'I search through my novel for the perfect passage to read aloud ? brief and dramatic'
In the post I find an envelope containing one of my columns, torn from the magazine and folded in four. Two swearwords, one near the beginning and one in the last line, have been circled in black. Each circle has an arrow leading from it to an area of white space on the page, where the sender has written, "NO NEED FOR THIS."
I try not to worry. My copy of the Guardian style guide says, "There is almost never a case in which we need to use a swearword outside direct quotes", but both of mine are from instances of reported speech. I suppose the only potential issue is the reliability of my reporting, but I don't think anyone who knows my wife would imagine I had cause to liven up her dialogue.
Although I feel I am on safe ground, I am also aware that a column containing the phrase "shat himself" has already been filed that morning, so I can expect the arrival of another torn page.
A few days later I take the sleeper train to Aberdeen, where I am to appear at the Word writers festival. I have never attended a literary festival except as a punter, and in the four years since it was published, the only time I have read aloud from my novel was in front of 30 nine-year-olds during reading week. They didn't enjoy it, but I put this down to the fact that I had struggled to find a passage containing no inappropriate language.
On Saturday morning I wander around the University of Aberdeen wearing a guest pass on a lanyard and feeling vaguely fraudulent. There's a special room with free coffee and tea for writers, but I don't feel comfortable hanging around in there, because Margaret Atwood's in there. I go to readings by Jane Harris and Anne Enright, in the same auditorium where I will later be appearing. They're both brilliant. Harris actually apologises for her second book being less scatological than her first; she thinks some people may be disappointed. Enright says "fuck" twice during her reading, and a frisson of delight ripples through the audience both times. It's all about context, I think.
I return to the writers' lounge, pull out a copy of my novel and search through it for the perfect passage to read aloud ? brief, dramatic and broadly representative. The chunk of text I bookmark contains just one swearword, but it's a good one.
At 4.30 I step on to the stage clutching my book. A professor called Andrew has kindly agreed to act as interviewer. He's a former BBC reporter and he runs the show with calm professionalism. I answer his questions while staring out into the blackness beyond the lights, wondering what proportion of the audience has read my column that morning and consequently knows that I lost control of my bowels in a New York restaurant in 1990.
Eventually the time comes for me to read. I stand up and shuffle awkwardly to an adjacent lectern. I explain some of the context of the passage and then plunge in, trying not to speak too quickly. When I reach the climactic swearword ? it's the C-word ? I hit it hard and with confidence. Out beyond the lights I hear a collective intake of breath. They're stunned, I think. But that's exactly why the word is there: for impact. In context, it works.
I sit back down. At Andrew's behest, the house lights come up for the Q&A portion of the event. As my eyes adjust I see that the audience is full of children. It's hard to gauge ages, but more than a few of them are sitting on laps.
"Who has a question?" says Andrew. Several tiny hands rise into the air. I wonder how many times I'm going to have to say, "Perhaps you should ask your mother about it later" before I can go back to my hotel and get drunk.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/may/21/swearwords-tim-dowling
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