Stupid Stories for Tough Times

Publishing as an industry is obsessed with new – books yet to come out… but what about the brilliant books that have already been published? Each month we spotlight a different author whose book was published more than a year ago, which you might be yet to meet… This month we hear from Andrew Crowther about the brilliant Stupid Stories for Tough Times…

Shuffling the Shelves: Stupid Stories for Tough Times by Andrew Crowther

The best writing advice I know is attributed to Somerset Maugham. ‘There are three rules for the writing of a novel,’ he explained to a student. ‘Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.’

I’ve always lived my life by jokes, comedy, humour; they’re my preferred way of telling the truth. So when I say that obviously Maugham was joking, that’s not at all the same as suggesting he didn’t mean it.

The fact is, I don’t think there are any rules of writing, except maybe, ‘Don’t be boring.’ There are lots of guidelines and handy hints around, and some of them are even helpful. But that’s all they are – guidelines and handy hints; what works for one writer may not work for another, and I believe it is literally true that there are as many ways to write as there are writers.

Which is my long-winded and slightly pompous way of explaining that each one of the little fables in my book Stupid Stories for Tough Times is, in its way, an experiment.

My method, if I have a method, is this: an idea might pop into my head, an image, a feeling, a fragment of a story. If it hangs around and insists on being told, I’ll sit in front of my laptop and curse a bit and try to find a way to write it all down. Who’s telling the story, and what do they sound like? What do I see? What do I hear? Where are we going?

It’s like taking hold of a piece of thread and following it to see what’s at the other end. We might not finish exactly where we thought we would. But if the story takes us there, that’s where we need to be. The stories in this book of mine seem to have ended up being written in different styles, depending on what voice seemed appropriate to the tale being told. All I can say is, I’ve tried to make them as good and as non-boring as I can.

As I’ve mentioned, I like jokes and comedy and humour. I call them stupid stories for tough times, and at least a couple of them are very stupid indeed – that’s their best feature. Some try to illuminate a little bit of the strange times we live in, bearing in mind that I personally find the whole business completely baffling. Some are there just because they make me laugh. Others are rather grim and not overtly funny at all; but I think humour lurks in every one of them, somewhere.

A Change in the Air

An extract from one of the stories…

The palace of Westminster, that gaudy cathedral of politics, shone absurdly in the morning sun. In its shadow, Parliament Square held a shop-soiled promise of spring. And in the square there stood, as usual, the surly double-sized figure of Churchill, cast in black bronze, clad in a long greatcoat, the stick in its right hand planted firmly into its tall plinth, its left foot pressed forward, its broad back crooked with the weight of history, its squat face staring with grim resolution towards the high clock tower of Big Ben.

No one knows for sure why the statue of Churchill came to life that morning. There was no thunderbolt, no mystic incantation, just a faint shudder across its frame and a slow movement of its head. Some say they felt a change in the air, a north wind that became westerly; and if that does not seem explanation enough, maybe there is no other.

For a long while nothing further happened, though what had been dead was now living. Then, with a deep sigh, the statue of Churchill moved.

The statue flicked its eyes to left and right. It advanced cautiously to the edge of the plinth and assessed the nine-foot drop. It crouched down slowly until it was sitting with its hollow legs dangling over the edge, and pushed itself forward and dropped to the ground with a clang.

By this time, a small crowd had gathered at a short distance and was looking on in silent astonishment. The statue, oblivious, stooped and felt the grass at its feet, and made a sound from within – not a word, but a soft sigh, hollow and resonant and somehow melancholy. It sat on the grass, its legs drawn up and its head down, staring with wonder at the green blades between its fingers.

A small dog of indeterminate breed wandered up to it, and before the man at the other end of its lead could react the dog cocked its leg and marked the statue. The onlookers gave out an involuntary ‘Oh’ and held their breath. The statue reached out a hand to the dog and tenderly stroked its fur for a few seconds. The dog enjoyed the attention for as long as it lasted and then trotted, unconcerned, back to the man holding the lead.

The incident seemed to be a signal for everyone to relax and accept that the statue meant them no harm. In no time they were greeting it like an old friend, and it smiled and nodded at them with perfect patience and amiability.

Word was getting out. News teams were alerted and were on their way to the scene as fast as their vans would take them. It was the Prime Minister who heard of the matter next; only a minute or two had passed and already he could be observed strolling nonchalantly across New Palace Yard towards the great bronze figure, which was still seated on the grass and allowing two boisterous children of a young family to climb over it and even to stroke its bald head.

The Prime Minister approached the group; the family were quick to take fright and retreat. For a moment, the statue looked at him. The Prime Minister spoke, and gestured towards his media team, who were running towards them with their cameras jangling. The statue’s face shut down. It spoke: a soft, wordless sigh. The Prime Minister smiled and nodded…

Up next…

We asked Andrew to choose the next book to join the shuffled shelves, so join us here to find out more about Still Lives.
Andrew said:

Still Lives: this tale of deception and self-deception is a cunning thing, apparently light in tone and shot through with wry observation, but in the end quietly devastating.