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

Picture This

I’m not a photographer. I express myself with words, not images. If you want a poem writing for a loved one, something to let them know the emotions trapped within your heart and soul in ways that you could never express on your own then give me a call, we might be able to do a deal. Or if you want a tale of terror to keep you awake at night, then I have confidence that I could show you something disturbing that would give you the willies.

However If you want someone to take a quick snap of you and the kids in front of a stunning vista, give the camera to someone else. Ask me to do it and you’ll end up with a picture of you looking like you’ve been visiting with Madame Guillotine or a shot so blurry that it could’ve been taken by someone drinking their eighth espresso of the day during the world’s foggiest earthquake.

I’m not a photographer; nor am I a graphic designer. I’m a writer and it would be foolish and arrogant of me to think that I can do as good a design job as someone with real talent and experience in the graphic design field.

It’s coming to the point where I need to produce the cover for my next book, the first in an on-going series. Now I have several design packages on my loaded on to my laptop; I actually paid for one of them so as a true Yorkshireman I feel that I should get some commercial use out of it. But would doing the job myself be false economy? I could do a half-decent job with one of my own half-decent ideas and a half-decent photograph. But I’d end up with a half-decent cover that, frankly, anyone with the same kit as me could do.

Perhaps, in these days of financial uncertainty, I should do my bit for the struggling economy and employ someone to do a much better job than I could. Not only would this improve my book’s chances in the marketplace but it would also free up my time to get on with the next in the series.

There’s a lot to be said for knowing your strengths and working to them. But you should know your limitations too, and know when it’s time to put your hand in your pocket.

Any offers?

© Shaun Finnie 2012