Supermarket Matters

I know a lot of writers. It's primarily because of their love of writing that I have bonded with them; gotten to know them and continued to stay in touch. 

Mark Chatterley - Supermarket Matters

Mark Chatterley was not one of these people. He loves to write - he's also very good at it, despite his protestations to the contrary - but this friend was one I met at the peak of adolescence. We got drunk with mutual friends, made our Religious Studies teacher wish he'd had the sense to stick to Maths, and generally bounced back and forth in an easy, and thankfully, lasting friendship. 

Through being linked on social networking sites, the term 'Supermarket Matters' is very familiar as Mark's latest writing project. I'm ashamed to say I hadn't really taken the time to investigate until this morning. To be honest, now that I have, I'm blown away by his commitment and productivity since the idea was first conceived. 

So many writers, myself included, dream of the far off day that we can begin to make a living from stringing sentences together. We read books, talk knowledgeably and perhaps even start blogs so that we don't feel the creativity is completely wasted. So very rarely, one of us breaks the rules and actually does something proactive. 

Supermarket Matters was Mark's brain child - "originally a vehicle to help me – and others like me – break into ‘the industry'" as self-described on his blog. A series of script-based pod-casts following a no doubt amusing story line through the running of a Supermarket. What has emerged though, is a strong network of script-writers, techies and enthusiasts - making this a very real and very credible project. Having invested talent, time and money into Supermarket Matters, this post is simply my way of raising a glass to an old friend and budding script-writer - also sending potential writers in the right direction to either get involved with Mark's creation, to simply see how it's done, or to shame themselves into also doing something a little more proactive with their writing talents. 

Things to have a look at:

The Blog - Supermarket Matters

Mark on Twitter

Supermarket Matters on Facebook

The Politically Correct Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

I hope, that wherever Mark Twain hangs out in the afterlife, he has somehow managed to avoid hearing about the latest crime against literature - not least because it involves his own master-piece. Would he be rolling in his grave, I wonder? Or simply rolling his eyes like I am?

If you haven't already been linked to one of the many articles detailing this story, I'll outline briefly: In Professor Alan Gribben's new edition of the classic (publishing under NewSouth Books), some 219 instances of the word 'nigger' will be replaced with the word 'slave'. They also plan to replace the colloquial 'injun' with 'indian'. 

Far be it for me to keep my mouth shut. 

I hold great affection for Huckleberry Finn - and though that affection was originally born out of gratitude (it was one of the only assigned texts for an American literature course that didn't make me want to put my head through a wall), I grew to love it for the incredible work that it was. 

So needless to say, I would always have had opinions - loud opinions - about altering such a classic. More than that though, I believe the decision represents a much deeper problem within society today. 

Huckleberry Finn is an anti-racist book. Twain deliberately used the offensive terminology to give his readers a very stark view of racial attitude in the 1800's. Huck begins his fictional journey by befriending slave Jim while both running away from the same town. Huck's main motivation for escape is that his guardian intends to 'sivilize' him - Jim simply doesn't want to be sold and plans to buy his family out of slavery. Throughout the story, the characters become firm friends and through verbalising his troubled life, Jim radically alters Huck's view on race, slavery and life in general. If ever there were a more blatant message of anti-racism portrayed in a novel, I have not read it. 

The act of replacing the terminology, is far more offensive than the words themselves. Not only are NewSouth Books putting new words into the mouth of a dead man, they are doing so under the thinly veiled guise of 'updating'. Forgive my cynicism, but I suspect it has far more to do with sales. Consider this: 

Our world stock of literary classics are fair game, which is why most large publishing houses have their own editions. No one publisher has the rights - allowing a variety of texts to be published with different branding, introductions and notes - effectively, giving a consumer the widest of choices. They will inevitably chose the edition which best suits their needs - whether that is making a book-shelf look well rounded and chic, or obtaining the most comprehensive scholarly annotations for course purposes. It's a happy position to be in if you're a customer. Not so much, if you're a publisher competing with everyone else. Because of the racial connotations in Twain's work, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn has been banned in hundreds of schools across the world. A tragedy for teachers who long to place the master-piece on the curriculum, but a potential gold-mine for the publisher who dares to alter history. Under this new edition, constrictions within these schools may be lifted for Huck and Jim - in fact the text may well be adopted and taught annually. There is scope for a good year of high sales targets here before the rest of the publishing world eventually gives in and follows suit. My Lord, I hope the rest of them have a little more integrity. 

So would that not be worth it? To have younger students studying a book which I, myself have described as incredible? 

No. It would definitely not be worth the sacrifice on a variety of different levels - the very least of which is the equivalent of scribbling on the Mona Lisa. What I would most like to know, is why this particular book? Why now? And where on earth will it end?

Peter Griffin and Huck Griffin - Family Guy

If we accept that the potential for offense is an acceptable reason for censorship, where do we draw that line? Russel Brand certainly wouldn't have a publisher. Jimmy Carr wouldn't be allowed to make rape victims the butt of his jokes. Family Guy would become a children's cartoon - one which did not mercilessly mock race, gender, disability, disease, obesity and a further list of categories so long I can't possibly remember all of them. And here's the exasperating issue - all of the above seek to mock. Twain sought to educate. As funny as I find Family Guy, I still know which is less offensive. 

And this word - this abhorrent word, which causes so much offense... "The 'n' word." Or simply the term 'nigger' to anyone not terrified of uttering a pronounceable group of letters, is now one of the most popular lyrical additions to rap albums world-wide. Films, books and music all still continue to include it - is it acceptable if it's said by the 'cool kids'? To mock and to glamorize is fine, but to use this word to outline racial attitude and drive home the realities of slavery and oppression is not? 

To edit Twain's book is criminal. To take his story out of its context and claim to have updated it is to have missed his message entirely. It's also an attempt at re-writing history among pages we have no right to edit. Not since Baa Baa Black Sheep was officially condemned and re-taught as Baa Baa Rainbow Sheep have I been this incensed about todays absurd obsession with political correctness.

Avoid this edition like the literary plague it is, people. We'll be sorry if we don't. 

Writing for Winter

Winter words are, without question, the most inspired. It's the season of onomatopoeia: crisp, sparkle, crunch, etc... and for those who shun the bah-humbug, Winter holds Christmas in the palm of its hand like a warm, beating, festive nugget. One full of presents and turkey.

Blankets, open-fires, mugs of hot-chocolate, red noses, and mittens. Summer holds the most enthralling memories of childhood for me, but Winter will always be my true love. Frost and thin blankets of snow turn mundane, ugly housing estates into perfect postcard scenes; breath escapes in cloudy plumes as soon as the front door is opened. And though youth holds dear the snowball-fights the snowmen, and the sledging; contemplative winter tranquility - the kind that sets in during your teenage years and nestles in until you're hooked - wins hands down.

I wonder if, like me, everyone else spends the Winter months trying to recreate that sense of peace and utter contentment we hear in the poems and songs of yesteryear. Does anyone actually roast chestnuts on an open fire? Celebrate in warmly lit houses with Mistletoe and Wine? Does that inner exhale, the 'this is exactly how I wanted it to be', actually exist?

For me, it does. I'm not saying that everyday from November to February exists in an exuberant joy-filled bubble - in fact, the moments I'm talking about are very rare. They are unexpected. And they are priceless.

This year, I had just moved out of the flat I shared with my husband and daughter. It was, to put it nicely, a complete hole. One which would have been bearable if it weren't for the rotting floorboards that soaked all clothes, linen and furniture with a sickly mildew smell. After months of badgering our estate agent, our kitchen floor still sank a few inches in the middle and the smell continued to exacerbate my already chronic morning sickness courtesy of offspring numero-deux. Finally, we decided to admit defeat and temporarily encroach on my parent's hospitality. The move itself was hell in a snow-globe. The heating wasn't working, so our fingers were stiff and painful while carelessly throwing possessions in boxes and eventually transporting them down the flight of slippery concrete stairs to the car. Seven hours, two sandwiches and not one cup of tea later, the last load was done and I collapsed in a big girly heap on my mother's sofa, shuddering and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. In typical mum-style, she immediately sent me off for a hot bath with a large mug of strong, sweet tea; my toes and my mood began to thaw out as the hot-tap threw steam akin to a small volcano around the bathroom.

This all seems important to mention; I suppose a feeling of utter relief, calm and introspection often comes as a direct result of a few horrible hours you're happy to say goodbye to. I was red and wrinkled - wrapping myself in a thick toweled dressing-gown when laughter from downstairs floated into ear-shot. Company. Warmth. A large double-bed with linen that did not smell of floorboards. That was my moment this year - when I sat back and asked myself if I had ever needed anything more than that to feel completely whole and content.

Writers recognise how glorious minutes like that are - which is why they try to recreate them. Characters curled up with hot-chocolate watching the rain through dark windows; protagonists watching their family's festive cheer full of nostalgia and love. We spend a lot of time trying to articulate something which for all intents and purposes, completely defies explanation.

It seems odd - that this is a winter-exclusive experience for me. For some reason, that kind of inner warmth only ever materializes when it's cold outside.