Your new book, On Writing, is a collection of essays and blogs. How did you start blogging?
I like what I do. I like reading. That whole area of my life has always been very joyful and supportive and well supported.
It’s probably just me being evangelical – not about people being writers but about people having access to what writing can do. That’s why I go around and do a one-person show and that’s why I started blogging.
Writing has become one of your central themes, hasn’t it?
Yes. The use of language is underestimated as a force. It’s how advertising influences; it’s how politicians influence. The way you are defined by the law is framed in words. It influences every aspect of your life, so if you’re not in control of language, language is in control of you. That’s not necessarily a good thing.
The blogs, which function as a sort of diary, give a strong sense of the toll that writing has taken, particularly on your health.
When I was coming through, there weren’t any [writing] courses. You somehow had the idea that you should get a room of your own and that the more time you had, the more you would write; and then you’d get published and that would be it. That was all the information you had and, even with the courses, it’s pretty much all the information you have now.
Warwick, where I teach, is very good; the emphasis is on the words on the page. Still, you need to ask: do you have a comfortable chair? Are you working on a laptop, which means your head is in the wrong position or your hands are in the wrong position – or both? If you do that for four, six, eight hours, when you’re basically built to swing through trees and eat fruit, you’ll become ill.
In one essay, you talk about “being with people in art”. The way you work seems very communal.
I don’t know many writers who work in an ivory tower. That was only really possible for a very brief period when a particular class of person had vast amounts of leisure time. If you look at history, [you’ll find that] the people who told stories were primarily performers and it was always public or it was a communal activity and everybody did it.
What effect has the growth of creative writing courses had?
It depends on whether the course is good or not. Writing is not a communal activity when you’re doing it, putting words on paper. If your name’s on it, it’s your responsibility. It’s not a group decision.
A lot of courses and sessions and books are about making money; making people dependent upon a process that is unnecessary and upon which they should not become dependent.
Writing is the most self-contained form of self-employment. You don’t have to go on a course; you don’t have to have gone to university – but you do have to understand your craft. It is a craft and you can learn it, regardless of how you serve your apprenticeship.
Why do you think creative writing as an academic discipline has been so controversial – in this country, at least?
Because it’s not fit for purpose. It wasn’t designed by writers; it was designed by English departments. The idea that the English department should be the one that creative writing is attached to makes no more sense than it being attached to the anthropology department or the physics department.
Your background is in theatre studies. You write about actors a lot in the book.
Actors are extraordinarily good readers. In a way, they’re the most forgiving readers around because even if you’re producing unmelodious and unbelievable rubbish, they have to be out there wearing it and if it doesn’t cover them, then their arse is out of the window.
The cover of the book makes you look like a polar explorer. Is that a good metaphor for the writing life?
It’s completely polar. You’re walking out across a great, white wasteland, making little black marks.
A L Kennedy’s “On Writing” is published by Jonathan Cape (£16.99)