Something Different for Mothering Sunday

Does your old mum have a strong constitution and a healthy sense of humour? If not, please don't read on.

Still here? Then I guess you want something completely different for Mothering Sunday, yes? It helps if Mum resides in or near St Albans, UK, but with today's technology that's not essential.  You could move her there, of course, if you're very quick. It is a lovely, historic, city - but I digress.

 Okay. The next instructions come in two flavours:

1) If she lives in/near St Albans: Wake Mum up at 10:00am tomorrow with the wireless (if she doesn't know what that is, she's not mature enough for the next bit) tuned in to Radio Verulam on 96.6 FM.
2) If she lives anywhere else in the world: Wake Mum up at 10:00am (BST) - no, honestly, she'll love you for this - with her laptop logged-on to Radio Verulam and hit the "Listen Live" button.

If you've followed the above instructions correctly you'll soon hear the honeyed tones of the lovely Elspeth Jackman introducing her Sunday morning music and interview show called Tracks of Your Life. This week there'll be a eclectic mix of sixteen unlikely music tracks interspersed with rambling, bumbling, cockups and very occasional attempts at humour by some weirdo called Oscar Windsor-Smith.

Do be prepared for some surprises. In one or two households - mainly around the UK - Mum will pull a funny face and perhaps employ an unaccustomed expletive or two. At this point no doubt you'll laugh at her antics, particularly when she says: "I don't know what you're laughing at, that idiot's your dad."

You have been warned.

Whatever you do, have a great day. And be kind to Mum.

World Book Night: An Epilogue

World Book Night has taken me longer to write up than any event I can recall. Most of my review pieces take shape fast, organically, from clear impressions. But for some inexplicable reason I’ve found it hard to get a handle on WBN. What was that all about?

After several weeks of fruitless pondering I was approaching cerebral meltdown. In a fit of what I hope was inspiration, I decided to explain WBN to an imaginary friend – one who’d been incommunicado in solitary for a year – in order to clear my head. The conversation went something like this:

OWS: Yes, they’re calling it World Book Night. It’s new this year.
IF: That’ll be the night of World Book Day, then?
OWS: No. It’s three days later.
IF: World Book Day encourages children to read. I guess World Book Night is aimed at the world’s non-reading adults?
OWS: No. UK only.
IF: But directed at non-readers?
OWS: Not exactly. They’re attempting to give away a million books.
IF: Attempting?
OWS: That’s what they say: The biggest book giveaway ever attempted.
IF: Sounds very charitable.
OWS: Yes. And on the night before WBN there’s a grand bash for the book givers with famous writers and other celebs in Trafalgar Square. Oh, and there’ll be limited edition T-shirts, too.
IF: Sounds a lot like Band Aid?
OWS: Yes. Only this event is free and…
IF: There are no bands?
OWS: Yeah.
IF: And there’s no aid?
OWS: …I suppose… But think of all those free books. They’ll be passed from reader to reader for years. There’s no knowing how many people they’ll reach.
IF: That could fulfil the ‘World’ bit, then?
OWS: Indeed. And the 25 chosen titles will be specially printed for WBN.
IF: Specially printed?
OWS: Uh, huh.
IF: Doesn’t that make them limited edition – you know – collectors’ items?
OWS: …I guess.
IF: Won’t there be temptation to hang on to the books, maybe to collect all 25 titles?
OWS: Now you’re just being cynical.
IF: How many givers did you say?
OWS: 20,000
IF: That’s an awful lot of people in Trafalgar Square to collect their reward.
OWS: No worries. It’s limited to 2,500 pairs of tickets: first come first served.
IF: Won’t that – sort of – limit the take-up to the South East?
OWS: Possibly. But don’t forget the Antony Gormley designed T-shirts.
IF: Of course – there’ll be 20,000 T-shirts.
OWS: No. 1,000: first come first served.
IF: So… first to arrive on WBN will get T-shirts?
OWS: Ah… No.
IF: First to arrive at Trafalgar Square will get T-shirts?
OWS: Not quite.
IF: Who does get T-shirts then?
OWS: First to arrive at Waterstones in Piccadilly, the day before Trafalgar Square.
IF: Ah… That’s pretty much the book givers who work in or around London, eh?
OWS: Mmmm…
IF: And they’re planning to do all this again next year?
OWS: So it seems.

I based that fantasy exchange on a view from before the event of course.  Had I told my imaginary friend that we’d been requested to enter manually in each book a 10-digit code – received only a day before Trafalgar Square – he might well have pleaded to be locked up again. Especially given that anyone receiving a manually coded WBN book will be unlikely to have the slightest idea what the code means or what to do with it (For the record: it’s intended to make the book traceable on a website called BookCrossing.com).

I should explain that, at the time of my becoming involved with WBN, I had no idea there were to be perks for the givers. I submitted my application in response to a TV advert in 2010 as one of the ‘givers’ to distribute a million books because it seemed like a good idea to encourage others to read. In short, I believed I was offering to take part in an essentially charitable undertaking.

In fairness I must add that from a viewpoint of my personal satisfaction World Book Night was a success. The Trafalgar Square event was a blast. Terrific atmosphere. Cool in every sense. And my own book-giving event cemented friendships within Verulam Writers Circle, with Radio Verulam presenter Danny Smith and with Sean, the helpful manager at Waterstones, St Albans. Yes, WBN and its precursor event proved to be fun and memorable. But what was WBN really all about?

Friends from Verulam Writers' Circle with Radio Verulam's Danny Smith at Waterstones, St Albans on WBN

Perhaps a writer with excessive imagination might liken World Book Night to the irrational convulsions of a doomed giant in denial. But I couldn't possibly comment. Anyway, worry not. If a leviathan is expiring it is the legacy world of paper publication: AKA the treebook trade. Publishing – you'll be relieved to hear – is alive and well. At least Ebooks and their authors are thriving, or so it seems.  < NB This link connects to a long piece. But it's one not to miss if you need to know the latest buzz about publishing. [CONTENT WARNING: Do, please, ignore the "monkey" link if you’re easily offended]

Penultimately, a prediction: Electronic delivery – on one platform or another – will dominate book publishing within two years, supplying our reading needs without ever completely replacing codex (paper) books. The codex book though will fast become a luxury item, a lifestyle statement saying: 'This is who I am'. When this metamorphosis is complete only the best-loved and most prestigious works will transfer to paper. Then more than ever you’ll judge a person’s credibility by checking out the spines of their Kafka and their Joyce.

So prepare for some shake-ups in the immediate future of publishing. It will still be book publishing but certainly not as we know it.  Maybe – in the fullness of time – this will prove to be what World Book Night was really all about?

Ebooks v Treebooks

Publishing directors are becoming taller and quotes are getting shorter. Have you noticed?

Time was, you could tell a literary agent or publishing director by their round shoulders and weary gait. No longer. In the recent past publishing professionals lugged sheaves of manuscripts to read in their precious free moments. Paper in bulk is not light. Hence their stoop. And then along came e-readers.

Whatever the effect of the shakeout in proprietary e-reading devices on the book-buying market, the adoption of e-readers is having a profound effect on publishing professionals, and not simply on their posture.

My evidence comes from observations at Verulam Writers' Circle's 5th annual Get Writing conference, on Saturday 19th February, at the University of Hertfordshire's Hatfield campus.

I've been a member of VWC for some six years and watched it grow from being a long-established but staid local institution into one of the UK's most progressive and successful writers' groups. Today, Get Writing attracts speakers from the top echelons of the publishing industry and the writing craft.

I shall write no further details of this excellent event and what outstanding value it represented, nor shall I list the literary luminaries who contributed and attended. This ground has been well covered by others in sparkling style, notably here by Gillian Green of Ebury Publishing, who stepped in at the 11th hour to cover for another contributor.

A notebook full of scribblings attests to the cornucopia of inspirational tips and information I received and attempted to record - mostly illegibly (would I even be a writer were it not for my computer? I think not) - at another wonderful Get Writing.

Above this solid bedrock of potentially career-changing information a few promontories shine in memory like gems: quote-bites - some intentional, some in passing - that I deem priceless:

Gillian Green: '…ebooks and treebooks…' - Gillian was I believe quoting someone else, but - in my view - this short phrase has the power and emotive impact single-handedly to change perceptions of the traditional codex-type book.

Simon Taylor: '…I have eight [Read fifty-two – yes, 52 – confirmed by Simon. Many apologies, Simon] manuscripts with me on my iPad…' Okay, that may not be the wittiest or most memorable quote ever - it may not even be an accurate record of Simon's words - but it does give insight to the way the world of publishing is changing.

Raymond Tallis: 'A writer is a professor of disappointment.' - 'I have learned as much from books I've written [i.e., from doing the research] as from books I've read.' - 'Twitter is suicide of the mind.'

So, VWC's Get Writing is over for 2011. Next year - to judge by progress to date - the event will be even better and a lot bigger. GW2011 was sold out. The cost is remarkably reasonable and could prove the best investment of your writing career.

Don't miss GW2012. Keep an eye on the VWC website toward the end of this year.

I hope to meet you there.

Oh, What a Night: World Book Night

 

Have you ever volunteered for something because it seemed like one hell of a good idea at the time and only later considered what your commitment entailed?

Don't get me wrong, as a writer and avid reader, I still think that World Book Night is a brilliant idea. But it is also a very quirky, eccentric, unlikely and very English sort of idea. Which, come to think of it, is probably why I liked it enough to volunteer at the outset with very little – if any – forethought.

I wonder, however, if I'm alone in finding the cold logistics - if carried out strictly in accordance with the spirit of the scheme – slightly more daunting than I had at first envisaged? No problem, it shall be done as intended, but it's not simply a question of handing out a book or two to mates in the pub. Oh no.

In case you've been out of the galaxy for a few months and haven't heard of the inaugural World Book Night (WBN), the big idea is that 1,000,000 – yes one million – free donated books will be distributed by a team of 20,000 volunteers, on, or close to March 5, 2011. We're not talking second hand rejects here. These are new, specially printed, editions of 25 best-selling books (for details of the titles click on the WBN logo or on the link in paragraph two above).

The core purpose of the project is to place each donated book into the hands of someone who might not otherwise read that book, or, indeed, any book. Ideally WBN would introduce a million people – perhaps more if the initial recipients read and pass their books to others – to the joys of reading.

So, in early March I shall be collecting 48 copies of my chosen title, the excellent Agent ZigZag, by Ben Macintyre, from a local bookshop. By then I hope to have knitted together a trusted local network of connections through which to fulfil my joyful obligation. Who knows, I may come knocking on your door.

As always, you're welcome to help yourselves to virtual tea and biccies while you're here, but please do turn the light out as you leave. No expenses for this contract.

Wish me luck.

Oscar

Brought to Book by FOSSLs

QUESTION: What do you do if your local authority threatens to close your library?

1. Tut under your breath and dump the offending free newspaper into the recycling bin
2. Kick the cat
3. Shake your head and open another can of lager
4. Organise for all 16,000 books to be borrowed at once

 ANSWER: 4, if you are a member of the Friends of Stony Stratford Library (FOSSL), according to the UK Press Association,  and the Guardian.

I've no idea how this amazing stand-off will turn out, but you have to hand it to the FOSSLs for an original approach to combating the cost-cutting philistines.

How about we writers and readers get behind these people and give them the publicity they deserve?

Please retweet this via the button below. Or, better still – if you're on Twitter – please tweet your feelings to the hashtag #savelibraries, and/or #FOSSL and 'like' the Facebook page of Save Libraries.

Thank you in anticipation of your support.

Have a great weekend.

High Tide on Baker Street

A short story dedicated to the memory of Gerry Rafferty who died yesterday .

 

High Tide on Baker Street

By Oscar Windsor-Smith

The city desert makes you feel so cold.

It's got so many people but it's got no soul…  *

Seen by the window lights her eyes shine star-bright. She may be a cop perhaps––no, someone softer––and she's crouching close to a bed that stinks of London, piss and unwashed feet.

The woman crouching in the doorway is wearing dark clothing, knitted tights and clumpy shoes; she smells clean, like lost memories of seaside air and the homes of other people's kids.

'Hello. What's your dog's name?' she asks the boy in the box.

'Jack,' he croaks.

The rat-dog hears his name. His tail thump-thumps on cardboard. The woman smiles as if she understands.

'Rafferty. He's Jack Rafferty.'

The woman laughs. She opens up her carry-bag and lifts out a Styrofoam cup. 'Rafferty? I expected he'd be called Russell.'

The boy glares out at the world. 'I don't do what's expected.'

She smiles again and nods. 'I'm Jane. I'm here to make sure you'll be okay.'

'You're wasting your time. I don't believe in God.'

'Did I ask you to believe?'

'My old man calls people like you God-botherers... But he’s a bastard. Sorry. '

'Don't be.' Jane leans back, out into the street, and glances side to side. 'Do you believe in me?

'Course I do. I can see you.'

'Good. That's a start.' She offers him the cup.

He takes it in quivering hands and peels back the cover. Soup. Piping hot.

'It's freezing hard tonight. You should find a hostel.'

Through the steam, he gives her that dangerous look, the one that sends most God-botherers scuttling. His scowl bounces off her gentleness.

'Ah... They won't take Jack, I suppose?'

'Yeah. Mostly.'

'Well, Jack Rafferty's Dad, where are you from?'

'Yeah, like, I'm gonna tell you.'

'I won't interfere. Promise.'

He hesitates, whispers: 'Northumberland.'

Jane scans the street again like she's expecting someone. 'Look, give me a name. Jack Rafferty's Dad is far too long.'

'Pebb.'

'Pebb?'

'Like in pebble.'

She nods. 'Why did you pick this street, Pebb?'

'It has a happy ending.'

She does a double take. 'Ah, the song?'

'Yeah. Mum loved that track. We'd run along the beach and she'd sing  "...one more year and then you'll be happy...*" to the east wind. Then she'd pretend the wind had made her cry.'

'But she's at peace now?'

'Yeah.'

'You'll find no peace here, Pebb.' Jane's words are a sigh barely audible against the roar of traffic.

'When violence is called home, this is peace,' Pebb whispers. His eyes roll and close, frost glittering on his lashes. Jack whimpers, cowers back into his box.

With a final glance at scuttling, unfeeling feet and streaks of light from passing cars, Jane lowers her body to the ground and wraps herself around Pebb.

#

Seen through a car window, another London night once sparkled in wind-blown freezing rain. Empty drink cans rolled, dancing in the orange light. Tumbling food wrappers teased the dispossessed laid out in doorways and hidden behind rubbish sacks.

'Why must you put yourself at risk by going out alone?' asked the driver, dressed in paramedic uniform.

Surprised in her thoughts, Jane glanced at her fiancé. 'Danger finds you wherever you hide. Better to go out and meet it. Anyway, people are mostly good.'

'Your "Junkies and murderers are misunderstood" theory again?'

'You're so cynical, David. Many of these people are emotionally damaged or following a misguided dream. All most of them want is to identify with something or somewhere they see as significant.'

'So, our social problems are all about bad self-image?'

'There are lines in life like tide marks on a beach. Fortunate people, like you and me, live above the high water mark. Others sink below the low water mark and drown. Between those tide lines are the ones we can save. Think of me as a beachcomber and them as precious salvage.'

'Very poetical, but you can't cure the world's ills alone, Jane.'

'Am I alone?'

'Good question.'

‘On my own is not the same as being alone.’

‘Clever answer.’

‘Groups of people scare the rough sleepers. On my own I can make contact.'

'So you say.'

'Anyway, you face similar dangers on every shift.'

'Touché.'

'Drop me here.'

'No. Let me drop you at the citadel. Take a partner with you, it's a lousy night.'

'Here, David, please. I'll be fine. See you in the morning.'

#

An ambulance swings into Baker Street on blues and twos.

'Over there––doorway––near the museum.'

'Oh, God.'

'David, are you okay? Christ, isn't that where they found your–?'

'No. Not again. Please.'

'Pull yourself together, mate, we've got to deal with this.'

They fall into life-saving routine, wrap the semi-conscious boy in a space-blanket and place him in the ambulance.

'There’s a dog. His, do you think?'

'No worries, it's off. The rascal's seen someone it knows. '

David switches on the blues and twos. ‘Let’s go.'

'Will the kid be okay?'

'He'll live. He was on the right side of the tide line.'

'What?'

David stares into the wing mirror as the ambulance accelerates away. 'Oh... Just an old saying.'

* Excerpts from Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty ©

 

National Short Story Week is here - now

What are you doing for National Short Story Week, UK writers?

Writing short stories or reading them? Both, I hope.

However you are planning to mark this exciting inaugural week of the short story, if you can make it to Hertfordshire on Thursday 25th November do come along to the Open Mic Night at The Goat public house in Sopwell Lane, St Albans.

The event is part of the National Short Story Week contribution of Verulam Writers' Circle. You'll find the full details on the VWC website, here.

Regrettably, unless you've already booked, you're too late to read, but please do come and listen.

The packed programme will include contributions from so many talented – and largely –published writers from VWC and  other local writers' groups that I can't possibly list them all here.

In fairness, I must inform you that there is a downside – there always is – in this case the downside is a reading from me. But please don't let that deter you. The readings are only three minutes each, so you can always slip out for a comfort break when my name is called.

See you there, I hope.

Good writing

Oscar