Five Books That Made Me.

When I first started this blog, I chose the name ‘Under the Influence’ as a way to acknowledge that as a writer, I have inevitably been affected by everything I have read. In fact though, it goes deeper than that – books have actually been some of the building blocks of my identity. A few months ago, there was a brief fad on Facebook for people listing the books which had had the biggest impact on their lives. I didn’t bother with it at the time because I felt a list without any explanation would not really be interesting. I’m hoping these will spark some sort of discussion - chip in with your own thoughts in the comments below. It would be good to know what books other people have found formative. Keep in mind that these are the books which have had the biggest influence on me, not necessarily my favourite books, or the best books I have ever read (although there is of course some cross-over).

Roughly in the order I came across them:

The Bible – various authors.

Nothing like starting with a controversy. Those of you who know me, know that I am not religious; those of you who know me best know that this has not always been the case. I was raised (on one side, at least) as a Jehovah’s Witness, meaning that the Bible actually played a pretty big part in my life growing up. I categorically do not think that religion is the only reason that humans have developed a sense of morality, and I believe that moral systems based on the Bible have a long history of being flawed, but it would be intellectually dishonest to pretend that it didn’t play a part in my own development: principles like ‘treat others as you would like to be treated’ are probably fairly universal in human culture, but this was where I heard it first.

Perhaps more importantly, stepping out from under its shadow when I was on the threshold of adulthood gave me the chance to reassess my understanding of the way the world worked, and revaluate my moral code. What it left behind was an interest in the stories we tell ourselves to explain who we are – I still find the Bible fascinating as a cultural artefact.

The Slimy Stuarts – Terry Deary

This is the only book on the list that I have never owned. Let me tell you a story: I am eight years old. It is the school holidays, and my mother has taken my brother and me to the local library. I am not enthused – I have somehow picked up the notion that reading is boring. This is the only time I ever remember thinking this. I can only assume I picked the idea up at school. Luckily, my mom talked me into borrowing The Slimy Stuarts. Deary has a knack for fishing out the bits of history most likely to appeal to young boys. I was hooked on books again, and had a newly discovered passion for history. I’ve never looked back.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy – Douglas Adams

I think I arrived at this book at just the right time. At fourteen, my reading diet consisted largely of Star Wars tie-in novels, and I was primed for something that would take my sci-fi fandom in a different direction. The ‘lived-in’ state of my copy is probably evidence of how much I enjoyed this book, but to justify its inclusion on this list, it also needs to have changed me in some way. My sense of humour seems like the obvious place to look. Adams was not afraid to follow a digression to see where it went, and he managed a careful blend of old fashioned silliness with astute observations on human nature which has almost definitely influenced what I find funny (although arguably I must have been in the same ballpark to ‘get it’ in the first place), but I think this book probably affected me in other ways too. I related to Arthur Dent, although in many ways he is an unusual protagonist – he doesn't want some big thing that will conclude his plot-arc – he wants a quiet life and a nice cup of tea. More importantly, the big events he stumbles into aren't part of some over-arching scheme. Coincidences are rife, as are random events. Things happen because people are trying to get by, and this has unpredictable consequences in other places. When they do try to answer the big questions of what the universe is about, the conclusions are always unsatisfying or mundane. This is how I suspect it is in the real world – there are no ‘big answers’, we just have to do the best we can in the circumstances we have.

Crow – Ted Hughes

This was the first poetry collection I ever bought, and I include it here knowing that in some circles, wading in on this side of the Plath/Hughes divide will be as controversial as my ideas about the Bible will be in others. Crow was very hugely influential for me as I began to figure out the sort of writer I wanted to be. Firstly, although the poems have no connecting narrative, they are all centred around one figure, and are packed full of repeated ideas and images. My musical tastes had already prepared me to look for this sort of consistency in the CDs I bought, and it is the album, not the song, which forms my base unit of consumption for music. This book taught me to look for the same thing in poetry, and gave me something to aim for in my own writing. The collection also has a mythic quality which (perhaps as a result of early exposure to the Old Testament) I have often tried to imitate.

Howards End – E.M. Forster

If the Bible started my moral education, this is the book that helped me to develop it into adulthood as I dealt with the implications of no longer believing in a god who could provide some external measure of right and wrong. It also gets to the heart of some of the big ideological questions which still affect our politics today, without ever being too overtly political. Forster tells the story of the relationship between two families – the culturally aware and socially progressive Schlegels and the more practical, traditional Wilcoxes. If this all sounds heavily allegorical, it doesn’t feel that way in reading, and I think there are two reasons for this. Firstly, the main protagonist is herself grappling with how to reconcile these two positions – giving the novel a means to explore the issue without needing to resort to allegory. Secondly, it does not offer an easy solution; neither side is presented as being entirely wrong or right, rather the author suggest the importance of finding a balance and of making connections on a human level. I read this book as part of my A-level course, and it forms part of the foundation of my political and moral identity.

Incidentally, in researching this blog post, I found out that Zadie Smith wrote a sort of updated homage to Howards End. I might have to have a look…

In Defence of Teaching English Literature (or, 'Why should you pay me to talk to kids about poems?')

It’s been quite a while since I last posted. In the intervening time, I have been part of a collaborative novel writing project and qualified as a teacher of English. Although I have never intended this to be an education blog, there are many things happening in education which are worth discussing and may be of interest to the general public. Over the summer, I will post on one or two of these things, starting with why we teach should English at all.

I won’t discuss here why we teach kids to read and write. We are fortunate enough to live in a society where the value of functional literacy is so universally accepted that it is taken for granted. Rather, I want to write about why we teach English Literature.  That our children are taught literature is a less secure assumption – it is not uncommon for schools to teach GCSE English Literature only to the higher sets, and in a climate where a school’s percentage of students achieving a ‘C’ or above in English can make or break a reputation, it’s easy to see why. Literature must be studied alongside Language to count in the league tables, and this is often seen as a more difficult option than the straight English GCSE.

At its worst, English Literature can be a tired process of straining novels and poems through endless PEE (point, evidence, explanation) paragraphs to produce useless and disjointed analysis. It becomes an exercise in ticking boxes:  Yes I have spoken about the effect of specific words. Yes I have talked about the historical context, yes I can find alliteration. But I have no ideas what it’s about. These are issues produced by the current system of assessment, and they do need to be addressed, but I did not come here to talk about my subject at its worst.

What then, can the subject do at its best? As someone who has spent the past nine years voluntarily studying novels, stories, poems and plays (and as somebody who attempts to write some of these things), I’d like to say that it is because of the transporting power of literature – because of the enjoyment that can be had in exploring a good book. Some of you might think that this alone is not enough to justify the percentage of your taxes that goes to paying for me and my colleagues. Why then should English Literature be a core subject, taught to all children? Clearly, I have a vested interest in the answer to this question.

Firstly, a system where literature is taught only to the higher achieving students has a number of unpleasant consequences. It denies a diet of stimulating books to those students most likely not to have them at home. Worse, it reinforces divisions in our society by taking a large portion of our school-aged population and telling them ‘literature is not for the likes of you’.

But my argument for English Literature being taught to all students is not built purely on a sense of fair play. I really believe that literature, taught well, can do things which PSHE cannot. I do not mean this in the prescriptive Liberal Humanist  sense that a canon of Great Books can build moral character (although a fairly recent study does suggest that reading fiction can foster empathy), rather I mean that it can be used to foster a sort of ‘cultural literacy’ which equips us with the skills to engage fully with the society we live in.

The first time I heard the term ‘institutional racism’ was in an English lesson. More recently, I have seen teachers introduce the basics of feminism to GCSE English Literature classes. I witnessed one brave teacher who, when confronted with Curley’s infamous ‘glove full of Vaseline’ in Of Mice and Men (‘he’s keeping his hand soft for his wife’) confront it head on as a way of discussing the same attitude that leads to today’s Curleys passing on nude selfies, or uploading revenge porn (don’t worry, the link is to a Guardian article!).  In my experience, I would have been tempted to rush through the passage and hope the students didn’t notice.

By training students to analyse the way people and situations are presented in novels and plays, they become more able to analyse how they are presented in other media.  Of course, when students are taught ‘purpose’ and ‘audience’ well they should be able to spot authorial bias in newspaper articles and editorials, but the study of literature supports the ability to analyse the more deep-rooted cultural prejudices which still exist below the surface.

I am not claiming that this role can only be filled by English Literature. I have observed a Media Studies on comic books where students were introduced to the concept of ‘moral panic’, and been in another media room where wall displays explained the meanings of ‘representation’ and ‘male gaze’. In fact, I sometimes wonder if Media’s place on the margins of the curriculum has given it greater freedom to explore these issues. Shame on those who denigrate it as a Micky Mouse subject, and shame one those who decided to cut all reference to new media in a GCSE English curriculum which serves children growing up in an increasingly media rich world. However, English Literature has the advantage of being a component of a core subject – it has the potential to reach a far greater number of students than an optional subject like Media Studies.

While there are numerous other reasons that students should study English Literature, it is this which I feel most justifies it position as a core subject: it encourages students to ask questions about our culture, and gives them the tools to do so.  It does not (or should not) engage in polemics, but enables our students to develop their own standpoint on the issues facing our society, and it does all of this while widening students’ horizons and engaging their empathy with people in a wide range of situations. Surely we should strive to make this opportunity available to all students, regardless of their predicted grades.

P.S. I wrote on this topic in greater academic detail as one of the first assignments on my training year. If you are interested in reading a more academic argument with references, you can find it here.

Must Try Harder

It is about eleven on Christmas Eve Eve. I am in Asda buying snacks and pop to mix with the spirits we have at home. It is filled with people buying huge quantities of crisps, breaded mozzarella fingers and Advocaat. I have just had to wait in the ‘20 items or less’ self-service queue for ten minutes while a couple scan through an entire large trolley worth of alcohol and ready meals, and another man struggles with the mysteries of the barcode scanner. My arms are loaded with heavy bags; I am glad to finally be heading towards the rotating doors which lead to freedom and cool air.

But wait! As I walk past the last row of self-scan checkouts I spot something which troubles me. A skinny young woman in pink tracksuit, mouth hanging half open, is about to finalise her purchase of Santa Baby, the latest ‘novel’ by Katie Price’s ghost-writer. Filled with the charity of the season and the snobbishness of the English graduate, I think ‘I must do something to prevent this affront to everything I stand for.’ I fight back the urge to approach the woman, pick up her book, and say “ma’am, I have as much confidence in Katie Price’s ability to write a novel as I do in your ability to read it”, then watch as she puzzles of the meaning of my words. I leave the store feeling sickeningly smug.

On my way home, through the dark streets of Wolverhampton, I am smacked by a grim realization. Katie Price has four autobiographies, seven novels, and twenty six children’s books on the market. I have one book of verse which has only sold three copies, and I bought all of those. I know that quality is more important than quantity, and I feel in my self-important heart that my book must be better than any of Jordan’s, but there is one fact that I cannot ignore.

I have written a handful of paragraphs and two or three lines of verse in the past few weeks. Even with a ghost writer in tow, Katie Price clearly spends more time working on her literary career than I do. How can I call myself a writer when I apparently put less effort into writing than Britain’s most famous blow-up doll?

And so it becomes clear. I must try harder. And step one is to reinstitute this blog, and make it better than ever before. Watch this space folks, and have a Merry Christmas.

This is the hour.

Greetings true believers (to quote Stan Lee).

It's been a while since my last post. I'd like to say that I've been too busy working on a secret project, but that would be untrue. The truth is that after moving house I was infected with a summer lethargy. But now I'm back, hopefully for more regular posts, and possibly one or two sister-blogs which I have in the mental pipeline.

For now though, gentle reader, let me take you back one week. After an evenings work I am in The Stile, my unbelievably local local, drinking a couple of beers and playing a bit of pool. Vicky is working behind the bar. In the other room aging musos bash out some covers on acoustic guitars. Sunday night is open mic night.

Fast forward to the end of the night, Faye, Tony and I are drinking in the front bar. Vicky is still working, and talking to one of the bearded muscians. I am beckoned. We discuss my being a bass player, and by the end of the conversation I have agreed to book the next sunday off work and come along to the open mic. The harmonica player stands in the doorway and has a nosebleed.

So, here I am. Due to arive at the pub in under an hour for half a pint of dutch courage. Unfortunately my summer lethargy extended into what I jokingly call my practice routine. I've been working to make up for it this week but for some reason I can only remember three songs well enough to feel nearly comfortable playing them in public. And one of those is seven minutes long and requires a saxophonist.

I thought it wise to prepare myself for public humiliation. Friday was Faye's Twenty-first. Sort of. It was also kareoke night at the style. If I can do that in front of people, I'm sure I can fumble my may through Eight Days a Week and Sweet Home Chicago.

Apologise for the weird typography. Blogger seems to have no problem switching to bold or italics, but doesn't appear to like changing back again.

Tea break over. Toodle pip.

Sweet Home Wolverhampton

For the past week and a half I've been settling into the new house and something almost resembling adulthood. I write this having just returned from Asda with freshly purchased draining board and cutlery draw trays.

Since my last post I've done a few things which I feel now qualify me to describe the local area: I've made several trips to Asda, seen the park on an event day, and, crucially, I've visited the pub. The area in question is, roughly speaking, Whitmore Reans (which even, sort of, has its own online newspaper). Our road, Fawdry Street, is one of several roads in the area which don't really lead anywhere, which is perhaps why the pub at the end of the road seems to be doing so well. It's the sort of pub which looks like it could be one of the main settings in a soap, and like almost all pubs in Wolverhampton it's linked to the Banks brewery. The conversation comes in a clattering of Polish and Yam Yam. The Banks and the curry are good, the current guest ale, Boondogle, tastes like vinegar. There is a bowling green at the back, half of the clientele look as if their preferred method of transport is a chopper or a truck, and Fridays and Saturdays are karaoke nights. Like a pub should be, it provides an interesting cross section of the community.

The nearest main road is the Stavely road, which has a few shops. This is our main conduit to Asda. In the other direction is a building with a sign painted on the side which reads 'Jazz's Barbers', in big, blue letters, accompanied a picture of a man who from a distance looks like Charlie Patton, but as you get closer, looks increasingly like a dodgy eighties hairdresser's model.

We visited the local park at the time of the Wolverhampton City Fair, which seemed to mainly involve people firing cannons, driving motorbikes or monster trucks, and setting themselves on fire.

Visit the Black Country, heart of the Wild West Midlands (or have I just been playing too much Red Dead Redemption)

Familiar Things in Unfamiliar Places.

I am no longer nearly homeless. As of yesterday I have been a resident of Fawdry Street, Wolverhampton. Vicky and I still have a little unpacking to do, but now my books are on a shelf (albeit a rather disorganized one, and having to compete for space with a myriad of DVDs and Xbox games) and I've had a cup of tea, it's starting to feel like home. And until the arrival of Faye (one of Vicky's forensics buddies) some time in August, and Hannah and Chris in early September, we have the house to ourselves.

So, here we sit awaiting the full time results of the Ghana vs Uruguay match. Vicky tests the internet with some heavy duty Call of Duty, and I contemplate a productive summer of writing and editing.

In the meantime though, we have more mundane things to worry about, like working out what's wrong with the washing machine door, the alarming rate of gas consumption, how to live on almost no money, and a living room carpet so filthy that it warrants foot washing of biblical proportions. Where's the messiah when you need him...

We've decided to wear slippers for the foreseeable future.

Homeless...

...Sort of. As of Monday evening, I will be crashing on my nan's sofa until I can move into me and Vicky's (and some others who will be joining later) student pad in Wolverhampton. Which is, I admit, quite a trek from Perry Barr, but it's far better if you want a decent ale. In the meantime my life is a flurry of books in boxes and mattresses on floors as I slowly dismantle the last ten years or so of my life.

Bring on the Black Country.

A Confession...

Hello, my name is Luke, and I have an addiction. I’m not an alcoholic (although they do say admitting it is the hardest part). I’m not, to the best of my knowledge, addicted to sex or drugs, and while I will confess to a minor addiction to Rock and Roll, that’s not what I’m here to talk about. My addiction began probably before I turned two, and as of yet shows no sign of abating. Ladies and gentlemen, I am addicted to words. My rate of consumption is difficult to determine, due to the pressures of university life I currently get through a novel almost every week, in addition to plays, poems, magazine articles, films, television programmes, adverts, song lyrics and countless conversations. What’s worse is that I’ve now started dealing. I suppose everyone deals here and there, but I’d very much like to make a living out of it (yes, this is going to be one of those ‘struggling/aspiring/wannabe writer’ blogs, apologies to those of you who were hoping for something a little more ‘trainspotting’).

Where does this addiction come from? I don’t know. What I do know is that I just love words. All sorts of words. Words which crack and slap and spit. Words which you sound like other words. Words which you can pick apart one syllable at a time. Words which you can roll around your mouth as you say them (of which ‘bollock’ is an unfortunately literal-sounding example). Words which mean more than one thing. And I love what happens when you string words together to make a story or a poem. The way they can be made to pierce the heart or tickle the funny bone. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I think that sometimes ten well chosen words can say more than a thousand pictures (no offence to any visual artists out there). Anyway, that’s what this blog is about. Not necessarily individual words themselves, but my attempts to become a better (and with any luck, better known) writer, and about anything which pops into my head to write about. Hopefully I’ll be able to make it interesting, and not as pretentious as it has the potential to be (feel free to let me know if it’s heading in that direction). Here’s to a better blog next time, not because I think this one is bad, but because improvement is the way forward.