Jo Brandon quizzes Editor Luiza about  IdeasTap and what it’s all about:

What is the IdeasTap Magazine about? Why did you start it? What is it's relation to the overall IdeasTap website?

The IdeasTap magazine is the editorial arm of IdeasTap, an arts charity, funding body and creative network that aims to support young, emerging creatives – mainly in performing arts, photography, film, writing/publishing and journalism. Our partners include Old Vic New Voices, National Youth Theatre and Magnum Photos.

The charity was founded in 2008, along with the magazine – although the website has grown a lot since then, and editorial content has become much more prominent and fast-moving. I suppose the magazine was founded in order to support IdeasTap’s aims. While the charity offers funding, mentoring and creative opportunities, the magazine extends this with advice, ideas, interviews with interesting creatives, opinion pieces and “how to” articles.

 
Who is the magazine aimed at?

Young creatives (mainly aged 16 to 30) at the start of their careers who are looking for inspiration and discussion of the issues they’re facing.

How long has the magazine been going?

The magazine has been running since the launch of IdeasTap in 2008, but is ever-changing. I took over as Deputy Editor of IdeasTap – and editor of the magazine – in 2010.
 

How can others get involved?

If anyone wants to write for the magazine, they should drop me a line at luiza@ideastap.com with some ideas and links to previously published writing.

But before pitching, aspiring contributors should join IdeasTap as members, have a look around, see what we do and – most importantly – have a thorough look at the magazine before sending in ideas. It sounds obvious, but you won’t know what kind of ideas we go for unless you’re familiar with the magazine.

We pay decent rates for freelancers. I’m really interested in hearing from young, talented writers.

Who are the editors and magazine writers?

I’m the Deputy Editor of IdeasTap and I edit and commission all the writing in the magazine. James Hopkirk is the IdeasTap Editor – he manages the editorial and marketing teams. Our Assistant Editors are Nell Frizzell and Tom Seymour – they are the “staff writers” on the magazine. Our Web Assistant is Joe Hooper, who also contributes articles. I also use a big pool of freelance writers, and I’m always looking for new ideas.

David Tait recently had the pleasure of interviewing the wonderfully talented Richie McCaffery, a young poet living in Scotland soon to have his first pamphlet published through HappenStance. 

___________

When did you start writing and how has your writing developed between then and now?

There are too many to discuss in any detail but in terms of recent discoveries I've been really astonished by Andrew Waterhouse (his poem about Cuthbert's Beads is exquisite) and he was from my neck of the woods in Northumberland, so I feel an affinity with his work. I've just come across the fascinating work of another dead Novocastrian poet, Barry MacSweeney and I've been working through his 'Book of Demons' – a sprawling late utterance about the poet's travails with alcoholism. It's darkly funny and bleak and often scintillating and haunting with its insights.

I always feel my poems are lacking or lacklustre and that isn't just phoney self-deprecation, I feel I'm still just (to purloin a tidy phrase from The Jayhawks) 'stumbling through the dark'. But it is with every poem I write that I feel has a life beyond the bin that I inch a little closer to 'the kind of poetry I want' for myself. I have no world conquering plans beyond my first pamphlet other than a drive to improve and sharpen the way I write. To come back to Ian Hamilton to finish off, I am learning with the aid of Helena Nelson at HappenStance Press to be ruthless and I am turning into a poet of the 'leavers-out' rather than the 'keepers-in' school. Ian Hamilton wrote about one poem for every year of his life, his ouevre is slender, but look at the poems he chose to keep!

Thank you Richie McCaffery!

Richie McCaffery was born in Newcastle in 1986. He lives in Stirling and works as a Trainee Youth Worker in Callander. His poems have been accepted by Stand, Magma, Iota, Agenda, Envoi, Frogmore Papers, Other Poetry, Interpreter's House and so on. He is due to start at PhD at Glasgow University in September on the Scottish poetry of World War Two.

General Editor Jo Brandon has the opportunity to talk with ‘Generalist’ writer Peter Spafford about the drama of writing, prison residencies and the immortality of pavements.

Peter, as a teenager you started off seeing yourself as an actor rather than a writer and developed your identity as a writer as you got older. Do you think there is any cross over between writing and acting? Has your acting experience in any way enriched your writing?

There is an obvious sense in which, yes, experience of acting can only enhance your skills as a dramatic writer; a feel for the nuance of rhythm in dialogue, an ear for subtext. But in honesty these are qualities you might have possessed already if you felt drawn to writing drama. And of course a good actor’s ability to dig deep into a character will benefit the writing.

But my own experience, and ambition, as an actor was actually quite limited. I was praised at school for various roles, passively applied for drama school and was accepted on a good course; but before I could take up the place, I got politics. Thatcher had just come to power and, at last, for the first time in my life I began to think about the world. I decided drama school was superfluous bollocks and joined a political theatre group.

But as for the acting, the only style required was Brechtian, representational. Character? Pfff. We were embodiments of historical forces and the will of our audience. It was wonderful and I learnt a great deal; but after that, acting in commercial settings seemed hollow. Or maybe – I can admit this now – I just knew I wouldn’t have made a very versatile or adaptable actor. Too internal and inhibited. The politics was probably a cover.

But really, writing gives you so much more control. If no one’s paying you to write, you can still sit in Salvo’s and scribble. As an actor, you generally rely on others to enable you to do what you do. You certainly attract the wrong kind of attention doing Hamlet by yourself over a latte.

You describe your first passion as being poetry. What is it about poetry that makes you feel that passion?

I love the exactness of good poetry; the image that hangs and puzzles, then clicks. I love the fizz and crackle of words put together to describe a minutely detailed human experience you might have had but have never seen so exquisitely expressed.

I really do think the collected wisdom of our species is not with the prophet or the scientist or the philosopher or the psychologist; it’s in poetry. Besides, it gives me such pleasure! I get an almost visceral, skin-tingle sensation from hearing or reading a great line. Rather as I do when I hear a great chord or sequence in music.

I also love poetry because it’s short. It’s like a small compressed object that hangs in space like a Gabo sculpture. You stroll around it, walk away baffled, come back, look again, see it anew. I like novels too, but I’m a slow and impatient reader with a limited attention span.

I was interested to read that you've also written music. Could you tell us a bit about that experience. How different is it to write lyrics for music compared to writing poetry? Does the music dictate the words or vice versa?

I do think musically. It helps when I write poetry, but I may even think of a play that I’m writing as a piece of music – with movements rather than Acts; allegro, scherzo, adagio. I’m not sure whether this helps me make a better play; I suspect it may not. But I find it’s what I do.

I don’t mean to give the impression that I write symphonic music. I do go through phases of writing songs; I’m in one now, for instance. But in terms of my involvement with music performance, my role is usually that of text or lyric writer.

Writing text for musical settings is very different from writing poetry. It seems obvious, but in a poem the music is supplied by the language. In a lyric, you have to leave space for the composer to supply his/her music. The lyric or text may look less dense or poetically-compressed on the page. It might even look banal. That’s fine. The words are like boats you lay in a dry ravine. A composer’s music is the water that seeps into the ravine and gently floats the words. If the lyric is too heavy and laden with Poetry, it sinks.

You've done quite a lot of work with writers in prison. Do you think it takes a certain kind of person to be able to work in those situations or is that a misconception? What difference do you think these kinds of projects make?

In 1996 a friend saw an ad in the Guardian – Arts Council residencies in prisons. Blithely I applied for one in HMP Moorlands, near Doncaster, working with young offenders. It was only when I got the job that the frightful reality dawned on me. I’ve never been ‘street’; my family was mellow middle-class from the Home Counties. The only thing I’ve ever nicked was a book from Foyles. How would I fare? The prison itself was easily the most cheerless environment I’d ever set foot in.

I had a fantastic time. This sounds obscene, given the nature of the place, and the learning gradient was 1 in 3, but it actually turned my head around. Do I think you have to be a certain kind of person to do a prison residency? In a way, yes. It’s a lonely job; you may have one or two allies amongst the staff; a teacher perhaps, or a  governor if you’re lucky. But in the main you have to make your own allies, discover the codes, find the levers to make things happen. Then you need the chutzpah to pull those levers. When you do, and things happen, it’s deeply satisfying.

Egos are misplaced in this environment. Rebels don’t survive. If you go in with guns of moral outrage blazing, you won’t last. At the same time you have to believe in what you do and be prepared to challenge the assumptions of both staff and inmates.

As for the prisoners themselves, the main thing is not to judge. I never asked what people were in for. If you did, they would probably fib anyway. The bassist in the band I formed (we made a single with Lottery money) swore blind he was wrongfully imprisoned for some relatively minor crime. Just before I left, I discovered he was in for raping and murdering his second wife. I’m still in contact with several guys from that time. One of them found me on Facebook and is still writing. 

And talking of the writing…. Some of the most bracing conversations I’ve ever had about books and writing have been in prisons. But hurry, folks, the amazing Writers in Prison Network will, I’m sure, be under the hovering axe. Let’s hope the blade doesn’t fall.  

Could you tell us about some of your writing residencies? It would be interesting to know whether there are certain skills that you think are desirable in writers who wish to pursue residencies?

You have to be able to dig in, listen closely, observe, plan, work on your own, and make alliances with unlikely parties, as well as conjure ‘product’ in what is often a semi-hostile or unpropitious environment.

You may be a good writer, have a great degree, be a slick performer. But you need other, arguably more important qualities. Personability, for one. Even charm. Not to mention that vital human commodity: curiosity. To re-iterate, if you’re only interested in yourself, forget it. These jobs are about other people.

I’ve done residencies in prisons, schools, hospices, voluntary organisations, and museums, including The Royal Armouries. The most essential exercise on your first day in any residency is to frame an answer to the question ‘What exactly are you doing here?’ Even if you don’t know, it’s best not to look completely clueless. Often staff in an institution will have negative preconceptions about you: airhead, hippy, do-gooder; or see you as a threat. Teachers can often be defensive about writers coming into their school, though that has changed a great deal in recent years.      

I really enjoy these jobs. Part of me likes ‘going into work’, getting a coffee with people, the rhythm of regular contact with people in a profession that can often, by its very nature, be isolating. Residencies also have the advantage of being two or more days a week on a steady basis, sometimes for one or two years. Pays the mortgage.

You're continuing to have a really varied career as a freelance writer. Do you have any advice for young writers wanting to launch their own freelance careers?

I’ve never had a ‘proper job’ and probably never will. As for having ‘a  varied career’, I sometimes feel that’s another way of saying I’m a tart. And I am! I’ve written in many genres – stage, radio, musicals, a bit of journalism, smidgeon of TV, odd commissions for two school choirs and the BBC Singers, or one actor and a string trio, plus some broadcasting.

Sometimes I wish I was just one thing. I met Simon Armitage the other day at a meeting. He introduced himself as ‘poet’. Simple. But hey, I`ve become a specialist at being a generalist. I’d probably get bored if it was any other way.

And my advice to young writers? Be prepared, if necessary, to follow suit, especially in the current economic circs. Do all sorts, don’t be proud – and let that variety inform your range as a writer.

The main thing, in all this ‘making a living’, is to remain a writer. Even if no one’s paying you at that moment, keep writing – just like you breathe and eat and drink and pooh. These days there are so many new and exciting ways of publishing what you write. The saddest thing is the writer-academic, writer-publisher, writer-arts administrator who complains over a pint that s/he can’t write anymore.

‘Something interesting happened on the bus today’. Make something of it!

Do you ever feel there is a compromise between the writing you get paid for and the writing that you organically produce or is there an overlap of the two for you?

No. I think writers can be a bit precious about this. I’ve been given a variety of subjects to write plays about for money: Alzheimer’s Disease, Care in the Community, the Brontes, benefit fraud. Most of these I would not necessarily have been drawn to as subjects. But did I refuse?

Think what I’d miss! That wonderful frisson of excitement/fear when approaching a completely new subject. There’s the research: books, interviews, looking, listening. Then the picking out of patterns in the material you’ve gathered, and the eking out of a narrative…. And of course you`ll inevitably make the subject you’re own. You’ll  douse it with your own preoccupations, insights, voice. But you’ll also have been stretched, even if that might be uncomfortable here and there.   

Of course I love to originate my own ideas, although you then have to sell them – and every writer has a hard-drive full of ideas never produced. But to originate everything I write? What a burden, what a drag! Recently the composer Richard Barnard approached me about writing the text for a song cycle about birds on the verge of extinction. Suddenly I’m immersed in the life-cycle of the Munchique Woodwren from Colombia. Did you know there’s a website where you can listen to the recorded songs of 60% of the world’s birds? What a gift!

Could you tell us about your latest commission from Leeds City Council. What's inspired it?

I had just got back from Chicago in April where, as a family, we’d had a pretty awful time, when I noticed an email. It advertised a commission from LCC to write poetry for Kirkgate, one of Leeds’ oldest streets, and the one that connects the old Parish Church with Briggate. Poetry engraved in a pavement? The writer whiffs immortality. I completed the application.

Myself and the poet Antony Dunn were commissioned to write lines which are (hopefully) to be cut into the stones and benches of Kirkgate in March. So yes, immortality of sorts – until the Council re-design the street in 30 years time.

As for the inspiration, I really didn’t feel like doing History, yet wanted to evoke the antiquity of the street; the impermanence, but persistence, of human traffic. Go down and have a look in April.

Peter is also involved in a number of other projects:

In March at the Colston Hall, Bristol, excerpts from Vanishing Songs will be premiered. Later that month, March 20^th, Peter is performing songs and poems at his house for the Headingley Festival (Songs about Love and Shipwrecks). In July, the Ryedale Festival are reviving Pig’s Tale, an opera.

The literature festival for East Leeds, Writing on Air, will also be broadcast at ELFM (www.elfm.co.uk) for June. If you are interested in getting involved check their website for details.

Poetry Editor David Tait is delighted to be interviewing Nicholas Liu, runner-up in last year's Cadaverine Poetry Competition with his wonderful poem Sonnet (included below) which mirrors itself to a breathtaking effect.

Nicholas Liu lives in Singapore. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in magazines including Mantis, nthposition, Oxford Poetry, Poetry Review, Rhino, and Stand. He is series editor of firstfruits publications' Storm Glass chapbook series and a regular reviewer for Quarterly Literary Review Singapore. His first collection is Versions from the English (firstfruits, forthcoming 2011). He blogs at The Placeholder

How would you describe your work to readers?

A series of desperate evasions. Of course, the point of this sort of evasiveness is to communicate its own urgency as an impulse, not to actually evade anything.

Underlying my strategy, if that’s what it is, is a sense of comprehensive inadequacy. The poem disappoints the plum; the writer fails the writers who came before; we fail ourselves and each other. Most of us have lost—thankfully!—the high Modernist sense that this failure is a tragic or heroic condition, but the broader feeling of having necessarily let the side down is, for me, inescapable as well as productive. It would be a sort of wilful false consciousness to not let that feeling into my poetry, being as it is a constant companion.

You have a collection coming out next year. How have you found the process of putting the poems in this collection coherently?

Difficult, but also freeing. I’ve always found it a challenge shaking off the beginner’s conviction that every poem I put work into and then abandon is party to a crime against my oeuvre, an act of self-sabotage. Actually putting a book together—a process I’m not quite done with, by the way—has made me realise what I’d only accepted intellectually: that no one misses poems that aren’t there, but everyone notices filler poems that would’ve been better left out. (Teenage poets of the world, I want you to know that it’s okay to write a poem and have it appear once in a little mag, or even a big one, or on your blog, or nowhere, and have that be the sum of its public life. Really!)

As for "coherently", I’m not sure if that’s what I’ve achieved, or tried to achieve. Not every album needs to be a concept album, right? I can’t say I’ve ever come to the end of a great collection and thought, "That was pleasant, but oh, if only it had had a nice big theme to tie it all together!" Massive puzzling dissonance is probably not a desirable outcome, but barring that I don’t have a problem with my or someone else’s first (or second, or tenth) book being a grab bag so long as the goodies inside are, well, good. If there is a sort of unity I’m trying for, I’d call it a satisfying movement within the collection rather than "coherence" exactly.

It is good to see that you don't see coherence as a necessity, especially from my perspective within the UK, a poetry scene which seems of late to give particular privilege to themed collections. You are editing a series of pamphlets for firstfruits in Singapore — how have you found that process, and what sort of work do you look for in others?

It's been great so far. Sharlene Teo and Desmond Kon—the two poets who'll be in the first pamphlet, a double-sider—are a joy to work with. We've had frank and friendly exchanges on selections, titles, and designs, and I think we've reached agreements that everyone's happy with.

The fact that the series consists of dual-author pamphlets adds a few complications. Editorially speaking, these pamphlets fall in a sort of uncanny valley between the anthology or magazine (where rejection of any given poem or poems, despite acceptance of others in the packet, is standard and bears no sting) and the solo pamphlet or collection (where the more usual expectation is that most of the material will make it in, if the manuscript is accepted at all). Dealing with two poets' work, I foresee having to make some difficult decisions in order to produce pamphlets that makes sense as units—though again, it's not quite coherence we're after, but rather pleasing echoes and stimulating dissonance, where there is dissonance.

In the case of this first pamphlet, though, the two halves have come together quite nicely, almost as if they were meant to. I'd summarise them for you, but that would only encourage the pretence that a book of poetry is the sum of its thematic synopses.

What I look for with regard to this series is a little different from what I'd be looking for were I reading for a more general publication. Since the focus is on writers with a strong Singapore connection, I try to keep in mind our particular context: a local scene that hugely privileges transparent poems, untroubled syntax, the lyric urge. I'd like to shake this up, but at the same time I can't just publish, say, the sort of poetry if p then q puts out—no one here would read it.

Instead, I'm trying to pair poets whose work sits at different points on the (pardon the simplification) mainstream-experimental scale, so that the uninitiated have something fairly familiar to hold on to. Which isn't to say that the more mainstream poets in the pairings are just delivery mechanisms for the more out-there stuff; there are many ways to be worth reading.

What traps would you say that young writers can fall into when searching for their own unique voice? How do you achieve a Nicholas Liu poem from the perspective of Nicholas Liu?

The only trap is to think too much about your own unique voice. Think about everything else instead; a "unique voice" will follow. Or it won't. Who knows?

We have a lot of readers who come on to this site to find new people to look out for. Who have you been reading lately that you would recommend to our readers?

For starters, John Beer (the North American poet, not the Cambridge don). His first book, The Waste Land and Other Poems, was my favourite collection of 2010. Check out the first of his Sonnets to Morpheus here  and tell me you don't want to read the others.

Heather Christle. I haven't yet got my hands on her collection, The Difficult Farm , but I'm always excited to see her poems wherever they surface. Thankfully, they surface often. Octopus has a particularly good sampler here. "Magnificence comes / in a small car, but we all fit." Yes.

Dara Wier, well-known in the US, but not so much where you are, I think. A small example of why she should be: somewhere in her selected  there are twenty-four pages of poetry where every sentence is in parentheses, no other punctuation in sight. I read them straight through, almost, and it never occurred to me to get irritated or even to wonder if the gimmick justified itself. That's something.

Ben Mirov. Poems rarely manage to be this earnest and open to the world without seeming studiedly so. Mirov does it without seeming twee, or like another belated O'Hara clone. You can read a pamphlet of his—which later became part of his full-length book, Ghost Machine — for free here, so you might as well go do that rather than listen to more of my blather.

Thank you Nicholas!

Sonnet     

By Nicholas Liu

The moments, used and crushed like pudding cups,

pile up without an end. I cannot name or count

the wished-for things, intruding and receding

from my gaze. Somewhere in a sea of cubicles

a phantom slots each memory in place, defends it:

your college tee-shirt fragrant from the sun,

the air lazy with sweat and scented

with the wings of wasps battered by the rain,

the nest-dotted walls, the windows plastered over. . . .

There is a life elsewhere, away from and beyond

the happening itself, however rough—

is not the site at which it happens beautiful?

This dusty stairwell, handrails rough with rust?

The centre is never where you think it is.

The centre is never where you think it is;

this dusty stairwell, handrails rough with rust,

is not the site at which it happens. Beautiful

the happening itself, however rough.

There is a life elsewhere, away from and beyond

the nest-dotted walls, the windows plastered over

with the wings of wasps battered by the rain.

The air, lazy with sweat, scented

your college tee-shirt, fragrant from the sun.

A phantom slots each memory in place, defends it

from my gaze. Somewhere in a sea of cubicles

the wished-for things, intruding and receding,

pile up. Without an end I cannot name or count

the moments used and crushed like pudding cups.

Cadaverine General Editor Jo Brandon gets to talk with 24 year old Mwewa Sumbwanyambe. May has written a number of plays for theatre and was a finalist in the Old Vic’s 24 hour play competition. He’s here to answer some questions about script writing, the theatre and getting started.

May, you have graduated from several prestigious young writers programs at a number of theatres including the Liverpool Everyman, Hull Truck, Royal Court and West Yorkshire Playhouse. What do these programmes provide to young writers and how do you get involved?

Getting involved in most cases is literally as simple as picking up a phone, or writing a letter or sending in the first 10 pages of a new play. I think what is really important with these things is what you do when you get in rather than how you get in. Enthusiasm is obviously a pre-requisite, but what's important is that you work hard and try to push yourself out of your comfort zone and you remain open to whatever challenge the theatres put in front of you. I've been really fortunate with the programs that I've been allowed to take part in, each and every one of them has proved vital in helping me learn my craft as a playwright, and develop good working practices in environments that really aren't threatening or filled with the kind of pressure that you'll find outside of these programs. That pressure is good in a way, but the programs really help you to be ready for it and also work as a great way for theatre companies to discover you.

What was it like to see you're writing performed on stage for the first time?

The first time – though that was only 5 years ago – feels like a very long time ago. I don’t know why but it does. Perhaps it's because I've fitted so many small productions into such a short space of time. The answer is, it felt great. Forgive the cliché but I really felt alive. I don’t necessarily remember the first time. But that being said I think every time after it, the feeling is just the same. seeing any work you've spent a long time on being dramatized live in front of you is so exciting. In fact I do remember how I felt. I wrote some lame (very lame) joke in the middle of it, that was completely inappropriate and not funny. Surprise surprise no one laughed. It felt like someone had put a knife in my belly. The overall impression of the experience was great though. And of course it was another lesson learned.

You write predominantly for theatre. What do you see as the differences between writing for the stage as opposed to writing for radio or TV.

I haven't really written enough for other mediums to be truly decisive on this. But all I can say is when they are written well, there is no difference between any of them. They can all be brilliant. And when they are written badly – the same said. I prefer theatre for so many reasons but I think everyone in some way shape or form comes to loving something as a fan first, and I've definitely had moments with all three mediums where I've watched or listened to something and just thought to myself, that is bloody brilliant! Actually the first time I really had that thought was when I went to see Roy Williams’ Sing Your Heart Out For the Lads when it was on tour from the National at the West Yorkshire Playhouse. I sat there and watched it – I think I was meant to be reviewing it for my university paper – and I just thought to myself, I really want to have a go at doing that – I didn't write a single word more of my review.

Do you think theatre writing has been affected by TV writing or has it remained fairly intact as a form?

Yes, in some respects theatre has been affected by TV. I watch a lot of the stuff, and especially with writers from my generation, you see a lot of these single issue plays (doing very well) that seem much less like plays (or my idea of a play) and much more like something that was really thought up for television, but dramatized on the stage. Anyways, theatre should be dynamic as far as I'm concerned their shouldn’t be a conscribed way of writing a play, it should definitely be open to experimentation and debate, and as long as people are being entertained then why not. I suppose my opinion on the matter is much like Arthur Miller’s. As long as the poem inside the work is genuinely theirs, I can sit and watch it – but where the work has no meaning, no confidence or purpose, the thing really shouldn’t be on a stage. Arthur Miller didn't actually say that (laughs), he said something like that – I'm paraphrasing.

Is there any subject matter you find yourself returning to or any voices that keep coming back in your writing?

In some ways yes, I think there probably is certain subject matter, or themes I do revisit. That being said I'm not exactly aware of them. I look at the 3 things I'm working on at the moment and they don’t seem similar at all. The subject matter is life, and how difficult it can be sometimes, and how we must always fight on and never give up, because the consequences of giving up are almost always worse than the consequences of taking the hard road, but then every play is about that. Right?

Which of your plays are you most proud of, or feels like your greatest achievement?

I honestly don't hold anything above (or below another). I don't think at my stage of my career you can afford to think like that. I'm really proud of the work I'm doing at the moment, but then I was really proud of the work I was doing 5 years ago, and yet today I look back at some of that work – not all of that work – with ghastly horror. Seriously, it’s all part of a process of getting better at this thing we love doing. I don’t believe in being brilliant straight out of the tin (though god knows the press insist on declaring at least 5 new Mozarts a year) and as much as I like what I'm writing now, I'd feel a little cheated and disappointed if a year from now or five years from now or however long, I don’t look back at this work and think: ‘What the devil was I thinking?’

Playwriting is a much more collaborative process than other forms of writing. As a writer what do you think are the positives and negatives of that?

Over the years I've had the privilege of working with some great actors and directors and theatre people in general. The positives are probably a little obvious, but when you're working with people that inspire you and excite you and want to work hard to form a company with you – there is nothing better. Especially if you've been working on something for a long time. The hours spent meeting with literary managers to work out ideas and make dramatic decisions, and days spent inside rehearsal rooms, and the build up to getting those things together in front of a public audience. Well, that’s what its all about really. I think in many ways that direct link between writer, director and actors and every man and woman in a theatre is what the other mediums can never have. That being said, I've also had one or two bad experiences with amateur dramatics. One particular experience would have probably been enough for me to walk away and say ‘this might not be for me’, but thankfully because of my time in the subsidized theatres up and down the country it wasn't.

What mistakes do you think it's easy to make when you're starting out as a playwright and how can you best rectify them?

I've made so many mistakes myself it’s frightening to look back at them all. Nothing is unforgivable as long as its honest and you try your hardest to learn from it and never make the same mistake again. I'm not sure if there is a number one mistake. But my advice to young writers when I teach them is not to be worried about making mistakes. It’s after all a really important part of learning new things – but there are I suppose certain mistakes like not doing your homework before approaching a professional or a theatre that can make it very difficult for you to move on in the industry or even break into it. So, that is my advice I suppose -  always do your homework. Don’t go in there and try to bluff it. I only mention it because a lot of people do try and bluff it, you see it a lot especially with unsolicited scripts – and I sort of understand why – sometimes bordering on desperation, it might seem like a ‘what have I got to lose type situation’. But in today’s world where every single bit of information (and more) is literally at your finger tips – and you're trying to stand out from a pile a mile tall and wide – there really is no excuse for it.

Can you tell us about the Old Vic’s 24 hour play competition? It sounds like quite an experience.

It was. It really was. I couldn’t recommend it any higher to any young playwright, actor, producer or director. It’s really something special and a real privilege to have been giving the opportunity to do it. The truth is though the Old Vic have one of the best set ups in the country, if not in the entire theatre world. And the 24 hour plays as wonderful as they are, are just the beginning of a lot of other wonderful things. So definitely something that you should walk over hot coals to try and get involved with.

How do you identify what you're going to write about? What comes first, Character or plot?

Every play is different really. Every time it's like wading into the darkness and hoping to find something out there. Metaphorically speaking, to date I've never came back completely empty handed. You know when you've found it. That thing you're looking for. When you have it finally it is as clear as day. It’s as though you always had it, but the search for it can be a frustrating one. I look at the three things I'm writing right now and truly the only thing I can see similar in the process is that somehow subconsciously I've found myself responding in one way or another to things I've seen or done personally in my childhood. I don't know for sure if that was there early on in these plays or something I began to wrap around later but it is neither character or plot. It’s more a feeling, perhaps an idea or an issue that’s bubbling somewhere inside the brain trying (failing) to be rationalised.

Which playwrights have most influenced your work or inspired you to write?

I've read a lot of Miller, Ibsen, Churchill and Pinter (….the list is endless) and they have influenced me immensely. There is no doubt about that. And countless young modern writers but I've probably – and I lost count a long time ago – read 150 – 200+ plays now and there is no doubt in my mind that everyone of them has influenced me. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones! The greatest advice I could give anyone who wants to write plays is read a lot of plays. In fact spend more time reading plays, and watching them and discussing them and hearing more experienced and less experienced writers talk about how they write and enjoy and hate them, than you spend writing them. Of course you have to write as well, but take my word for it. The learning and the improving is in the exposure to what is being put on now and has been put on in the past. figuring out what's strong about them and what is weak.

Mwewa has worked with several theatres including, Contact Theatre (A Million Miles Away, Back Home Contemplation), The West Yorkshire Playhouse (Aphrodisiac, Trinity's Saint), The Old Vic (The Cuts between my toes, Feeding the birds, After the floods, When the Wind Stops Blowing), The Liverpool Everyman (Fields of Cherry Blossom, Admiring Ants, The Parrot House) One Small Step (Why Do All Catherine’s call themselves Kate?) and Hampstead Theatre (With Fumes of Human Roast). His radio credits include Mourning Suits for BBC Radio.

A graduate of several young writers programs, he has twice been short-listed for OffWestEnds Adopt a playwright award, long-listed for The Alfred Fagon Award and been awarded two development Bursaries from the BBC. And in 2011 will be taking part in the Royal Courts Invitational studio group.

Mwewa is currently represented by Jullia Mills (Berlin Associates)

Interview with Will Mackie

Will Mackie is the Managing Editor of Flambard Press, an independent publisher in Newcastle upon Tyne. He has also worked in editorial roles for larger independent publishers in London and Edinburgh, and spent a period as a lexicographer and thesaurus writer. Educated at the University of Leeds, he holds a BA in History and an MA in English Literature, for which he wrote a dissertation about the American poet Laura Riding.

Hi Will, could you tell us about your role as Managing Editor at Flambard Press?

As Managing Editor here I’m responsible for Flambard’s day-to-day activities. Briefly, this involves commissioning new work, piloting books through editorial and production, working with designers on covers and internal layout and some work following publication, such as liaising with book reviewers and retailers. It’s also part of my job to keep our funders, Arts Council England, up-to-date with what we’re doing. Primarily my work is editorial but at a small press things are not so compartmentalized as at larger publishers and it’s necessary to be involved in every part of the process. I work closely with Flambard’s founders, meeting them regularly, and between us with decide on the overall artistic direction of the press.

What does Flambard publish and what do you think Flambard represents in the publishing industry?

We publish poetry and literary fiction, the split slightly in favour of poetry because it’s through poetry that Flambard became an established publisher. Our fiction consists of novels and short-story collections. We have a policy to support first novels and debut collections of poetry and have also published books with a visual-art element, such as Night Train by Sean O’Brien and Birtley Aris, a graphic poetry collection. We do about 8 or 10 books in a financial year, which creates enough work for such a small publisher.

Small presses like Flambard offer an alternative to large, more commercial publishing houses. We can’t offer writers huge advances but we do set out to work very closely with our authors and be as supportive as we possibly can be. We don’t follow the latest trends and fashions and for that reason can be a good option for writers and readers looking for something different.

How did you get involved in publishing?

When I graduated, most of my friends seemed to have a good idea about what they were going to do next but I didn’t. I went home and spent some time reading long 19^th Century novels and playing records in the evenings, doing my best to not make up my mind about the future. Midway through the summer I sent out dozens of speculative letters to publishers; some got back to me with rejections but most didn’t reply at all. Then someone phoned me from one of the publishers who had sent a rejection letter saying a job doing the post and covering reception had come up. So I started pretty much at the bottom, in spite of having an MA, and looking back this was good for me as I was quite naïve and not especially mature. I learnt a lot in my first job and my enthusiasm for publishing pretty much started in the post room.

What is it you love about your job?

Even now, what I love is the same as when I started in my first editorial role. I love the opening phases of a book, commissioning it, mapping out where it’s going to go and then beginning to work closely on the text and getting to know the author.

Is there anything that frustrates you about your job, or the publishing industry in general?

Well, I think of myself as very lucky to be working in literary fiction and poetry and particularly to be doing that outside London, Edinburgh or Oxford, the main centres of publishing in Britain. Plus, I have a lot of autonomy and flexibility, which is useful given my other commitments. If anything frustrates me about working for a small press, it’s the difficulty in getting the books more widely known.

There are some great publishers working today, such as Canongate, who are so innovative they seem to be years ahead of everyone else, and other small publishers like Tindal Street and Bloodaxe. But one thing that frustrates me is how far publishing and bookselling has become focused on the immediate, big sellers – a small number of very high-selling titles, which are quickly pursued by replica titles looking to get in on the market. Sadly, mid-list authors who sell less are regularly dropped and tossed to the wind. We try to give long-term support to writers and I like to think that we’re building a list of titles that acquires strength over time.

Flambard Press is based in Newcastle. Have you got an interesting writing scene there? Any places or events you would recommend?

The Newcastle writing scene is vibrant and there are some very special literature organizations based here, such as Inpress and Mslexia. Writers seem to like living in Newcastle and there’s a sense of a community here. There’s also New Writing North, which offers invaluable help to writers in the region. I’m still learning about the history of poetry in this region: things like the Morden Tower venue, where Basil Bunting gave his first public reading of Briggflatts and where both Ginsberg and Ted Hughes read in the sixties. The region has a strong literary heritage in fiction too, with novelists such as Sid Chaplin and Julia Darling.

Newcastle has a reputation as a weekend party destination but it’s not all about boozing in the Bigg Market and girls wearing tiny skirts in winter. Visual art is very strong, with places like the Side Gallery and the Baltic, of course, and the Cluny and the Cumberland Arms are excellent venues for live music. I’d definitely recommend a trip out into Northumberland and a walk along Hadrian’s Wall. And a couple of pints in The Forth.

Could you tell us about some of your upcoming titles and any exciting new writers you've discovered?

Recent poetry titles include The Anatomy of Structures by Rebecca Goss, who will be reading at events in the North West this autumn, and Andrew Forster’s new collection, Territory. Early next year we’ll be publishing a poetry collection by Brian Aldiss, a legend of science fiction.

Richard Aronowitz’s second novel, It’s Just the Beating of My Heart, is receiving much favourable attention and is catching on as a word-of-mouth recommendation. In the autumn we’re publishing the debut novel of Gladys Mary Coles, one of our poets; Clay is a moving First World War narrative about a poet and his love for his best friend and his brother’s wife. We continue to support short-story writing and another forthcoming title is a collection by Courttia Newland, a very exciting young writer who is already well established as a novelist.

 What do you think it's most important for writers to consider when approaching publishers?

It’s always a good idea to do your research. Make sure you’re contacting the right publisher: don’t send science fiction to a publisher with no track record in SF, for example. Keep correspondence professional, although it doesn’t have to be too formal. Try to get a name if you can before getting in touch.

It really works to have built a portfolio before sending work in. If a poet gets in touch and tells me she’s had poems published in magazines or online then that will help her work stand out amongst the other submissions.

For novelists, don’t make your synopsis too long. Try to sell the book in five hundred words or so. And re-write and polish your work as much as you can before sending it off. Don’t rush.

Look out for the experiences of other writers on peer-support forums like WriteWords and author websites and blogs. Kelley Swain, a Flambard poet, maintains an continually interesting blog about her experiences that's well worth reading: kelleyswain.wordpress.com/    

Lastly, remember to be patient. It can take publishers a long, long time to reply, especially a small one where there are very few staff dealing with a huge number of submissions as well as their other work.

As reading is part of your job are you still able to read for leisure? Has it altered your approach to reading, do you chose to read different material in your spare time?

Assessing submissions and editing are very different from reading for pleasure, so personally I don’t find that they’ve tarnished the way I enjoy books. It’s also important to me to keep learning about literature, partly for how that informs my work but also as a longer, ongoing part of my life. I don’t like to be told what to read, but I do read the book supplements on Sundays and follow what’s happening with the major prizes and I’ll take my pick from these. I like going my own way though – discovering a book in a charity shop or the library. I read as much as I can, although with two small children in the house reading these days often means me falling asleep on the sofa holding a book after they’ve finally settled down for the night.

There's a lot of talk in the media about the e-book and the internet threatening print publishing. How do you view the emergence of e-publishing in regards to what you do?

I’m certainly no expert on this subject but I appreciate that what’s happening represents an enormous and extraordinary change in the way words are digested. Print newspapers have obviously suffered hugely from the internet in terms of how their advertising revenue has been affected and sales have dropped, and I’m guessing that technology such as the iPad have been created with magazines and newspapers in mind. But newspapers have adapted and some of the websites you see, such as the Guardian’s, contain a daunting amount of instant content that is constantly being adapted – a remarkable thing that anyone with an internet connection can access.

Books are different, although I don’t want to get too romantic about them. The book has been around for centuries, has frequently been declared dead or on the way out, but is still around and I think will be for some time yet. Much poetry sells through events anyway and it’s hard to imagine the average poetry audience queuing up at the end of the night to download poems onto their iPhones, although it might happen.

But e-books do offer new opportunities and publishers, always slow to adapt, are beginning now to experiment. You see some independents like Canongate doing some very interesting things by making a book purchase a package of electronic alternatives – author interviews and readings, that sort of thing. There are also possibilities for authors too – they actually have the potential now to bypass traditional publishers and find an alternative way of reaching a wide readership, which could be very interesting. Technology can be empowering.

For us, as a small press, there’s certainly no problem with seeking out a new market, even if it turns out to be quite small, and we hope to be engaging in this before long. The electronic alternatives also offer new options for promotion and I feel this could be where they work best for us. 

To find out more about Flambard Press  visit: www.flambardpress.co.uk

To read reviews on some of the books mentioned during this interview visit:

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/its-just-the-beating-of-my-heart-by-richard-aronowitz-1932461.html

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/book_reviews/article6933586.ece

http://www.flambardpress.co.uk/books/show.php?book=1157&author=andrew.forster

http://www.flambardpress.co.uk/books/show.php?book=1171&author=rebecca.goss

If you would like to purchase any of the books mentioned visit: www.inpressbooks.co.uk

General Editor Jo Brandon talks with the Cadaverine and Unity Day 2010 Poetry Prize Winner Emily Blewitt. Emily reveals what it felt like to win the competition, her writing influences and the writing scene in Cardiff. The winning poem and two runners up are also published below.

Hi Emily, how did you select which poems to submit to the competition?

‘Still Life’ was a poem that I’d just finished, and I thought the form I’d chosen (with which I hadn’t experimented before) quite striking compared to some of my other work.  I wanted to test its authenticity by sending it out there; I just had a good feeling about it.  The others were a little older, but themed similarly, and I thought the three read alongside one another might just suggest to a judge that I could put together a collection – that I was a sound investment! Plus, the other two were ones that my friends liked, and I trust their judgement. 

What was your reaction when you found out you’d won the competition?

Complete shock and delight! It’s a fantastic, and novel, feeling to have won something. I felt like I’d won the lottery!

You performed at Hyde Park Unity Day. What was that experience like. Have you performed your poetry much previously?

I was very, very, nervous to begin with. I’ve not had a great deal of experience performing my poetry (a reading with the workshop group at the University of York last year, my friend’s wedding, and the Unity Day are my only readings to date) and until I went to York and plucked up the courage to join the workshop, I had never read to an audience at all.  So everything about reading and performing is still fresh – and a little raw – to me. I don’t consider myself as a natural performer, but I hope I didn’t do too badly on the day! The atmosphere at Unity Day certainly helped a lot: the audience was supportive and friendly; it was good to put a few faces to names and hear the other poets’ work; and while it was a much larger festival than I expected (having never been before), the experience was not as intimidating or overwhelming as I’d feared. I’m very grateful for the opportunity and reception I received.

What do you think inspires and influences your work the most? Any places, people or experiences?

I tend to write poems for loved ones. When I began writing for workshops, I approached the task of writing something – anything – for our weekly meetings, by thinking, ‘I shall do one for my dad this week…’.  I had never written so regularly or successfully – and some of the poems came to me almost fully-formed.  Things have slowed down a little since then, but I still draw upon the idea of writing something for someone as a gift. I remember a great deal of events from my childhood, and I often write about them: small stories, moments, which transpose into poems which usually have an element of truth in them, however veiled. I mine things that have happened to me for useful material – that’s not to say that the voice of the poem in question is always mine, and that I haven’t manipulated facts a little, however.  ‘Still Life’ was written for my sister, Anna.  She is thrilled to have inspired a winning poem!

Are you excited about developing your e-book collection? Have you started any new material for this or having you been considering previous works?

I’ve been doing a little of both: experimenting with placing work I’ve already got in slightly different sequence, and seeing how each poem chimes with the next; redrafting old material; writing new material with the collection in mind. I am extremely excited about this project – it’s both a challenge and an opportunity to develop. I feel incredibly privileged and lucky.

How do you think you’ve been developing your writing? Through sending submissions or are you part of a writing group? Any tips to other young writers?

I think that every single poem I work on is a development from the previous – how much of a development I’m afraid I cannot be the judge! I have a few trusted friends I share work with, particularly when it’s something I’m really not sure of.  We share work with each other and engage in constructive criticism. This helps a lot – it’s a reason to keep writing, amongst other things, because the expectation of exchanging and reading new material is exciting!  The workshops I participated in at York were invaluable in getting me started in this process. I have submitted work for ezines and magazines; the great thing about The Cadaverine is that you get warm, encouraging and critical feedback! I have selected the publications I have submitted to carefully, and have been fortunate enough to meet with some success.  I submit to those I enjoy reading, and think I might ‘fit in’ with. It’s a time-consuming process, and one has to be thick-skinned about rejection – both outright and when you’ve been shortlisted and haven’t quite made the cut – but worth the risk. But by far the most important thing for all personal development, I think, is to love reading – to read as widely and as frequently as you can.     

Is there anyone you would compare your work to? Do you think Still Life is representative of your writing style?

I wouldn’t presume to compare myself with any established poet! There are lots of things I can’t do yet; I’m young, I hope I have more to give; that I’ll learn more and be better.  There are lots of poets who have influenced me and whose poetry has spoken to me: Kate Clanchy, Saskia Hamilton, Isobel Dixon, Kathleen Jamie, Carol Ann Duffy, and Sharon Olds, among them. I love the work of poets such as Claire Askew, Dave Coates and Colette Sensier. I think ‘Still Life’ encapsulates my enjoyment of small, deceptively simple stories, and my preoccupation with sound. 

You’re based in Cardiff at the moment. Are there any literary events/venues you’d recommend to other writers?

Cardiff has a vibrant literary scene, with plenty going on for all sorts of writers – both new and established, poets, novelists, playwrights… I’d recommend browsing Academi’s website and signing up to their newsletter for more information.  There are wonderful venues such as the Millennium Centre, the Chapter Arts Centre, there is a festival coming up called ‘Bay Lit’ (based in Cardiff Bay), the Central Library often hosts readings and workshops for writers as well as being a fantastic learning resource…The Dylan Thomas Centre is close, too.

 
Emily Blewitt is 24 years old and originally from a sleepy seaside town in South Wales. She has participated in poetry workshops run by Saskia Hamilton, and was recently published in Bolts of Silk, Cadaverine, A Handful of Stones and The Guardian. Emily was a ‘Judge’s Choice’ in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly April 2010 Competition, and won the 2010 Cadaverine/Unity Day Competition with her poem ‘Still Life’. Currently she works in Cardiff, where she is also studying for a PhD.

Emily performed as part of the Cadaverine Poetry Tent event at Leeds Hyde Park Unity Day.

Winning Poem:

                                                                   Still Life

                                                               In the cradle

                                                            they gave you, your head

                                                       rested round as a peach, so

                                                   perfect, they said, we could eat you. 

                                                 You were delicate, sweet; slept still

                                                as a seed. Through glass, we watched

                                                 you ripen to a bright banana yellow;

                                                   your blackberry eyes open

                                                      to smile, then crease in a cry. 

                                                         There were strawberry prints

                                                             where forceps had

                                                                        freed you.  

2^nd Prize

Sonnet     

By Nicholas Liu

The moments, used and crushed like pudding cups,

pile up without an end. I cannot name or count

the wished-for things, intruding and receding

from my gaze. Somewhere in a sea of cubicles

a phantom slots each memory in place, defends it:

your college tee-shirt fragrant from the sun,

the air lazy with sweat and scented

with the wings of wasps battered by the rain,

the nest-dotted walls, the windows plastered over. . . .

There is a life elsewhere, away from and beyond

the happening itself, however rough—

is not the site at which it happens beautiful?

This dusty stairwell, handrails rough with rust?

The centre is never where you think it is.

The centre is never where you think it is;

this dusty stairwell, handrails rough with rust,

is not the site at which it happens. Beautiful

the happening itself, however rough.

There is a life elsewhere, away from and beyond

the nest-dotted walls, the windows plastered over

with the wings of wasps battered by the rain.

The air, lazy with sweat, scented

your college tee-shirt, fragrant from the sun.

A phantom slots each memory in place, defends it

from my gaze. Somewhere in a sea of cubicles

the wished-for things, intruding and receding,

pile up. Without an end I cannot name or count

the moments used and crushed like pudding cups.

3^rd Prize

Greenhouse Ganglands   

by Michael Pedersen

Buttercups solicit ladybugs, bees woo pansies,

sparrows raid the strawberries. Mum just sits there,

in peaceful observation, potting then re-potting,

as scores of trespassers procreate and plunder.

Arthur’s Seat & Other Peaks tower overhead

like behemoth bull seals, whiskers from a brawl.

The Ulster and the Paisley streets are their grassy

underskirt, hiked-up, in floral theatre. Teeny tyrants,

flee through thicket or downwards burrow,

when our half-daft cat comes tumbling

through the rhubarb patch. Bagged gooseberries

swirl, like wind spinners, on the back fence, a gift

from Mrs Fisher; her clothes pong

from spending too much time with boxes,

but she’s a sorceress with fruit and sugar.

I parent my own pebbled plot, years 4 through 7:

an ensemble of radish, raspberries and Venus Flytraps,

which all die and I later discover were from Dobbies

(off the A7, Lasswade), not a far-off planet

of fiery infernos. Then came football stickers

and wrestling figures, to pioneer expeditions Mum

would often ambush: a scarf of spider plants gangling

round her neck; muddy paws like monster claws,

she chased the winds right out of me. This picture

was my elixir through the teenage years,

with adulthood came predators far fiercer than

slugs or greenfly, true ghouls, like self-harm

and malignancies, who too had monster claws,

but unlike mum, these didn’t flinch as beetles,

underfoot, crunched like celery.

It is difficult to know where to start when posing a question to Paul Sutherland because there are just too many questions to ask. His reputation as a poet, a performer, freelance writer and as an Editor all precedes him.

 He is the founder and current Editor of the widely known literary Magazine Dream Catcher, which has received praise from writers including Jackie Kay, Joolz Denby and Antony Dunn and was succinctly summarised by Steve Dearden with the phrase ‘The dream has been caught’.

Jo Brandon enjoys a chat on the telephone with Paul Sutherland (on speaker-phone in his shed) – here they talk going freelance, how to impress an editor and the importance of poetry performance.

                                            *       *       *    *

Paul, Your biography cites you as a British-Canadian Poet. Do you think having a sense of dual nationality has contributed to your identity as a writer? If so in what ways do you think it has manifested?

Very much so. You can’t escape certain aspects of your upbringing and I think there is a Canadian aspect in my writing. For a long time I wanted to be British and play down the Canadian part and my accent mellowed but in 1989 I went back and I appreciated Canada again. I was drawn back more. There’s no doubt it’s influenced me but it isn’t the only influence I draw upon.

There’s also an element of the spiritual in all my writing. I find the spiritual and mystical very inspiring and since becoming Sufi Muslim it’s something I also keep coming back to.

You are well known for your poetry performances, from experience I know you to be a very lively and engaging performer. How important do you think the performance of poetry is both to the poet and the audience?

Poetry began as an oral art form. It is always influential reading the poem. If you look, it’s at readings that you sell poetry not in bookshops, off shelves – that’s why there’s so few in there but at readings the poet’s voice can draw them in. It helps the reader understand the rhythm of the poem and how it all works. The written poem is still important but hearing the poem is an extremely important learning experience for anyone.

It’s important for the development of poet too. You learn by reading out loud and then even more by reading to an audience: like a busker performs so that he can improve and hone his style. You learn so much that way.

As an editor what is you look for in submissions to Dream Catcher. Is there any thing that is sure to impress you?

I often feel when I give my talks that people don’t know how to send work to an editor. Don’t de-select yourself. Get things right before the Editor reads it. Don’t send so much work that you seem to be trying to bulldoze your way in or so little you seem timid or disinterested. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot with these things. Postage is another thing, an editor is not going to go to the Post Office and pay £1.20 to get your work.

I prefer a little biography. Pictures on the side are a no-no, don’t make it fancy, no fancy script. Unless they ask for it they won’t want it. It’s not professional. You should care how you present your work, that is necessary. None of this counts though if the work is good enough but it helps put you in the right light. Don’t write good poetry then get lazy with the rest.

Another tip is get criticism from people who are not your friends. Try to go to more than one writer’s group. Try to get wider opinions for both praise and criticism. Take as much criticism as you can tolerate.

What inspired you to found Dream Catcher in 1996? What do you think it is that has made Dreamcatcher continue to go from strength to strength?

It was a gathering of ideas. At York St John University College Anne Price, who was then Head of English, said what the college needs is a literary Magazine, so I said I can do that, and so I go and create the magazine. I also felt that student’s work shouldn’t appear in a rag magazine, they deserved something with more dignity. I was given time to work on the magazine and produce the first issue as part of my course. I ended up getting an ‘A’. They said it doesn’t matter if you publish the magazine but it did matter, it mattered to me.

As for it going from strength to strength, I didn’t perceive Dream Catcher as any more than a small project. I think sometimes people think I came from a great literary background but it’s been a steep learning curve for me as I didn’t have that background.

Why did it grow? Well York had a reasonable amount of poets and was starting to wake up and want a literary culture. People outside the college submitted, sometimes a higher quality than the students, and I can’t turn away good work so it got a reputation and grew.

For Dream Catcher 3 I walked the streets and knocked on doors trying to get advertising. See the question of growth becomes a question of survival. I took money out of my own pocket. Of course we grew also because we didn’t just involve poets, we involved fiction writers and artists so we grew in that way too. We gained a reputation for diversity.

I also realised that how it should look was an important emphasis. Quality of production is important. It’s important to have a good designer and printer. It meant we consistently had a good product.

We had support from East Midlands Arts council – they kept us going but we’re still struggling to survive. The economic downturn is making it tough for literary journals and magazines but it’s about finding ways to care about the industry and get other people on board.

I sometimes think how fragile it all is and it seems so paradoxical. You can be a well-known magazine but our print run has not exceeded 400 – yet we actually reach 2000 people. We have pockets of interest all over the world. The industry is just very fragile.

For anyone familiar with your achievements or that have visited your website (www.paulpoet.co.uk) it’s apparent that you have a very active and full literary career. How conducive do you find your roles as Editor and workshop leader to your own writing. Has there ever been a conflict or compromise for you?

I think at times there have been compromises or uncertainties – I’m getting over them. I used to feel that if it was a Dream Catcher event I shouldn’t read at it but I don’t feel that now.

 Being an Editor my poetry has improved seeing so many submissions and of such quality. You think ‘is mine at that level?’ It’s not that mechanical but you take it in and you learn from it. Every time you read then you’re learning about poetry. 

I would say the roles are compatible as long as you keep them separate. We’ve had a workshop in York going on since 1998 and lots of people that attend don’t submit to Dream Catcher as they know that just because they’re at the workshop it doesn’t mean they will get into Dream Catcher. It’s good for people to come to the workshop. I will encourage them to submit but remind them that they can’t expect to be published because of it.

The two roles can work together.

Have you got any up-coming projects that you are excited about?                                                                           

Yes, Dream Catcher is involved with a residential workshop. Two days at Woody’s top 5 miles south of Louth (Lincolnshire). There are more details at www.lincolnshirepoetry.co.uk. The workshop is on from 20^th-22^nd October 2009.

You became a freelance writer in 2004. What advice would you offer to young people wanting to make a career out of their writing?

It’s a question of a level of commitment. I’m often inspired by my workshop commitments – working with children for instance, it stimulates my writing. When I was a literature development officer (for Lincolnshire) it meant I couldn’t perform in Lincolnshire without seeming to promote myself. You had to keep your private ambitions separate. When I went freelance I said ‘I’m a writer, this is what I am’.

It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. When I went freelance I was saying ‘this is how I want to earn a living’. It was important to me to do that. It’s not necessarily that important for other people.

My advice would be to seek advice, see what you could offer as a freelance writer, hang onto other means of earning a living until you have a steady income. Research your rights when it comes to earning money independently. It’s almost impossible for me to tell you how to get started because for me there was such an element of good fortune. To go freelance you need to have a good track record and a sensible level of reputation. You need to have experience. Never turn down opportunities to learn. Try volunteering for things you’re interested in. All the time you should be developing skills and making contacts and then maybe it will seem almost natural that you go freelance. One way in is to get involved with a literary arts journal. That’s certainly a useful way.

For more information about Paul Sutherland or Dream Catcher visit:

www.paulpoet.co.uk

www.dreamcatchermagazine.co.uk

Dream Catcher 23, a special issue dedicated to Canadian writing, is soon to be available either from the Dream Catcher website or www.inpressbooks.co.uk

Cadaverine Prose Editor Katie Godman speaks with poet John McAuliffe about new writing trends, Poetry Now at Dun Laoghaire and relocation.

His new poetry pamphlet from Smith/Doorstop, A Midgie has recently been released.

Can you describe your writing process?

I always carry a notebook and, most days, make notes in it of phrases or images, but the poems usually start taking shape only when I’m sitting in front of a computer, moving things around, trying out new shapes and forms.  And I have hot streaks when I get a lot of poems written, and at other times it turns out that I’m jotting things down without rhyme or reason. Martin Amis tells a story about someone misreading his occupation on a passport as ‘waiter’ rather than writer, and I do a fair amount of waiting rather than writing.

What inspired you to start writing?

I was always a reader: my mother was a primary teacher and a great reader so I grew up around books. When I was 12 we moved to Listowel, a market town in North Kerry, where a number of fairly well-known writers lived, the playwright (and publican)  John B Keane, the story writer (and teacher) Bryan MacMahon. Writing felt like a natural and normal activity there. I started writing poems seriously when I was finishing my undergraduate degree in Galway. I’d been studying law, but changed my mind and applied for a research MA in English which granted me time to continue reading and writing.

Who are your favourite writers?

WH Auden. Elizabeth Bishop. Paul Muldoon. Borges, Rimbaud. Robert Frost and William Wordsworth. Thomas Kinsella.  I enjoy reading fiction and essays as well and, over the last year or two, particularly liked the kind of essay-fictions written by Roberto Bolano, Alexander Hemon, JM Coetzee, Geoff Dyer, David Markson. I’ve been lucky too to publish work by many of my favourite contemporary writers in the Manchester Review.

Working as a creative writing lecturer have you noticed any trends in young writers?

There’s still the same mix of confidence and uncertainty in the best work.  I know some students use their phones instead of notebooks, but the poems still proceed from draft to draft in the same way. People come to Manchester at different stages, some are just beginning to take writing seriously, some are already producing mature finished poems. 

The Manchester Review and the Centre for New Writing seem exciting organisations to be part of. Is that the case?

It’s not just the university, though we have a very lively department and the Centre attracts excellent students each year, but Manchester and the northwest are home to many good English-language poets at the moment, and different kinds of poetry flourish there.  The Review allows us to mix that into the wider Anglophone world of the internet. I also edit an online digest of poetry, thepage.name, and I think it shows how online access might begin to cross-pollinate poetry in interesting ways.

Looking through your back catalogue the fact that you have written critical essays on Victorian travel writing really stood out. What drew you to that subject?

I did my MA by research on the subject in Galway. I was trying to find an angle for thinking about how Ireland or any kind of community gets simplified and mis-represented: good, outsider travel writers like Asenath Nicholson and William Makepeace Thackeray are usefully corrective about common misapprehensions.

You seem to write on vast array of subjects, in different genres. How do you decide what to write on and how to do it?

Mostly I write about poetry: with essays and reviews, it’s often editors who send me books, though I also look for venues for subjects I’m keen to write about.  With poems I never really know what’s on the horizon, or sometimes I do and it usually turns out I’m wrong.  I’m happiest when I’m not sure where the poem will take me, when I’m working without a theory.  I just finished the pamphlet A Midgie, which Smith/Doorstop published, and I was trying to make it as various a book as I could, even with its 16 short poems, putting the more apocalyptic poems alongside love poems, elegies alongside poems which feature public figures like Charlie Haughey or Dessie O’Hare.  Along the same lines, I’m thinking of calling the next book, with Gallery, Of All Places.

You were the programme director for Poetry Now at Dun Laoghaire (Ireland's biggest poetry festival). You must have had some extraordinary experiences. Do any stand out?

I got to meet and hear some of my favourite poets, Derek Mahon, WS Merwin, Paul Durcan, but the panic and excitement of event co-ordination is what stayed with me. It’s a special festival, in a beautiful place, and I enjoyed the buzz of all these nominally solitary writers partying furiously for a long weekend.

How important do you feel it is for poets to ‘tour’ their work at festivals? What impact does it have on their work, if any?

I’m not sure it makes a blind bit of difference. Or that it should. Though it’s good and, even, re-assuring to meet kindred spirits sometimes, in the audience or among fellow writers.

Do you think relocating from Ireland to England affected your writing style in any way?

I can’t tell if it affected how I write, but it’s part of my material now, as it has been for lots of Irish and not just Irish writers.

I’m currently in Philadelphia and when I came here in January I promised myself I wouldn’t start writing touristy poems, that I would stick to the material I’d gathered for the next book. I did fairly well till a month ago when I started writing poem after touristy poem about the yards of snow which fell here this winter.  Who knows whether they’ll work.

Any advice for aspiring young writers?

Frank O’Connor says somewhere that you ‘can’t revise nothing.’  You can’t talk a poem into existence, so it’s important to be in the habit of spending time alone, writing and reading (and annotating poems).  Patience with the work is important too. No point sending out work till you’re finished with it, till it’s stopped nagging you. And, subscribe to a magazine or two: it helps you to discover what you like and, just as important, what you don’t like or want to do.

John McAuliffe has published two books with The Gallery
Press, A Better Life (2002)and Next Door (2007), and a pamhplet, A
Midgie, just out from Smith/Doorstop. He was born in 1973 and grew up
in Listowel, Co. Kerry. He lives in Manchester, where he co-directs
the Centre for New Writing at the University of Manchester and edits
the Manchester Review and the online poetry digest thepage.name. In
Spring 2010 he was Visiting Heimbold Professor of Irish Studies at
Villanova University in Philadelphia.

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