charles barrow's writing

Some five years ago I blogged on here about a stressful time at work and how it was impacting my creative process, and my writing habit. Reading over that blog post this morning I easily remember the anxiety of that period, and how it bled into every area of my life. Anxiety and stress are like poisons that seep through the blood, affecting every part of the body, as well as the brain. The solution I found, back then, for my inability to write anything, was an eight minute daily exercise. I'd sit down each day and write for eight minutes. It would seem that hardly anything could be achieved in such a short amount of time, and if a daily word-count is all important then that might be true,  but beyond the matter of a word tally was the not inconsequential matter of confidence regained. Over time, an eight minute a day habit worked wonders for that. And I also found that those manageable eight minutes could easily stretch into ten, fifteen, twenty, often without any effort ...

I really haven't got much writing done during August. My head has been full of other stuff, life stuff, family stuff, work, home. Everyday stuff. And I couldn't manage to carve out any large chunks of time for writing. I have been making notes on John Mann 4 (tentatively titled Fewer), and re-reading old notes that have been made over the past year, or so. I'm going to collate all these notes, type them up, and see how much of a story they add up to - plot wise, that is - and then I'll take it from there. The one thing I did get written was a short, non-fiction piece for a Brighton book, due for publication next year. No news yet on whether my story has been accepted, but I was pleased with what I wrote, and very much enjoyed writing it. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for good news.

I've just a read an autobiographical letter that my Uncle wrote to his two sons (my cousins). The letter runs to many pages, and details his life between the ages of 7 and 13, between the outbreak of World War II and VJ (Victory Over Japan) Day, when the war was officially ended. It's a fantastically entertaining document, because my uncle is a great raconteur, and it's full of interesting family history, and anecdotes, and biographical details about his young life (and by extension that of my father too), during an unimaginable time for anyone who didn't live through that period. Many things that I read will stay with me. My uncle chewing a softly heated lump of tarmac, because it was flavoursome (it had a smoky flavour, he says), and he was so starved of sweets/toffees to chew because of rationing. But, he also says that you didn't dare let it harden in your mouth as you'd never remove it from your molars. My dad got blown off his bike in a V2 rocket blast. He...

I've always enjoyed visiting cemeteries, or wandering around them I should say. No one near and dear to me has ever been buried in a cemetery, we're all about cremation in my gang, so I have never had a destination grave that I could deliver flowers to, a headstone that I could reflect silently beside; one that records the barest details of a loved one's life. My forebears' ashes float out at sea or, rather, feed the fish at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe that's why I enjoy a stroll through a graveyard, I'm not emotionally invested. I am always intrigued though; by the choice of marker (stone, granite, cross, statue, urn), how well it's tended (fresh/wilted flowers, plastic ornaments, polished marble), the occupant's names that always seem to conjure Victorian maiden aunts, and Edwardian railway porters, and of course those all important bookend dates (enviably distant cousins, or woefully close siblings) that both start and finish all of our stories. My...

I'm dealing with a few health issues at the moment. This is a very dull situation to be caught up in. Thankfully I'm not ill enough to take to my bed, but neither am I well enough to fully participate, or that's how it feels on a daily basis. Consequently, there has been little writing getting done. My focus just isn't up to the task. I can still make notes though; jot down story ideas, outline characters, imagine scenes and situations. And I can still take photos that prompt questions. Photo is the author's own.  

I imagine I'm not alone in wincing at the sound of my own voice when I hear it on my answerphone message - thank heavens for the automated one that giffgaff supplies (though it's recently changed to a gruff sounding bloke with a Mancunian accent, which I imagine callers could conceivably believe is actually me). So, why the Dickens, would I consider recording myself reading extracts of my own writing, you may wonder, as, indeed, I wonder myself? Writers reading their own work to an audience is a time honoured tradition, of course, Dickens (since I've already invoked his name) famously toured all over the country, and America too for that matter, giving wildly popular live performances. I'm sure there are other examples too but he's the earliest example that I can think of. I've been to hear/watch a few authors read from their latest books; Matt Haig, Jake Arnott, A. N. Wilson, Cathy Rentzenbrink, Kate Mosse, Markus Zusak to mention just a few, and I've been ...

I once read a review of a Billie Holliday album, and the reviewer wrote, 'She sang, and singing was never the same again.' That, right there in a nutshell, is how I feel about Kate Bush. The first time I heard Wuthering Heights on the radio it rocked me back on my heels, and it still does. The Kick Inside was released in 1978, and I've bought every new album she's put out since then, and I haven't done that with any other artist. In 1979, I saw her play live three times at the Hammersmith Odeon in London. T he third concert was a benefit gig, at the end of her tour, in which she performed jointly with Peter Gabriel and Steve Harley. In 1980, I queued for hours outside HMV, Oxford St, to get my copy of her latest album, Never Forever, signed. I eventually made it inside the store, and to within 20 feet of her, and had to give up my place in the queue and leave, I can't remember why but I kick myself (inside and outside) now. Kate Bush fans have to be patient you ...