Utterly brilliant to read this, thank you. I agree that the “Serbian rapist” haircut is one to be avoided. I used to live next door to someone whose hairdresser had apparently been inspired by the Bayeux Tapestry. Also not a good look, especially on a woman.
The overture to this Q&A session – a personal cross-section of London history, recalled by a man who has established roots in the city, who has raised a family there, and who has documented his experiences both biographically and transformed as fiction – is a thing of beauty in what, at present, strikes me as an ugly world. It is like the piece of coral embedded in the glass paperweight that fascinates Winston with its strangeness, in Orwell's novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four. You can turn it over in your mind; contemplate it from different angles. It will convey more to you than it says outright – the worry that has settled into the expression of Lula, as his well-earned success layers additional responsibilities and concerns across his shoulders. It also reminded me of poem by the former Poet Laureate - Andrew Motion - where he writes about his interactions with the River Thames at different times of his life. I don't get on well with Motion's writing, but he got a lot of humanity into that particular poem. As someone who has lived for most of his life along different sections of the Thames, I think about it often.
When we were in lockdown, I used to join the long, fragmented queue outside my local supermarket. We all knew, as a matter of scientific fact, that the COVID virus could not travel more than six feet without getting tired. As a precaution we stood two metres apart from one another. Initially I wore the only mask I had been able to lay my hands on in the stampede of panic buying – a scrap of black cloth, intended (according to the online vendor) to garnish the face of a small woman. When I put it on, I resembled a sexual pervert who had stolen a pair of bikini bottom and who was now wearing them across his nose and mouth as a disturbing trophy. Eventually, I replaced this with a mask that I hand-sewed from a pair of old jeans, lined with fabric from some worn-out khakis. I attached it to my face with elastic scavenged from the waistband of a pair of retired underwear. It is a surprisingly good mask. I still wear it whenever I ascend the stepladder into my home's terrifying loft space.
While queuing up, I used to see people who had obviously had their hair done. It didn't make me angry or resentful. It was fascinating to watch people during the pandemic. I haven't had my hair cut professionally in decades. My childhood hairdresser was a man of great talent who built up a very successful salon then lost it all to heroin addiction. He died, before his time, many years ago. I used to cut my own hair when I was employed. Now I just leave it to do its own thing. I was rather hoping it would have fallen out by now, yet it persists like an unkempt weed.
I wish that I could permanently overcome my reticence to just throw words down on a OpenOffice document. It is my ego that holds me back. I think that's a common problem. Early this week, I smothered a promising idea to death by over-writing the first draft. The result is analogous to multicoloured plasticine smooshed into an objectively ugly purple-brown ball. I can't bear to even look at the end result, though I will eventually pick it apart and salvage anything that I think is good.
What annoys me is that I have hammered out first drafts and polished them in the editing process. It works really well. These past two Novembers I have participated in National Novel Writing Month, where the goal is to produce a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. In 2022, in the space of 28 days, I wrote a 62,000 word espionage novel, set in the Soviet Union in the 1980s. I did next to no research beforehand and none during the writing. The result was not a masterpiece, but it was okay and could easily be transformed into something better, if I put in the work.
This year, in 30 days, in-between caring for a family member who had undergone a knee operation, I wrote just over 70,000 words of what appears to be half a pirate novel.
I cannot grasp why I don't just work like that all the time. There is this narcissism in play that tells me I can get it right the first time, if I plant myself in front of the keyboard long enough.
That Nirvana documentary was earth-shatteringly personal to me too as K Cobain is shown outside the pub nearest (and dearest) to my old school. The Gun Barrrels, as it was known, Bristol Road, Selly Osk. How incongruous.
in the heart of your family - you sound so upbeat and back in some sort of groove, Happy days. Collaboration is working for you and just now everything is going your way - perhaps the planets are lined up for us and our Nirvanas. Big love Maddi (Week 2 of Mindfulness course and so empty of any entertaining thought and watching the madness that is The Masked Singer. I am fixed in the moment!)
Great writing as always, and I love that you, your sons & Lula flouted the stupid lockdown rules which did no good for anyone and which should never have been implemented in the first place.
Utterly brilliant to read this, thank you. I agree that the “Serbian rapist” haircut is one to be avoided. I used to live next door to someone whose hairdresser had apparently been inspired by the Bayeux Tapestry. Also not a good look, especially on a woman.
Thanks so very much for responding to my query on your new writing practice. It’s an inspiration, like nearly everything in this blog.
"there’s nothing bad about feeling left out; in fact it could be a luxury, a pleasure, and a form of self-determination that would one might relish."
Yes. That's important. I'm grateful to my own parents for bringing me up to know that.
The overture to this Q&A session – a personal cross-section of London history, recalled by a man who has established roots in the city, who has raised a family there, and who has documented his experiences both biographically and transformed as fiction – is a thing of beauty in what, at present, strikes me as an ugly world. It is like the piece of coral embedded in the glass paperweight that fascinates Winston with its strangeness, in Orwell's novel, Nineteen Eighty-Four. You can turn it over in your mind; contemplate it from different angles. It will convey more to you than it says outright – the worry that has settled into the expression of Lula, as his well-earned success layers additional responsibilities and concerns across his shoulders. It also reminded me of poem by the former Poet Laureate - Andrew Motion - where he writes about his interactions with the River Thames at different times of his life. I don't get on well with Motion's writing, but he got a lot of humanity into that particular poem. As someone who has lived for most of his life along different sections of the Thames, I think about it often.
When we were in lockdown, I used to join the long, fragmented queue outside my local supermarket. We all knew, as a matter of scientific fact, that the COVID virus could not travel more than six feet without getting tired. As a precaution we stood two metres apart from one another. Initially I wore the only mask I had been able to lay my hands on in the stampede of panic buying – a scrap of black cloth, intended (according to the online vendor) to garnish the face of a small woman. When I put it on, I resembled a sexual pervert who had stolen a pair of bikini bottom and who was now wearing them across his nose and mouth as a disturbing trophy. Eventually, I replaced this with a mask that I hand-sewed from a pair of old jeans, lined with fabric from some worn-out khakis. I attached it to my face with elastic scavenged from the waistband of a pair of retired underwear. It is a surprisingly good mask. I still wear it whenever I ascend the stepladder into my home's terrifying loft space.
While queuing up, I used to see people who had obviously had their hair done. It didn't make me angry or resentful. It was fascinating to watch people during the pandemic. I haven't had my hair cut professionally in decades. My childhood hairdresser was a man of great talent who built up a very successful salon then lost it all to heroin addiction. He died, before his time, many years ago. I used to cut my own hair when I was employed. Now I just leave it to do its own thing. I was rather hoping it would have fallen out by now, yet it persists like an unkempt weed.
I wish that I could permanently overcome my reticence to just throw words down on a OpenOffice document. It is my ego that holds me back. I think that's a common problem. Early this week, I smothered a promising idea to death by over-writing the first draft. The result is analogous to multicoloured plasticine smooshed into an objectively ugly purple-brown ball. I can't bear to even look at the end result, though I will eventually pick it apart and salvage anything that I think is good.
What annoys me is that I have hammered out first drafts and polished them in the editing process. It works really well. These past two Novembers I have participated in National Novel Writing Month, where the goal is to produce a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. In 2022, in the space of 28 days, I wrote a 62,000 word espionage novel, set in the Soviet Union in the 1980s. I did next to no research beforehand and none during the writing. The result was not a masterpiece, but it was okay and could easily be transformed into something better, if I put in the work.
This year, in 30 days, in-between caring for a family member who had undergone a knee operation, I wrote just over 70,000 words of what appears to be half a pirate novel.
I cannot grasp why I don't just work like that all the time. There is this narcissism in play that tells me I can get it right the first time, if I plant myself in front of the keyboard long enough.
That Nirvana documentary was earth-shatteringly personal to me too as K Cobain is shown outside the pub nearest (and dearest) to my old school. The Gun Barrrels, as it was known, Bristol Road, Selly Osk. How incongruous.
in the heart of your family - you sound so upbeat and back in some sort of groove, Happy days. Collaboration is working for you and just now everything is going your way - perhaps the planets are lined up for us and our Nirvanas. Big love Maddi (Week 2 of Mindfulness course and so empty of any entertaining thought and watching the madness that is The Masked Singer. I am fixed in the moment!)
Great writing as always, and I love that you, your sons & Lula flouted the stupid lockdown rules which did no good for anyone and which should never have been implemented in the first place.
I live in brackenbury and my husband Gus went to Luka for years at the garage and then up in she bu
We have yet to try his restaurant but we will soon
Glad to hear you are back wandering around the hood.. used to see you a lot when your kids went to brack school
Hang in there, things are looking up
Thank you for taking the time to reply to my question. I appreciate it a great deal.
Kindly instruct Carlo to write out 100 times 'Practice' makes perfect.
Great stories, Mr. Kureishi. Greetings from Hungary.