7. No place to park by alexander mcall smith up to page13 mine 2021 PDF

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Excerpt for analysis No Place to Park by Alexander McCall Smith It started as a challenge, the unforeseen outcome of an absurd conversation at a writers’ festival in Western Australia. There was the usual panel on stage, and an audience made up of the sort of people who frequent crime panels—predominantly women with a sprinkling of men, highly educated, highly literate, and highly imaginative. They were a group bound together by a fascination with the gory details of behaviours in which they themselves would never engage. These people would never commit murder, not in their wildest dreams. Nor would they mix with people who did such things, no matter how fascinating they might find their company on the page. But they loved to read about murder, about the sudden, violent termination of human life, and of how it was done. The panel was discussing realism in crime fiction. Two practitioners of the art, writers of wellreceived Policières, had been pitted against the literary critic of a local paper. The critic, who read very little of such fiction expressed the view that there was a surfeit of realistic gore in the contemporary mystery.

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“Look at the average crime novel these days,” he pointed out, stabbing at the air with an accusing finger. “Look at the body count. Look at the compulsory autopsy scenes. Some actually start with the autopsy, would you believe it! The autopsy room, so familiar, so comforting! Organs are extracted and weighed, wounds examined for angle-of-entry, and it’s all so . . . well, it’s all so graphic.” He paused. From the audience came a brief outbreak of laughter. It could not be graphic enough for them. The critic warmed to his theme. “But there are crimes other than murder, aren’t there? There’s fraud and theft and extortion. There’s tax evasion, for heaven’s sake! And yet all we read about in books of this genre is murder. Murder, murder, murder.” He paused, then looked accusingly at the two authors beside him. “Why not write about more mundane offences? Why not write about things that actually happen? Murder’s very rare, you know. Not that one would think so to read your books.” One of the authors grinned at the audience. “Weak stomach,” he said, gesturing to the critic. “Can’t take it.”

The audience laughed. They had no difficulty taking it. “Seriously, though,” said the critic. “How about it? How about a realistic crime novel dealing with something day-to-day, some commonplace low-level offence.” “Such as?” asked one of the authors.

The critic waved a hand in the air. “Oh, anything,” he said lightly. “Parking violations, perhaps. Those happen all the time. Everybody joined in the laughter, even the critic. “Go on,” he said to the authors. “Why don’t one of you people do something like that? Give up murder. Get real. Start a new genre.” One of the authors, George Harris, a successful crime writer from Perth, stared at him. He had been laughing, but now he looked thoughtful. George shared a small bungalow with his girlfriend, Frizzie, who ran a tie-and-dye tee-shirt store in Fremantle. They had lived together for five years now, in a narrow house near Cottesloe Beach. George liked to surf and Cottesloe was a good place for it, as the Indian Ocean broke directly on the broad expanse of sand there, hindered only by the tiny sliver of Rocknest Island.

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Whenever he went surfing nowadays, thoughts of what might be in the water beneath him were always on his mind, nagging fears, repressed but still there, somewhere below the surface. Eight months earlier somebody whom he knew, although only vaguely, had been taken by a great white within a stone’s throw of the edge of the beach. The incident had brought home to him the fact that surfing in Australia had its perils—one was in their habitat, after all—and it had also given him an idea for his next book. The plot would involve rivalry amongst surfers—something having to do with a lover or a motorbike—which would lead to one surfer planning to dispose of another. And what better way to do so than to fake a shark attack? The killing strike would be administered from below the waves by a large knife which the murderer had specially made in his garage. The knife would have a number of serrations along the edge, each carefully honed to the shape of a shark’s tooth, in order to leave just the right wounds for the coroner to come to the inevitable conclusion—death by shark attack. It would be carried out at a time when nobody else was about and certainly nobody would see the diver down below, with his knife glinting in the water like a silver fish. It was a good plot, even if it would not make comfortable reading for surfers, or comfortable writing, for that matter, for a crime novelist who also happened to be a surfer. He had barely started this new novel, this surfing story, and was tempted to give it up. He had once before persisted with a book his heart was not in, and he had wasted eight months in the gestation of something that did not work and that had to be abandoned. Determined not to make the same mistake again, he had been open to new ideas when the critic at the panel had made his comments. The suggestion that a crime novel should concern itself with something as minor as illegal parking had been made in jest, of course, but when one thought about it, why not? It was

such an outrageously silly idea that it could well end up making its mark in a genre of fiction that was becoming increasingly crowded. It was different, and people wanted something different. There were so many police procedurals, all dealing with hard-bitten homicide squads on the mean streets. Here was something that was at the completely opposite end of the spectrum, and it would register with people. They needed a smile, and he would give it to them. It would be gentle, whimsical stuff, devoid of violence and mayhem. He could set it in Western Australia, on his own doorstep, and it could be full of local color. As he warmed to the idea, he began to imagine a plot. There would be tension within the parking department. There would be rivalry as to who managed to give motorists the most tickets. There would be a budding love affair between two parking officers which would be frowned upon by the police superintendent. The lovers would have to meet in secret, at the busy end of the street, perhaps, where motorists were always parking in the wrong places and getting ticketed. George smiled at the thought of it. But there was a serious matter to consider—he would have to get the world of parking officers right. He would have to go to the traffic department at his local police headquaters and get permission to tag along for a day or two with one of the officers. He should have no difficulties there. The Perth police had always cooperated with him and he, in turn, had always painted a flattering picture of them. In George’s books, the Perth police always outsmarted visiting detectives from Sydney or Melbourne. They liked that. He told his Frizzie about his new plot. She was the only person who he discussed his stories with before they were published. She was a surfer, like him, and they would sometimes lie on their boards, out beyond the waves, talking about the ins and outs of whatever book he was working on at the time. It was a comfortable relationship. As they chatted, the water lapping against their boards, George hoped that there was nothing down below, listening, so to speak. The police department arranged for him to go out with a parking officer on a Friday. Fridays were good days, they explained to him, as farmers often came into town then and parked illegally. “They forget that they’re in a city,” joked the officer he was with. “They think they’re still out in the bush and can park anywhere! We sort them out for sure!”

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George noted the vindictive edge to his remark. Farmers deserved sympathy, he thought, with their struggles against drought and pests and low agricultural prices. But he did not say anything; he just filed the comment away for future use. He looked at the officer. He was a small man with a rather defeated look about him. Obviously parking duty was not for the high flier. High fliers went to homicide, he imagined. They spent the morning going up and down a busy shopping street. The officer took note of several violations, explaining each of them to him in great detail. “This driver is a serious offender,” the officer said, pointing to a battered Holden. “Tax disc is out-of-date. He hasn’t even bothered to put money in the machine, and . . .” The ‘and’ was

stressed, as the final word in a litany of sins might be given extra weight. “And he’s way over the line. Look at that! Creating a hazard for other drivers. Shameless!” “What are you going to do?” asked George, staring at the offending car. It was a homely vehicle, much-loved, he suspected. On the back seat was a child’s toy, a teddy bear. “I’m going to book him for the lot,” said the officer, taking out his notebook and beginning to write down the list of violations. After the officer finished his paperwork, they moved off, on foot, down a side street. It was a narrow access lane with prominently displayed signs stating that parking was forbidden. Yet there was a car parked halfway down the street. “Look at that,” said the officer. “Blatant. And they’re sitting in the vehicle too. Bold as brass.” The two men in the car, deep in what appeared to be a heated conversation, had not seen them and started in surprise when the officer tapped smartly on the half-lowered window on the driver’s side. “Do you realise that you’re illegally parked, sir?” said the officer firmly. “Would you show me your driver’s license, please.” The driver opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He looked shocked. “Come on, sir,” said the officer. “Don’t hold me up.” Things happened rather quickly after that. The driver reached forward, started the engine, and thrust the car into gear. Then, with a roar, he pulled away. George reeled back in surprise, while the officer fumbled for his radio.

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It was then that they saw the body under the car, lying with arms stretched out, an ugly red-black stain on the front of the shirt. It was the sort of body which crime writers like to describe in graphic detail. Eyes open but unseeing. Fingers clenched. Hair tousled. Feet at an odd angle. And so on. Page

For a full version, you can subscribe to the Strand Magazine or purchase back issues. The End -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------No Place to Park by Alexander McCall Smith (mine)

Writing is reality. Writing is not simply the act of clicking a keyboard and jotting down a number of graphemes, phonemes, lexical items and syntactical patterns and in this way you 'make' meaning. Writing is a very intimate process. It is that kind of process which changes your

chemistry as well as your electricity. It is electrifying to extremes, to the extent that you could end up being at the mercy of your own creations. Writing is an act which, even though is your own making is different from you. It has an existence of its own. It is that kind of existence which is all the time being created and re-created by each and every reader, not least the author itself. It is all the time taking a new life. It is a reenactment all the time -- not the superficial kind of re-enactments we see everyday, but the quintessential re-enactments which go into our own spirit. And this is exactly what happens in this short story. The writing of a crime story by an author who is convinced that 'realism', day-to-day way of living, the famous Strindberg's 'slice of life', is good enough to be a tantalizing story. It does not need to have gory details, in order to appeal to the imagination and makes the reader see as if life afresh through the eyes of a 'detached' author. It is important to note that realism, as a genre of writing tried to be as objective as possible. It tried to give a picture as it is. The subjectivity of the author had to be left out. The 'plot', or better still the 'situational essence' had to develop out of its own accord, and the author was simply there to see that the action takes place. The author, hence had to be dispassionate. He had to be objective as much as possible, in terms of dialogue, narrative, order of things etc. And it is this, the point of departure -- the aim of this story. Or better still it was this approach which the author wanted to adopt. However, as the story unfolds, and the author goes with a parker to see how he goes about his day-to-day routines, and spots a dead man under a car, and he had had to witness in court about the murder, the brain of the protagonist, who now was in favour of writing a short story in the realistic genre, as if changed completely. The story got its upper hand, and he, instead of remaining in charge of the narrative, or better still, he instead of leaving the narrative take its natural course, it had had its upper hand on him, and now, once, he goes one fine morning to the sea, and spies one lonely surfer, it comes as if with vengeance to his mind that what he was going to write about, in other words, that a surfer would be killed by serrated knife coming up from under the water, to give the impression that it was the result of the fin of a shark, now, he felt as if a 'lurch' in him and he panicked.

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The story turned on him. His imagination leapt on him, and he became its victim. Tyrants and victims in this way become one and the same person. The realistic genre believes that there are no real tyrants and no real victims -- we could be tyrants and victims at the same time, and this is exactly what happens. The author becomes the victim of his own imagination. The author becomes the victim of his creativity -- creativity, as if turns on him with a bang. This short story, in this way could be seen as metafiction, that kind of fiction which is about fiction itself -- the creative act is open to various interpretations. Psychology, definitely helps us in this regard. When we read as well as when we write, our inner mental process are electrified to the extent that we become, as if, under their grasp. They hold us at ransom. What we invent, becomes reality. At that moment of creation reality takes a new dimension. The dream becomes reality: dreamlike reality which is real as 'reality' itself. The realistic genre, in other words

realism, as well as naturalism, give the author the chance to keep what is referred to as the aesthetic distance from the object of contemplation, but in reality, everything is subjective. Artistic achievements are subjective, and this subjectivity is the 'I', in us, who is talking with the 'Me' in us. It is that that kind of being, where we are all the time chattering with one another within ourselves. These conversations make up our thoughts and our inner chatters and in this way we from ourselves, not simply as authors, but more importantly as human beings. In this way when we try to emulate reality, reality doesn't remain the reality we spy with our 'eyes', but is emulated in accordance with our inner selves -- the memory, as if transforms reality into a new order of things, and we inhabit those memories. In their turn these memories entrap us and encase us and we end up besieged by them -- we become their prisoners, and they become our nightmares. They become our haunting memories which are all the time determining our way of seeing and transforming life. Life, in this way is changed by literature, in as much as it is changed by any other event, which makes up our phenomenological living -- our day-to-day emerging routines in which our 'agency', is minimal, even though we would be doing the things ourselves. In this way 'No place to park' by McCall, doesn't remain a simple innocuous story, but becomes another archetypal referent of our inner subconscious mind -- our unconscious mind, where, whether we like it or not, we have hidden fears, fairy tales, horrific narratives, in as much as narratives of salvation, refuge and resurrection. This time round, however, the story ends up to be a narrative of fright -- fear embedded in our inner selves -- a terrible endemic type of fear, which is lurking there within us, directing us and giving us the phobias, the fears, the repetitive actions of the OCD and the many psychological disorders we study in psychology. These fears are within us, and they are generated by the kind of stories we relate to us. These stories, as Umberto Eco, would have told us, if we do not narrate them, and in my opinion even if we narrate, will come back on us with a vengeance, because once we think them, and give them a life of their own in writing they have a life of their own and they need their space in the phenomenology of life.

No Place to Park by Alexander McCall Smith (mine)

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All of this shows, that even though this short story started off with the presumption that the dayto-day routines, are good enough crime stories, this kind of narrative, even though one might be sceptical because it is not that far removed from our reality, is fodder for all sorts of dreadful experiences and chills in our bones. In this way fiction becomes reality. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It has been said that, there is the chance that when we break out of the box, we step into shackles (If you are shackled by something, it prevents you from doing what you want to do: . ) . On the other hand, Chesterton is quoted to have said that 'Art consists in limitation and the most beautiful part of every picture is the frame.' There is no doubt that imagination definitely can change our perceptions of reality -- our mind can literally play ricks on us. Imagination can alter mind-brain function. Our imagination, for instance of a sound or a shape changes how we perceive the world around us, in the same way actually hearing that sound or seeing that shape does. In this way, sensory information from one sense can change and distort one's perception of another sense. Mental training, in fact can reshape brain waves and leave an archive of experience and expectation for a day and longer. Mental imagery and visualization can alter how we perceive the world

around us. To a large extent, our mind can create reality at a neuronal level. All of the above shows that sensory signals generated by one's imagination are strong enough to change one's real-world perception of a different sensory modality.

This introduction of mine, is felt, in my opinion throughout the whole narrative 'No Place to Park' by Alexander McCall Smith, a narrative which spells all of the above in the literary mode -- the way we pattern our thoughts, not only as individuals, but, also as 'authors' of our scripts. The story in a nutshell is expounded in this way. It started as a challenge, the unforeseen outcome of an absurd conversation at a writers’ festival in Western Australia. There was the usual panel on stage, and an audience made up of the sort of people who frequent crime panels—predominantly women with a sprinkling of men, highly educated, highly literate, and highly imaginative. They were a group bound together by a fascination with the gory details of behaviours in which they themselves would never engage. These people would never commit murder, not in their wildest dreams. Nor would they mix with people who did such things, no matter how fascinating they might find their company on the page. But they loved to read about murder, about the sudden, violent termination of human life, and of how it was done. The panel was discussing realism in crime fiction. Two practitioners of the art, writers of wellreceived Policières, had been pitted against the literary critic of a local paper. The critic, who read very little of such fiction expressed the view that there was a surfeit of realistic gore in the contemporary mystery. “Look at t...