No hope please, we're British

John Cheever’s characters are active. Evarts Malloy has seized the opportunity of having his play published with both hands, rushing off to New York with wild abandonment. Similarly, Neddy Merrill begun his quest across the pools in his neighbourhood in earnest. He sticks with it, through the struggles and even when he starts to realise that the eventual outcome may not be the desirable one.

            There is a naive optimism shown in many of Cheever’s characters. The degree of hope that clings to that founding idea in America that hard work can conquer anything. Whether that work involves persuading one’s brother to lighten up or yearning to be the perfect family, America is a nation that is continually striving and Cheever’s characters reflect this.

            British characters, on the other hand, are passive, seeking the familiar norm wherever possible. The Darling family return to their home comforts, despite their fantastical adventures in Neverland. Bilbo Baggins is reluctant to leave at all. The Pevensie children go back through the wardrobe. They all have an air of cautiousness around them so common in British culture. The protagonists are rarely go-getters, more likely to be hesitant underdogs who carry on throughout the conflict by sheer will of clinging on.

            And food. That’s what makes British stories. Feasts in the Great Hall, tea with Mr Tumnus or hot breakfast at 221B Baker Street before a day of investigatory work. And lashing and lashings of ginger beer. 

Barlow and Skidmore

" 'Believe in your dreams,' said the Dreamwalker sternly. 'Without dreams, there are only nightmares. All beings must have dreams, desires and hope. Without them, how can they survive the disappointment and sadness of the waking world? Dreams have no price. Riches cannot buy them.' "

- Extract from Steve Barlow and Steve Skidmore's Whizzard

Everything But The Truth

I wonder if the tale of Harry Potter would hold the same excitement if we all deemed Hogwarts to be a real place. I wonder if Emily Dickinson’s poems would be as intriguing if they were a true recollection of her life. I wonder if truth and realism has any place in fiction at all.

           

            Escapism is a key reason to read. We read to forget the mundane reality and fall into unrealistic yet thrilling worlds. If our favourite stories only featured the bland truth of our lives, why would you bother to read them? The truth can be a harsh mistress. It would be impossible for Sleeping Beauty to be revived by a kiss, doctors would have eventually turned off her life support. Why kind of comforting bedtime story is that? I like stories that feature optimistic hope, as so often, true life can be just the opposite.

           

            Elements of truth can be engaging; the quest to find the identity of Dickinson’s “master” a case in point. But if every tale followed the moral code of truth, then there would be no story. Juliet would have attended Romeo’s funeral, attended bereavement counselling and then attended a speed dating evening. Truth cannot elbow its way into fiction. The space is already filled by romantic naivety, hopeless daydreaming and the love of an unrealistic happy ending. Just the way it should be. 

Dahl

"If he is a writer of fiction, he lives in a world of fear. Each new day demands new ideas and he can never be sure whether he is going to come up with them or not. Two hours of writing fiction leaves this particular writer absolutely drained. For those two hours he has been miles away, he has been somewhere else, in a different place with totally different people, and the effort of swimming back into normal surroundings is very great. It is almost a shock. The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whiskey than is good for him. He does it to give himself faith, hope and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul, and that, I am sure, is why he does it."

- Extract from Roald Dahl's Boy.

How is it that I became a writer?

I became a writer because my overactive imagination needed an outlet. At bedtime, it would be fed with pages from Dahl, Blyton, King-Smith and later, Rowling, Skidmore and Wilson. I would read for hours, dividing my after school time between being hunched over a book or hunched over my beloved GameBoy Advance. Books influenced me so much that by the time I was eight, I wanted to be a vet, due to the envy of Mandy’s lifestyle in the Animal Ark series. Then we watched Animal Hospital on Thursday nights and I didn’t want to be a vet anymore.

            I bought pretty notepads with my pocket money and filled them with scribbled, unending stories. But that didn’t matter that they had no end, no plot, no character arc. They were adventures and made me excited to put pen to paper. When I had the opportunity to write stories for homework, I took it very seriously. Selecting my best pen and positioning myself at the dining room table, I would concoct wondrous worlds of dragons and fairies. I always got a gold star sticker for those assignments.

            The continual praise for my writing as I went through school added fuel to the fire.  My passion grew and took hold of my decision making. Choices became geared to whatever would assist my writing career and they were the right choices. I will have a blissful life indeed if I can play imaginary games for a living. The hard part is writing them down.