especially, anger at Queenie, for being someone Harold cared (platonically) about.

And to be honest, this is a very angry book. Yes, there is resolution at the end, but most of it is taken up by rage, and an awful lot of detailed description. It’s a bit of a relief to get to the end and relax.

I’m sure there is commercial sense in this book, and it does neatly tie up all the characters’ lives. I’m not sure I could say I enjoyed reading it, and am glad it was short. Maybe if you want an insight into the way suicide affects those left behind, it does the job. But I suspect if you leap into it from the film, you’ll struggle to imagine that nice Penelope Wilton in the text.