Jax Burgoyne Writes

"Take up the spirit of confessional literature and try to unburden yourself of something you're not proud."

See July 29th.

Also, how hard I find it to be happy for other people, rather than jealous.  

Although maybe, I think, a lot of people find this hard.  Or (fairly certainly) there are very few people who can be anything more than officially happy for those whose joy either conflicts with their own needs (e.g. when competing at work) or reminds them of their lack of successes - e.g. the other person just got great grades, a great partner, a new house.  Those things that spotlight all the places where we are unhappy or maybe just a little insecure.

When those things happy, though, do most people feel ambivalent - the joy for the other person AND their own sadness/jealousy?  I often just feel the latter or, at least, that's what I care more about.

(Sorry.)

"Think of where you grew up and try to bring out elements of regionalism that could be used in a story.  An example might be a tale set in the Ozarks, where the grandma is happy to use the blinky milk to make biscuits."

Well...I grew up in St. Albans....  What can I tell you about that?  Well, we used to say 'Snorbens' to try to sound less posh and a bit more Laaandaaan.

Hmmm.

What else?  This is hard.  I guess, being a commuter town, people would exit the town via the station wearing grey or black suits, and then it'd be a tumbleweed place until everyone came back.

But I don't think that's what this means.

And I also don't think it means the times when Mum, Dad, Rob, Tom, or I would say, "Let's check the tax disk of that car that's parked outside our house, it's been there a while...yes, it's out of date - been stolen."  (And then we'd call the police.)

Oh, until I met Cat Barter I'd never heard of the police as called anything other than 'the police'.  And what I knew was that you asked for them directions if you got lost.  But APPARENTLY they can have other names, and are not always nice.  The names I have so far discovered are: rozzers, filth, pigs, coppers (Nicola just told me that one), the ole Bill (thank you Nicola!!!)....

Well, that'll do for now.

"If you could spend a day with one writer, living or dead, who would it be and why?"

This is a toss-up.  I'd either spend it with F.S. Fitzgerald so I could teach him about why and how the last page of The Great Gatsby is so awesome: simple, but UTTER BEAUTY in words.  (It is possible he would already know this, but I think he did it on instinct.  Yes, I know, creative writing teachers are currently having heart attacks thinking about the loss of pennies, after I've written these words, but that's what I think.)  Then I'd go for a drink with him and get maudlin about how the glitter of life is actually vacant (nothing).

OR.  I'd spend the day with Gertrude Stein.  She wrote something so bad that - 

Ok, yes, the experiments she did led, once diluted, to some of my favourite writing - FSF, WF, EH - 

But she wrote something so terrible I physically couldn't read it.  I was at uni, and I kept trying but it made me feel physically sick.  It wasn't gross, it was repetitive.  Each time I tried to read the second paragraph, which was basically the same as the first except one tiny detail changed, my brain said 'Read that, skip to the end.'  And I just couldn't override it.  It is one of only 2 primary texts that I didn't finish at uni, and at the time I wrote a play about it where she was an evil zombie coming at me for vengeance, after I burnt her book.  It was called 'The Gertruder'.  

So, if I came across her reanimated self, I'd make her act in my play.  

Just for fun.

"If you could have a 'do-over' of any kind, what would you use it for, and what would you do differently this time?"

I'd do uni again!  BUT not differently, not really: AGAIN, two more times.  (At least.)

In one I'd study even harder.  I'd read the secondary and tertiary texts.  (I didn't have time in my first degree, I SWEAR, I DIDN'T have time!).  I'd audit lots of extra modules, and write two essays each time not just one, and I'd do one presentation a month for each module.  I'd join discussion groups, debating groups....  I'd harass professors into coffees with literary chat.  (Well tea.  I don't like coffee.)

Then, the third time, I'd do NOTHING, or the very least needed to pass my degree.  And I'd join the badminton club, squash club, hiking club, football team.  I'd join a choir, a dancing club, a band.  I'd be in writing club, filmaking club.  I'd write an article every week for Concrete.  I'd volunteer in every single way, and I'd do open mics reading out all my new stories, go to art exhibitions, and all of that kind of stuff in town.

If I couldn't do uni another two times...I guess I'd just go back to the first time and make sure I saw Em, and my other friends more - as much as possible.  

"Think of an accent you find appealing.  What makes it seductive and how can you describe its allure?"

Jo and I would click on the elves in that computer game.  Some game involving wars or building cities or something.  Let's call it WarCity!  We'd click on them and get them to say, "My liege?"

"My liege?"
"My liege?"
"My liege?"

Mmm.  Tenor tone, smooth.  
Was it also, maybe, the obedience?  :)

I used to like the Geordie accent - yes I did - but that was because I loved a Geordie.  Or, apparently a 'Maccam' (sp?), but whatever.  Obviously I don't like that accent any more.

Any other accent is probably good, because there's the otherness: unless it is tainted (as is 'Geordie') by negative associations.

Or, of course, an accent could be improved.

So yeah it's not the accent, it's the person speaking it.  (Once you've got to know them....)

"Can you describe the pain of loneliness?  What does it sound like?  What does it look like?"

It, for me, is those moments when I get upset because - even though my friends accept me, like me, want to hang out with me....  But sometimes my mind changes its angle of vision and decides that I am wholly, profoundly different to them.  (Or almost all of them.)  And I suddenly feel incredibly isolated.  The one tree standing in a plain of ice.

And I have to resist the hatred that before that was scorn and before that, originally, was this feeling of isolation, utter isolation, even though my friends, like I said, want to talk to me, hang out with me, and accept me even if I don't want to do all of these things and don't watch the same things or read or do or like the same things.  So I have to resist this pain and sadness becoming anger.

What does it sound like?  A held breath, held painfully long.

And look like?  Your reflection is all there is, and it is a silhouette.

"In a few sentences, describe the most dishonest person you've ever met."

​I don't know if I've ever met dishonest people.  Or not very.  Hola was a criminal, but to me 'dishonest' means more like 2-faced.  But I think few people are self aware enough to be deliberately 2-faced.  Man, I'm such a snob. 

And that's actually, not exactly what I'm thinking.  I mean I know a guy who's incredibly 2-faced, but what I'm thinking is he's not emotionally dishonest because he's doing exactly what he wants: playing people, then bitching/being polite to their faces then itching.  Wait, this is dishonest...maybe....  Well it's dishonest to other people but it's not...internally dishonest.  Maybe that's how I'm seeing dishonesty - not being true to yourself.

​I don't know.  There was my friend who 'only liked friends who were 100% there for her," aka were her unquestioning enslaved puppets...but I don't think she realised what she was doing, so that was not dishonest....

​YEAH, that's why I don't think this guy [omission] is being dishonest - outwardly he is,  but I think inwardly he's being honest in each separate moment.  So when the person is there he is nice to them.  When they aren't, he's a bitch.  Like a dog - when he's licking his bum he's licking his bum.  When he's eating he's eating.

​I on the other hand often deliberately say what I think is the best thing to say in a situation - not generally lying, but sometimes repackaging things, sometimes omitting things, sometimes manufacturing interest.  It's a sort of out of body/acting experience.  Playing a role.  

​Like this.  Considered words that offer a deliberate amount of my truth.

So maybe I'm the most dishonest person I've met. 

"Are you at a point where you feel you could write a meaningful memoir?  Why?  Or why not?  If you were to do it, what cover copy would you give it?"

Could I write a meaningful memoir?  I don't know if I've done enough yet.  At does it have a theme, my life?  A unifying strand?  I have interesting things I've done I guess - I could tell a few good tales.  But probably not enough for a whole book.

BUT if I was to write a memoir, the cover copy would be this:

My life's aim has been to get on Desert Island Disks.  Well, get on Desert Island Disks, get a writing based Oscar (created specially for me), get a Novel Prize for Literature, marry 50 Cent, and become a Pussycat Doll.

Unfortunately the Pussycat Dolls have disbanded.

But I've still managed to do a few interesting things - been to Ethiopia and worked with street kids, been to The Jungle (in Calais), driven myself mad....

I don't recommend the last one.

Hmmm.  How does one finish cover copy?  And it probably shouldn't be in 1st person.  Oh well.  This'll do for now.

"The wine world is full of fantastic takes on aroma, from the sublime to surprising (see tasting notes about cut green grass or asphalt on a summer's day).  Try to immerse yourself in the bouquet and taste of wine - or cheese, or coffee - and let the descriptions flow, no matter how wackey they get."

The champagne soaked camembert thing (French, soft, not so much pongy as orally tangy - I think it had more taste than smell [although that could be my closed up nose holes]) did not taste specifically of champagne - in fact I don't even remember noticing a hint of that....  But it was FUCKING AWESOME: definitely enhanced by the champers.  

Maybe it's like red + blue = purple or paper + pen = a letter - the two things combine into something totally new, and awesome.  Flavourwise I mean.  This cheese + champagne did not become a mug.

But yes, it was soooo good.  Kathy bought a bit of it  - I bought mouldy stuff in the end - but she let me have some, thereby securing my heart for the rest of my lifetime.   

P.S. Re the picture, this is just a random picture I found (on pinterest, via Google).  Other champagnes are available.

"Maya Angelou dedicated I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings to: 'MY SON, GUY JOHNSON, AND ALL THE STRONG BLACK BIRDS OF PROMISE who defy the odds and gods and sing their songs.'  It is a dedication hard to beat, but perhaps it can inspire one of your own.  Who would you dedicate a book to and what would it say?"

If and when I write a novel, it would be dedicated...
"To Mr Jones, who read 'Jet and Pride' - God knows how many pages of tense-jumping prose about some horses.  And who then, after school, took the time to give me detailed feedback.  Not just 'Well done,' but proper help.  (Thank you.)"

PNCS will be dedicated...
"To Em - thank you for finally getting sick of my whingeing and pointing out to me that if I wanted to be a writer, I had to write something.  And thank you for, then, proving to me that I had at least 2 hours a week spare, and this equalled...eighteen (?) minutes a night.  So then, with that process, I finished the novella in a month."

Writer will be dedicated...
"To Matt, for reading stuff at the drop of a hat, and always being so positive (and I'm sure you're telling the absolute truth every time!), for being the artist of the book, and for passing on tales to me of all the people traumatised by this book.  YAY!  (Thank you.)"