Showing posts with label Kathleen Hoyle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kathleen Hoyle. Show all posts

Wednesday, 5 March 2025

"Writing the Coal Face: Oral History and Creative Writing: A Methodology in Practice"

By Kathy Hoyle



On March 1st, 2025, I was invited to chair a discussion at Sunderland Museum with Dr Louise Powell about her work with oral histories and poetry. Louise had used recordings of local people from now-decimated mining communities to create an exhibition of poetry alongside stunning tintype images by local photographer Andy Martin.

When Louise first told me about the project I was instantly intrigued since my own PhD thesis focuses on authentic North-East dialect and narrative voice in working-class fiction. I also use oral history recordings as a springboard for my creative work, so I was keen to see a similar methodology in practice. Moreover, I’m the daughter of a miner. My dad worked in Horden pit, and I was born and raised just down the road from Sunderland, in Hartlepool, so, if ever there was a project that appealed to me both professionally and personally, this was it!

After visiting the exhibition with my Dad, it was clear that ‘Coal Face’ carried a deep reverence for the local mining communities and was a wonderful way of preserving Northeast heritage and history.  By marrying images with poetry and using excerpts of the recordings as voiceovers to accompany both, Powell and Martin had created an exhibition that brought respect and understanding of Northeast heritage to a much wider audience – particularly those who might otherwise have had little understanding of the bravery, camaraderie and resilience of mining communities.

During our discussion, Powell explained that she worked closely with recordings for many months, searching through over 80,000 words of transcript to find emerging themes, phonetic patterns and dialect terms that could be used to create her poetry. In structuring the pieces, she cleverly used different poetic forms to mirror physical and emotional moments in the miners' lives, the constraints of the haiku representing the compact, claustrophobic space within the mine, sonnets reflecting the contradicting emotional lives of the workers, and prose poetry that emulated speech patterns and regional dialect, all perfectly woven through the exhibition alongside the powerful images created by Andy Martin. 

Powell went on to discuss the importance of using dialect in her work. By using dialect, she explained, she was not only preserving heritage and memory but also preserving language. She wanted to stay as true as possible to the recordings and added that to whitewash the local dialect would have made no sense to her at all - how can you authentically represent a regional community without using the language within it?  

She went on to describe her joy at using dialect within her work, the rich beauty of the language and the emotional resonance she felt with the mining community in doing so. 

Several members of the audience were nodding enthusiastically throughout the discussion and one gentleman went on to tell us a wonderfully light-hearted story about how he had worked in a mine in Yorkshire and caused much confusion with his colloquial language. 

It was clear the exhibition was of real importance to the local community, and it has been incredibly well-received. You could see grown men visibly moved while they were walking around the exhibition space. 

My own father’s response was quite visceral, and I was surprised at how emotional he became – holding his hands up to compare his arthritic fingers to the photographs of other miners' hands, his memory sparked by the poetry and recordings and afterward he was quite still for a moment. Then he simply said, ‘I can’t really tell you if these are good memories or bad, but either way, it’s wonderful!’

It seems that Louise Powell and Andy Martin have created something deeply meaningful for both the local community and beyond. It was a real pleasure to be involved and wonderful to see oral history being used so effectively as a spark for creative practice.  

Coal Face exhibition is open until March 15th at Sunderland Museum and Winter Gardens- you can find more information here.

Accompanying podcasts by Dr Louise Powell can be found here.

You can read an interview with Dr Louise Powell on Everybody's Reviewing here.


About the author
Kathy Hoyle’s work is published in literary magazines such as The Forge, Lunate, Emerge literary journal, New Flash Fiction Review, South Florida Poetry Journal and Fictive Dream. She has won a variety of competitions including The Bath Flash Fiction Award, The Hammond House Origins Competition and The Retreat West Flash Fiction Competition. She was recently longlisted for The Wigleaf Top 50 and her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions and The Pushcart Prize. She is currently a PhD Creative Writing student at the University of Leicester. 

Friday, 30 June 2023

Kathy Hoyle, "Chasing the Dragon"

Congratulations to PhD Creative Writing student Kathy Hoyle, whose novella-in-flash, Chasing the Dragon, has just been published by Alien Buddha Press! 



Kathy Hoyle writes short fiction and flash fiction. Her work can be found in publications such as Fictive Dream, Lunate, Ellipsiszine, The Forge, and Emerge Literary Journal.

She was the winner of The Bath Flash Fiction Award, The Retreat West Flash Fiction Competition, came second in The Edinburgh Flash Fiction Award, and the HISSAC Prize and third in the Cambridge Flash Fiction Prize. Other stories have been listed in various competitions such as The Exeter Short Story Prize and The Fish Short Memoir Prize.

She holds a BA (Hons) and an MA in Creative Writing and is currently studying for a PhD at the University of Leicester. Chasing the Dragon is her debut novella-in-flash.




About Chasing the Dragon

Chasing the Dragon is a visceral, searing novella-in-flash that explores the complexities of familial relationships in a small-town community reeling from the after-effects of the Vietnam War. 

When two young men return home from war, both deeply troubled, their mothers must deal with the terrible fall-out. 

Willy is addicted to opiates and suffering from PTSD. Chester, no longer able to freely express his thirst for blood and combat, seeks other ways to wreak havoc on those around him. And their younger cousins, TJ and Cal, desperate to emulate their hometown war heroes, head off into the woods, only to find there is terrible danger there too. 

Meanwhile, in Vietnam, Bihn, who is terrified of dark spaces, has lost his parents, his home and has nowhere to turn, except the GI camp, where he vows to make himself useful, not knowing that he is entering into the darkest place he will ever know. 

You can see more about Chasing the Dragon here. Below, you can read an excerpt from the novella-in-flash.


From Chasing the Dragon, by Kathy Hoyle

Dark Spaces

Bihn does not like dark spaces.

Every day, he digs with grandmother, making holes to hide in, like rats. 

When the soldiers come, Bihn is forced inside. His uncle always sits too close. Bihn can feel sharp whiskers brushing his cheek and smell his uncle’s fetid breath. Fear clutches Bihn’s heart. He cannot help but cry. When they crawl out into the bright sunlight, Grandmother whips him hard with bamboo. Too much noise, she hisses. 

Bihn goes with grandfather to the river. He sees a rare blue lotus flower and bends to cradle it in his small hands, mesmerised by its beauty. A bullet whistles overhead. He looks up to see grandfather fold into the water. Blood pools on the surface. His uncle scoops him up and carries him back to the village. His whiskers scratch Bihn’s cheek.  Grandmother beats him. Your fault! Your fault! 

Bihn steals away at night. His eyes are good, he knows the way through the shadows. He moves, quick and agile, through the dark spaces. Rain pounds his face. He must not arrive shivering like a starving dog or they will not keep him. He must be useful. 

His sister, Thùy Linh, answers the door. She looks like a movie star, kohl-eyed, rippling crimson dress. She brings him inside, holds him to her. She smells like apricot blossom. Mai is pinched and angry. She screeches at Thùy Linh, No! No kids here! He shows Thùy Linh his bruises. Thùy Linh tells Mai that Bihn must stay. She lays out a bed for him in a dark space. Bihn does not like dark spaces.

Mai hisses at him, keep your eyes and mouth shut! He knows how to keep quiet. Each night he falls asleep to the rhythmic thumps of the bed.

Bihn runs errands. He collects the opium, learns how to crush it, how to clean the pipe. He is useful. The GI’s give him Hershey bars. They laugh, and drink and throw the girls around like hollow dolls. Afterwards, the girls hold them while they cry for their mothers. Bihn brings the pipe. The men lay on Thùy Linh’s bed, eyes glazed while Bihn cleans up the mess.

Thùy Linh has a special friend, Willy. She hums to Willy and tells him stories about the dragon father who protects his people. Willy says he will marry Thùy Linh and take her back to America. One night, Willy brings a tall, thin man with him. Bihn sees hatred in the man’s yellow snake eyes. The thin man reminds Bihn of his grandmother’s bamboo whip. His snake eyes loop around the room and settle on Bihn, nestled in his dark space. 

How much for the boy?  

Wednesday, 14 November 2018

Magical Mystery Tour 2018

Photo Collage by Karen Rust


By Kathleen Hoyle

As a new student to the Creative Writing MA course at the University of Leicester, I’m still finding my feet. I’ve never thought of myself as particularly academic and still wonder how I’ve made it this far. So, with an open mind I’ve started the course, with a willingness and enthusiasm to learn all I can.

I must admit, then, when our tutor Harry Whitehead told us we were going on a ‘magical mystery tour’ down an alleyway, on a cold and rainy Wednesday afternoon in November, my enthusiasm waned a little.

We donned our coats hats, and, in my case, a broken brolly that battled with the wind half-heartedly throughout and set out somewhat half-heartedly.

But something DID transpire on that walk … you CAN find ideas in the mundane; even the brollies were a topic of discussion – my broken and deluded pound shop one, Harry’s smart and expensive one and Laura’s beautifully bright rainbow one. Harry was right all along. 
The alleyway chosen was dim and broken. There since Victorian times, it sagged behind run-down flats and overgrown gardens. But what treasures we found! 




A carrier bag, possessed with the spirits of addicts and drunks.





Romeo and Juliet’s balcony?





A bleeding wall - gothic horror.





Madge the mattress, an old prostitute with stories to tell, if only someone would listen. 



   




Locks and signs, dark holes, all stories with a threatening tone. 


We all sat in the pub afterwards warm, toasty and elated. A babble of conversation and short story ideas, all flowing from a short walk through an alleyway. Harry explained that, as writers, we must learn to observe and embrace the mundane in order to bring our stories to life and we should never dismiss anything, even an old chip box or a cigarette end, as a source of inspiration. 

It really was a great learning experience but maybe next time we can try it on a sunny day please, Harry?


By Louise Brown

The Magical Mystery Tour defied my expectations. I suspected it would be a dreary activity and wondered what was the point of viewing the litter and grimy parts of Leicester? however, the exhortations of Harry Whitehead to find inspiration in the ordinary came to life as we wandered down Oxford Avenue. 

The debrief in the pub later over a fine pint of cider was great fun. Hearing what others had come up with amazed me. One student's observation was that everywhere he looked there were “threats.” He was referring to various notices warning people they may die (electrocution hazards) or that prosecution may occur for trespassing. As my day job is that of a Solicitor I hadn’t even noticed them.

I came away thinking the ordinary is not ordinary at all; it’s just that our minds stop looking at things. We become inured and deadened to all around us. The strange sight of green and red protrusions on a brick wall, and a bin with the address daubed on in dripping paint, both of which struck  me as ghoulish, had sparked my imagination. As a result, I had a go at writing a comic ghost story, and discovered that trying to be funny is hard. However, trying something new is a must for every aspiring writer. I have included a small excerpt below from my work in progress:



.... She caught up with her dog and did a double-take. Strange growths in the shape of entrails had appeared on the bricks, coloured green and red. The house was alive and growing and it seemed to have spilt its guts overnight. Maybe it had always been there, she wondered, doubting her powers of observation. 

She remembered she had drunk all the gin yesterday. A trip to the off-licence beckoned.   

She proceeded down the alleyway. What’s the matter with the damn animal? It was barking at a dustbin now. That’s weird, she thought: someone had emblazoned on it in white paint 10 Oxford Avenue. The paint dripped down a little making it resemble white blood, and the title of some horror movie.     


By Colin Gardiner

A Possession 

There are places where the dispossessed drift.
Lost wraiths, turned inside out and pummelled
In a whispered supermarket séance.

There’s black magic in the arterial flex 
Of the back alley. Ductile will-o’-the-wisp  
Is happy to lead you here, all alone.

Step over the crunching beer-glass carpet 
And heed the orange shopping bag, tittering
Tales in the déjà vu of carpark darkness.

Plastic poltergeist gossip, reporting
Curtain twitch domestic, late night gang fight
And a screaming back-seat exorcism. 

Rustling omens in abandoned sheds,
Undecipherable to surveillance 
Heads, who dream in back-yard video loops.  

Rough handles reach into an empty sky,
Grasping at the dust illuminated by
Whispering arcs of loveless sodium.  

Behind you, an evil asthmatic wheeze 
Tickling the spinal aerial lines.
Plastic sighs of longing: you belong here.