My short story, Munch’s Piano is published today in Fictive Dream. As noted here, it’s one tiny victory I’m very pleased to celebrate, and since I’m celebrating, I’m very tempted to go for a big blather and a best-production-accountant-at-the-Oscars-style speech.
But that might sound a little smug. So I won’t.
They say anyone who can be prevented from writing, should be, and there must have been moments during the last few years when friends and family wished it were possible as I headed off to my own internal world of crazy imagination, staring into the distance at the most unlikely moments and scribbling notes on my phone. Family in particular must have wondered if this new pandemic-era hobby would ever lead to anything, so it’s a particular thank-you to them for putting up with it.
The nadir must have been at the Munch Museum in Oslo last February. Most of the visit passed off surprisingly well. Very little ‘are we done yet, Dad?’ And, amazingly, not a hint of ‘what is this tosh?’ The whole family seemed genuinely charmed by Munch’s warm, heartfelt portraiture. ‘Wow. It’s like real painting.’ Oh, yes. Edvard could turn it up when he wanted to.
But having gone there to feast on Munch’s work, I couldn’t quite prevent myself from taking in the small diorama in a darkened room, around which were displayed various Munch artefacts: cutlery, medicine bottles, letters. In the centre, various larger items, possibly original, probably not, apparently spray-painted black, formed a kind of tableau illustrating the mothballs-and-woodworm reality of Munch’s final years, with black and white snippets of home movies projected over the items in shifting, ghostly arcs — a palette of despair. At the focus, a piano.
I must have stood staring at the thing for ages. Finally it really was time for ‘are we done yet, Dad?’ but the idea had taken root.
So, on this day of all days, it’s surely apposite to stop with all the blather, and let the words speak for themselves. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present:
PS: Here’s the speech anyway.
I’d like to thank all my friends at Jericho Writers for their constant support, ceaseless enthusiasm, and unerring ability to tell me I’m being an arse when I am, in fact, being an arse. It seems almost unfair to name particular people, but a massive shout-out in particular to Karen Vincent-Jones for her ever-present no-nonsense feedback, to Gianna Schorah and Kathy Annandale for reading the manuscript, picking at the loose threads, and smiling in a coy but knowing way as the thing unravelled, and finally to my unmissable friends over at Amsterdam Writers Group, who kept me going when the biggest inspiration was at the bottom of a glass.
Congratulations on your publication! Every victory is worth celebrating.
Excellent story. Tense, atmospheric (the coldness!), very interesting and - best of all - unsettling. A story that stays with you.