Podcast: How To Write a London Novel

[Katie-Ellen]

PODCAST

With Will Self and other London writers. Ben Aaronovitch could get a mention. Reviewers who say they don't read fantasy have also said they have read Rivers of London for his wonderful portraiture of streets they know:

London Books are big business, and London's open for Business (isn't it, Sadiq Khan )

So what do you say. Let's put up a few more statues to our great novelists.

Says this proud northerner, and why ever wouldn't I.

And not just in London.

London's neglect of its novelists

 

[Matnov]

As a born and bred Londoner, then I actually think it is a good thing that London does not make to much fuss about its novelists. London is far to vast both in terms of size, history and populace to ever be able to honour anybody who narrates its lives, its foibles and its general contrariness. It is simply a place that cannot be defined by a single person and therefore, it can not honour any specific writer who attempts to fictionalise its cobbles and those who tread upon them.

And if the single greatest ever London novelist expressed a direct desire to have no memorial, then I think that nobody else is worthy of one either. It would always be seen as merely a silver medal, no matter how impressive their work may have been.

London is more than just a city. And nobody can ever truly capture that nor be elevated as being able to represent it. To attempt to do so would be nothing more than pure egotistical insanity.

I love London, have been shaped by it but even so, it changes with such a rapidity that I have no real concept of what London now means to a kid growing up in the Peckham of 2016. Nor what it means for them to travel up to the West End, to use the buses, to venture onto the underground, to use its schools. In short, it reinvents itself almost by the month whilst always retaining that special something that can never be truly captured in any creative form.

The only consistent is the Thames and for me the only constant of any novel worthy of defining itself as being a London themed one is at least a minor inclusion of it.

You want to even begin to attempt to understand what the City means, then the Thames has to be starting, the middle and ending point. Nothing else comes close and if you want a true monument to any London novelist, then a mooch along the south bank and a browse through the second hand book stalls should be more than adequate.

But no statues. Because the pigeons would only crap over them. Which sums London up really.

 

[Katie-Ellen]

Really interesting comments from someone who knows the city better than many. Does an ever changing city have any such thing as a soul, or a spirit, contained in the man made fabric. Or is the genius locii contained only within its natural landscape; the reason it came into being in the first place. Capturing that elusive special something, whether it's a city, a country, a place in time, is exactly the right kind of challenge for a writer, even if the attempt is a weedy failure.

Dickens the greatest ever...now there's a discussion. But we can't tell people how to remember us after we're dead.

Rivers of London, mentioned above...one mightn't call literature, but it starts and ends with the Thames. Urban Fantasy...a war at the tidal point, between Mother and Father Thames; erstwhile fearful harbingers of cholera. OK. No more statues. Disease opportunities. The pigeons though, the pigeons...(here it's more seagulls but certainly, we have them, one likes to poop on the balcony. ) But they crap everywhere. Ought they call the shots and, um, be allowed to rule the roost, or seriously, must we in future design and build for easy-wipe.

 

[James Marinero]

Funny that, and I could be wrong, but one of the greatest writers about London was a Portsmouth lad, now who the dickens would that be?

 

[Sea-shore]

I passed two scenes, side by side, observing the contrast of London.
Two young men standing around in the glare of the full sun, one black skinned, handsome face and lean body, slouching against the wall next to the communal door to the council flats. His friend stood opposite him, his back to me, in a white vest and baggy jeans, both not speaking. Idle. A hot afternoon to kill.
Next door, an attractive and lively pub 'The Kings Arms', a white couple in their early thirties, sat down under the cool shade of leafy boughs, drinks in their hands, laughing, talking. Long lunch break. Busy afternoon.
Two scenes side by side; two worlds.

 

[Sea-shore]

I just wanted to be clear that I mean no offence to anyone with my post above. I wrote this because the image of this stuck in my mind and as writers, I wanted to record it and share it.

 

[Katie-Ellen]

That's all right, isn't it? This is a place for writing, however the Muse strikes.

Anyone had a chance to listen to the podcast?

 

[Sea-shore]

Thanks. Yes, it was interesting though some of it was a bit muffled at times (or it could be that I just didn't know what they were talking about ).

I scrolled down afterwards to see the other Guardian podcasts and found this one fascinating.
Podcast on the art of editing: The art of editing – books podcast

 

[KG Christopher]

I grew up in Pimlico, was born in Westminster hospital on Horse Ferry road, my first serious girlfriend was from the North Peckham Estate. I used to box on Walworth Road and in Peckham above the old Kiss night club.