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Esse Es Percipicrafts a mood of conspiracy in which some aspect of authenticity has been mislaid. If you reroute the story along the lines of a different cultural figure you’ll find that it still rings true. Here’s one I prepared earlier: From that exact moment, fiction, along with the whole gamut of literature, belongs to the genre of drama, performed by a single man in a Paris Review interview or by actors before a Writers’ Festival Panel. In other words, the mannerisms, lifestyle choices, political opinions, daily routines and career trajectories of the Writer are the grist on one side of a publicity machine which expels, on the other, artefacts of public consumption for a digitally connected feedlot of aspiring writers.
He can also do observational comedy, especially when it comes to the intricacies of railway life. On one occasion he is “riding up front” with the driver, “smoking cigarettes and listening to jazz from a transistor radio with our feet on the dash”, when his workmate tells him of a signaller ahead who, because his arm is missing, can’t wave it as the job requires. No one cares,” a friend tells Mol at the “tail end of a bender”. Train Lord is imbued with that morning-after feeling of trying to make it make sense – and realising precisely that no one does care. The world’s indifference can be liberating too. “We were on a train, out of the way of our lives, any of us could tell any story we liked,” as Diski puts it. “We were, for the time being, just the story we told.” For ten months, the pain was constant, exacerbated by writing, reading, using computers, looking at phones or anything with a screen. Slowly he became a writer who no longer wrote, and a person who could no longer could communicate with the modern world. In literature, and life, Oliver began to disappear. I had never met a more diverse group of people in my life’: Oliver Mol. Photograph: Penguin Random House A book that speaks to anyone who’s gone to the darker side of life and still come out alive’ Paul Dalla RosaIt's that time of year again when words-per-day becomes the currency. So we thought we'd bring you even more words... Words of novel-writing wisdom! No, no... not from us... obviously. From novelist and longtime book editor Howard Mittelmark. Co-writer of How NOT to Write A Novel. A fantastic book full of the pitfalls most writers fall into when they're setting off along the long and arduous road to Novelton, Nebraska.
The memoir is as much about the art, craft and alchemy of storytelling as it is about healing. Or perhaps, his book suggests, they’re one and the same thing. “I truly believe,” he tells me, earnestly, “that the stories we tell ourselves are the stories that become true.” https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/56677/how-not-to-write-a-novel-by-sandra-newman-howard-mittelmark/9780141038544We write to understand humanness and Oliver Mol achieves it with exceptional honesty and gripping emotionalism. This book is special’ Ennis Cehic What happens when the one thing that has practically defined your life is now gone? All of a sudden, the reset button has been pressed: new job, new workplace… a new identity. The only person who gets to control how you feel is you. Most people spend their entire lives hurting, or being hurt, but that hurting only brings more hurt until your whole world becomes pain.”
At some point we returned to the path and walked to the platform. We sat at Waterfall station and waited for the train. And I knew there was no logic to anything. Because the very things that killed you could also bring you home. From that exact moment, soccer, along with the whole gamut of sports, belongs to the genre of the drama, performed by a single man in a booth or by actors in jerseys before the TV cameras. Despite this minor distraction, Train Lord excels in its frank and moving journey of self-rediscovery as he recounts the most challenging, yet transformative, period of his life.
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Oliver Mol’s award-winning debut Train Lord takes us on an intimate journey of hope, resilience, and self-discovery in his brutally honest depiction of chronic pain. Immediately we are plunged into an anecdote where he recounts the relief he experienced when his migraine finally went away. His descriptions are striking in their visceral detail, leaving audiences feeling raw. Mol never shies away from the blunt and agonising reality of his condition so we’re always fervently invested, rooting for some sort of happy ending. In a way we’re almost longing with him as he tries to resume his way of life; drinking, socialising and just trying to feel whole again. But as we soon find out, it’s not that simple. I told him I didn’t know how he did it, commuting an hour and a half each way. We required eleven hours between shifts, but assuming, for example, that he finished at 2.30am, he would, at best, if he had a car, be home around 3.45am, though if he had to rely on public transport, it would be closer to 5 in the morning. Then, he would sleep six or seven or eight hours only to wake in time for the return commute in the event that he had a 3.30pm start. Of course, a shift like this was rare, but not unheard of, and as a new guard, one had to wait until a line opened up on the roster, until they had accrued enough seniority, which only happened when someone died, or quit. Only then could a guard transition to a permanent line that allowed them to sleep, to see their partners, to live a life of one’s own rather that facilitating the movement and direction of others.
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