Is there REALLY a relationship between sex and creativity?

Tonight I watched a very excellent documentary - Beryl’s Last Year. Shot by her Grandson Charlie, it’s a fly-on-the-wall type affair which follows Beryl Bainbridge, for one year - hence the title. Not just any year though, it’s the year that Beryl is convinced she will die, since many other close relatives have died aged 71, and the film begins with a celebration of her own 71st birthday. The film just finished, and already I want to watch it again. In the first instance, I watched it because it was about a writer’s life, and I thought I would get an insight into how a novelist works - and I did. But it was about so much more than that. Take away the writer, and you are left with a woman who has led a fascinating life, and is a remarkable character.

Don’t get me wrong, the bits about her writing life were fascinating. Like anyone else, she has writer’s block, and she procrastinates. She writes on a computer that’s over twenty years old and ought really to be in the Science Museum. While she writes, she smokes, one cigarette after another (though at the end of the film she was trying to give up and had cut down considerably). But her writing wasn’t going well and when we left her, she had abandoned a novel. Maybe there’s hope for us all.

For 71, she’s in great shape, it seems to me - especially since she smokes non stop and drinks rather a lot. If I’m anything like her at 71, I’ll be a happy woman. As I write, I’m wondering if she has an autobiography; it would be a great read. Ironically, at the end of the film, she found that actually, her parents had both died when they were 70, not 71, so she has already out-lived them.

Anyway, I’m not going to paraphrase the whole thing - BBC4 has a habit of repeating everything at least eight times, so I strongly advise you to watch it if you see it listed - and you can read a review of the film here. However, Beryl said one thing which struck a chord - hence the subject line of this post. According to Beryl, we are at our most creative when we are sexual. Now there’s a thought! She used to worry about what would happen when ‘that part’ of life was over, but (thank God!) she reports that it’s fine, ‘you just feed off of the past’. It made me laugh, and it made me sad. Can this really be true?

It would make an interesting experiment, don’t you think? Take some of the most creative people and find out how much they think about sex. And does it follow that single people less creative than coupled people? Could this be the reason I can’t write?! If that isn’t a thesis in the making, I don’t know what is.

Good old Beryl.

Bank Holiday Reading

I spent most of today reading through this book:

It’s a wonderful book! The design reminds me of the trendy cookery books that you get nowadays, where the pages are made from lovely thick paper with great illustrations and lots of attention to layout. But beyond the look and feel, it’s a great insight into how ‘proper’ authors write. I’d like to say it inspired me … and it did… but I didn’t actually settle down and write anything. *sigh*.

Neighbours From Hell

I love my little house. I have loved it since the moment I saw it. It is part of a row of three cottages, but it’s a funny layout and I am fortunate that only a little part (the kitchen) is joined to next door. However, the down side is that my sitting room and my bedroom overlook the gardens. My garden, and the neighbours gardens.

I confess that, until recently, I have been rather spoiled when it comes to neighbours. When I first moved in, my immediate neighbour was a mad old woman in her 90’s who caused me no grief whatsoever. Oh, except when she built an extension in my back garden. Admittedly, that was a low point in our otherwise non existent relationship, but after a short battle, the porch was taken down and she moved to a home for the mentally ill not long after. I like to think that the two things were entirely unrelated.

After that, Trendy Tim moved in next door. He was fine - professional type - often not there. No problems at all in fact. Oh, except for the night when there was a party in the garden until 3am and I shouted at him in my pyjamas…I mean, I went out wearing pyjamas, not that he had found his way into my PJs. But basically Tim was fine, even when his girlfriend moved in, it was fine. Even though she laughed like a train and I sometimes had to turn the TV up to compensate for her enthusiasm.

I wasn’t even overly worried when Alcoholic Paul moved into next door but one, not even when he invited me round for a glass of wine and double bolted the front door once I stepped inside. I hear him ranting and raving every now and then, but he’s harmless enough.

However, it’s all spoiled now. Trendy Tim and Laughs-Like-A-Train girlfriend moved out and Mr and Mrs Chav moved in. They came complete with Chav Cat, Chav Greyhound and Chav Parentage-Unknown-Bloody-Big-Dog. As yet there is no Baby Chav, but it must surely only be a matter of time.

Mr and Mrs Chav are stuck on high when it comes to volume. They shout everything. Even when they’re not rowing. Even a simple question like “do you wanna cup of tea?” is bellowed. Mrs Chav looks (and sounds) like Vicki Pollard:

… and Mr Chav looks like Butch Dingle from Emmerdale Farm:

Enough said.

But none of this is the problem. No. The DOGS are the problem. The dogs bark and howl from dawn to… errrr…. dawn. No joke. They bark because they want to go out, and as soon as they are out, they bark because they want to go in. They bark because somebody comes in and they bark as soon as someone goes out. I am starting to suspect these are agraphobic dogs. So of course, all this barking happens right beneath my bedroom window. This morning, I was woken up at 5.45am when the poor dogs were kicked out into the tiny garden, and proceeded to howl for 40 minutes until someone let them in. 5.45am!!!! And how can anyone ignore a dog that’s howling like that? It’s beyond me.

I’m at the point where I either have to complain, or kill someone. The trouble is, I have complained about noise before, and I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory in the process. It was one morning, about 7am, when Mrs Chav opened her kitchen window (directly below my bedroom) and (a) blasted out Billy Joel’s greatest hit(s) at full volume and (b) had a bit of a sing-along. I’m afriad I snapped. Again, in my pyjamas, I stomped round to their front door, told her to switch “that bloody row” off and stomped back to bed. We haven’t spoken since. I ask you. Billy fu*king Joel.

So you see, this is not a great context in which to start complaining about the dogs. I need to handle it gently. So I have written a nice letter today and even went to buy a nice card with a picture of a dog on the front. I even went in a Chav card shop to buy it. I will put the letter inside that and see what the response is. I am half expecting every window in my house to be smashed.

More on this trauma as it unfolds. Or smashes.

Novel Number 2

I’ve finished three chapters of Novel Number 2. Hoorah!

However, at the risk of dampening your excitement, I should point out that just because I am writing Novel Number 2, it does not mean that I ever completed Novel Number 1. No sireeeee. Novel Number 1 has been in my head for years, but only a few chapters made it to paper. I will go back to it, but Novel Number 2 popped into my head recently so I thought I should write what I could while I could.

I should also point out that I have reached the giddy heights of three chapters because I split one long chapter into three short ones. Ta da! I’m wondering if I can split these three down to a further forty chapters and then call myself a novelist. Seems a fine plan to me.

More Paris Pictures

Place de Voges:

…and again:

… one more:

The Museee D’Orsay:

I liked l’elephante:

Le Metro (so clean and bright!):

Homeward Bound

I’m on the Eurostar, heading back to London. It’s been a great few days but I’ll be glad to get home!

So, I don’t know what all my worrying about - it seems that the whole trip has passed without incident. The metro proved simple to use and I found my way back to the Gare de Nord with no problems and plenty of time for a final cafe creme and a very decadent tarte au fruits. Rhubarb cake to you and I.The carriage is relatively empty, though I am slightly intrigued by the two guys sitting just in front of me. They are American, and they are gay. I know they are American because of their accents. I know they are gay because of their magazines. Actually, that’s not strictly true - I’d guessed they were gay before I spotted the magazines, because they are immaculately dressed, and the American accents are just a tiny bit camp.

I am thinking that perhaps I should strike up conversation with them, since I have long been in search of a Gay Best Friend (GBF) in a Will and Grace kind of way, and they seem like excellent candidates. I know this, because one of them helped a woman lift her case up on to the baggage rack, and he was very gracious about it. They are married - I know this because of their wedding rings. OK, I’m making a bit of an assumption that they are married to each other, but imagine if they aren’t? Imagine if they are both leading normal lives with wives and families and have engineered a trip to Europe together. OR, imagine if they didn’t know each other before Paris. Imagine if it all started in Paris, This is unlikely, I know, since they are so obviously gay and so obviously a couple (I don’t know how I know this, they just ‘fit’ together… make up your own jokes if you must) but one can’t help coming up with these little scenarios. I’m a writer, don’t you know.

Excited About Salad - Hello?!

I’m sitting in one of the many brasseries that overlook the Place de Voges. I hadn’t planned on coming back here today - my last in Paris - but the pull of the calm, serene setting proved irresistible, particularly as I spent a hectic morning in the heart of the city. For my last night, I’d booked a swanky 4 star hotel in the Opera district - Hotel Mathurins. The hotel is tres magnifique (bathroom to die for) but it’s located in a really busy place and my every thought was drowned by noise and stroppy people.

Anyway, my lunch takes the form of the most perfect salad nicoise ever (otherwise known as salad knickersee, by my friend who only learned the correct pronunciation very recently, when she ordered it on a first date and the guy killed himself laughing). I can’t put my finger on why the salad is so perfect but I was moved to take a picture:

Maybe it’s the freshness of everything, or the mustard dressing, or the fresh anchovies… maybe it’s just that everything tastes better on holiday. Whatever it is, even the pompous waiter can’t dampen my spirits as I watch sparrows hop beneath chairs, finding lunch of their own:

People Watching

When visiting Paris for the first time - or any country I should imagine - the best tactic is to stand back and watch when you’re not sure about something. This proved to be an invaluable strategy on the Metro, where everything was confusing for the first time. For example, in London you have to validate your ticket when you enter and when you leave stations; in Paris, you only validate on the way in. When you leave, you’re faced with tall metal doors and I had no clue what the deal was with getting through them. All I could do was stand back and watch what everyone else did, and of course it was simple - the doors are automatic and you just walk through.

Unfortunately, my strategy didn’t work quite so well tonight. So far, all the Metro trains that I’ve used have been of the sparkly new variety, but when I got one to the Seine, it was an old train with manual handles - like the old slam-door trains we used to have in the UK. I was fine getting on, I just made sure that I stood by someone else on the platform and tried to watch how they opened the doors. Alas, I obviously picked an expert illusionist because I didn’t see a thing. I only had to travel two stops and all the while I was appraising the door, trying to figure out how the horribly complex-looking latch is released. When my stop came, nobody else in the carriage moved to get off; maybe they were all foreign tourists, trying to work out how the bloody doors worked. I couldn’t bring myself to be the idiot who tried, so I continued to the next stop… and STILL nobody got off. I was travelling further and further into the city and further away from the Seine. Finally, I had no choice but to pluck up the courage and, having gone five stops further than I wanted, I took a deep breath and tried the latch - and it opened! For anyone who’s curious, errrr, just pull the handle up.

When I did make it to the Seine, I was disappointed; I obviously found the only bit that hasn’t been prettied up! However, I did stumble upon a little restaurant that proved a great success. The waiter was lovely (something of a rarity) and, while I was determined to speak French, he was determined to speak English. There were only a handful of people in the restaurant and I’m guessing that one was the owner as all the waiters were buzzing about him, and he ordered a bottle of champagne to drink on his own. How decadent.

Tonight I have eaten very, very well for about £15, including wine. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the name of the place, just that it was very near the Musee D’Orsay.

Place de Voges

Now I know what Eric Maisel was getting at. Place de Voges is one of the most magical places I’ve visited - in Paris or anywhere else.

To get there, I took the metro to St. Pauls. Walk out of the station and you face a large main road - cross the road and walk down - you’re walking into the Marais district. To me, it had a whole different feel to other parts of Paris… it might sound strange, but I felt a distinct San Francisco vibe about the place. This probably isn’t surprising, as I later learned that this is very much a gay district; it also has a large Jewish population. It feels more open and less stuffy than other places; tiny little streets house the most wonderful shops, cafes and galleries, all of them totally different and inviting. I didn’t feel out of place here. I don’t think anyone can feel out of place here. When I go again, I’ll find a hotel in this area, and I’d advise anyone else to do the same.

I had a guide book and a map but I didn’t need it; there are plenty of signposts to the Place de Voges and there’s no mistaking the breathtaking square when you find it. It was a weekday and so not that busy, a few tourists milling about but I almost had the park to myself. There are an abundance of benches and I just sat and drank it all in for half an hour or so. To be honest, I was a bit overwhelmed by it, partly because it looked so amazing, and partly because everything felt so calm and I realised how uptight I’ve been at home with work in recent months. I wish I could have caught hold of those moments and stuffed them into a box to bring out later.

I had my laptop but I didn’t write. I thought a lot, and then I explored the winding streets around the square. I walked past a large synagogue where a group of men were gathered, all dressed in black, two of them with huge, professional looking video cameras on their shoulders. Seconds later, the street filled with tooting horns and a wedding car approached, at which point, lots of other people emerged from the synagogue. All of the men wore black and so did a lot of the women, but a few wore a neapolitan mix of colours and shimmering taffeta. The car drew up and stopped and an old man climbed out, absolutely beaming with pride as he greeted the guests on the pavement who cheered like they were at a football game. There was something very natural and honest about the whole thing - in some ways, it reminded me of weddings that I’ve seen in Eastern Europe. Yes, everyone was wearing their best clothes, but it had none of the vanity that abounds at most modern weddings. The outfits looked a bit dated, but charming nevertheless, and yes, the bride did look a bit like a giant candy floss - but there was genuine delight and real feeling as she was greeted by her friends and disappeared inside. This picture doesn’t really do it justice, I snapped it on my ‘phone from across the street:

Give me a wedding like that any day.

I made it!

Well, here I am - and if I’m honest, I’m ever so slightly amazed that it’s all gone so smoothly.

The bit I was dreading - arriving at Gare de Nord, was fine, in fact it was little different to arriving at Waterloo. I found the exit where the taxi rank is, queued for ten minutes, showed the taxi driver the address of my hotel on the booking form and that was that! A fairly long taxi ride across the city cost the equivalent of about £10, so I wasn’t fleeced.

The hotel is lovely - I will post some pictures when I get home. This morning I got up and didn’t really have much of a plan what to do. I have to keep reminding myself that the emphasis on these few days is to write, not to be run around like a demented tourist - but it’s hard! I needed to aim for SOMEWHERE. I wanted to go to the Musee D’Orsay, as mentioned often in Eric Maisel’s book, but it’s closed on Mondays. So instead, I braved the metro (I’d bought an advance five day pass from Railbookers which saved a lot of worry) and here I am at the Louvre. How exciting!! It’s a huge complex and so my first stop was a cafe to have breakfast - then I will look around the Louvre and come back to writing. Breakfast is a large coffee and croissants. What else?! I fired up my laptop, planning to write my journal offline, but there is free wi-fi here so I’m taking the opportunity to blog ‘live’.

Hmmm. Time for a second cup of coffee and a look at chapter 2 of my novel perhaps?