The ebook of Journey to Crone is available for free on Amazon today and tomorrow, in both the US and the UK.
As I may have mentioned before, there are some much better poets than me in it, so it’s definitely worth downloading if you have a Kindle/ Kindle app. The paperback is also discounted until July 1st if you order it through the Chuffed Buff Books website, down to £5.99 + shipping.
Charles Dickens, rejecting an invitation from a friend:
‘It is only half an hour’ — ‘It is only an afternoon’ — ‘It is only an evening,’ people say to me over and over again; but they don’t know that it is impossible to command one’s self sometimes to any stipulated and set disposal of five minutes — or that the mere consciousness of an engagement will sometime worry a whole day … Who ever is devoted to an art must be content to deliver himself wholly up to it, and to find his recompense in it. I am grieved if you suspect me of not wanting to see you, but I can’t help it; I must go in my way whether or no.
Morning coffee chat with colleagues at the day job, we ended up talking about ‘wonder’ and whether everything is rationally explicable. Two of us against the psychologists felt that there was still some room for mystery in life, the something that cannot be explained within the constraints of language.
Then I went back to my office and started writing a lecture on creativity and education, when I found this from Philip Larkin:
[Poetry is] born of the tension between what he non-verbally feels and what can be got over in common word usage to someone who hasn’t had his experience.
I’ve had a post about rejection lined up to write and post for a couple of weeks now, which is why there haven’t been any posts in the interim, but yesterday something happened and I want to write about that. Iain Banks died.
I met Iain Banks precisely once, at a reading in Waterstones in Leeds. He was charming, intelligent, and funny. (There was also a man at the reading dressed all in black carrying a cane with a silver death’s head as the handle. That outfit is waiting to appear in a story.) I met him briefly when he signed the book he was there to promote. I was pleased. Not all your favourite authors are as great as their writing.
Banks wrote a socialist utopia in the form of the Culture. He wrote satires on modern life, and he wrote wonderful liminal genre-bending mind-bending fiction. Some things he wrote were uncomfortable to read, but they were always powerful. He had the big ideas and the tiny ones. I’m looking forward to buying his last novel, The Quarry, when it comes out in ten days’ time. He asked his publishers to bring it forward so that he could see it. I find it unbearably sad that he won’t see it in the shops, but he did get to see actual copies of it.
I’m not sure how it is that these people, some of whom you may never meet, manage to make such a big impact on our lives, so that we grieve for their passing. In some ways I think it’s because when you read what someone has written, you get an instant pass to the inside of their head. They may not know us, but we know them. Not in the easy how many sugars do you take in your tea way, but in the slightly sinister rummaging through an empty house when everyone’s gone out for the evening kind of way. And sometimes you find, rummaging in that house, that there’s a person you wish you knew.
Most of all, though, there’s the mourning for the words they’ll never write. The books we’ll never get. The stories that stayed inside their heads and didn’t make it into ours. Because they wrote stories only they could write.
Iain Banks was the kind of writer I want to be.