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The Borders school of bookselling Borders wasn't always the bad guy of bookshops; my quest for stockists for Smoke magazine sheds some light on its demise"Sorry, but there's not enough about Kew in it." Hmm. I do wonder if stocking books only about Kew – novels, biographies, a delightfully minimalist range of Lonely Planets – isn't a smidge… well, niche. But that's the thing about independent bookshops: they're independent. Or, if you prefer, bloody-minded. Which isn't, in itself, a bad thing – and at least the Kew Bookshop was perfectly pleasant when explaining why stocking Smoke, our magazine about London, was such an utterly fantastical proposition; they didn't, for instance, refuse even to touch the proffered copy, and simply intone "it won't sell" until I left, as the Bolingbroke Bookshop did; or, like the Kennington Bookshop, inform me that "nobody round here" was interested in that sort of thing, despite my protestations that our thing was produced just two streets away. But if independent bookshops aren't willing to support local publishers – even on a sale-or-return, no-cash-upfront, no-risk basis – then why, as customers, should we support them? What's their USP? Is "not being Borders" enough?"Yes," you cry, "Borders was the epitome of corporate evil! There was a Starbucks on the mezzanine, two-for-one on the Jamie Olivers and a Dalmatian puppy farm behind Paperchase!" Well, yes … but Smoke wouldn't exist today if Malcolm Hopkins, who was in charge of periodicals at Borders' Oxford Street store when we began, hadn't thought the magazine – and dozens like it – worth supporting. Whenever a new issue came out, we'd take him 350 copies on the 159 bus, and he'd position them subversively among the Grazias and Worlds of Dogs. But, when we breezed in with issue #10, we found no Hopkins, just a surly goth skulking in Esoterica. "He's gone," she said. "Gone?" we said. "Why?" "Dunno. Probably didn't like the uniform." Half of issue #10 came back as returns. Or the covers did.It's true that Hopkins never struck me as a name-badge kinda guy, but I think there was more to it, as his departure coincided with the arrival of a letter from Borders HQ: in future, it said, could we please stop supplying the shop directly, and employ a distributor.We'd heard all this before from Waterstone's, where corporate identity had long since trumped regional whim: head office, not local managers, ordered stock, and independent publishers weren't allowed to have accounts. Just recently, its Piccadilly store had valiantly attempted to carry Smoke, but been defeated by The System; it couldn't accept that I existed, they said, meekly returning 40 unsellable, possibly imaginary, copies.Consumed with existential doubt, I caved in and hired a distributor; we'd get less money, the shops would get less money – ironically, lack of money apparently underlies Borders' recent demise – and the magazines would get left underneath a dripping radiator because we wouldn't be there to cough and point BUT, on the plus side, you'd now be able to find a copy of Smoke in Waterstone's, Piccadilly: yes, once we'd sent it to our distributor's warehouse in Hackney, and they'd sent it to Waterstone's central distribution hub in Burton-on-Trent, and they'd sent it to Piccadilly, you'd be able to pop in, pick it up, think "Why is it so tatty?", and decide to see if your local bookshop had one instead.And they, of course, would tell you that people like you don't want that sort of thing…BordersBooksellersMagazinesMatt Haynesguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
Second thoughts on rewriting | AL Kennedy The virtues of reworking, taking apart, breaking down, questioning, exploring, forgetting and losing and finding and remembering and generally testing your prose until it shows you what it needs to beI'm just back from meeting and workshopping (let's not mention masterclasses, you know how they make me twitch) with the new year's flock of creative writing students at Warwick University. They are, as usual, interesting and thoughtful folk who really don't deserve what the publishing industry will do to them, should it even allow them publication in these apocalyptic times. But, like the inevitability of death, disease and loss, this is a bleak truth we might as well ignore, having little or no ability to amend it. We carry on regardless and find pleasures where we can.And there are many pleasures to be found in dealing with new writers. I'd like to dwell on two here. The first is the possibility it gives all concerned to examine the craft of rewriting. I wish there were a better term for rewriting, one which was slightly less unappetising and bald – but, in a way, being euphemistic about it would suggest that it is unpleasant and requires sugar-coating. In fact, it is a glorious process. Once you get used to it.Of course, rewriting does involve writing again – diving back into this or that piece you've laboured at and maybe thought was OK, or at least passable, and you're tired and can't you just leave it ? It's near enough, isn't it? And yes, there is that section your eye always skips over because it's boring, or unremarkable, or flat-out unbearable, but you're only human, you shouldn't have to suffer for your mistakes. And you're fond of this bit – it doesn't fit the story, or the character, not even remotely, but you've had it around in the back of your mind for ages and it needs to go somewhere, why not there? Why not let it lurk like an abusive urchin in the blurry end of that sentence? And surely reworking beats all the spontaneity and joy out of your typing mojo, surely this should feel all natural and flowy, surely it shouldn't be so difficult?Oh, but think, dear reader, of the dear reader. They've done you no wrong. They have, in fact, sought out your work and allowed it into their mind – deep into their warm, intimate mind, where they could be thinking exactly what they want to about all the wonders of life. Instead, they chose you. Shouldn't the interaction be – at least in part – about things feeling spontaneous and joyful and all natural and flowy for them? They have already been so very kind and inviting, ought they to suffer for your mistakes?My thought would be that they probably shouldn't; that they really ought to be rewarded with your best and finest, and something better than that. Don't mistake me: I'm not saying that my own attempts at better than best are the best, or everyone's cup of tea, or anything other than a failure to live up to my hopes. But it seems only fair to do what we can for the reader. Fair and polite. It's also deeply practical. No one can teach you how to write, or how you write or how you could write better – they can assist you in various areas, but the way that you learn how you write, the way you really improve, is by diving in and reworking, taking apart, breaking down, questioning, exploring, forgetting and losing and finding and remembering and generally testing your prose until it shows you what it needs to be, until you can see its nature and then help it to express itself as best you can under your current circumstances. This gives you – slowly – an understanding of how you use words on the page to say what you need to. And by making a mental commitment to believe that you are not as good as you could be, you allow yourself to move forward, to mature as writer. This can seem disheartening and frustrating – why wouldn't it? It involves performing surgery on something intimately your own: the way you express your self. But why wouldn't you want to express your voice, your story, your nature more deeply, more beautifully, more effectively? Fretting and worrying at something you made up, an intimate product of your hopes, enthusiasms, passions – it's bound to feel odd, unnatural, but it's also deeply rewarding. In time, you will willingly, if not always happily, put invisible hours, days and weeks of effort into offering someone you don't know and who will probably never thank you something that will appear to be "effortless".And don't remind me of the conversation I once had with a prominent academic, who intended the phrase "But it's so effortless …" as an adverse comment on a novel. I simply couldn't rant convincingly enough to ensure that particular book could win a small but useful prize. The narrative's illusion of ease – and just you try creating an illusion of ease, matey – was too convincing. A parallel idiocy might involve refusing to applaud Derek Jacobi at the end of a performance, because he looked as if he wasn't acting.As our media reduce costs, effort and mutual respect far below a workable minimum, we have become used to programmes, films, broadcasts and reports that appear effortless in the sense that clearly no one could be bothered trying to make them informative, coherent, entertaining, or worthwhile. The insultingly slapdash is, at best, presented as being ironic; at worst, it implies that it's somehow what we've asked for, what we deserve. This lack of care is tedious and depressing, but it's also dangerous. The idea that Blair wanted regime change, no matter what, that WMD and the smoking gun were a murderous con, is shocking news – shocking to the media. Anyone else out there remotely surprised? Millions of UK citizens were more than able to find all those "45 Minutes From Doom" headlines laughable – less funny given that they meant we were about to kill people on a grotesque scale. Simply reading the shamefully weasel-worded dossier, even with no other information available (and other information was massively available) made it clear that the case for war was so shaky its architects were already shaping phrases specifically to prevent themselves being prosecuted for war crimes. As Dr Kelly said, "The wordsmithing is actually quite important …"A writer who thinks, who rewrites, isn't just bucking an ugly trend. He or she is also taking control of a power that can delight the heart, encourage, entrance. That same power can deceive, betray and murder and it is a matter of basic self-defence to keep ourselves as literate as possible, as strong as possible in our words.If you are interested in strong journalism, you might want to take a look at Greg Palast's site. There you can have the pleasure of donating to a charity dedicated to producing genuinely powerful investigative journalism. Remember Bush stealing the vote – twice? Greg Palast and his team – and the Guardian – are why you know that happened.And the strength of words brings me to my second pleasure – that of simply being near so much writing, so much of the energy of individual human beings reaching out to others and defining and uncovering the strengths of their mind and themselves with words and words and words. When you've been locked away with only your own typing, it can be refreshing, if not intoxicating, to feel so much thought, construction, enthusiasm, boiling away on every side.Meanwhile, spare a kind thought for Sark and the Sarkese - they've just suffered a fairly major landslip that has put Grand Greve Bay out of action. Fortunately, no one was hurt. I like it when no one gets hurt. And hello to the Twitter following people. No idea what we're up to, but I'm sure eventually we'll coalesce into a mighty force for good. Or pass each other's time on delayed trains …Onwards.AL KennedyFictionAL Kennedyguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
'Roses' heralded as the new 'Gone With the Wind' Roses by Leila Meacham, out this week, is drawing comparisons not only to Margaret Mitchell but to her literary descendants as ... rssfeeds.usatoday.com |
Whoops! Why Everyone Owes Everyone and No One Can Pay by John Lanchester Howard Davies joins John Lanchester for a tour of the global banking crisisWhen I chaired the Booker prize jury a Âcouple of years ago, I wrote an article noting that the world's financial system was collapsing about our ears, but that you would get no inkling of it from the writings of British novelists. They were all quite uninterested in the world of finance, or indeed the world of business and commerce more generally.One could not make the same point today. Novelists and playwrights are grappling with the mysteries of high finance, trying to illuminate the causes of the most significant economic event since the 1930s. Last year, we had a novel from Sebastian Faulks (A Week in December) and a play from David Hare, The Power of Yes, which cover very much the same territory as Whoops!.But John Lanchester, an interesting novelist whose characters often inhabit a recognisable world of work, has not tried a fictional treatment. Perhaps he has a crisis novel on the way, but here he has bent his mind to an explanation of the crisis which is entirely in the here and now. He wrote a prescient piece in early 2008, where he saw the potential for a major economic crash to follow the financial perturbations of late 2007. That earlier piece, and some others, have now been reworked and updated at book length.It is an ambitious undertaking. His canvas is broad. He attempts both an economic and a sociopsychological analysis of the roots of the crisis. He gives us detailed explanations of the Âfinancial instruments involved and how they worked, moving on to the failures of central bankers and regulators, with a series of verdicts on the guilty men. It is written in what is Âintended to be an accessible, and at times flippant style. Will Self describes it as "devastatingly funny". Self's sense of humour is clearly not mine. Whoops! is funny in a Jeremy Clarkson sort of way. In other words it is larded with leaden similes and blokeish "wit". So, for example, a complex but entirely accurate description of the construction of collateralised debt obligations is interrupted by such Âobservations as "the initial lender was free to quote Bart Simpson: 'sayonara, sucker'."But if one can exclude the Clarksoniana, by far the best parts of the book are those that get to grips with complex financial engineering. At times, Lanchester relies quite heavily on Gillian Tett's Fool's Gold, but he has constructed a clear description of credit default swaps, CDOs, CDOs squared and the other exotic flora and fauna of financial markets in the noughties. Here, truth is often stranger than fiction, and he lets the story tell itself.He is also good on the failures of risk management in banks, and offers a well-balanced perspective on the American housing market. His exposition of the political complexities of subprime lending in the US gives appropriate weight to the impact both of political pressure and of grotesquely bad market practices on the ground. He is sound on the impact of loose monetary policy in the US, following the dotcom bust. Interest rates were kept too low for too long, though it is slightly silly to say, as he does, that "no one noticed the way the western economies bounced back".Elsewhere, his judgments are more questionable. He links the deregulation of western capital markets, and the growing political strength of financiers, to the collapse of communism at the end of the 1980s. There is a Fukuyama feel to these passages which I find unpersuasive. Moreover, he adopts a conventional anti-euro posture, as found today in the Conservative party. So he ascribes much of Ireland's and Spain's problems to the fact that they were in the eurozone with inappropriate interest rates. And he thinks it is quite impossible for the UK ever to contemplate joining the single currency.He has devoted far less time and intellectual energy to understanding the nature of the regulatory regime than he has to comprehending the characteristics of the financial markets themselves. It is evidently true that neither the US nor the UK regulatory systems covered themselves with glory in the run-up to the crisis. But the fundamental problems in regulation were worldwide. The global regime for bank capital was, we can now see, flawed. Banks could evade it through securitisation and off-balance sheet vehicles, and the absolute levels of capital were too low. Lanchester ignores these problems and instead adopts the rhetoric of Conservative critics of the UK regime. It is simply wrong to describe the FSA as "an industry body" and one from which "the representatives of the public [were] absent". As it happens, the FSA, which I chaired for six years, is the one regulator in the world with a statutory consumer panel. There were failings, quite clearly, but the absence of a structured consumer voice was not the reason for them.So Lanchester is not an infallible guide to this treacherous terrain, though there are times when he describes the landscape as well and as engagingly as any. His conclusions are rather sketchy. The thought that we should now "calm down and Âdecide how to make the finance industry back into something which serves the rest of society" is sound, and it is not at all clear that the reforms proposed on either side of the Atlantic will deliver this happy outcome. But his closing thought is that "we have to stop thinking about when we have sufficient – sufficient money, sufficient cash, and whether we really need the things we think we do, beyond what we already have". At that point, we have certainly left the Clarkson worldview behind, but it is not wholly clear on which other planet we have landed.Howard Davies is director of the London School of Economics.Financial crisisUS housing and sub-prime crisisHoward Daviesguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |