Not until he came upon the small bright glacier of broken glass swept into a corner behind the sofa did Bobby Cuaron suspect that the death of Estelle Wiseman was anything other than the successful suicide attempt it looked.
He knelt, still uncomfortable in his new stiff wool suit, each knee cracking like a snapped twig, and stirred through the mound of glass fragments with his silver graduation pencil. Tiny specks glittered like stars in the black carpet fibres. On hands and knees, Bobby followed the sparkling constellation across the length of the room to the tall book shelves over by the window. Although the Wiseman house appeared spotless – even the air smelled like it had been vacuumed – Bobby noticed a thin skin of dust on the bottom shelf in the middle of which glowed a perfect circle of clean, sun-illuminated beech wood. Until very recently something, a big blue glass vase maybe, had stood on that shelf.
He stepped back into the bedroom. Tony and Mel were still out back fooling around in the drained pool, Tony practising his breast stroke; Mel egging him on, his arms whirling like rotor blades. They’d raided the Wiseman’s ice-box. A battalion of Schlitz bottles fired tracers of sunlight across the strip of fried lawn and into the bedroom.
The lilac bottom sheet was still in place, Pollocked with Estelle Wiseman’s blood; shoals of blood spots on the blue walls. The body and the .44 had gone to the morgue and the lab. The print of Estelle’s body was still there on the sheet. Bobby could even make out where her hands had rested, the fine cotton pleated into tiny peaks by her fingers.
The fact of her nakedness had troubled him until Morty pointed out at the day had been a hot one, the temperature at the estimated time of death being just over ninety degrees.
– Sidewalk was like a fuckin’ griddle. I could feel my Nikes meltin’. Tell me, Bobby, don’t you ever walk around your own apartment in the raw during the summer?’.
– Not if I’m planning to put a gun to my head.
– Yeah, well, you’re not the suicidal type, but let me tell ya that women in particular, they like to leave the world as they entered it – and no dame comes into this life looking like she’s been shoppin’ at Susanne’s first. The number of female nudie suicides I’ve seen you wouldn’t believe.
– Any sign of sexual activity?
– Nothin’ recent. I can give you the full story once she’s downtown. She’s had a kid at some point.
– You sure?
– See those milky striations on the skin there – and there? Stretch marks. She been married before?
– Not according to Wiseman. I heard him telling Sol that she was a bona fide virgin when they met.
– Asshole. She would have wanted for men friends. Am I right? Real cute lookin’ if the pictures on the dresser are anything to go by. A lot like Debbie Reynolds.
– Debbie who?
– Cathy Seldon. Singin’ in the fuckin’ Rain. Ahh, get your no nothin’ college boy ass outta here, Cuaron.
Morty left Bobby alone with Estelle’s body while he went to pour himself another refill of coffee. What had once been Estelle’s head was now just a smashed-up piece of fruit, a cantaloupe melon perhaps. Pits of skull bone had carried as far as the TV. A sliver of scalp squeaked under his shoe. The rusty metal smell of Estelle’s waxy blood pricked his sinuses. Why were her legs thrown apart, the left crooked slightly? Her dark thatch of public hair was clean and springy and gave off the odour of pine needles, a scent which still hung around in the shower, although the towels and walls were dry. Bobby noticed a line of faint red stitch marks around Estelle’s left nipple where she’d been recently bitten. He called Morty in from the kitchen to take a look.
Morty bent over the body, slopping coffee onto the bed. It pooled behind a dam of Estelle’s dried blood and brains. ‘You want a fuckin’ biology lesson, Bobby? Most women love to get their diddies sucked. Reminds ‘em what it was like when they had their kid plugged in. Breast feedin’, it’s like a main line straight to the pussy. Ask Karen., or don’t you two have that kind of relationship?’
– You’ve got a real dirty mouth, Morty.
– And a mind to match. I got me the full set, Bobby boy.
Bobby had spoken to Estelle Wiseman less than seventy-two hours previously at a party given by the Sharfsteins to celebrate their moving in to their new Bay Village home. He’d been ordered by Nagel to attend, mingle, press the right flesh - the department’s tame, strokeable pet cop. Gone on, he won’t bite. ‘Oh, you’re the guy with the PhD’, was usually the first thing people said to him on being introduced. A cop with a little learning, like a dog with an interest in quantum physics. Something of a freak. He’d learned to live with it, keep a low profile intellectually for fear of having his ego shot off.
The party was the suit’s first real outing and it made the back of his knees sore. The material had come from his cousin Luis. ‘The very finest cloth, Mister Bobby. Wool, but if feel jus’ like silk. Let you breathe – and softer than a young lady’s chichi. This I guarantee. Midnight blue. The prefec’ colour for you. You look so fucking handsome in a suit made from this. Maybe even I kiss you. You be real dangerous to the ladies, Mister Bobby. You have to take special care.’
Bobby kept himself away from the crocodile of low leather chairs around the room’s perimeter. He kept himself moving, not standing in one place long enough for anyone to strike up a conversation. He’d just bumped into Harvey Wiseman upstairs, volleying the contents of his stomach into the china bath and being fussed and cooed over by some young woman half out of her dress, one big porcelain tit swinging free. She wiped his sticky, stringy mouth with her hands, laughing the whole time and swaying against Bobby like the room was afloat. ‘Oo, he’s not a well man. Not a well man at all. Speak to me Harvey honey. Say something nice.’ She scooped her tit back inside the dress and smoothed Harvey’s hair down over his pale baby head.
Jacobi had pointed Estelle out to him, standing behind the Amazonian ferns with her over-weight lady friend penning her in. He watched her for a while, raising her glass to her glossy lips, never quite taking a sip. Occasionally she laughed at something the lady friend said and she showed two rows of perfect white teeth. Bobby Cuaron had a thing for women’s teeth. Before he could get really interested in a girl he had to make her smile or, better still, laugh out loud. The smallest irregularity, the tiniest discolouration and he lost interest fast. Bobby’s own mouth being pretty much a war zone of orthodontic casualties meant he smiled rarely and only laughed in the company of those he had gotten to know well and to trust to keep their comments to themselves.
The large lady friend squeezed Estelle’s arm, leaving the ghost of her fat fingers on the skin, and waddled off to powder her nose. Estelle stood alone with just the ferns for company. Bobby polished his four good front teeth with his tongue and strode into her line of vision.
– Me Tarzan, you Estelle.
She laughed (just as he’d planned), and he was again treated to the dazzling flashbulb of those flawless teeth.
– Is there something wrong with your mouth?
The glass played patty-cake with her lower lip.
– Jaw muscles a little tight. Had it ever since I was a kid.
– Bummer. I thought maybe you’d had a stroke, or something. My older brother, Lyle, had a major stroke. A real big motherfucker of a stroke. Half his face is still frozen solid. He was on the john at time. Covered with his own crap. Can you imagine it, happening to you on the john? Marcie threw a tarp over him before dialling 911. ‘Scuse me. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this real personal stuff. I’m a little pippy I guess.
– That puts you a least a quart behind everyone else here.
– You’re not pippy.
– I would be if my liver’d stop fighting with me the whole time.
– How d’you know my name? You a cop or something?
– Or something. Lieutenant Robert Cuaron. You want to step outside?
– Whatever for? I’ve done nothing illegal, officer.
– Just pushed my heart-rate up to over eighty-five. That’s one hell of a violation.
Her took her arm. Her elbow fitted neatly into his palm. Outside everything still smelled stale from the day’s lingering heat. A light smoky breeze set the heavy, luminous flowers genuflecting. The bruised moon hung low in the sky, yellow as sulphur. A shooting star spat passed overhead. The syncopated rapping of two dogs in the neighbour’s yard helped Bobby relax. He stood just behind Estelle, easing the sticky shirt from his back and watching the fluttering curls at the base of her neck, a soft gold chain of hair he found himself wanting to touch.
– I wouldn’t have expected to find a cop here. You know Nathan and Millie?
– Only professionally. Lake Industries had a little problem last year.
– I read about it. In the Globe. The Sunday edition had this big article. I don’t recall
seeing your name.
– I have a no publicity clause in my contact.
– Is that a fact? I think it’s so important to read, to know what’s going on with the world.
She blew on her bare arms to cool them then dipped her finger into her drink and shook it so that the drops scattered between her breasts.
– I feel naked without a book. I’m going to MIT in the fall.
She flicked open her bag. There amongst all the girlie junk was a mauled, dime-store copy of Virginia Woof’s, ‘The Waves’.
– She killed herself.
The bag snapped shut, exhaling the scent of violets.
– So I heard.
– Sometimes it’s the only thing left to do. The only thing that makes any sense. Would you take me home please.
– What about your husband?
– You could take him home too - if you can prise him off the arm of that Santilli bitch.
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
Monday, 24 September 2007
UK Universities Offering MA Creative Writing Courses: 2008
Note: these are ‘general’ creative writing courses rather than specific, ie, screenwriting, theatre, novel, journalism, etc.
Bath Spa University
Birkbeck College
Canterbury Christchurch University
City University
De Montfort University
Edge Hill University
Goldsmiths College
Kingston University
Lancaster University
Liverpool John Moores University
London Metropolitan University
Loughborough University
Manchester Metropolitan University
Newcastle University
Northumbria University
Nottingham Trent University
Queens University, Belfast
Roehampton University
Royal Holloway, University of London
Sheffield Hallam University
Trinity College, Carmarthen
Trinity College, Dublin
University College, Falmouth
University of Bedfordshire
University of Bolton
University of Chester
University of Chichester
University of Dundee
University of East Anglia
University of East London
University of Essex
University of Glamorgan
University of Glasgow
University of Gloucestershire
University of Hull
University of Kent
University of Manchester
University of Oxford
University of Plymouth
University of Portsmouth
University of St Andrews
University of Sussex
University of the Arts
University of Ulster
University of Wales, Lampeter
University of Wales, Swansea
University of Warwick
University of Winchester
Bath Spa University
Birkbeck College
Canterbury Christchurch University
City University
De Montfort University
Edge Hill University
Goldsmiths College
Kingston University
Lancaster University
Liverpool John Moores University
London Metropolitan University
Loughborough University
Manchester Metropolitan University
Newcastle University
Northumbria University
Nottingham Trent University
Queens University, Belfast
Roehampton University
Royal Holloway, University of London
Sheffield Hallam University
Trinity College, Carmarthen
Trinity College, Dublin
University College, Falmouth
University of Bedfordshire
University of Bolton
University of Chester
University of Chichester
University of Dundee
University of East Anglia
University of East London
University of Essex
University of Glamorgan
University of Glasgow
University of Gloucestershire
University of Hull
University of Kent
University of Manchester
University of Oxford
University of Plymouth
University of Portsmouth
University of St Andrews
University of Sussex
University of the Arts
University of Ulster
University of Wales, Lampeter
University of Wales, Swansea
University of Warwick
University of Winchester
Aphorisms & Words Of Wisdom On The Craft Of Writing
I write when I’m inspired, and I see to it that I’m inspired at nine o’clock every morning.
Peter De Vries
When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap.
Cynthia Heimel
It takes less time to learn how to write nobly than to write lightly and straight forwardly
Nietzsche
To write simply is as difficult as to be good.
W. Somerset Maugham
The business of the novelist is not to chronicle great events but to make small ones interesting.
Schopenhauer
Writing is neither profession nor vocation, but an incurable illness. Those who give up are not writers and never were. Those who persevere do so not from pluck or determination but because they cannot help it. They are sick and advice is an impudence.
Hugh Leonard
The art of fiction does not begin until the novelist thinks of his story as a matter to be shown, to be so exhibited that it will tell itself.
Percy Lubbock
At the beginning of their careers many writers have a need to overwrite. They choose carefully turned-out phrases; they want to impress their readers with their large vocabularies. By the excesses of their language these young men and women try to hide their sense of inexperience. With maturity the writer becomes more secure in his ideas. He finds his real tone and develops a simple and effective style.
Borges
I never re-read what I’ve written; I’m far too afraid to feel ashamed of what I’ve done.
Borges
I do the first line well, but I have trouble doing the others.
Moliere
You cannot start a book with an intention, a calculation. You start writing before you know what you want to write, or what it is you’re doing.
E L Doctorow
Writing teachers invariably tell students, write about what you know. That’s, of course, what you have to do, but on the other hand, how do you know what you know until you’ve written it? Writing is knowing. What did Kafka know? The insurance business? So that kind of advice is foolish because it presumes that you have to be able to go out to war to be able to do war. Well, some do and some don’t. I’ve had very little experience in my life. In fact, I try to avoid experience if I can. Most experience is bad.
E.L. Doctorow
Writing a book is like driving a car at night. You only see as far as your headlights go, but you can make the whole trip that way.
E L Doctorow
One of the dumbest things you were ever taught was to write what you know. Because what you know is usually dull. Remember when you first wanted to be a writer? Eight or ten years old, reading about thin-lipped heroes flying over monstrous viny jungles toward untold wonders? That’s what you wanted to write about, about what you didn’t know. So, what mysterious time and place don’t you know?
Ken Kesey
As to plotting or thinking ahead, I don’t in a novel. I let it come page by page, one a day. Try and write out a scheme or plan and you will only depart from it. My way you have a chance of something living.
Henry Green
For God’s sake don’t do it unless you have to. It’s not easy. It shouldn’t be easy, but it shouldn’t be impossible - and it’s damn near impossible.
Frank Conroy
If a young writer can refrain from writing, he shouldn’t hesitate to do so.
Andre Gide
Everyone who does not need to be a writer, who thinks he can do something else, ought to do something else.
Georges Simenon
You can’t want to be a writer, you have to be one.
Paul Theroux
If you want to be true to life, start lying about it.
John Fowles
Fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so slightly, but still attached, to life at all four corners.
Virginia Woolf
Truth may be stranger than fiction, but fiction is truer.
Frederic Raphael
Fiction should be a story. In any story there are three elements: people, a situation, and the fact that in the end something has changed. If nothing has changed, it isn’t a story.
Malcolm Cowley
A writer is not someone who expresses his thoughts, his passion or his imagination in sentences, but someone who thinks sentences. A Sentence-Thinker.
Roland Barthes
Writers are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Hemingway
A writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.
Hemingway
The only tool a writer needs is a built-in shock-proof shit detector.
Hemingway
What is wrong with most writing today is its flaccidity, its lack of pleasure in the manipulation of sounds and pauses. The written word is becoming inert. One dreads to think what it will be like in 2020.
Anthony Burgess
Finishing a book is just like you took a child out into the yard and shot it.
Truman Capote
I truly do not care about a book once it is finished. Any money or fame that results has no connection with my feeling for the book.
Steinbeck
I don’t know about method. That what is so much more important than the how.
Ezra Pound
When they come, I write them; when they don’t, I don’t.
Kerouac
Derivative writers seem versatile because they imitate many others, both past and present. Artistic originality has only itself to copy.
Nabokov
Peter De Vries
When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap.
Cynthia Heimel
It takes less time to learn how to write nobly than to write lightly and straight forwardly
Nietzsche
To write simply is as difficult as to be good.
W. Somerset Maugham
The business of the novelist is not to chronicle great events but to make small ones interesting.
Schopenhauer
Writing is neither profession nor vocation, but an incurable illness. Those who give up are not writers and never were. Those who persevere do so not from pluck or determination but because they cannot help it. They are sick and advice is an impudence.
Hugh Leonard
The art of fiction does not begin until the novelist thinks of his story as a matter to be shown, to be so exhibited that it will tell itself.
Percy Lubbock
At the beginning of their careers many writers have a need to overwrite. They choose carefully turned-out phrases; they want to impress their readers with their large vocabularies. By the excesses of their language these young men and women try to hide their sense of inexperience. With maturity the writer becomes more secure in his ideas. He finds his real tone and develops a simple and effective style.
Borges
I never re-read what I’ve written; I’m far too afraid to feel ashamed of what I’ve done.
Borges
I do the first line well, but I have trouble doing the others.
Moliere
You cannot start a book with an intention, a calculation. You start writing before you know what you want to write, or what it is you’re doing.
E L Doctorow
Writing teachers invariably tell students, write about what you know. That’s, of course, what you have to do, but on the other hand, how do you know what you know until you’ve written it? Writing is knowing. What did Kafka know? The insurance business? So that kind of advice is foolish because it presumes that you have to be able to go out to war to be able to do war. Well, some do and some don’t. I’ve had very little experience in my life. In fact, I try to avoid experience if I can. Most experience is bad.
E.L. Doctorow
Writing a book is like driving a car at night. You only see as far as your headlights go, but you can make the whole trip that way.
E L Doctorow
One of the dumbest things you were ever taught was to write what you know. Because what you know is usually dull. Remember when you first wanted to be a writer? Eight or ten years old, reading about thin-lipped heroes flying over monstrous viny jungles toward untold wonders? That’s what you wanted to write about, about what you didn’t know. So, what mysterious time and place don’t you know?
Ken Kesey
As to plotting or thinking ahead, I don’t in a novel. I let it come page by page, one a day. Try and write out a scheme or plan and you will only depart from it. My way you have a chance of something living.
Henry Green
For God’s sake don’t do it unless you have to. It’s not easy. It shouldn’t be easy, but it shouldn’t be impossible - and it’s damn near impossible.
Frank Conroy
If a young writer can refrain from writing, he shouldn’t hesitate to do so.
Andre Gide
Everyone who does not need to be a writer, who thinks he can do something else, ought to do something else.
Georges Simenon
You can’t want to be a writer, you have to be one.
Paul Theroux
If you want to be true to life, start lying about it.
John Fowles
Fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so slightly, but still attached, to life at all four corners.
Virginia Woolf
Truth may be stranger than fiction, but fiction is truer.
Frederic Raphael
Fiction should be a story. In any story there are three elements: people, a situation, and the fact that in the end something has changed. If nothing has changed, it isn’t a story.
Malcolm Cowley
A writer is not someone who expresses his thoughts, his passion or his imagination in sentences, but someone who thinks sentences. A Sentence-Thinker.
Roland Barthes
Writers are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Hemingway
A writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.
Hemingway
The only tool a writer needs is a built-in shock-proof shit detector.
Hemingway
What is wrong with most writing today is its flaccidity, its lack of pleasure in the manipulation of sounds and pauses. The written word is becoming inert. One dreads to think what it will be like in 2020.
Anthony Burgess
Finishing a book is just like you took a child out into the yard and shot it.
Truman Capote
I truly do not care about a book once it is finished. Any money or fame that results has no connection with my feeling for the book.
Steinbeck
I don’t know about method. That what is so much more important than the how.
Ezra Pound
When they come, I write them; when they don’t, I don’t.
Kerouac
Derivative writers seem versatile because they imitate many others, both past and present. Artistic originality has only itself to copy.
Nabokov
Writing A Monologue
Writing a successful monologue is a particularly challenging task; it’s more akin to creating a poem than a piece of traditional ‘beginning, middle, end’ drama. Like close-up in film, the monologue provides an incisive and penetrating look into one character’s humanity, a character who attempts to communicate whilst wrestling with their own desires, beliefs, relationships, histories and inner conflicts/contradictions. A character in a monologue talks freely and often discloses things which are usually kept private - sometimes consciously, often not.
When writing your own monologue you may find it easier to contextualise your piece, ie, to employ a dramatic device which makes your characters’ talking to themselves plausible. They might, for example, be looking at/holding the photograph of a loved one, or have been left in charge of a sleeping grandchild. Alan Bennett’s twelve monologues which comprise his famous ‘Talking Heads’ series (which you should read/study) are not contextualized; they provide their own context. The character simply acknowledges the presence of an invisible listener and begins to speak.
A monologue may be delivered by an inner voice, revealing the character’s secret, unarticulated thoughts, or it may be exterior, including other voices - family, friends, lovers, etc.
As with real speech, the monologue will rarely – if ever - be neat and tidy, a seamless linear flow of clear, explicit thought. In life, however eloquent we might fancy ourselves to be, we all back ourselves into conversational cul-de-sacs, employ non-sequiteurs, fail to fully explain what we mean, use inappropriate language, etc. We rely, consciously or otherwise, on the listener to fill in the gaps, to tease meaning from our words. Your monologue should reflect the ‘raggedness’ and unfinished quality of genuine speech whilst, of course, remaining rigorously focused and on-target.
Know who is speaking:
Creative writing manuals invariably advise new writers to create character biographies before embarking upon the serious business of writing their novel, screenplay, etc. These painstakingly scripted life stories, frequently chart each person’s existence from conception to death - pages and pages of material which microscopically chronicle their every experience, no matter how trivial. I would argue that this obsessive note-taking, far from liberating the writer, enabling them to bring their dramatis personae to life, all too frequently results in a dull, uninspired troupe of one-dimensional creatures. Characters are born in the imagination.
For your monologue it is enough to know, in the broadest terms, what kind of person your character is. Does he love sport to the point of neglecting his family? Is she obsessed with cleaning? Does he have a problem with commitment/fidelity? If you can explain how your character would react in any given situation, and how his or her reaction would be different from yours or those of people you know, he/she will come across as a living, breathing individual during the performance of your piece.
You might find it helpful to personify some aspect of yourself whilst writing. However, when authors try to write directly from their own experience, they often end up examining, and exhibiting, every facet of their personalities, which can result in a thin, ‘fragmented’ protagonist. In truth, as individuals, we are various people at various times. Choose one of your many moods and write from that place. What would your depressive side say? Or your passionate self? The mendacious or egotistical you?
A useful ‘twist’ is to give your character traits that are at cross purposes with their occupation or current situation, ie, the elegant, cultured man who has to work as a cleaner in a high-class hotel, or the man’s man who has to wait in the lingerie department most Saturdays while his wife shops and has to help her choose items. (Sadly this particular species of male has yet to become extinct.) Knowing the kind of person from whose point-of-view you're writing will help colour their diction so they don't sound exactly like you.
To take an opposing point of view, I have found from my own experience that choosing a character who bears little, or no, relation to me whatsoever can, paradoxically, make the task of writing easier. It’s all about giving the imagination free rein. (Think of my own example, performed in class.)
Know why your character is speaking:
The cardinal sin committed in many monologues is that the playwright forgets to give the character a reason to be addressing the audience. It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of thinking that because you are passionate about the words which appear on your computer screen everyone else will be interested too. Not so! Your character should have a motivation for opening his/her mouth, even if this is not an integral part of the monologue. Speech is an action. You don't talk unless something prompts you to do so. And you don't speak at length unless you’re attempting to influence an outcome in your favour. Even those people who seem to go on for hours without saying anything of significance or interest – we can all, no doubt, think of numerous examples from our personal lives - have a reason for doing so; maybe it's to calm themselves, or hold another person's attention because the speaker is inwardly lonely. When you have your character, put her/him in a situation in which she needs to accomplish an objective. Think of your monologue as a dramatic scene and it will become more active and consequently more engaging.
Know to whom your character is speaking:
The listener is the (essential) element all too often overlooked in monologues. Many novice playwrights (and some professionals) are primarily interested in what they themselves have to say, their own oh-so-witty turns of phrase, abstruse classical allusions and dazzling metaphors. They never, or rarely, pause to consider those poor audience members who have to sit and listen to their solipsistic, masturbatory outpourings.
You must be aware of the reaction your ‘message’ is having on the listener. What is their role in the drama? Think of your own conversationary tactics for a moment. When you are trying to convince someone of something and you recognise that you’re failing you will naturally change your strategy in the hope of being more persuasive and more likely to get what you want – how quickly we move from conciliation to conflict. Being constantly aware of the listener will keep you - and your character - alert and responsive; it's not going to be easy for him/her to spew soliloquies about sunsets or the moonlight illuminating the tropical lagoon. He's going to have to work. At the very least a clearly defined listener will give the speaker a specific target to vent at, someone to rail against.
In the same way that you’ve decided on what kind of person the speaker is, choose what sort of individual he is talking to. The speaker will tailor his delivery to his intended audience (not the theatre audience). Pause for thought: you converse differently with your immediate superior at work than you do with your son or your mother, or the postman. A defined listener will have his own agenda for being in the same room with your protagonist, and this will naturally add conflict, which will up the dramatic ante of your piece and make it more compelling, and best of all, it won't make your audience want to ignite their hair and beat out the flames with a shovel as a means of avoiding what’s happening ‘on stage’.
The Function of Speech in Drama – with particular emphasis on the monologue
• To reveal character
• To provide the audience with relevant information
• To foreshadow what is to come
• To carry exposition, ie, explain events which have occurred ‘off stage’
• To reflect the speaker’s mood/emotional state
The monologue might conveniently broken into its constituent parts thus:
The Hook:
Grab people's attention. Don't necessarily start at the beginning of the story the character wants to tell. We can come in towards the end of the tale, thus the audience is eager to find out what happens next, as well as wondering what led to this.
The Grab:
Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Your opening words are crucial for the tone of your piece. Don't ramble on and on - get right into the heart of your story. Find the ‘voice’.
The Heart:
Why is this character talking to us? Why now? The best monologues, once they've hooked and grabbed us, tell a story we've never heard before – or, more likely, supply a fresh twist to an old tale.
The Soul:
Who is this person? Where are they from? What are their hopes, dreams, and disappointments? If you can answer all these questions, your character will start coming to life.
The Colour:
This is more than location - it's the way your character sees, and reacts to, the world around them.
The Music:
Great writing is like music. You state a theme, expand upon it, build a crescendo, then slowly come back down to earth. Because of this musical quality of dialogue, it's absolutely essential that you read your piece aloud.
The Sound:
Reading aloud is an essential part of the writing process. Does the dialogue sound natural? Does it flow? Can you identify musical stops and starts, changes of rhythm and pace? All of this becomes much clearer when hearing your words spoken out loud.
The Fury:
Writing is rewriting. This is the really difficult part of the process - once you've completed your first draft, put it to one side, make a cup of tea, then come back to it. Try reading it out loud and see what can be improved. Then do this again. And again. And again!
The Edit:
Remember, it's possible to convey a lot of emotion with very few words (your ultimate goal) - and silence is extremely powerful. Beware ‘flashy’ dialogue or clever one-liners - it's how the monologue works as a whole that counts.
The End:
In the words of T.S. Eliot: "in my beginning is my end".
Remember where your monologue started from? Well, after your monologue has whisked us away on a voyage full of heart, soul, colour and music, that's roughly where we should end up - right back at the beginning.
When writing your own monologue you may find it easier to contextualise your piece, ie, to employ a dramatic device which makes your characters’ talking to themselves plausible. They might, for example, be looking at/holding the photograph of a loved one, or have been left in charge of a sleeping grandchild. Alan Bennett’s twelve monologues which comprise his famous ‘Talking Heads’ series (which you should read/study) are not contextualized; they provide their own context. The character simply acknowledges the presence of an invisible listener and begins to speak.
A monologue may be delivered by an inner voice, revealing the character’s secret, unarticulated thoughts, or it may be exterior, including other voices - family, friends, lovers, etc.
As with real speech, the monologue will rarely – if ever - be neat and tidy, a seamless linear flow of clear, explicit thought. In life, however eloquent we might fancy ourselves to be, we all back ourselves into conversational cul-de-sacs, employ non-sequiteurs, fail to fully explain what we mean, use inappropriate language, etc. We rely, consciously or otherwise, on the listener to fill in the gaps, to tease meaning from our words. Your monologue should reflect the ‘raggedness’ and unfinished quality of genuine speech whilst, of course, remaining rigorously focused and on-target.
Know who is speaking:
Creative writing manuals invariably advise new writers to create character biographies before embarking upon the serious business of writing their novel, screenplay, etc. These painstakingly scripted life stories, frequently chart each person’s existence from conception to death - pages and pages of material which microscopically chronicle their every experience, no matter how trivial. I would argue that this obsessive note-taking, far from liberating the writer, enabling them to bring their dramatis personae to life, all too frequently results in a dull, uninspired troupe of one-dimensional creatures. Characters are born in the imagination.
For your monologue it is enough to know, in the broadest terms, what kind of person your character is. Does he love sport to the point of neglecting his family? Is she obsessed with cleaning? Does he have a problem with commitment/fidelity? If you can explain how your character would react in any given situation, and how his or her reaction would be different from yours or those of people you know, he/she will come across as a living, breathing individual during the performance of your piece.
You might find it helpful to personify some aspect of yourself whilst writing. However, when authors try to write directly from their own experience, they often end up examining, and exhibiting, every facet of their personalities, which can result in a thin, ‘fragmented’ protagonist. In truth, as individuals, we are various people at various times. Choose one of your many moods and write from that place. What would your depressive side say? Or your passionate self? The mendacious or egotistical you?
A useful ‘twist’ is to give your character traits that are at cross purposes with their occupation or current situation, ie, the elegant, cultured man who has to work as a cleaner in a high-class hotel, or the man’s man who has to wait in the lingerie department most Saturdays while his wife shops and has to help her choose items. (Sadly this particular species of male has yet to become extinct.) Knowing the kind of person from whose point-of-view you're writing will help colour their diction so they don't sound exactly like you.
To take an opposing point of view, I have found from my own experience that choosing a character who bears little, or no, relation to me whatsoever can, paradoxically, make the task of writing easier. It’s all about giving the imagination free rein. (Think of my own example, performed in class.)
Know why your character is speaking:
The cardinal sin committed in many monologues is that the playwright forgets to give the character a reason to be addressing the audience. It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of thinking that because you are passionate about the words which appear on your computer screen everyone else will be interested too. Not so! Your character should have a motivation for opening his/her mouth, even if this is not an integral part of the monologue. Speech is an action. You don't talk unless something prompts you to do so. And you don't speak at length unless you’re attempting to influence an outcome in your favour. Even those people who seem to go on for hours without saying anything of significance or interest – we can all, no doubt, think of numerous examples from our personal lives - have a reason for doing so; maybe it's to calm themselves, or hold another person's attention because the speaker is inwardly lonely. When you have your character, put her/him in a situation in which she needs to accomplish an objective. Think of your monologue as a dramatic scene and it will become more active and consequently more engaging.
Know to whom your character is speaking:
The listener is the (essential) element all too often overlooked in monologues. Many novice playwrights (and some professionals) are primarily interested in what they themselves have to say, their own oh-so-witty turns of phrase, abstruse classical allusions and dazzling metaphors. They never, or rarely, pause to consider those poor audience members who have to sit and listen to their solipsistic, masturbatory outpourings.
You must be aware of the reaction your ‘message’ is having on the listener. What is their role in the drama? Think of your own conversationary tactics for a moment. When you are trying to convince someone of something and you recognise that you’re failing you will naturally change your strategy in the hope of being more persuasive and more likely to get what you want – how quickly we move from conciliation to conflict. Being constantly aware of the listener will keep you - and your character - alert and responsive; it's not going to be easy for him/her to spew soliloquies about sunsets or the moonlight illuminating the tropical lagoon. He's going to have to work. At the very least a clearly defined listener will give the speaker a specific target to vent at, someone to rail against.
In the same way that you’ve decided on what kind of person the speaker is, choose what sort of individual he is talking to. The speaker will tailor his delivery to his intended audience (not the theatre audience). Pause for thought: you converse differently with your immediate superior at work than you do with your son or your mother, or the postman. A defined listener will have his own agenda for being in the same room with your protagonist, and this will naturally add conflict, which will up the dramatic ante of your piece and make it more compelling, and best of all, it won't make your audience want to ignite their hair and beat out the flames with a shovel as a means of avoiding what’s happening ‘on stage’.
The Function of Speech in Drama – with particular emphasis on the monologue
• To reveal character
• To provide the audience with relevant information
• To foreshadow what is to come
• To carry exposition, ie, explain events which have occurred ‘off stage’
• To reflect the speaker’s mood/emotional state
The monologue might conveniently broken into its constituent parts thus:
The Hook:
Grab people's attention. Don't necessarily start at the beginning of the story the character wants to tell. We can come in towards the end of the tale, thus the audience is eager to find out what happens next, as well as wondering what led to this.
The Grab:
Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Your opening words are crucial for the tone of your piece. Don't ramble on and on - get right into the heart of your story. Find the ‘voice’.
The Heart:
Why is this character talking to us? Why now? The best monologues, once they've hooked and grabbed us, tell a story we've never heard before – or, more likely, supply a fresh twist to an old tale.
The Soul:
Who is this person? Where are they from? What are their hopes, dreams, and disappointments? If you can answer all these questions, your character will start coming to life.
The Colour:
This is more than location - it's the way your character sees, and reacts to, the world around them.
The Music:
Great writing is like music. You state a theme, expand upon it, build a crescendo, then slowly come back down to earth. Because of this musical quality of dialogue, it's absolutely essential that you read your piece aloud.
The Sound:
Reading aloud is an essential part of the writing process. Does the dialogue sound natural? Does it flow? Can you identify musical stops and starts, changes of rhythm and pace? All of this becomes much clearer when hearing your words spoken out loud.
The Fury:
Writing is rewriting. This is the really difficult part of the process - once you've completed your first draft, put it to one side, make a cup of tea, then come back to it. Try reading it out loud and see what can be improved. Then do this again. And again. And again!
The Edit:
Remember, it's possible to convey a lot of emotion with very few words (your ultimate goal) - and silence is extremely powerful. Beware ‘flashy’ dialogue or clever one-liners - it's how the monologue works as a whole that counts.
The End:
In the words of T.S. Eliot: "in my beginning is my end".
Remember where your monologue started from? Well, after your monologue has whisked us away on a voyage full of heart, soul, colour and music, that's roughly where we should end up - right back at the beginning.
Writing About Sex
This brief meditation on the perils of dealing successfully, and professionally, with the myriad facets of both love and sex within your writing - you are almost certainly going to have to wrestle with at least one of these volatile topics during the composition of your novel*; indeed, love, passion, desire (call it what you will) is the fuel which drives the vast majority of literature - arose out of my many, sometimes heated, discussions with individual students, and those in a group setting. Nothing, I’ve discovered, polarises a gathering of novelists manqué more than matters relating to human mating. The scramble to claim the moral high ground can be undignified in the extreme.
(*I retain the word ‘novel’ for convenience; these notes are adapted from the pack I produced for the students on my novel writing course. The advice given applies equally to all forms of writing.)
Let’s begin by setting out a few general principles:
Your love scene[s] (which, herein after, also refer to all forms of sexual activity) should be written, and placed within your work, so that they are central to the story and, in some fundamental way, advance the plot, disclose necessary information and reveal character - ideally all three.
All such scenes must maintain and/or directly contribute to the novel’s innate tension and on-going conflict. They should not be there merely for decorative effect.
Characters should remain consistent once in a state of dishabille. Albert, your timid, unworldly, myopic public librarian cannot, whilst frolicking in the building’s subterranean book store with his equally astigmatic colleague, Lola, come across as some frighteningly adept and rapacious sex machine, a prodigiously gifted lover who has experienced every position described within the covers of the ‘Kama Sutra’ at least once. Beware: it’s all too easy to sacrifice your characters’ true personalities as soon as their underwear makes contact with the Wilton.
The language you use to tell the reader what Lo and Al get up to beneath the duvet should be suitably fresh and original, evocative and rich - whilst also remaining fully compatible with the linguistic tonal values of the novel as a whole. Waxing heavily poetic (or pornographic) during moments of passion is certain to create a fatal sense of falsity in the proceedings if these episodes conflict stylistically with what has gone before – and with what is to come. At all costs avoid the use of cliché - not by any means an easy task - which will have the effect of dousing poor Lo and Al (and the reader) with a bucket of iced water. Cliché (the literary equivalent of bromide) is the best antidote to sexual desire there is; don’t prescribe it for your characters and then expect them to perform with anything approaching conviction.
A major problem with writing love scenes revolves around the questions of when, how much and how often. These factors will likely be determined by the kind of novel you’re writing. Sex in a thriller has a different role from that depicted in a romance or a horror story, say, even though the physical act may essentially be the same. Remember, scenes of a strictly sexual nature are not mandatory - unless, of course, you’re writing one of those sordid little ‘Black Lace’ style numbers whose characters if not actually dead (and perhaps even a state of advanced rigor mortis doesn’t disqualify them) indulge in an almost continuous (and frequently ludicrous) round of sweat raising screwing.
So, never insert a love scene into your narrative just to achieve a state of temporary tumescence in an otherwise flaccid plot. Never attempt to bribe the reader into staying with your story with a little acrobatic, and distracting, sex. Don’t play the pimp. Most readers are canny, and perceptive, enough to immediately see through your ruse and will readily, and rightly, condemn you for your gross impertinence and boorish tactics.
Sexual encounters do not stand isolated within a novel; they should be the culmination of everything has gone before, a natural consequence of past events - a release of tension which has been relentlessly building between two characters for example. Check the veracity, and legitimacy, of your amatorial encounters by reading the relevant chapter/section both including, and excluding, the scene in question. Does the sequence loose some vital energy and power through Lo and Al failing to proceed from coffee and conversation to full-blown simultaneous orgasm on the moonlit veranda?
Any scene in your novel (if it’s functioning correctly) is likely to be a miniature version of the story itself. It is imbued with similar properties: rising action, conflict, climax and resolution - just like the act of love itself in fact. You can (and indeed many authors have) profitably use the ebb and flow of lovemaking to give your scene its shape and rhythm - its dynamic.
There must always be something at stake for the participants beyond the mere gratification of sexual desire. Will Lo’s twenty-two stone psychopathic partner learn of her current whereabouts, and what will be the result for her (and Al) if they’re caught in flagrante delicto by homicidal Harry and his shiny hatchet? Will Al’s ailing, neurotic and possessive mother disinherit him if she discovers what her little short-sighted son gets up to on his nights away from the kitchen sink? The stamps Al collects on such illicit occasions are not the kind you can stick in an album. How will Al conceal the mounting evidence of his torrid affair with literature loving Lo? (‘Oh, please, please, Al baby, beat me again with that annotated copy of ‘Moby Dick!’)
As a result of Al and Lo’s sexual conjoining the balance of the story must alter.
As alluded to above, one of the commonest problems for writers embarking upon a love scene is the (often unconscious) temptation for the author to come - I’m sure you know what I mean - between the tremulous couple about to catch sight of what’s lurking in each others undergarments. The conduct of the characters concerned begins to conflict horribly with the set of emotional/behavioural patterns which, hitherto, they’ve lived by, and observed, quite contentedly and convincingly. This is frequently the moment when clichéd thought on the part of the writer translates into clichéd action/reaction upon the page. The demon of chauvinism often rears its repulsive reptilian head at this point.
In any sexual liaison there will, inevitably, be some subtle power struggle taking place, but within your novel sex should not be portrayed as just a gratuitous and reflexive act of possession by the man. This is an anachronistic, and reductive, approach to the subject which you should strive to avoid - unless, of course, that’s the whole point of the scene. Similarly male sexuality is not solely comprised of brute force, ego and ignorance (am I in danger here of endowing the male of the species with a sensitivity that so few of them exhibit?), the man’s erection rendering him mute of voice and thought, and devoid of all feeling not centred around the groin.
Characters must remain consistent at all times - and especially during those heady moments of immediate pre and post sexual congress. The author has absolutely no business intruding upon their private time together forcing them (deliberately or otherwise) to enact his/her own erotic fantasies. Onanism is not part of the novelist’s remit once his characters are stripped for action. Wishfulfilment has no place here – and I’ll not thank you for bringing up ‘Wuthering Heights’ at this point!
It’s axiomatic that certain individuals will behave wholly unexpectedly given a specific set of circumstances. We witness such anomalies in human conduct daily on our roads; the meek become manic once their backsides ease into the driver’s seat of their penile Mondeos. If self-effacing, mousy little Albert is one of life’s sexual Jeykll and Hydes then this fact must be subtly foreshadowed within the text prior to his producing a length of copper piping and a tube of super-glue while lusty Lo hunts around in the bathroom for a vanilla flavoured condom. (See my above comment on male sexuality.) Al’s use of Araldite as an aid to gratification must seem both surprising - and yet inevitable - based upon the reader’s understanding of his character as presented by the author.
The biggest challenge facing the novelist is how to convey the theme of love and the ‘mechanics’ of lovemaking using language which is both interesting and innovative (and appropriate) - and completely devoid of the hackneyed phrase and the fifth hand sentiment. Most sex scenes tend to fall into the categories of the clinical, clichéd, or overly poetical. Thus we are treated to Lo’s genitalia being described in terms more suited to a gynaecologist preparing a pre-operative diagnostic report, or a tweed jacketed TV gardener detailing the luxuriant glossy bloom of some exotic orchid. ‘The engorged silky petals of Lola’s labia opened under the warm rain of his breath…’ Spare me, per- leese!
Test each line, each shiny nugget of description, ruthlessly; if anything on page (or screen) sounds even remotely familiar, trite (or merely risible) then cut it and try something new. Be sure to eschew over-indulgence in metaphor and simile. Sex and love attract these literary embellishments like a magnet suspended above a dish of iron filings. Trust the ability of the reader’s imagination to supply the necessary details of Lo and Al’s physical appearance during arousal, and their subsequent bedroom maneouvres.
How graphic/explicit you choose to be in your use of sexual language might depend largely upon how comfortable you are using words like ‘cunt’ and ‘fuck’. (Never, though, fall into the trap of employing euphemism - ‘his rampant manhood’) If such notorious four letter words would not fall naturally from the tongue of your dunking duo (and you’ve not employed them thus far in your narrative) then don’t use them here just for effect or shock value. If, on the other hand, Lo is one of those decent, ultra-respectable women who like to indulge in coprolalia during sex, then don’t deny her her mouthful of orgasm-inducing expletives.
I’m aware that my stance might appear to be an avowedly heterosexual one; however each of the points raised above apply equally to gay and lesbian relationships. The ‘political’ and moral complexities which surround gay sex are not so very different from those which inform heterosexual activity. How the writer handles his/her characters’ sexual orientation will depend upon the story they are trying to tell and the psychological, emotional and cultural make-up of the characters who populate the narrative.
To conclude: always be true to your characters’ psychological, spiritual and emotional dispositions (see above). Keep your own prejudices/hang-ups firmly under wraps. Any form of self-censorship, however mild, will destroy the impact of your work and make it sound banal or, even worse, specious. In the same way that you would never burst in upon a couple making love in real life, refrain from doing so in your fiction. Your characters’ morality is very much their own business. Bear this - often unpalatable - fact in mind whenever you find yourself creeping towards the bedroom door with that large zinc pail of icy water.
NB: Since originally penning the above, I’m pleased to report that further help is available in the shape of ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ by Elizabeth Benedict (Souvenir Press. £9.99). An edited version of my original review, which you may find helpful, is given below:
Very few writers, however accomplished (and who are not called Nabokov), can do sex convincingly, and satisfactorily; indeed the great majority suffer, at some time, from the literary equivalent of various sexual nasties: premature or retarded ejaculation, impotence, vaginismus, dysparreunia, nonorgasmia, etc. (Urgh!) Novelist and teacher Elizabeth Benedict offers a diagnosis and course of treatment for those writers afflicted with one (or more) of the above conditions. As a creative writing tutor, I’ve ploughed through more than my fair share of writing primers, very few of which justify their existence. I’m therefore both delighted, and frankly surprised, to be able to give Benedict’s book an unconditional – er - thumbs up. For those sweatily toiling at the coal-face, hewing their novel word by word, the advice and guidance provided is steeped in commonsense, and possesses a genuine insight into the problems which every writer encounters once their character’s make a beeline for the bedroom. Benedict draws on the work of many respected authors (Edmund White, Toni Morrison, John Updike, Roddy Doyle) to identify the problems, and solutions, relating to matters sexual. The general reader need not feel excluded, relegated to the role of voyeur. For anyone with an interest in contemporary fiction, there is a great deal here to enjoy and consider. This is as much a work of literary criticism as it is a writing manual. ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ takes into account the profound change in our sexual attitudes in recent years. AIDS, cyber-sex, adulterous and married sex, solo sex, and more, are covered. Benedict is at pains to point out that the creation of a convincing sex scene must take on board every aspect of fiction writing: dialogue, mood, plot, the psychology of relationships, character. Hear, hear! Wise, stimulating and so-o-o sexy. A course of Viagra between soft covers.
(*I retain the word ‘novel’ for convenience; these notes are adapted from the pack I produced for the students on my novel writing course. The advice given applies equally to all forms of writing.)
Let’s begin by setting out a few general principles:
Your love scene[s] (which, herein after, also refer to all forms of sexual activity) should be written, and placed within your work, so that they are central to the story and, in some fundamental way, advance the plot, disclose necessary information and reveal character - ideally all three.
All such scenes must maintain and/or directly contribute to the novel’s innate tension and on-going conflict. They should not be there merely for decorative effect.
Characters should remain consistent once in a state of dishabille. Albert, your timid, unworldly, myopic public librarian cannot, whilst frolicking in the building’s subterranean book store with his equally astigmatic colleague, Lola, come across as some frighteningly adept and rapacious sex machine, a prodigiously gifted lover who has experienced every position described within the covers of the ‘Kama Sutra’ at least once. Beware: it’s all too easy to sacrifice your characters’ true personalities as soon as their underwear makes contact with the Wilton.
The language you use to tell the reader what Lo and Al get up to beneath the duvet should be suitably fresh and original, evocative and rich - whilst also remaining fully compatible with the linguistic tonal values of the novel as a whole. Waxing heavily poetic (or pornographic) during moments of passion is certain to create a fatal sense of falsity in the proceedings if these episodes conflict stylistically with what has gone before – and with what is to come. At all costs avoid the use of cliché - not by any means an easy task - which will have the effect of dousing poor Lo and Al (and the reader) with a bucket of iced water. Cliché (the literary equivalent of bromide) is the best antidote to sexual desire there is; don’t prescribe it for your characters and then expect them to perform with anything approaching conviction.
A major problem with writing love scenes revolves around the questions of when, how much and how often. These factors will likely be determined by the kind of novel you’re writing. Sex in a thriller has a different role from that depicted in a romance or a horror story, say, even though the physical act may essentially be the same. Remember, scenes of a strictly sexual nature are not mandatory - unless, of course, you’re writing one of those sordid little ‘Black Lace’ style numbers whose characters if not actually dead (and perhaps even a state of advanced rigor mortis doesn’t disqualify them) indulge in an almost continuous (and frequently ludicrous) round of sweat raising screwing.
So, never insert a love scene into your narrative just to achieve a state of temporary tumescence in an otherwise flaccid plot. Never attempt to bribe the reader into staying with your story with a little acrobatic, and distracting, sex. Don’t play the pimp. Most readers are canny, and perceptive, enough to immediately see through your ruse and will readily, and rightly, condemn you for your gross impertinence and boorish tactics.
Sexual encounters do not stand isolated within a novel; they should be the culmination of everything has gone before, a natural consequence of past events - a release of tension which has been relentlessly building between two characters for example. Check the veracity, and legitimacy, of your amatorial encounters by reading the relevant chapter/section both including, and excluding, the scene in question. Does the sequence loose some vital energy and power through Lo and Al failing to proceed from coffee and conversation to full-blown simultaneous orgasm on the moonlit veranda?
Any scene in your novel (if it’s functioning correctly) is likely to be a miniature version of the story itself. It is imbued with similar properties: rising action, conflict, climax and resolution - just like the act of love itself in fact. You can (and indeed many authors have) profitably use the ebb and flow of lovemaking to give your scene its shape and rhythm - its dynamic.
There must always be something at stake for the participants beyond the mere gratification of sexual desire. Will Lo’s twenty-two stone psychopathic partner learn of her current whereabouts, and what will be the result for her (and Al) if they’re caught in flagrante delicto by homicidal Harry and his shiny hatchet? Will Al’s ailing, neurotic and possessive mother disinherit him if she discovers what her little short-sighted son gets up to on his nights away from the kitchen sink? The stamps Al collects on such illicit occasions are not the kind you can stick in an album. How will Al conceal the mounting evidence of his torrid affair with literature loving Lo? (‘Oh, please, please, Al baby, beat me again with that annotated copy of ‘Moby Dick!’)
As a result of Al and Lo’s sexual conjoining the balance of the story must alter.
As alluded to above, one of the commonest problems for writers embarking upon a love scene is the (often unconscious) temptation for the author to come - I’m sure you know what I mean - between the tremulous couple about to catch sight of what’s lurking in each others undergarments. The conduct of the characters concerned begins to conflict horribly with the set of emotional/behavioural patterns which, hitherto, they’ve lived by, and observed, quite contentedly and convincingly. This is frequently the moment when clichéd thought on the part of the writer translates into clichéd action/reaction upon the page. The demon of chauvinism often rears its repulsive reptilian head at this point.
In any sexual liaison there will, inevitably, be some subtle power struggle taking place, but within your novel sex should not be portrayed as just a gratuitous and reflexive act of possession by the man. This is an anachronistic, and reductive, approach to the subject which you should strive to avoid - unless, of course, that’s the whole point of the scene. Similarly male sexuality is not solely comprised of brute force, ego and ignorance (am I in danger here of endowing the male of the species with a sensitivity that so few of them exhibit?), the man’s erection rendering him mute of voice and thought, and devoid of all feeling not centred around the groin.
Characters must remain consistent at all times - and especially during those heady moments of immediate pre and post sexual congress. The author has absolutely no business intruding upon their private time together forcing them (deliberately or otherwise) to enact his/her own erotic fantasies. Onanism is not part of the novelist’s remit once his characters are stripped for action. Wishfulfilment has no place here – and I’ll not thank you for bringing up ‘Wuthering Heights’ at this point!
It’s axiomatic that certain individuals will behave wholly unexpectedly given a specific set of circumstances. We witness such anomalies in human conduct daily on our roads; the meek become manic once their backsides ease into the driver’s seat of their penile Mondeos. If self-effacing, mousy little Albert is one of life’s sexual Jeykll and Hydes then this fact must be subtly foreshadowed within the text prior to his producing a length of copper piping and a tube of super-glue while lusty Lo hunts around in the bathroom for a vanilla flavoured condom. (See my above comment on male sexuality.) Al’s use of Araldite as an aid to gratification must seem both surprising - and yet inevitable - based upon the reader’s understanding of his character as presented by the author.
The biggest challenge facing the novelist is how to convey the theme of love and the ‘mechanics’ of lovemaking using language which is both interesting and innovative (and appropriate) - and completely devoid of the hackneyed phrase and the fifth hand sentiment. Most sex scenes tend to fall into the categories of the clinical, clichéd, or overly poetical. Thus we are treated to Lo’s genitalia being described in terms more suited to a gynaecologist preparing a pre-operative diagnostic report, or a tweed jacketed TV gardener detailing the luxuriant glossy bloom of some exotic orchid. ‘The engorged silky petals of Lola’s labia opened under the warm rain of his breath…’ Spare me, per- leese!
Test each line, each shiny nugget of description, ruthlessly; if anything on page (or screen) sounds even remotely familiar, trite (or merely risible) then cut it and try something new. Be sure to eschew over-indulgence in metaphor and simile. Sex and love attract these literary embellishments like a magnet suspended above a dish of iron filings. Trust the ability of the reader’s imagination to supply the necessary details of Lo and Al’s physical appearance during arousal, and their subsequent bedroom maneouvres.
How graphic/explicit you choose to be in your use of sexual language might depend largely upon how comfortable you are using words like ‘cunt’ and ‘fuck’. (Never, though, fall into the trap of employing euphemism - ‘his rampant manhood’) If such notorious four letter words would not fall naturally from the tongue of your dunking duo (and you’ve not employed them thus far in your narrative) then don’t use them here just for effect or shock value. If, on the other hand, Lo is one of those decent, ultra-respectable women who like to indulge in coprolalia during sex, then don’t deny her her mouthful of orgasm-inducing expletives.
I’m aware that my stance might appear to be an avowedly heterosexual one; however each of the points raised above apply equally to gay and lesbian relationships. The ‘political’ and moral complexities which surround gay sex are not so very different from those which inform heterosexual activity. How the writer handles his/her characters’ sexual orientation will depend upon the story they are trying to tell and the psychological, emotional and cultural make-up of the characters who populate the narrative.
To conclude: always be true to your characters’ psychological, spiritual and emotional dispositions (see above). Keep your own prejudices/hang-ups firmly under wraps. Any form of self-censorship, however mild, will destroy the impact of your work and make it sound banal or, even worse, specious. In the same way that you would never burst in upon a couple making love in real life, refrain from doing so in your fiction. Your characters’ morality is very much their own business. Bear this - often unpalatable - fact in mind whenever you find yourself creeping towards the bedroom door with that large zinc pail of icy water.
NB: Since originally penning the above, I’m pleased to report that further help is available in the shape of ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ by Elizabeth Benedict (Souvenir Press. £9.99). An edited version of my original review, which you may find helpful, is given below:
Very few writers, however accomplished (and who are not called Nabokov), can do sex convincingly, and satisfactorily; indeed the great majority suffer, at some time, from the literary equivalent of various sexual nasties: premature or retarded ejaculation, impotence, vaginismus, dysparreunia, nonorgasmia, etc. (Urgh!) Novelist and teacher Elizabeth Benedict offers a diagnosis and course of treatment for those writers afflicted with one (or more) of the above conditions. As a creative writing tutor, I’ve ploughed through more than my fair share of writing primers, very few of which justify their existence. I’m therefore both delighted, and frankly surprised, to be able to give Benedict’s book an unconditional – er - thumbs up. For those sweatily toiling at the coal-face, hewing their novel word by word, the advice and guidance provided is steeped in commonsense, and possesses a genuine insight into the problems which every writer encounters once their character’s make a beeline for the bedroom. Benedict draws on the work of many respected authors (Edmund White, Toni Morrison, John Updike, Roddy Doyle) to identify the problems, and solutions, relating to matters sexual. The general reader need not feel excluded, relegated to the role of voyeur. For anyone with an interest in contemporary fiction, there is a great deal here to enjoy and consider. This is as much a work of literary criticism as it is a writing manual. ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ takes into account the profound change in our sexual attitudes in recent years. AIDS, cyber-sex, adulterous and married sex, solo sex, and more, are covered. Benedict is at pains to point out that the creation of a convincing sex scene must take on board every aspect of fiction writing: dialogue, mood, plot, the psychology of relationships, character. Hear, hear! Wise, stimulating and so-o-o sexy. A course of Viagra between soft covers.
Point of View
Point-of-view for most writers means: First Person, Third Person and Omniscient. There seems little reason (other than for novelty value – and the desire to be noticed) to opt for the likes of, say, second person. These guidelines will concern themselves with First Person (FP), Third Person (TP) and Omniscient (Om), and examine briefly the advantages and disadvantages of each. It’s not part of my remit to persuade you into favouring one viewpoint over another - despite my own distinct preference for FP!
First Person (single & multiple viewpoints):
Graham Greene stated that FP offers the novelist a great technical advantage in that she/he is not open to the temptation of deviating from the main storyline. There is no opportunity to go blithely wandering off down the attractive highways and byways of the narrative merely because they appear interesting, or offer a welcome diversion from the story’s current obstructive, rock strewn path. FP forces the writer to tackle such ‘everyday’ difficulties head-on and deal with them as, and when, they manifest themselves. FP makes no allowances for woolly or imprecise writing, which it will unmercifully expose.
FP gives your story a wonderful, and seductive, immediacy (‘I came home that rainy September evening to find our new hall carpet puddled with blood…’), making it much easier for the reader to enter quickly into the text and to readily believe what they’re being told. The events comprising the narrative actually happened to (or within the orbit of) the narrator (the ‘I’ of the story), and this fact gives the text a weight and authority – an instant believability - which TP has to strive a little more energetically to achieve. The ghost of the author is not so obviously present at the feast. With TP the author has to work harder to remain invisible and impartial. Partiality is no problem in an FP narrative. It comes, as they say, with the territory. (Think of Humbert Humbert – Lolita, or John Self – Money.)
FP lends itself naturally to an easy, colloquial style of expression which quickly helps build a close, and collusive, relationship between reader and story teller. Because this style simulates direct speech there is, in theory, less danger of the writer slipping into purple prose or pretentiousness. However even the merest whiff of over-writing will smell like an avalanche of pig shit. Beware!
The main restriction imposed by FP is that the reader can only be knowledgeably informed about those matters/circumstances with which the narrator him/herself is personally acquainted. The reader and the narrator share the same position within the story – unless, of course, it is being told using flashback. (‘The day Laura was murdered, I arrived home later than I’d originally planned. Now I’m often forced to wonder what would’ve happened if I’d caught my usual train and…’)
If, for example, the narrator’s girlfriend is having a passionate, and sexually unorthodox, affair with the man next door, the reader cannot be privy to this volatile information until the narrator himself finally learns what’s been regularly occurring under cover of darkness in the neighbour’s prized Dormobile while he (the narrator) has been sequestered in the garden shed lovingly tending his cacti collection. There can be no humourous, and tellingly symbolic, cutting between what’s happening within the rocking, steamy windowed caravanette and the narrator in his lonely, unheated shed pricking himself on a spectacularly erectile and vigorous example of Astrophytum Capricorne.
Use of FP precludes the possibility of entering into the minds of the other characters and accurately describing what they are thinking or feeling; nor can we see what the other characters are getting up to once they leave the narrator’s presence. The best that the narrator can do in terms of the above is to speculate about what might be happening within the minds of the people with whom they’re sharing the story and what they’re engaged in when they are ‘off stage’. Of course, the characters themselves are free to speak their thoughts whilst in the narrator’s company/proximity, but you must ensure that their speech is not laden with information necessary to make sense of the narrative. (‘John since I saw you last I’ve had the abortion, booked an appointment at the rehab clinic and got shot of Sam, had the dog put down and lost nearly two stone…’)
The huge advantage of immediacy mentioned above can often outweigh the restrictions of FP. It’s impossible to imagine certain famous novels being written in anything other than the FP: ‘Jane Eyre’, ‘The End of the Affair’, ‘A Clockwork Orange’, ‘The Catcher in the Rye’, ‘Bonjour Tristesse’, etc. Supply your own examples.
It’s perfectly possible (and permissible) to have more than one FP narrator, switching viewpoints at appropriate moments in the story. You must bear in mind, though, that any change in viewpoint creates a deep fissure in the otherwise seamless flow of your narrative which can be both irritating, and disruptive, for the reader. There is also the likelihood that the reader will identify much more strongly with a particular narrator and will grow bored and frustrated when another character temporarily takes over the telling of the story, causing them to skim through the book until their favourite ‘I’ makes their next appearance. (Also a major problem with TP multiple viewpoint: see below)
You should only switch viewpoints if it’s absolutely necessary to do so, ie, the story demands it. This rule applies no matter what viewpoint you’ve chosen. It’s best to make any viewpoint changes at either chapter or section breaks. Switches in viewpoint should never be made just to ‘spice up’ your work, or because you’ve grown bored with, or are finding it difficult, to stick with (or control) a single narrator. Any such changes borne out of expediency are likely to be picked up by the reader and this will greatly impair their enjoyment of your work. Most readers are extraordinarily sophisticated and not easily duped.
If you’ve spent sufficient time thinking about who would make the most appropriate narrator for your story, the above problems should not arise. You must choose a character from whom you can generate the maximum amount of emotion and with whom you most empathise. (This doesn’t mean that you should pick your narrator on the basis of his/her charm and innate likeability, and because they’re an all round ‘good egg’. Complete bitches and bastards can make excellent FP protagonists.) The character who takes on the role of narrator should, ideally, have a principal part to play within the narrative. They must have some stake in the story as it unfolds. Will their crime of fratricide be discovered? Will they win – or even survive – the gruelling Channel swim? Will the medical profession succeed in finding a cure for their terrible wasting disease before the arrival of the Grim Reaper? (There is nothing to be gained from having our story of Dalliance in a Dormobile told from the point of view of the boy who’s paid a fiver a time to give it its fortnightly wash and wax, and who has no role in influencing the ultimate outcome of the narrative.) Nick Carraway the narrator of The Great Gatsby, might be on the periphery of events but his viewpoint enables us to see deeply into the characters of Gatsby and his cousin Daisy and their lives/circumstances – insights that could not be gained were to the novel to be told from either Daisy or Gatsby’s point-of-view. He is, after all, instrumental in reigniting the romance between them.
Third Person (single & multiple viewpoints):
TP single viewpoint tells the story from one character's perspective but that character is now referred to as either ‘she’ or ‘he’. This approach allows the reader to ‘become’ that character for the duration of the narrative and is ideal if you’re seeking maximum reader involvement – which, of course, you should be. Once the story gets up a full head of steam there are no untimely disruptions to prevent the reader from applying their full concentration to the story and immersing themselves completely in it. TP single viewpoint is well suited to genre fiction: thrillers, romances, etc, where immediate, and lasting, identification with the protagonist is the sine qua non of successful story telling.
TP multiple viewpoint accounts for approximately three quarters of what might be dubbed ‘mainstream’ fiction. This is the viewpoint that comes with all those no-expense-spared sleek and sexy add-ons for maximum reader pleasure. The author, too, gets to have a really good time and is granted the freedom to choose to tell their story through as many different characters’ eyes as they wish: male, female, Foxy the dog – whoever. This approach is superb for unravelling, and analysing, complex character relationships, for teasing out vast, intricate plots - and for injecting tension into a story. We can instantly shift from the plight of the poor imprisoned princess to those faithful subjects risking their own lives as they labour night and day to free her.
TP multiple viewpoint gives the writer plenty of opportunity to really ‘pig out’ on their material – but, like indulging in any over-rich meal, the result can often lead to chronic indigestion on the part of both writer and reader. For example, severe problems with chronology can frequently arise. It’s easy with a large cast of disparate characters each pursing their own particular strand of the storyline (and with their own specific agendas) to loose all track of time - you go from vivacious Jo enjoying a champagne supper with her man of few words, Rory, on a Sunday evening and switch (without problem) to Rory’s paranoid blind sister, Marion, being terrorised by an obscene telephone caller on the same evening – but when we next meet Jo what day are we going to see her on? Tuesday? Wednesday? And when Marion makes another entrée into the text what day is it for her? Sunday? Friday? And what about David, Lois, Rachel, Phoebe, Martin, Luke, Andrea, and Jane? How have they been amusing themselves whilst hairy, and heroic, Rory wrestled with Marion’s mad, infatuated stalker atop the Post Office Tower?
Imbalance is an equally common problem (a crime of which Dickens was frequently guilty, but, being Dickens, no charges were brought). Too much ‘page time’ can, unwittingly, be given to certain ‘addictive’ characters at the expense of others whose roles within the story are, perhaps, more crucial – but because the writer has found himself especially smitten with Maisie, Marion’s pretty and vulnerable teenage sister, we get to spend a great deal of time in her winsome, sexually precocious company watching her experience her first exposure to marijuana and molestation, and sacrificing her virginity to her married, one legged music teacher after the school concert during which her stunning performance of Bach’s Cello Sonata in G Major caused grown men to weep. (See? I’m now doing it myself!)
Omniscient:
Much beloved by those nineteenth century literary behemoths, this viewpoint is not often employed today. Om viewpoint truly puts the writer in the position of God; he is free to indulge in external and internal examinations of his characters, to detail events which are happening simultaneously, to leap from mind to mind as the mood takes him, gathering thoughts, and then to offer up discursive passages of analysis/description. The writer exercises a total control over his material; nothing escapes his pervasive, pantheistic presence. Diluted Om can be extremely handy for the 21st century writer, eg, giving the reader an early, and necessary, overview of the novel’s personae and their respective predicaments - a device very popular with writers of ‘apocalyptic’ fiction where we need to be au fait with the large assemblage of characters in the first reel before the tidal wave/earthquake/comet/volcanic eruption/nuclear holocaust decimates their lives and puts their loved ones in jeopardy.
Whatever viewpoint you finally employ to tell your story, be sure to exploit its virtues rather than fall foul of its vices.
First Person (single & multiple viewpoints):
Graham Greene stated that FP offers the novelist a great technical advantage in that she/he is not open to the temptation of deviating from the main storyline. There is no opportunity to go blithely wandering off down the attractive highways and byways of the narrative merely because they appear interesting, or offer a welcome diversion from the story’s current obstructive, rock strewn path. FP forces the writer to tackle such ‘everyday’ difficulties head-on and deal with them as, and when, they manifest themselves. FP makes no allowances for woolly or imprecise writing, which it will unmercifully expose.
FP gives your story a wonderful, and seductive, immediacy (‘I came home that rainy September evening to find our new hall carpet puddled with blood…’), making it much easier for the reader to enter quickly into the text and to readily believe what they’re being told. The events comprising the narrative actually happened to (or within the orbit of) the narrator (the ‘I’ of the story), and this fact gives the text a weight and authority – an instant believability - which TP has to strive a little more energetically to achieve. The ghost of the author is not so obviously present at the feast. With TP the author has to work harder to remain invisible and impartial. Partiality is no problem in an FP narrative. It comes, as they say, with the territory. (Think of Humbert Humbert – Lolita, or John Self – Money.)
FP lends itself naturally to an easy, colloquial style of expression which quickly helps build a close, and collusive, relationship between reader and story teller. Because this style simulates direct speech there is, in theory, less danger of the writer slipping into purple prose or pretentiousness. However even the merest whiff of over-writing will smell like an avalanche of pig shit. Beware!
The main restriction imposed by FP is that the reader can only be knowledgeably informed about those matters/circumstances with which the narrator him/herself is personally acquainted. The reader and the narrator share the same position within the story – unless, of course, it is being told using flashback. (‘The day Laura was murdered, I arrived home later than I’d originally planned. Now I’m often forced to wonder what would’ve happened if I’d caught my usual train and…’)
If, for example, the narrator’s girlfriend is having a passionate, and sexually unorthodox, affair with the man next door, the reader cannot be privy to this volatile information until the narrator himself finally learns what’s been regularly occurring under cover of darkness in the neighbour’s prized Dormobile while he (the narrator) has been sequestered in the garden shed lovingly tending his cacti collection. There can be no humourous, and tellingly symbolic, cutting between what’s happening within the rocking, steamy windowed caravanette and the narrator in his lonely, unheated shed pricking himself on a spectacularly erectile and vigorous example of Astrophytum Capricorne.
Use of FP precludes the possibility of entering into the minds of the other characters and accurately describing what they are thinking or feeling; nor can we see what the other characters are getting up to once they leave the narrator’s presence. The best that the narrator can do in terms of the above is to speculate about what might be happening within the minds of the people with whom they’re sharing the story and what they’re engaged in when they are ‘off stage’. Of course, the characters themselves are free to speak their thoughts whilst in the narrator’s company/proximity, but you must ensure that their speech is not laden with information necessary to make sense of the narrative. (‘John since I saw you last I’ve had the abortion, booked an appointment at the rehab clinic and got shot of Sam, had the dog put down and lost nearly two stone…’)
The huge advantage of immediacy mentioned above can often outweigh the restrictions of FP. It’s impossible to imagine certain famous novels being written in anything other than the FP: ‘Jane Eyre’, ‘The End of the Affair’, ‘A Clockwork Orange’, ‘The Catcher in the Rye’, ‘Bonjour Tristesse’, etc. Supply your own examples.
It’s perfectly possible (and permissible) to have more than one FP narrator, switching viewpoints at appropriate moments in the story. You must bear in mind, though, that any change in viewpoint creates a deep fissure in the otherwise seamless flow of your narrative which can be both irritating, and disruptive, for the reader. There is also the likelihood that the reader will identify much more strongly with a particular narrator and will grow bored and frustrated when another character temporarily takes over the telling of the story, causing them to skim through the book until their favourite ‘I’ makes their next appearance. (Also a major problem with TP multiple viewpoint: see below)
You should only switch viewpoints if it’s absolutely necessary to do so, ie, the story demands it. This rule applies no matter what viewpoint you’ve chosen. It’s best to make any viewpoint changes at either chapter or section breaks. Switches in viewpoint should never be made just to ‘spice up’ your work, or because you’ve grown bored with, or are finding it difficult, to stick with (or control) a single narrator. Any such changes borne out of expediency are likely to be picked up by the reader and this will greatly impair their enjoyment of your work. Most readers are extraordinarily sophisticated and not easily duped.
If you’ve spent sufficient time thinking about who would make the most appropriate narrator for your story, the above problems should not arise. You must choose a character from whom you can generate the maximum amount of emotion and with whom you most empathise. (This doesn’t mean that you should pick your narrator on the basis of his/her charm and innate likeability, and because they’re an all round ‘good egg’. Complete bitches and bastards can make excellent FP protagonists.) The character who takes on the role of narrator should, ideally, have a principal part to play within the narrative. They must have some stake in the story as it unfolds. Will their crime of fratricide be discovered? Will they win – or even survive – the gruelling Channel swim? Will the medical profession succeed in finding a cure for their terrible wasting disease before the arrival of the Grim Reaper? (There is nothing to be gained from having our story of Dalliance in a Dormobile told from the point of view of the boy who’s paid a fiver a time to give it its fortnightly wash and wax, and who has no role in influencing the ultimate outcome of the narrative.) Nick Carraway the narrator of The Great Gatsby, might be on the periphery of events but his viewpoint enables us to see deeply into the characters of Gatsby and his cousin Daisy and their lives/circumstances – insights that could not be gained were to the novel to be told from either Daisy or Gatsby’s point-of-view. He is, after all, instrumental in reigniting the romance between them.
Third Person (single & multiple viewpoints):
TP single viewpoint tells the story from one character's perspective but that character is now referred to as either ‘she’ or ‘he’. This approach allows the reader to ‘become’ that character for the duration of the narrative and is ideal if you’re seeking maximum reader involvement – which, of course, you should be. Once the story gets up a full head of steam there are no untimely disruptions to prevent the reader from applying their full concentration to the story and immersing themselves completely in it. TP single viewpoint is well suited to genre fiction: thrillers, romances, etc, where immediate, and lasting, identification with the protagonist is the sine qua non of successful story telling.
TP multiple viewpoint accounts for approximately three quarters of what might be dubbed ‘mainstream’ fiction. This is the viewpoint that comes with all those no-expense-spared sleek and sexy add-ons for maximum reader pleasure. The author, too, gets to have a really good time and is granted the freedom to choose to tell their story through as many different characters’ eyes as they wish: male, female, Foxy the dog – whoever. This approach is superb for unravelling, and analysing, complex character relationships, for teasing out vast, intricate plots - and for injecting tension into a story. We can instantly shift from the plight of the poor imprisoned princess to those faithful subjects risking their own lives as they labour night and day to free her.
TP multiple viewpoint gives the writer plenty of opportunity to really ‘pig out’ on their material – but, like indulging in any over-rich meal, the result can often lead to chronic indigestion on the part of both writer and reader. For example, severe problems with chronology can frequently arise. It’s easy with a large cast of disparate characters each pursing their own particular strand of the storyline (and with their own specific agendas) to loose all track of time - you go from vivacious Jo enjoying a champagne supper with her man of few words, Rory, on a Sunday evening and switch (without problem) to Rory’s paranoid blind sister, Marion, being terrorised by an obscene telephone caller on the same evening – but when we next meet Jo what day are we going to see her on? Tuesday? Wednesday? And when Marion makes another entrée into the text what day is it for her? Sunday? Friday? And what about David, Lois, Rachel, Phoebe, Martin, Luke, Andrea, and Jane? How have they been amusing themselves whilst hairy, and heroic, Rory wrestled with Marion’s mad, infatuated stalker atop the Post Office Tower?
Imbalance is an equally common problem (a crime of which Dickens was frequently guilty, but, being Dickens, no charges were brought). Too much ‘page time’ can, unwittingly, be given to certain ‘addictive’ characters at the expense of others whose roles within the story are, perhaps, more crucial – but because the writer has found himself especially smitten with Maisie, Marion’s pretty and vulnerable teenage sister, we get to spend a great deal of time in her winsome, sexually precocious company watching her experience her first exposure to marijuana and molestation, and sacrificing her virginity to her married, one legged music teacher after the school concert during which her stunning performance of Bach’s Cello Sonata in G Major caused grown men to weep. (See? I’m now doing it myself!)
Omniscient:
Much beloved by those nineteenth century literary behemoths, this viewpoint is not often employed today. Om viewpoint truly puts the writer in the position of God; he is free to indulge in external and internal examinations of his characters, to detail events which are happening simultaneously, to leap from mind to mind as the mood takes him, gathering thoughts, and then to offer up discursive passages of analysis/description. The writer exercises a total control over his material; nothing escapes his pervasive, pantheistic presence. Diluted Om can be extremely handy for the 21st century writer, eg, giving the reader an early, and necessary, overview of the novel’s personae and their respective predicaments - a device very popular with writers of ‘apocalyptic’ fiction where we need to be au fait with the large assemblage of characters in the first reel before the tidal wave/earthquake/comet/volcanic eruption/nuclear holocaust decimates their lives and puts their loved ones in jeopardy.
Whatever viewpoint you finally employ to tell your story, be sure to exploit its virtues rather than fall foul of its vices.
Reading List: Modern/Contemporary Fiction
Titles listed are not done so in order of merit.
A Sad Affair – Wolfgang Koeppen
Time Will Darken It – William Maxwell
The Ghost Writer – John Harwood
After You’d Gone – Maggie O’Farrell
Notes On A Scandal – Zoe Heller
About The Author – John Colapinto
Blue Angel – Francine Prose
The Pursuit of Alice Thrift – Elinor Lipman
The Cutting Room – Louise Welsh
Half in Love – Justin Cartwright
Back Trouble - Clare Chambers
The Trail of True Love – William Nicholson
A Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing – Melissa Bank
The End of the Story – Lydia Davis
Eva – Peter Dickinson
Chocky – John Wyndam
Our Spoons Came from Woolworths – Barbara Comyns
The Calligrapher – Edward Docx
The Diary of a Provincial Lady – E.M. Delafield
The Night Listener – Armistead Maupin
The Enderby Trilogy – Anthony Burgess
The Lake of Darkness – Ruth Rendell
The Rachel Papers – Martin Amis
Before She Met me – Julian Barnes
A Book of Matches – Nicholson Baker
The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler
The New York Trilogy – Paul Auster
Elidor - Alan Garner
The Collector – John Fowles
Curtain – Agatha Christie
The Hollow Man – John Dickson Carr
Couples – John Updike
Pale Fire – Vladimir Nabokov
Billy Liar – Keith Waterhouse
Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky – Patrick Hamilton
The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold – Evelyn Waugh
Of Human Bondage – Somerset Maugham
An Equal Music – Vikram Seth
Caught – Henry Green
The Go-Between – L.P. Hartley
Willard and His Bowling Trophies – Richard Brautigan
Albert Angelo – B.S. Johnson
On the Beach – Nevil Shute
The Swimming-Pool Library – Alan Hollinghurst
Felicia’s Journey – William Trevor
What a Carve Up! – Jonathan Coe
A Fan’s Notes – Frederick Exley
Jill – Philip Larkin
The Case of Mr Crump – Ludwig Lewisohn
A Sad Affair – Wolfgang Koeppen
Time Will Darken It – William Maxwell
The Ghost Writer – John Harwood
After You’d Gone – Maggie O’Farrell
Notes On A Scandal – Zoe Heller
About The Author – John Colapinto
Blue Angel – Francine Prose
The Pursuit of Alice Thrift – Elinor Lipman
The Cutting Room – Louise Welsh
Half in Love – Justin Cartwright
Back Trouble - Clare Chambers
The Trail of True Love – William Nicholson
A Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing – Melissa Bank
The End of the Story – Lydia Davis
Eva – Peter Dickinson
Chocky – John Wyndam
Our Spoons Came from Woolworths – Barbara Comyns
The Calligrapher – Edward Docx
The Diary of a Provincial Lady – E.M. Delafield
The Night Listener – Armistead Maupin
The Enderby Trilogy – Anthony Burgess
The Lake of Darkness – Ruth Rendell
The Rachel Papers – Martin Amis
Before She Met me – Julian Barnes
A Book of Matches – Nicholson Baker
The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler
The New York Trilogy – Paul Auster
Elidor - Alan Garner
The Collector – John Fowles
Curtain – Agatha Christie
The Hollow Man – John Dickson Carr
Couples – John Updike
Pale Fire – Vladimir Nabokov
Billy Liar – Keith Waterhouse
Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky – Patrick Hamilton
The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold – Evelyn Waugh
Of Human Bondage – Somerset Maugham
An Equal Music – Vikram Seth
Caught – Henry Green
The Go-Between – L.P. Hartley
Willard and His Bowling Trophies – Richard Brautigan
Albert Angelo – B.S. Johnson
On the Beach – Nevil Shute
The Swimming-Pool Library – Alan Hollinghurst
Felicia’s Journey – William Trevor
What a Carve Up! – Jonathan Coe
A Fan’s Notes – Frederick Exley
Jill – Philip Larkin
The Case of Mr Crump – Ludwig Lewisohn
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