One Night Stanzas

Over the summer I was teaching creative writing at the Scottish Universities International Summer School. All our lovely students were from overseas and most of them had never been to Edinburgh before. The festival was in full swing, they were all finding the course extremely intensive (’cause it really, really is — but in a fun way!), and scrabbling around for a free hour or two each day to write. And they were all asking me the same question: which Edinburgh coffee shops are the best for writing in?
Weirdly, this all coincided with my procurement of a copy of David Mamet’s Make-Believe Town — a collection of essays on everything from what David Mamet thinks of screenwriting to what David Mamet did during the 1995 deer hunting season. Now, (< — classic Mamet start to a sentence right there) I love David Mamet a whole load. Although I have yet to see or even read one of his plays, his non-fiction is just so up my street. And there is one essay in this particular collection that not only spookily amplified my students’ questions… it also made me snort-laugh, and in places, nod furiously.

The essay is called “The Diner”, and in it, Mamet asserts:

“Writing, in my experience, consists of long periods of hanging out, punctuated by the fugue of remorse at the loss of one’s powers and wonder at occasional output in spite of that loss.”

This is my personal writing process in a nutshell, and so I was extremely excited when Mamet not only endorsed the behaviour I shall henceforth refer to as “hanging out” (rather than “dicking around” or “procrastinating”, which were the terms I used to use) — he actually suggests that it is a necessary and perhaps even vital part of being a writer. “We’ve got to write, and to read, and to do so, we get out of the house and get into the coffeeshop. [...] We, readers and writers, must hang out.”

And it has to be the coffeeshop. After all,

“Where else would one go? The Lounge seems to have degenerated into the Sports Bar, that is, a spot one can go to watch television. That is not hanging out; no: we cannot say it. [...] That frantic and forced consumerism of the Sports Bar will not do; neither what has become the muddled and tense obsequiousness of that proclaiming itself the Restaurant. No.”

It has to be the coffeeshop. The coffeeshop, as Mamet points out (and this is one of the parts where I furiously nodded), is more than just an establishment that sells hot, usually-brown-coloured beverages. It is a refuge for those of us who are stupid enough to have decided to dedicate our lives to the creative arts, and who therefore have little money and not much of a plan and who need a safe place to go, where we won’t be judged by normal people or told to get a real job.

“In larger towns we’ve seen the budding writer at his or her table, frowning into a notebook; and in the cities themselves, the actor and actress with their flimsy scripts — outsiders all, at home in the diner, coffeeshop, cafe.”

Having read this essay (three times, enthralled, as I almost always am by Mamet’s ramblings), I started trying to think about coffeeshops of my acquaintance that particularly lend themselves to hanging out, especially writing. I was spectacularly failing to help my students with their questions, telling them that during the Festival most of the city centre coffeeshops are out — too busy and noisy — and that they should wander Stockbridge, Bruntsfield, Morningside, Leith, and find their own preferred spots. I realised that Mamet gives numerous examples of coffeeshops across America that he thinks make perfect “hang outs” (in fact, one very sweet and only-ever-so-slightly creepy blogger made a pilgrimage to one of them)… but he gives very little information on what, exactly, might make a certain coffeeshop more conducive to hanging out than others in the same town. He mentions only that they are places “of reading, writing, gossip, mutual observation”, and that ideally, there should be a “beautiful plastic covered menu,” made all the more beautiful if it includes “that most liberal phrase, ‘Breakfast Served All Day’.” To be honest, that doesn’t give me much to go on. But I think, from the general gist of the essay, that the ideal writing coffeeshop hang-out should provide the following things:

– an atmosphere that somehow wordlessly conveys to you that once you have bought your one cup of coffee, you can sit and read/write there for as long as you like without disturbance/expectation of further purchases
– music that is not going to bug you… but probably not no music at all, as that’s a bit weird
– an unspoken hostility towards yummy mummies and their unsupervised buggy-mewling brats (so pretty much any Costa is immediately ruled out)
– long-serving staff who know your “usual”, and who aren’t hipsters
– a conspicuous absence of wifi or wall-sockets (Mamet does assert, “can we take our computers there? Thankfully not.”)
– a total ban on TV of any kind
– people-watching opportunities

(Personally I’d also add: tables that are the correct darned height for a seated human adult; soya milk at no extra charge; juice, not smoothies; properly late opening hours; dim lighting, and booths. Oh my goodness, booths. But yaknow, that’s just me.)

Based on these criteria, I had a sudden, terrible realisation. There are so few proper, decent hang-out spots in Edinburgh that I am actually a bit embarrassed on Edinburgh’s behalf.

There are a few contenders. Word of Mouth, just off Leith Walk, is pretty fabulous, though small. They’d make my list. The Cameo Bar might, too, but it depends on the time, the day and whether or not a big movie is opening. The new Forest Cafe on Tollcross Junction ticks the box for their one-cup-of-tea-and-you-can-stay-all-day vibe… that’s rare these days, so props, Forest. Unfortunately, they do lose out on the music front. Sometimes it’s super-chilled, one-man-and-his-uke stuff, which is perfect… then other times it’s an actual member of staff actually banging his actual fists on an actual piano two feet from your actual head while you’re trying to write. Just no.
Then there’s Black Medicine. There are three in Edinburgh. The biggest, on Nicolson Street, instantly loses out because of its pot-luck weird-ass music, and its UBERHIPSTER counter staff (anyone else remember the days of Kyle and Kyle? I had such a crush on the dreadlocked Kyle. It was WAY more of a hang-out in those days). The Marchmont one has been found by the yummy mummies and the laptop wankers. The newest one, Tollcross, is definitely the most promising (one of the veteran BM staff still works there! Hello, twin mohawk guy!) and may actually make my hang-out list. Soya milk’s extra, though. Boo!
Where else? City Cafe on Blair Street is technically a bar, but they have booths and dim lighting and candles and some of the staff are hot, friendly chubby tattooed girls. Unfortunately, there are TVs. Schoolboy error, City Cafe. Remember before you decided to go for a revamp and become a pseudo fifties diner? YOU WERE WAY MORE AWESOME THEN. (Also, since when did fifties diners have huge-ass TVs almost always showing the BBC News 24 channel? Illogical, Captain.)
And then I kind of run out of options. Cafe Class, also on Tollcross Junction, is cool, but you feel like you have to order more stuff if you sit there a long time. At Kilimanjaro on South Clerk Street once, one of the waiters actually demanded that my friend and I order more drinks after less than an hour, so screw you, Kilimanjaro. Favorit used to be freaking amazing (open til 3am on weekends!), but then it changed hands and now seems to be trying to imitate a Caffe Nero. And the Filmhouse Cafe-Bar is cool, but EVERYWHERE YOU LOOK there are TV screens showing mesmerising trailers for artsy movies, meaning concentration on what you’re doing (reading, writing, conversing, eating their delicious chickpea curry) is pretty darned tricky. And… that’s it. Only two (maybe three. Maybe) real proper definite hang-outs in the whole of Edinburgh.

Given that David Mamet has informed me that hanging out is, in fact, a legitimate — nay, important — activity for the budding writer, it is now really rather important that I find suitable venues in which to partake of it. Therefore, I want to hear about your hang-out spot. I don’t mind where you live — I might be coming to your town someday, and this is vital information I will need to know. I already know of one or two good international hang-out spots… the Bean Around The World in Victoria, BC, for example, might well be the best hang-out in all of Canada. But I am hungry for more! Particularly if you know of hang-outs in Glasgow, London, Portland OR, Barcelona, Krakow, San Francisco, Oslo or Vancouver (these are all places I either really love and want to go back to or am visiting sometime soon). You can also totally please yes do tell me what characteristics your ultimate writing hang-out needs to have. As Edinburgh is so surprisingly poor on the hang-out front, I may need to start my own coffeeshop just to meet demand…

Get thee to the comments box!

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You can also visit Read This Press for more poetry (and typewriter paraphernalia!). Alternatively, check out Edinburgh Vintage, our sister site. If you want to get in touch you can follow OneNightStanzas on Twitter, or email claire[at]onenightstanzas.com. I reply as swiftly as I can!

(Photo credit)

Photo by Didrooglie.

An earlier version of this post appeared at One Night Stanzas in September 2008.

What are the eight words no writer ever wants to hear? “We are not using your work this time” of course! Most of us see that sentence and silently translate it to “you’ve been rejected, therefore you suck,” and for some people, that’s enough to throw their writing off track for days, weeks, months or even years.
However, if you want to be a writer, you need to accept that rejection is as much a part of the writing game as inky fingers and writer’s cramp (or, these days, repetitive strain injury). But if you’re still finding the rejection pill hard to swallow, then read on…

Everyone gets rejected.
The first thing you need to realise is that you are absolutely NOT alone in your rejection misery. I don’t think there’s a single writer alive who hasn’t felt the sting of rejection in one form or another - even the most famous, successful and established writer will be able to tell you the tale of their worst rejection experience (or experiences)! Basically, rejection comes with the poetic territory… so don’t allow that nasty, negative voice in your head to do the whole “what’s wrong with you? Everyone else gets accepted” routine. Don’t believe me? Join a writing group, workshop or forum and just mention the R-word… I guarantee that everyone will have a story to tell.

It’s not personal… or it shouldn’t be.
Why is it that your confidence takes a massive nosedive when you hear your work has been rejected? Probably because you make it personal - and don’t get me wrong, that’s not unusual, but it’s also not a good way of dealing with it. It’s important that you realise it isn’t personal - chances are, the rejection has nothing to do with who you are as an individual. The editor hasn’t turned you down because they have a personal vendetta against you, or because they hate young / old / gay / straight / male / female writers like you, or because they could tell from reading your stuff that you sometimes surreptitiously listen to Cliff Richard. And if they DID turn you down for personal reasons, then they’re just a bad editor - no two ways about it - and you’re better off not being associated with their publication. So there!!

It does NOT mean your writing sucks.
There are heaps of factors that can influence an editor’s decision. First and foremost, they have to find pieces that will physically fit into their publication - it might be that your poem exceeded their maximum length, or the formatting was just too tricky for them to work with. And your work also has to “fit” in a more abstract sense… so just because one magazine perhaps doesn’t think your work belongs on their particular pages, that doesn’t mean every zine in the world will turn you down. Reading submission guidelines is really important, because knowing what kind of place you’re submitting to and making sure you follow their rules to the letter can eliminate these possible-rejection factors. You also need to bear in mind that any successful magazine has a rigorous selection process, because only a small percentage of submissions can be accepted. Sometimes, editors are even forced to reject work that they actually really love.

All editors are different…
…and this is important for two reasons. One: there are some editors out there who will reject you for something as minor as a typo, or an uncredited reference to another writer. Others are more forgiving when it comes to the little details, but draw the line at things like an absent cover-letter when they specifically requested one. And there are some editors who’ll forgive you just about anything as long as your poems are good enough - problem is, you just don’t know what kind of editor is on the other end of your submission!
And two: at the end of the day, the editor you’re sending your work to is just another reader - and you can’t expect every single reader to love you, can you? Admittedly, a bigger, more democratic editorial team makes for a better magazine, and so most publications have a kind of “panel” system by which they decide who to accept. Lone editors often have to base their choices on personal taste, which seems unfair, but it’s the way the cookie crumbles. And just because one person - or even a four-person team - didn’t love your work, that doesn’t mean there won’t he heaps of people out there who do!

Rejection is no fun for anyone.
Believe it or not, most editors hate the whole rejection thing as much as you do. Sure, you meet the odd sadistic weirdo who loves to put eager young poets down (I’ve met with one of these so far), but generally - unless someone’s been really annoying, ie, ignored submission guidelines or been rude - sending the rejection letters is considered one of the least fun parts of the job. I used to HATE sending out the Read This rejections, because I know all too well that awful sinking feeling you get when your personal turn-down reaches your mailbox. So take comfort in the fact that, somewhere, there may well be a magazine editor squirming with guilt as they imagine you reading your rejection letter!

Or… you could just do this*:

*Don’t do this.

Your worst rejection? Care to share?

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You can also visit Read This Press for more poetry (and typewriter paraphernalia!). Alternatively, check out Edinburgh Vintage, our sister site. If you want to get in touch you can follow OneNightStanzas on Twitter, or email claire[at]onenightstanzas.com. I reply as swiftly as I can!

“I have never been sympathetic to the idea of inspiration. [...] I always think of myself as working at a rock face. Ninety days out of ninety five, it’s just a rock face. The other five days, there’s a bit of silver, a bit of base metal in it. I’m reasonably consistent and the consistency is a help to me. It helps me stay in contact with my failure rate, and unless you have a failure rate that vastly exceeds your success rate, you’re not really in touch with what you are doing as a poet. The danger of inspiration is that it is a theory that redirects itself towards the idea of success rather than to the idea of consistent failure. And all poets need to have a sane and normalised relationship with their failure rate.”

– Eavan Boland, from Sleeping with Monsters: Conversations with Scottish and Irish women poets, Polygon, 1990.

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You can also visit Read This Press for more poetry (and typewriter paraphernalia!). Alternatively, check out Edinburgh Vintage, our sister site. If you want to get in touch you can follow OneNightStanzas on Twitter, or email claire[at]onenightstanzas.com. I reply as swiftly as I can!

(Photo credit)

“You must write, and read, as if your life depended on it. That is not generally taught in school. At most, as if your livelihood depended on it: the next step, the next job, grant, scholarship, professional advacement, face; no questions asked as to further meanings. And, let’s face it, the lesson of the schools for a vast number of children — hence, of readers — is This is not for you.
[...]
To read as if your life depended on it — but what writing can be believed? isn’t all language just manipulation? Maybe the poet has a hidden program — to recruit you to a cause, send you into the streets, to destabilize, through the sensual powers of language, your tested and tried priorities? Rather than succumb, you can learn to inspect the poem at arm’s length, through a long and protective viewing tube, as an interesting object, an example of this style or that period. You can take refuge in the idea of “irony”. Or you can demand that artists demonstrate loyalty to that or this moral or political or religious or sexual norm, on pain of having books burned, banned, on pain of censorship or prison, on pain of lost public funding.
Or, you can say: “I don’t understand poetry.”

– Adrienne Rich

from As if your life depended on it, What Is Found There: Notebooks on Poetry and Politics, WW Norton & Co, 2003.

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You can also visit Read This Press for more poetry (and typewriter paraphernalia!). Alternatively, check out Edinburgh Vintage, our sister site. If you want to get in touch you can follow OneNightStanzas on Twitter, or email claire[at]onenightstanzas.com. I reply as swiftly as I can!

(Photo credit)

I was directed towards Arvon’s callout to writers for their forthcoming book, Gists, by the lovely and talented Kim Moore. Arvon want to hear what and how you think about your own writing process, and they might even deign to publish your responses alongside writers who are, you know, doing it properly. Famous, and that.

I decided to go and fill in their form because of how Kim framed it — she’d been advised to answer the questions instinctively, without thinking too much. The result was that she found out a few things about her writing process that she’d never really thought about before. Book or no book, that had to be a good idea, I reasoned.

I did the same thing as Kim. I read each question once, and not desperately carefully, and then I answered that question and moved on without reading over my answers. Fortunately, they’re not too rambling and they don’t seem too riddled with typos. The results are below. Those of you who’ve read my poems — or indeed, this blog — can tell me if they’re a fair reflection or not! And if you want to fill out the questionnaire yourself, you can do so here.

How does a book or piece of writing begin to take shape in your imagination? Do you feel your writing is a process of inventing or discovering?

It’s definitely a process of discovery. I’m a poet, and often the ‘trigger’ for a poem will just appear, unbidden. I’ll suddenly hear a line in my head, or find a few snappy words stuck in there like an old tune. I put the trigger line or phrase on a piece of paper and then start poking around with it, building on it slowly. I think that’s actually more like it: it’s more like building than anything else.

What things trigger your imaginative process (for example, significant personal experiences, particular people, places, objects, dream imagery, myths, history, etc)?

All sorts of things. But I write best when I get out of my comfort zone — when I travel to somewhere completely new and a bit unknown, for example, or when something jolts me into uncomfortable territory. I write best when I’m unhappy, when I’m angry. I find that being happy means I write less, and when I do write I produce sweet, placid poems that don’t take as many risks.

How do you work - do you plan carefully or explore in the dark, trusting the process?

I’m not a planner. I try to set aside time to write, but often that doesn’t work — the afternoon I’ve kept free for poetry ends up a frustrated few hours of scribbling and then binning. I’m better when I just trust that the poetry will come and let it come as and when it wants to. I write well on long journeys, on planes and trains. I very often get ideas just as I’m going to bed. I’ve learned that I need to make myself write things down as they appear, because they all too easily melt away again.

Do you feel in control of your writing or are you responsive to the requirements of the work as it unfolds?

I have learned to become more in control. I used to be very much of the ‘first thought, best thought’ school, but I’ve since gained a MSc in Creative Writing and I’m now reading for a Creative Writing PhD. I’ve realised that although, as I said above, I have to trust the process and let poetry appear as and when it wants to, I can also shape and curate the results. So I try to find a good middle ground. If an idea seems silly but won’t stop nagging at me, I’ll try anything once. But I’m also happy to chop things out if they look less promising after a draft or two.

Do you write a first draft quickly and then revise it, or build carefully from the start?

I edit as I go along. I’ll draft and redraft and redraft on a line by line basis, so by the end of the first full draft, the poem is already forming clearly. But I’ll also do several re-writes of each piece. I write long-hand in a large notebook and will usually write a poem out three or four times minimum before transferring it to the typewriter. I’ll try it with stanza breaks in different places, without stanza breaks, mess with enjambment. Then into the manual typewriter. I realise this is an old fashioned way of doing things — especially as I’m only 26 and learned to type on a computer — but I love what using a manual typewriter does to my writing. It makes me careful, and it makes me appreciate and respect the page, its shapes and limitations, much more than word processing does.

How do you deal with blocks in the writing process?

I used to get very stressed about creative block, but then some elders and betters pointed out to me that stress begets stress and the best way to deal with blocks is to ride them out. Now, I am very chilled about creative block. If I can’t write poetry for a few weeks, I’ll write something else — I also write non-fiction essays and a blog. I also read as much as I possibly can — other people’s poems, mainly. Reading, and just reading, dissolves a creative block much faster than any amount of forced creative writing exercises ever could.

Do you write in service of any particular values?

Accessibility. I teach Literature 101 to young people from backgrounds where books just do not factor into people’s lives. These are readers who find the very idea of the written word frightening. They don’t understand the concept of storytelling, and poetry in particular looks like voodoo. Yet, when I introduce them to a poet whose goal is openness and understanding — someone like Billy Collins — they suddenly get it. And they want to read it, and they want to write. They find that they really like poetry. Why would any poet want to suggest that poetry ought to be difficult, that poetry ought to deliberately shut out these readers? Yet plenty do, and often they’re the same poets who are simultaneously worrying over dwindling poetry audiences. I just don’t understand.

What have you learned from the practice of your craft?

That reading and writing and sharing poetry has power in it. Poetry is often misunderstood by those who’ve never really dealt with it — people think it’s archaic and serves no purpose. This isn’t true. Poetry is what language was made for. Get struggling students to write poems and their literacy scores will sky-rocket, as will their social skills. Get a poet to write your advertising copy and see what happens (a lot of companies have begun to do this — look how many TV ads are written in verse these days). Poetry is not old-fashioned, doesn’t have to be self-aggrandising or dull. I’ve learned that none of the rumours are true. Poetry is seriously hip, and what’s more, it’s a long way from being dead.

What is the relationship between the writer’s imagination and that of the reader?

When, as a reader, I really connect with a writer’s work, it’s not like a conversation — it’s deeper than that. It’s almost like a hive-mind. A good writer puts me in their character’s skin and lets me see, hear and feel what’s happening. As a teacher of creative writing I utterly hate the command, “show, don’t tell”, and ban it from my classrooms. But that command is heading in the right direction — writers shouldn’t just tell the reader something. The reader should come out of the other end of a great piece of writing feeling changed. Don’t tell them, don’t show them — change them. Maybe that’s it.

Do writers have any moral responsibility in their work, wider than fidelity to their personal vision?

Writers should always be thinking about their readers. Just as publishers and agents needs writers and should therefore respect those writers’ needs, writers need readers and should treat them accordingly. The poets I mentioned earlier who shout about their ‘right’ to write difficult, obscure poetry and still have it reviewed? They’re not thinking about the reader. Personally, I want as many people as possible to be able to access, understand and enjoy my poems. It’s not hard to make sure that you’re not being elitist.

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You can also visit Read This Press for more poetry (and typewriter paraphernalia!). Alternatively, check out Edinburgh Vintage, our sister site. If you want to get in touch you can follow OneNightStanzas on Twitter, or email claire[at]onenightstanzas.com. I reply as swiftly as I can!

I’ll be honest: One Night Stanzas has a spam problem. You may remember that I took a break from posting for a few months a while back. Well, yeah… I also took a break from everything blog related. Including comment moderation.

Right now, I have — wait for it — 1,205,353 comments in my moderation queue (honestly). As it’s such a big backlog I’m only managing to moderate something like the latest 100 posts (this is ONS’s 670th post, in case you were wondering). That means that anyone commenting on recent stuff should have their comment approved pretty sharpish. So the vast majority of that one million+ is definitely spam.

I am slowly, slowly, slowly making inroads into that moderation queue. Trawling through and clicking ‘mark as spam’ again and again and again for hours aint much fun, but I’m determined to get there eventually. What’s more, as I’ve been going through these spam comments I’ve had quite a lot of fun reading some of them — they’re often absurd, they can be funny, and occasionally they’re even poetic.

I had one post — a Procrastination Station from a while back — that must have had some very popular link in it — that had gathered thousands and thousands of spam comments. I decided to use this post’s comments to create a found poem out of spam. The result is below. Each stanza comes from a different comment, but they’re all 100% real and unedited (except I’ve put line breaks in some of them). They’re also definitely all from spambots. Amazing stuff. Enjoy…

13 ways of looking at a blogpost: a found poem by Claire Askew

i.

I am not paying fourteen dollars to find out how this magic trick was performed.
I don’t have fourteen dollars to my name.

I watch the news daily, sometimes all day if I can.
We’re getting invaded.
You won’t know about it until your family is shot and killed before your eyes.

ii.

Not only do we hide the imperfections on our faces,
we hide the flaws all over our bodies.
Women are looking to surgeons to help them.
Women in Phoenix have started a trend.
Women round the acreage of the globe
are getting the bosoms they have frequently required.

iii.

I assumed my entire life was over.
I am not sure what I would have done.
I can at this point relish my future.

I poured spot remover on my dog.
Now he’s gone.

iv.

I do wonder if it’s all wine and roses in Colorado Springs.

Perhaps the biggest favour we could do for the African poor
would be to kill off all that dangerous wildlife.

v.

We could write a thousand-word essay
on the demise of the large, three-row,
body-on-frame sport utility vehicle,
but that hardly seems helpful.

vi.

Black magic spells have an amazing power.
There will be neither negative energies nor bad karma involved.
Experience their amazing and effective power.

Just like dozens of happy clients before you.

vii.

I harmonise with your conclusions,
and will power-thirstily look to your coming updates.

By the way, I’m your personal stalker.
Will you please stop wearing those ugly shoes?

viii.

Are you addicted to drugs or alcohol?

You know those rooster hair extensions? Thousands of birds.

Why do you have this donkey?
What is he for?

Are you feeling uncomfortable about attending another wedding service
since you could be over?

Have you ever had difficulties with spammers?

ix.

Webcamsex.
There’s some heart behind each one of their performances,
and in the emotional scenes in the film,
that comes through.

x.

It is onerous to seek educated folks.

A fascinating dialogue is worth comment.

Don’t throw the chickens with the bathwater.

Make hay while the solar shines.

xi.

The fellow who thinks he is conscious of it all
is especially annoying to those of us who are.

One’s wales truly are a compilation of planks.

xii.

scandals notetakers friendships secretariat Alzheimers input output bulk included governors

You are my breathing in.

xiii.

Use this machine as well as possible,
because this is a sophisticated machine.

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One Night Stanzas loves mail. Say hello via claire@onenightstanzas.com. NB: I am physically unable to reply to non-urgent stuff unless I have a free afternoon and a cup of tea in my hand. Please be patient!

(Photo credit)

As some of you may know, I have just gone into my third year of study for a PhD in Creative Writing. As well as putting up with being told numerous times that Creative Writing can’t be taught, much less turned into a legitimate subject for postgraduate study (a whole other story), this means I have to do a lot of writing. And a lot of reading. And some more writing. By the end of my studies I must produce 70 pages of poems, and an academic thesis, which I have chosen to write on contemporary female poets (primarily Scottish contemporary female poets) + history, tradition, identity (personal, social, political, national, international) + Margaret Atwood. All that stuff = a lot of writing.

However, it was only a few weeks ago that Lovely Boyfriend and I agreed that it might be a good idea for me to have “a writing room.” And frankly, I’m already finding the whole thing a bit weird.

Well quite. How pretentious and hipster-y of you,
says the cynical voice in my head. A bit like the eighteen typewriters and piles of records and CDs I own, a writing room feels like a horribly privileged, self-indulgent and, let’s face it, rather hipster-y thing to have. Have I really come so far in five years? I used to live with The Artist Formerly Known As The Boy in a tiny one-room bedsit: a flat so small that if one of you threw something you were pretty much guaranteed to hit the other person (we tested this theory sometimes when there was nothing on TV). I barely had a cubic foot of space to call my own, let alone an entire room (although, I did have a kick-ass roof garden), and yet I managed to get my writing done just fine. These days I have a great big living room with a huge bay window complete with panoramic view. Why can’t I just sit there and write?

But then… what about Virginia Woolf?
She did, after all, pen the immortal line, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” OK, so I’m not writing fiction, but bear with me for a second. Good old VW claimed that the lack of women’s writing in the canon was down to the fact that women were never given access to the time, space or means to write in the same way that men were. If a man decided he wanted to become a poet, he was admirably committing his life to serving the Muse. If a woman decided she wanted to become a poet, she got a straitjacket. For the big bad Woolf, a room of one’s own in which to write was something women ought to demand. I daresay if she caught me feeling sheepish about my “writing room,” she’d give me a damn good dressing-down.

So wait… having a writing room is a radical gesture of literary sisterhood?
No, not really. I think Virginia Woolf’s ideas about building designated women-only spaces as a way to facilitate female creativity are still pertinent, but if I’m honest, I don’t think those ideas really apply to privileged college grads converting their lofts and filling them with cushions and “inspiration boards”. We should still be demanding that creative women have rooms of their own, but women who are homeless, impoverished, deprived of education or otherwise unfairly disadvantaged are more the kind of people who should be first in line for these kinds of spaces. If anything, I have a room of my own and then some: I should be offering up some of the space I’m hoarding to women for whom the idea of “a room of one’s own” is nothing more than an indulgent daydream.

Oh come on… like anyone would want that space anyway!
Well, true. It’s pretentious of me to refer to it as a “writing room” anyway, as actually, it’s just the spare bedroom and it’s not exactly inspiring. It’s a handy place to keep all my piles and piles of academic books, but it’s also kind of handy for hanging laundry and storing boxes and clean bedding. “Writing room” is a pretty glamorous term for a glorified boxroom with a lot of damp socks hanging in it. We’re back to the pretentious thing all over again.

Er yeah… not to mention the fact that it’s “your” writing room.
This bothers me too. Lovely Boyfriend pays exactly half of the rent on our flat, but he doesn’t get a space of his own. And what’s he supposed to do when I shut myself in the spare room with a big stack of books and a warning not to disturb/distract me? I guess he probably welcomes the opportunity to play Assassin’s Creed. But when The Artist Formerly Known As The Boy turned our then-boxroom into a “boy room”, into which he would retreat in order to spend hours focussing on his F1 sim, I got kinda resentful. What makes my “writing room” any different?

So why have a writing room at all then, you weirdo?
Well… it’s handy to have all my academic books in one place, within reach, and sitting at a desk rather than on a comfy chair makes me feel more productive and focussed. Our wi-fi connection is patchy in the spare room, which means that trying to distract myself with Twitter is very annoying rather than very appealing. And I can control how light/dark or quiet the room is: Lovely Boyfriend doesn’t have to turn off the TV just because I’m working, and I can seek out poetry readings on Youtube without bothering him. Also, I’m a terrible procrastinator and would sometimes rather clean my skirting boards than devote a full day to writing my thesis. So by giving myself a space to go into and write, I’m trying to make it feel like “going to work” — like it’s something I have to do whether I like it or not.

I’m still not 100% sold on the idea. What do you guys think? Do any of you have specific spaces set aside to write in? How do you feel about that? What are the pros and cons? I want to hear your thoughts — get thee to the comments box!

One Night Stanzas loves mail. Say hello via claire@onenightstanzas.com. NB: I am physically unable to reply to non-urgent stuff unless I have a free afternoon and a cup of tea in my hand. Please be patient!

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It’s been ages since this happened, but as you know, I haven’t been keeping up with ONS very well lately. But I can’t let this go by without mention: I got a bloody lovely review from The Great McGuire, over at Cheeky Little Article.

Because I am perhaps the laziest poet in the cosmos, I haven’t really done much to market my pamphlet, The Mermaid and the Sailors, which was unofficially launched at StAnza in March 2011 (my laziness is so all-encompassing that I never even got round to an “official” launch… oops). Somehow, I managed to sell out the first run by August just with a few Facebook status updates and the odd mention on my beloved Twitter. As a result, not many reviews have been forthcoming… in fact, this is only the second (the first is here) I’ve received. (I really don’t mind. The idea of being reviewed is kind of scary.)

But McGuire’s smashing, thoughtful, in-depth review is worth a million shorter, more general responses. I love the fact that he starts out with the etymology of my second name (or rather, the adjective “askew”) rather than just leaping in to analysing the book… I particularly like the fact that by the end of the first paragraph I’ve been somehow promoted to Lady Askew (expect this to stick, folks). And he compares me to Neruda. NERUDA. Do reviews get any better?

However, I’m ultimately grateful to McGuire for this: he has totally “got” what it was I was trying to do… what I’m always trying to do. These days, the poetry scene is such that poems like this are what get praised and published. Now, everyone’s different, and to some people, that’s a great poem — but I just aint the kind of writer who could bring myself to keep a straight face while writing a phrase like “jimmies the diasphora,” let alone while shoving it on a line-break so it draws a ton of attention to itself. I’ve started to realise lately that I write the kind of poems that some people look down their noses at, because they’re poems that are, sometimes, as McGuire so sweetly puts it, “wholesome as a loaf.” But that’s my schtick. To some poets, “wholesome as a loaf” might be an insult. My first response to this review was more, “I want to find McGuire right now and hug him!”

So thanks, dude. I owe you a beer!

(The Mermaid and the Sailors is currently, sadly, sold out. A new print run is coming… once I get my butt in gear and send off new proofs to correct the first run’s inevitable typos. Sorry for the delay! You can read more about the book here, though.)

One Night Stanzas loves mail. Say hello via claire@onenightstanzas.com. NB: I am physically unable to reply to non-urgent stuff unless I have a free afternoon and a cup of tea in my hand. Please be patient!

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Last weekend, I was lucky enough to be whisked away by Lovely Boyfriend for a New Year break to gorgeous, poetic York. North Yorkshire is the land of my birth, and I’ve spent a fair bit of time visiting its principal city over the years, though I haven’t been since I was an impressionable young undergrad visiting friends who were studying there. Back then, I spent most of my time catching up on exciteable chatter in those friends’ living rooms — or in pubs with cheapie student deals — rather than exploring the city. So it was quite nice to head down there as a Proper Adult (oo-er) for the first time, and actually get acquainted.

The first thing that struck LB and I was the abundance of chain stores — York seems to be sadly overrun by big national and global conglomorates. Perhaps we’re just used to Tollcross and Bruntsfield and their brave array of small businesses, but we were a bit dismayed to see the historic Betty’s elbowing for space among so many Costas and Cafe Neros, for example. However, there is weird and wonderful gold in York’s rambling little shopping streets (and beyond!), if you’re willing to dig around. Here are our picks of Stuff To Do:

The Evil Eye Lounge, Stonegate
It’s a shop, it’s a restaurant, it’s a bar, it’s a cinema, it’s a live music venue, it’s an internet cafe: it’s amazing. Stop in on the ground floor to buy all manner of delicious alcoholic beverages, including a selection of beers brewed only metres away by fabulous lobal brewpubs. Through the back there’s a cool bar with scary-coloured cocktails and groovy music. Head upstairs for more seating, including street-view booths and two utterly gorgeous hand-carved four-poster beds which you can lounge in (no shoes!) while you embrace alcohol-induced oblivion. On the next floor is the cine lounge, where there are also facilities for all your internet-accessing needs. The kitchen supplies Asian-inspired food to all floors, and although LB and I did not sample any, we saw plenty of it, and rest assured: the portions are huge and the smells divine. Kind of weird unisex bathroom facilities, but hey, get over it. This place rocks.

Minster Gate Bookshop, Minster Gate
FIVE FLOORS OF BOOKS. Need I say more? Climb the narrow, winding staircase to the Literature Room, where there’s poetry, lit crit, literary biography and all sorts of other geeky ephemera… or you can dive into the basement where there’s tons of high quality second hand fiction at tiny prices. The poetry selection’s limited, but you will find something to love here, guaranteed. I dug up an epic book on typewriter ownership, for example!

El Piano, Grape Lane
If you’re a veggie like LB and I, you might find it a bit tricky to get your teeth into any inspiring meat-free or vegan food while in York. The city has three main kinds of eateries: big chains (Wagamamas, Zizzi, Bella Italia, and of course the usual cheap and cheery likes of McDonalds &co), bog-standard Italian restaurants (and lots of them!), and pubs. Many of the pubs, particularly in the city centre, are also owned by chains and their menus tend to be hearty but very meat and dairy heavy. Thankfully, LB spotted an ad for El Piano in a tourist guide, and it’s a definite must-go for all veggies! We had huge difficulty in picking just one thing each from the splendiferous and extensive Spanish-themed menu. In the end, I went for a vegan burger, which came on homemade gluten-free bread with homemade hummus, homemade pickle and a ton of different salads. It was almost too tasty to bear. Add into the mix lovely, friendly staff, bright and sunny decor and a sweet soundtrack. They also hold writing evenings and host the York “Go” club. Love!

The Banana Warehouse, Picadilly
LB and I stumbled across this place by accident: we were meant to be walking the City Walls, but it got dark and they locked the gates at Fishergate, so we had to turn back. We ended up short-cutting down Picadilly and I’m so glad we did! As we drew level with this place, I spotted a full-size Dalek through one of the windows and announced “WE HAVE TO GO IN THERE!”, before marching out into oncoming traffic, such was my hurry. And it’s every bit as amazing as it looks from the outside. An absolutely cavernous place, they keep the valuable stuff in glass cases at the front, but the rest of the warehouse is just haphazardly piled with… everything. As well as the usual fridges, tables, bookshelves and fireplaces, we also saw several rows of plush velvet cinema seats (plus two hipsters loudly fawning over them!), a luxury, seemingly unused (!) satin-lined coffin, and loads of typewriters, including a Smith Corona Zephyr, a Litton Imperial portable and a beautiful LC Smith desktop with green keys that I was heartbroken to leave behind. I did come away with a sweet, rare Diplomat portable from 1950, made in Czechoslovakia… for the bargain price of £15 and some heckling (you can take the girl out of Yorkshire, but…). The staff are lovely, helpful blokes who’ll happily trade jokes with you as you attempt to chip away at their prices. Go there, I command you!

Have you been to York? What were your highlights? Anything I’ve missed?

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One Night Stanzas loves mail. Say hello via claire@onenightstanzas.com. NB: I am physically unable to reply to non-urgent stuff unless I have a free afternoon and a cup of tea in my hand. Please be patient!

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