Beware the Self fulfilling prophecy

It was with a mixture of relish and trepidation, as I stand on the threshold of my own career in the authorial profession, that I snuggled into my armchair to devour Will Self’s summertime 2014 provocation, ‘The novel is dead’. As always, Self’s vocabulary is compelling and his prose masterful. Sadly though, the logic of his argument, on this occasion, is lacking.

To read Will Self's article in the Guardian click here

Self’s article is predicated on the opinion of his son, a canary upon whom Self relies to provide early warning, not of toxic gases in the coal-mine, but of market change in the culture-mine. As many miners in the early twentieth century found, relying on the opinion of a single canary or indeed a whole flock, can prove fatal. For that reason, from the 1950s, miners in South Yorkshire, relied instead on the opinion of mus musculus, the house mouse. I shall stick therefore with the opinion of MM, a house mouse and trusted friend, for the purposes of this article.  

The data upon which Self founds his assertion that the novel is ‘…dying before our eyes…’ is undoubtedly sound. MM and I both believe the survey of over 2,500 authors, conducted by the University of London, which concludes that authorial incomes are plummeting.  We are similarly confident in the data from Nielsen and others that sales of printed books are swirling in a literary vortex towards a yawning, prosaic plug-hole.

It is Self’s interpretation of this data and his logic in drawing his mortal conclusions, however, which render me uncomfortable and lead MM to twitch his whiskers in contempt.    

Let’s start at the very beginning with the definition of what constitutes ‘a novel’. That hefty, dusty smelling tome, the Collins Dictionary, defines the novel as follows:

…’an extended work in prose, either fictitious or partly so, dealing with character, action, thought etc., esp. in the form of a story’…

This definition, with which few would disagree, specifies nothing about the genre of the novel nor the channel by which the novel reaches its reader or, perhaps more accurately, its consumer. There is no narrowing of the definition to suggest that the only ‘true’ novel is the one which fits firmly within the literary genre, nor one which reaches its audience via the medium of a physical, papery book. In the small print beneath the mortal title of Self’s article, there is an assertion that ‘Literary fiction’ is central to the culture. It may be central Mr Self but that does not mean that the trend of a single genre can be extrapolated to indicate the decline of the novel as a whole.

I would further assert, as I did only last weekend to some very good friends of ours, concerned at the emptiness of their own canaries’ bookshelves, that a story read via an electronic channel is as much a novel as the papery, cloth-bound first edition of Pickwick Papers. As the wine flowed last weekend, I went further. A fictitious computer game with characters, stories, plots and all sorts of virtual derring-do, could be argued to be a novel. A bit shaky I know on the ‘prose’ aspect of the Collins’ definition, but you get my drift and I was on a roll!

Sadly MM was not invited to the dinner party so was unable to expand on the dangers of relying on canaries. Self is having none of it, however. He emphasises throughout his article, the essential and indivisible coupling of novel and ‘codex’ and boldly extrapolates his conclusions about the literary genre to suggest that all genres, embraced within the term ‘novel’ are in peril. That is the precise mirror image of the mistake the miners made when a single canary was unaffected by carbon monoxide and they assumed that the mine was safe.

Self goes further to warn that:

…’if you accept that the vast majority of text will be read on digital devices linked to the web, do you also believe that those readers will voluntarily choose to disable that connectivity? If your answer to this is no, then the death of the novel is sealed out of your own mouth’…

Essentially then, Self is asserting that a novel read via an electronic device is less of a novel because of the readers’ innate inability to be distracted by the ‘undisabled’ internet. To extend this logic, are we to believe that anyone who reads a paper (codex) book is not distracted by what is going on around them, by other sights, sounds, activities, people, opportunities for entertainment, cheese and media in proximity. I think not.

In direct opposition to Self, I would argue that the intellectual stimulation yielded by a novel, or indeed any other narrative, can be enriched rather than diminished by selective access to material which deepens understanding of relevant concepts.

Several recent studies, including further data analysed by Nielsen, in early 2014, have concluded that combined paper and electronic sales volumes for fiction (literary and otherwise) are pretty flat. The basal cerebral instincts which have always been satisfied by the novel have not been obliterated by any recent metamorphoses of the human brain. If they had, the health-obsessed Daily Mail would have told us all about it and attributed the change to the increase in immigration, to boot. Writers and the publishing industries have however seen unprecedented  turmoil as a result of new routes to market, greater proliferation of electronic channels and technology which enables greater variety in the ways in which the ‘novel’ may be consumed.

 

Other creative industries have weathered similar turmoil in recent years without sounding the death knell, for example, for music or visual art. Those artists and musicians who have survived are those who have learned to adapt, to leverage the many opportunities presented by new formats, to explore fresh routes to market and to work within the constraints of pressurised profit margins by embracing closer coupling of producer and consumer.

MM is singing a very different tune to your canary, Mr Self. The demand for the novel is alive and well but the genre, length, format, channels, associated industries and routes to market are changing. Affordable technology is now available to enable us to experience the novel in new and exciting ways. It is up to those of us who possess Gutenberg minds to open them up and respond to a world which is changing around us. Dare I say, Mr Self that it is time to release the mortal bell-rope and grasp with relish not only the changes but the opportunities they present?  

Wedding Fever

In times gone by, there were but two choices of wedding venue in the UK. The God fearing opted for a Church and for the rest, unless you lived near the fantastic Chelsea registry office, you had to traipse to the local town hall and sit on orange plastic chairs awaiting a 20 minute slot with a sour-faced civil servant.

Not any more! For the last twenty years or so, despite the 120,000 divorces each year, 400,000 happy British hopefuls clamour to pledge their troths in splendid surroundings. The UK boasts a fine array of approved wedding venues, ranging from stately homes, via pubs to pods on the London Eye.

Frequenting a hotel the other week, my friend and I noticed that the front wall was bedecked with a festive banner announcing ‘Wedding for a Grand’. Being poetic souls, we suggested to the manager that ‘Take her hand for a grand’ might be a catchier slogan. He wasn’t impressed. A hotel manager’s health and safety worries coupled with a coach load of pensioners staggering up the steps for lunch, trumped our fascination with literary hoardings. Never mind, we concluded, with an average ‘wedding day’ costing £13,000, it sounded like a bargain, notwithstanding the lack of literary finesse.

 

With our minds on matters matrimonial, we ventured into the city. There was no shortage at all of festivity to witness. Within the space of an hour, we counted no fewer than four troth-pledgings. We categorised each according to its most striking characteristics. First was the ‘fascinating wedding’. Every lady spilling onto the pavement from the matrimonial hostelry had emulated Sam-Cam’s remarkably fascinating royal wedding headgear. Then there was the ‘orange wedding’. Bereft of marching Rangers supporters but packed with the tango-coloured tanned, it was a sight to behold. Next there was the 'kilt wedding'. We lingered there for quite some time to survey the Scottish delights on offer.   
 
When we returned, a little light headed, to the hotel in the early evening, the disco was in full swing. Gone however was the ‘Wedding for a Grand’ banner.
       ‘That’s great,’ remarked my friend, ‘he’s going to change it to “take her hand for a grand,” like we recommended, after all.’
The manager was quick to intervene and quash our hopes.
        ‘We always take it down when the wedding party arrives,’ he pointed out, ‘people don’t want their guests thinking they’ve sold them short.’   

 

All creatures great and small

It all started a week ago. Wonder husband (WH) and I decided the time had come to get fit and loose a smidgen of cake-belly apiece. What better, we concluded, than a gentle cycle around the (flat) local area to take a look at some of the beautiful sixteenth century churches, all within a manageable three or four miles of our cottage.

As our knees and thighs buckled last Saturday under the (unaccustomed) exertion, our hearts and minds were lifted by the bounty of spiritual history on offer. Our very favourite, we concluded, was the small church at Aughton which boasts a packed programme of services, teas and events. A week ago therefore, this afternoon’s event, the blessing of the pets, was inked into today’s diary. 

Many are called but few are chosen

We decided last Saturday that to endeavour to take more than two four legged friends into church this afternoon would be to court disaster.  We have seven pets chez nous so some rigorous narrowing of the field was needed. The week was spent conducting interviews and assessments against a carefully selected list of criteria; ability to stay quiet for an hour, confidence in the presence of chanting black-cloaked persons (of the clergy), control of toilet functions, to name but three.

The two strongest performers (averaged across all assessment categories) were chosen. At lunchtime today, we set off in the company of my sibling (who has not graced the inside of a church for many a year), together with her own two four legged friends. 

As we exited our cars, the heavens opened, together with the bowels of fifty percent of our selected contingent of animals. Plastic poop-bags filled and hidden in the hedge, we hastened to our pews to be aghast at the number of fellow attendees. There were dogs of a medley of provenances, a rabbit, one cat (ours) and humans of all ages, shapes and sizes. The excellent lady celebrant blessed every four legged friend individually (a good job we included confidence in the face of black-cloakery among our criteria).

To my delight, the final hymn was ‘All things Bright and Beautiful’ which WH and I sang so lustily that we received a dig in the ribs from my sibling. After the service there were biscuits aplenty (for the animals) and gallons of tea for the humans. On the way back to the car, overburdened with biscuits, the remaining fifty percent of our four legged contingent had call for the poop-bags just as the heavens opened again.

Back home, drenched and awash with tea, sibling, WH and I concluded that only in England would the populace be so bonkers as we. We wouldn’t have it any other way! 

http://www.aughtonchurch.co.uk/moment.htm 

Rosettes, Balloons and Rousing Slogans

After several years abroad, I yearn to feast again on Britain’s beautiful places. Last week, I headed to Lincoln, a compact, cobbled cathedral town and among the most beautiful British places indeed. Needing plenty of time to enjoy the many goodies on offer (cathedral, interesting shops, antiques, cream teas, St George’s Day parade, castle, old friends, stately homes, history, home made fudge etc etc), I booked into one of the small independent hotels which Britain does so well. www.thelincolnhotel.com

During my recent forays abroad, I must confess to having lost track not only of beautiful Britain but also of what is going on in the jolly blue, red and yellow world of British politics. Neither the Middle East nor Africa are sufficiently interested in our playground squabbles to devote airtime or column inches to British parliamentary affairs. 

While overseas, I did overhear that we now enjoy the stewardship of not one but two fresh faced leaders, one blue and one yellow, and that both are old Etonians. I heard tell of fiddling and pocket lining which has (obviously) been ongoing for years and has latterly been the subject of gentle hand wringing. I was also bombarded by so many pictures of Jimmy Saville that I felt moved to pretend that I wasn’t British at all on many occasions!

How delighted was I last week when I entered said hotel in Lincoln and headed towards my cathedral view room (oooh) to find the reception area infused by a Royal Blue mist from which upper-class cadences and Crabtree and Evelyn floral scents wafted. This would be a golden opportunity to take a crash course in the updated priorities, values and objectives of the jolly old Tory party, I concluded.

My exit from the lift was hampered by a throng of blue suited persons festooned in rosettes, smiling and milling. Several clutched large sheaves of leaflets which would surely contain all the information I needed to bring myself back up to speed in no time at all.

As I approached the multitude, it became clear that I, the potential voter, was at the very underside of the Tory party priorities on that particular day. To a man, they were preoccupied with far more important matters. All talk was of photographs, lighting, film crews and forehead glare. My request for a leaflet was met with derisory disbelief. Undaunted, I battled through clusters of blue balloons and yet more rosettes to the front of the mêlée.

An enormous hoarding bearing the words ‘Securing Britain’s Future’ (or something similarly rousing) was parked outside the hotel with the aforementioned cathedral looming buttressed and beautiful behind. Someone whom I concluded must be a minor cabinet minister, both in stature and seniority, yet with not a hint of forehead glare, was posing with the cream of his rosetted cronies in front of the hoarding.

The chosen were having their photographs taken to the adoring ‘oooohs and aaaahs’ of the blue multitude. By now, the vast majority of the leaflets had been discarded on the tables in the reception. I watched the bizarre spectacle for a while before wandering unnoticed away bearing a pile of the discarded leaflets to review at my leisure.  

If indeed I had harboured any suspicion that the Tory party were equipped with whatever is required to ‘Secure Britain’s Future’ when I arrived; by the time I reached my room, any such suspicion had been well and truly sequestered.  I resolve to see what the other lot, the red ones, have to offer. While abroad I did actually hear that that they too are preoccupied at the moment. In the case of the reds, I understand the current priority is brotherly barneying rather than the blue predilection for preening and portraiture.

 

 https://www.facebook.com/clara.challoner.walker

 

Happy days in the shadow of the reformation

This week marked the return of Wonder Husband (WH) and me to ‘God’s own county’. For friends abroad, I’m talking about Yorkshire, in the North of England. For great friends in Scotland (you know who you are), Scotland is a country not a county; it is indeed God’s own however, I agree with you!

As is the wont of many embarking upon a phase of life somewhere wonderful, WH and I resolved to ‘do all the nice things tourists do when they are here’. We had actually resided in Yorkshire for twenty years before living abroad in recent times. Our children grew up with impressive Yorkshire accents and deep local knowledge. Like so many before us however, we went to work, the supermarket, the doctor/dentist/vet but never found the time to engage with the wonders on our doorstep; a tragedy in God’s own county!

 

 

Within days, we are reversing our wasteful ways! We spent the weekend (both days) in the glorious city of York. I can safely say, there is no city more beautiful (I really should have realised that at some point during the twenty years when we lived here before).

The Shambles and  Stonegate sucked us back into sixteenth century with cobbled streets, ghostly tales, the world’s best tea rooms and a little red devil. The street performers, especially the chap with the glass balls, held us transfixed to a (Yorkshire)man.

The Palm Sunday service in the Minster, parts of which (beneath the current building) date back to Roman times, was incredible. Slow off the mark, following a sumptuous feast of local Yorkshire fare on Saturday evening, I allowed WH to progress my nomination for ‘official seat-saver’. The rest of our party of fellow worshipers followed the choral Palm Sunday procession through the streets.

When the procession, headed by a real donkey arrived at the minster, the congregation descended en masse, in need of respite. A seat-saver was the very last person the returning pilgrims wished to encounter. I had unchristian thoughts about WH, who had sponsored me for the Sisyphean seat-saving task. I was as welcome in the minster as were the Parliamentarians in 1644 yet fortunate that (on this occasion), my adversaries had no instruments of torture to hand! 

Author site   https://www.facebook.com/clara.challoner.walker

Swallows and surveillance

Living as we now do in the depths of rural France: in the words of Monty Python, we must ‘make our own entertainment’. Gone are the days when an enjoyable Saturday was spent brunching with jolly ex-pat chums and the other beautiful people at The Atlantis, Dubai or taking in a Broadway show!

 

The pinnacle of excitement this week was the early return of the migrating swallows to the village (see how creative we can be in the manufacture of entertainment when needs must). This followed record numbers of migrating cranes a few weeks ago, (can you stand all this entertainment?).

With such exciting tales to recount and a craving for social intercourse, I accosted one of my French friends outside the boulangerie. Hoping to impress, I explained the old English (I had assumed) saying ‘one swallow does not a summer make’.

As I stumbled over French tenses and genders, her features assumed an expression of disbelief. In the quest for a more favourable response, I embellished with a few more ‘old English’ summertime sayings; ‘ne’er cast a clout ‘till May is out’ and ‘if there’s enough blue sky to make a sailor’s trousers’, each to her abject bewilderment and mounting boredom.

When she was finally able to ‘get a word in edgewise’, she gently observed that she had learned the phrase ‘one swallow does not a summer make’ at school. Far from being an old English saying, she counselled, it was from the proverbs of Erasmus in the 16^th century. The true meaning, she explained is that ‘single data points cannot be relied upon to extrapolate a trend’.

Seeing my disappointment at having so disastrously failed to entertain, she offered to show me ‘swallow-cam’ to cheer me up. We entered her terraced cottage whence a complex array of surveillance equipment beamed a bird’s eye view of the soon to be nesting sparrows from her outbuilding to her sitting room. I was both entertained and impressed and I told her so. ‘Yes but the “hirondelles” are only entertaining for a few weeks a year,’ she shrugged. ‘The rest of the time, I use it to spy on my neighbours. You can see and hear everything.’ Her eyes widened as she emphasised the word ‘everything’ with a single raised eyebrow.

I resolve to be more inventive when ‘making entertainment’ in future. I will need to if I am to impress my French friends and neighbours in future bouts of social intercourse.

 

Author page

https://www.facebook.com/clara.challoner.walker 

Twenty four hour shopping and a sea of behinds

When I was a child, the world was unblemished by twenty four hour supermarkets. My mother procured our material needs at the small parade of establishments near our house. Every Sunday and on Public Holidays, shops were firmly shut. If we ran out of bread or eggs, begging from neighbours was our only option.  The reason for all this inconvenience? To give everyone time to go to church (we were told). Our local newsagent was allowed special dispensation on Sunday mornings as purveyor of essential reading matter*. Times have changed! Should we choose to do so, these days we can feed our consumer habit morning, noon and night, unfettered by religion. 

The five daily prayers

 

On arrival in the Middle East, I wondered how shop opening times would be impacted by the demands of Islamic observance. After all, one of the five big rules for Muslims is to pray five times every day.

I was reassured by my bank manager (the first Middle Eastern person I met) that in the UAE, shops stayed open late every day, even on a Friday. Uninitiated at that point, I responded ‘Great, we can all worship the god of commerce whenever we want.’ The bank manager shot me a withering glance and uttered a cutting, ‘That’s not what I mean’. Only later did I realise that rule number one of the five big rules is ‘There is only one God’. My careless reference to the possibility of multiple deities had been a faux pas of the highest order!

When I traversed from the UAE to work in Saudi Arabia, it was a different story. Time stood still for every one of the five prayers. In shopping malls, banks and restaurants, metal shutters descended, incarcerating incumbents for up to forty five minutes at a time. Shop assistants and waiters dashed (ostensibly) to the exclusively male prayer rooms and (interestingly) the smoking areas were full to overflowing.

 

The Islamic stance for prayer

Jolly Rubenesque indeed!

I never could fathom whether segregation of the sexes during prayer was to avoid distraction by the Rubenesque form or to save my blushes as gentlemen assumed a prayerful stance; nose and forehead touching the floor (and behind inevitably raised to compensate).  If it was the latter, they need not have worried. Within my first week in Saudi Arabia, I became immune to the sea of behinds as I endeavoured to creep, respectfully silent and without tripping, between the piles of carelessly discarded shoes strewn across the landing of the office during prayertime.

https://www.facebook.com/clara.challoner.walker

* Other more dubious reasons for his dispensation emerged in later years but that’s another story!