Hello.
My name is Chris Budd.
A friend once told me that I think too much. Another friend told me that I am never too far from an opinion. I reckon they were both right.
I wrote my first (unpublished) novel aged 20.I wrote my second aged 40. What the heck was I doing in between, and what happened to get me writing again? (read my blog that gives you the answer)
I was born in the greatest year for music, 1967. It was the summer of love, and the year of Sgt Pepper, Scott 1, The Doors and The Velvet Underground And Nico.
It was also the year of Magical Mystery Tour, which just goes to show that even genius can have a day off.
I grew up in Somerset, studied in Manchester, and lived in nine different places during eight years in London. I consider myself a Bristolian, even though I’ve been back living in Somerset since 2000.
I have published five books in total, including three novels. The Financial Wellbeing Book and The Eternal Business are the non fiction.
It’s all part of a cunning plan to make the world a happier place.
I am also a musician, and own six guitars plus an accidental banjo (due to my first fumblings on EBay). In the 90s I wrote a song for my wife called A Bridge Of Straw. Always plan ahead.
As well as being the title of his first novel, A Bridge Of Straw is also a real song written by Chris. Written for his girlfriend when she was working in Australia, the lyric is a comment on the fragile nature of love. That girlfriend is now his wife, which perhaps shows that writing songs works.
A Bridge of Straw is one of three tracks written and recorded by Chris a few years ago. He also plays acoustic guitar, accompanied by Mike Milton (electric guitar and backing vocals) and Andy Bridgeman (lead vocals and lead acoustic guitar). Like all of his other tracks, A Bridge of Straw was recorded by Chris’ big brother, Matt Budd.
My Favourite Literary Character
I have fallen in love with a few fictional characters in my time – Cassandra Mortmain from I Capture The Castle is high up on that list.
The characters that I really enjoy reading about, however, tend to have a bit of darkness about them. I think that is why Tom Ripley is my favourite literary creation.
For those of you who haven’t read Patricia Highsmith’s wonderful Ripley books, or seen any of the films (The Talented Mr Ripley, with Matt Damon doing a brilliant job of bringing Tom to life, is a favourite), they are the story of a young man who succeeds at doing some very very bad things. More than just succeeding in the acts, however, he succeeds in justifying them to himself.
I think we all have a bit of Tom Ripley in us. I don’t mean the ability to murder, of course! But we are all playing at being someone else. And we do it with such aplomb that sometimes we become that person we are pretending to be.
Tom talks at one point of putting certain memories into a basement. A dark place, where we place the worst of the past. We lock the door to the basement so those memories can remain hidden. Sometimes we are tempted to give someone the key, perhaps someone we love very much. But we cannot, because if we do, they will see the person we really are.
I find this to be a very profound notion. I’ve long related to a suggestion I heard in the dim and distant past that we are all going through life waiting for that tap on the shoulder. We turn round and someone is standing behind us saying “We do know. We know that you don’t know what you are doing, that you’re just making it up. You realise that, don’t you. That everyone knows what a fraud you are.”
I’ve spoken with a number of people about this over the years and, while not universal, there are enough of us similarly affected for me to know that worry about being found out is commonplace. That someone will find the key into that basement where I keep my secrets and fears.
Tom Ripley buries his past. He sees himself as a good person, performs kind acts for people. The bad stuff was necessary, not his fault. I’ve been writing about this concept for a few years now for a novel I am still polishing and editing. Elliott Harmison has different drivers, but he and Tom Ripley are both deep, layered characters who have very large basements.
The world is full of opinions. These are often portrayed as facts (see both sides of the Brexit debate). It seems so often that winning the argument is more important – more fun – than being right. Tom Ripley enjoys the game and he wins at least in part because he is prepared to go further than anyone else. One suspects that you’d like him, if you met him. He’s a charmer. He reflects how we perceive ourselves, only more so, and with extreme edges. A caricature.
Ultimately it is Tom’s – and Elliott’s – ability to justify their actions that I find most fascinating, and most apposite to the world I see around me. A world where “I’m sorry if I offended you” is seen as an acceptable form of apology, where a refusal to modify an opinion is seen as an essential character trait of a politician. In this way Highsmith does what great art should do, holds up a mirror to our world and shows us the absurd underbelly.
I have fallen in love with a few fictional characters in my time – Cassandra Mortmain from I Capture The Castle is high up on that list.
The characters that I really enjoy reading about, however, tend to have a bit of darkness about them. I think that is why Tom Ripley is my favourite literary creation.
For those of you who haven’t read Patricia Highsmith’s wonderful Ripley books, or seen any of the films (The Talented Mr Ripley, with Matt Damon doing a brilliant job of bringing Tom to life, is a favourite), they are the story of a young man who succeeds at doing some very very bad things. More than just succeeding in the acts, however, he succeeds in justifying them to himself.
I think we all have a bit of Tom Ripley in us. I don’t mean the ability to murder, of course! But we are all playing at being someone else. And we do it with such aplomb that sometimes we become that person we are pretending to be.
Tom talks at one point of putting certain memories into a basement. A dark place, where we place the worst of the past. We lock the door to the basement so those memories can remain hidden. Sometimes we are tempted to give someone the key, perhaps someone we love very much. But we cannot, because if we do, they will see the person we really are.
I find this to be a very profound notion. I’ve long related to a suggestion I heard in the dim and distant past that we are all going through life waiting for that tap on the shoulder. We turn round and someone is standing behind us saying “We do know. We know that you don’t know what you are doing, that you’re just making it up. You realise that, don’t you. That everyone knows what a fraud you are.”
I’ve spoken with a number of people about this over the years and, while not universal, there are enough of us similarly affected for me to know that worry about being found out is commonplace. That someone will find the key into that basement where I keep my secrets and fears.
Tom Ripley buries his past. He sees himself as a good person, performs kind acts for people. The bad stuff was necessary, not his fault. I’ve been writing about this concept for a few years now for a novel I am still polishing and editing. Elliott Harmison has different drivers, but he and Tom Ripley are both deep, layered characters who have very large basements.
The world is full of opinions. These are often portrayed as facts (see both sides of the Brexit debate). It seems so often that winning the argument is more important – more fun – than being right. Tom Ripley enjoys the game and he wins at least in part because he is prepared to go further than anyone else. One suspects that you’d like him, if you met him. He’s a charmer. He reflects how we perceive ourselves, only more so, and with extreme edges. A caricature.
Ultimately it is Tom’s – and Elliott’s – ability to justify their actions that I find most fascinating, and most apposite to the world I see around me. A world where “I’m sorry if I offended you” is seen as an acceptable form of apology, where a refusal to modify an opinion is seen as an essential character trait of a politician. In this way Highsmith does what great art should do, holds up a mirror to our world and shows us the absurd underbelly.
