Categorically Speaking

I’m fat. I’m grey haired. I’m in my forties. I’m English. I’m a Sheffield United fan.

Does any of the above make you automatically like me any less? (I’ll excuse you if it’s the Sheffield United part. Some things can’t be helped) I hope not. In these so-called enlightened days I’d hope that most of us would be able to see past the superficial and make our own judgements (unless we’ve brainwashed by some ‘religion’ into thinking that all people who think differently to us are evil – I still can’t get my head round that one).

Still with me? Good. So you can think for yourself. And you read stuff. I know you do, you’ve made it this far.

But what kind of books do you read? What sections of a bookshop do you automatically walk towards? What if a book has a pink cover bearing a cartoon of a young woman walking a poodle. Or a rocket ship blasting off into space. Or a couple making use of some bondage gear. Would you even take it from the shelf or would you just dismiss it automatically because you already know that kind of thing isn’t for you?

Book covers are designed to tempt us into thinking ‘I’ve read and enjoyed something that looked similar before, therefore I will probably like this book too’. But it’s all too easy to fall into their idle trap and become complacent. We see certain types of books as being aimed specifically at a particular demographic and sometimes find it difficult to think outside of this box. But why should that be? We’re smart folks aren’t we? We can think for ourselves? Why can’t we enjoy writing that ‘they’ won’t aim at us?

And isn’t automatically dismissing a particular genre of book (and even, by extension, giving books any genre label) a form of discrimination? Enlightened people don’t do discrimination. Suggest that war stories or sci-fi are just for men and love stories are solely the domain for women and you really should be slapped with a sexist label quicker than you can say ‘Caitlin Moran’.

So why do many of us pull our noses up and say ‘Fantasy books? Urgh, no. I can’t be doing with trolls and such’ or ‘crime fiction? It’s all clichés isn’t it?’ even though we’ve never actually read any of the objects of our derision? Apparently we just know we won’t like it so we don’t even try.

I thought I’d left all that behind in my teenage years – ‘I can’t listen to that stuff, it’s Mod music. Look – there’s a kid wearing a parka on the cover, so I definitely won’t like it’. I never understood that kind of argument any more than the one that that haughtily says ‘of course, the finest science fiction is allegorical in nature’. Huh? That’s as idiotic as saying that the erotica works at its best when it has something to say about the socio-economic condition of Eastern Europe since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Where’s the difference between an ignorant person saying ‘I don’t like westerns’ and ‘I don’t like ginger haired people’?

Book readers are supposedly intelligent people so act like one. Don’t take pride in your total rejection of a particular style of writing. That’s prejudice, pure and simple. Have an open mind. Expand your horizons. Read a different kind of book or better still, get out of the mind-set of pigeonholing literature and just think of all books as just, well, books. There are so many authors whose work deserves at least a look.

Graham Green and Günter  Grass. Jasper Fforde or Katie Fforde. HP Lovecraft and MC Beaton. Even the wildly differing political views of Ayn Rand and George Orwell. They’re all classics if you’re prepared to step outside your normal reading habits and give them a go. That’s why reading groups are such a great idea. They force their members out of their comfort zones. Sometimes it works, sometimes it backfires horribly. But at least it exposes the reader to something new, and that’s always a good thing.

It’s International Book week. Go on. Try something new.

© Shaun Finnie 2012

“mmmm….” (crunch) “ow!”

There are some phrases guaranteed to strike fear into the human heart.  “The tax inspector will see you now” is one, as are “should it really be that colour?” and “We need to talk”. And also there’s the one that I’ve been forced to say this week; “It’s no good, I’ll have to go to the dentist”.

Kit Kat Chunky has to be the best chocolate bar in the world. It does exactly what it says on the label – it’s a Kit Kat but it’s chunky. Fantastic. They’re especially tasty straight from the fridge. Unfortunately that makes them a little more like yummy concrete than normal, so my usual “mmmm” of pleasure became “mmmm….” (crunch) “ow!”  The chocolaty deliciousness melted away, leaving jagged pain behind as I found the remnants of my broken tooth.

I’ve since had it fixed but the dentist made it quite clear that my days of biting through hard things are over. I’m to be careful what I nibble on for the rest of my life. Chomping through a hard pear (or indeed a cool Kit Kat) is a pleasure that is now in my past.

I’d heard it said of old people many times – “A nightly tot of whiskey is one of his few remaining pleasures” – but this was the first time that I can remember one of my own personal pleasures being placed firmly in my past. I have never before noticed something that I like becoming something from my past. It has happened though, obviously. Things slip in and out of your pleasure zone as age and fashion dictate. For example, I no longer actively seek out the pleasures of sucking my thumb, skateboarding or lusting after Susan Stranks from ‘Magpie’. Well, she is seventy-three now.

I guess the moral of this story is, if you like doing something then do it now. Don’t wait until tomorrow because you never know what tomorrow may bring.

For me, it brings the small change of cutting up my Chunky Kit Kats from now on. I’m nothing if not adaptable.

© Shaun Finnie 2012  –  follow Shaun on Twitter  @ShaunFinnie 

A Fresh Start

I don’t know about where you live but the children around here went back to school this week. I saw some of the younger ones trooping past my house, clutching tightly to their mums’ hands. Some seemed excited, some a bit nervous; all were on the verge of a new start.

It was a same at the bus stop around the corner with the older kids. Pushing, jostling, fighting, texting, doing what kids in or approaching their teens do. Every one of their young lives had changed in the last few weeks of summer. All were advancing a school year or in many cases moving up to a brand new school. Some were starting formal education for the first time. They all had different histories and different things to look forwards to but the were all the same in one crucial respect: they’d all grown up a little.

On the same day that I saw this our national news showed images of people in Belfast hurling missiles and abuse at police and other people who have different views to their own – mostly religious ones. Then they showed images of people in the Middle East doing pretty much the same thing.

So in the twenty-first century we’re still playing the ‘my god’s better than your god’ game? And the people involved think that they’re showing the world how great their god is by attacking anyone who thinks differently? I’m shaking my head in genuine bewilderment as I type this.

I’m no history student but it seems to me that religious intolerance has been the cause of more wars than any sneaky land grabs or political assassinations. And we all know who to blame, don’t we? It’s ‘the other guy’, the one who looks strange or has customs that seem entirely alien to us. It’s easy to look at a ranting fanatic and think that he’s an idiot who should simply take a chill pill. But isn’t that thought in itself a kind of religious intolerance? And aren’t supposedly-enlightened atheists and agnostics just as guilty of this thought crime? Casting my mind way back to my own schooldays, I was taught that The Crusades supposedly ended around seven hundred years ago. Looking at the state of the world today I’m not so sure.

Those children walking down my street showed signs of growing up. It seems that many alleged grown-ups are yet to follow suit.

© Shaun Finnie 2012  –  follow Shaun on Twitter  @ShaunFinnie

Shaun Finnie is the author of ‘Make Easy Money from Writing’ and several other books – available from Amazon now.

Starman

As you may have heard Neil Armstrong, the world’s most reluctant hero, died last week.

Armstrong was the first person to walk on the moon, a true giant of exploration, yet he hated talking about it. In his view he was just doing his job and it was no more interesting than yours or mine. He was one of only twelve people to have stepped on the lunar surface. When I was a boy sending people to our satellite was commonplace – there was a new launch every few months, all heading to the moon and, crucially, returning safely. In my childish naivety I imagined it would always be like this and so, apparently, did they. When Gene Cernan, the last human to stand on the lunar surface, was preparing to leave for home he said ‘I take man's last step from the surface, back home for some time to come – but we believe not too long into the future’. But it hasn’t turned out that way. In December it will be forty years since Cernan came back from the moon and there are no definite plans to go back even now.

The ‘seventies were a magical time; a period that many believe was the peak of man’s technical ability. We went to the moon. We flew from London to New York in three and a half hours on Concorde. Since then we seem to have started looking at the short term cost of these kind of engineering marvels instead of the long term benefits.

After Armstrong’s death I looked at the BBC’s news website. Sure enough, they reported it well as you’d expect from such an august organisation. The article was their second most-viewed internet page that day. But what was the most-viewed? What did visitors to the BBC site want to read about more than the news of the passing of the greatest pioneer of my lifetime?

Louise Clarke, a dancer from the 1970’s ‘Top of the Pops’ dance troupe Pan’s People, had died on the same day. More people wanted to read about that apparently.

This week there are different kinds of heroes performing miracles in the Paralympic Games. As we watch them pushing the boundaries of human ability and endeavour shouldn’t we all ask ourselves: what have I done to improve our world – and ourselves – today?

Neil Armstrong, 1930 – 2012, RIP

Louise Clarke, 1949 – 2012, RIP

© Shaun Finnie 2012  –  follow Shaun on Twitter  @ShaunFinnie

Shaun Finnie is the author of ‘Make Easy Money from Writing’ – available from Amazon now.

Innocence Revisited

I absolutely adored being young. Don’t get me wrong, being a grown up isn’t too shabby either but the halcyon days of my youth held a special kind of precious vitality, when every new experience was magical and exciting. That freshness is almost impossible for any of us to regain in later years. I loved every minute of it.

I loved the long lazy summer days that may or may not have existed in the numbers that I recall. I loved the safe, happy cocoon of my family home that nothing as mundane as money or health worries could invade. I loved the fresh taste of the air and the cooling shock of the crystal clear stream that ran through the woods near home.

In my memory/imagination every day of my pre-teen years was filled with clear blue skies and sticky tarmac, the soft buzz of honeybees and the scent of Granny’s bread, fresh from the oven.

Running back from the corner shop with a melting ice-lolly in one hand and Mum’s change clasped tightly in the other. The whole family eating together around the dining table before all sitting down to watch television – together of course, though Granny would only occasionally raise an eye from her knitting. These memories have a sepia glow around them in my mind’s eye, as if plucked from a ‘my golden years’ TV special.

Did these things happen as I recall? Honestly, I can’t say. Probably not. It was forty years ago and my memory has never been all that great, but there must be a grain of truth in at least some of them, I don’t have a good enough imagination to make it all up in such detail.

A few days ago I went to see a film that, for the first time in years, brought those same feelings rushing to the surface again, a clear nostalgic stream of innocent fun. It had no hidden agendas, no post-modernism, no irony, no eco-friendly moralising or other political message. And no explosions. There were no multi-level jokes that were aimed at one specific demographic but would go over the head of another. No clever knowing winks to the camera, no sneering at those who ‘just don’t get it’. Nothing to exclude anyone.

It was a Disney film. The latest offering from their Pixar division, to be more precise, called ‘Brave’. You may have heard of it and immediately dismissed it as a kid’s film. I’m sure that most kids will love it. But I can’t see why adults can’t enjoy it as well, if they allow themselves to.

Sure, the gas bill still needed paying when I came out of the cinema. My dodgy knee still hurt too, that hadn’t gone away. But I had forgotten about them for a short time and I had a big silly grin on my face at the end of it.

‘Brave’ won’t solve the problems of the real world because it doesn’t try to. It just entertains in a way that we can all enjoy if we only let our guards down for a couple of hours. It’s not a nostalgia trip – even I’m not old enough to remember the medieval Scotland that the film is set in. It’s just good clean fun for all the family, as the cliché goes. That’s the same ‘Good clean fun’ that seems to have become a dirty word (or three) these days – something to be sneered at, something that we don’t need because we know better in this enlightened age. But do we? Have we adults (and maybe our less-innocent children too) lost the ability to smile at something just because it’s nice?

I left the cinema feeling happy. What’s so wrong with that?

© Shaun Finnie 2012  –  follow Shaun on Twitter  @ShaunFinnie
Shaun Finnie is the author of ‘The Disneylands That Never Were’.  See shaunfinnie.com  for details.

"We Can Be Heroes"

Despite having his song “Heroes” used as an unofficial anthem for the London 2012 Olympic Games, David Bowie declined the offer to sing it at the opening ceremony. I’ve been a huge fan of Bowie since my childhood so his non-appearance disappointed me but t wasn’t really a surprise. Pageantry, nationalistic jingoism and royalty have never been important to Bowie (as proven by his two rejections of offers of a knighthood).

Kate Bush was invited to play too but she also refused. Presumably this was due to her well-documented stage fright and being an intensely private person. The Rolling Stones were apparently high on the wish-list of the producers of the closing ceremony as well but they didn’t want to do it. And the Sex Pistols turned down their request to play because… well, they’re the Sex Pistols. Conformity was never Mr Rotten’s strong point.

The Spice Girls, George Michael and The Who all turned up and played their party pieces though. It’s worth noting that everyone who did appear was paid just £1 (as contracts must have some monetary value) but the cynics among us would point out that these three have new product available to buy soon so would gain some promotional benefits from their appearance. Indeed George was for some reason allowed to push his new single at this global event. Hey, I guess business is business and they’re perfectly entitled to play their music whenever and wherever they want – or not – but it seems a little sad that many British superstars didn’t want to support this celebration. I know several musicians who would’ve given sold their proverbial grannies to appear at the closing ceremony. I guess when they first started out so would many of those who turned it down this time around. Now that they’ve achieved a huge level of success they apparently no longer feel those same creative urges, the same love for their work. It may not have lessoned but it certainly appears to be a different kind of artistic passion.

Is it the same for authors? If a writer has some success do they then feel pressured to keep regurgitating that same product? It’s well recorded that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle became sick to the teeth of his greatest creation, going on record as saying ““If in one hundred years I am only known as the man who invented Sherlock Holmes, then I will consider my life a failure”. I find his attitude towards his famous detective so sad, that a literary genius should feel so overshadowed by his once-loved character that he wrote to his mother: "I think of slaying Holmes... and winding him up for good and all. He takes my mind from better things."  And he did, he threw Holmes over a waterfall to his death only to feel forced by the ensuing public outcry to resurrect him.

Sir Arthur felt that he was trapped by the popularity of his own creation.

So today’s closing questions are these: When an artist (of any kind) releases their work to the world, who owns it? If it becomes popular, does the artist have an obligation to the public to provide more of the same? Or are they entitled to say ‘It’s my pen (plectrum, brush, whatever), I can do what I want with it’?

These are problems that many artists can only dream of.

© Shaun Finnie 2012 ( follow Shaun on Twitter  @ShaunFinnie )

Revenge of the Insomnioid

You hear people talk about ‘suffering’ from insomnia like it’s some kind of tropical disease. ‘You know our Shaun?’ they’ll ask when they meet each other in the street or go for a conspiratorial coffee, ‘He suffers from terrible insomnia’. Then they’ll sadly shake their heads at each other as if insomnia’s some kind of virulent flesh-eating disease or at the very least a strange sort of gaseous internal combustion. I half expect them to go on and explain how ‘our Shaun’ caught this awful affliction while paddling down the Orinoco or perhaps via some ill-advised dalliance in Thailand.

For a writer there are far worse disorders to fall prey to than lack of sleep. And I should know for I, dear reader, am that insomniac. Actually I prefer to call myself an Insomnioid. Note the capital letter for dramatic emphasis. It sounds so much more intense, like I’m the main creature in a dreadful late-seventies David Cronenberg movie. ‘Beware the Insomnioid!’

You might think of me as a sufferer but I don’t think of insomnia as sufferance at all. I see it more as an opportunity. My body obviously doesn’t need that much rest – it’s not as if I’m wearing it out with my sedentary lifestyle – so I may as well make the most of the extra time that my sleeplessness allows me at night-time. I’m getting used to waking in the wee small hours now. Me and Lady Moon are BFFs, don’t you know. And it’s not like having only three or four hours sleep is playing havoc with my work. Far from it. I don’t need physical strength to dig drains or alertness to operate heavy machinery. I’m a writer. I need ideas, and it takes more than a little tiredness won’t stop them. They zoom around inside my head and, in glorious isolation in my upper room, I form them into sentences on a page or a screen for the education or entertainment of people like you. This involves hours of lonely toil with as few interruptions as possible. When the words are flowing and I’m on a roll I can be completely focussed on the job, almost in a hypnotic state for hours, my pen flowing across the notebook or fingers dancing on the keyboard almost without any prompting from my brain. So what better time to do this than when the rest of the world – and the rest of my house in particular – is fast asleep?

I have to admit though that after several nights of little rest it does start to catch up on me. The last few nights have been particularly interesting. On each occasion I’ve gone to sleep shortly after eleven as is usual for me (I have no problem dropping off at all) but have been wide awake at around three or so. Sometimes I’ll try to roll over and at least lay resting in the dark for a while but most times I’ll know that sleep has deserted me for the night so I might as well get up and do something useful. And, if the words are there buzzing about waiting to be captured, that involves writing. If I get tired later I can always have a lunchtime nap but if I ignore the thoughts flying around my head then they may disappear forever.

Take last night for example. When I first looked at the clock the little red numbers said 2:30. That was a bit early to start work even for me. I tried to go back to sleep but the sheep kept moving around, making them difficult to count, so the irritation of that failed ovine numeration exercise removed any possibility of snoozing. And anyhow I had way too many thoughts, all rushing through my brain and crying out to be recorded. So I got out of bed, got myself a hot drink and began to write them down before the drifted away.

But now it’s mid afternoon and I think that I might

© Shaun Finnie 2012