SARAH HALL

Sarah Hall has written two acclaimed novels. Haweswater is the story of a rural community in the north of England which has to cope with devastating industrial and emotional change. The Electric Michelangelo, shortlisted for the 2004 Man Booker Prize, follows the adventures of tattooist Cy Parks, and is set in Morecambe Bay and Coney Island. You can read more about Sarah and her work on the Contemporary Writers website.

This interview has been compiled by Susan Tranter from questions submitted by visitors to EnCompass in March 2005.

Susan Tranter: Can I begin by asking what you’re reading at the moment Sarah? And do your reading habits change when you’re working on a novel?

SH: I’m reading two books at the moment, which is rare for me as I’m not a big reader. Kelly and Victor by Niall Griffiths, and That We May Never Meet Again by Philip Robinson. Very different books, so it’s strange to have them on the go, concurrently. The latter is a proof copy sent to me by Faber – one of the perks of the job, writers are sent early copies of books by publishers, so we get a sneak preview before the public. My reading habits do change when I’m writing. I probably veer away from reading more if I’m in the throes of writing, but I possibly read more before I begin a project – sort of an encouraging companionable thing I suppose, literary energy can be infectious. I have periods of reading nothing at all apart from the weather forecast though.

Jo: The sense of place seems really important in your writing Sarah. I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but it’s virtually another character. How conscious are you when you’re writing of the need to create a convincing setting for your characters, and is there anything in particular that you do to achieve it?

SH: That’s a nice thing to say Jo! Yes, place has hitherto been very important to me when I write, so much so that my agent has coined a phrase – Geo-Fiction – when referring to the work. Authenticity of place is vital I think. I love to be able to taste and smell and hear and visualise a place I’m reading about in literature, and that’s what I’m aiming to produce. And territory also goes into defining people I think, so it influences characters. I always have a sense that if I fail in setting, I’ll fail in characterisation. In Haweswater it was easy, being my home territory, and the actual landscape hasn’t altered greatly since the 1930s, so that helped. I’m just very well acquainted with the hills and the livestock and the waterways, and also, I think, the regional spirit of the indigenous population. Morecambe Bay I was less familiar with, though I’ve spent time there and have a deep fondness for the place, and Coney Island also, so I hit the history books and talked to locals, and let my imagination do the rest. I think noticing and then rendering little details helps, and finding personal angles, but also conveying defining characteristics without getting clichéd – for example the surface of the beach at Morecambe, the joviality and brio of the locals, and the noise at Coney and the smell of the hot-dogs and the dark eccentricity of freak shows visited at the fairgrounds.  
 
Anu: Your first two books have been set (wholly or partly) in northern England, so I assume you're from that part of the world. Will your next book be a departure or a return to familiar territory, and do you think it's important to know a place really well - like a resident - in order to be able to write about it convincingly?

SH: I am from Cumbria, yes. I think the north will always feature to one degree or another in the work. I planned to end Electric Michelangelo in America, but lo and behold the main character scooted back over to Lancashire… Recently I was commissioned to write a short story about London, for a Book Trust anthology, and I did so, but Cumbria reared its head in that too! I may be terminally northern! I am very interested in other parts of the world, and would like to set stories there, so no doubt I will tackle other areas, but I have a sense that the north may always creep in – and I won’t mind that, so long as things are fresh each time and not too repetitive. Possibly you just have to be compelled by a place to want to write about it well. I was terrified about using New York as a setting, because I’ve never lived there and it has been written about so dextrously and accurately by others, until I reconciled the fact that a distanced perspective is also possible, and especially with New York – there are so many views and descriptions and interpretations permitted by the city. I’m not sure how well you have to know a place to be able to write about it – I’d like to think not at all, otherwise some of the world exploration journals and travel writing would not be as interesting as it is, not to mention science fiction. And we have an imagination after all, leaps can and should be made. 
 
David: I loved your evocation of Coney Island in The Electric Michelangelo, and it made me want to pay the place a visit. I suppose I wouldn’t recognise it now though?

SH: Coney has changed a lot, down-sized and suffered a bit since its early glory. But there is still a sense of fun, and exuberance, and possibly even recklessness. It has its lasting traditions – the Polar Bear club, the mermaid parade, and the Cyclone rollercoaster is still there, all shaky and rattling and wooden, still operational, now a protected landmark. Nathan’s hot-dog shop still exists. Coney as was lives on in the memory, there are people about who remember it when it was grander, and they love to talk about aspects like the boardwalk, and the communities around that area are very proud. There is rejuvenation and tenacity to the place too – Disney was looking to invest and Astroland is still going strong. There are spangly tattoo booths! I think that just like Morecambe is in the process of doing, the Island will reinvent itself too, that’s part of the essential character, endurance, an adaptability. I think to visit Coney now, you’d still get a sense of the old spirit of the place. Go to the museum. It’s fascinating.
 
Geoff Cooper: I have just finished reading The Electric Michelangelo and have enjoyed it immensely. I found your language continually surprising and often mesmerising. It gave me the pleasure and revelation which I would normally seek in the very best poetry. Thank you. I was wondering if you have ever published, or intend to publish, any poetry as such, as I would certainly like to read it. I hope there's a lot more!

SH: I began by writing poetry and have had some published in Thumbscrew and in a Faber and Faber anthology of new poetry called First Pressings. I still write poetry, but it’s mostly locked away or put aside. I would like to publish some in the future I think, but I’m in no rush, I’d like to take my time with it. And I’m not sure how exclusive and separate poetry and prose is really, or has to be – I’d like to think I’m working in the middle ground, creating a hybrid, which is why your compliment means so much Geoff, thank you! With Electric Michelangelo I tried for a very lyrical style of writing, with internal rhyme schemes and imagery, and it was so much fun for me to write in that way, indulging a passion that I have. It felt a bit illicit too, like I was having an affair with poetry while being married to prose!

 
Matilde: I wonder if Sarah sees herself as a historical writer? What is it about recreating the past that attracts her, and does she think she’ll turn her attention to contemporary life?

SH: I think I just see myself as a writer first, plain and simple, though when asked what kind of fiction I write I always reply historical fiction, because that’s what the novels have been. I’m not sure what it is about the past that compels me, it may even be the inverse – a fear of the contemporary and the concepts of today – though when I write about the 30s or 40s I always feel I’m applying, or trying to apply, contemporary and relevant ideas and themes, but setting them in a historical context. Loss of community, rural struggles, identity, entertainment industry etc. It’s hard to unravel inspiration and literary proclivity in such a way. I’m perhaps a bit nostalgic – I like things of the past, cars, household items, dress styles, so this infiltrates the writing to an extent. And I’m very interested in dated, threatened trades, such as hill farming and the domestic seaside culture. I have turned my attention to contemporary life in short stories and poetry, and I think I’m possibly ready to tackle it in a novel…

Olga: Do you work only when you have inspiration or is there a special schedule? What is the source of your inspiration? I often try to write myself, but when I start it always seems that all I write is bad. I usually rewrite, edit and reread, but still it looks far from being good. Could you please advise something?

SH: I’ve said in the past that it’s a balance of inspiration versus determination or discipline for me. If one waxes, the other wanes, and vice versa. I try to work a bit every day when I’m writing, and I have always tended to write in the morning – feeling the best brain energy was around then. Inspiration can come from anything in life, but to follow through in a novel format I think an idea has to be an especially intriguing and fascinating thing for a writer, not necessarily grand or original, just of interest, because the project requires such possession of the mind and tenacity. I think in terms of feeling that your writing is bad, you should switch your critical brain off and entertain and allow only the creative aspect – don’t over-examine and analyse and berate yourself too soon. Editors can do that when a full draft is written! Relax, and take your eye off the big plan while still keeping it at the back of the mind. Above all else enjoy it, that’s the heart of it, not the external pressure, not the potential marketability, or the comparisons with other works. It you don’t enjoy it, what’s the point? If you are very critical of yourself, recognise that – lock away what you have already done as soon as it has been done and don’t read it until the end. If you thrive under encouragement, get good feedback from people. Try to locate an individual voice or singular aspect to the work, your literary fingerprint, and forget that libraries full of other works exist. Keep the work a private passion for as long as possible, and try to be positive – you are making something satisfying, just doing it is beneficial exercise for you – like gardening. Be discerning and don’t fear cutting and rewriting, but know that you are capable of continued creativity. Break things down into little sections and polish those to your satisfaction, like you would a poem, and forgive the presence of anything imperfect (there is no perfect novel) but keep going with the new sections, and pretty soon the momentum carries you. It’s hard to ditch a fresh finished manuscript full of hope – it’s like shooting a puppy!  
 
Li: How long does it take you to finish writing a book please Sarah? Are you working constantly on it, or dealing with other distractions at the same time?

SH: Always dealing with other distractions! Especially the distraction of making cups of tea! The first few novels felt quite quick to write, a couple of months for the first drafts, and I was in a solitary condition when I wrote them, especially the second one, which I think is rare, and not terribly good for you in life, even if it helps writing. Constant is a strange word for writing, it’s a tidal thing I think, even if I work every day, it’s not for hours straight, it’s broken up. Things are quite elastic in the world of writing. There has to be a basic attachment but also a lot of flexibility. And I think it varies book to book. The first grains of an idea may get sown ages before the last page is written. Clear space is what writers desire I think, but it may never exist in the purest sense unless a writer becomes monastic. Under those conditions I may go mad, I like the odd distraction, life butting in, I think it all feeds into what you are currently working on. 
 
JM: I know neither of your novels are autobiographical as such, but would you say there was more of Cy Parks in you, or of Janet Lightburn?

SH: Not sure which is the clearest litmus test character for my personality and experiences out of the two. It’s a tough question, we may need to employ a professional psychologist! I see bits and pieces in of both in me and me in them. Cy’s a bit of a feckless romantic, and if not careful is blown about in life a bit, which I understand. He goes to America and returns home. He likes folk art and is drawn to artists, has sympathy and compassion for the strangeness of life. He feels the influence of good and bad and struggles to reconcile the two – but we all feel like that, don’t we? He’s passive aggressive, and often quiet but has a lot of thought chuntering away in his brain, and he’s maybe a conduit for the lives of others via art – sometimes I feel that is a little like what I do for a living. Though he’s my physical opposite, male, tall, etc.  Janet is possibly a closer match to my louder side. Political, opinionated, stubborn, defensive, tempered, feral, conflicted by romantic ideas but ultimately consumed by them. I’ll stop there.
 
Susan Tranter: Many thanks for taking part in this interview Sarah. To wrap up, might I ask, on behalf of nosey readers everywhere, what you’re working on at the moment?

SH: A new novel. It’s been a bit of a busy year, so progress has been a slower than I would have liked, but I’m getting there. Thanks to everyone for some really good questions, and good luck with the writing folks!

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