Supposedly the sense of smell is the most evocative of the senses in terms of memory. Whenever I catch a whiff of flowers beginning to fade I am ten years old on my knees behind the blackboard, changing flowers from one thick glass vase to another, the water green and smelly. There are worse memories.But music - ahh now for me that really strikes a chord - ok I couldn't help myself. I listen to all kinds of music now, but as a teenager once I'd passed the pop phase, protest songs were about the only thing I'd listen too. With a bit of Dave Brubeck,Miles Davis and Rolling Stones thrown in. Classical music was something I had to force myself to learn to like, which was a shame as there were wasted years of enjoyment. Same with opera. So my knowledge of both is sketchy at best .In my novel Radio Echo, music is a constant theme. Raffaella grows up in an apartment above Cafe Musica, where local musicians come to play , either bringing their own instruments or borrowing ones, Raffaella's father kept for that purpose. A musical impromptu get together is not unusual in Italy, especially in small towns. I've seen people show up of all ages, playing mandolin's, accordions guitars or drums. The music would change from traditional Italian to jazz to 60's folk depending on who was playing.Here are some links from you tube that encapsulate the progressions of the music in Radio Echo. As a novelist it's important to incorporate as many senses as appropriate in setting the scene. Music is often one that's forgotten.httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iaJdjDOzL9w'Trio Lescano' were the Italian 'Andrew Sisters', extremely popular in Italy in the 30's and 40's, with their close swing and jazz harmonies. They were actually Dutch, but in 1941 they became Italian citizens.Two years later their fame ended as their mother was Jewish. They were first cancelled from all radio programs, then arrested and imprisoned on allegations of espionage. The accusation was "their songs contained encoded messages for the enemy". Once the war was over, after a two years' silence, Trio Lescano wanted to bid farewell to their Italian audience with a final performance broadcast live by the radio on 1 September 1945. The three sisters then moved to South America, where their artistic career continued.On a completely different note , Stefano, the son of the family in Bologna, played classical duets and Schubert’s Fantasia in F minor, the duet for four hands, was one of his favorites.httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SzAx_IQydxELater in the novel we move to Cole Porter's Song "Night and Day" referencing Django Reinhardt and Stefan Grapelli. This is a 1938 rendition:httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bOHdYA0XvAYI couldn't mention Reinhardt and Grapelli without including this fun little video of the members of the Hot Club of France playing "J'Attendrais"httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gV6AB3WsNcMMusic is everlasting and a few bars can transport one back in time with such power it's often overwhelming.I'd love to hear your musical associations or if anyone else uses music in their writing.
New Website Design
As you will see, I've spent all my blog time building a new website.I made the change to be able add more content and have the content that has been there more accessible.I particularly enjoyed this website themes ability to have random changeable headers - it gave me a good excuse to play with editing photographs and artwork.Apologies if some of the thumbnails have been over cropped - particularly in the books on the writers resources page. When I have more time I will find better images that are not so susceptible to beheading.I'll leave you with a favorite image of mine. So far I've been writing about Italy and New York.Surely this location is not far behind.Whoever guesses first gets a free round trip ticket from anywhere in the world - ok just kidding about that bit, but if you have a short story based there or one that's prompted by this photo, send it in and I'll see if I can put it up on the site for you. 
And it’s 1, 2, 3, What Are We Writing For? (orig. post Jan 20th)
And it’s 1, 2, 3, What Are We Writing For? I’ve been taking a poetry class with Catherine Smith (see Links page), called Pushing the Boundaries. I wanted to get to know one of the characters better in my new novel Under the Bed - she’s a 25 year-old poet in the East Village in 1969. A not very good poet, so I figured she wouldn’t be too hard for me to emulate. I’ve also been a bit poetry phobic so I thought it would kill two birds with one stone. I’ve loved learning the value of brevity, which can only be a good thing for a prose writer.This week we did a Ghazal, which comes from a musical tradition of Urdu poetry, going back to the 14th century. A ghazal is made up of several couplets, which traditionally would have been set to music, sung and performed. When sung, the music provides an interlude for the audience between each couplet allowing them to resonate. An important aspect of the couplet is that each should stand on its own as an aphorism. The couplets have been compared to a ‘stone from a necklace’, each with a value of its own. Once put together it’s part of a whole. I’ve included here the ghazal I wrote as “Izzie”. Ghazal: When is a War not a War?By “Izzie” 1969 No poem or painting is finished without our eyes to see.We decide what it means. Dare to say what we see. Are the mix of hues and colors still on the canvaswhen they’re left in a darkened room, too dark to see? Have all the colors in the world disappeared whenthe sun is blazing white, so bright we cannot see? Where have the other colors run to, in a land where sun burnscrimson, earth and rivers reflect blood red for all to see? What is more real? What we think we see, what we’re toldto think, or what is shot in front of the whole world to see? TV images of the War up Close - visual bombardment more realthan any reality in the commonplace we live and see. Izzie’s paintings are finished by the viewer’s eyes. Can wefinish the War by what we dare to think and say and see? The ghazal I’ve written asks more questions than I answer, which is symptomatic of the times (1969) and how a 25 yr. might have viewed them. By coincidence, after I’d written the ghazal, I came across a quote from Ursula K. Le Guin on twitter this week, which I thought was apropos:“The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live … “ In the critique part of Catherine’s poetry class, I talked about the fact that the Vietnam War was really the first war recorded live on television. We also referenced the iconic satirical protest song ‘Fixing To Die’ by Country Joe McDonald *The refrain says it all: - And it’s 1,2,3, what are we fighting for,Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damnThe next stop is Vietnam,And it 5,6,7 open up the pearly gates,There ain’t no time to wonder whyWhoopee we’re all gonna die To most people in the UK ‘during the war’ refers to WWII. When I first went to live in San Francisco in the early 80s, when people talked about ‘the war’ everyone was referring to Vietnam. I think it’s hard for people in the UK to fully understand the enormity of the effect the Vietnam War had on an entire generation of Americans. So in the spirit of my ghazal, mixed with Country Joe’s humor, I’m going to leave you with the question: What are we writing for? Click on Comments at the bottom of this post and let me know. * Here’s a link to Country Joe’s performance of ‘Fixing to Die’ at Woodstock, August 1969.Country Joe @ Woodstockhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBdeCxJmcAoCommentsJess
Sun, 22 Jan 2012 02:34:23
what are we writing for? To stay alive, to be alive, to be able to say all the things we can't speak aloud ourselves and to see how all these things look through other people's eyes.A.K.Andrew
Sun, 22 Jan 2012 03:02:07
Thanks for getting the ball rolling Jess. I have to agree with you, especially the part about seeing how things look through other people's eyes. To actually get inside their minds is pretty amazing. I think it helps us understand other peoples motivation too.Catherine Smith
Sun, 22 Jan 2012 04:48:54
I agree with both of you - and writing reminds me I want to keep asking questions.I want to find out what I belive, what is important to me. I don't always find the answers, but asking the questions still feels essential. Love your blog, Kathy! ;-)A.K.
Sun, 22 Jan 2012 08:05:10
Thanks Catherine. And you're right The questions always take the lead.
Route 66 to Writing Rooms (orig. post Jan 9th)
Route 66 to Writing Rooms.I started this week by having a spinal MRI. In order to get this layered X-ray, they slide you into a big white tube, somewhat similar I imagine, to being in a cylindrical coffin. The ceiling is about 4 inches above your head. I've had a number of these over the years and initially claustrophobia ruled big time. An MRI doesn’t scare me now. I don’t have the hideous panic of having to claw my way out of the tube. But its taken work. To combat my claustrophobia I started some years ago by never, ever opening my eyes while I was in the tube. To open them gave way to panic. Then, eyes shut, I’d meditate or at least imagine being in a different place. By the ocean or some wide-open space. Anything but an enclosed environment.This time I put myself in a different place by thinking about a character in ‘Under the Bed’, the novel I’m working on. Instead of focusing on the closeness of the ceiling my character took me to the main thoroughfare of Albuquerque, New Mexico in 1951. Walking up Central Avenue, I was surrounded by flashing neon both sides of the street; motels and all kinds of American Southwest kitsch popular back in the day. Central Avenue was Route 66. It still is Route 66. The cache of going from ‘Chicago to LA’ on a single highway has been lost, but you can still see the remnants of the motels that used to be crowded with travellers looking for somewhere cheap to spend a night. Central Avenue is still thriving in it’s own way, although you might ‘get your kicks on Route 66’ with one of the hookers who wander up and down the strip at night. Some of the motels have been renovated, but most either don't exist or are in disrepair.I then followed my character to 1969 Harlem in New York City. There’s a loud drilling noise that accompanies an MRI, which is similar to the opening bars of a Ramones song or a jackhammer. I prefer the Ramones analogy, but it was bizarre to hear that noise and yet I was in a gospel church a couple of blocks off Seventh Avenue up in Harlem. The choir and the congregation were singing ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee’.This isn’t the first time I’ve used hospital time to write. I always take a notebook with me wherever I go, but especially to the hospital as wait times are often long. In Radio Echo, my first novel, I decided on one of the main characters fate while I sat shivering in one of those charming little tie gowns they give you that make you look ridiculous with shoes and socks still on, white legs poking out. I sat in a cubicle with the curtains drawn, writing frantically, wanting to get down the plot epiphany before the nurse called my name.So writing has become a liberation in terms of hospital visits, because now it’s not a waiting room but a writing room. We all know a writer should carry a notebook, jot things down, make notes at every available opportunity. Easier said than done. I’ve picked up the habit by having enforced periods of what would otherwise have been mind numbing boredom. Instead I’m freeing up time to be creative that would have been lost in a frustration of waiting for the doctor or waiting for a friend to arrive or waiting for the car to be repaired.So now, waiting rooms are not something to be dreaded or avoided. Waiting rooms are writing rooms.CommentsGed DuncanFri, 06 Jan 2012 01:13:39'Would you get hip to this kindly tipAnd go take that MRI tripGet your kicks on Route 66'thanks for the heads up on journeying in the mind and redeeming the time - hope the soundtrack didn't show up on the scan xxA.K. AndrewFri, 06 Jan 2012 02:37:25Thanks for the comment Ged. I'm hoping the soundtrack does show up on the MRI. Might make it easier to twist again.RowenaFri, 06 Jan 2012 04:23:34Thanks Kathy, It's a great message that no time is dead time when you can use it to write, or imagine a story.You've reminded me of the concentration it takes to believe that you're not in a coffin when you're inside an MRI machine - I had white knuckles clutching the panic button.....A.KFri, 06 Jan 2012 04:41:13Thanks for the comment Rowena. Its easy to forget all the times one could have to write. Yeah - I've gripped that button pretty hard myself at times.tom tomMon, 09 Jan 2012 22:58:18Hospital machinery is sometimes the only way to travel. I wrote significant parts of Under the Singer in my early days of writing, while waiting in X ray departments. Deciding to use my own experiences to fatten out the character of Joseph allowed me to consider the fact that these quiet, slightly detached people looking after me, may well be about to discover I have cancer and it would really screw up their day.I look forward to the next instalment of your road trip.AKMon, 09 Jan 2012 23:02:33Thanks Tom. Hospital machinery is a cheap ride in UK at least. Now the US - ah .. a different beast altogether. Theirs is more shiny & expensive.NoelMon, 09 Jan 2012 23:26:03Oklahoma City sure looks pretty... If I don't have a notebook or pen I use the notes app on my phone. God, I'm so modern it's frightening.KateThu, 12 Jan 2012 21:01:30I'm booking an MRI. Thanks for the journey, Kathy.