Ghostwriter

Archive for the ‘About life’ Category

Some words hold water better than others

Have you ever read a novel and stopped somewhere thinking, yeah right? That little something that hasn’t quite held water, jerking you rudely out of the narrative perhaps?

I was reading a story the other day when a synchronous moment it described did just that. It brought me back to reality like a twanging elastic band. I grumbled at what I felt was the author’s too vivid imagination and went off to do some shopping. And that’s where my real life story begins to stretch belief.

I was away from home a great deal longer than I’d anticipated. On the way back, feeling extremely thirsty, I was lamenting that I’d forgotten to bring any water with me, so I pulled into a service station to get fuel, intending to buy some eau en bouteille at the same time.

No luck. The servo’s EFTPOS system had imploded, leaving the shop hamstrung. They were unable to charge for

I was feeling a little thirsty by this time

fuel or goods, so they had switched off the pumps, closed the doors, and put the kettle on.  By this time I was very dry and exceedingly grumpy, asking the guy on the forecourt—only slightly sarcastically—if the EFTPOS being down had affected the air pump too.

I thought that I could at least check the tyre pressures and put some meaning into my visit before collapsing to the concrete with extreme dehydration. With any luck the EFTPOS would remain out-of-order long enough for the paramedics to be called, otherwise my rapidly desiccating body would be bounced around the pumps by a mad rush of vehicles when the place reopened.

The guy’s radiant, toothy smile made me feel instantly guilty and I decided to put a cap on my churlishness right then and there. My resolution was so strong that when I drove over to the air hose and saw it almost completely blocked by a campervan, I shrugged philosophically and took some time to manoeuvre around and squizzle the car as close to the pump as I could.

He was possibly from Austria

I’d just turned the engine off when a young man jumped from the campervan and walked toward me carrying two full two litre bottles of mineral water, another one half-full (please note the use of half-full rather than half-empty here), and a large bottle of fizzy drink.

His accent was probably Austrian.

“So, we are flying to Sydney in two hours and cannot carry this on the plane. Do you like it?”

I took the gifts and thanked him. As I guzzled back some of the water, my mind went back to that small fictional synchronicity I’d been reading. Now, if I included that water-manifesting story in a novel, I bet you wouldn’t believe it. And yet it happened.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

I’ve just finished Barry Forshaw’s The man who left too soon, a biography of Stieg Larsson, author of the runaway bestsellers, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest.

The Millennium Trilogy, as the collection is called, was published after Larsson’s death from a heart attack in 2004, aged 50. He was a journalist and an author who, sadly, never lived to see his books in print, or to enjoy the fame and immense fortune they and the ensuing movies generated.

Despite the conspiracy theorists’ popular notion that he was murdered by the teams of misogynists and right wing elements he actively condemned, Larsson died at his desk after struggling up seven flights of stairs. He was extremely unfit, a workaholic, chain-smoked, and was as much a lover of junk food as his protagonist, Mikael Blomkvist. Perhaps writers should take a note here.

Forshaw’s book is a blow-by-blow analysis of Larsson’s books and how they often mirrored the controversial writer’s life, although he would have been most unlikely, and very unlucky, to have actually encountered the other protagonist, the butt kicking, hate-filled, mean machine, Lisbeth Salander.

The Girl Who Played with Fire

Forshaw also delves into the terrible acrimony surrounding Larsson’s estate, along with the possibility that a laptop exists with notes and drafts for another seven books in the series. How he could accomplish that feat after tying up The Millennium so tidily is anyone’s guess.

In the bio I particularly enjoyed the comments of other successful crime writers around the world. They were remarkably frank, and sans sour grapes, a phenomenon in itself. One publishing figure remarked that the first 100 pages of Larsson’s first book, despite a proper editing process—something the following two books missed out on—were so ponderous (and I agree) that if they represented a submission to a UK publisher by an unknown author, they would never have risen above the slush pile—so much for aiming for a dynamic, nail-biting start to every thriller.

Stieg Larsson was very much aware that most journalism is a matter of preaching to the converted. We generally read publications that confirm our own opinions, so reaching out to convince a reader that there’s an alternative view is difficult. One of Forshaw’s interviewees makes the point that fiction removes the boundaries of fixed opinion, leaving us open to contemplate new perspectives. Some would say open to suggestion.

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest

Forshaw says that Larsson had a crusading personality and a fierce desire to right the wrongs of the world. If his books were, as they seem, a vehicle for his beliefs, it would make his untimely death that much more unfortunate, wouldn’t it? How much more he could have achieved will be cause for much ongoing speculation.

Ben Elton

I was reading Ben Elton’s Meltdown the other night when I realised that some of the characters really pissed me off. Well, I didn’t realise it exactly. My wife, prompted by a few too many huffs and puffs, asked me gently if I was alright.

Jane Teresa will often ask me questions. She always has. In fact, from what I understand, she’s had an enquiring mind since she could first speak and, on a number of occasions, drove her mother crazy with queries. I guess that’s what catapulted her into the scientific world and then into her own research into dreams, but that’s another story.

A selfish and grasping character

I was so deeply engrossed in the book that I hadn’t realised that I was making an issue out of Ben’s characters until JT mentioned my obvious discomfort. I suppose discomfort is the word. Some of the people in the story were dickheads and, as the plot progressed, they developed into obnoxious dickheads. It was making me angry.

Of course that was Ben Elton’s idea. For example, the selfish, grasping, bad behaviour portrayed by one of the protagonists was meant to prickle and upset the reader. Unless they too were selfish and grasping in which case the whole point would be lost. But, again, they wouldn’t be reading the book anyway, would they? Too busy out there grabbing.

When I sat back and thought about it, I wondered if I really wanted to read the book at all. I had to make a decision. I was at the point in the narrative where I would shortly be sucked in and would have to finish the book. It’s happened to me too many times before not to be aware of it. What a choice – continue, knowing that I was going to grind my teeth until I was ready to climb inside the pages and give what’s his name a quick slap, or toss the book to one side and pick up another one without all the angst in it from my burgeoning to-read pile?

There's plenty of happiness around

Do we really need to have books upset us? Is avoiding writing that challenges us ducking the realities of life? In my case I know the answer. From time to time my long life has been well drenched in other people’s dramas and sorrows. Conflict and death aren’t strangers to my memories. I’ve pretty much seen it all – very, very good and very bad. I wouldn’t swap my life’s experiences for anything. Well, not a lot anyway and only some things. Why would I choose to immerse myself in a story of bickering and misfortune when there’s so much happiness in the world to enjoy? It just reminds me of the blacker side of real life.

What do you think?

And Ben Elton’s tale? I did finish it. And I did enjoy it.

I don't shit, darling, I poo.

If we’re pet lovers and we faithfully pick up our dog’s dropping, we refer to that steaming offering as poo, don’t we? But when we step in a hunk of it on our way to an important meeting, it suddenly becomes dog shit.

The circumstances and origin of that awful inconvenience usually merits a considerably stronger reference, and the other day I had the dubious pleasure of hearing a well-heeled young lady scream, “I’ve fallen into a pile of fucking dog cack!” Everyone around her cracked up, and when the young lady’s colour returned to something less than life-threatening, she saw the funny side of it too.

Our choice of words can dramatically change the emphasis on what we want to express. We often use words that mean exactly the same thing, yet conjure up an entirely different picture.

Harsh & uncompromising

I was recently writing about the Australian outback, and thought I had the mood just right. I’d spent time researching the weather in that part of the continent and had a good idea of the type of flora that predominate there.

But the piece wasn’t quite right, and for ages I couldn’t put my finger on the problem. And then it leapt out of the page at me. It was one word. One simple little word, and all I needed to do was change it and everything would be solved.

The word I changed was earth. It became dirt. And the entire universe shifted. Did the earth move? Did the ground tremble? Well, not exactly, unless it did for you around about that time, but someone reading my words in the not too distant future will have a better feeling for those harsh, uncompromising badlands of Australia’s backyard.

Out of your comfort zone

That one word, dirt, created a flavour beyond the capacity of earth. In the context of the story, it was meant to pique the imagination and bring the reader out of their comfort zone for just a moment. A bit like shit really.

Russell Crowe as Robin Hood

Can you remember the first grown-up book you read? I went to see Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood the other day. I’d been waiting for the movie with an uncharacteristic and almost overwhelming sense of excitement that reminded me of Christmas Eve as a youngster. My sister and I would be packed off to bed early (diabolically early now I look back on it – no doubt providing my parents a heaven-sent opportunity for some well deserved R & R) to wait, trembling in anticipation, for Santa’s visit.

So why my eagerness over a story that’s been told and retold over the centuries to a point where nobody knows the facts anymore? Criticism has been levelled at Scott for mangling history. But, for goodness sake, Robin Hood is a rollicking yarn and always has been, so why let facts get in the way of a good story? And, as for Russell Crow’s Yorkshire/Geordie/Scottish/Irish accent, Robin must have had a lot of mates, and you know how hanging around folk can sometimes make you talk funny.

Howard Pyle's Robin Hood takes on Little John

The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood by Howard Pyle was the first serious book I read as a child. I remember the tome felt enormous in my small hands. I think it took a year for me to read it, but perhaps I devoured it more than once in that time. I know that I referred to the illustrations countless times as I immersed myself in Sherwood Forest’s leaf-strewn adventures.

Arrows flew with unerring accuracy, covering vast tracts of forest, to shudder dramatically into just the right oak tree and there vibrate with twanging urgency. Fabulous. And what little boy couldn’t visualise Robin’s comically serious encounter with Little John, or shrug resignedly at the required elements of love brought to the story by the fair Lady Marian’s elegant boyishness?

This book must have helped form much of my future preferences for reading. I can still disappear for hours under the influence of an historical novel, as long as there’s a decent role model in it somewhere, someone – who cares whether they’re male or female? – with a major dollop of wickedness to blend with the do-good deeds will usually fit the bill.

He read scientific journals as a little boy.

Wouldn’t it be interesting to discover how much of our early exposure to the written word influences our future tastes? For example, do children who’ve been fed a few dry tomes gravitate down certain academic paths and then onto related careers? No doubt someone has a heap of data that could give us some invaluable insights into the correlation between what little minds sponge up and their chosen professions.

Now, sadly, I must put away my quiver, sheathe my broadsword, and leave off saving England and any spare fair maidens for another day. But, before you go, pop a comment. What was the first book that really turned you on?

Sarajevo's weapon of choice

I was having a chat at a good friend’s place the other day when he offered me a cup of coffee. I declined, having already driven caffeine into my system with a powerful long black in one of my city haunts earlier that morning. “No,” he said, wagging his finger and shaking his head in a persuasive Latin manner. And that’s all he had to say.

I stopped talking. That beautifully expressed word, no, had been emphasised with a curling of the lips, and a severe drawing together of the eyebrows. One little word accompanied by a deliciously inherent body language instantly delivered passion and confidence. And it was so utterly persuasive that I’d made up my mind, or should I say my mind was made up for me, that I’d have his cup of coffee no matter what.

That what turned out to be a new experience. My friend proceeded to perform a well practised ritual with a small, long handled, heavy copper pan. Filling it with water and bringing it to the boil, he heaped spoonful after spoonful of richly aromatic, freshly ground coffee into the pan as my taste buds quivered in anticipation. The water turned into an almost black sludge which, after being allowed to settle momentarily, was poured into cups.

He won't know what hit him

I peered into the thick, murky gunk. It smelt incredibly strong. Waiting for it to cool, I gestured at the unusual pan.

“It comes from Sarajevo,” my friend said. “Every house would have one, for making coffee and beating the husband over the head when he came home late and drunk.”

I quickly glanced at him. His face, half buried in his cup, displayed no irony and not the slightest trace of humour. Knowing him reasonably well, I continued to stare until he looked up and I could see the mirth in his eyes. I thought of making a comment, punning on his dead-pan delivery, but the moment passed.

The coffee? It was probably one of the strongest coffees I’d ever experienced, and I resolved, wide-eyed and still very awake at 3am the following morning, not to make it my second brew of the day ever again. And the pan? I felt its weight and substance and can confirm that it would make a formidable domestic weapon, and that the men of Sarajevo would be well advised to be home in time for dinner, and reasonably sober to boot. At such times actions speak louder than words.

Table legs on the menu

I was doing a downward facing dog the other night when I noticed something extraordinary. A tiny sign on the side of a timber table leg proclaimed that this product should not be eaten.

Now, first the downward dog bit. If you’re unfamiliar with yoga, don’t let your imagination and sexually oriented fantasies run too wild. A downward facing dog (adho mukha svanasana) is one of the most recognised yoga poses and an integral part of the wonderful salute to the sun sequence. And how do I know that?

Many years ago I suffered chronic debilitating backache. I would go to the gym for some treadmill work, or a little aerobics if my spine could take it. I would often see the yoga class devotees, seemingly lying around on their cute little mats doing nothing too strenuous. Indeed, most of the time they seemed to be having a nice little kip.

They walked out looking so serene

But something wasn’t quite right. For all the lying around these yogis appeared to be in very good physical shape. That puzzled me. And then the expressions of serenity and the faraway, contented looks in their eyes as they filed out of the class began to bug me.

So that’s when I started yoga? No, but I really wish I had. I continued to pay hundreds of dollars to a chiropractor for fortnightly relief, kneeled to make the bed because I couldn’t bend without excruciating pain, had to sit down to take my jeans, pants, socks, and whatever off, and whinged constantly about either how much my back hurt, or how many painkillers I had to take. The nearest I got to yogic bliss was the euphoria of mixing codeine, Panadol, and single malt scotch, but they were my drinking days after all.

A pain in the back

Eventually, or should I say soon after Jane Teresa and I got together, I trundled reluctantly along to a yoga class. It was a cold night for Brisbane, so we were well rugged up, starting the session with fleeces and jumpers on. I was a little cranky. I was in the middle of a job and would have preferred to be sitting in front of my PC with a glass of red.

Within minutes I was stripped to T-shirt and shorts, the perspiration dribbling into my eyes as I viewed the world from the peculiar perspective of the downward facing dog position. It was dreadful and became considerably worse. Every fibre of my body was quivering with strain as I panted and puffed my way through the warm up. And I was yet to meet the warrior, the plank, and the three-legged dog.

Leaving that first class, I can’t say I exuded the same tranquillity and peace my fellow yogis were enjoying. I looked more like a stunned mullet, and I must have passed out during the savasana (the nice resty bit at the end) because JT had to come and wake me up.

One-legged underpants dance

It only took a few more classes before yoga became an indispensable part of my life. High stress levels became a thing of the past, my back improved out of sight, and although I would not go so far as to say I’m exactly super flexible, I can bend it with the best of them when it comes to the one-legged underpants dance.

But what about that sign? Who would put such an important warning in a place that could only be read by a downward facing dog? And who on earth would contemplate munching on a wooden table leg?

Inadvertently listening to a conversation

I was listening to a loud conversation the other day. I hesitate to say that it was in a café because a number of people have commented recently that rather nice cafés seem to be where I spend most of my time, and have asked if I ever actually write.

When you’re a sociable sort of bloke who enjoys the buzz of a busy inner city java-joint, writing for endless hours alone often calls for a contrasting environment to refresh and revitalise the brain. An hour’s break to contemplate humanity, or interact socially, soon fires up the neurons for another session at the keyboard. It’s simply a matter of balance.

But let’s get back to that conversation. A rather smartly dressed young man was complaining to his comrades that he’d spent hours crafting an email to a web development company, explaining to them exactly why he was unhappy with their service.

Choose your words carefully

“I wanted them to get the message in one email, so I chose my words carefully,” he said. “I covered every aspect of the problem in detail, and I even had my girlfriend read it so that I got it right. And then I get an email back from them full of advice and proposals, but none of it had anything to do with my issue. It’s as if they never even read the email I sent!”

That certainly struck a chord with me. In fact, much the same happened with one of my emails a couple of years ago. Fortunately I knew the addressee rather well, and was able to sit down and have a heart-to-heart to find out what went wrong.

“It’s too much,” he told me. “Every day I get emails that I don’t have time to read, never mind fully absorb. I end up just scanning through them to get the gist and hope I get it right.”

“And if you don’t …?”

He shrugged miserably. I lose customers, get stressed, and end up speed reading even faster because I feel panicked.”

That’s an extreme example of a very common phenomenon. We simply don’t make the time to read properly. Add the fact that the material we’re reading is often poorly written and it’s no wonder we’re confused and end up wasting more time unravelling meaning and getting even more stressed.

Excuse me, sire, did you actually read it?

Combine bad writing with hasty reading and things can get nasty. There’s an urban myth about a letter sent to an emissary in a volatile nation that was read as a direct insult. The unintended affront was caused by the smeared remains of a tiny insect on the paper creating a phantom comma in the wrong place in the opening sentence. If the letter’s recipient had read the entire missive properly he would have understood the error, instead of commencing retaliatory hostilities and dispensing with a few lives.

Ghost writing is often about disentangling a few obscure ideas mixed with random thoughts, and that’s one of the great challenges of the job. However, if I’m in doubt, it saves a lot of everyone’s time if I just ask the client what they mean, instead of making assumptions. Well, we wouldn’t want to start a war, would we?

Gail Jones - Dreams of Speaking

In her novel Dreams of Speaking (2005 Age Book of the Year Award), Gail Jones introduces us to Mr Sakamoto, a Japanese survivor of Hiroshima. Intelligent and urbane, he’s also an expert on Alexander Graham Bell, the pioneering engineer credited with inventing the telephone.

Mr Sakamoto’s fascination with Bell began with his own personal experiences of the phone and, from the narrative, it’s clear that the deeply personal interactions that Sakamoto enjoyed over the wires actually kept him sane during some of the darker moments of his life.

Without giving away what is a wonderful story, Ms Jones engages the reader with aspects of that priceless medium of human contact, the voice. But, in this case, it’s not the voice heard face-to-face that fascinates. It’s the voice on the other end of the phone. When whispered, murmured, and sighed, Mr Sakamoto suggests that words on the phone take on subtle nuances and inflections of shared confidentialities that wouldn’t occur face-to-face.

There's meaning in the voice

Today, satellites and fibre optics are replacing copper cable, and mobiles and VoIP are replacing the traditional dial phone. What remains, however, is the physical separation of conversationalists, a void waiting to be filled by the vibrating elements of speech and the rich and personal timbres of the voice.

I find face-to-face and phone discussions each have their own merits. But the phone does dispense with many of the constraints we must observe in a physical encounter, particularly between strangers. There is no body language to distract from the way something is said, no background noises to blur or conceal a nuance, no social behaviours or appearances to misjudge, and every reason to deeply engage one’s senses in an effort to fully comprehend the message in the voice.

Sometimes my work involves encouraging a client to think through an experience, to relive it, and ride a few bumps in the process. In those extremely sensitive moments, the phone is a tangible thing to hang onto. And not so much as a grip of abject terror, but more of a support as the emotions flow and ebb with the memories.

You can hear the client's thought processes

On the phone, comfortable, respectful, or reflective silences become part of a deeper conversation. One can almost hear the client’s thought processes, and it feels perfectly natural and unobtrusive to respond with ah, or hmm, just to let them know I’m there. Even the hum from the ether seems perfectly in tune with the moment.

The infamous Kray twins

It’s been a long time since I scrabbled about in the East End of London’s filthy gutters. In those days, a lifetime ago when Ronnie and Reggie, the Kray twins, ruled, I was well on my way to be being a tough-minded copper in an urban battlefield of crime.

Since childhood, I’d harboured a romantic idea of policing, and clung to that dream only long enough to be beaten severely, see innocent folk locked up, have friends die, and fellow officers set up for refusing to accept bribes. The job definitely had a few grey areas.

That was almost forty years ago. Since then I’ve had some remarkably diverse jobs, from truck driving to driver training, dishwashing to hotel general management, security to surveillance, and now, the best – ghost writing.

Looking back over a remarkable history of employment, one factor, one element, has always made certain jobs more worthwhile than others. Trust. Without it, the work seemed meaningless, even arduous, or, in the case of the East End, downright dangerous.

Sad movies always get me

As a ghost, I have to be trusted, and implicitly. And I’m not talking about the sort of trust that involves fiddling the hourly rate to earn a few more bucks, because, as far as I’m concerned, that sort of thing always works in favour of the client.

No, this is about a deeper sense of trust. Someone, a new client in need of a book, usually someone I hardly know, is about to tell all. Can you imagine how difficult that might feel? They’re going to let everything hang out. Their fears, their dreams, their disappointments, and aspects of themselves that haven’t yet seen the light of day will probably emerge blinking and embarrassed.

Tissues please!

While not everyone howls when their personal stuff gets a chance to air itself, I’m no stranger to witnessing tears and knowing the sense of relief and wellbeing that follows. Far from the cut and thrust of the East End, I can get a lump in my throat from a good ad these days. And just check out who’s the last out of a tearjerker at the movies.

Soft? No! Sensitive? Absolutely! I have given myself the right to understand the pain of others and to write about it. Now, where’s that box of tissues?