Cake and Consequences: First Story continues at St Augustine's, Kilburn

Yesterday I had my final First Story session of the year at St Augustine's Church of England High School, Kilburn, where we discussed the organisation and content of our anthology, CAKE AND CONSEQUENCES, which will be published in June.

Before I left, I asked them to write in six words what the First Story experience had meant to them. Here are a few:

"Provides freedom to create, without judgement."

"First Story has changed my life!"

"A once in a lifetime experience."

And perhaps my favourite:

"First Story was like a unicorn."

Says it all, really, doesn't it?

First Story: Iphigenia at Aulis

In my First Story session at St Augustine's yesterday we talked about the story of Iphigenia, which has always haunted me (and indeed it features a little in The Liberators.) There were some very interesting responses to the story, including a moving look at it from Clytemnestra's viewpoint, and a lusty Achilles. I came up with a short poem:

Iphigenia at Aulis

This morning

I dreamt flame.

The house on fire

My dress a halo.

I told my nurse.

“It’s love,” she said.

“For Prince Achilles.”

And when we left,

I saw an eagle pounce upon

A running hare.

I closed my eyes.

*

The fleet! The men, beery and bored,

Shouting. I caught a sailor’s

Eye. Black teeth, stunted limbs.

My father’s tent. Silken, gold,

Shimmering, a thing not meant for

War. And there he was.

Killer prince. Godborn spearstrong

Violent Achilles. My about–to–be

Husband. He took my wrist.

In his eyes, a fierceness, cold and

Bright. The men all roared.

The sea was calm. My heart.

The altar! Smoking, laden with

Fruits. My father, weeping. I wonder:

Where’s my mother?

I turn to where Achilles stands. His

Mouth is open. He points

Behind me. And then I know. 

I know the terrible 

inevitable chain has

Tightened, pulled, strained.

My father holds no wedding wreath.

In his grip a knife. My heart.

One moment. A shout, and hands

Not his, my dress ripped open,

Shadows on the stone

Everything shuts down.

Wasp Attack

Slinkachu

This year I've been continuing my workshops with St Augustine's C of E in Kilburn, and this week I got them to imagine being really small and to write about an ordinary experience. There were some lovely results, including a kitchen adventure and an uninterested Barbie in a toy shop. I got a bit carried away by it, and wrote this little piece, which I thought I'd put up here. The picture on the left is by Slinkachu, who makes wonderful pictures of little people in the city: website is here.

WASP ATTACK
by Philip Womack
 

It had been a long Wednesmonth, and we were nearing the middle of it. I’d managed to persuade father and mother that we had almost enough food for the long dark month that was coming up – and so Mindy and I were allowed out of the complex for a bit of fun. We’d scrambled through the tunnels, and nodded to Paul the old porter.

“Coast is clear,” he said, and grumpily opened up the gate for us. We stepped outside, I holding my spear, and Mindy with her little catapult that she was just learning how to use. It was a time of the month when the Nameless Ones seemed to be going about their business in their weird buildings, and so it was relatively safe to venture into the black plain. 

I needed to get out of the complex, anyway: all that darkness, all that walking through tunnels.

            Mindy ran off immediately to the old lake, and started splashing about joyfully. I scanned the vast black desert. There was nothing to be seen. I put down my spear, and relaxed, breathing in the cold wind. It filled me with excitement.

            I could see all the way up to the stone wall, above which the Nameless Ones sometimes trampled. There were the strange tall trees that didn’t put out leaves, stretching up and up to the outer sky.

            As Mindy shrieked and yelped and splashed, I caught the scent of something – that odd, sweet-salty tang that meant some store of food was about. They were so careless, the Nameless Ones, always discarding things that could feed us for months.

            I looked about, and there it was. As big as the entrance hall to the King’s chambers. A thick container resting against the stone wall, and it was half full of the hard loaf that, despite its tastiness, the Nameless Ones must hate, since they threw so much of it away.

            Did I have time to get it? I wondered. It was a fair few minutes’ hike. I saw Mindy’s tiny figure wading about in the edges of the old lake and thought – she’s old enough to take care of herself for a bit. That prize is good enough. It’ll last the tribe for ages if I can drag one of those loaves back.

            So I picked up my metal spear, and set out across the black plain, past the yellow road that ran in double lines, that led to the centre of the Nameless Ones’ city, a place so terrifying we never went there. I scrambled over boulders, keeping the smell of the loaves in my nostrils. I was salivating. I began to feel adventurous. I imagined the scene: sweating, dirtied and bloodied, I would heave the loaf into the complex, and be met with the praise due to a returning warrior, and the King’s daughter would smile at me and maybe later we would dance.

            The smell was almost overpowering now. I was nearly there. I caught Mindy’s happy squealing on the wind. High above me towered layer upon layer of the thick, crunchy loaf. I considered the prospect. I’d be able, if I tried, to pull one out from near the middle. I grabbed hold of its thick edge – my hands smarting from the sharp white rocks of salt that covered it – and began to pull.

           Then I heard it. Mindy. She wasn’t yelling with joy. That was fear – worse, horror. I whipped round and saw Mindy splashing as fast as she could out of the old lake.

            Whirring angrily above her, its heavy wings clashing, its vicious weapons glinting, and its eyes, its hideous eyes, was that terror of the plains, in all its black and gold striped glory.

            I ran. What else was there to do? I left behind the prize, my tribe’s sustenance. I sprinted over the black desert, waving my spear angrily. The monster was making long, lazy circles around Mindy. She looked so small and frightened, she might have been a doll.

“Help!” she screamed. “Garmond, help!” She took shelter behind a boulder. The monster spun its cruel circle, and I took aim. Mindy yelled. I hurled the spear with all my might, hoping it would reach its target.

            “Run!” I cried. It didn't seem to take any time at all, and yet it felt like forever. I watched as my spear hit the thing sideways, not piercing its armour. It wobbled, knocked a little off course. Mindy was running back to the gate. The noise had caused the porter to open it, and he was peering out anxiously. Mindy neared the entrance.

            Weaponless, I ran, the monster’s fearsome buzz filling the skies. My sister’s face, white, staring at me. The porter’s mouth, open. His arms outstretched. The shadow of the monster on the plain. I tripped, and fell, and rolled over onto my back, and saw the creature, its sharp sting extended, making straight for me.

            Death. I closed my eyes. What would it mean? We all lived out through the months, from the Moon’s to the Sun’s, seven months a year. Some of us lived to 120 or so. I’d reached 24. I had so much left to live.

            I braced myself. The noise was too much. I heard the monster’s wings, and I heard it preparing to strike.

            And then a thump. A thud. 
The whirring stopped, and a low buzzing, fitfull and quiet, replaced it. 
I opened my eyes.

            The monster was on its side, a gash leaking out some horrible liquid. It was twitching, angrily. But it was dying. My sister was waving me in. She’d shot the beast with her catapult, and the porter had followed it with a spear. I cried out my thanks.

            They carried me inside. That night, at the feast, I caught the eye of the princess, and she smiled at me: the boy who’d faced a monster, and lived.

Hatred: a poem

I led a First Story creative writing workshop today, and we did the Poetry Machine, which generated some great first lines.

Here’s mine, based on “Hate shields you from the rain.”

Hate shields you from the rain,
When you open it.
Usually, it squats in the hall,
Furled like a bat at roost.
When the darkening skies
Split open, I have to run for the
Bus. There’s a spoke missing.
My hatred flaps.
It makes a space, for sure:
Small, private, empty.
But what it doesn’t do
Is keep the wind out.
You’ll still get battered.

Books for teenagers - a useful list

Hello all. Buying books for teenagers is difficult, isn't it? I was recently asked to come up with a list of books to buy for my First Story group. This is mine. Any suggestions and comments are welcome.

J G Ballard - The Drowned World
Raffaella Barker - Come and Tell Me Some Lies
William Burroughs - Naked Lunch
Douglas Coupland - Generation X
Roald Dahl - Tales of the Unexpected
Joe Dunthorne - Submarine
Umberto Eco - The Name of the Rose
Jeffrey Eugenides - The Virgin Suicides
Michael Frayn - Spies
Robert Graves - I, Claudius
L P Hartley - The Go Between
S E Hinton - The Outsiders
Ted Hughes - Tales from Ovid
Aldous Huxley - Crome Yellow
Nancy Mitford - The Pursuit of Love
Richard Milward - Apples
Paul Murray - Skippy Dies
Eva Rice - The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets
Hunter S Thompson - Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Evelyn Waugh - Decline and Fall

First Story Festival, Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford

Malorie Blackman: children's laureate

Yesterday was the First Story Festival at Lady Margaret Hall in Oxford. I walked up to Norham Gardens in the early morning mist from the station, meeting memories at every turn, and ready for a day of workshops and talks. There was an inspiring address by the young poet Caroline Bird, who talked about writing as being a gift to somebody - all writing, she said, may help someone understand something about themselves in a way that they hadn't before. Which is a very nice way of putting it. Some First Story alumni spoke about their experiences, and the work that First Story does (including one of my own, from St Augustine's, which made me proud), which was very moving.

William Fiennes interviewed the children's laureate, Malorie Blackman (or Marjorie, as Kate Fox later accidentally called her): she spoke warmly and enthusiastically about her love of reading, and what led to her becoming a writer. She received over eighty rejections, but kept going - a fine message of resilience. It was very revealing to hear her talk about her career: when she was at school, she wanted to be an English teacher; she wanted to do English and Drama at Goldsmith's, but was told that "black girls" don't read English, they become secretaries. I found that immensely shocking - it was perhaps only twenty or thirty years ago, and it made me wonder how much of that sort of thing still goes on. In any case, it gave her the will to wish to succeed; after going into Computer Sciences, she began to write, and has now produced over sixty novels - including the best-selling Noughts and Crosses series. I think she'll make a fine laureate.

I did two workshops, with a boys' school from Bradford, and my own school, St Augustine's in Kilburn: both produced some fine and interesting work.

In the afternoon, the magnificent Kate Fox (poet and comedian: see her website here) whipped up the crowd of 600 students into a roar of appreciation ("imagine One Direction in your bathroom giving you a private concert", which caused equal and opposite reactions). There were readings from students, and a final exhortation from Malorie Blackman to read, and write.

Many writers took part in the workshops, including Charles Cumming, Frances Wilson, Raffaella Barker, Mark Haddon, Betsy Tobin and others; the train home to London was particularly merry.

It's an exciting start to another year of First Story fun and wonder. Well done to all who took part.

Launch of the First Story St Augustine's Kilburn anthology, The Gods Amongst Us

We recently launched my First Story Group's anthology, The Gods Amongst Us, at St Augustine's, Kilburn, where I've been writer in residence for a year. Carnegie winner Sally Gardner was there to cheer us on, and the afternoon was both moving and special. And involved lots of fizzy pop. Seeing all my students reading out their work to a large audience was wonderful. The launch has made it onto the Kilburn Times website - have a look here.

I've reproduced here the text of my introduction to the anthology. You can buy it, via the school website here, or even via Waterstones, here.

INTRODUCTION
 

Did you know that the gods are amongst us? Some of them are out of sorts: nobody prays to them any more. They sit in their cloudy palaces, filing their nails and twiddling their thumbs. Some, like Bacchus and Diana, are still very much with us: they look at us from out of the frames of paintings, but watch out – they might turn you into a star, or a stag, if you cross them.

Did you know you could meet Revenge in Starbucks? Or that you can write a letter to a comb? That King Arthur is burdened by memories, that death is a device that tells the time, or that not remembering can be more effective than remembering?

Over the past year I have made the journey to St Augustine’s, on a Monday – traditionally a day associated with the blues – but for me (and, I hope, for my students) it became the most exciting day of the week. My First Story group have been keen, intelligent, challenging; they’ve delighted me, surprised me, frustrated me; they’ve made me laugh more than I can remember (I refer, specifically, to an exercise called ‘Ten Ways to Lend Your Wheelbarrow’.) We’ve eaten more sweets than my diet usually allows.

Most of all, we have looked at language and stories, and seen how they can be found everywhere: on a walk, in a picture, in an object. We’ve seen how the most striking images can come from unlikely conjunctions. We’ve marvelled at the strange ways of the ancient gods, and made something new from their tales. And each week, my group produced witty, charming and insightful pieces. This anthology is called ‘The Gods Amongst Us’ for a reason – not only have our best pieces come out of interaction with those ancient myths; but we have also discovered that the divine, the numinous, the powerful, can be found in our everyday lives.

I would like to give my special thanks to Chris Rhodes and James Casey of St Augustine’s, for their sterling support over the year; and to all at First Story for making this stellar anthology happen. Take note of the names of this group: I’ve no doubt we’ll be seeing them again.

So here is a selection of some of their work. We haven’t been able to fit all of it in. Take a look, read, indulge, think (as our final poem urges you to do) – and next time you’re on the bus, be careful – you might be sitting next to a god.

---

First Story at St Augustine's

Another fun session at St Augustine's this week: we looked at the idea of superfluous immortals, using a poem by Sean O'Brien called, er,  'Protocols of the Superfluous Immortals'. I came up with this:

Fire from heaven

Some days, I like to walk to the
Shops. I buy a pack of cigarettes,
Enjoy the spark of fire.
So easy, it is, now.

What I gave to them.
I watch them, squandering.
I shuffle past some kids,
Kicking a ball about.

I see their smirks.
If only they knew
That once I flew to the
Side of Zeus' throne

And tore the flame of
Knowledge from his
Sleeping fingers.
I fell through space

My limbs so cold
To bring to rough-shod men
The tongues of living thought.

And for that gift
Zeus chained me to a cliff.
An eagle, razor-beaked,
Ripped out my liver, every day.

Agony, it was. Agony
I cannot tell. It filled the
World and the world did not
Hear. 

Now, set free, I pass the
Years by slipping through the
Streets, gazing at you for whom
I died and died again.

I flick my cigarette away.
The boys laugh.
'Move over, grandad!'
I crush the butt. I cough. 

I take my ravaged body
Away, and overhead an eagle
Shrieks a lonely song.
My eyes burn.

PAW

First Story at St Augustine's

I’ve started properly as writer in residence at St Augustine’s, Kilburn. We talked today about abstract and concrete nouns, and how a poem links the two together. We played the surrealist game, which threw up some wonderful definitions:

Revenge is a soft fruit that grows and has skin.
Love makes a big boom.
Humiliation is an L-shaped weapon.
Death is a device to tell the time which ticks loudly.
Guilt is made of sugar.
Jealousy is a large carnivorous dinosaur, or an apex predator.

Here was my attempt at Death:

Death is a device who ticks.
He sits on the mantlepiece,
Kicking his heels. His buttons are
Shiny. ‘I must look smart,’
He snorts, then shoots off up the chimney,
Shifting bones off his sleigh.
Yesterday I saw him on the
Tube. He yanked a man’s hand.
His eyes burned brightly; he looked almost
Holy. You can’t shut the door on him.
He’ll crawl through the cracks.
Root in your drawers,
Steal your toys.
When he’s finished, he’ll shrug, and
Snake off, whistling, to some other
Poor fool, clacking his teeth, and smiling.

First Story Workshop with Caroline Bird

Caroline Bird: Excellent

This year I will be writer in residence at St Augustine's school for First Story, the excellent charity set up by Will Fiennes and Katie Waldegrave. We did some workshops in preparation yesterday with the poet Caroline Bird, in which we wrote poems about abstract nouns.  I don’t write poetry (well, not since I was a teenager and thought poetry meant writing down versions of Nirvana lyrics about blood and hate and so on.) I got "Irritation," and this is what happened.

Irritation

He’s so small he fits into the

Prickle of your eyelids when
You blink. I see him refracted
When I wake. He sits there,
Pleased with himself,
Holding that damned watch
He’s always winding.
Close your eyes, you say.
No good. That gives him
Full permission. Sometimes he does a
Dance, wheeling, prancing piratically.
Sometimes he pulls his baggage along
Rushing for a train he’ll never catch.
You can’t squash him - I tried once,
With a fly-swatter shaped like a
Tennis racquet. He split, calmly, into
Two - then three - pirouetted - and
They built themselves bungalows
In my ear lobes.

Interview for First Story: Chelsey Flood talks to Philip Womack

What ho chaps. Chelsey Flood, whose novel is coming out very soon, has interviewed me for First Story, and the Periscope Post have put it up on their website. Check it out here.

Relating Cultures at the LSE with Meg Rosoff, William Fiennes and Caroline Bird

A splendiferous event last night at the LSE, in the elegant Lincoln's Inn Fields (where once I toiled, briefly, at the start of a legal career that never materialised.) We were celebrating the winners of an LSE / First Story competition, which resulted in a brilliant anthology called Relating Cultures, to which I have written an introduction. They are all good pieces and contain some fascinating voices. The future of writing looks well.

I spoke about the historical and literary context of fantasy; Meg Rosoff gave a list of incredible facts - did you know, for instance, that if the sun were made of bananas it would be as hot? My favourite is that Charlie Chaplin once came third in a Charlie Chaplin lookalike competition. Poet Caroline Bird recited one of her works, about a fairy who longs to be loved; and Will Fiennes spoke passionately about the need to ground one's fantasy into reality. There were some brilliant questions from the crowd, too.

A Paean to My Oyster card: First Story Workshop at Pimlico Academy

Oyster Card: give it its due

Through the freezing streets to the fabulous Pimlico Academy for an excellent First Story creative writing workshop. We wrote about abstract ideas linked with concrete places - eg, "The Palace of History", or my particular favourite, "The Sewer of Style." One of the best things that came out of it was writing letters to objects that you use day to day. So we had some brilliant letters to a ruler, a ball of blu-tac, a newspaper trolley, an apple, and a poster. Mine was to my Oyster card, and I liked it so much that I'm going to reprint (as it were) it here:

Oyster Card

Wallet

Upper Right Hand Pocket

Overcoat

7/02/2012

Dear Oyster Card,

Even your name is beautiful to say. Oys-ter. Redolent of the mysteries of the sea, of the beauties of gourmet dining. And with you, all those things are available - to me. I give you my gratitude for all those juddering journeys into town; all those breathless, anticipatory runs up staircases to moments of joy and hope. You are not an inexpensive friend and helper, though; but I don't begrudge you the monthly toll on my bank balance. With you, the world is my - I won't say it.

I won't mention the pearls of London life that are to be found with your elegant guidance. I won't mention the little skip of my heart that I get whenever I press you against the card reader (which, I may confide in you, is mostly because I'm worried that my balance will have run out.) But, dear oyster card - Oystie? - I jest - you are a key, a magic spell, a wonder, a Hermes, a leader into the underworld; but unlike Hermes, you also take us out - which is useful.With you, oh Oyster, the world is - I won't say it.

Thank you for your slimness, for the ease with which you fit into my wallet; for your ability, somehow, never to get lost. For all this and more, I thank you, and with you, the world is my .... lobster.

Yours sincerely,

Philip Womack

Now I hope you all go and write beautiful notes to your hoovers.

First Story: Holland Park and Woodside

A chipmunk: source of inspiration

A brace of First Story sessions this week. First off, in the autumnal heat I headed to Holland Park, where I had a crowded classroom. We worked on the theme of restriction, the idea being that if you impose limitations on your writing, you often come up with interesting things, so we did a few exercises that brought up a lively poem about a curry house and a supermarket scene from the point of view of a chipmunk on a sweet wrapper.

Later on in the week, and still in the skin-warming sunshine, it was back to North London, to Woodside, where we looked at how memory can be used and transformed to make a story. This again resulted in some vivid pieces – the fear of a first swimming lesson, or going on a rollercoaster ride for the first time. Writing comes as much from the self as it does from external factors: that is one of the ways you become a better writer.

First Story: Woodside session, No. 1

To North London, and a visit to Woodside School for a First Story workshop. First Story, in case you didn't know, is the organisation set up by William Fiennes which promotes literacy and a love of writing in schools. The aim is to have a writer go in and do weekly workshops, with the result being a published anthology. It's a great idea, and it's come up with some marvellous things, and I'm very proud to be working for them.

The session I worked on was intended to show that the ordinary can be made extraordinary: I asked each student what animal they would be, and then asked them to imagine finding that animal in their house; then they had to write from the animal's point of view. It was an exercise that drew forth both some rather moving images - hunted lions, hungry hawks, lost monkeys – and some amusing situations as well, with a vengeful snake and a haughty hawk being the most memorable. It was a great session, with a lot of energy, and I look forward to the next ones. The students were motivated and showed real talent and commitment. Now I must go as I think a llama has just wondered into my sitting room... Hey! That's my manuscript! You can't eat that! Sorry, excuse me. I'll be back soon...