I don't know if it's bad form to have consecutive blog posts about the same niche subject, but this is a piece I wrote for the Birmingham Libraries Zine that's being put together as part of a wider campaign to stop Birmingham Council shutting all of its public libraries—or remodelling the service to the extent that it becomes worthless. Sadly, they didn't have room for it, but I enjoyed writing it and it conveys my feelings more succinctly than the last piece I wrote on the subject. So, here it is:
 
One morning a couple of years ago, I fell down an internet rabbit hole that led not to Klaus Schwab but to Sutton Coldfield Library and some photos taken soon after it opened in 1974. One in particular, a view of the adult lending library, grabbed my attention. I saw the row of reading chairs in it and was instantly transported. I’d sat in those very chairs. Not in 1974, I wouldn’t be born for another ten years, but growing up: as a child, going there with my grandparents during the holidays. As a teenager, sneaking in after school. I think they were still there in my early twenties.
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Seeing that photo, slightly delirious from lack of sleep—my daughter was still a toddler—I experienced that wonderful moment when a long-dormant memory surges back; sight, smell, touch, the whole bundle. I could feel the bobbled fabric of the cushion covers and what it was like to sink right down into them. You don’t forget a shade of orange like that, either.

I spent hours in those chairs, either by the tall windows overlooking the bus stops or tucked away down the end of an aisle. I’d browse through books, poems, plays, sheet music, and another victim of so-called progress, CD sleevenotes (the essays in Elvis Costello reissues would make a great book on their own). Often, I could’ve just got them out and read them at home—it was a library, after all—but this was a nice place to be.

It should be easy for me to rhapsodise about what libraries, and Sutton Library in particular, mean to me because I loved the place so much growing up. It was my school far more than actual school was. Actual school was for fucking about and having a laugh; the library was where I went to learn (I didn’t articulate it like that at the time; I was a pretentious sod growing up, but not that pretentious). At the time, the children’s, adult, music, video and reference libraries were all separate, spread over two floors, and very well stocked, which meant whole worlds could be explored for free, at your own pace and leisure.

Aged 11, I became fascinated by an aisle that contained literally thousands of plays and so was inspired to try writing my own. At 12, I was borrowing Wilfred Owen and Joe Orton (at school we were reading some crap YA novel about a moody teenager). Aged 13, I learned to play the guitar and piano thanks to the chord-book section. Aged 19 (I’d slowed down a bit), I wandered into the local history section and read books that completely changed how I viewed the town I’d grown up in. I owe most of my musical knowledge to the well-stocked CD library, first hearing everything from The Beatles to Big Youth to Debussy to Miles Davis from there (they had a nine-CD Miles Davis & Gil Evans boxset in there that you could borrow. For 55p.)

Like I said, it should be easy to rhapsodise, but it’s difficult because libraries have always played such a vital, functional role in my life that it’s like trying to describe what the mugs in my kitchen mean to me. A library is a vessel for the stuff that nourishes, warms, awakens, relaxes. And it’s all for free (apart from the CDs and overdue fines) and for anyone. I didn’t drop all those names in the last paragraph to peacock about how sophisticated I was—I didn’t understand half the stuff I affected to—but to show that those and many other moments of discovery are such a defining part of me, and they were all facilitated by Sutton Library. What teenager would be able to afford any of that stuff new, especially one who spent his paper-round money on fags and cassette singles?

I describe myself as a proud product of public libraries and adult education, and the two are inseparable. When, aged 22, I realised that fucking about and having a laugh at actual school had helped me drift into a dead-end, I went to night-school to do my English A-Level. Sutton Library was often where I went to write my weekly essay (they still had those little compartments called “carrels” then, which were great for focusing in) and to do some reading around the books and writers we were studying. I could go to a shelf and pick out an old, expensive book of literary criticism and just start reading it and learning from it. How great is that? I was working in a pub for about a fiver an hour, and I could just walk into a public building, without an appointment, and have access to all that potential. I didn’t have anyone hassling me or tutting that I wasn’t buying anything; I didn’t need a subscription; I was just left alone and trusted (remember trust?) to get on with whatever I’d come for.

I do still visit Sutton Library sometimes when I’m over seeing my mom. It’s not what it was—what’s left is now crammed into one space—but it’s still bigger and more comprehensive than most other libraries I’ve used since leaving Sutton. I’m pragmatic enough to know that libraries can’t be like they were in 1974—I recently discovered that, back then, Sutton Library even had an art section; you could borrow a framed painting to hang on your wall for a fortnight!—but I also know that they still have a crucial role to play, especially for the very young (storytimes for pre-school kids and their knackered parents, craft activities and reading challenges during the holidays) and for older folk (large print books, audiobooks, knit-and-natters, local history groups, one remaining natural community hub where you can interact with others without having to pay). Get rid of libraries, or refashion them as bullshit community hubs with a handful of donated Richard Osman novels and a rack of leaflets, and that all goes the way of art libraries and cassette singles.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a sudden urge to search Marketplace for comfy orange chairs.

Even though it became a kind of lads’ anthem, it’s worth remembering that the Manic Street Preachers’ ‘Design for Life’ has the immortal opening line, “Libraries gave us power”. And it’s important to remember that they still do.

In a blog a few weeks back, I wrote about how Sutton Coldfield Library was my real school. I’ve since remembered that the two books that inspired me to enrol on an English A-Level at an actual night school when I was 22 were also both borrowed from the library: Ted Hughes’ Selected Poems and John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. (yes, I know Hughes is problematic, but I didn’t then). I felt there was something more to both than just poetry and a good story—metaphor or symbolism or something—but I had no idea how to access it. Hence night school, then uni, and my eventual career as a professional writer and editor.  

This process began back in 2006, the last time mullets were fashionable and when Sutton Library still commanded two floors. Its adult, children’s, music, and reference libraries were all in separate sections. There were plenty of tables and chairs where people could sit and read, study, and write. Nowadays, what remains of its once seemingly endless stock is squeezed into one big room. There’s a solitary table in the corner.

But at least it still exists, for now.

As anyone reading this will know, Birmingham City Council is bankrupt and looking to atone for it by closing 25 of the city’s 36 public libraries. Just as concerning, and what I want to focus on here, is that the remainder will be turned into “community living rooms”, sharing space with other services (whatever they might be), and being run by volunteers. Once more, those in power are proving themselves ruthlessly incompetent and expecting others to pick up the slack, for free, out of the kindness of their hearts. It’s happened with the rise of food banks, and now Birmingham Council seem to be using the same tactic against libraries.

Leaving the real-world problems of this aside for the moment, the issue is that it’s a PR masterstroke on the council’s behalf. “Community living rooms”, volunteers stepping up and doing their bit… All sound so cosy and Blitz-spirit, doesn’t it? And that’s the problem. Those of us trying to oppose this wanton act of cultural and community destruction can easily be painted as bitter, backwards lefties, romanticising an outmoded system: “The council’s broke, though. Everyone’s got a kindle nowadays, ain’t they? Where’s the money to pay for it coming from? How much more do you suggest we increase council tax by, then?” We’re back to the daft and misleading national-credit-card-bill arguments that got flung around in the early days of austerity. “Brum’s gotta tighten its belt. Simples.”

Pointing out that the council has a legal responsibility to provide a free and sufficient public library service just won’t cut it in the face of rose-tinted notions of charity-shop-style volunteer retirees helping out by manning the desk and filing a few books away (“It’s hardly graft is it? And I bet ‘alf of ‘em are on silly money anyway.”)

But it’s not just the right that this PR approach wins over. It also potentially appeals to liberals, those who thrive on romantic ideas of people power, local community businesses, and the can-do, bread-baking, Zoom-quizzing pandemic spirit of looking out for each other while everything goes to shit. You have to give it to whoever thought it up because it’s absolute genius. A pint in the Square Peg says someone in London’s already working on a heart-warming film script and Emma Thompson’s practising her Brummie accent (as long as she’s not doing it by watching This Town, amirite?).

I spent election night 2019 working in a pub where the majority of regulars were so right-leaning that they once questioned a bloke’s heterosexuality because he mentioned that he’d recently played a board game. It was like sitting with the opposition fans when your team loses 10-0, and I ended up in an argument with a few of them about food banks. They were saying how “wonderful” they were; I was saying they shouldn’t have to exist. “Yes but they do, and isn’t it fantastic? What else are they meant to do? Let people starve?” In a sense, they were right of course, and it’s harder to argue against someone you basically agree with, especially when disagreeing makes it seem like you’d rather people were left to die of hunger.

21st century economics are eroding the basic safety nets of 20th century society like the sea is eroding the East Yorkshire coast. Libraries are the latest old cottage that looks like falling in, swept away by waves of similar logic. “There’s an issue, and people are stepping up and making a difference. What are you doing besides moaning?” Okay, libraries aren’t as essential as eating, but that doesn’t mean they’re not vital and don’t still have a role to play—a role that needs proper council funding. Once they’re gone and volunteers have to step in, you can’t go back or argue against it—or you can, but you look like a loony leftie luddite demanding that taxpayers’ money goes on a load of old books rather than “something useful like collecting the bins or fixing all the bloody potholes.”

And what’s the reality of this knitted-blanket vision of community-run libraries? Without funding and trained, knowledgeable staff, they won’t be decently-stocked places where there are plenty of kids’ activities, your nan can get her large-print Agatha Raisin novels and have a nice chat, students can write and research, and those who need internet access can get it for free. They’ll be broom-cupboards that open for a handful of hours every week (assuming they can get the volunteers), and they’ll end up relying on book donations. In other words, give it a couple of years, and once all the decent stock has been sold to keep the lights on, you’ll be left with half a shelf of dog-eared Richard Osman novels in a damp, leaky room where half the strip-lights no longer work.

How modern. How quintessentially British.

Forward!

I didn’t post anything here last week because there was so much other stuff going on. On top of work, looking for work, parenting, volunteering for a “Save Our Libraries” campaign (see previous blog post), trying to work on my next book, food shopping, and attempting to get the house presentable for a party we’re having here in a few weeks, I was also doing some last-minute training for the Birmingham Half Marathon, which I ran last Sunday in a time of two hours and fourteen minutes (sixteen minutes ahead of my target time, which I'm very proud of).

I first took up running in early 2008 when I decided to do the annual fun run in Sutton Coldfield, where I grew up. I can’t remember any exact reason for wanting to do it beyond just wanting to say I’d done it, but I trained religiously twice a week for a few months and completed it in just over an hour (it’s about eight-and-a-half miles). An hour after I crossed the finish line, I went straight to a nine-hour shift at a busy local pub. The joys of being 24 years old!

I’ve had bursts of running on and off since then, usually sparked by a bout of anxiety or entering a run so that I have a reason to go out and do it. A lot of people sneer at running—“I’ve never seen a happy-looking jogger” etc.—but I’ve learned so much about myself and mindfulness through the simple act of going out and running that I thought it worth writing about here.

The first epiphany I remember having was quite early, whilst training for the initial fun run. I’d covered a fair distance and was maybe a mile or so from home. I forget why, but I glanced back over my shoulder. Doing this made me think about how far I’d run; turning back to look where I was going made me realise how far I had left to go. As a result, I suddenly felt exhausted and had to drop down to a walk, even though I’d been okay just a few seconds before.

It dawned on me as I trudged home that, as soon I’d slipped out of the present moment, I’d become overwhelmed. To run most effectively, I had to keep my mind solely focused on where I was, not where I’d been or still had to go. I later mentioned this to a brilliant doctor I was fortunate enough to have who replied, “Well, there you have the essence of mindfulness.” I still think about this now—whenever I’m running and feel myself getting tired by the thought of how far I’ve still got to go, I stare at the ground just in front of me and let my mind settle on that. “Just be where you are now,” I tell myself, and pretty quickly, I’m back in the present moment.

This is why I find running a brilliant natural anxiety antidote for me. As well as the endorphins and other physical benefits of the exercise, it helps me to become present in other aspects of my day. I become less likely to project into a potentially terrifying future or ruminating on a mistake-laden past.   

I had another epiphany about running when I did the half-marathon on Sunday. As I was stood with the thousands upon thousands of other competitors on Broad Street, waiting to get going, I was looking around at everyone. So many people were running for charities; they had t-shirts on for charities dealing with everything from cancer to Alzheimer’s to homelessness to Palestine. Others had t-shirts bearing photographs of lost loved ones. I was running to raise money for a lung charity (I suffered a collapsed lung in 2009 and had been saying ever since that I would raise money for such a cause one day) and for one offering support to those bereaved by suicide.

As we all started winding our way through the streets of Birmingham, whether we were running or walking and whether we had all the right gear or were dressed as a carrot, I got a little emotional. I realised that it was because this event was so charged with meaning. It was all kinds of people, from all backgrounds, from all angles of the political spectrum, all doing something to make a difference, however small. To be part of that was beautiful. The medal I got for completing it really doesn’t come close (although the t-shirt will come in handy for the gym).

I haven’t entered any other runs yet, so I’m now facing the challenge of staying motivated to keep going out and keep the fitness levels up. I was pretty sore after the run, and the endorphins didn’t properly kick in ‘til the next day, but when they did, they were worth the wait.

That’s my weekly reflection. At some point, I will start putting clever sign offs and quirky headlines, but right now, it’s lunchtime.

Thanks to years of Tory government cuts and hopeless Labour council mismanagement, Birmingham City Council, the second biggest in the country, declared itself bankrupt last year. Of course, part of their plan to get themselves out of the mire is to shut most of the local libraries.

I grew up in Birmingham, and I always say that Sutton Coldfield Library was my real school. I went there with my parents and grandparents from a young age. By the time I was 11 and allowed out on my own, the library was one of my favourite places to go. By the time I left school, I was going there at least twice a week, and at one point in my early twenties, I think I went there pretty much every day.

For years, the main thing I went for was music. For about 50p, you could borrow a CD or cassette for a fortnight (in the mid-Nineties, they still had a decent selection of vinyl too). This was in the pre-streaming, even pre-Napster, world where CD albums cost anything up to £16 in HMV or Virgin. It’s thanks to Sutton Library that I first heard Sgt Pepper, Abbey Road, Ziggy Stardust, A Love Supreme, Bitches Brew, Forever Changes, Unknown Pleasures, The Holy Bible, and more. Some, such as Boards of Canada’s Geogaddi literally changed my life. I was able to immerse myself in all kinds of rock, reggae, jazz (the guy who ran the music library at the time was a big jazz freak, so the selection was very comprehensive), soul, classical, psychedelia, and African music. Things that I would have had no access to otherwise.

As time went by and I started learning to play guitar, I started hiring out sheet music and chord books by the armful too. It was from a Kinks songbook borrowed from Sutton Library that I learned my first two or three chords. I taught myself piano and the rudiments of harmony using books from there too.

And of course there were the other books: fiction, non-fiction, autobiographies, poems, plays, literary criticism. It was all there, free to discover on the most random of whims. Most of my random whims were related to my hero at the time, Paul Weller. I freely admit I would practically run to the library to investigate any author or poet he referenced, however fleetingly. When I saw a snippet of Wilfred Owen’s ‘The Roads Also’ on the cover of Stanley Road, I went and borrowed Owen’s works from the library (the start of a love affair with his poetry that continues over 25 years later). I also found the same edition of Shelley’s poetry as the one seen on the cover of The Style Council’s Our Favourite Shop; I read a hardback copy of Colin MacInnes’ Absolute Beginners (a huge influence on Weller in the early Eighties); I borrowed battered Methuen copies of Joe Orton’s plays when I was 13 and couldn’t make head nor tail of them.

But the library wasn’t just somewhere for me to access things my influences liked; it was an influence itself: the spinning racks of cool-looking Penguin Classics with the pale green spines, written by foreign authors I’d never heard of; the old hardback editions of Shakespeare; the shelves of music biographies; the small but significant local history section, from which I borrowed Douglas V. Jones’ books on Sutton Coldfield’s history and began seeing the town in a whole new light as a result.

So many life-shaping books and records, and all either free or very, very cheap. No one rushing or jostling you to buy. No in-store radio or blaring music. Absolute bliss.

Yes, we live in a very different world now. There is the internet. You can stream as much music as you want now—way more than any physical library could hold. You can learn about almost anything through YouTube documentaries. I’m not saying that libraries do not have to change to keep up; they do and they have. Nowadays, when I go into any library, there are more computers than ever so that those without internet access at home can get it. There are more and more community events: knit-and-natters, board game afternoons, craft clubs, local history groups, etc. You can rent digital audiobooks as well as physical ones.

And of course, there’s still access to physical literature, whether its large-print crime and romance novels, new writers, classics, or history books. In my late-twenties, I went through a phase of working in a job I hated for barely enough money to pay the bills. The nearby library, although much smaller than Sutton, became a haven, somewhere I could escape for ten minutes and browse the shelves, knowing that I could actually have whatever I wanted without thinking about money. I could then get further mental respite by losing myself in the books I borrowed (I vividly remember borrowing Roddy Doyle’s Paula Spencer).

Since becoming a dad, I’ve regularly taken my daughter to the library, and she loves looking through and choosing a load of books to bring home and read, free to discover the kinds of authors and books she likes and doesn’t like, loving taking part in the reading challenges that our local library sets during the school holidays.

Libraries are still relevant. They function as free and open community spaces for ALL. For kids, parents, senior citizens, the poor, the rich. None of it matters in a library. The space and its contents are yours to freely use if you want. In a world where everything is becoming so controlled, so expensive, so loud, and so fast, libraries are as necessary as ever. They should not be taken away from anyone because councils can’t add up properly. If anything, a trip to the library would probably help them.

One of the difficult things about writing a book is knowing when it’s finished—or at least when it’s ready to be edited by someone else.

Never submit your first draft!

The first thing to say is that you should never submit your first draft of anything to anyone. Not university assignments, not books, not poems, not cover letters. Nothing. Heck, even give your emails, WhatsApp messages, and social media posts the once over. We seem to have reached a point where spelling mistakes are accepted as okay in messages and on social media, and while you don’t need to be the kind of patronising sod who corrects people’s spelling in obscure comments sections, checking your own writing for typos is still a great habit for a writer to develop.

If you’re working on a book and you’ve reached the end of your first draft, then the best thing to do is to leave it for at least a couple of days (which I know is very frustrating if you’re anything like me and just want to get your ideas finished and out there rightnowthisinstant), and then start going back through it again. I promise you, you will instantly spot typos, omissions, repetition, ideas that don’t quite work, things that could be worded better, all sorts.

I must have gone through my latest novel at least 10 times over the course of almost two years. The first few edits required a lot of changes. Passages were overlong, sentences were too rambling, the plot contradicted itself, jokes weren’t funny, and so on. By the end, I was still finding errors (usually where I’d edited something but forgotten to fully delete the original wording), but it was far more a case of tightening up sentences and images here and there. Was it boring? Yes it was. But it was necessary, and some of the best parts of the book came right at the end of that process when, after much revision, everything sounded as tight and effortless as I could make it.

​Some writers, such as Jack Kerouac, rarely edited their work, believing that the first thought was the “highest”, purest thought. I tend to disagree. The spirit of what you want to say might come with the first draft, and of course there will be those magical flashes where the words arrive from nowhere, perfect and fully formed, but often, as many writers will tell you, working to refine and improve your words is where a lot of the gold is found. 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration, as someone once said.

Know when to stop

The flipside of this is knowing when you’ve done all you can. It’s theoretically possible to tweak a book forever. There’s always a different adjective that could be used, or a different simile you could employ. You can reach paralysis through analysis and never get anywhere (you might also be avoiding the potential rejection and judgement that come with finishing a book and showing it to others). I remember a Zadie Smith quote about how part of being an author was being disappointed with your work (or words to that effect), and it’s very true. Even when your work is done, in print, 100% typo-free and grammatically correct, there will always be something, however trivial, that you wish you’d done differently. At some point, you have to know when to let go and say, “This is done.”

When to call an editor in

So you reach the stage where you’ve written something from beginning to end, and you’ve been back over it a few times. It has a shape and a structure, and you’re done with tweaking it. Is it finished and ready to be published or submitted to agents? Not yet. Sorry. When you reach that stage, the point where everything seems to be present and correct, there are still a couple of potential pitfalls lurking that it’s wise to be wary of (and which even the most writerly of writers can fall into):

1. Mistake blindness. You know the feeling when you’ve spent so long working on something, looking at it and going through it over and over again that you’re almost not seeing it anymore? That lack of objectivity is where mistakes can creep in. Your mind either starts inserting the missing word, correcting the misspelt one, or just doesn’t spot them because the majority of the words are correct.
2. Boredom. You’ve been working on your book for ages, maybe even years. You’re so close to the finish line, but you’re still going over and over it. It’s getting boring and tedious now. You just want the thing finished with and out of your life so that you never have to think about it again.

Both of these reasons are why investing in a professional editor or proofreader is worth it. When I published my first book, I didn’t do that. I was convinced that Word’s spelling and grammar check and my own talents would see me through. The result was that I spent over £1,000 on books riddled with typos, none of which I could alter. I sold all the books, and it was well received, but I knew that it wasn’t the best reflection of my writing because of the mistakes. Had I spent an extra few hundred pounds on getting someone to proofread it, I would be much prouder of it than I am. It was only when I put out a revised second edition five years later that I was able to correct those mistakes, but those original 1,000 books are still out there, in circulation, with my name on them.

Once your book has been properly proofread and/or edited by a second pair of eyes (if you’re unsure of the difference between proofreading and editing, you can find out here), then yes, theoretically, your book is finished and good to go.
I write these blogs on a timer to stop me from spending all day on them, so sorry, there’s no big, clever finish. But if you’re open to getting your writing proofread, then please get in touch by phone or email.

Until next week!

History is bunk. That’s one of the slogans put forward by the ruler of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. Nothing of the past, at least not before the coming of Henry Ford and his motorcars, has any value.

In a very roundabout way, I was reminded of this quote through my current reading, the (so far) brilliant, Electric Eden: Unearthing Britain’s Visionary Music by Rob Young. It’s a wonderfully researched, thought-provoking journey through British folk and folk-inspired music from the late 19th century onwards, from Vaughan William and Gustav Holst to Donovan, Vashti Bunyan, and beyond—and I’m barely a third of the way through it.

Electric Eden was first published in 2010 and has sat on my bookshelf, practically untouched, since not long after. But like a meme doing the rounds at the moment says, bookshelves are better thought of as wine cellars than guilt-ridden to-read piles—you pick out the right book for the right moment, even if it means leaving it to mature for a few years. And with my current work-in-progress (a book on the history of Birmingham’s music) starting with early folk music and industrial ballads, I’ve got far more from coming to Electric Eden now than I could have done at any time in the 12 or so years it has waited patiently on bookshelves in various rooms of various flats and houses.

A key theme I’ve taken from it so far is that Britain does have its own indigenous music. It stretches back centuries and links us, however obscurely, to our pre-Christian pagan past. It’s haunting and unusual, and it sounds like almost nothing in contemporary music. It’s also very, very uncool.

One of the reasons for this is that, post-2020, we—the British—are in the process of re-examining the Empire. This clearly needs to be done, but like any kind of reaction in the social-media age, the more extreme, least nuanced voices have become the most amplified. In this specific instance, this can make it feel on the one hand like Britain/England has nothing to apologise for and anyone who thinks we do is a hateful leftie wokemonger. On the other hand, though, it can make it feel like everything that happened during the Empire’s existence (and before) is tainted by it. Nothing good happened back then. Nothing was invented, only stolen. British history is bunk and every white British person should be thoroughly ashamed of their murderous, culture-less nation.

In this context, trying to make a case for British folk music, the stuff that existed before blues and rock’n’roll were imported from America, has to be done very carefully, with lots of acknowledgement of the harm the British Empire caused during its 400-plus year existence. Also, because we live in a culture where the absolute majority of popular music can be traced, however obscurely, back to the black American jazz and blues music of the late 19th and early 20th century, the idea that not only did Britain have a musical tradition before that but that said tradition also still has value, that it can connect us to the roots/history/culture of this island, and that learning about it and celebrating it would be beneficial in finding a pre-20th century British culture that we can all freely share in without self-flagellation, seems bizarre, if not downright unhinged.

I disagree with the band Sea Power (formerly British Sea Power), who dropped the ‘British’ because they felt the very word had become tainted with post-Brexit racism. My argument is that by shying away from being British (which is what you are if you’re born here), you let the racists and the xenophobes win. You cede the ground, the stuff that really matters, for the sake of clambering up onto some Twitter-fuelled moral high ground (I refuse to call it X). In other words, Britain, and yes, even England, has a fascinating folk culture that may well involve maypoles and may well have happened at the same time as some appalling crimes overseas. But nevertheless, it deserves to be venerated as much as the enriching parts of other cultures that have become more recently been woven into the British fabric. Not all of this island’s history is innately evil, or bunk.

One of the most interesting things I’ve gained from Electric Eden so far is that when, in the 1950s, the likes of Marxist singer Ewan MacColl tried to keep British folk music pure by encouraging artists to perform only songs from the area they were from or were familiar with (i.e. not sing songs from other cultures because it would be what we’d now call appropriation), it ultimately backfired because it came across as regressive and exclusive—exactly the kind of attitude that MacColl et al had been rebelling against in the first place (folk music having become a largely middle-class preserve during the early 20th century). For folk music to remain relevant and to progress, it had to merge with other things that emerging artists were interested in. I see a vague parallel with the militant approach to cultural appropriation today. Yes, there have been and still are times when things are unacceptably stolen without the correct credit, but art will always tend towards cross-pollination. That doesn’t mean that everything should become one dull mass; there can still be purist examples, but you cannot keep everything separate in the quest for cultural or ideological purity. That, I would argue, is a far more dangerous path.

​This all sounds a bit vague, but my allotted blog-writing time for this week is over. I hope I’ve got across the tightrope of making a very quick introductory case for British/English folk history. See you next week for more crazy escapades! 

This is a very off-piste blog, but it’s about something that really piste me off (geddit?). There doesn’t seem to be much about it elsewhere on the internet, so I’ll put my thoughts here for any sleep-deprived parents of young children who find themselves thinking, “What the hell?!”

If that’s you and Google has led you here, then trust me, you’re not the only one.

My daughter is five now, so she’s moved on from most of the TV programmes she liked two or three years ago. I’m genuinely quite sad about some of them, such as Ben & Holly’s Little Kingdom and Bluey, but one that I don’t miss at all is Bing.

For those without kids, Bing is an animated show aimed at toddlers and pre-schoolers. Its hero is Bing Bunny, who wears red dungarees, eats carroty bagels, and is always learning a relatable lesson about the world around him. He and his friends, Sula and Pando, are also a lot bigger than their grown-up carers, who are little sort-of sackcloth things. Bing’s little sort-of sackcloth thing is called Flop (sometimes voiced by David Threlfall and other times by Mark Rylance).

Bing and The Art of Zen

The reasons I’ve seen put forward for why Bing and the other young characters are so much larger than the grown-ups are by turns funny, deep, and disturbing. One suggestion is that it represents how very young children naturally see themselves as the centre of the world. Another is that the entire show is Bing’s fever dream after all the grown-ups in his world were wiped out by “The Virus”.

Whatever the rationale, many parents (real ones, not sackcloth ones) loathe both the show and Bing himself. I will, however, defend Bing as a character because, a lot of the time, he can only react to all the stuff going wrong around him, from broken-down buses ruining trips to the seaside to ice-creams falling on the floor. If anything, I think his character has quite a profound, Buddhist-like message for young minds: life is unfair and full of pain and suffering at every level. The best way through is to accept, adapt, and find what joy you can.

However, there are two episodes of Bing that infuriate me to the point of speaking heatedly at the telly (shouting would’ve scared my daughter), turning the episode off, or having to leave the room. In all cases, I’ve also had to explain to my daughter that the moral message of the episode in question is utter nonsense and that she is never to accept anyone treating her the way Bing is being treated.

Swing

The first is the infamous “Swing” episode, which has been the subject of at least one ranty thread on Mumsnet. In this episode, Bing is at the playground, and Flop is pushing him on the swing. His friend Pando (a panda bear who runs around in his nappy) and Pando’s grown-up, Padget, turn up. Pando wants a go on the swing, so Flop suggests to Bing that he and Pando take turns, ten swings each. Bing is unsure but agrees and gets off.

Once Pando is on the swing, he refuses to count properly, pretending that he’s lost his place and starting over. Bing starts getting frustrated, but Padget, who is pushing Pando, just laughs about it and half-heartedly asks Pando to count properly, whilst continuing to swing him. Pando almost reaches ten and then starts counting in halves, laughing as he does so. Eventually, Bing understandably loses his cool and rushes towards Pando, yelling “Ten! Say ten!” Pando swings into him and knocks him over.

Now, it’s suggested that Pando has some kind of challenging behavioural issue, which is good and fine, so I stress that my issue is not with him but at the sackcloth adults who enable his behaviour. They don’t hold him accountable for not counting properly, oh no. They don’t say anything to him, in fact. They both start asking Bing why he ran in front of the swing! Talk about gaslighting!

I haven’t seen the episode now for at least 18 months, but even at this distance, I can feel my blood pressure rising. Bing did as he was told; Pando didn’t play fair and wound him up. Yet Bing is the one who gets physically hurt and takes 100% of the blame for what happened. Whether Pando has extra needs or not, he is not held accountable in the slightest. The behaviour of the grown-ups in this situation is appalling, as is the message that if you stand up for yourself when someone’s abusing your trust and good faith, then you’re the one with questions to answer.

Mine

Another episode, however, goes even further over the line. As the father of a young girl, its "lesson" has the potential to be downright disturbing.

Pando is at Bing’s house, and they’re playing hide-and-seek. It turns out that Pando, tired from whatever they’d done earlier in the day, has fallen asleep in Bing’s bed.

Bing, understandably, wants Pando to wake up and get the hell out of his bed, but Flop starts shushing him and asking him how he’d feel if someone woke him up! The solution that Bing is eventually made to go along with is to have an impromptu sleepover, with the poor bunny relegated to sleeping top-and-tail—at the wrong end of his own bed.

Excuse the keyboard warrior caps lock swearing on a post about kids' TV, but WHAT THE FUCK?!

Every time this episode came on, I had to reiterate to my daughter, as strongly as possible, that it is not okay for someone to get into her bed and fall asleep without her permission. She has every right, every right, to wake them up and tell them to get out. No questions, no context. Get up, and get out.

What moral message Helen Farrall, Lucy Murphy, Mikael Shields, the writers of this particular episode, were trying to convey is beyond me. I shouldn’t have had to sit there, usually at 7 am, making sure my daughter understood that it’s okay to stand up for herself and that she gets to decide what happens in something as private and personal as her own bed.

I’ll stop there because, as you can possibly tell, I’m now a bit worked up and could do with a lie-down—as long as a random friend hasn’t fallen asleep in my bed. Wouldn't want to disturb them now, would I?

2023 hasn’t been a vintage year for me as a professional writer.

At the start of May, the freelance contract that had at least paid the bills for three years was abruptly terminated due to cutbacks. It took me four months to find something similar. When I did, that came to an equally sudden end after just six weeks, again through no fault of my own.

After three years of writing in my spare moments (often at 6 a.m. before my daughter woke up), I finally finished my second novel. That’s something I’m proud of, but it’s also led to facing down a whole lot of rejection. The novel (which I’ll be self-publishing early in 2024) was either turned down or ignored by every agent and independent publisher who might reasonably have been interested (around 70 in all). To make things worse, it was rejected by the publisher who published my first novel and had first refusal.

But this blog isn’t (completely) a sob story; it’s about two things I feel I’ve gotten wrong this year and that I would urge any other professional writers reading this to avoid.

1. I Did Unpaid Trials. Never Do Unpaid Trials.

Over summer, I became increasingly desperate to find writing work. Any writing work. I applied to job after job on Indeed, emailed all my old clients, rebranded… I did everything one is meant to do.

After a while, I also began applying to jobs that required me to submit a “trial” piece of writing. For free.

Apart from those asking you to do an unpaid piece of writing, everyone will tell you that this is a bad idea. But when you just want work to earn money to pay bills and buy food, it’s a risk you become willing to take.

I wrote perfectly good articles for two companies and never heard back. For all I know, they’ve used them somewhere as blog content and not credited me. At least £50-worth of work for free every time.

While companies that request you write a bespoke piece of sample content (as opposed to showing them something you’ve already written) aren’t necessarily scams, they’re suspicious at best and should be avoided.

On the other hand, I’ve secured two long-term contracts in the past by doing paid trials. They do exist, and I’m now convinced that they’re the benchmark for whether an employer is legit or not.

To make matters worse, I fell for it again last week. I applied to join a writing platform called The Urban Writers System. Reviews by writers who’ve used the platform to earn money have consistently cited the lack of available work and the potentially low rates of pay, but again, I was desperate.

There I was, a 39-year-old, experienced editor of books that have won awards, being asked to do a needlessly complex edit on a 19-page document about houseplants. For free.

I failed the assignment. I know that because I got a patronising email last night telling me that it’s about more than “just editing content”. I can’t complain too much. Why should I lose sleep trying to join a platform that, according to multiple reviews, will likely have me working for less than the minimum wage?

My advice is to avoid Urban Writers and similar platforms unless you’re brand new to the game and really want to get some experience under your belt. Otherwise, don’t give them your time for free like muggins here.

2. I Paid to Submit My Novel
 
When I was running out of people to submit my new novel too, I admit I broke my own golden rule and paid to submit to a publishing company. It was silly, and I regret it, but it’s done. And I'm the poorer and wiser for it.

It was £6, so it’s not like I re-mortgaged the house, but I don’t have £6 to give to a stranger so they can tell me stuff I already know. I also admit that I likely wouldn’t be saying this had my book been accepted.

But there’s a wider point here. Every now and again, people will try to reframe the pay-to-submit model by making it sound like you’re doing something noble and worthwhile by giving them money. In no way are you simply paying to submit, oh no.

It’s a sleight of hand I recognise from the local gig scene of the 2000s: promoters wouldn’t make you pay to play. Of course they wouldn’t. What they would do, however, is get bands to buy, say, 25 tickets upfront if they wanted a gig. That would then motivate the band to sell said tickets, ensuring a great night and an audience for all the bands on the bill. And ensuring that the promoters still made money even if the band couldn’t sell many tickets.

Some indie publishers pull a similar trick by asking anyone who wants to submit their work to first buy at least one of the books the publisher has already put out. Either that or “make a donation”. In other words, pay to submit.

I knew I was falling for it, but I still did it. On reflection, however, the hit to my pride knowing I’d sunk so low was such that I wouldn’t do it again. And I would urge any other aspiring writer reading this to avoid it too. If a publisher wants money from you before they’ll read your submission, then don’t send them anything. It doesn’t matter how fluffy, left-wing, radical, conscientious, or “like you” they seem; they just want your dough like any other vulture.

I’m writing this on a timer to stop me from spending all afternoon on it, so that’s me done. If you’ve enjoyed it, please consider paying my mortgage for me.

I was looking through an old folder the other day, and I found this blog I wrote for my old website about the time I went to a speed networking event—one of my few dalliances with the corporate dance. I'm reposting it here to warn you of what awaits if you're tempted to try it for yourself.

The room was hot, unbearably so. Was it the executive suite’s lack of air con? Or was everyone sweating at the thought of forced interaction with strangers at 9:30 in the morning?

“Don’t go to speed networking events looking for new clients,” the YouTube video I’d watched the day before had warned. “Look to expand your network." If expanding my network meant saying good morning to the catering lady as I poured myself a glass of water, I was off to a good start.

I found a spot out of the sun and flicked through the event booklet, both to keep myself looking busy and to keep my mind off the distinct possibility that ever-larger sweat patches were appearing under my arms.

A motivational speaker-type stood in front of a projector screen and announced that the speed networking was about to begin, so could we all find a spot at a table?

The layout wasn’t what I’d expected; I’d imagined lots of little tables that we’d swap every couple of minutes. Instead, we were all seated around large wedding reception-style tables (eight to a table). Did it make it better or worse that we had to pitch ourselves to seven other people at once, not just one?  I was too taken with the motivational speaker’s bleached teeth to work it out. I plonked myself down at the nearest, emptiest table. I struck up a conversation with a young girl from Nottingham who told me that her business had free yo-yos on their stand in the expo downstairs. 

Did you know that touring yo-yo artists that you need to book months in advance are a thing? 

“Anyone know anywhere I can get some food?” asked one bloke in a dressed-in-a-hurry suit as he sat down. No one was sure. “Not gonna lie,” he continued, “I was only here for the free breakfast, and I’ve missed it. I’ve got no business cards, nothing.”

Before anyone could console him, Mr Motivator was telling us how it worked. He’d blow a whistle, and we then had a minute to do our elevator pitch and dole out our business cards.  When he blew again, the next person would pick up the baton.

The pitches began clockwise from the other side of the table. The first person spoke so quietly that I didn’t hear what they were saying. Whistle. A business card landed in front of me.

The second person started. My mind wandered to what I was going to say. Another business card. 

The whistle blew. The bloke who had neither breakfast nor business cards gave an impassioned speech about apprenticeships. Whistle. No business card (obviously). 

A pleasant lady spoke about the high-class hotel she represented. I pondered the stories I’d heard about said hotel, mostly involving vice and indiscretion. Whistle. I think there was a business card.

Silence. Oh, was I meant to start? I’d got it into my head that another whistle was going to blow to say ‘go’. I bulldozed my way through the little speech I’d been practicing in the car, remembering to make eye contact with at least some of the table. The whistle blew as I garbled my last sentence and threw my business cards at people.

Phew. One down.

Once everyone had spoken, we all swapped tables. Still avoiding direct sunlight, I ended up on a table with only five people. One had gotten up at 5 a.m. and travelled from Lincoln for this. Poor sod. I mean, I’d gotten up at four to let the cat out, but I’d at least been able to go back to bed for a couple of hours.  

I pitched first to get it out the way. The bloke opposite refused my business card. Cheers, dickhead. 

The next person forgot what they were there to pitch but remembered their joke at the end.

I didn’t really hear what the others said because I was ruminating on the bloke opposite refusing my business card. I
pondered refusing his, but then he didn’t offer any, the tightwad.

With other tables still pitching, we sat in semi-awkward silence until it was time to rotate again.

Ending up on a table with three people I’d already sat with, the final round was largely a case of marking time and everyone collecting business cards for things they had no interest in.

Thankfully, at the last second, it turned out that there was another, far more successful, copywriter on the table. Once the pitching was done, I grabbed some water—all that self-promo makes you thirsty—and made a beeline for her. We sat nattering about how we didn’t like speed networking.

In conclusion, I didn’t like speed networking. No one likes speed networking. Everyone feels they have to speed network because everyone else does. The only people who profit are motivational business guru types and Vistaprint. 

That said, I met someone who gave me really good advice on how to progress in freelance copywriting. The event over, I went down to the expo to get a yo-yo and as many free pens as it took to justify the £14 I’d spent on speed networking. 
 

Just a brief post to say congratulations to James D. Kiesewetter, whose brilliant book, Smile Your Last Breath Away, recently took top prize in both the Spiritual/Metaphysical Fiction and the Inspirational/Visionary Fiction categories at the Global eBook Awards.

I'm particularly pleased because I edited it! So if you want the editor of award-winning books to work on your project, get in touch.