Facing a Brave New World in your Underwear

‘Sleepwell and Fly’ opens with a young boy waking, disorientated, from a poison-induced fit. When I showed Chapter One to one colleague of mine he read silently for a few seconds then said, “Ah! That old chestnut!” I wasn’t offended. And if you’ve got a few minutes, I’d ask you to consider a further trio of tales, separately and at once. I ask for no other reason than this group of narratives has been occupying my mind for a few weeks, and that they raise an interesting question.

Here we go: John Wyndam’s 1951 novel 'The Day of the Triffids', Robert Kirkman’s graphic novel 'The Walking Dead', and Danny Boyle’s 2002 film '28 Days Later'. Right; hold that thought.

The link? This is about the classic, apocalyptic last-man-on-earth opening to a story. Wyndam’s novel, interestingly, begins elsewhere but the BBC adaptation went for Bill Masen waking alone in an empty hospital following an accident. The Walking Dead opens with Rick Grimes waking alone in an empty hospital following an accident. 28 Days Later plays with the formula a little – backstory first - but lavishes attention on the scene in which Cillian Murphy’s character Jim wakes from a coma alone in an empty hospital.

There are variations on this in other narratives; the ‘amnesiac struggles to seek identity’ is an obvious one – and by extension, the ‘stranger lost in a strange land’ too. We can add to that of course the old chestnut; ‘young boy waking from a poison-induced fit.’

Why are we fascinated by this device in all its forms? My guess is that this preoccupation is twofold; first something to do with defamiliarisation, second to do with character.

Defamiliarisation first. These story structures allow us to present a familiar world in a new way. Readers see the deserted streets of London or Atlanta with fresh eyes. An abandoned bicycle becomes a sinister symbol of something; a creaking sign reading ‘No Gas’ becomes a powerful and disturbing comment; a torn and flapping bill poster, a dropped child’s toy, a family photograph framed behind broken glass – all of these pedestrian objects become fired with a new resonance. We like these openings because in a sense they comment on the power of narrative to make the world seem different, even if it isn’t. These stories inevitably move on to defamiliarise social structures. New societies; new political systems, the corrupting influence of power; freedom, control, etc. (They are the ultimate celebration of the writer as Bad God. “I can kill everyone in the world except this remarkably blue-eyed cycle courier called Jim! Mwa-ha-ha-ha!!)

Character second. A few months back, I wrote a post called The Hepless Witness Part One in which I wittered aimlessly (what’s new?) about the importance of a vulnerable protagonist – the aim being to make a reader feel a helpless witness to events, never sure of how, or indeed whether, things will resolve themselves in favour of the main character. And here again, these story structures press the right buttons. Our protag is invariably alone, frightened, ill, and in the case of Rick Grimes, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Let’s imagine that for a moment. You wake to find your wife and family missing, your friends gone, the world completely changed – and you have to cope with these new circumstances wearing nothing but the grids you’ve been sweating into for the last three weeks. How can the reader not sympathise here? Hell, we’ve all dreamt of the time we rocked up at school in our birthday suits with our teeth falling out. Rick - we know how it feels.

So I made no apologies for the start of Sleepwell and Fly, even when taunted, and no offence was taken. The poison-induced fit? It’s an oldie, yes. But it’s a goodie.

The Versatile Blogger Awards

I’ve been lucky enough to have received a generous recommendation for a ‘versatile blogger award’ from the wonderful Anne Stormont. The rules – in case, like me, you didn’t know – are that I have to reveal seven things about myself, and recommend a number of blogs for your consideration. The second bit, at least, is easy.

1. Once at a creative writing class, I was challenged to write a six-word story in less than a minute. I wrote ‘I should have done things differently.’ I surprised myself, since I’m not one for regrets. But I had in mind a particular incident involving a trampoline.
2. One Christmas, I stumbled across a Hayao Myazaki movie called 'Laputa, Castle in the Sky' being screened at some late hour. It was astonishing. He’s been my favourite director since.
3. During my time as Beers Wines and Spirits manager at a scumbag supermarket chain, I memorised all the wine-making regions of France and could draw you a pretty good map from memory. I hated that job, but I’m earnest and I take things too seriously even when I shouldn’t. That map is a case in point.
4. 'Oblivion' swallowed hours of my life and I loved it. The future of interactive narrative entertainment like that is bright.
5. It’s taken me a long time to learn not be distracted from my genre. I wrote angsty wideboy fiction before I learnt I wasn’t wide enough for it, being the sort of person who memorises wine-making regions. I wrote bad beat poetry before I realised I couldn’t drop out ‘cos I needed the money. I wrote a terrible detective story. Tried my hand at food writing. I’ve still got the notes for a screenplay called ‘The Danny Loss Payday Party Manifesto’ somewhere. Nowadays, at least I know my area and do one thing at a time.
6. Inside me is a fat man fighting to get out. He’s always hungry.
7. I love making lists. I’m not in the same league as a pal of mine – let’s call him Argyle for the purposes of this post, though his real name is, disappointingly, Dave. He’s got a book of lists way longer than mine. Once, leafing through, I happened across a page titled ‘Top 5 Dry Sherries’. Hell, that’s one obscure list. My lists tend be of books, films, CDs and so on. Once I made a list of every CD I bought for a whole year, thinking I might write a Hornbyesque account of the year in music. There’s that distraction thing again.

My nominations for the versatile blogger awards are:


Mr London Street http://mrlondonstreet.blogspot.com/

Matt Hill http://www.matthewhillswebsite.co.uk/

Anne Stormont http://annestormont.wordpress.com/

Joanna Cannon http://joannacannon.wordpress.com/

My pal Laura, who's in Singapore... http://singadraw.wordpress.com/

...and just some guy called Philip Reeve. http://the-solitary-bee.blogspot.com/

Flow.

Here, you’ll find a smashing little creative writing course at Warwick University. The podcasts, delivered by David Morley, focus on various aspects and elements of the writing process. One in particular has caught my attention. Entitled ‘A Mental Switch’, it begins with Morley stating very simply that, “...there is writing – and there is not writing. And ‘writing’ is a zone.”

I’ve been stuck far too regularly of late in ‘not writing.’ I’ve been thinking about writing; I’ve been sketching out plots and assembling post-it festooned wall charts; I’ve been tinkering with character traits and even – preposterously perhaps – drawing maps of imaginary prisons. But writing? Not much.

Morley’s use of the term ‘zone’ to describe the writing process is an interesting one. A place; an area. It brought to mind the work of Mihály Csíkszentmihályi (more about him here). I know a fair bit about this guy but rarely mention him in public on account of not having the slightest clue how to pronounce his name. I once mis-pronounced ‘Goethe’ at university and got laughed out of a seminar; I make it a rule nowadays to avoid being laughed out of any enclosed space-of-learning. Thankfully I have found support in the confessions of a friend – for the purposes of this post we’ll call him Argyle – who thought ‘misled’ was pronounced ‘myzled’, and for many years pronounced ‘pseudo’ to rhyme with ‘play doh’.

Anyway, Mr Csíkszentmihályi is a psychologist, just in case you care, who developed flow theory after studying extensively the process of intense immersion achieved by sportsmen and women during competition. His studies took root, appropriately, when he witnessed artists capable of getting ‘lost’ in their work for hours at a time. He began by observing that athletes and artists, when interviewed, often compared these elevated states of concentration to being carried along by water – thus the ‘flow’ metaphor.

But there’s a temptation inherent in this turn of phrase; that creativity is somehow passive. That we’re ‘carried’ along, unable to create these states of concentration and restricted to simply waiting for them to happen.

That’s where the flow grid comes in. And it’s a cracker:

This is more like it, right? The implication here being that we can ‘measure’ our current state of mind, and adjust the challenge or skill required to push ourselves towards the top-right of the grid rather than waiting to be carried along.

And I suppose the lesson for me at the moment is simple – if you want any river to sweep you up, you’ve first got to get into it.