I’m closing the book on the pages and the text

Iain BanksMY meeting and dinner with the late and great author Iain Banks is wholly memorable for so many reasons.

And it was totally unexpected.

I had long been an admirer of the Fife born author since I picked up The Wasp Factory at my local branch of WH Smiths in the late 1980s. It was a book I read in one sitting and returned to again and again.

Following that ground-breaking novel I began to consume almost everything Banks wrote. The Bridge and Espedair Street were similarly devoured in one go. Crow Road took a little longer and remains my favourite Iain Banks novel.

Well-thumbed copies of Complicity, Whit and a Song of Stone all sat on my bookshelves by the time I actually met the great man.

And the meeting was a complete and wonderful surprise.

It was early 1997, I was working as Chief Investigative Reporter at the Scottish broadsheet daily The Scotsman. I had been working closely with award-winning TV producer Sara Brown on revealing the dark and murky history of Scotland’s Dounreay experimental nuclear reactors. We had come close to proving that the plant almost suffered a Chernobyl type meltdown in the mid 1960s… but that is a story for another day.

After one particularly long day of research with Sara, she suggested I might like to have dinner with one of her old friends, who shared my passion in investigations and writing. I almost fell through the floor when she told me her old friend was Iain Banks.

And so it was a few evenings later we gathered at a small restaurant at North Queensferry (just over the Firth of Forth from Edinburgh) to share a wonderful meal.

I cannot remember what we ate, but do remember the wine flowed freely as Iain took centre stage. Star-struck, I just sat and held onto almost every word.

He waxed lyrical about the wine, the food and his passion for fast cars and boats. He talked about how his writing had helped fund one boat he kept moored on the west coast of Scotland.

He asked me in detail about my job at The Scotsman and talked about how his own enquiring mind sparked his journey into writing best-selling thrillers and science fiction novels.

As the meal and wine flowed I mentioned Iain’s amazing 1993 murder novel Complicity, which was clearly set at The Scotsman – named The Caledonian for the sake of his book – and which I had already read three times. He smiled and said it was his new Wasp Factory. Sara suddenly chipped in and suggested that the hero of the novel Cameron Colley was actually me! That was hardly likely as I was not even working at The Scotsman when Iain wrote the book. Iain seemed amused and asked for more details about my job. I filled in a few and he laughed out loud.

“Sounds like Cammy to me,” he quipped.

It was only when I watched the movie of the book, starring Jonny Lee Miller, some four years later, that I realised just how close the character of Cameron Colley was to my own at The Scotsman. There was also a sad irony that the trigger for the murders in Complicity stemmed from child sexual abuse.

Anyway, the meal and chatter lasted for more than two hours before we drifted off home.

Iain as the true bon viveur insisted on paying for everything.

I hoped to meet him again sometime soon. But life events meant that I moved away from Edinburgh later that year and the brilliant Sara emigrated to the USA a couple of years later. The link was lost and three respective lives moved on.

I was deeply saddened when Iain succumbed to terminal pancreatic cancer in June this year. The world has lost an amazing author.

As I proof this blog posting I sit with a copy of his 2002 book Dead Air next to me and a few tears in my eyes. I have some re-reading to do tonight.

 

Most of the time my head is on straight

Patti Smith 1975 by Robert Mapplethorpe 1946-1989WELL I guess it had to come…

I had been blogging for 35 days and published 29 posts when hit it me… why am I doing this?

I guess the answer is obvious, it is because I need to. I need to say so much which I have kept bottled up for far too long, and sometimes it becomes like a stream of consciousness explosion.

But as most bloggers – and indeed writers – know, it is feckin’ lonely at times. Like writing into a vacuum which steals words and sucks out the soul.

So last night I had my first crisis of confidence and was slipping back to that desolate spot I found myself in last June. I told my friends via email and Facebook that I would be pulling the plug on my blog and stopping the daily writing. I went to bed feeling exhausted, and aside from dreaming about the ghost girl in our kitchen, I slept like the dead.

I woke this morning at 6.40 to my wife Gill shaking me and telling me, with tears in her eyes: “You are not stopping your blog. Loads of people like it and read it. I read it and if you are writing it for me alone you must continue. Just look at the comments on Facebook.”

I hugged her close and with sleepy eyes started reading a raft of Facebook comments.

That is when I started to cry.

All the comments were from friends, family and work colleagues – past and present – telling me to carry on, as they actually enjoy reading my stuff! They are all amazing. I think the ones which touched me most were from fellow journalists whom I admire as writers and editors themselves.

Then I noticed four private messages on Facebook. Each said the same. One in particular really touched me, from someone I have not seen in two years. Part of it read: “Hi Nic, how very random of me sending u a pm! Just read your status and don’t feel eloquent or brave enough to comment on your post but want you to know that I got so engrossed one day reading one part of your blog my little girl managed to get in far more Peppa time than I would normally allow. I was truly moved by your writing. Don’t give up… I would love to read more if I get the chance!”

Then came emails and text messages.

One arrived just a minute ago as I write this piece. It is from a very dear friend, who I see far too rarely and who has endured life experiences similar to my own. Her text was unexpected, full of love and life affirming. She ended it with the words: “You have brought a lot of happiness into people’s lives and that is what defines you the most, my dear, dear friend.”

Yep, I cried again.

So now have the kick up the pants I needed and continue where I left off. Suddenly friends have made me feel good about myself and made me realise that the vacuum is all in my mind!

Thank you everyone for everything.

But I finish this posting with something else that inspired me in that first hour of the day. Beth Orton shared on Facebook a wonderful eulogy to Lou Reed, written by one of my other heroes, Patti Smith.

The music and words of Lou Reed have been with me since I was 16, but the genius and poetry of Patti came far too late. It was only when she returned to recording and gigging in the mid 1990s – after an eight year hiatus – that I really discovered her.

Patti knows what pain feels like.

In 1989, her best friend Robert Mapplethorpe died of an Aids-related illness. The American photographer shot the iconic image of Smith on the front cover of her seminal album Horses. In late 1994, her husband, Fred ‘Sonic’ Smith, once a guitarist with pre-punk rockers MC5, died of a heart attack, leaving her with two young children. Less than a month later, her brother Todd died suddenly. Small wonder her return album in 1996 was titled Gone Again.

Her words move like few others I have ever read or heard.

Patti’s eulogy to Lou can be found here: http://www.newyorker.com/talk/2013/11/11/131111ta_talk_smith

Read it if you get a chance.

Meantime I aim to dedicate my next few blog postings to writers I admire.