Gary William Murning Online

The above question is one I’ve been thinking about quite a lot just recently. The chapter outlines for Children of the Revolution are now complete (and, boy, am I happy with them!) and whilst there are immense similarities to my own experiences up to the age of about nineteen, and even though my protagonist possesses many Gary-like traits and attitudes, it’s still hard for me to comfortably view it as being about “me”. Even though, to a very large extent, it is.

The author John Irving once made an insightful comment. I’m quoting from memory, here, but it went something along the lines of how he was wary of/uncomfortable with the autobiographical form because he could “always remember a better version”. He was referring to that very human (and possibly very necessary) trait we have to revise our memories — to tweak them in our favour, to make ourselves the heroes of our own lives, or merely to present a more amusing story down the pub. I am very conscious of wanting to avoid this with Children of the Revolution. If Carl, my protagonist, is to be even a bit like me, I don’t want him morphing into some cape-wearing superhero — WheelchairMan, Righter of Educational Wrongs and All-round Good Egg.

To avoid this, I’m trying not to think of it in “semi-autobiographical” terms. I’m drawing on my past heavily (the school-based episodes have about a ninety percent factual base), but the emphasis in the phrase “semi-autobiographical novel” is solidly on the word “novel”. It has to be, if I’m to get the job done successfully. Carl is just another character in just another of my novels. A boy/man like any other — with faults and virtues alike. He’s not me, because if he were I might be tempted on some level to gloss over my own failings (not that there are that many, as I’m sure you know… I’ve told you often enough ;-)) and present an unbalanced view that would do no one any favours.

I might admit to the unmistakable likeness and the genetic match once the novel is written, but for now he’s someone I’ve just met — a stranger I’m learning to know and love.

The things a writer has to do!

Well, after digesting my lunch with a quiet read of Steven Pinker’s How the Mind Works, I’m not wholly convinced that it any longer does. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fascinating, informative and witty book — and by and large, I can grasp it. The whole “computational theory of mind”-thing feels, in fact, rather natural to me (but, then, I did spend my mid-teens poking away at the squishy keyboard of my ZX81.) What I find a little difficult to cope with are the arguments against it — especially Searle’s utterly ridiculous Chinese Room thought experiment (note to potential commenters: don’t even think of telling me it isn’t — you’ll only make me angry and, in the words of David Banner, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry ;-))

But that isn’t what I want to blog about today. In spite of feeling a little lacking in metal capacity, I want to bring my faithful readers up to speed with the progress of the chapter outlines for Children of the Revolution and generally… well, discuss a few of my thoughts on attitudes to “disability” in education.

The further I’ve progressed with my outlines (which are almost complete), the more I’ve seen that the integration system I experienced in the ’70s and ’80s failed on so many levels that it was, frankly, utterly ridiculous to ever call it a success (which, in my case, I’d always considered it to be.) It was new, of course, “experimental” in a most literal way (I made a bloody cute Guinea Pig, if I do say so myself!) — but that doesn’t alter the fact whilst my experience was definitely one of the better ones, it was badly applied at the outset, clearly underfunded as time progressed and enthusiasm waned, and unlikely to succeed when underlying problems in maintainstrean education (such as over-large class sizes) were not even being addressed. Examples of the failings in my particular case were:

1) I had recurring problems throughout my education with desk-height/positioning in relation to my wheelchair. Two or three teachers tried to address it, but by and large with little success (it became a more difficult problem to fix in secondary school — having to move from classroom to classroom — so I just kept quiet and made do.)
2) In sixth form college, I was assigned an auxiliary assistant. A lovely lady who became a friend. Unfortunately, “they” only employed her to work half-days. (With no one else covering the times she wasn’t there.)
3) In 1984, I was still meeting careers advisors who were happy to suggest that my career options included weaving wicker baskets. Which was just what I was studying Physics, Computing and Mathematics for!

I could go on. The more I revisit those times, the more I find in among the laughter and tears a greater sense that this novel needs to be written. I know I’ve said that before, but it remains true. It’s valid from a social history point of view but I also believe it’s valid in the contemporary sense — because I don’t see all that much evidence of improvement. Children, whatever their needs, are still being failed by our education system. And after thirty years of “integration”, that’s bloody unforgivable.

Please feel free to share your thoughts on this.

It’s been an interesting and thought-provoking few days in my little corner of the world.

Having finished draft two of If I never and got it over to Emma at Legend Press, my old, familiar restlessness kicked in at full force and I went to work on the preliminary outlines for Children of the Revolution. The prologue and chapter one sketched out, I realised I needed a general chronology of my own school years (on which the novel is to be partially based… at least) in place, just to ensure that everything “fit” the way I remembered. I quickly knuckled down and got a couple of pages behind me before a little lightbulb went on and, on an impulse that stemmed from the realisation that I needed a fuller understanding of events from the opposite end of the educational spectrum, I googled the name of my favourite and most influential teacher from that period.

And ultimately found her.

A few emails into our correspondence, I’m already finding the confirmation I’d hoped for in her frank and intelligent expression of the events and missed opportunities of those times. And, as you might imagine, I’m more excited than ever about Children of the Revolution. Mrs. S. has already helped me see just how valid and, possibly, important this novel could be. This makes it a weightier responsibility, of course, and I have no doubt it will cause me a few nightmares over the coming months, but I’m already thoroughly enjoying the process and looking forward to the actual writing of this novel.