PublishED Magazine Issue No. 1

PublishED The Edinburgh Student Literary Magazine Issue No. 1

Poetry, Prose, and Drama Iain Banks: “I’ve tried writing drunk and it doesn’t work” Mongeese & Moisturizer: Mr McCall Smith entertains Maverick poet Les Murray talks Chaucer & The Mafia

Flash Fiction Competition

Flash Fiction Competition, pg 12 judged by The University of Edinburgh’s Creative Writing professor, Dr. Allyson Stack, we asked our contributers to submit a peice of under 250 words inspired by a photo prompt

Events & Competitions, pg 23

The Committee

Editor In Chief: Matthew Oldfield Head of Layout & Design: Jen Mah

General Editors: Josh King & Jining Zhang

Drama Editors: Katy Johnston & Kieran Johnson

Prose Editors: Eleanor Fairbanks-Angus & Sam Kirk Poetry Editors: Karishma Sundara & Lois Wilson

Head of Fundraising: Allan Cameron & Sarah Hull Head of Web Design: Conor Dunnachie Head of PR: Anjalee Salter

Secretary: Susie Shields

Treasurer: Robbie Marwick

Alexander McCall Smith Iain Banks Allyson Stack &

Les Murray for their support, time, and help with our first ever issue.

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Special Thanks

The PublishED committee would especially like to thank

Special Thanks

The Committee

Check out details on our Six Word Story Competition and how to become involved with PublishED

In This Issue

Iain Banks, pg 8-9 Alexander McCall Smith, pg 14-15 Les Murray, pg 18

In This Issue

Interviews

Foreword

Foreword

‘We waited for someone else to do it, but when they didn’t, we did it ourselves’. The back-story to many a successful business idea, and the true story for PublishED and this magazine. We spotted a gap in the Edinburgh student literary market, and we really hope that we have at least contributed to filling it.

It feels like years ago that we embarked upon this ambitious project, and for awhile, I must admit, I doubted its feasability. However, we persisted - through sweat, tears, and much humiliation - and here it is, the product of seven intense months of fundraising, writing, and editing. We at PublishED are all very proud of the final magazine and we trust that you will enjoy it, too. We have a number of people to thank for their generosity and time, in helping to get this publication off the ground, including Maggie McKernan, Clare Cain, Dr Allyson Stack, Les Murray, Iain Banks and the incomparable Alexander McCall Smith. In the words of rap group ‘Fort Minor’, this magazine is ‘ten percent luck, twenty percent skill, fifteen percent concentrated power of will, five percent pleasure, fifty percent pain, and a hundred percent reason to remember the name.’

Matthew Oldfield & Jen Mah

Want to contribute to PublishED ?

email submissions to PublishEDinburgh@gmail.com or visit our website at www.PublishEDinburgh.weebly.com

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Deep Fried Ink

Deep Fried Ink

Notes for a fledgling writer CLARE CAIN & ZANDER WEDDERBURN

Fledgling Press started up seriously in 2000,

KATHRINE YAN

when I retired from being a Professor of Work Psychology at Heriot-Watt. As a psychologist I find human beings utterly fascinating. I think good books share that passionate interest in humanity, extending our experience, deepening us.

Publishing seemed to me to be a bit slow and stuffy. There must be loads of undiscovered authors, waiting to be helped into the public domain. Why not start with ebooks, and digital print-on-demand? Ebooks have taken off now, but ten years later, than I started with them. Ebook readers are really user friendly, but good old ordinary books will survive for many decades. Bookselling is fiercely competitive, and new authors always have a steeper hill to climb.

One of my first ebooks was poetry written by an Edinburgh student – but only her grandfather bought a downloadable copy. The spread and pace of technology makes it very easy for a new author to self-publish, what used to be called vanity publishing.

So why go through an established publisher and how do you do it? Locate likely publishers to target, through the Writers’ and Artists’ Handbook, or Publishing Scotland’s Annual Directory or website. Check what they ask for, and deliver it. We ask for a synopsis and three chapters by email, and should normally reach a decision within a fortnight. That’s fairly typical for Scottish publishers. It’s wise to proof-read what you send, as bad first impressions have obvious results. Most publishers are swamped with approaches, so don’t be surprised if you get a few rejections (like J K Rowling did). If you choose to send a printed sample, always enclose an SAE if you want it back.

Self-publishing is still infra dig, (or uncool, if you don’t speak Latin). If we take you on, you will get robust editorial suggestions, and tons of unseen help with all the technicalities, like ISBNs and Advance Information packs.

The team at Fledgling Press has grown this summer, thanks to Clare Cain, who graduated with Honours in Eng. & Scot. Lit. from Edinburgh University. She has brought with her other keen graduates, Beth and Nyssa, who are keen to find out more about the publishing scene. Mike is the most recent addition to our team, currently studying for a Masters at Edinburgh. Our aim as a company is to encourage new authors into print and also, in a very small way at the moment, to help new and recent graduates add to their c.v. skills which will be attractive to employers.

Writing has plenty of other outlets too. Write because you enjoy it, and that has to be the most important aspect. Most successful authors just can’t help pouring their imaginative minds into words.

Have the courage to test your writing skills and hone them up a bit. Visit the Edinburgh Writers’ group and read there for friendly comment– or chance your arm on our monthly prize site at www. canyouwrite.com, where reviewers will also give you feedback. You could also win real cash there (in tiny amounts.)

Check us out on www.fledglingpress.co.uk! May the creative flow be with you.

Agents, Writers and Editors: how does it all fit together?

MAGGIE McKERNAN The McKernan Literary Agency & Writing Room Consultancy

I’ve been working for and with writers almost all of my working life. When I left university I worked in bookshops in Paris for a while, my happiest days spent in Shakespeare & Co on the left bank. I spent more time reading the books in that shop than selling them. I didn’t want to be a writer myself, somehow or other my literary imagination failed me, but I wanted to be around writers, and so I have been ever since. I was an editor and publishing director in corporate publishing in London for 20 years. Now I’m a literary agent.

I’m still looking for the same qualities in the writers - a strong distinctive natural voice, the ability to conjure an image with a few words, I’m looking to be touched, moved, transported, to be made to cry, to think, perhaps even to laugh (though that doesn’t often happen). I’m not looking for perfection or a highly finished work, more an indication of that elusive x factor – the alchemist’s gift of turning words into images in the reader’s head. To be more prosaic, I’m looking for high quality fiction writers with a broad potential – writers who, one or two, or even ten books down the line will be winning major prizes. I don’t care so much what they write as how they write. I think most editors and agents will say that they are looking for integrity and seriousness, whatever the genre of the writer, whatever the specialism. Most of all, we’re just looking for talent, that’s what we respect and what we came into the business for.

The main difference between the editor’s and the agent’s role in the publishing business is that the agent works for the writer, the editor for the publisher. Agents are blamed by publishers for pushing up the cost of publishing by getting too much money for writers, increasing unearned advances and in a few cases even bankrupting publishing houses. In reality though, agents act as a filter system, sifting through the acres of unsolicited manuscripts, finding the decent prospects and passing them on to publishers. That’s why publishers tell new writers that they only look at submissions that come from agents.

Agents also help to keep the publishing ball rolling – they put the writer’s case and publisher’s case, help to keep the writer happy and their expectations reasonable. In exchange they should ensure that the writer isn’t ripped off by the publisher.

Publishing is big business after all, and however romantic a notion we may have about writing when we start, all editors learn sooner or later about maximizing profit. The agent is there to make sure profit isn’t maximized at the expense of the writer, letting the writer get on with doing what they do best: turning the base metal of our lives into art, or at least into entertainment.

LITERARY COMPETITIONS COMPETITIONS AT EDINBURGH UNI Sloan Prize: Poetry or prose written in Lowland Scots Vernacular, for matriculated students and graduates at the University of Edinburgh. Value: £1100.

Lewis Edwards Memorial Prize: Poetry or prose, for matriculated undergraduate students at the University of Edinburgh. Value: two prizes of £700 each.

Grierson Verse Prize: Poetry on the topic of ‘risk’, for any matriculated student at the University of Edinburgh. Value: £650. Deadline: 3rd December 2010 http://www. englit.ed.ac.uk/WritingPrizes.htm COMPETITIONS WITH ENTRY FEES Writer’s Digest Short Story Competition: Short story, prize: £3000.

Deadline: 1st December 2010. http://writersdigest.com/short Gemini Magazine Poetry Open: Poetry, prize: £1000. Deadline: 31st December 2010. http://www. gemini-magazine.com/poetryopen. html.

Words Magazine Short Story Competitions: Short story, prize: £100.

Deadline: 31st December 2010. http://www.wordsmag.com/compcal10.htm Chapter One Promotions International Short Story Competition: Prose, prize: £2500. Deadline: 14th January 2011. http://www. chapteronepromotions.com/competitions/open-short-story-competition.htm COMPETITIONS WITH NO ENTRY FEES ‘see me’ Creative Writing Competition: Poetry, prose or ‘tweet’ on the topic of ‘support’. Prizes of £250 for each category of writing.

Deadline: 10th December, 2010. http://www.seemescotland.org/ getinvolved/writing-competition Inspired? Get writing! Creative Writing Competition 2009/10: Poetry or prose inspired by one of the works in the collections of the National Galleries of Scotland. Deadline: 22nd January 2011. http://www.esuscotland.org.uk/ media/inspired_200910_rules.pdf

Sonnet

Sonnet

Koruma Library

Koruma Library

My life is in your hands.

Once I believed perhaps it was me, unknowing, half-conscious, unknown, my own. A work by my own hands, own fingers, own print: my life in black scrawl, like the pencil-scribble crows of a child’s drawing.

I wondered: when had I opened the book I found with you? Prised from cold, crooked hands so long ago.

The black-gold paper edges, the old library smell of black leather binding and dust-musk wafting from the draw which I kept locked and intended it always be so.

Curiosity drew in the unlucky cat and I was always friends with him.

Reading.

It seemed each day was recorded, each hour and each action of my soul.

The trolls lurked in the book, eating my life, taking my prints, fingers, hands. I bent over it, hunchbacked, pawing the pages, longing to know, to know what happens next.

The book wrote itself, becoming deeper, thicker, younger.

Whilst I, its avid muse, seem reduced by the winds.

A breath of book.

And now my life is made up of dead letters; words unsaid, undone, unthought but written.

You can hold me in your hands, caress my spine, turn each page of my life, where I live beyond time, speaking unspoken.

M.H. ALLNER

6

A need to grasp my peak, Hovers while I think Of fading days, of promised loss, A fountain in which I sink.

This sweet bird of youth!

That pebbled shore!

Ignorance is bliss, Say those who came before.

With reminisce they warn, With hindsight, divine.

Their guidance binds me, Submits me. Frustrates me.

I am but youth, Held down by age.

ROISIN O’BRIEN

Comment Comment Three planes, Scratchmarks, A cross a perfect dusk.

Three swallows, Flick their last goodbyes To the falling air And a disappearing sun.

And the sounds, the depth, The weight of the world Unasking and Unanswered, Are laid gently aside, With the endless unseen passings Of that tired stretch of sky.

LANCE HENRY

We Are All Lost In The System

We Are All Lost In The System We are all lost In or outside of the system Break the rules and we will miss them List them Ingrained words of sense, Incensing us to break against And out of all that does encage us Plagues us, keeps us and enslaves yet Holds us, holds us, keeps and saves us Bitterly, yet strong and known In it meek, tamed mortal shadow: Outside, wild and monstrous mammal Trawling each unchartered channel Hoping to be justified.

Hoping that the system lied.

Hoping he wont be denied Mortality, and conscience, from The system he had hidden from.

In the name of the father, and of the Son to breed our shared name on, and on From January to December, Cold Winter and mild Spring, And April is the cruelest month: The month of taxing; working nine Until five, when parking is free; Free time, down time, and down size me; Drink me in or take me out, Recycle me, don’ t be a lout And don’ t give up the ghost; Write a letter of complaint and put it in the post to reach the H.O, P.C, PO BOX whomever Whom cannot solve the problem each nor Solve it all together as Your information has been lost Inside of the system We are not sure which one it is so

We live a half hearted, semi life When we are bent to fit the mould: Never overreaching, lost in Systems’ s firm steel hold.

And what of that other, beating heart?

The heart of discontent, who strives To better individual lives; Accepts that all cannot conform To systems that are old and worn and Sees not each and every case but Makes one rule for the whole race which Helps but one and discards the rest As the system has spoken And System knows best.

It sits not well with this strong heart His tolerance is truly broken.

Be held or be repelled, Be tame or be the beast; Construct a system of your own Which may give you short lived peace: Yet all that is built falls to ruins And there each flaw is then revealed And undeterred, the man who erred Constructs another ruin with zeal.

And with each build each man derides Hope or vexation And after deep contemplation In the shade of a changing nation, Back to the jungle one lone lion strides.

LUCY LINFORTH

7

An An Interview with Interview with From exploding Aun-

ties to spaceships called Phlebas, Iain Banks is undeniably one of the most talented writers in the business today.

In a career spanning more than two decades, Banks has penned some of the seminal texts of his generation. He burst onto the scene in 1984 with the publication of The Wasp Factory and imaginations around the world have been playing catch-up ever since. PublishED’s Joshua King quizes the celebrated Scot.

Being asked which of your books is your favourite must be an aggravating question, Well, yes. (Probably still The Bridge, btw.)

Okay then, which of them would you recommend to a new reader – perhaps an alien from a far flung planet – as the best window on your world?

Transition, the last supposedly mainstream novel (actually 49% sci-fi - official) Rather than trot out a clichéd query about what you inspiration might be, what we really want to know is what motivates you. What makes you get up in the morning and say, ‘today I’m going to write’?

I’m pretty organised; I think about a new book for 3 to 6 months, plan it for 3 or 4 and do the actual keyboard bashing over the remaining 2 or 3 months, depending on how long I think it’s going to be.

Also, I always write in the winter because there’s less temptation to walk up a hill when the weather’s cold and wet. So I’m used to writing when there’s a book ready to go and it’s the right time of year.

I don’t have to wait for inspiration - that’s already happened when I had the original idea. Also, having nabbed a substantial advance from the publishers and - generally - already spent it, there is a certain financial imperative.

Where, when and how do you write? Do you have a lucky pen, or a favourite time to write? Do you need

to always be at the same desk to be productive?

I write at home, on the iMac not connected to the Web. Very occasionally on a laptop while travelling, though I definitely prefer to be at home. And during office hours, in theory; in practice it’s sometimes between 4 and 8 am if I’ve woken up thinking about the book.

There is an abiding myth that an addiction to Sid Meier’s Civilization sparked a major bout of writers block in your system. How did you cope with that, and what advice would you give to young writers tearing their hair out?

Nope, I caught it in time. It’s just that at a certain point I realised I hadn’t read any books for three months (I promptly wiped the drive and snapped the Civilisation CD). Still, looking forward to Civ 5, once the next novel’s out of the way next spring, though I’ve heard mixed reports. Uncle Iain’s advice: love writing, get real, or give it up.

Your alternation between, for want of a better word, ‘mainstream fiction’ and ‘sci-fi’ is an unusual method. How did you find your niche? Have you always written ‘sci-fi’ or did you stumble upon it during a particularly fertile writing session?

I thought of myself as an SF writer who’d lowered himself to write mainstream and after The Wasp Factory was published I always wanted to get the SF published too. Alternating means I never quite lose touch with the readership of either type. Use of Weapons, Against a Dark Background and The Player of Games all existed in first draft form before I wrote The Wasp Factory, and Consider Phlebas was written before The Wasp Factory was accepted.

Iain Banks Iain Banks Whether productively or destructively, writers throughout history have had an inescapable fascination with alcohol. Your passion for whisky is well known – do you write with a dram in hand, or is sobriety more fruitful?

Sober. I’ve tried writing drunk and it doesn’t work.

At your latest book signing in Edinburgh, you tentatively said that the wheels are in motion for The Wasp Factory film. If it were up to you, who would you choose to play Frank?

Crikey; I’ve no idea. That’s what casting directors are for...but an unknown, I’d suggest.

least it’s long. CD: probably my own as-yet unfinished symphony; I could work on it in my head.

DVD: Andrei Rublev (I haven’t seen it and it’s meant to be terribly good).

Do you write with a dram in hand, or is sobriety more fruitful?

Sober. I’ve tried writing drunk and it doesn’t work.

Who do you think would win in a fist fight- JK Rowling or Jane Austen?

JK; 20th century nutrition, don’tcha know.

Finally, what would your mastermind specialist subject be?

Easy one, as I did this for real; “Whisky and the Distilleries of Scotland”; I did okay but not as well as Mylene Klass, who did series somethingor-other of Sex and the City. However I drew well ahead in the general knowledge bit, and won - hurrah!

You’re currently writing your first symphony. Why? Have you always been a musical genius trapped in the body of a successful writer?

Correct. It’s proving a little more difficult and time-consuming than I had - rather naively - anticipated. I’ve always loved music, always made up tunes and I guess I’m just drawn to the long form in any given medium (hence so few short stories, and none at all since 1987).

Iain Banks’ most recent mainstream novel, Transition, is available from Little, Brown and Company.

How about some quick fire questions to finish off ?

Okay!

Iain M. Banks’ latest Culture science fiction novel, Surface Detail, is now available from Orbit.

You’re stranded on an island.

You have one book, one CD, and one DVD. What are they?

Book: A La Recherche etc, by Proust; I already started it some time ago but then threw it aside in annoyance half way through, but at

JOSH KING

9

Grave Days

Grave Days

Tired and hungry, the bench hard, my back aches. I think about the TV tonight and my chicken

pie waiting in the fridge. Fingers numbing in the ends of thin gloves. Perhaps it will snow tomorrow. Rain clouds threaten the bright winter sun, I can leave when it sets. Not that I find this a chore, though I don’t come here to grieve. And quite suddenly, quite silently, she appears. the grave stones line my view like seats in an empty cinema, and as she enters this stage I know she’s my star.

She starts to gather dead flowers and old cans and as I watch from the shadows each nerve comes alive with anticipation I haven’t felt for decades. Her skin seems translucent pearl, all that I can make out from my back row bench. But from the way her head tilts to occasionally read the names on the forgotten graves, she could be an angel. She must be my angel. It starts to rain and it licks at her face as she brushes hair from her eyes. My tongue moistens as it tastes the salt in her eyes seasoning the raindrops. Underneath me my dead wife as silent as the absent orchestra but my heart bursting with music and metaphors. None which could ever show the perfection of this apparition.

All the love and melancholy I’ve ever felt seems to explode in harmony with the movements of this young girl in black.

As they waited for the chicken pie to heat up she asked him what she asked every Tuesday.

He responded that yes it was fine if a little cold. Though she noticed the light in his eyes and so wondered if something was different or perhaps the medication was just taking affect. She asked if there were any new graves, or had someone been there visiting ma as well? No he said, there were no new graves nor visitors for ma. ‘Its only us she knew towards the end‘. Will just be you for me, he added and looked sad. ‘Oh dad‘, perhaps the light she thought she’d seen was despair.

‘If it depresses you, god knows it does me, all those signposts to death, you don’t have to go every week, you mustn’t feel you have to.’ He smiled knowingly, ‘oh no, I don’t feel I have to. Perhaps I’ll go more often, it’s quite a nice church actually, when seen from the right angle.’ The oven bell rang and they ate the pie in silence.

ELEANOR ANGUS

Dramatic Weight Loss

Dramatic Weight Loss

SAM KIRK

Yours is not a body; It is an instrument Crafted, re-drafted, built with intent, Treasured, re-measured, filled with love And guilt. And Every inch specific, finely balanced, Elegant, terrific - you Could listen to your heart and let it Thunder things and - listen closer - tick, Yet you would rather listen to Your bastard critic.

LOIS WILSON

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Some People Claim To Have Met God, Pt. 1

Some People Claim To Have Met God, Pt. 1

Some people claim to have met God in a coffee shop, in a disco, or on cable TV. Some people

claim to have met God in their dreams, in a restaurant or in the theatre. Some people meet God on the street everyday and they don’t remember it, some people catch his eye as they turn a corner and he brushes past them and they feel the urge to turn around and look at the man who just flickered through their peripherals, but they don’t.

I met God at 60 miles per hour on the M6, just before the turn off to Stoke.

‘David’ God said sonorously, his voice like the play of light on a window sill, ‘You better be really serious about what you are going to do here.’

I ignored him. I was serious.

‘David’ he said, ‘You better be really serious about what you are going to do here. You have a carte blanche – that’s blank cheque in French - with that letter there in the glove box, and it’s not something you should cash in without a lot of consideration.”

‘I know what carte blanche means.’ I said, checking my rear view mirror and flicking on my indicators as I turned into a highway side petrol station.

‘What?’

‘We covered it in high school French. I am writing you a blank cheque. “Je suis écriture vous un carte blanche”.

‘Whatever, that’s not the point, the point is, have you thought about what you are doing?’

I just ignored him; God was a lousy conversationalist really.

LAWRIE CLAPTON

In Our Bed

In Our Bed

In our bed – not our bed – his and mine, Legs and sheets, hands and faces intertwine.

A summer house away from home.

Who do I hurt? If a body can be replaced, A pain erased? His mouth, your taste.

A closed eye sees what it will.

SAM KIRK

Yet behind the lid I still see that May night, A flash of light and, black and white, we three are preserved forever.

Forever you turning away. Forever me in shadow.

Not you, not us, not quite.

It may seem trite, But as his hands wander the prairie of my back I think of how You always seemed to hold the whole of me in just one palm.

KATIE GRIFFITHS

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Flash Fiction Competition

Flash Fiction Competi

The first PublishED Flash Fiction Competition took place last month, for the enticing prize of publication and a signed Iain Banks novel. With submissions of up to 250 words, the University of Edinburgh’s Creative Writing Prose Lecturer, Dr Allyson Stack, was given the Herculean task of selecting the winner and an honourable mention.

“What led me to choose these two pieces was the strong sense of tension and evocative imagery, but above all, the fact that there was a story contained in them, particularly in the winning piece. Flash fiction, when it works, involves telling a story, and the winner was the one that told its story in the best way.”

The Winner

‘Oh, you noticed that? I found it again the other day when I was tidying. Do you remember that trip? No, maybe you were too young. It’s a nice one of you; you were always so curious as a child. What happened to that, eh?!’

I remembered it, but not as she had. Had she forgotten? Perhaps her memory was deceived by the camera’s distortion of reality, the capturing of an instant in a selective frame. Life is never quite as it is in that moment.

I was angry; seconds before I kicked moodily at the placid water, my arms probably folded firmly against my chest, my deeply furrowed brow threatening to slip down my nose.

Someone had shouted from the car-park, perhaps my father, threatening to leave without me. I pretended not to hear, scrabbling up onto the rocks, enjoying the painful scratches that the rough contours left upon my feet. I stared with screwed-up eyes at my reflection, challenging it to retaliate. I hated my brother, and would never love him again. I forget what he had done.

A second later, I slipped, as I moved recklessly towards the sea. I remember the shock of pain, but little else. As the salt water seeped into my cuts, I cried out for help. Diluted blood trickled down my face like tears, but perhaps I exaggerate. I was six years old, abandoned and scared.

But all they would remember was that instant, from that angle. And I do look curious.

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M.J. SCOLA

ition

The Honourable Mention

The first time we met eyes I froze up in disbelief. Of course I’d already sussed the false doubles: shop windows, mirrors, concave spoons, all those thin imitations trapped in glass and metal, numb to the possibility of escape. But here was something different: a rippling me who knew the secrets of the deep, the communion of oysters and the sermons of whales; who could breathe the corals, splay with the starfish, tour the barnacled crags of the ocean floor and drowse in the watery night of subterranean caverns...

Little did I know then that he too envisaged another world: of rainforests and horizons, skyscrapers and runway strips; so foreign to him and familiar to me. When I dived in, he dived out; as I watched dumbfounded a parade of seahorses trooping by, he gazed in voiceless wonder at a procession of businessman, sidestepping commuters as I dodged between diaphanous jellyfish. We began to feel at home in those rival worlds and our past lives grew joyless and grey. Cities sickened me and I longed for salt water, consumed with envy for my sea-dwelling double. My only consolation was the knowledge that he felt the same: surfacing from the water one day I found that morning’s relics, shells and cuttlebones, bitterly smashed against a rock. For fifteen years we have alternated existences, despising one another, longing for permanence, eternally deceived. Just one certainty remains: as I drown in the sea, he will suffocate on land...

OCTAVIAN MacEWEN

PublishED’s Pick (The Committee’s Choice) That day you screamed at me, your shouts vibrated. Like a boy sitting at the edge of a pool of water, tapping the surface with his finger; gently, but relentlessly, they came in piercing waves. It was a scream that seemed to penetrate the cement of the cities, shake the sand of the ocean floors, and bounce off the mountains.

But then you stopped, and silence followed.

Some say silence is loud, but this was palpable. It was as if the sea had emptied into the room, enveloping and suffocating us, until I began to miss your screams.

J.M. AIKEN

13

An Interview

An Interview With

On first meeting Alexander McCall Smith, three things become immediately clear. He is a

genuinely nice person, follows an incredibly ambitious, though hectic, writing schedule, and appreciates even the finest details of books.

Though he strives to write three thousand words a day, and finishes four to five books a year, McCall Smith was gracious enough to spend a number of hours with PublishED, responding to questions while being sculpted and photographed. McCall Smith also offered us much needed advice for this very publication, right down to our chosen font and line spacing. We feel we owe not only our newfound knowledge of page design, but this entire issue, to him.

McCall Smith has over fifty published books, despite his relatively late introduction to the literary world. McCall Smith studied Law at the University of Edinburgh, and only wrote “a few short stories, just privately, as people do before they start to publish things.” It was during McCall’s lecturing stint at Queen’s University, Belfast that he began to write more seriously. “I was living in the middle of what was essentially a small-scale Civil War, and that heightened one’s appreciation of things in curious ways.”

Despite winning a children’s fiction competition on returning to Edinburgh, fame was slow to follow. “I had a period of getting nowhere. I had a good collection of rejection letters.” The Bulawayo-born author persevered to publish many children’s books throughout the 1980s and 90s. It was 1998’s The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, however, that changed his life…slowly. “The first printing had the grand total of 1500 copies”. Success in the US led to a Random House contract, which in turn blew open the British market. Sequel followed sequel, series followed series, and McCall Smith is now one of the world’s most successful novelists.

“I remember the exact moment I knew my life had changed. I met my new Publisher in New York and to my astonishment, they

With Alexander McCall Smith

Alexander McCall Smith had booked out a whole restaurant for lunch, which is virtually illegal in New York. Afterwards, they said they would try 50,000 copies of each book for the first week. I knew it was something very dramatic.”

You’ve written over 50 books: children’s books, academic texts and, of course, novels. Which is your favourite literary form?

To be honest, the children’s books were never something I really intended to do. What I really love writing is novels, and that is what I principally do these days. But I do also write quite a lot of short stories and journalistic articles, for the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times, as well as UK newspapers. But no, novels are what I really enjoy. There is a particular pleasure in sitting down at the beginning of a novel and knowing that you have a whole slice of life ahead of you to write about.

Yes, I think Edinburgh is a wonderful setting for fiction. Edinburgh is a city which takes some time to understand. It doesn’t reveal itself immediately; visitors are immediately taken by the city’s beauty, and yet at the same time its character and complexity requires some time to see. It is still quite a reserved city and it used to be quite a secretive city. All of these are qualities that actually add to Edinburgh’s attraction as a setting for fiction.

Edinburgh is a wonderful setting for fiction.

Edinburgh is a city which takes some time to understand. It doesn’t reveal itself immediately

44 Scotland Street was serialised in The Scotsman, and Corduroy Mansions was an online novel for The Telegraph. What do you enjoy about these media collaborations?

The serial form that I use for those novels is slightly different from the nineteenth century form, in the sense that it is more immediate. My chapters are only about 1100 words and are submitted and published every day.

I think 44 Scotland Street may have been the first novel ever published in real time, so to speak. It is very exciting; Corduroy Mansions really is being published before I’ve even finished it.

You’ve travelled the world, and lived in Edinburgh, Belfast, and Africa, but do you find Edinburgh a particularly inspiring setting?

Do you find much time to read in your busy schedule? What kinds of literature do you favour?

Yes I do read, although I don’t have as much time to read as I’d like. I suppose I do read quite a lot but it’s quite eclectic. I read a lot of non-fiction; Philosophy is one of my particular interests. At the moment, I am reading a wonderful book by the architect Christopher Alexander, which is a four-volume theory of our surroundings and life, and structure and order. I’m also reading a book about the study of psychopathy, which looks very interesting and another about the natural history of the mongoose.

And finally, who is your favourite fictional lawyer?

Undoubtedly Atticus Finch. He is just so noble, he really is great, and his portrayal by Gregory Peck is just tremendous.

Thank you so much for your time.

Would you like my views on the railways? I would also like to talk about the vexed and important question, of whether men should use facial moisturiser. I love writing about that!

MATTHEW OLDFIELD & JEN MAH McCall Smith is currently writing Corduroy Mansions, an online serial novel available through the Telegraph

15

Killing Time (An Extract)

Killing Time (An Extract)

(The stage is empty but for two men sitting, looking out over the audience.

Light projects onto them creating looming shadows on the otherwise dark wall behind. At this point, the audience have discovered that the whole world is minutes from ending. Both characters have appeared unconcerned about this fact and have chatted about the Armageddon, family and sex whilst casually smoking and drinking) Boy 2: Seriously how long?

Boy 1: Honestly it’s like a broken record…

Boy 2: It’s important to me.

Boy 1: All the same, just think about something else.

Boy 2: Such as? You’re not exactly an eruption of interesting conversation.

Boy 1: Drink more, it’ll loosen your tongue.

Boy 2: Yes sir! (He takes a long swig) Boy 1: You know, I haven’t been home in ages.

Boy 2: I thought you said your goodbyes this morning?

Boy 1: I was lying.

Boy 2: Oh…(A long pause. Boy1 looks at Boy 2) I assume you’re going to continue?

Boy 1: I really have been up here a long time waiting for you. My tent’s pitched behind us under the water tower. Once college closed down the days just seemed to drag on…got bored of sitting around smiling moronically. Everything just seemed so avoid of purpose, quite depressing actually...

Boy 2: It doesn’t sound like no picnic.

Boy 1: It wasn’t, there’s honestly nothing more boring than having the freedom to do whatever you want.

Boy 2: My last few weeks have been a blast actually, just sat around, stared at the sky, ate whatever I wanted, just been whatever I could be you know?

Boy 1: Sounds horrible…either way we are digressing on to you, that’s the reason I came up here, thought I’d wait to try and find some riveting conversation.

Boy 2: Is it living up to your expectations?

Boy 1: It’s alright.

Boy 2: Talk about pressure to perform.

Boy 1: I wouldn’t worry, I’m not expecting much.

Boy 2: Yet you’ve been waiting…

Boy 1: Two months.

Boy 2: Two months…to come and talk to me?

Boy 1: Don’t feel too wanted, it was either this or killing myself.

Boy 2: Well then I guess I was your best option.

Boy 1: No, I flipped a coin.

Boy 2: Fucking hell really?

Boy 1: No, I couldn’t find any rope. (He motions tying a noose) Boy 2: You’re a miserable bastard sometimes.

Boy 1: The miserablist in fact.

(Long pause. They twiddle their thumbs) Boy 2: Did you know that this is actually a sport?

Boy 1: Nah it’s not.

Boy 2: Yes it is.

Boy 1: Next Olympic games then, I’ll watch out for it.

Boy 2: Well no, it’s not like that…

Boy 1: Anything’s possible.

Boy 2: I wish I hadn’t mentioned it.

Boy 1: Well come on then, how does said sport work?

Boy 2: Well you twiddle your thumbs like this. (He demonstrates) Boy 1: Rocket science this is.

Boy 2: Are you going to let me finish? (He continues to twiddle)

Boy 1: No. Let’s talk about something else.

(Another long pause, Boy 1 goes to twiddle his thumbs) Boy 1: You know, you’ve ruined it for me.

Boy 2: Mother-fucking-tragedy.

(A long, long silence) Boy 2: So what’s in your tent?

Boy 1: What?

Boy 2: Your tent…behind the water tower.

Boy 1: Oh I thought it was some form of innuendo.

Boy 2: What?

Boy 1: The kind of situation where I’d say something like…the supporting rod takes up most of the space, and you’d be like, well, let’s see about that, get down on your knees and…

Boy 2: No! Just no.

Boy 1: Well I have already seen your nether-regions, very nice too by the way. It’s surely a quid-pro-quo situation.

Boy 2: You must watch far too much of that shit. Please...can we be moving conversation back onto what’s in your tent…your tent as in the flimsy abode of yours, not your pants.

Boy 1: That tent? (Boy 2 nods) Not much in there really, just stuff.

Boy 2: What kind of stuff?

Boy 1: Food, clothes, the inside of a tent…

Boy 2: Sounds brilliant.

Boy 1: In all honesty it was a pathetic stab at conversation, what do you expect me to say, I’ve got some WMDs and the entire cast of Annie?

Boy 2: Annie?

(A pause) Boy 1: Yeah, I watched it a lot when I was small; my Gran loved it. Every bloody Sunday. You’re never fully dressed without a smile…

Boy2: What?

Boy 1: It’s a song from Annie you philistine.

Boy 2: Shit I had no idea.

(A long pause) Boy 2: And the time is…

Boy 1: For fucks sake! (Shows him his watch) Boy 2: (Eyes widen) Not long then.

Boy 1: Nope, you know all of a sudden I’m feeling strangely melancholy.

Boy 2: You are aware you’re about to die?

Boy 1: It just seems an awfully daft thing to get upset about…if it was just me dying, then I could see why I’d be upset, but right now, with everyone poised for a relatively painful death, the whole thing seems mundane. I mean yeah, it’s sad that I’m dying, but if everyone else is, I’d much rather die than live. If you get me?

ANJALEE SALTER

Boy 2: I get you.

Boy 1: Thanks.

Boy 2: You’re welcome. You know, this Armageddon is really bringing the best out of you…

Boy 1: I thrive in adversity- a salmon swimming against the current.

Boy 2: Well at least you’re not a cod, overfished.

Boy 1: Philosophy meets fish.

Boy 2: Fish are philosophy.

Boy 1: What?

Boy 2: I have my moments too.

Boy 1: Everyone does.

Boy 2: Well it feels good to be everyone right now.

Boy 1: That it does.

(They sit there again- basking in the silence. The stage becomes bathed in red) Boy 2: (Covering his eyes) Wow. Boy 1: The calm before the storm.

Boy 2: Sure is calm though.

(They sit there in the silence) Boy 2: I always thought things would end with more of a bang than this, it feels like the end of the world is just passing me by…in fact I don’t honestly care. I mean I watch all these

films, all these doomsdays, all these people running about and crying, all the screaming…but in reality…it just happens to be the next thing I have to do, do you know what I mean?

Boy 1: Don’t ask me.

Boy 2: I always ask you.

Boy 1: Things change.

(The stage darkens) Boy 2: How long?

Boy 1: Moments.

Boy 2: Good.

Boy 1: Aye. Boy 2: Thanks by the way…for looking at my knob.

Boy 1: I could sense you had to tell me about it.

Boy 2: Killed some time at least.

Boy 1: Anything you can do about this? (Points to the audience) Boy 2: Nothing unfortunately.

Boy 1: (Sighs) (They smile as the lights dim to blackout) FIN

ANDREW EDWARDS

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All My Heroes Are Dead

All My Heroes Are Dead

All my heroes are dead They left me to shiver alone In this hopeless, damp street A thousand and one miles from my home The words they screamed and paraded Are ringing with pain in my ears Reminding me that death crept up on them Drew a close to their proud fighting years All my instruments are broken They made a pact but left me out They departed and they’re not coming back No matter how loud I shout So all I now have to work with Are shattered keys and a few snapped strings They took far more than music when they left But I’m told not to cry over spilt things All my clothes are monochromatic I’ve traded my flowery gowns I’ll no longer wear colours or patterns From now on I’ll just tone it down I’ll let the shadows become my overcoat Have my hair hide my whole face The colours at once overtook me I’m too grey to keep up with their pace All my plants have withered The cactus is the last man standing He doesn’t know why he has won And really there’s no point in understanding

A few flowers are still begging for water Some trees are gasping for air It’s my sad ironic punishment I couldn’t help them even if I cared All my words are charred Every time they reached out they were singed They’re too paranoid now to move One or two have become slightly unhinged Oh don’t think that I did nothing I tried giving them the breath of life But they either completely imploded Or punctured themselves with a knife All my oceans are dry The water saw no point in its waves It was picked up by the sky in its greed Was sucked away by the caves Salty water used to come easy I used to get it in the blink of an eye Though my bucket is empty I don’t go to fill it I haven’t even the will to try All my dreams are deceased But I didn’t cry as I watched them go I just patted the coffin and retreated The death march was long, it was slow Alone I went to the cemetery The grave had a stone at its head The epitaph had been honestly chosen it read: “All my heroes are dead.”

JENNIFER McGEENEY

17

Les Murray Sits Down With PublishED

Les Murray Sits Down With PublishED Last month, multi-award-

winning Australian poet Les Murray joined us at the University of Edinburgh for a series of readings from his latest collection of poems, Taller When Prone. Murray, in line for the Nobel Prize for Literature, entertained a packed crowd with his charming anecdotes and wonderful, witty poetry. Afterwards, we at PublishED were lucky enough to talk to the man himself about all things poetic, and a few things not.

Thanks for joining us. Let’s talk about your latest work, Taller When Prone. Was it a labour of love, or was it something that came naturally?

It’s always a labour of love, but occassionally in the midst of that, some dark matter comes up that you’ve got to write about. And that’s a form of love, too.

What was it that first drew you to writing and was it specifically poetry that attracted you?

It was always poetry from day one. I realised that poetry was just the most efficient of all literary forms. It was the summation of Art in many ways; you could turn it in all sorts of directions.

You could do it all in the one poem, and I’ve been exploring that xever since.

What advice would you give to young writers?

They’ve got to be in love with it. It’s got to be a labour of love and they’ve got to be mad enough to stick at it. Chaucer said it all very well: ‘Our craft so long to learn’. It looks easy but it takes a long time to get good at it. And you spend a good many days without much money.

You were talking earlier about performance as the future of poetry. Do you enjoy reading your own work?

Yes, within the writing of poetry there is performance. There’s a dimension of dancing in the poets themselves, which is sometimes explicit in the rhythms and rhymes, but other times is more subtle. You always need an audience.

You’ve edited a number of poetry collections, and a number of major magazines. Do you enjoy that side of literature?

Yes, I’ve been doing it for thirty years now. I’m very quick at picking up on what is good and what is not so good. Sometimes you can rescue stuff, just by telling them what they need to work on. Other times, you just have to be a bit kind.

Regarding the current eBook revolution, how do you see the future of the book industry?

I’m too old to know much about it; I don’t use a computer. But CDs are a great way to perform poetry, particularly if there’s a book with it, and you can go back and forth. That could be very promising for us, because people were never fully satisfied with poetry books.

And finally, which of your many prizes are you most proud of ?

I’ve never been asked that one before! The most memorable was the Premio Mondello, which we collected in Sicily in 2005. We were staying at a very luxurious hotel on a street named after government officials killed by the mafia.

You knew where you stood. One day, three big, tough men shouldered their way through the hotel entrance, dressed in beautiful, expensive cloth. They owned Sicily. You knew not to look at the ‘honoured society’. That was fun!

MATTHEW OLDFIELD

Les Murray’s latest work, Taller When Prone, is now available .

Message To A Loved One

Message To A Loved One You came to me again last night In soft shadows of crackling flame.

I was in that half-way land of memory and dream And there you came to lay your claim Coated in wet and covered in cold And as you walked you left puddles of sea behind you.

Your legs were tired but you made them kneel At the foot of my armchair Where you placed your salty lips upon my dying hands And sweetly kissed the furrowed lines.

The framed family looked out in odd discord Knowing they were never meant to be.

But your thrilling mouth and beckoning eyes Erased all guilt from me.

ANJALEE SALTER

We danced like we did that first night.

When you held me close and promised A future that went to the sea.

Baby Tastes The Bus

Baby Tastes The Bus First the handle, tongue lolloped along in delight as though removing the warm, sweet ketchup from a hotdog sausage. A keen toothless smile; this kid knows we’ ve got it wrong.

The antique tables and dusty books shuffled awkwardly Embarrassed by this mistress they had never seen.

You made that happen, sweetheart.

She turns her lips and the face follows: the window sill is next, jaw detached, wrapped around a transient patisserie, her eyes scan the space for applause.

But in the end my creaking bones and thinning veins Were no match for your trapped youth.

So I had to let you go again.

And now my tears make puddles of their own.

KATY JOHNSTON

And what now? The ubiquitous round of peek-a-boo, the assured enchantment of passengers in visual range.

That smile spreads – First the elderly, then the mums, wildly, the parents soon-to-be, even teenagers in the pit of youth try, but fail, to hold back their smirk.

The businessmen are the last. But yes, they also adopt the grin one by one, two by two, each tight lip turns to a gape.

They lean forward as though in prayer, heads bowed, minds open, licking the adjoining seat.

RUSSELL JONES

KATHRINE YAN

19

Pacing

Pacing

S he paced in the waiting room in short sharp strides; her hands flitting in and out of her pockets, alternating between clasping together and hanging limp. The only other occupant of the room sat in one of the chairs which ran along the wall; he was flicking through an old movie magazine, his eyes sliding over articles about the latest releases. Without stopping or looking at him the girl addressed her companion.

“How can you act so calm?”

“Why do you think I’m acting?”

“You mean you’re not worried?”

“Why would I be worried?”

“Stop answering my questions with questions.”

“Ok.” She stopped and turned to look at him.

“How can you not be worried about this? You don’t know what he is going to do, what if it hurts?”

“If it hurts it hurts.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

He looked up from the magazine and met her gaze.

“It’s the dentist, it’s a check-up, he will poke about in my mouth for a minute, decide everything is fine and charge me for the pleasure of forty-five minutes waiting for an appointment that lasts all of thirty seconds.”

“But what if he doesn’t?”

“Then he doesn’t. Then I have to come back in a few weeks and pay even more money to get my teeth fixed. But that won’t happen, my teeth are fine.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I don’t know, you made me book an appointment just before yours, why am I here?”

“Moral support.” She began pacing again.

A.J. CAMERON

Just Write A Poem

Just Write A Poem it’s easy to do just tell the truth or tell truths I should say but don’t tell show so I suppose show the truths you know just think about things like rhyme and rhythm or rhythm and rhyme I mean and exactly say whatever you mean do you know what exactly I mean? like make sense and make connection not to make things up per se but talk about ‘ideas in things’ I think Wallace Cummings said or someone like him give or take you know like break the lines in different ways use words that just put it right or put it right just I should say at the end of the day let words play in the end let them be(nd) ALEXANDER WILLIAMS

How can there be peace on Earth while flames lick Arcadia?: Part I

How can there be peace on Earth while flames lick Arcadia?: Part I When I stalk the midnight streets, And watch this town ablaze, I think good thoughts and of Albion, And the meaning of past days.

I think of drinking and writing, And smoking and fucking, And of clumsy passion behind closed doors.

I think of friends and regrets past, Of love that once was, but never really had.

I watch snowflakes melt amidst the ash, And pull this coat around me, Why smile at Happy memories?

That was all yesterday.

An Open Letter To My Mother

An Open Letter To My Mother

J KING

As dust fills my lungs I lie screaming – I am Picasso’s horse.

But bruise, absorb.

Dust and sand can blind, Mother, When love and destruction are all we see.

Our home, our Guernica; Bombs will always fall but The dust will always settle, Mother,

No victor can be named in this fight, When we’re all raised to the ground.

Instead our dust

I promise.

Just remember, Eyes that witness atrocities don’t scar

Will settle once more; Our bodies will be empty but heavy, As sacks of dust hide the heart.

Intervention

Intervention

KIERAN JOHNSON

Why do you look at him? You gaze as he talks his talk, watch as he walks his walk. What does he have that I don’t?

You don’t have to answer that. He’s bigger, better, stronger, but I love you so much more.

Clearly, you’re not thinking right, and you need my help to deal with this problem.

So I killed him.

I didn’t want to, but he kept fighting back, so it became easier to kill him.

The next two didn’t die easily either, but after that, no one would look at you, let alone date you.

And you became desperate. At first simply for conversation and company, but then for human contact and sex and everything else and you fell into my arms.

We were meant to be. I’m glad you finally realise that.

NEIL COLQUHOUN

21

Wet feet. The smell of shit. Cold. He crawled out of his sandbagged shell-scrape and tried to

stamp some warmth into his feet. It didn’t work. He lit one of his precious cigarettes and cast his bleary gaze across the ruined city slowly revealing itself in the insipid dawn light. Leith was burning. A pair of enemy destroyers had crawled up the Forth under cover of the deadening blanket of cloying autumnal fog and levelled the Cramond batteries during the night, and with nothing left to threaten them were now sulking offshore in the wet dawn light and smearing the cloud banks pastel orange with their guns as they enthusiastically reduced the port to glass-glittered rubble and its inhabitants to half-clothed offal. Throwing the smouldering butt into an overflowing cesspit, he shouldered his rifle and picked his way down from the top of the Seat , through the refugee camps and down towards Princes Street. Outside the remains of Waverley a girl was begging. Twelve? Thirteen, perhaps? Difficult to tell because of the livid shrapnel scar bisecting her face. Shame. Probably saved her from the inevitable rape that awaited any woman on her own in the cratered necropolis of the New Town. Probably. He shook his head and avoided her gaze as he pushed through the scrap-patched door of the Balmoral and ordered a drink he could ill afford. Women had become an increasingly rare sight in the city over the hard summer, and most of those that remained were orphans, widows or whores. Or all three, he mused bleakly as he watched the abject creature pleading with the growing trickle of hunched and coated figures that ignored her, and wondered which she was. The thought stayed in his mind for less than a minute before he realised he had finished the harsh moonshine that was the bar’s only fare and rummaged through his pockets for change. Not enough. He took the magazine off his rifle and prised out one of the two rounds it contained, one of the two rounds he had not yet pawned to make life in the corpse city bearable. The sallow-faced barman tapped it gently on the bar before nodding and refilling his grubby glass. He resumed his damp vigil by the grime-streaked window and looked past the starving girl at the slow death of a capital. In the flat grey half-light, shattered roofs moaned a wordless lament at tram tracks bomb-twisted vertical into jagged black fingers clawing a city’s impotent rage at the rain-weeping sky.

A.H. LEWIS

To Edinburgh

To Edinburgh

Call me out of my brickwork and take me to the quiet fields of your night. Armour my limbs, helmet me, batter my drums with your tartan pipes.

Fire your proud arrows like hail storms, bring out your castle and your cannons for war.

Your familiar wind falls ~ a crag, your molten skyline is reborn.

Spit your heart of Midlothian for me: tell your gothic spires that I am coming, your high-streets that they are mine, tell your gardens that I do not know mercy and that I cannot return without them.

RUSSELL JONES

SAM KIRK

Events & Competitions

Events & Competitions

Six Word Story Competition Ernest Hemingway believed that a good writer could create a piece of fiction using only six words- a belief which has inspired our next competition. We’re taking flash fiction to the extreme, and asking our contributors to submit us their six word stories. Submissions will be accepted until January 15th, and can be sent to PublishEDinburgh@gmail.com The winner will have their worked published in our next issue, and win a prize! If in need of inspiration, turn to Hemingway’s own six word story: “For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

PublishED Book Sale on September 22nd, 2010 PublishED Bake Sale on November 9th, 2010

Edinburgh based band, Chasing Owls, performing at our Variety Night on November 2nd, 2010

23

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