July 7th, 2010
Many published novels consist of only a fraction of the words and scenes generated by the writer. The published version of The Book of Love emerged from roughly two hundred thousand words of drafts and redrafts to a svelte eighty three thousand. Many scenes and characters fell to the floor unused, usually because the plot moved in different directions or scenes were cut because they served no purpose or they were rewritten from another character’s point of view in order to better understand what was happening. The Book of Love had many different endings before I selected the one now in print. I’m going to share some of these unused scenes in an occasional series – From The Editing Crypt.
The following scenes show what could have happened if William had believed Robbie’s version of events and the book recovered from the farmhouse in Lucca was not a fake and Sebastian had never followed Lily to Italy. William, having nabbed the book at the farmhouse, returns to the police headquarters in Lucca where Robbie tells him Lily is returning to Sydney with him. William returns to Rome and gives the book to the Culture and Heritage division of the carabinieri - not to Weston’s - and believing Robbie, flies home to London. Lily also believes Robbie’s lies – that William was using her to get the book back - until Robbie lets slip that he’d spoken to William in Lucca and told him that Lily didn’t love him. Realising why William has gone she decides to fly to London and tell him the truth.
The passengers wore their closed up faces. Tapping keyboards, flicking pages, rummaging in bags, all waited for the boarding call. Lily hoped she was doing the right thing. The idea of going home to Sydney and never seeing William again appeared absurd now. It wasn’t the way this should end.
Only the unlucky died young, horoscopes preyed on the dreams of the powerless and you could pass a soul mate on a busy street and never know - sharing a current of air, maybe a curious glance, and then gone. Ahead of you a lifetime of compromise for which no fairytale prepared you. Fate was a con. There was only her and she had to act. If she were wrong about William then humiliation and hurt would be the worst she’d suffer. Those would pass in time.
Rome to London was not a long flight compared to flying anywhere from Australia, so the claustrophobic feeling of endlessly circling the globe in a pressurized cigar didn’t weigh too heavily. Besides Lily was preoccupied with thoughts of what she was about to do. After the folderol at Heathrow of customs and immigration, she headed to the nearest newsagent to buy a map of London and the Underground. People rushed past, but in no hurry herself she dawdled along following signs to the free bus service that would take her to the airport Holiday Inn.
In her bland hotel room she laid the map out on the bed and examined it. William appeared to live in a part of London she had never been to, Bermondsey, near London Bridge. A far cry from leafy Muswell Hill in North London, where she and Robbie had always stayed with Sebastian’s ex girlfriend. Lily juggled the map around, peering at it closely and making notes on a piece of paper - Heathrow to Acton Town, change to the District Line, change at Westminster for the Jubilee line, then off at Bermondsey. Down this road, then left into that road then right here, then slump on the bed and wonder what the hell she was doing.
He might be horrified to see her. He would be at his most polite and BBC- ish. ‘Lily, how nice to see you, yes, we must catch up.’ All the time backing away thinking, ‘How did that tart find me?’ He would turn and walk away. No, no, he would turn and look at Tawny Knickers who, insatiable for foreplay with a gun, had flown over from Rome to be his lover, and they would exchange horrified looks, a wisp of Fatal Attraction in the air. Lily would never boil a bunny, but they didn’t know that.
She sat up, tore the Underground map off the larger map, and folded it with her notes and put it in her handbag. Then, after a quick moment, stuffed the whole map in her bag. She laid out her dress and went to bed with the British Woman’s Weekly Best Ever Jam Recipes supplement.
‘William, come in.’
The mahogany paneling gave off a dull glow. Shelves of art books lined the room, and a small Francis Bacon hung on the wall. The smell of money and coffee lingered in the air. Thomas gestured for William to take a seat. ‘Good to have you back in one piece.’ He sat forward staring intently at William’s forehead. ‘Make sure you put in a claim for that. I’m sorry to hear things got so nasty.’
William shrugged, ‘These things happen.’
‘Quite.’ Thomas leaned back in his leather chair and looked at his watch. A young man with a flop of hair over one eye brought in a tray carrying two gold-rimmed cups and saucers brimming with coffee, a pot of sugar, and a small jug of cream.’
‘There are some issues with this ah … last retrieval.’
William said nothing as he stirred his coffee.
‘Do you know how much we were paid to get that book back? And you give it away? Of course the Italians are thrilled with our largesse, but it wasn’t your decision to make.’
‘No, it wasn’t. But-‘
‘If we run about retrieving artworks and giving them gratis to museums we will be out of business. No one will hire a company who gives away the assets they are hired to retrieve. You’re not fucking Robin Hood, you know.’
William smiled and sipped his coffee, replacing the fine porcelain cup in the saucer with a chink.
‘You want to be careful the client doesn’t slip a horses head into your bed,’ Thomas continued with a snort. ‘They’re furious upstairs, absolutely outraged. Weston’s comes out looking like a responsible corporate citizen, returning national treasure, yes, but where’s the money?’
He waited for a response from William then continued after a faint sigh.
‘Got one in Barcelona for you, same collection. A cache of statues. That’s if you want to go head to head with the lads from Sicily,’ he said. ‘No pun intended. And bring the wretched things home with you, don’t donate them to the Prado.’
‘No, thank you, Thomas. I’ve had enough. I’m resigning from today.’
Thomas blinked and said nothing for a moment as he studied William. ‘More money?’
‘No. Burnt out.’
‘Back to Collection Management? Because your name is shit at the moment, and I don’t think they’ll have you.’
‘No.’ William shook his head. ‘Out all together.’
‘Can we talk about it? Have a drink with me later and …no?’
‘I have some business in Australia, urgent business. So if we can get the paperwork out of the way…’
Lily found her way to the street that held his apartment. Fear prickled her insides. It was tempting to turn around and go back. She found the right house number and looked up. It was not a house but the upstairs flat of an Art Deco building from the nineteen thirties. No doubt the interior was all polished wood and stainless steel with empty spaces, lots of sleek, camouflaged technology and one image on the wall - a black and white Mapplethorpe photo of the back of someone’s head, perhaps. The bed would be half a white cube and a television screen would be mounted on the ceiling above. All would be cool and contained.
It was early, around eight am, and she knocked on the door. She saw the buzzer for his flat and pressed it. No answer. Swallowing with difficulty, she tried again. Still no answer. Maybe he was asleep? Her shoulders tensed. He had to be there. If he’d never left Italy she was wasting time, money and valuable heart space.
Her fall back plan was to try Weston’s in Little Bond Street. Searching London in a summer dress with nothing but a thin beaded cardigan and kitten heeled sandals smacked of poor judgment. An English spring was not like the Italian spring. Her teeth chattered and a little voice whispered, ‘Give up, think of warm and cosy Heathrow, a standby air ticket back to Australia, cosseting by the cabin crew, hot towels, free gin and tonic, warm blankets.’
There was no answer, no matter how many times she buzzed. He wasn’t there. She took the piece of paper with the Weston’s address out of her bag, and her Underground map and studied them. If she got on at Bermondsey she could get off at Bond Street without needing to change lines, and a short stroll should take her to Weston’s. Maybe he’d gone to work, but as far as she knew he was on contract and it very unlikely he’d have an office there. However they could get a message to him. She’d come all this way; she had to give it her best shot.
The offices of Weston’s were as expected, the Fiona’s were all around her, only not plump with pearls, but sleek in tight suits with their sexy heels sinking into lush carpet, their haughty faces reflected in the polished mahogany. The girl at reception stared at Lily’s beaded cardigan and sandals. What could a raggedy boho want with Weston’s? Must be one of the cleaning staff. Lily blinked and raised her chin. In the coldest voice she could muster she said, ‘Lily Trevennen, I’m here to see William Isyanov.’
The girl raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘I’ll check if he’s in.’ She tapped a few buttons and spoke into her headset while Lily drifted across the foyer to look closely at a painting. She didn’t like the painting, but wanted to appear unconcerned.
The girl glanced over at her trying to disguise a giggle into her headset. She was probably saying, ‘One of Will’s indiscretions has turned up,’ or ‘You should see what she’s wearing …’
‘I’m sorry, Miss, er…’
Lily didn’t answer.
‘Mr Isyanov is away at present. Would you care to leave a message, or can we help…in any other way?’ She said this as if it were highly unlikely.
‘No. Thank you.’ Lily hesitated, then asked, ‘Is your name Prudence or Fiona?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Lily turned back to the front door. ’Never mind.’ No way would she leave a letter for William with that girl. She’d probably take it to the staff room and have a good titter with the office staff at lunchtime.
Unable to lie there any longer, William turned the music off, left the flat and walked up the road in the cold morning air. At the newsstand he scanned the headlines and realised he couldn’t give a toss about the rest of the world. Sitting in his flat, alone with his thoughts held no appeal, so he kept walking up to the Thames. He would go and book an airline ticket to Sydney today. No point in waiting until he felt better, he could be dizzy and nauseous on a plane, just as he could at home. And he wouldn’t come back without her. At the Thames embankment he turned around and started back.
She buzzed his door again, and again there was no answer. With the letter in her hand she walked across the road and looked up at the window of his flat one more time. Then she saw him, tall and lean and lovely, his face still battered, but the black eye had gone down and he appeared able to see. He’d turned the corner and was looking down at the pavement; hands in the pockets of a black woollen jacket. And Tawny Knickers was not with him.
Lily wanted to run across the quiet street and hurl herself at him, and despite her fear and uncertainty, she smiled with the sheer pleasure of seeing him. He looked up, saw her smiling at him and stopped, a look of shock on his face. Lily crossed over and walked right up to him, still smiling.
William had taken his hands out of his pockets and simply stared at her, almost with disbelief, then ran his hand through his hair and looked at the sky, then back at her. ‘You look very cold. Would you like a cup of tea?’
So formal, so very English. A disconcerting start, but he needed time to gather his thoughts. He held his feelings in so tightly she wasn’t sure what would happen, so she nodded; get the cup of tea out of the way. She followed him into the old house and up the stairs to his flat. Neither of them spoke as he opened the door. The flat appeared to be one large space with tall ceilings, polished floorboards, Persian rugs and books on every wall. A large desk, covered in paper stood in one corner, and behind an ornate Chinoiserie screen in the other, she could see a double bed. There was a small kitchenette and two lounge chairs by a gas fire. Surrounding the gas heater was an original Art Deco fireplace, and on the mantle piece a selection of Art Deco Gouda vases, a riot of colour and pattern.
Her eyes lit up when she saw the vases. ‘It’s just what I imagined when I first met you, only without the red velvet drapes and painter’s easel.’
He stood by the closed door watching her. She could see the pulse racing in his neck.
‘William,’ she chided, ‘there’s not a scrap of Bauhaus austerity in this room.’
‘Lily-‘
‘I’m sorry, I blather on,’ she said, looking back at the fireplace
‘Francesca gave you the address, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Lily said, ‘You’re not cross, are you?’
‘It depends why you are here.’
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Categories: The Book of Love |
Tags: book of love, desire, Lily, love, William, writing | 2 Comments
July 2nd, 2010
Dan Holloway is a contemporary writer who I truly admire. I read and re-read his work and I’m always left hungry for more. He possesses a phenomenal energy, intelligence and generosity of spirit and his commitment to independent publishing is matched by his actions in starting the Year Zero Collective and in publishing his own works through various independent publishing outlets.
We ‘met’ in the over heated world of writers online and are both members of the ethereal Grey Havens, a small, online, raggedy crew of writers with other lives in law, PR, journalism, child rearing, academia, writing and teaching.
Dan has recently released (life:) razorblades included and kindly agreed to talk about the work on my blog.
“My writing has been called bleak, dark, and bereft of joy and hope. The first two of these I will readily concede. The latter two, never. In a world where the default setting is vanilla, acceptance, expectation, normal; in a world where the tragic few who wrestle with life full-on and fail are condemned when it is not they who are too sick for the world, but the world too sick for them; in a world where the grey, suited swamp of the billion walking dead is revered; in this world, anyone or anything that celebrates the full, damaged, despairing, fucked-up and spectacular reality of life is a shriek, a shout, a holler of joy to pierce the eardrum of death.”
From the introduction to (life:) razorblades included.
Dan, you say your work has been called dark and bereft of joy and much of the work here is what you call ‘confessional art’, that is art where the author wears their heart on their sleeve, takes us into the darkest corners of their lives, writes the painful and the personal, and lays it bare and in our faces.’
How is Skin Book ‘confessional art’ if you are writing from a fictional character’s point of view? If it is fiction, then how do you see it as confessional?
For me confessional art is simply taking what is in your head and externalising it in the way that makes the very best sense. I don’t think questions of autobiography or “veracity” need come into it at all (although of course much confessional art IS autobiographical, like Tracey Emin’s Everyone I Every Slept With 1963-1995). As writers we happily accept that the “truest” way to convey something may be a metaphor, or a myth, and that’s how I see confessional art - it’s simply choosing the vehicle that is the very most appropriate one for whatever you are trying to scrape out of your head and onto the page. What’s particularly important for me is that an author never loses fidelity to the absolute relativism of truth (paradox intended). The moment we try to convey to a reader something that is true to them we are lost in the world of the impossible, in generalisation, in things beyond our reach. It’s only the absolute specificity of what’s inside us that we can hope (possibly without real expectation of success) to convey. And, ironically, it’s in that specificity that our only real chance of reaching out to other individuals lies.
To come back to the fictional character’s point of view - I think we need to separate out point of view from circumstance. I’m not a 17 year-old lesbian growing up in Hungary, never have been, and possibly never will be. Nor am I a 30-something woman who killed her abusive twin and flayed him to make a journal from his skin. The details of their lives are not the details of mine. But their point of view is mine. As a writer it’s my job to create the details that can best house and display that point of view, that best give it the grist to play out the questions that form the incessant noise in my head. The fiction is in the detail. The truth is in how characters deal with those details. I think art probably has to have both. Art fails when the truth is in the detail and the fiction is in the point of view (which is why autobiography is no more confessional than a novel); or when there is fiction in both - not because I don’t like escapism - I do - but because there is, I think, something inherently dishonest in pretending that we can create a point of view outside of our own.
What process does your writing undergo from first impulse through to the beautiful crafting?.
It really varies a huge amount from piece to piece. My stories always start with a picture of a character. I tend to follow them around, and watch what happens, and then the story comes out pretty much fully-formed. At that stage I’ll edit and edit to cut it down.
Most of the time I edit for sound if that makes sense - as a reader I sound out what I’m reading in my head (that sounds really daft, but I used to do competitive speed reading, and apparently, we sub vocalise at up to 1500 words a minute, which is about 4 times as fast as the usual reading speed, so it really is something for writers to think about), so as a writer what really bothers me is how the sentences sound. I want the cadence to be exactly right, and the rhythms to work – even if sometimes that means my punctuation’s wonky, or I say “s/he said” too much.
For poetry, it tends to be the other way round. I start with a skeleton and work up, building sentences in. I have a very bad habit of writing lines that are hard to resolve (going back to the sound thing – it’s really old fashioned, I know, but I like my sentences to “resolve” the way a musical phrase will resolve), so I often run on and on and that needs to be edited really toughly otherwise it’s impossible to perform the poems. I do a lot of live readings, and whilst my breathing technique is OK, I don’t want to set myself an impossible task!
Simon Beckett said artist’s need to find ‘a form that accommodates the mess.’ I read on your blog that Skin Book was meant to be a Flash Novel not a poem. You were emphatic that it was not a poem and yet it reads as a verse narrative. Why was the form so important?
I was a teenager in the 80s and a student in the 90s so I grew up with Young British Art and the whole text thing, which has left a lasting mark on me in terms of how I present things
I’ve read a lot of collections of work recently for review purposes, and by and largely I’ve been hugely disappointed in them because they’ve been just that – collections. For me a collection should give you something more than you’d get by reading the pieces separately. The way they’re placed should lead you through, should make you see things in each piece you wouldn’t otherwise have seen. In the case of razorblades, I want to take people on a long dark night of the soul and out the other end.
I was emphatic it wasn’t a poem because I still somehow feel I don’t “get” poetry, and I don’t think of myself as a poet. It’s like cooking – I love cooking anything savoury, especially coming up with sauces and reductions that take weeks because there are so many layers to them. But it’s all by feel. And I get really nervous around puddings, because there’s this aura around them that they’re exact, there are rules. I feel a bit the same with poetry. Poets do all these weird things with indented lines and placing stuff on the page and I feel like I don’t understand it, so I can’t really be a poet. And SKIN BOOK has the full structure of a novel – I’ve spent years railing against classical ideas of structure (I hate rules – like I say I always feel like I don’t “get” them) in novels, and I wanted to show I could actually write one if I tried – albeit one that’s only two and a half thousand words.
I find puddings intimidating as well. I’ve had to stare down quite a few.
Life can be a living hell for some people and I firmly believe there are worse fates than death. It takes an incredible act of will to embrace the life you speak of in the introduction. an you talk about the introduction and its importance in locating the following works?.
In terms of the actual content, I think there’s a lot of glibness about life. Choose life is a phrase that’s wheeled out again and again (especially that awful ending to Trainspotting), and that’s just such a cop out. What do people mean choose life? By and large when someone tells someone to “choose life” they see them walk out the door and give a big sigh of relief that the person’s off their conscience, and that really sucks as an attitude. Life is HARD.
Telling a suicidal person to choose life has consequences, and if you’re not prepared to see them through the consequences, and explain that choosing life is more difficult and more painful than choosing the opposite you should butt the hell out. I think there’s such a simplistic attitude to suicide and death, and life, and I wanted to challenge that. I wanted people to realise what they’re doing when they talk about choosing life. I find the idea that deciding to live means you’ll be happy ever after really offensive. “To live” means a lot of things. It’s fine to tell someone “to live” but that has consequences. Consequences that in some cases may be immoral and utterly unacceptable to the majority. But if you’re not prepared for that you should shut up. That’s why I ended with SKIN BOOK. It’s about two characters who are beyond acceptability. One character is a sex criminal, and the other killed and skinned her brother as a child. Together they’re happy. There’s no comeuppance or karma. They chose to live.
reading (poem)
cinched in the waist of a wholesome window
five streets from soho
ohso proper doorways
and strangers in sunhats with san miguels
and they’ve all got drinks and kisses
and they’ve all got slickety laughs
and they’ve all got smiles and cigarillos
and just enough friends
and just enough coke
and just the right words
and just the right names
and in streamers we tattoo the streetlamp black
and in velvet our tongues streak the glass
and we’re all strung out for the smell of piss
and all the beers are someone else’s
Dan Holloway
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Categories: on writing |
Tags: creativity, Dan Holloway, imagination, madness, writing | 9 Comments
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