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Cinnamon Blog

Dec 06 2021

How I Publicised Britannia Street

Beth Cox is one of a growing list of Cinnamon authors who has taken advantage of the Leaf by Leaf hybrid publishing imprint to launch her book into the world. We select books once or twice a year and the competition has been rigorous so far — poetry, full length fiction, short stories, creative fiction and nonfiction, memoir and prose that blurs these boundaries have all featured and it’s an exciting venture with high quality writing and lots of attention to design.

Cinnamon provides a marketing guide and full access to our professional distribution channels which gets books on all the online platforms with an enhanced data service for the bibliographic information and also into catalogues for independent bookshops as well as availability across international markets. Increasingly, authors at all levels are the foremost and best promoters of their work but the Leaf by Leaf authors take on more of this and have been doing so to great effect.

This is Beth’s experience of launching her book, which is a story of family secrets and resilience; a compelling account of how we deal with loss of so many kinds, even the loss of self.

 

When I heard from Cinnamon Press that my memoir, Britannia Street, had been accepted for publication through their Leaf-by-Leaf scheme I was thrilled. The contract stated that I would undertake to publicise Britannia Street myself. I was assured that Cinnamon would make the book available through book wholesalers as well as on Amazon. This means that the book can be purchased through retail booksellers online or by ordering through the retail shops. This gives authors a leg-up and a starting place. But the rest was up to me.

I wasn’t too daunted by this because I had previously self-published and self-publicised my first book. The first thing I did was to find someone to set up a website for me. Through asking literary-minded friends locally I found someone who understood my lack of skill with technology and who wouldn’t charge the earth. She was very helpful and quickly set up a simple but beautiful website and Facebook page for me. I already had an Instagram account through which I followed the author, Clover Stroud. Clover and I had already met in person, and she offered to set up an Instagram Live to discuss my book. This is something Clover does regularly, talking mainly about loss and grief. Clover is a skilled and sensitive interviewer, and this started the process of launching my book. I found several new followers as a result, and received messages telling me they had bought the book

The next move was to plan a book launch. I had been involved with a local Arts’ Festival a few years previously and I had friends and contacts through that who I could call on for advice. My friend Debs agreed to do a Q & A, something she has done previously at the Arts Festivals. We thought carefully about the venue and decided on a nearby sports club which could seat about 50 people, and which had a bar. As an ex-lecturer I’m not anxious about speaking to groups so that’s a great bonus. But even so I do have a few moments of nervousness before I sit or stand in front of a group. Once I get going, I soon relax and start to enjoy it. Debs and I chose the passages from Britannia Street that I would read. I emailed all my literary contacts, and we had a great response. The venue was full and everyone who attended seemed in a supportive mood and intent on enjoying themselves. I think there was a certain post-covid buzz of freedom about it (although we’re not post covid at all really) but my sharing of some personal events in the readings, both sad and funny, seemed to encourage others to share some of their own family history with me. My husband David and another friend (both feature in the book) were great booksellers and we sold over 30 signed copies.

I have sent Britannia Street to a handful of magazine and newspaper book reviewers as well as to people at the University where I took my MA Creative writing. My family and friends are helping to promote the book through book groups and other groups they belong to such as the Women’s Institute and U3A. It’s important to weigh up how many books you are willing to give away. The costs soon mount up when you give away a £10.99p book, especially if you post it.

I would love to do a reading and Q & A event at a literature festival. I’m keeping a close eye on those so I’m aware when the call for artists goes out. Or when it seems like the right time to send them a copy.

Local bookshops may be willing to stock your book and run events. One seemed reluctant but another seemed more helpful and will consider an event in the new year.

Overall, this has been an enjoyable, fun experience. From the moment when the boxes of author copies arrived, I was excited about seeing my words in print, with the front cover just as I hoped it would be. People have mostly been interested and supportive, and I have received many messages of appreciation and congratulation. People have been moved by my words and that is all I wished for.

Beth Cox

 

Written by Jan Elisabeth Fortune · Categorized: Authors, Background

Nov 25 2021

A winter of resistance and hope

 

What role can Athurian legend play in saving the future?

In the darkest times, where do we look for the light?

 

 

On the 18th of November a group of writers and readers gathered on Zoom to launch and celebrate two Cinnamon titles — one relaunched after 13 years in print — a novel that predicted Brexit and looked to how we use mythology in dark times — the other a new prequel.

The Standing Ground is set in a near-future world without privacy or freedom, life is unravelling for Luke, a teenager whose questions and individuality have no place in surveilled society. When a virtual encounter with a girl who claims to live beyond the all-controlling grip of E-Government, sets him on a quest not only for answers, but for escape. But is Alys real? Why are there echoes of her world in his father, Nazir Malik’s home, especially since Nazir is a celebrity artist trusted by E-Government? And what role can characters from Celtic Arthurian legend possibly play in saving the future? Most urgently, can Luke overcome the threats that surround him and find the Standing Ground?

The Roots of the Ground is the prequel toThe Standing Ground. We travel back two generations to the origins of the oppressive E-Government state that gradually infiltrates every aspect of people’s lives in the decade following Brexit and global pandemic. But as the darkness overtakes Britain and other areas of Europe, the light of resistance wakes in a community that spans the Celtic outposts of Brittany and North Wales. And in a strange child, Myrddin Emrys, who has also been known as Merlin.

The launch took the form of a conversation with Adam Craig about the issues raised in the novels, interspersed with short readings from the two books and followed by questions from those attending. If you couldn’t be with us for the launch the video is below and you are welcome to use the discount code WINTER20 which will give you 20% off everything in one basket when you buy these or other Cinnamon Press books.

 

Written by Jan Elisabeth Fortune · Categorized: Authors, Background, book launches, Writing process

Nov 22 2021

Stone memories

A boy at Stonehenge (photo: David Craig)

A childhood memory revolves around a deeply overcast sky, unhemmed by hills or rooftops, a wind against face and ears, hands resting on a rough, cool stone, the stone gritty under fingers and palm, solid and unyielding, the stone a presence, huge, weighty, lying on its side and long grass growing up around it, the wind setting the grass swaying, the stone unmoved, its surface resting against the small hand resting against it, experiencing its existence. And shortly afterwards, sitting on another fallen stone, under grey clouds, stone hard — the impression of it against thighs, calves, still here, still summonable after so many years. Those physical sensations more vivid than the balance of this memory, facing towards the camera, the man behind the camera, the standing stones behind us, the resulting Polaroid skewing perspective, objectifying stone ring, boy sitting, the fallen rock: at odds with the matrix of remembered sensations, the obvious fact the boy looked into the camera as the father looked out. And pressed the shutter.

In the early 1970s, visitors could freely move around Stonehenge. No fences, no visitor centre, no interpretation boards. Simply the stones, the plain, the weather. And one’s senses and the physical interaction with the stones, the half-dome sky.

Wayland Smithy (photo: Adam Craig)

A much more recent memory: visiting Wayland’s Smithy. A still September morning. Overcast also but raining, a steady drizzle, neither winter-chilled nor late-summer warm. We get lost searching for the site. Joke we’re being led astray by the faery. The rain patters on a pulled-up hood. It drips from hedgerow and runs between clasped hands. Walking hand-in-hand until, through the trees, the old stones appear. Set within a ring of trees, the rain slackening and fading into silence. Stones arranged into an entrance portal, the mound long gone. Crawling into the tiny burial chamber behind the portal stones. Stone walls brushing against arms, head ducked. Smell of damp earth, rich and cool; smell of stones, enclosed space. Semidarkness, body blocking dim light. Crouched, turning little by little to face out, between the portal stones. Stillness. Drip of water. Stones hard against shoulder, close to crown of head. Hand reaching to rest against speckled rock, aware of hardness, cool, uneven. All these sensations more vivid, more evocative than the photographs taken

Wayland Smithy (photo: Adam Craig)

from this vantage, looking out of the chamber, as are the physical impressions of walking around the monument, seeing it from each angle, pausing between photographs, slowly returning to niche and portal stones.

Not that it has to be ancient monuments—a house in early evening, summer sun casting this side into shade, uneven paving stones underfoot, a voice, a face seen for the first time, air still and scented by the sea only a short walk away. A meeting that led to walking hand-in-hand in search of Wayland’s Smithy.

Hannah Arendt once said story reveals the meaning inside sensory impressions. Story comes in retrospect, drawn from memories that are themselves drawn from the interactions between the incarnate, feeling-experiencing body-mind and the world in which it finds itself.

The American poet, Jake Skeets, calls this the ‘memory field’, a matrix of place, sensory experience and memory, in which the elements making up the field interact in ways that make it hard to be certain exactly who is acting on whom. From Skeet’s perspective, time is fluid within the memory field. He speaks of that too-easy-to-ignore fact that the light we see from stars is old light, radiated years or millennia ago. Our present is the star’s past, our observation set some time in the star’s future. Place, time and memory interact with a similar disregard for the notions of linear time represented by calendars, timetables and smart technology’s pestering reminders it’s time to go to sleep.

As we’ve considered before: memory is a present thing, not the past tense of literary convention. Just as sensory experience is encountered in the moment, a continuous unfolding now, so our memories return to us in the same way: a small hand resting against a fallen stone at Stonehenge; the same hand, decades older, pressing against the stones of Wayland Smithy. These are together, in the same moment of recall and, in that recall, they are now.

Stonehenge (photo: Adam Craig)

Time becomes layered in memory. Skeets has spoken of visiting the Grand Canyon, of seeing the valley, aware of the place in the moment of sensory experience and, in that same moment, aware of the age of the site, of the millennia needed to carve the gorge out of the sandstone, the passage of weather patterns and days leading up to this now. Likewise, in remembering Stonehenge and Wayland Smithy, not only are decades conjoined into a moment of recall, so the awareness of how long that fallen sarsen must have lain there impresses itself as much as the awareness that once the chamber at Wayland Smithy was enclosed, buried.

Much as the star we see this evening is a star from the past experienced in this present.

Memory is not anchored by time but by place. The writer BS Johnson once stepped into the main hall at Nottingham railway station and was struck by a welter of memories about a very close friend who had lived in Nottingham. The station was a part of those memories (he had come to the city by train to visit his friend) as much as it was the trigger for the memories to return.

The landscapes we inhabit inhabits us, in memory, in story, in the very physical sensation of our experience of them. Landscape in this sense is far from passive — the field that Skeets refers to is both the zone of interaction and the physical field of the landscape itself. There’s no duality in this. Memory and experience don’t divide past from present, external landscape from internal sensation. The notional duality of person and/or place grows less clear the deeper we delve, as does the strict line between past and present: a child who visits Stonehenge always remains linked to that place, carries the sensation of the visit in an ever-afterwards… now.

Written by Adam Craig · Categorized: Background, Writing process · Tagged: BS Johnson, deep time, embodied experience, Hannah Arendt, Jake Skeets, memory, memory field, stonehenge, time, wayland's smithy

Nov 06 2021

Stories of experience

Shadows (photo: Adam Craig)

A night of broken sleep gives way to sleeplessness. Awake. No going back. Mind on the move, in turmoil. Uncertainty, emotion. Rest-less. Before dawn: twilight heavy grey, still. Alone with anxiety, unfixed. Alone although someone nearby breathes, sleeps: distant, unknowable. Conflicts and circlings, supposings and worries. Thoughts restless, tormenting.

Too much to lie still. Must move.

It is a morning on the cusp of June, sunrise still an hour or more away, hidden beyond grey cloud. All is grey. Shadows limiting vision, unpicking road, trees, footpath, even feet and hands. In daytime: all familiar, all taken for granted, all solid and reliable. In daylight the path is unseen: its existence is assumed from memory, from the way the daytime world works. At this time, liminal, neither of night or of day, the path hardly appears to exist. To walk is to move with caution, requires more than usual trust in the world being consistent and concrete. A trust tested at each step.

The footpath runs through an avenue of trees, tree limbs unpiecing the sky. Emotions cluster, mob: doubts, self-justifications, recriminations, memories retold and recast, futures unwritten and rewritten. Semidarkness. Shadows. Vision limited, unreliable. Sounds: rustlings, scrape of footfall, a branch snapping, trees restive, a faint breeze. Air cool, darkness rendering it grainy. A medium to travel through, the accepted made conscious: another thought in the welter of thought, in the careful placing of each step, balance equivocal because it comes as much from familiarity as from the inner ear. The opportunity to move freely, take for granted and assume, filter out: the reflexive, daily ignoring of all but a very little of immediate environment.

Immediate environment is monochrome: areas of shadow, near black, impenetrable and featureless, largely formless; mid-greys emerging, forms guessed, constructed from hint, memory, a few pale grey highlights. From pausing to squint, peer.

Restlessness gives way to concentration. One step. The next. Air, against forehead, ears, lips, tongue, throat. Exhale. Listening to branch, breeze, the stillness between each footfall. Silence: standing still, breath quiet, not the puff of emotion, body under tension, muscles made to relax, self made to listen. This silence is formed of the sounds of the river, nearby, beyond the trees; of the sounds of the trees, moving; no birds, although something moves, beyond the path, in the undergrowth part-glimpsed, part-assumed. Moves. Makes no further sound.

Trees overhang the path. Path curves. Patch of sky (mid-grey, featureless, no texture, only sky, only grey… gone in a few steps). Embankment to the right (trees, tall). Slope to the left, dropping away (trees, tall on the vergeside), river only a sound. Rising of hills from the opposite bank a memory, an inference (greys, near-blacks, densities, a darkness of its own). Yet: less dark, path wider, clearer to the senses. Going on, steps less cautious. Mind freer to wander. Turmoil distant. Not forgotten but less. No longer acute. Not… present.

Present is: cool air scent and touch, first bird waking, river’s purl and lap, muscles, breath, step, stride, feet against path, path against feet, weight of boots, rustle of clothing, gradual change in light, greys paler, shape and form becoming apparent. The path gains solidity, is no longer an assumption.

Later, sitting on a bench beside the path. Less night than day but not yet day. Grey-on-grey forms; a sense of depth and differentiation. A bat circles unseen: sound of wings, the impression of movement. A bird calls into the silence, to fall silent in turn. Silence: of the body, of the path, trees, long grass hissing, the bench answering to small and unconscious movements, river ceaseless. The almost day. Sitting.

Sitting.

Sunrise (photo: Adam Craig)

Months later. This event comes to mind and with it the urge to make a story of it. A homily, maybe, about how emotions pass and are not concrete, not like the present, physical moment. A good life lesson. But what is here when the storytelling reflex is resisted? What can be gleaned from the impressions and memories of a small-hours walk?

Narrative realism — the default mode for writing in the Anglosphere — is based on a given: no psychological change, no story. Actually, ‘plot’ is a better term. ‘Plot’ is the direction of the flow of events propelling the reader from the start of a narrative piece (novel, article, documentary programme, feature film…) to its culmination. Plot implies resolution; maybe epiphany, maybe a happy ending, maybe an ending that leaves threads unresolved but nevertheless coincides with a change in the energy and flux of the narrative. Archetypally, a realist narrative will have characters who change during its course. They learn things about themselves, grow, overcome, become fuller. Implicit, even when the narrative remains open, is that life makes sense, or that sense can be made of it.

By our natures, we make stories. We live by stories. It’s how we are.

The beginning-middle-end cycle of narrative realism is ingrained in our culture but the materials such stories are cut from — the stuff of direct, bodily experience — rarely, maybe never, conform to such expectations. The circumstances that spurred this early morning walk weren’t resolved by the walk; no epiphany, only experience. The walk, from a narrative point of view, led nowhere. It simply was. Much of life simply is. Its sensations, like those of the walk, might be used a dozen different ways but they also remain: thus, just so, not the elements of a story at all. Without story, we find instead a sequence of impressions, a series of encounters with the environment in which the walk took place. And without story, the whole thing appears meaningless, an incident unworthy of being written down.

But at the time, even once emotions grew muted, the experience appeared anything other than unworthy. Is this apparent in the writing? Very probably not. Try not to narrativise, try to keep out character in the conventional (realist) sense, and what sediments out is a series of impressions, words and phrases that can only approximate the simultaneity of the lived, sensory body-mind experience. A closer approximation might come from taking a step away from the linguistic into the visual arts. Yet the experience of any moment is a confluence of body and environment, an interactive whole, complex, sometimes subtly so. Not matter the medium, to describe is to unpick and to unpick takes away the very ‘thusness’ of the experience.

What we write, what we read, the paintings we study, the movies we consume: none of them are better than approximations. The stories we base on such experiences, or the description of such experiences, are fabrications in the sense that they are neither recreations for the qualia of the moment-by-moment, nor are they any sort of direct substitute.

Manchester (photo: Adam Craig)

Our bodies experience in concert with environment and our body-minds (or, rather, body-mind-environments) can create stories to give direct, carnal experience meaning — to make a verity. We bring meaning to experience — this is who we are as incarnate beings, as beings not observing but intimately participating in our surroundings. In the world.

Narrative realism, with its ambition of ‘illuminating the human condition’, ultimately fails in its task because it confuses approximation with real experience. Realism comforts us: there are explanations, there is sense in things and events, there is a direction to life. In this way, realism is the most unrealistic literary genre, as JG Ballard once said.

That we search for meaning is not a flaw in us. The great 20th Century composer, Elisabeth Lutyens, was fond of saying that the truth should never get in the way of a good story. Lutyens, as raconteur, drew from her direct experience and her anecdotes and tales often conformed to some verity that spoke of a ‘truth’ beyond the mere facts of a day-to-day encounter. Stories can ‘lie’ and tell us verities in the same breath.

Stories drawn from other stories become a cerebral activity that’s attenuated from the world of experience. The novelist who draws most from the descriptions and events found in other novels; the poet who describes a painting only in terms of what’s visible on the canvas: neither is even approximating actual experience. To create stories in this way is to step away from the actual, moment-by-moment ‘thusness’ of being incarnate within an environment. It is to step back from the world and into fantasy. Should writers only write ‘what they know’? Hardly — that would be a different kind of handicap. The imagination feeds on the thusness of being a body-mind in the world. It’s not either-or, always both-and: a relationship and an interchange. As we need experience so we need story; as we understand the world through story, so we understand the story through experience. Verities come in many guises. As many as experience itself.

Written by Adam Craig · Categorized: Writing process · Tagged: contemplation, embodied experience, memory, nature, night walks, realism

Oct 26 2021

Wanting only to see and to touch

In his poem ‘Lock-step’, John Barnie wryly observes ‘the disciples of iPhones’ taking endless selfies, lost in the images crowding those tiny screens. As the majority walk to the lock-step of technology and the virtual worlds it conjures, John feels he’s walking in the wrong direction, ‘wanting only to see and to touch’.

There’s a resonance here with John Irving’s The World According to Garp. Garp writes a short story about a man who owns a pair of magic gloves. Wearing them, death cannot touch him and he can do anything he desires. But life lacks meaning as a result — the gloves make it always slightly distant, always out of touch. The man throws away the gloves and death finds him. But in that moment he is truly in contact with life — he sees and touches for the first time and, in the last, his life gains texture and meaning.

From certain gnostic sects to René Descartes’ famous declaration that proof of his existence rested solely upon his mind and his thoughts, there’s a history of turning away from the body and favouring the cerebral. As the exercise craze of CrossFit weirdly echoes the extremities of a Medieval flagellant’s mortification of the flesh so that the spirt might be set free, so our culture’s increasing interaction with the physical world through apps and mobile computing devices mirrors those approaches to mysticism that turn away from the body to search for experience that are pure, immaterial… virtual.

The guitarist, Robert Fripp, has spoken of the difference between an LP or CD recording and a live gig as being like the difference between a love letter and a hot date. The letter brings back memories, even memories of having had strong emotions, but it doesn’t create emotion with the intensity of present, physical, carnal experience. It’s a difference in qualia, the textures and properties of experience that vary in the moment — or the ‘pressant’ as James Joyce calls it in Finnegan’s Wake. As Fripp has also pointed out, no drum roll experienced in the moment has ever swirled mightily around from left ear to right as they so often do in a stereo mix. That’s a conceit, an artificial experience that substitutes for being in the same room as the drummer, sharing the same ‘pressant’. It’s drumming while wearing magic gloves.

Fripp is touching on a theme drawn out further in Zoltán Huszárik’s dazzlingly sensual 1971 film, Szindbád, that it’s in the sensory, in the incarnate and bodily, that we truly anchor ourselves not in the shifting and untrustworthy landscapes of rolling news and social media. Descarte’s philosophical position is undermined by the advance of technology — in a virtual world, in which fantasy vies with direct experience and wins out more often than not, our minds become the worst foundation on which to build anything solid.

In contrast, for the eco-philosopher, David Abram, it’s only when we see and touch the world directly that we’re fully alive, fully human. To live as we are being encouraged to do, through the medium of human-made technology, Abram says, is to forget our past and our origins. If the ingrained notion that humans stand at the apex of creation and evolution would set us apart from the natural world, the truth is our bodies, our senses, our very being has been shaped by and has developed in intimate relation to the same planetary environments and forces as every other creature, plant and landscape feature we see framed in a smartphone’s screen.

Descartes argues that mind is the bedrock of reality, the only certain point in the otherwise uncertain welter of stimuli that constitute the ‘pressant’. There’s a separation here as misleading as the notion that humanity is a species different from all others. What happens when the ‘pressant’ of messages, notifications, news headlines, adverts, phone calls, images, zip-panned videos, clickbait, deadlines, popup events, flash sales, and all the rest reaches overwhelm? We feel anxiety not as an abstract but as a bodily reaction. Muscles tense, breath comes shallow, blood pumps faster, pupils narrow, adrenaline and other chemicals are released. Mind and body respond together. Culture might encourage us in the belief that technology’s mediation keeps the world manageably ‘out there’ but visceral experience argues otherwise.

Likewise, the imagination itself seems protean, boundless and, most importantly, separate from the brain that it haunts, ghost-like and untouchable except through the artefacts it brings into being. But, as David Abram has argued, our imaginations also spring from the body — from our senses, in fact. The taste of a madeline dipped in tea, the smell of a bonfire on an autumn afternoon, the caress of a lover, a child’s laugh: all are as intimately linked to the senses as they are evocative to the imagination. To see and to touch is to imagine.

Cover of a book
John Barnie’s latest collection, A Report to Alpha Centauri

Sometimes, there’s no choice but to listen to a record of a concert, read through old love letters, or wander the streets of a faraway town through the medium of digital images. But to only experience the world in this way — through magic gloves — is to loose a little of ourselves, to forego something vital, visceral, integral to who we are as incarnate beings. The word ‘human’ itself comes from a Latin word meaning ‘earthborn’, a word rooted in older words relating to the ground and to the earth. To want to see and to touch is part of who we are.

Written by Adam Craig · Categorized: Authors, Background, Books, Film, Music · Tagged: David Abram, embodied experience, John Barnie, memory, Robert Fripp, Szindbad, Zoltán Huszárik

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