He tries not to get the three confused.
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Home HIV and the Developing World Another World gay life on five continents God Would Be An Atheist Fiction Opinion Reviews martin@martinforeman.com Appeal to your wallet:   18 August 2003 |
He stares up at me, kind dark eyes peering out from under a bush of thick black hair, a straight narrow nose over delicate lips. His cheeks are long and smooth and hair curls over the collar of a pink shirt that hangs open half-way down his chest. Pinned to the wall behind him are pictures from magazines: a blond figure, probably a minor pop star, and above him a naked, headless torso with hands thrust firmly into the pockets of white sailor pants. I look back at the boy, at the eyes that are wary but willing to trust, the lips neither frowning or smiling, ready to offer, if I prove worthy, a kiss. The delicate features that suggest a delicate personality, yet the stance that says East End Lad. The 80s hairstyle that is both conformity and a challenge. Acquaintances sometimes look at him and ask, is that you? If they mean myself when younger, the answer is no. If they mean my type, the answer is yes. Yes. Yes. Still he stares. And he is not alone. All around him are his identical twins, triplets, quadruplets, whatever the word is for multiple births that run into the hundreds, staring up from the ground where they lie. Each posing against a grey background, each framed with the words “WEEKEND” and “Martin Foreman”. All spread out on concrete on this sunny day at the Dump - aka Tower Hamlets Recycling Centre - where, as part of the process of clearing out my house, I have come to dispose of the hundreds of copies of my first novel that I inherited several years ago when the publishing house closed. No matter how attractive he is, it’s not the boy himself - a part-time model for a part-time photographer, chosen both to represent one of the leading characters and to be bait to encourage gay customers to part with their cash - that has caused me to stop and contemplate his many images. It’s the book and the memories and hopes that accompanied it. The reminder that it was my most successful publication, that while my skill as a writer has developed (and don’t take this weekly column, written at haste when I can find a spare couple of hours, as a sample of my abilities)… that while my skill as a writer has developed, the sales of my fiction have decreased and the recognition that I once longed for is as distant as it ever was. Like most first novels, Weekend is autobiographical, written in the late 1980s shortly after the events it depicts. I am of course Mark; “Carl”, “Gene” and “Robert” were three young men that I fell in love with when I was equally young, Gene gliding into Carl and Carl into Robert. Cities were transposed, Madrid became Paris and Rio London, but the essentials remained. Not one love story, but three, the theme can summed up in the refrain of one of Ferron*’s most moving songs: “But life don’t clickety-clack Down a straight line track. It comes together and it comes apart.” I wrote most of it, if I remember correctly, in a few weeks when I lived with friends while the house I had moved into was being renovated. Or rather, it wrote itself. Once the first scene, of Mark gradually waking on a Saturday morning, led into his memory of the night before, I could feel the words bubble up in my mind as one memory led to another and another and another and the story skipped backwards and forwards in time. I was, of course, excited when it was published, and pleased by the few reviews it received. Three years later, A Sense of Loss followed, a collection of short stories that ranged from the trite to the sublime. I still consider the title story - Death in Venice told from Tadzio’s point of view - one of the best I have ever written. The book received more and better reviews and I was sure that my star, although still unnoticed by the literary establishment. The Butterfly’s Wing - the story of two men separated when one is kidnapped in Peru - was another step forward. Although the protagonists were gay, it was not a gay novel. It was instead many things - a rumination on live and love from two very different perspectives, a glimpse into the Third World, where I had both lived and worked, a comment on the tabloid press and towards the end, as one of the men flew to Lima to try to set his lover free, a quasi-thriller. This was a story that transcended sexuality and, I told myself, if Edmund White and Alan Hollinghurst could get their much gayer fiction accepted by mainstream publishers, then so should my book appeal to a wide market. Mainstream publishers, however, disagreed. I returned to Gay Men’s Press. There were even more and even better reviews, yet sales were poor. GMP were being squeezed by the very mainstream publishers who had rejected me and by the increasingly mercenary booktrade, which had begun to make shelf-space available for books that were promoted rather than books that were good. (It was ironic to note that Gay Sunshine Press in Taiwan paid me the honour, if not the royalties, of translating and publishing The Butterfly’s Wing in a greater print-run than in the original English edition.) I tried once more. In First and Fiftieth I brought together the desires and passions of men and women, young and old, gay, straight and other, from across the world, demonstrating the differences and commonalities in people’s lives. For over two years I hawked it around publishers and agents; none was interested. In the end it was published by an authors’ collective and although considerable time and effort was spent promoting it to the media and booksellers, sales have been disastrous and reviews very few. Now I am moving to Bangkok for a couple of years. I am letting my house to four Chinese students and to make room for them (and with their help) I am clearing out eighteen years of accumulated possessions. While most books and records and ornaments and unwanted furniture are going into storage, much is being given to charity or ending its life at Tower Hamlets Recycling Centre. Hence the disposal of Weekend, and with it either recognition by the world of my talent or my delusion that my talent existed. Whichever is true is irrelevant; without an audience, I no longer have the urge to write fiction. And it is not only that urge that I am putting behind me. In the last week I have thrown out hundreds of books that I have collected over the years and which I will either never read or never read again. I have reached, I realise, that stage in life when it becomes clear that the infinite time and energy that we had when we were young, when we intended to master every sport, to make a fortune and feed the world, to be elected prime minister and make awe-inspiring scientific discoveries, were an illusion. The reality that we finally learn is that life is short and it is we who unwittingly and drastically limit the options it offers. Yet to my surprise and relief, I am not depressed at this narrowing of choice and fading of opportunities. In fact, a burden has been lifted from my shoulders. If the book is not on my shelves, I am not obliged to read it. Fifty books are given to charity are fifty fewer books to pack and find storage space for. And if the windsurfing suit also goes to Oxfam, I no longer feel guilty that I do not windsurf in England's cold and grey waters. Yes, life is short, but it is also too short for regrets. The hopes of the past can be swiftly buried and as long as we have health and security, we are free to enjoy whatever next comes our way.
To read an extract from Weekend, click on the
pictures on the right. And don’t worry, I still have some copies for sale….
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