365 Ways With Words

Taking Stock

A little over two and a half years ago I handed in my notice. It was not too difficult a decision. I had been working as a teacher in one of Hong Kong's most prestigious schools for 12 years and decided that rather than end my days at the chalkface, I would quit by the summer and try pastures new. Although I wanted to write, and blogged often, quite what would happen next was as mysterious to me as I'm sure it was to everybody who asked.

Teaching was a stressful job. I liked it  – the students were pleasant, but their constant drive for high exam grades made them a demanding lot. In addition, the ever-encroaching culture of box-ticking, meetings, target-setting and hoop-jumping changed the ethos of the school I had joined in 1999 from that of colour and human interest to that of an artificial target factory. The changes did not have the desired effect of endless improvements in grades – quite the reverse. The students' 'careers' were as hard (sometimes harder) as their parents in paid employment. It became obvious to me that I did not share the values of a school culture that perceived excellence in children only in terms of a comparative international scale of International Baccalaureate grades. For the few that attained these targets all would be well; the majority rest would forever remain failures.

And so the end of term arrived. There were farewells and goodbye speeches in which I presented a positive outlook on an unknown future. Was it the full-stop of my career, or the beginning of something new? Could I cut it as a writer? How would I know success if I saw it?

At that time my wife was completing her PhD. I was happy to sit pretty for the hot and humid summer months, but by September we'd got itchy feet. A one-way flight to Bangkok started a month of travel in Asia. I constantly blogged (Daily in Asia) as we went. From Bangkok we took the train to Trang, a minibus to Satun and a boat journey on flat calm waters to Ko Lipe. Summer is a tricky time in the Andaman Sea, and the weather was unpredictable. Thus far it felt like a holiday. The onward trip to Langkawi was potentially catastrophic – an over-packed boat driven blind across lightning-struck green waters made prayers rise faster than stocks in Apple before a product release. Langkawi, the 'Jewel of Kedah' was wet –it being the rainy season– but staying in the old colonial era houses at the Temple Tree At Bon made up for it. It was only on the ferry from there to Georgetown, complete with hundreds of holidaying Saudis, that the journeying finally felt like 'travel' and not 'trip'. Indeed, of all places in the mystic and incense-laden orient, Penang and Georgetown felt the most enjoyable: beautiful Chinese merchant houses, excellent Tamil curries, more than a smattering of colonial monuments and history and views to die for from atop the funicular-railway ascended Penang Hill, this place felt like it could be 'home', that elusive something we all search for. The train trip up to Ipoh and from there to the wonderful Cameron Highlands also had its moments, chiefly being the approving ghostly presence of long-past relatives when staying in the mock-tudor, mock-British delightful nonsense that is The Old Smokehouse. From there to Kuala Lumpur and on to Singapore felt like a progressive return to normality, and indeed we cut our travel onwards to Indonesia short for a return to HK and an unsuccessful interview. The daily blogging sewed a seed that came to fruition in this very vehicle, of which this is the penultimate entry.

There remained the vexing question of where to go? It was decided that jobs must come first. So, we waited for something to turn up, and by December two had appeared – Limerick and Olomouc. We had to see both places. The wintry-wet drive through England, Wales and Ireland was enjoyable enough, but within days we had flown to the dry and cold Czech Republic. Had we found what we were looking for? Olomouc was a wintry and wonderful city with picturesque buildings and friendly locals. Limerick turned out to be unsuccessful, and on advice from a friend ("a quarter the rainfall of Ireland") we settled on Moravia. I would remain in a supportive role, and keep on with the writing until something worked out.

By the end of January we were prepared to move countries, but were we ready to move minds? It quickly transpired that doing anything in the Czech Republic is a challenge, not least the finding of an apartment where three dogs and a cat would be welcomed. Such a thing, it transpired, was impossible. So we bought. It meant an investment of nearly all our cash and additional money to finish the transformation of kitchen and bathroom, but six months on it was done. I was already on to a new local blog Anglicky in Olomouc, but knew it was high time to focus a little more on the writing – I had already started on a few books whilst in Hong Kong and found short stories engaging. I worked steadily on them, but knew my literary ability lacked something... experience and depth. I reasoned I could get this by writing –forcing myself to work– each and every day. I began 365 Ways With Words in the belief that a little more of what I fancied would do me good. It would be a daily struggle; at times harder than any other task I'd set myself.

Whilst the new job allowed for enjoyable travel to conferences across Europe and beyond, and all seemed well and good, there was trouble ahead. Here comes the tough part: we had a falling out. Separated by a 3-month stint in Sweden, we found our courses going in separate directions. It fell to me to be an idiot and think things worse than they actually were. And instead of patching things up, we argued – fiercely. I was to blame.

And so we separated. In my quest for new beginnings I had not actively sought an end to everything from before. But life has a funny habit of turning things around and of forcing pressing items that require attention onto the top of the desktop pile. By August, I came to the realisation that the little money that I could earn from teaching English conversation was spread all-too thin on the ground to support myself, three dogs and a cat. I was nowhere near completion of a book on travel writing and the other project, 10 Beers With Czechs – a collection of interviews with Czechs 25 years on from the Velvet Revolution, needed more time. So I had to get a job, and got one working in Olomouc's one and only English international school. Ostensibly, it allows for time in the afternoon and evening to devote to writing: in reality, there is barely enough for more than a few glib changes in overlooking a marginal point in a paragraph.

The future, therefore, is a little less glamorous and exciting than had been imagined. I will continue to write, albeit with a steadier focus on quality rather than on mere output, and my attentions will be on completion of the works already begun. But unlike the stretched life lived in Hong Kong, life here in Olomouc feels more like the real world, where sincere people strive to earn enough cash to pay the bills and have a little left over for a beer or two with friends. Czechs read a lot (it's cheap and enjoyable) and enjoy rock and drinking in parks. On a side note, and whilst I am a long way from speaking the lingo, it's interesting to see how people here put meaning and emphasis together in a form unconnected with western latin or germanic languages.

So here I am; back to teaching (and writing). It's not quite full-circle, because the experience of writing over the past two years has taught me much – about the literary craft, about moving and changing and about the priorities of life, albeit how not to do things. And as this project draws to a close, a little later than exactly a year, and tomorrow's is the last entry of 365, so another task is already set: to complete those books and short stories for publication. This has been a rather personal entry in what is in reality a very personal blog. Writers cannot fail to open up now and again, letting the world see the quivering wreck of humanity that is, in effect, within each of us. As Art is a jealous mistress, I will leave the last paraphrased word to Winston Churchill, who writted a few books from time to time:

“Writing a [daily blog for a year] is an adventure. To begin with it is a toy and an amusement. Then it becomes a mistress, then it becomes a master, then it becomes a tyrant. The last phase is that just as you are about to be reconciled to your servitude, you kill the monster and fling him to the public."

The Final Straight

Only 16 more days to go! It feels like I am nearing the mainland, that there is the smell of land in the air and that I can drop a sail or two in the last few days before entering the sea-lanes and finally docking. Only, of course, I will not have quite written the full 365. I dropped three along the way for various reasons, some technical, and some personal.

So, I should really add another three at the end – which I may do – if I feel inclined – which at the moment I don't... I love writing, but I've had enough of this!

Perhaps 16+ days before the end is too soon to ruminate over a completed project, but this year of writing has taught me much – chiefly, that to take your art seriously is never a bad thing. If you have aspirations to artistry in any capacity, then time must be put in. Whilst it may take 10,000 hours to achieve fluency in the pursuit of any particular activity (less so if those hours are properly focused), one year in writing does not a writer make. Yes, to be a successful writer requires daily commitment, but daily output in a task like this varies with mood, energy, opportunity, imagination and desire. Some days I amazed myself, whilst others were really an intense drag. Some pieces I am still proud of, whilst others are undoubtedly best forgotten. Publishing daily made me examine grammar a little closer and although there are many split infinitives, passive voices and a host of other blots to my copy book, I stand by intention over mechanisation, fluidity over nicety, perception over technique. Someone recently mentioned to me that I should perhaps get a student to study the blog's development as an extant corpus. Whilst that is flattering, I doubt it is worth the salt.

On a personal note, daily creative writing made me at times look hard into the soul to see what was there. Some discoveries were real surprises, but on many other occasions I did not like what I had found. Such is found in us all: a little light and shade, goodness and badness, bravery and cowardliness, profundity and the profoundly dim.

My aim at the outset was to examine my ability to create in different genres, to give as many of them a go as I could. I included Sci-fi (much maligned in British minds), psychological examinations, ideas, comments, serials and more besides. I like writing poetry: there is an emotional immediacy to it. Hence, I have writted more than a few poems of which I am rightly proud.

Some work has been easily jotted down in an hour, whilst others have taken days (even weeks) to put together. Some work came easily, the ideas flowing from the fingertips, whilst others were pressed out with seconds to go before midnight. Sometimes alcohol helped, at other times was the inspiration, and at other times took power away. I endeavoured to put meaning – real solid meaning – into everything, but at times admittedly fell a little short. I suppose that had I given myself more time, then that would all have been rectified, but that's not the point of writing a post every day, nor is it possible. It is to my regret that pieces I would dearly have liked re-written and refined are half-finished. That may have put more than a few readers off. If it's any consolation, it did me, too!

I have not included any screenplays or theatre plays. They are difficult genres that are easily emulated, but which require much time, energy and dedication in order to get over the 'adolescent' stage of writing. I thought about a minimal token work something along the lines of Beckett, but decided the risks were too great.

The final straight is therefore in sight. It's about time to break out the rum. Thank you for reading my work. The (admittedly self-administered) demand to post every day has been a hard and unyielding mistress, but your Facebook likes and comments have several times made the difference between coming to an abrupt stop or continuing. Some pieces will make their edited and expanded way into a published work or two in the near future, something that might actually make me some money! If you have travelled this far, then please continue with my journey to the end. I have written for your eyes and dearly hope that I have brought you some pleasure along the way.

Streetlamps and Wave-tips

                                In the header a bastard burning streetlamp, a toxygene

                                Splendidly caparisoned and in splendid isolation—how fond are we in our isolation—

                                Accommodating insulting siren blasts, wakeful or taking forty winks

 

                                Footnoted on the foamy bow’s wave-tipped tactic, a shuffle

                                Resuming a vocation on a godawful prospect—how fond are we of prospecting—

                                In quotidian dedication off we trot or drag, it doesn’t matter

 

                                So scream, rampage and burn the streets

                                Tomorrow does not come around every day

Too Much Drink

Too much drink
Again,
But that's all right.
I am, after all

Upon the floor dried
Dogshite,
From another mistake.
It is, forever

Physician's toil
Barely,
Supper of a smotherer.
Who cares, today?

Incandescent aloft
Burn,
Sweated twiddle a-spinning.
How much, unseeing?

Towering power up
Trip,
In a hot hand.
To be, awareness

Simmering in-plague
Pot-boiler,
Buggered start.
Arrow-point potency

Too much drink all right
Again, again,
But that's about it.
I am, at the end

5 Jun, 2014 – The End?

Is this the end?

Does this project warrant any more precious time – yours and mine?

Life will go on, without any mindless interruptions, but some interruptions are nice, aren't they?

Have the 5-seconders, the immediate gratifiers, the quickly bored and easily distracted won?

If it is left, would anyone notice? Would anyone care? Should I be busy with something else, like paid work?

I don't know any more. In the grand scheme if things nothing really matters.

So why should I worry?

Proof That Satire, Sarcasm and Innuendo Do Not Pay (Much)

I once produced a newspaper (of sorts), called The Northwegian. There were only two editions, Autumn-ish '96 and Spring-ish '97, much prized by collectors now. The newspaper was intended to be satirical, a humorous look at life in the small town of Northwich, Cheshire, where I lived at the time. It was a unmitigated failure, but, of course, not because of the content...

This glorious entry into the realms of news and print came about having obtained copies of the Stroud Defector, a similar rag produced in the Gloucestershire town of the same name. Each edition, purchased from one coffee shop that at one time existed on Nelson Street, was read and re-read with great relish, partly because of the hilarious political nuances, the local references, the ironic jokes, and the grandiose perspectives of mini-publishing (where every bloomin' word is chewed over), and partly because I was bursting to do the same 126 miles to the north. The number of Stroud Defectors sold can only be guessed at, but perhaps it can be safely assumed that each print/photocopy run extended to no more than tens, possibly to one hundred or so. The aim, therefore, was not to outsell the Nationals, nor bring the established political status quo to its knees, but merely to have a bit of a say, and to enjoy it.

Printing words for the benefit of others is a long-held dream of many. But apart from any pecuniary rewards, the motivation is nearly always conceit. Writers believe they are good, even when the squirming discomfort of others should clearly tell them otherwise; having people cough up good money to read your thoughts, even out of sympathy, only puffs up the deluded vanity of the pompous literary egoist. For the 'uninitiated' in the arts of print, however, there is an equally-deluded belief that somehow, somewhere, someone will 'notice' the hidden genius within a scribbly, frustrated writer and will beat a path to the door with chequebook in hand. And then there's the truth – writing may not be its own reward, but it sure beats a 9-5!

With the lofty ideal of making people laugh, I set about constructing an 8-page rag that would extend a few extended jabs at the local establishment (read local council) and a knee in the groin of the very parochial and self-righteous local opinion that holds sway on many popular matters. To do so, and put a smile on the face of the reader, required a small modicum of wit and the odd subtle political swipe, understatement, and a wealth of innuendo, ready references to bottomy parts, bizarre contradictions and complete fabrication of the truth (just like the national press!). When a magnifying glass is put on such minutiae as reported in the minutes of the Women's Institute, in worrying police reports of ladder theft, of new Charity Shop press releases and the 'serious' revelations of the political shenanigans within the chambers of the borough council, each would quickly take on a farcical quality.

This is not restricted to political institutions, or specifically to the UK, for the same thing was found in Hong Kong where the glossy English-language Spike magazine was sold at outlets across the city. Spike sold because of the Private Eye-type front cover that usually showed a press picture of an cheerful Hong Kong politician or business magnate, embarrassing political or other situation that was in the public eye at the time. The content within was of a good quality, but despite running for several years eventually folded. It seems that whilst people love humour, they don't love it enough to keep it afloat indefinitely. I enjoyed them, and have kept the ones bought.

Such was the case with The Northwegian. In good faith, and having worked night and day to get a format that could be re-used for each edition, I ran off my first print run of 200 and approached the busiest newsagents to leave suitable piles of my baby for public consumption, stating that I would return within one week to deposit more (in the likely event of a sell-out). The Northwich Guardian, the local Newspaper, called for an interview and wrote a nice little piece about it all – the future looked promising. I made a point of not handing out free editions – I mean, 50p is 50p, right? In the end, the newspaper probably sold no more than about one third of the run.

Undaunted, I set-to with the next edition, and used the same approach. By this time, novelty, if it ever applied to this project, was on the wane. Despite great reviews from friends and blokes down the pub, I simply couldn't shift enough copies. Without the float of advertising revenue, it was a dead-in-the-water looser and, because another one was going to further drain the meagre resources at my disposal, a third edition was ditched.

With it went any aspirations for writing for years. Who needed accolades when there were other, but much more boring, ways to make money.

Focus – There and Back Again

                            The heigh, hight, eight, -ite,

                            On wind, wings, whin, wisp...

                            Foraging within on tender vapour trails

                            Focus sits restless

                            With believed perplexities, rummaged nicely through,

                            A combi, signature, bounded and bordered, with clarity and purity

                            Sat starlike in, on, under, beside

                            A mind ready for the off –

 

                            – And then it's gone

                            Those trails sun-dissolved

                            Trounced by pin prick regard

                            For shiny things, loud things, tasty things, soft things.

                            Oh for the medit-pro-masterfulness

                            That sharps skill with wit, resonates form with taste, allows shepherdry with fluidity

                            To deny, decry, destine, -ery,

                            A small, smickle, smew, so...

Back to Reality

These days within the Christmas holiday season between Boxing Day and New Year usually form a hiatus wherein the majority of normal working folks go back to the accustomed grindstone. Like a perineum, they are weird in-between days, quite unlike any other: all the anticipation of the lead up to Christmas is released and what's left can feel a little flat. The decorations are still up, but for a festival now past and the remaining days of work are necessarily less than a week because New Year is imminent. On top of that, the dubious activities of the office Christmas party are still fresh in the mind – for good or ill.

Some workers, such as those of a teachery persuasion, do not work during this time. Others may enviously spy their lengthy days off and yearly react with a grumble. All I can say to thems that see ill in it is to jump ship, be a teacher and then decide if those holidays are too long – or not long enough.

Other professionals will not really have had any time off other than by agreement. This year the local Ponorka pub was open and very busy on Christmas Eve and other eatery/drinkery places were open for Christmas Day – so no rest for the wicked therein. Doctoring, and emergency services get shifted as do flight crews and those at air traffic control, thank goodness. As far as I'm concerned, they deserve all the pay they need to keep safety first.

For the rest of us mere mortals, these days are for recovery. The roast turkey/goose/porpoise/moose has been finished off in curries and soups and the empties are carried to recycling. Kids loll about at home watching telly until boredom forces them to find 'things to do': during snowy winters sledging and other outdoor sports takes up sweaty hours. Although some pantos continue until mid-January these days are good for visits and cinemas and museums are well attended.

The remaining days of the old year are rapidly passing in the approach to another New Year's Eve. It is, if one can be bothered, the opportunity to review the activities of the past twelve months, but this usually results in a list of could'ves, should'ves and would'ves, sentiments that are probably best left well alone.

For myself, this year has been astonishing. Not only had I ceased working as a secondary school teacher, but in that time moved country/continent and embarked on a new career. If the past twelve months are anything to go by then the following twelve will bear even more exciting surpises. You'll have to watch this space!

The Process

It starts from way down, not above – it's rare from above. The activity is usually a culmination and not a divine inspiration or God-breathed revelation or – less common still – a true epiphany. More normally it is a digging, or a sifting, or a whittling, or a distilling, or the end result of forced labour, or the final act of desperation that results from hours of pure frustration.

Being truly inspired is necessarily very rare: it is being woken during the night alarmed at the urgency of the new conception, or being struck dumb by a free and instant perception that will have suffered no parenting. Unlike Moses or Muhammad, it would preposterous to believe a life could be built ever waiting for those miraculous somethings to descend from the heavenly netherworld. As Picasso mused, 'Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.'

So there is a necessity to plough through the tedium of it, break up the long times staring at walls or out of windows, to forbid sitting idly with yet another cup of tea, to let it flow by dint of perspiration, to frog-march the entity towards some sort of reality.

And then there it is – formed, but not complete. The beret'd sculptor now sets to; chip, chip, chip... This is the dangerous bit. One too many hammer blows and a finger is gone, or an arm, or the whole thing collapses into a heap on intangible and intelligible minutiae that are best swept away.

From within is the raw power, from without is the stimulus; the craftsman puts both together using skills, experiences, intention and not a little luck. And, when it is finished? Ah, then it no longer belongs to him – the child is grown and gone without even a goodbye.

Work + Misery = Success

We are daily bombarded with messages. In fact, we permit all sorts of proselytising groups with many axes to grind every opportunity to fill our heads with their ideas. They permeate through a mixed welter of communications – TV, radio, newspapers, internet and the like. These groups may be political, commercial and even religious in nature. Such is our popular bent at the beginning of the 21st century that we condemn some of these messages as being beyond the pail and view others as completely acceptable. We would condemn the ideology of woeful jihadis intent on overthrowing the detestable Syrian Government as hateful and religious bigotry, yet see as innocuous a McDonalds ad for cheap burgers even though the company promotes a low-wage culture, the mechanistic industrialisation of agriculture and the production of a food potentially hazardous to our very own health never mind it being injurious to the planet. It's a funny old world...

It could be argued that no man is an island and that we are influenced by the world in which we live like trees are influenced by the weather. That is partly so, but our communication is that much more sophisticated than the falling rain or a bit of blowy weather. These communications can radically direct our actions, even to our detriment – for example, a McDonalds Happy Meal. Some communications are now banned – videos from active terrorists, adverts from cigarette manufacturers. They are placed in the censored category because they are seen to be damaging to the public at large and to generally-accepted codes of behaviour. Maybe others should follow

As 21st century humans we are now inured to an astonishing amount of one-way communications through media. There are, however, subtler messages and subtler ways that messages can be delivered, and perhaps not beamed directly into our skulls whilst we sleep – I reserve the right to wear my tin foil hat. One of the most permeated messages, over time and space, is the Protestant work ethic. This message is not usually delivered through popular media or even from the pulpit – it comes through family, our closest friends, work colleagues and, even more effectively, through the conscience!

First outlined by renowned sociologist Max Weber back in 1904, the Protestant work ethic was thought to be the underlying social work ethos that enabled success in the societies of the north; the UK, the Scandinavian countries, the Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland, Canada and the United States. Weber's idea is that there's something honorific in the nature of Protestantism that promotes hard work, education, self-reliance and social responsibility.

Leaving aside the wider social aspect of this idea, this ethic emphasised a personal religious salvation through the grace of God and not by merely doing works, considered the characteristic of the Catholic areas of southern Europe. This salvation was understood to consist of approving blessings given by God in terms of physical and financial blessings. In other words, by faithfully waiting on God for salvation for the next world a Protestant was blessed and may even have become rich in this one.

Each Protestant had therefore to present an image of a hard-working soul, bent not on the pleasures of this life but on frugality. Work may have been a drudge, but that was perfectly acceptable because the focus of all Protestant endeavours was otherworldly in nature: work hard, save, be frugal and prepare for heaven. Weber argued that this work ethic is utterly ingrained in northern European and north American countries and has affected the spectacular flourishing of capitalism. The happies peoplet, therefore, are the richest men and women in the graveyard.

His general argument, however, is tempered if one considers this ethic as not being specifically Protestant or even religious at all but as a general human work ethic that can also be seen in other cultures and other times – think, for example, of the slavish work ethic of the Japanese salarymen. Detractors have questioned whether Weber really defined a separate philosophical entity or merely gave form to underlying religious prejudices.

My argument is that this ethical zeal for work regardless of its pleasure is still current: many are taught to earn and save money regardless of whether it is enjoyable. Whilst there may be good reasons for starting down that path, surely only the most attuned masochist would stick with it if it leads to the detriment of the overall quality of life. A commonly-held assumption about work is that work is an unfortunate hiatus that forms an uncomfortable interruption between blissful childhood and enjoyable retirement. Of course, some do not have the luxury of choice, but it must be argued that a life without choice is perhaps no life at all. In many places of work it is not the pleasurableness of work that is questioned, but the worker's attitude towards it, as if working per se is the reason for life and that a worker should smile and be jolly grateful. It is so all-pervasive that many of us have adopted this ethos, regardless of its true value, even boasting about hours committed to work, weekends taken up and other hand-wringing sanctimonious claptrap.

I believe work should not be merely the means to an end, nor an end in itself, but more the means by which one defines oneself. I would go further to recommend that the individual looks to the reasons first before seeking out work – money or status, self-discovery or merely food on the table? Without seeking a truer ethos for life's work then surely the end result can only be misery; work hard then die! Only when one understands work as an extension of the self can true satisfaction and meaning be found through it. Only then can we remove ourselves from someone else's work ethic.