Writers who describe themselves as "survivors," even though they haven't experienced anything life-threatening, tend to be bad writers.
Good writers tend to be people who love books and want to write them. Bad writers tend to be people who want to be "heard," or "seen," and who value their "voice."
Bad writers want to express themselves. Good writers get over themselves.
Most of the above also applies if you replace "writers" with "people."
The crime writer Damien Seaman has just published an interview with me, and a review of my book One for My Baby.
Zen Buddhist author Barry Graham: "Most publishers couldn't sell weed to Snoop Dogg"
Elmore Leonard meets Henry Miller: an in-depth review of One For My Baby by Barry Graham
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Tom Leonard died yesterday, the Winter Solstice. It’s impossible to discuss him without using superlatives; he was one of the greatest Scottish poets of the last hundred years, and one of the most important political thinkers, and his impact on the language is equalled only by that of Fergusson, Burns and MacDiarmid.
Although I lived a few minutes walk from his place in Glasgow’s West End in the mid-1980s, I never met him during that time, though I was as affected by his work as every other Scottish poet of my generation. In the early 1990s, when I was living in Edinburgh, I applied for a writer in residence job at Bell College in Hamilton. When I showed up for the interview, and saw that he was one of the other applicants, I knew I had no chance. As we walked from the college to the train station, he asked if I wanted to go for some pints. I forget which Glasgow pub we ended up in, but we stayed late. There’s a saying that you should never meet your heroes, but I found the man as impressive as his work, a feeling that seems to be the consensus among those who knew him.
I moved to the U.S. in 1995, and we lost touch. I moved back to Glasgow in early 2017. One night soon after, I had a discussion with Daishin Stephenson, and my niece, and my sister, about the Scots language, particularly about how my niece felt that the Scots she speaks was inferior, or, as she called it, “talking rough.” I pulled a book off my shelf and read her this by Tom Leonard:
A couple days later, the four of us were hanging out at Coffee Pod in Woodlands Road. Sitting on a couch near our table, breathing with the help of an oxygen tank as he wrote in a notebook, was Tom Leonard. He told me had COPD, then laughed and said, “When I tell people, they usually say, ‘I knew somebody who had that.’ It’s always had, never has.” There was no self-pity in him. We talked about the poetry of our mutual friend Gerry Loose, and about how right wing the Scottish Labour Party had become, and he was as warm, acerbic and brilliant as ever. We emailed each other poems and essays after that, but didn’t meet up again.
Rest in Poetry.
Today Jikan Horai (Ordinary Silence, Dharma Thunder) Michael Batty Sensei received Dharma Transmission from me. Jikan Sensei is also a novelist who publishes under the pen name Bart Lessard. From the U.S., he moved to Scotland at the end of 2016. He is one of only two teachers I have ordained; the other is Daishin Stephenson Sensei.
It gladdens my proletarian heart to see that the new issue of the Pacific Zen Institute's magazine Uncertainty Club contains an excerpt from Red Rosa, the excellent graphic biography of Rosa Luxemburg by Kate Evans. There's plenty of other good stuff, including writing by John Tarrant Roshi and art by Allison Atwill Roshi.
I was unaware of this wonderful record until Daishin got it for me a few weeks ago. Since then, it's become my favourite outsider music. Recorded in a Canadian school gymnasium in 1977, the performances — vocal and instrumental — are by children with no previous musical experience, taught by an inexperienced music teacher... and the result is sublime. The beautiful, broken singing on "Desperado" makes it the most powerful version of that song I've heard. My other favourites are "Sweet Caroline," "Space Oddity," "I'm Into Something Good" and "Rhiannon," but I love the whole album. Sad, exuberant, and the opposite of cute.