Lancaster University, 1993. I’m in a class. It’s the creative writing MA. My tutor is Alan Burns. He wrote Europe After the Rain, Babel, Dreamerika! He was one of a group of experimental writers knocking around in the 1960s which included BS Johnson. Alan used to talk about cut-ups a lot. And he was fond of this exercise: choose a word and don’t say anything but, all day. See how it makes you think. See what it does to the word. How does it change your perception of what words mean. Fishpaste. He spent all day walking around saying nothing but fishpaste. He had a dream once, in which he was playing in an orchestra and he was sweating because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing. But then he looked to one side and there was Picasso on the cello, so then he knew everything would be fine. Interesting guy, Alan Burns.
I like demonstrater pens (a ‘demonstrater’, for those who do not know – and likely do not care – is a clear pen allowing you to see the workings within). My first, and one of my daily workhorses, was a Lamy Safari Vista. I still use it a lot. It was relatively cheap but it writes smoothly, is well balanced and it has a fantastic fat clip. I prefer to write with a fine nib (I spend most of my writing time inside notebooks on the small size) but I bought the Lamy with a medium nib, because I wasn’t convinced it would be as smooth with a fine. I still don’t know if that’s the case, but the nibs are interchangeable so I might experiment one day, if I’m feeling particularly daring.
Anyway, I ordered the TWSBI with a fine nib, because I suspected quality wouldn’t be compromised, given the price. And it wasn’t. It’s butter smooth. It’s a lovely pen to use, and I use it most days even though I was at first worried about taking it outside in case I lost it. When inspiration abandons me, the pen becomes an object to fiddle with, and it does a great job then too. My pen, as you can see, is adorned with some attractive orange sections (the orange version has been discontinued, apparently, making mine not only a thing of beauty, but of rare beauty).
I like to watch the ink sloshing in the faceted barrel. The TWSB can hold quite a bit of ink (current load: J Herbin’s Poussière de Lune – ooh, get me.). The pen transmits its quality through its heft and smooth finish. It even makes a nice noise when you screw the cap back on… In short, it demands to be fiddled with. It even comes with its own little spanner and some silicone grease so you can fiddle to your heart’s content while you give your pen a service.
My only gripe is that you can’t really post the cap. Well, you can, but then you run the risk of hosing yourself with ink when you try to take it off again. The end of the pen has a piston mechanism that you twist to draw ink into the barrel. Twist it the other way and it forces the ink towards the nib. I guess the designers didn’t expect customers to want to post the cap, as it does mean the pen becomes quite large. So best to keep it off, but be careful you don’t lose the thing.
TWSBI also offer a similar model of pen in a mini version and recently released a model called the Eco, which gives you a competitively priced fountain pen. If I come across any of these items in the future I’ll be sure to post a review, but for the time being I’m happy with my 580AL in hard-to-find orange (the green does look good too though… sigh).
There’s some good can come from waking at 5.30 am with a full bladder, or an accidental kick in the shins, or the cat deciding that your head is the place where it wants to sit. This morning I drifted in and out of consciousness, now eyeing the LCD of the clock radio, now fending off a cat tail like a supersize feather duster, and ideas accumulated. Swathes of dialogue, scenes, plot points, possibilities. I opened my mind and sucked it all down. The drawback, of course, is that you then have to get up and write it all down, or risk dropping back into sleep and forgetting the lot. I usually have a notebook and a pen by the bed. This morning? Of course not.
I worry (just a little bit) when the writing seems free and easy, when the next scene shapes itself and solidifies before me as I’m about to wrap up the scene-in-progress. I fret (a tad) when I know what everyone is going to do and say, just before they do or say it. The words fly by; the pages stack up. It’s a nice feeling, and one that happens so rarely. So why would I warn against it? If it writes quick and easy then it will read quick and easy, and that’s a good thing, isn’t it?
I don’t want to come across as the tortured scribe, extolling the virtues of agonising over every phoneme; polishing each word, phrase and clause until it all shines with the self-righteous glow of punishing labour (I certainly don’t work that way). And I definitely don’t yank on the reins when I’m at a canter. But I do tend to cast a more critical eye over what I’ve produced. Writing at speed (usually) means a falling back on the cliché crutch, in idiom as well as location or character trait or behavioural tic.
In the same way that the Beatles, say, produced simple, apparently conventional songs that sometimes pulled the rug from under your feet with the appearance of an unusual couplet, or unexpected chord changes, so a piece of writing can be lifted to a rarefied plane thanks to the inclusion of a plot thrust out of left field, or sparkling dialogue, or idiosyncratic characters who behave like human beings, i.e. spontaneous, random, odd.
I love unpredictable writers and writing, and crave them even though novels and short stories contain their own conventions and formulae. Within that fixed trinity of beginning, middle and end there is an infinity of possibilities. An easy path from A-Z might get you to your destination more quickly, and more safely, but it might make for an uninspiring journey.