h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Hah, yes, Being There. Yet another fine piece, from the you of you. The you of you? Yes, good morning, You of You. .

Reminds me of that fine film, starring Peter Sellers, called Being There. Did you ever see that film? Completely irrelevant of course, except for the title, and yet .. and yet, perhaps not.

Being There.

Interesting.

Of course this piece has given me more peculiar realisations, like the other one did, about the readers eating the meaning, and if I ever get a moment, like later, I shall attempt to further express myself.

Me of Me

Oh, yes, we'd like that - if you wanted to share thoughts on readership.

Being there .

That's not so hard if you are writing from experience - if I, for example, wanted to write a description of Brighton on a summer day. I've been there, with my notebook and ought to know what it's like.

But if I wanted to write a story set in, say, the court of a Chinese emperor in the eighteenth century, how do I create a scene rich enough to fool the reader into thinking he or she could be there?

I would have to have lots of authentic seeming detail: the clothes, the furniture, even the smell of cooking from the palace kitchens. And readers aren't stupid. If I started talking about stainless steel knives, somebody would say 'but they didn't have stainless steel then!'

Short of time travelling ,I can see no alternative to doing lots of research.

I'm not sure, did Dmitri say it has to be authentic? If not, let your imagination work for you. I intend (at some point), to write something about a real person from the 19th century. My idea is, to set the scene for the reader first, so they can dive in. I am reading material that was written at the time, plus some that was written a lot later, from a different point of view. The later gives a good overview of what all happened at the time - in hindsight, this is much easier than doing it at the time.

hmm Thoughts on readership. Now I've gone all shy because I don't think my thoughts on readership are very grown up or interesting. haha Ah well what the heck.

I think the aspect is really good. Like you read something and you feel like you have been transported to another world, preferably to the world of the piece you are reading. heheh. Must the goal of every writer. To take the reader to the world that you are writing about. doh. Yes. haha.

I think I am a really annoying reader, because I get mixed up sensory associations. Like, I can be reading a story about, say, the life of a family in Derbyshire in 1859, and I will be reminded of a game of dominoes that I played with a lady I never met before, in a garden where there are dark twisty trees and a white dog lying on the grass. There's a blue sportscar parked in the driveway,and an impatient man named Sam is pacing around all over the page. Not Derbyshire in 1859. Not to say that the writing isn't good or transportative. Not at all. Just that other characters wander in. .

Suppose it can't harm. I guess the writer has to take into account the brain type of the reader, and put up with the likes of me. I don't mind if I write a very serious poem about my deep and hopeful heart, and someone thinks it is a piece about fried eggs. . Happens all the time in fact. .

Intelligent conclusion. Erm. Being There. That's a really good thought that is. Takes me There. And thankyou.

What?? Hullo mvp and Bel! You wandered in while I was in Derbyshire in 1859. How are you Bel, and how was France, mvp? Oh no wait, we are in DGs writing thread here, can't start nattering already. heheh.

I've been in Brighton for days, can't you tell?

Now I shall return and read your wise and wondrous postings, and respond later on, when I have eaten fruit salad and slept off Brighton.

Sleeping off Brighton...now, somebody will have to describe that for me...

MVP, you have anticipated next week's essay. It's about doing your homework on the logic of a place and time.

I remember reading an article years ago by a novelist who set a story in Riga - a place she had never been. She said she used a couple of guidebooks, a map, a history book, and a phrasebook.

Several Latvians told her the book made them homesick. Now, wasn't that a compliment?

Ah what an interesting gathering of minds here presented.

That sounds like an interesting writing project, Bel. I wonder who is your 19th century person? I guess I will just have to wait till you have written it. I am curious now. heheh. I wonder what sparked your interest in this person?

I am interested in what sparks off writers in the first place, to write about what they are writing about.

I am interested in what provokes that first spark, that funny flash in the brain, bit like a pilot light on a gas boiler.

I suppose its not like that for everyone. Perhaps it doesn't start with a pilot light. heheh. Does with me. Mind you, I don't get much further than that. Flash! Electrical crackle! What was that I wrote? Goodbye world. heheh.

Spark mixed with research. I like that.

The homework about the time and place and it all. I understand what you are saying. You are taking me to where you go, even though I can't go there myself. Sort of thing. Hmm. That's interesting.

Ah yes, sleeping off Brighton. I think Brighton is probably writer's paradise, or maybe writer's hell, I don't know. . What do you think, mvp?

I take endless photos there that always come out looking like ectoplasmic insects, no matter what is their intended appearance. .

I think that Brighton opens up the dream doors of the brain, because the city centre is dominated by a building called the Brighton Pavilion, that looks like the Taj Mahal. There are nice deckchairs in the gardens beside this domed dream palace though. I often sit there and eat ice cream and watch pigeons.

Speak to me, writers! Take me to your kingdoms.

Brighton is..., but perhaps too many things at once.

I arrive at the station and notice first the quality of the light, which can be Mediterranean. And the number of bicycles - despite the steepness of some of the hills.

Then, I amble down the North Laines, past the shop that sells vegetarian shoes ,and a variety of stalls.

I come out near that amazing building that looks like the Taj Mahal, but makes me think of Coleridge:
'In Zanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure dome decree.'

Or I might wander through the Lanes, looking in boutiques, jewellers, and antique shops, and come round the corner and find a jazz band, or people juggling.

But if I walk down the road, I come to the sea, and stop. Because the sea defines Brighton and also limits it.

And then I go home to my ordinary house in an ordinary street, where hardly anything happens.

ah yes yes yes, now I am being there all over again, mvp, and we only just got back. hmm. heheh. Homesick already. We hang out in the Infinity Foods Cafe opposite the veggie shoes place. .

There's a heavy flip side, dark side, to Brighton isn't there, also. The shadow side of Xanadu. Ooh good line that. The shadow side of Xanadu. Not that good, actually. .

I guess that's the same anywhere, especially places of intense magic.

You know what? I never noticed the quality of light, at least not like how you see it. How interesting. That must be because of the sea? No wonder my camera protests and turns everything into ectoplasmic insects. I must change the light settings. .

That's a great last sentence you know, . Cor honestly. Now I am hungry again. For what? For that pilot light.

Going to Glastonbury is like that. Couldn't live there but have to get there. Like a power place or something. Then returning home is really weird. You wonder why on earth you have purchased a hardcover volume that you can't afford and that you will never read, about Mexican shamanism and how it applies to mathematics, with lots of diagrams of the cosmos and things.

And you can feel really low for a while, like people say coming down from a drug trip is like, but I wouldn't know about that.

I wonder what's the equivalent in other countries of Brighton or Glastonbury. OK, so Sedona or San Francisco in the States? hmm. I don't know. Maybe there are places everywhere, like in arts districts in every city, or power places in the countryside.

I don't know. I wonder.

And what about Germany, Bel? Sort of like places of intense magic that are quite trippy and addictive, that you have to go to, but you have to come away from also, back to an ordinary house in an ordinary street where ... uh oh, I am stealing lines. .

Tell you what's like that. Haha. h2g2. Although I didn't mean to suggest that it is trippy and addictive. . ahem.

'Course sometimes there is an addictive lure or beauty or power in very normal places. I get it lots in carparks. I think some of my finest thoughts in carparks.

Perhaps its just a state of mind, like looking out of a train window and seeing willowherb growing wild on a patch of wasteland, and you feel like you have just seen the world for the first time.

Perhaps the nudge into the moment can happen anywhere, anytime.

I think I will definitely shut up now. .

And then I see that Willem just did a journal entry about the landscape of South Africa, so now I will go and do some being there.

Does Mister DG know what he started, with his Being There piece? haha. Course he does.

.

Heh-heh.

You guys know that this series is intended to help inspire new writers by giving them things to think about, right?

So of course you know that you're helping by illustrating what I'm talking about? Of course you do.

When you describe a place I haven't been, like Brighton, you demonstrate the power of words to help another person to be there. Thank you.

Oh, and I'm wondering what vegetarian shoes are. Are they edible footwear?

They're made of cottonwool, or linen or even synthetics. They don't contain animal products (like leather).

Interesting question, cactuscafe. I don't know a German location which is a 'must have' gone to. No magic here, I'm afraid. Or if there is, I don't know where to find it.

Thanks, Bel. I was wondering.

Oh, pish and tosh. Places you must go to in Germany:

The 'Romantische Strasse' on the Rhine.
Neuschwanstein Castle.
Rothenburg-ob-der-Tauber. (Try the wine there, it's amazing. Be sure to take the tours and hear about the 'Meistertrunk', which is not a piece of luggage.)
Berlin, just to sit outside the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gedaechtniskirche and muse on the futility of war.

More magic:

Gotha in mid-winter. Snow and ice everywhere, covering 18th-century splendour and an old Gothic church. Magic place, at least in 1992.

Colditz on New Year's Day. Everything closed. The whole town completely empty, no lie. We couldn't get a cup of coffee. We didn't see a soul. It was like being in an episode of the 'Twilight Zone'. Took pictures, got the train back to Leipzig. But the day is frozen in my memory.

Well, I've been to a couple of the places you mention. I don't remember this feeling of 'going home to my ordinary house in an ordinary street, where hardly anything happens' afterwards.
Maybe I'm just weird. I love going home.

That's because you are the one who makes it home, dear.

Now, me, I love the inside of any gothic cathedral, and can sit there for hours and feel like I'm time-travelling.

Oh, and the Doppelte Schwarzrheindorfkirche in Beuel does this for me, although it's Romanesque. Beautiful thing. I used to leave within walking distance of it and go over there just for the exercise and to enjoy it.

Here's a picture:

http://de.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Datei:Bonn_schwarzrheindorf_doppelkirche_aussen_2.jpg&filetimestamp=20060320202622

To MODS: Please, please, do not take this off. It's only a photograph. Of a church. There is minimal Ooodle Doodle Flip on the page. Seriously.

Awesome loveliness! Yay! And then I have heard that Berlin has an amazing cafe culture. And probably most of the other cities too.

When I think about Germany I realise that Germany is home to some of the best ever music, like I have all these CDs of German bands, and that is a kind of heaven to me. Then I imagine rocks and tall trees and waterfalls. I don't know why. Perhaps I am remembering a childhood trip to the Black Forest. Right now I am sitting beside a waterfall in a German forest. Being there.

Well, actually I am in my room at home, but I am being in lots of places at once . I know what you mean, Bel, about home. These days I just love my room so much. Like, it is really the most magic place on earth, from where I can travel to everywhere.

I have this book, it is called The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton, and there is this chapter about a chap who wrote a book about travelling around his room. What's his name, let's see, ah yes,

Xavier de Maistre. Journey Around My Bedroom

hmm. I feel I could write my version of that. .

Ah yes, , the vegetarian shoe. Edible?? . Great with vegetarian haggis. . The Chelsea Boot is best served with a green salad. The Brogue perhaps with green beans. .

< I think some of my finest thoughts in carparks>. Really?

All I think in car parks is either the mundane: "Have I got my keys, my money, my glasses?" Or the cosmic despair: "This way of life is not sustainable."

My magic places?

The Seven Sisters between Cuckmere Haven and Birling Gap, where you can walk the path along the white cliffs, with the sea below.

The cloisters of Westminster Abbey, which provide a place of quiet reflection in the middle of London.

The beach at Aberystwyth, where you can watch the sun set in the sea.

The Roman wall at Housteads in Northumberland, where you can stand and think what it might have been like to be a legionary.

The summit of almost any mountain worthy of the name. But you have to walk up...

But surely, any place can be special if it's associated with a special person.

You really are a one for these last sentences, mvp. They rearrange my thought processes.

I love it. .

Talking of Special Persons, did your heroine ever decide which out of the four men of her dreams she was going to be with? You know, the story you were writing. With the four alternative endings.



I love these lists of magic places. I am going to go around asking everyone I know to list their magic places, and then practice being there, although I don't think I want to hike up a mountain. . Not in this life, or the next. .

I guess its like recounting dreams. We can all describe and compare experiences, and yet somewhere we are all totally unique in our sensory experience. Like, I can go ahh the scent of a hyacinth. And you can go ahh the scent of a hyacinth. And yet, and yet, ah yes and yet, are we experiencing the scent of that hyacinth in the same way?

Sort of thing, like.

hmm.



This friend of mine used to run writing groups. One of the opening exercises for a new class was to write for half on hour on the theme of In My Mother's Kitchen. Quite a test of Being There. . Very 80s I know, but it proved to be a rather emotive topic, particularly for people raised in the 50s and 60s it seemed. A real range of experiences would be brought forth. . Sometimes she had to call in a therapist to help her out. heheh.

I tried it once, but I ended up getting dizzy and writing a story about a person who thought they were a spirit-bird and had to go perch on the end of hospital beds. .



I tried travelling around my room last night and writing about it, and I got lost somewhere between my vase of linen poppies and the file in my desk marked The Past. .

Just said that. Trying to do last sentences like mvp can. Not succeeding. .

My heroine was last seen tasting sauces with le patron of Restaurant les Saules, Caillou.

And that's where I get stuck, because I need to know what hours they work, exactly what they cook, all sorts of things. I need to do my research.

I have a feeling that I'm doing this writing lark backwards. Writing first and thinking afterwards.

I love that line. .



I, as reader, need no further illumination. That line says it all. . But, I, as reader, like to read in unusual ways.

So taken was I with this line, that I wrote my own Notes on the situation. I changed the names, the story, the context, and this bears no resemblance to characters living or erm ..fictional. .

A87263517

To change tack entirely, I must speak immediately to you writer people about Thomas de Quincey. Yesterday I took delivery of a new copy of Confessions of an English Opium Eater. I had read this fine work before, in fact it is one of my favourite pieces of literature, but my new edition includes some of his other works. I had never The English Mail Coach or Suspiria de Profundis, or On The Knocking At The Gate in Macbeth, until yesterday.

Ah yes! yes! Yesterday! When my life changed.