Authors Electric

On Black Wednesday just past, Alex, Kay's granddaughter, wrote a plaintive message on Facebook: Thanks, Donald, for spoiling my birthday. Couldn't be put better! I thought I'd already started my November blog. It was on a subject which, on Wednesday, I suddenly saw as a miserable and insignificant self-regarding piece of triviality and I had neither will nor energy to continue. I may  return to it next month if the present fit wears off in time. I tried to think rationally about the disaster which took place on Tuesday night  and Wednesday morning but couldn't, though I may be on the way to doing it now.  I just wanted to express what I felt. But I didn't have the words. So I turned to poetry - other people's, not only because I can't write the stuff but  because I believe, with Shelley in his A Defence of Poetry , that 'Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.' Why? Because, he memorably says (with the obtrusive ...

The original blog I'd scheduled for today was (and still is because I'll post it next month) intended to be an entertaining aside about what great readers children are and how open they leave their imaginations. But the relentless cynicism of our rulers, their hypocrisy and their recent, blatant demonstrations that they know it and couldn't care less if we do too has forced my hand. The Google tax thing, the 'bunch of migrants' crack by Cameron - well, make your own list, there's plenty to choose from - they're profoundly depressing, and (lucky me) I've never been a depressive. After that, I suppose it’s important to add a disclaimer. The blog expresses my own opinions and is not intended to represent in any way the ethos, philosophy, or collective political leanings – if there are any – of Authors Electric. Some readers also may ask why I've chosen such a topic, which  doesn't seem to have anything to do with writing. My excuse is that nothing...

     First things first. Kay's visa unexpectedly arrived on Wednesday 17th, the day before polling day for the Scottish Referendum. We don't think there was any connection between the two events, though for us one was as epoch-making as the other. Did our campaign have any effect? Who knows? It may be that they suddenly sent it to rid themselves of a minor irritant.           We'd contacted our MP  and a message had been sent to a friendly reporter on the Oxford Mail and Times  which I quickly had to retract. It might  have been on the way anyway. Only sometimes do I consider the futile fantasy that our MP took my letter outlining the points I made in my last blog to Theresa May, saying, 'We've been rumbled.' However, we can't discount the possibility of this bureaucratic monolith having one or two nice people working for it. Nevertheless, I stand by every word I wrote except for one thing. Julia Jones in ...

    If thou be'st born to strange sights,   Things invisible to see, Ride ten thousand days and nights   Till Age snow white hairs on thee; Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me All strange wonders that befell thee From Song, by John Donne, 1573-1631 That’s the book. Riding the Yellow Trolley Car, by William Kennedy. I first saw it on a friend’s bookshelf 20 years ago and coveted it immediately. After a few weeks, a deal was struck. £5. It has been mine ever since. Maybe it was the cover that attracted me. Or, on browsing, the sections by Kennedy on writing, the wild and woolly flow of his early fiction writing which he described as being aggressively kick-started by long binges of words, eleven hours of writing at a time, words mostly discarded later, but not all… A method which sounded promising back then, 20 years ago, as I had as yet no sound ...