Blogs & news
Blog: Recent Posts
News & Blog Archives:
The Falling Sky
Michael Gove has been in the news a lot lately. For those of you readers lucky enough not to know who Michael Gove is, he’s the UK Government Minister responsible for education in England (fortunately not here in Scotland or elsewhere in the UK).
He’s been in the news a lot lately for a variety of reasons – I suspect the underlying reason is his ambition to be Prime Minister. His department recently published new guidelines about what students should study for their English literature GCSE qualification. Read More
I’m giving a talk with the poet Simon Barraclough at this year’s National Astronomy Meeting about writer-in-residencies (or should that be writers-in-residence?)
Vicki Jarrett, fabulous short story writer and author of ‘Nothing is Heavy’ (published by Linen press and short-listed for the Saltire Society Scottish First Book of the Year Award 2013) suggested I take part in this latest blog-tour-interview-yourself arrangement. This one is all about the ‘writing process’ which made me nervous because I’m not sure what my writing process actually is but presumably I should have one. So I thought I’d give it a go. If nothing else I’ll act as an Awful Warning for you, rather than a Shining Example (and Vicki’s own blog on her process is here).
1) What am I working on?
I’ve just finished a collection of short stories and am in the throes of punting it around. These are stories that I’ve been mulling over for a few years, but most of them were written during 2013. They’re all inspired by various bits and pieces of science. Some are loosely based on rather peculiar historical fragments; such as the suffragette bombing of the Royal Observatory in Edinburgh, Robert Oppenheimer’s attempts to poison his PhD supervisor and Einstein’s forgotten child. Others riff on science’s obsessions with dark matter and DNA.
Now I’m thinking about the next ‘thing’. It’s probably going to be a novel, but the idea of sitting down and writing a full-length novel is somewhat scary so I’m just calling it a ‘thing’. I think it will be partly about Schrödinger writing the wave equation for quantum physics in a TB sanatorium high in the Swiss Alps accompanied by a mystery woman. What’s intriguing is that at first he himself didn’t understand what this equation actually meant. I like that idea of creating something and not understanding or being in control of its implications. And coincidentally when I was a kid, me and my family went on holiday to the same part of Switzerland. This may or may not be relevant to the ‘thing’.
2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?
I’m not sure what genre I write in. My novel has been called science fiction and also literary fiction. Neither label bothers me, but I do get cross about the elitism that floats around literary fiction when so much of it can be as formulaic as any other genre. I’m quite keen on the ‘lablit’ label – fiction about real science.
3) Why do I write what I do?
Because I can’t write anything else. I can only write what I write. And I’m driven to writing about science, about the efforts to understand the real material stuff that surrounds us. Scientists are storytellers, they just (mostly) don’t know it. I’m a storyteller about science.
4) How does your writing process work?
Oh dear, there’s no avoiding it now. It starts with a lot of random reading, staring out of windows and doodling illegible notes. And there’s a niggling thought – an obsession – a writing scratch that has to be itched. For my first book this was ‘just what would happen if you discovered something really peculiar in the sky? Something that seemed to challenge standard science?’
(At any one time I have quite a few of these obsessions – but I think the difficulty is knowing if they’re big enough to take the weight of an entire novel)
Then I sit down and write. I have tried to plan it all out beforehand but that doesn’t work because then I lose interest. If I know what’s going to happen, what’s the point of writing? So I write to discover. This does mean that in the first draft there are a LOT of dead ends – bits of plot that don’t go anywhere, characters that emerge out of a vacuum and then disappear again etc. etc.
Then I redraft. At this point I might feel ok about it.
Then I give the draft to other writers and get their feedback. I might stop feeling ok about it, or I might carry on.
Finally I have a draft that I am simultaneously feeling ok about, as well as hating every single word. That’s when I know I can stop.
Of course this is a rather sanitised version of the process; I’ve edited out all the endless obsessive rereadings of my favourite authors to try and understand the secrets of their writing. And the tears and biscuits and wine and the moaning at other writers and listening to them moaning… it’s not pretty.
Seriously, I think a large part of my writing process includes thinking and pondering and reading. I’m not trying to escape the writing part, but I know I’m capable of mindlessly generating words that don’t really get me anywhere. Sometimes a bit of nastily objective thinking (‘Just what am I trying to do here?’ and ‘Am I doing what I want to do?’) is worth a thousand words.
Next up is Russell Jones, science fiction poet, editor, Edwin Morgan expert and author of two wonderful pamphlets; The Last Refuge (Forest Press, 2009) and Spaces of Their Own (Stewed Rhubarb Press, 2013). HIs full length collection ‘The Green Dress whose Girl is Sleeping’ will be out next year.
Recently I’ve been reading about quantum physics in another (futile) attempt to understand it. I studied it years ago as part of my degree, and I’ve read umpteen books about it. The first book I ever read about it – when I was a teenager – was ‘The Dancing Wu Li Masters’. Before that I’d never even heard of the term ‘quantum physics’ but that book got me hooked and was one of the reasons why I did a physics degree.
The reason for all the reading is because I want to write some fiction about, or inspired by, quantum physics. But the immediate problem is: what sort of fiction could that be? Traditional realist fiction is by its very nature at odds with the findings of quantum physics. The former uses words to generate some sort of underlying reality in the reader’s head, although this might be different for each reader. The standard interpretation of quantum physics is that there is no underlying reality, all we can do is explain observations and not invent some reality that cannot be directly observed. Although Einstein disagreed with this interpretation ( which was most famously articulated by Bohr in his debates with Einstein), it has come to be accepted. Think, for example, of the nature of light, sometimes it behaves as if it were a particle, other times as if it were a wave. Einstein said that this showed quantum physics was inadequate. Bohr argued that light simply exhibits either wave-like or particle-like characteristics, depending on the experimental set-up.
So, traditional fiction about quantum physics seems like a non-starter. There is quite a lot of fiction inspired by the many-worlds interpretation of quantum physics, in which new Universes pop into being every time an experiment is carried out. But there is little fiction that seems to be directly inspired by the more standard ‘Copenhagen’ interpretation, in which the mutually contradictory realities of an object can co-exist in this Universe unless and until that object is observed. This interpretation is illustrated by Schrödinger’s cat, an apparently reductio ad absurdum thought experiment which cannot be faulted. The cat is both dead and alive until the box is opened and the cat is observed (although sometimes when I observe my cat, he’s so deeply asleep and so furry I panic and think he’s stopped breathing…).
And how do you capture those apparently mutually contradictory states in fiction? I can’t think of many examples. One not so immediately obvious example is ‘A Dark-Adapted Eye’ by Barbara Vine (the pen-name of Ruth Rendall). In this thriller, the story turns on which one of two sisters is the mother of a child. There is compelling evidence both for and against each woman being the mother, and the book never resolves the problem.
I’ve been inspired by this in writing a short story, loosely based on the real-life Italian physicist Majorana who disappeared in 1938, when he was 32 years old. He most likely committed suicide by jumping overboard off a boat, but there is evidence that he may have actually staged this suicide and continued to live in Argentina. So he seems to have been both dead and alive…
Thought I’d take a breather from my usual level of pontificating and write about some more practical stuff, such as some interesting things/events that I have/will be part of:
Nice events in the future:
I’m reading at the Dunbar Literary Festival on 18th June, with fellow New Writer Awardees Andrew Sclater, Katy McAulay, and Erika Shorter.
I’m also taking part in Rob A MacKenzie’s Olympithon charity reading with a zillion other people at the Bongo Club on 19th June.
And I’m reading at the Significant Seven event at Hendersons at St John’s, on 21st June, along with six other recently published authors, such as Vicki Jarrett, Peter Burnett and Dickson Telfer.
Nice things have happened in the past:
I recently spoke at two interesting events about the interaction between literature and science. Both stemmed from my involvement with the Genomics Forum (now sadly an ex-Forum). The first event was at the Scottish Poetry Library and was about the poetry-genomics project that Matthias Wienroth (now at University of Northumbria) kicked off, some of us who took part in in chatted about the challenges of working on this interdisciplinary project which was designed to generate visual poems related to genetics through encouraging artists and scientists to work together. The outputs of that project are here.
The second event was at Looking Glass Books, to discuss the first findings of the ongoing What Scientists Read project, initiated by Sarah Dillon and Christine Knight. Too often the interaction between science and literature is presented as a one-way flow, the assumption being that writers are influenced by science but not vice versa. This project tests that assumption by asking scientists what they read and how it has influenced their work.
Somewhat related to that; I wrote an article for the Scotsman about ‘The Falling Sky’ and the interaction between astronomy and literature.
And on Lablit I reviewed the latest book ‘The Day without Yesterday’ by another ex-astronomer-now-writer, Stuart Clark, this novel completes his great historical trilogy about astronomy from Kepler to Einstein.
When I started writing my novel, I knew I wanted to explore the effect of an apparent challenge to the Big Bang theory upon an individual character as well as the astronomical community as a whole. But what form could this challenge take? The theory is based on several well-established pieces of observational evidence, principally the uniform nature of the cosmic microwave background, the relative abundances of the primordial elements such as hydrogen and helium, the global evolution of galaxies, and finally the one-to-one relationship between recessional velocity of the Universe (i.e. redshift) and the distance to galaxies. I ended up choosing the last of these. In the book it is challenged when Jeanette and her colleague find an apparent physical link between galaxies at different redshifts.
Why did I decide on this particular aspect of the Big Bang? Because it was relatively straightforward to explain, and I hoped to build a visual picture in readers’ minds of these galaxies the way that Jeanette and others might see them on the computer screen, two blobs with a string of ‘something’ between them. And as Jeanette struggles with connecting and communicating with other people in her life, and has done since her difficult childhood it seemed to me to be an inevitable metaphor for her isolation. Perhaps that’s why she’s so keen to ‘see’ this connection. It may console her for the lack of connnections around her.
I’m wary of books that use science simply as metaphor for characters’ feelings, because science is more than that. It offers us a way of seeing the external physical world; it doesn’t solely exist to reflect our own desires and needs back at us. This (mis)use of science as metaphor seems to me to be fundamentally pre-Copernican.
In spite of that, I used the image of connected galaxies as a way of exploring Jeanette’s view of life. But I hope I explored it for its own sake, and showed that the connected galaxies resonate with Jeanette because of the emotions she’s invested in her understanding of the Big Bang theory. I think any metaphor needs to be earned, you can’t string together two unconnected ideas or images just for the sake of pretty words. It needs to be somehow ‘real’.
People have asked me what genre I write, and I’ve often been introduced at events as a science fiction author. It’s not how I see myself, but who’s to say that they’re wrong? The boundary between ‘literary’ fiction (which I think I write) and science fiction is so blurred it may not be a proper boundary at all. And while I like to think of myself as a literary writer I have a horrible feeling this may just be simple snobbishness.
The ‘establishment’ argument for the supremacy of literary fiction over other types of expression is that the former is simply better written; it’s more closely concerned with style. Champions of literary genre also argue this form is less likely to be circumscribed by convention, it’s the genre where anything goes.
But even though literary fiction happens to be my favourite genre as a reader, I think this is a false argument for many reasons. Other genres’ lesser concern for language may mean they’re more capable of examining the real world and use their tropes to be more adventurous; crime fiction has shown itself capable of examining power structures and corruption. Science fiction can anticipate scientific developments and their impact on society.
Our desire to categorise writing into genres and sub-genres is a human tendency. It happens elsewhere in life too. I’ve just received an email from a reader who has pointed out a mistake in my novel, and as this reader points out, this sort of mistake would only be made by an astrophysicist trying to pass herself as a ‘proper’ astronomer, i.e. someone who actually knows the night sky and the names of the stars and constellations in it (this tends to be truer of amateur astronomers than professional ones because they spend more time actually looking at the sky).
There’s the apocryphal story of a famous astrophysicist out for a walk one night with a friend who pointed up at the sky and asked ‘What’s the name of that star?’ ‘How should I know?’ Prof answered, ‘I’m an astrophysicist, not a boy scout!’
My first novel ‘The Falling Sky’ is published today by Freight Books. This is the latest stage in a long journey because I started writing it several years ago, and I still can’t quite believe that it actually exists as a book. I wrote it because I wanted to convey what it feels like to be an astronomer, studying unimaginably distant objects but still having to wrestle with the complexities of everyday life.
The protagonist of the book, Jeanette, works on the Big Bang theory which tells us how the Universe was created and developed. She finds this more straightforward than coming to terms with her own history, and a childhood that has been defined by loss and silence. Her attachment to the Big Bang theory is partly due to its appeal as a story of origins; it gives her life structure and order. She doesn’t realise how much she relies on it until she discovers something that may undermine it…
I realised as I was working on this novel, that writing fiction can be similar to doing science. I had set up the premise, or the initial conditions for the experiment, and I had to fulfil the premise or conduct that experiment by writing the novel. There was only one way of writing it that was right. Several plot developments had to be axed because they felt wrong. Even though fiction is not real, it still has to be true in both the writer’s and the readers’ heads.
There’s already been one very nice review in the Daily Mail, and I’ll be talking about the book, at a couple of events this month:
Sunday 14th April, with Tendai Huchu at Aye Write! in Glasgow
Wednesday 24th April at Looking Glass Books in Edinburgh