No matter what non-scribblers may think, writing is a technical occupation. You don't just dream up characters and storylines and nurture them into a novel. Before that happens, you have to get to grips with the tools of the trade.
I suspect as long as people have been writing, there have been writers muttering dark imprecations about those tools. There must have been stone tablets that shattered just as the chisel was reaching the good bit. For every breathtakingly illustrated medieval bible, there must have been countless sheets of screwed up vellum lobbed into the fire by a frustrated monk. The advent of the printing press must have created so many new ways for things to go wrong that Caxton must have been cursed in the same way as a Windows fatal error that occurs just as you were about to save that crucial file.
Which brings me (clumsily) up to date: the writer's relationship with modern technology. Now you may have noticed by the paucity of illustration and zippy effects on this blog that I am not the techiest of people. For all their shiny futuristic glamour, computers are merely tools, albeit less straightforward than a hammer, sometimes to the point where I am tempted to juxtapose the two. But when you dip a toe or ten in the chilly waters of self-publishing, you need to get to grips not only with word processing but with creating a cover image (OK, I ducked that - thanks Graham!), maintaining an online presence and grappling with uploads and downloads, all the time suspecting something somewhere has gone arwy (I'm yet to receive any royalties from Amazon, not sure if that's because I haven't earned enough or because I did something wrong when I put the book up for sale).
Regular writers have publishers to worry about that sort of thing. When you're a one (wo)man band it can start to creep in and suck out the time and enthusiasm you were saving for the actual writing.
So what I think I need is something to take the next book out of my head and drop it straight into yours, for a small fee of course. I'll see what I can dream up.
PS Looking for Buttons will be FREE from Amazon this Valentine's Day. That's got to be better than some wilting roses and an overpriced box of chocolates.
Showing posts with label creative process. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative process. Show all posts
Sunday, 10 February 2013
Sunday, 25 November 2012
Radio Ga Ga
Writing's a funny pastime. You'd think all types (if you'll forgive the pun) of story would be the same, but it doesn't work like that. At least, it doesn't for me. Some come out as prose, others don't want to work that way and insist on attempting to be drama, and some are amenable enough to let me try them out in different ways.
A confession: I have had a lifelong love affair with the spoken word. As a child I listened to my favourite stories over and over again on LP and cassette (oh, just google them, young people, I'm not going to digress now). I spent teenage illnesses in bed listening to Journey Into Space (a repeat, I hasten to add - I'm not quite that old). And had BBC Radio 7 (now Radio 4 Extra) not launched when it did, I'd have finished my thesis a year earlier instead of losing hours pretending to study simulation results while listening agog to Fatherland and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, headphones clamped over my unkempt studenty hair. Which is why, despite its stubborn refusal to turn into anything coherent, I have persisted with the Difficult Second Novel. It may not be working as a book, went my reasoning, but perhaps it would work for radio. Perhaps the problem was that I was trying to tell the story in the wrong way.
So I'd poke and I'd prod and I'd try to work out the casting and play it in my head and still the damn thing wouldn't come. And then last night I pulled at the threads again after a gap of nearly a year, expecting the knots to bite harder, becoming more intractable and impossible to resolve than ever, only this time I tugged from a slightly different angle and suddenly there I was, standing in a windswept garden near midnight (I'm not being poetical, I was out in all that rotten weather) with an armful of yarn that needs knitting into a workable narrative (yeah, that was the poetic bit). And I think it's going to be a novel after all, not a radio play.
Which is a Good Thing, of course, but I've been so set on hearing this one rather than reading it that I'll have to get it published, just so I can have it as an audiobook. Can I have Anton Lesser reading it, please?
A confession: I have had a lifelong love affair with the spoken word. As a child I listened to my favourite stories over and over again on LP and cassette (oh, just google them, young people, I'm not going to digress now). I spent teenage illnesses in bed listening to Journey Into Space (a repeat, I hasten to add - I'm not quite that old). And had BBC Radio 7 (now Radio 4 Extra) not launched when it did, I'd have finished my thesis a year earlier instead of losing hours pretending to study simulation results while listening agog to Fatherland and The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, headphones clamped over my unkempt studenty hair. Which is why, despite its stubborn refusal to turn into anything coherent, I have persisted with the Difficult Second Novel. It may not be working as a book, went my reasoning, but perhaps it would work for radio. Perhaps the problem was that I was trying to tell the story in the wrong way.
So I'd poke and I'd prod and I'd try to work out the casting and play it in my head and still the damn thing wouldn't come. And then last night I pulled at the threads again after a gap of nearly a year, expecting the knots to bite harder, becoming more intractable and impossible to resolve than ever, only this time I tugged from a slightly different angle and suddenly there I was, standing in a windswept garden near midnight (I'm not being poetical, I was out in all that rotten weather) with an armful of yarn that needs knitting into a workable narrative (yeah, that was the poetic bit). And I think it's going to be a novel after all, not a radio play.
Which is a Good Thing, of course, but I've been so set on hearing this one rather than reading it that I'll have to get it published, just so I can have it as an audiobook. Can I have Anton Lesser reading it, please?
Tuesday, 13 November 2012
Turning back at the last minute
I stopped writing a while ago. Nothing was coming together and sales of Looking for Buttons have not been particularly encouraging (yes, I know admitting this is not good PR but I am nothing if not a realist) so I was pretty much ready to call it a day.
And then today, I wrote a poem. It was a peculiar experience. Past attempts at poetry have been jolly fripperies, pastiches of childhood favourites. I did go through the adolescent angst-poet phase twenty years ago, but that - I hope - left no evidence to condemn me. But today was something else entirely. I wasn't trying to do anything writerly, in fact it was as crushingly mundane as brushing my teeth prior to getting one of them filled (I have a kamikaze wisdom tooth). And there, without warning, was the poem, nebulous at first but clearer by the second, like wiping grime from a railway carriage window with the hem of my sleeve to catch a fleeting glimpse of something true. It wasn't writing, it was more the process of remembering something I didn't know I knew.
I'm not going to publish the poem here, not now. I need to live with it for a while and I suspect it might be more personal than I realise. Showing it to other people might be like flashing my knickers at the Archbishop of Canterbury: perfectly feasible in this day and age but not terribly wise. But it seems that although I've given up writing, my subconscious hasn't.
And so on I plod...
And then today, I wrote a poem. It was a peculiar experience. Past attempts at poetry have been jolly fripperies, pastiches of childhood favourites. I did go through the adolescent angst-poet phase twenty years ago, but that - I hope - left no evidence to condemn me. But today was something else entirely. I wasn't trying to do anything writerly, in fact it was as crushingly mundane as brushing my teeth prior to getting one of them filled (I have a kamikaze wisdom tooth). And there, without warning, was the poem, nebulous at first but clearer by the second, like wiping grime from a railway carriage window with the hem of my sleeve to catch a fleeting glimpse of something true. It wasn't writing, it was more the process of remembering something I didn't know I knew.
I'm not going to publish the poem here, not now. I need to live with it for a while and I suspect it might be more personal than I realise. Showing it to other people might be like flashing my knickers at the Archbishop of Canterbury: perfectly feasible in this day and age but not terribly wise. But it seems that although I've given up writing, my subconscious hasn't.
And so on I plod...
Monday, 6 August 2012
At the end of the day, you need clichés
Flick through any guide to writing and the chances are you'll come across advice along the lines of 'Avoid clichés like the plague'. Good advice, but I think that clichés can be useful shortcuts if you handle them properly.
Chick-lit is commonly held to be a grab-bag of hackneyed characters and scenarios: the ditzy heroine, always unlucky in love; the unobtainable perfect man; the all-too obtainable wrong 'un; the wisecracking best friend; the difficult relationship with a parent; the misunderstandings and complications that drive the plot along.
Having written that, my first thought was, "Oh hell, how high does Looking for Buttons score on the clichéometer?" My second, gingerly relieved thought, was that this is the whole point of this post. Yes, there are familiar people and scenarios but using something familiar doesn't make it dull (I hope). The general framework is familiar, I grant you. That's what the reader wants, that's what tells them it's their sort of book. It's what you do within that framework that makes the difference.
When you take a romantic comedy and boil it down, you end up with a fairytale, shorn of its gorier elements. We're brought up on fairytales. Is it any wonder that we still want to read them when (if) we grow up?
Books offer us a happy ever after. If you have to resort to a kind of cultural shorthand to reach that point, is that so very wrong?
[PS This blog has just passed a thousand hits. Thank you very much for reading it.]
Chick-lit is commonly held to be a grab-bag of hackneyed characters and scenarios: the ditzy heroine, always unlucky in love; the unobtainable perfect man; the all-too obtainable wrong 'un; the wisecracking best friend; the difficult relationship with a parent; the misunderstandings and complications that drive the plot along.
Having written that, my first thought was, "Oh hell, how high does Looking for Buttons score on the clichéometer?" My second, gingerly relieved thought, was that this is the whole point of this post. Yes, there are familiar people and scenarios but using something familiar doesn't make it dull (I hope). The general framework is familiar, I grant you. That's what the reader wants, that's what tells them it's their sort of book. It's what you do within that framework that makes the difference.
When you take a romantic comedy and boil it down, you end up with a fairytale, shorn of its gorier elements. We're brought up on fairytales. Is it any wonder that we still want to read them when (if) we grow up?
Books offer us a happy ever after. If you have to resort to a kind of cultural shorthand to reach that point, is that so very wrong?
[PS This blog has just passed a thousand hits. Thank you very much for reading it.]
Friday, 27 July 2012
A rather angsty post
I am having a bit of wobble at the moment. Technically, I should be all smiles. Looking for Buttons is out in the world, selling fairly steadily. I am A Published Writer, albeit a DIY one.
But.
But but but but but.
It's said that everyone has a book in them. What if Looking for Buttons is the only one I have?
I want to write. It's what I do, spinning yarns when I'm not knitting them. That's the image I've always had of myself. But when I sit down at the keyboard I can't string a coherent sentence together. I've re-read what exists of the Difficult Second and Third Novels. They seem to have been written by someone else. It's like watching Bradley Wiggins win the Tour de France. I can ride a bike but no way could I do that. I get the same feeling as I run my eye along the bookcase. I've lost my writing nerve and with it part of my identity.
I hope this is just a temporary blip.
But.
But but but but but.
It's said that everyone has a book in them. What if Looking for Buttons is the only one I have?
I want to write. It's what I do, spinning yarns when I'm not knitting them. That's the image I've always had of myself. But when I sit down at the keyboard I can't string a coherent sentence together. I've re-read what exists of the Difficult Second and Third Novels. They seem to have been written by someone else. It's like watching Bradley Wiggins win the Tour de France. I can ride a bike but no way could I do that. I get the same feeling as I run my eye along the bookcase. I've lost my writing nerve and with it part of my identity.
I hope this is just a temporary blip.
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Heyer today...
When you find a writing style that works for you, it's very tempting to stick with it. That's fair enough. Developing a distinctive voice is part of maturing as a writer. And perhaps one day your book will be published and you start to think about what comes next. The question then is whether you've got more than one book in you. Maybe you have, maybe you haven't. But what if your readers just want the same book over and over again?
At the moment I am trying to read my way through my bookcase overflow pile, mainly for health and safety reasons as it's taller than I am. I'm being very strict. Once I've read a book it goes to charity, unless I have a compelling reason to keep it (i.e. it's written by Adam Hall, my hero - and yes, I'm aware that he might not be the obvious inspiration to a romance writer, but nevertheless, he was the guv'nor). The last book but three was a Georgette Heyer. I've read a fair few of her books over the years and time and again the same characters crop up: the sensible heroine, usually grey-eyed and on the verge of being left on the shelf; the semi-rakish hero, rich, titled and needing to be taken down a peg or two; the daffy ingenue; the young rascal; the bitchy socialite; the scheming in-law. I need to be more scientific and read them in publication order, because I can't yet tell if she was writing to a formula or if she just got trapped by her own popularity.
I'm not necessarily complaining that the books sometimes seem a little formulaic. The best ones are very good indeed and had me willing the hero and heroine to get together (I loved Sylvester). They're well-written and entertaining, with an extensive lexicon of Regency slang (ever been "bosky as a wheelbarrow"?), and sometimes it's nice to know what you're getting. But it's interesting all the same. A little further down the now-teetering overflow pile is one of Heyer's crime novels. I'm looking forward to seeing how she tackled that genre.
I have a bet with myself that the heroine will have grey eyes.
At the moment I am trying to read my way through my bookcase overflow pile, mainly for health and safety reasons as it's taller than I am. I'm being very strict. Once I've read a book it goes to charity, unless I have a compelling reason to keep it (i.e. it's written by Adam Hall, my hero - and yes, I'm aware that he might not be the obvious inspiration to a romance writer, but nevertheless, he was the guv'nor). The last book but three was a Georgette Heyer. I've read a fair few of her books over the years and time and again the same characters crop up: the sensible heroine, usually grey-eyed and on the verge of being left on the shelf; the semi-rakish hero, rich, titled and needing to be taken down a peg or two; the daffy ingenue; the young rascal; the bitchy socialite; the scheming in-law. I need to be more scientific and read them in publication order, because I can't yet tell if she was writing to a formula or if she just got trapped by her own popularity.
I'm not necessarily complaining that the books sometimes seem a little formulaic. The best ones are very good indeed and had me willing the hero and heroine to get together (I loved Sylvester). They're well-written and entertaining, with an extensive lexicon of Regency slang (ever been "bosky as a wheelbarrow"?), and sometimes it's nice to know what you're getting. But it's interesting all the same. A little further down the now-teetering overflow pile is one of Heyer's crime novels. I'm looking forward to seeing how she tackled that genre.
I have a bet with myself that the heroine will have grey eyes.
Wednesday, 11 July 2012
The pros and cons of sticking with what you know
I have a confession to make: I haven't actually written anything new since last year. I'd lost confidence and had pretty much decided to call it a day. However, the same compulsion that has been known to find me scribbling by torchlight at three in the morning led me to have one last try. I'd put Looking for Buttons on Amazon as a Kindle e-book and if no-one bought it, that would be the end of my writing career. To my delighted surprise, people are buying it. (Thank you!)
And suddenly I've started writing again. There's this blog and random appearances on Twitter as looking4buttons, and then, very late last night, I dug out part of the Difficult Second Novel. I read it with a little difficulty, as the only reason the laptop was still on was that I'd been lying in the dark to catch up with the fabulously titled Before the Screaming Begins on BBC iPlayer and hadn't got my glasses on. Even so, as I squinted at the screen, I realised it wasn't as bad as I'd thought. It was written so long ago I was coming to it fresh and I found I wanted to know what happens next (it would help considerably if I've got to write it). Better still, the narrator's voice was completely distinct from Looking for Buttons's Kate Harper. The book seems to be a runner after all.
Which puts me in a dilemma. Should I dust off the first ten chapters of the Difficult Second Novel and try to produce the rest of the book, or should I keep it on the back burner and carry on with the Difficult Third Novel, currently standing at a chapter and a half? The DTN is probably going to end up falling broadly into the romance genre, meaning I could pitch it to the Looking for Buttons audience, hopefully resulting in a book that sells. The DSN, however, is a thriller set in the 1970s, requiring a different pseudonym and a lot of research (watching re-runs of The Professionals is research, really it is, not an obsession at all, no).
I need to make a decision and soon. Inside my head I can hear Gladys Knight and the Pips singing Come Back And Finish What You Started. I can't decide if that's a sign that I need to take up the Difficult Second Novel once more or if my subconscious is desperate to hear a bit of Motown.
And suddenly I've started writing again. There's this blog and random appearances on Twitter as looking4buttons, and then, very late last night, I dug out part of the Difficult Second Novel. I read it with a little difficulty, as the only reason the laptop was still on was that I'd been lying in the dark to catch up with the fabulously titled Before the Screaming Begins on BBC iPlayer and hadn't got my glasses on. Even so, as I squinted at the screen, I realised it wasn't as bad as I'd thought. It was written so long ago I was coming to it fresh and I found I wanted to know what happens next (it would help considerably if I've got to write it). Better still, the narrator's voice was completely distinct from Looking for Buttons's Kate Harper. The book seems to be a runner after all.
Which puts me in a dilemma. Should I dust off the first ten chapters of the Difficult Second Novel and try to produce the rest of the book, or should I keep it on the back burner and carry on with the Difficult Third Novel, currently standing at a chapter and a half? The DTN is probably going to end up falling broadly into the romance genre, meaning I could pitch it to the Looking for Buttons audience, hopefully resulting in a book that sells. The DSN, however, is a thriller set in the 1970s, requiring a different pseudonym and a lot of research (watching re-runs of The Professionals is research, really it is, not an obsession at all, no).
I need to make a decision and soon. Inside my head I can hear Gladys Knight and the Pips singing Come Back And Finish What You Started. I can't decide if that's a sign that I need to take up the Difficult Second Novel once more or if my subconscious is desperate to hear a bit of Motown.
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
Ms Frankenstein regrets
I've tried to move on. I really have. I've bought shoes. I've bought myself jewellery. I would have my hair cut if the salon were open on my day off, but since it isn't I shall progress through mildly unkempt to becoming prey for yeti hunters until I can get there at the end of the month. I've even tried a little flirtation with others but all to no avail.
I am still in love with Fergus Palmer.
Now on paper, this is no bad thing. He is kind. He is charming. He is witty. He is also very tall, somewhat Scottish and has hair of the most spectacular shade of auburn. He's about my age, he's got a good job, his own flat, his own car. On paper, he's just what I should be looking for in a man.
That's the snag, those two words: 'on paper'.
For Fergus, my lovely, dearest Fergus is entirely fictional, supposedly confined to the pages of Looking For Buttons, in which he isn't even the heroine's love interest. Yet here I am, sitting here with the laptop on my knees, sighing in a distinctly piney* fashion for a figment of my imagination.
Surely I'm not the only one who does this? I've been falling for fictional men for as long as I can remember but when I started to write I never suspected it would happen with one I'd created. I have the nasty suspicion that part of the trouble I'm having getting going with the next book is that I've yet to get over Fergus sufficiently to produce anyone to take his place.
But isn't this what writers do? We put together people in a curious hybrid of doll's house and photofit and if we get it right by some elusive alchemy they step right into our heads and let us report on their lives.
I just wish he'd take me out for dinner while I'm doing it.
*piney as in yearning unrequitedly, not piney as in forest-fresh
I am still in love with Fergus Palmer.
Now on paper, this is no bad thing. He is kind. He is charming. He is witty. He is also very tall, somewhat Scottish and has hair of the most spectacular shade of auburn. He's about my age, he's got a good job, his own flat, his own car. On paper, he's just what I should be looking for in a man.
That's the snag, those two words: 'on paper'.
For Fergus, my lovely, dearest Fergus is entirely fictional, supposedly confined to the pages of Looking For Buttons, in which he isn't even the heroine's love interest. Yet here I am, sitting here with the laptop on my knees, sighing in a distinctly piney* fashion for a figment of my imagination.
Surely I'm not the only one who does this? I've been falling for fictional men for as long as I can remember but when I started to write I never suspected it would happen with one I'd created. I have the nasty suspicion that part of the trouble I'm having getting going with the next book is that I've yet to get over Fergus sufficiently to produce anyone to take his place.
But isn't this what writers do? We put together people in a curious hybrid of doll's house and photofit and if we get it right by some elusive alchemy they step right into our heads and let us report on their lives.
I just wish he'd take me out for dinner while I'm doing it.
*piney as in yearning unrequitedly, not piney as in forest-fresh
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