Talent, Timing and Luck...

I'm not on first name terms with any author. I can only assume the successful ones live in some other place. Certainly not Shropshire. And not any part of London I inhabited hitherto. A different planet maybe. In fact, I've sometimes wondered if they actually exist at all.

Except I did have occasion to meet a writer last year. A real writer. A proper heavyweight. A friend was getting married and I was asked to do a small speech at the ceremony. On the day, it became clear my bit was to follow immediately after a certain Julian Barnes. Who was going to be reading a Larkin poem. Honestly, I felt like an open-mic comedian being told he was due to follow Eddie Izzard. Who was doing Tony Hancock jokes.

Anyway, I sat near to the great man at lunch. I'm a big fan. I've read all his books and have lovingly collected a full set of first editions. So I was tongue-tied. Luckily, Anne was there to break the ice. She told him that the only book of his she'd read was that “Cookery one, you know, something in the Kitchen”, and that “I've asked around and only about half the people here know who you are, let alone have read anything by you.” For Anne has a way with people.

Joking apart, she really does, and as a somewhat shy Booker winner warmed to her, they got to talking about getting published and how hard it was. And Julian (!) said he thought it was down to “Talent, timing and luck. In that order.” Eek. We're gonna need great timing and a lot of luck...

A Novel Plan...

Yes of course we know where we're going with our novel...

More Method

We started the novel a little differently to the chapter that’s on the blog now. Ruth’s story was written in the third person, rather than the first. Why we decided to change that, I can't recall. The terror of having to write in the first person - as another person - I do remember, never having tried it before. Almost worse was the knowledge that I’ve never much liked books written in the first person. It’s not something that's bothered me much until now. No need for analysis, just avoidance. But pondering it now, I realise I have a major problem with characters written in the first person - it’s all me, me, me. I did this, I said that, I went there, I saw that. It gets on my nerves.

I want Ruthie to be real to the reader. I want them to hear her words and understand her, to feel her feelings. This idea of Method Writing has had me thinking, therefore. Isn’t there a need to immerse myself into her? Should I take a long breath and dive deep, then open my eyes to see what’s there?

But what happens if I do that and I don’t like her? I get more picky (some would say grumpy, nay, curmudgeonly) as I get older and there are more and more people I just don’t much like. Who wants to spend an evening with someone they don’t like? Not me, that’s for sure. I avoid doing it in real life, so why would I seek it when I sit down with my laptop to write?

It would be a tad disappointing if Ruth turned out to be a pain. I mean, I’m responsible for her because she’s my creation. Well, mine and Gary’s, but mainly mine since I’ve written most of her story.

However, so far I've enjoyed writing her. Not least the weaving in of biographical details. She's not me, but there are bits of me, bits of my experiences and opinions in her. There are bits of Gary too. (Don't ask, we're not going to tell you what is whose.)

And, when it comes to Method, I can't help but live Ruth when we're writing dialogue scenes like the one in the bar. We bashed out that scene in about 40 minutes using facebook chat and I spent the entire time blushing and hoping Trip would make a move...

Method Writing

I was reading about Daniel Day Lewis and how he stayed in character throughout the shooting of Lincoln. Sally Field was asked about it and said that most actors do it to a degree and especially those who are devotees of Method Acting. It's just that Daniel does it a bit more than most.

And I was thinking, should we be Method Writing our novel? Generally speaking I've been writing Trip's letters and Karin's been filling in Ruth's story. When we write the dialogue I tend to be him and Karin her.

So, should I be inhabiting the character of Trip, and Karin living as Ruth? It could certainly help me divorce him from the other voice that keeps interrupting when I'm writing the letters or trying to be sparkling and funny in the dialogue scenes - my own.

And, of course, Trip is dead, which provides ample time for snoozing.

Rejection

My sweet little book – The Northern Line to Shropshire – received another kicking this morning. The last of the agencies I'd sent it to has rejected it. The poor thing is back in its box, feeling sorry for itself, much like my dog after his snowy walk this morning.

“Thank you very much for your enquiry regarding your work. We take on new clients very infrequently and in order to do so we have to feel that something is very special indeed. Having considered your enquiry we’re afraid we are not confident we could find you a publisher so we regret that we’re unable to take the matter further. We wish you the best of luck elsewhere.”

It's true, it's not an obviously commercial book. It has no narrative drive, and it's fair to say nothing happens - both of which are sort of the point. But of all the things I've written, it is by far the best. I totally believe in it, despite everyone else (including half my friends) dismissing it.

Thing is, I know if I came across a book just like it on the shelves, I'd be intrigued, would buy it after the merest browse, read it in a single sitting, recommend it to everyone and then leave it by the toilet so that I could dip into it occasionally. And most people I know would say I'm a pretty good judge of a book.

So, I'll have to self-publish. I had decided to put it up on Kindle, but I really think it's a book that lends itself to opening at random pages and enjoying a few pages. No doubt it will be akin to vanity publishing, but at the least it would be nice to present a copy to everyone who gets a mention in the book.

Validation, shmalidation

I have been much exercised by thoughts of men and women in the past couple of days. Not my usual men and women getting up to men-and-women-type-activities thoughts either.

 

Take Ponzi schemes, for example. I didn’t have a clue about these when first Gary mentioned them, so I did a quick google search and Wikipedia helped me out. I was amazed by these scams. Amazed they worked and amazed that people had the brass balls to actually promote them. How did these promoters summon up the courage to go out into the market with, well, nothing? How did they sit in meetings and sell their non-existent wares? Didn’t they fear they’d be immediately found out, shut down, carted off to prison?

The brass balls are clearly the answer. I don’t know whether it’s true, but I’d bet Mr W’s brass balls that all the promoters of Ponzi schemes are men. It strikes me as being a particularly male scam - roll up, roll up, invest your wads of hard-earned readies with us because our dicks are bigger and swing higher than the rest and we know just how to manipulate investments to pay whacking great returns - when really they're just robbing Peter to pay Paul (or sometimes even to pay Peter himself). The sheer front of it!

Then there’s the change in the title of our blog. You might have noticed we’re now Two real writers, awaiting validation. I did agree to the change when Gary suggested it. I even thought it a good idea, given our musings on what makes a ‘real’ writer and a writer’s need for validation. But I couldn’t bring myself to actually make the change. Oh my god, no. Who do I think I am? I can’t say that. Gary could say it though and, although I know I’m being pathetic in my pretend writerness, I wonder whether that’s because he’s a bloke?

All this is nicely underlined by a TED talk I saw the other day: Amy Cuddy: Your body language shapes who you are | Video on TED.com. Cuddy’s research was into what she called ‘power poses’ and how adopting these typically male poses affects the chemical response in our brains. Lounge back in your chair, legs akimbo to show off your package, hands behind your head (just like our Ponzi promoters would do) for two minutes and the levels of testosterone in your body will rise by 20% and your cortisol levels (which drive response to stress) will fall by 25%. Yes, after just two minutes. Sit meekly with hunched shoulders worrying that someone is going to find out you’re not a real writer and your testosterone will fall and cortisol rise. I bet that feels a lot like I did when I first saw the new blog title.

Enough already. My dismal wretchedness about being a real writer is getting boring. Amy has inspired me. I’m going to power pose my way to self-validation.

First Lines of Novels

“It doesn't smell the same.”

That's the very first line of our novel 'Wish You Were'. Well one of them. Let's just say it's under review. In fact our first chapter more resembles a pile of lego bricks as we take turns dismantling and rebuilding in a new order.

It's not going to win any future “Best first Line” awards is it. By comparison, here's Denis Lehane's favourite first line – from James Crumley's wonderful novel about drinking, 'The Last Good Kiss.'

"When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon."

That's more like it. It's important not to get carried away though. There's a wonderful character in Albert Camus' La Peste who is obsessively trying to write the perfect first line. And boy does his need work. Worse still, once he cracks it, he knows it will be so perfect the second line will only let it down, and hence the novel is doomed.

I can relate to this. I have a dystopian vision of the future 99% unwritten up in my shoe-box of abandoned projects. It starts “Eartha is running”, which personally I think is rather good. So good in fact, I was unable to get any further, apart from killing off poor old Eartha halfway down page four.

On The Other Hand...

Here's Mike Duran questioning whether traditional publishing validates the author:

While I agree with many of these sentiments, there’s a big fat caveat to the “traditional publishing for validation” credo. You see, even though I value traditional publishing, pursued it, and feel validated by it, seeking validation from traditional publishing can be a dangerous thing.

A writer’s self-worth, motivation, professionalism, work ethic, and craft, should not require recognition from peers or professionals.

I am not saying we shouldn’t seek professional validation and celebrate its acquisition. I’m saying, If you require professional validation in order to continue writing, then you should stop right now.

Writers can be extremely insecure people. Having your book published only compounds that insecurity. Readers will now begin to scrutinize you, your story, and your talent in ways you never imagined. Are you really ready for this? If a writer lacks confidence and personal self-worth, traditional publishing will only intensify their insecurities. Just wait till your editor requests rewrites and the bad reviews start rolling in. It’s the equivalent of a literary strip search. No amount of external validity can make up for internal fragility. The writer with self-esteem, inferiority issues, cannot be cured by traditional publishing.

Validation should work on another level, a professional level rather than a personal level. The writer who seeks traditional publishing as a means to bolster their self-worth is asking for trouble. Instead, we should approach publishing as an affirmation of what we already know.

The validation one gets from traditional publishing is best spent on authors who don’t require such validation. In other words, they are self-starters, hard workers, attentive to detail, humble, receptive to critique, determined, resilient, flexible, and pretty damn sure they are a good writer, whether or not the establishment says so.


Yes, external validation is important for an author. However, internal motivation will sustain an author long after the accolades wane.

Scary sharing

Gary's a writer. A real writer. Has been since before I first met him when we were not long out of university. Just look at his profile and you can see he's written - and written across genres too; poetry, non-fiction, biography, fiction – during all those years.


Me, I'm a pretend writer. Or that's what it feels like. Three and half solo novels plus two thirds of a collaborative novel do not a writer make. Not in my eyes anyway.


When will I be a real writer? When I've published something, obv. Validation by publication. The sensible, objective, adult voice in my head rejects this (as well it might). Gary hasn't published anything (very nearly, but not quite) and he's a real writer, so why aren't I? Because the sensible, objective, adult voice in my head is a lot quieter than the scaredy-cat voice that clamours 'Fraud! Imposter! Fake!'.


I'm pretty certain I'm not the only one. Three friends and I meet occasionally to sit in the same room, write, and then take turns to read our work aloud. It’s bloody terrifying. So terrifying that, when the time comes for her stuff to be read, the normally fearless Dr F sits with her face buried in a cushion occasionally emitting a tiny moan. So terrifying that our little group is called ‘Eek’ – because ‘eeeeeeeeeeeek’ is the overriding feeling in the room.


It's not that we're horrid to each other. Oh my goodness, no. In fact, we're almost sick-makingly positive when giving feedback about each others work. For my part, I don't want to give bald feedback in case my mates think I'm criticising them, instead of commenting on their writing. I think it's because I can't separate my writing from flabby, needy me. I don't have this issue with work. I can take any amount of comment, feedback, even downright negative criticism when I'm there. I can apply, improve and then move on without a backward glance. It’s only work, after all, I’m not emotionally invested.

Let's Get Physical

I've a feeling I'm going to talk a lot about editing and feedback as we travel our road to a place on the shelves at Waterstones.

I spent yesterday in a meeting room in a corporate office in a humdrum town. As part of my real life I'm developing some stuff for a management consultancy. It was time to sit there whilst they looked at what I'd produced. Line by line, word by word.

This is fine. I like second, third, fourth opinions. I'm slapdash by nature. My first attempt always leaves plenty of room for improvement. I like feedback. Collaboration.

At yesterday's meeting I had one offering that I thought was original and different. Sexy even. And they didn't like it. Not a bit. In fact they hated it (but were far too polite to say so). Still, they're the client. I nodded, backed down, suggested a change, moved on, passed GO and collected my cheque.

I need to be similarly hard-hearted when it comes to my more artistic leanings. I've been unpublished for ever and so I find myself seeking affirmation in a way I don't in my professional life. This holds us "amateurs" back I feel. We're flabby and needy. We need to be more like honed and focused athletes aiming for Olympic Glory (or Strictly Come Dancing) standing there, taking the feedback square on the chin. Applying, improving, moving on.

So you want to be a detective...

Is this how they do it? Those crime writers with a whole series of books to their name, you know, the ones that always star a hard-drinking, maverick with a heart of gold?

Or do they just go - "Umm, how about a hard-drinking, maverick with a heart of gold? That can't have been done before. And you know what, I'm going to give it a spin, add a little something new. Hey, how about making him bisexual? Or tee-total? Or someone who never washes his clothes, just throws them away and buys new ones? Oh, I've got it, call off the search - how about a 6ft 4 black basketball player?"

Sadly, it turns out Duffy, Scudder, Reacher and Bolitar have already been invented.

Still, all is not lost. For the day after I e-mailed Karin to suggest we do a two-hander series of detective novels, I was back walking Bobby through a soggy Shropshire morning when I thought to myself apropos of nothing - "What really did happen to Andrew Ridgeley?" You know the other bloke from Wham.

And there he was - my own cardboard detective. All I had to do was move him from Ridgeley to someone, um, sexier. So he's now a blazing star from the early eighties pop music scene, who has apparently done nothing of note since. He left the band having been ousted as straight, and has since lived from the proceeds of a couple of hits. The rest of the band have gone on to be connected with everyone who is anyone. He'll spend the books telling tall stories about his life since, touching the lives of the good, bad and ugly - or are they tales?

In the first book he loses (has lost) all his money in a Ponzi scheme, and that's how he accidentally becomes a sleuth, having fallen into the company of a sassy professional with control issues. All he needs now is a name...

20 years ago...

I've just checked the latest draft of Wish You Were and it appears I haven't managed to write anything since November 26th. Ouch. Face to face with my inadequacy (one of the many), not a nice place to be at 9am on a Sunday in January.

It's not as if I didn't know I haven't been writing. I've been giving myself that fruitless bedtime lecture every day. You know the one: 'Tomorrow, you will not look at a book/pick up your kindle/turn on the tv until you have written 500 words'. It's worked about as well as the lecture on getting up early to go for a walk before work and the one on not drinking on a school night. Final score - no words, no walk and half a bottle of wine.

Poo bum willy.

However, this morning I am consoling myself with two things. The first is that our festive period is now over. The eldest loinfruit and her companion left this morning and the household is back to its usual composition – Mr W, the youngest loinfruit plus his myriad electronic gadgets and me. I dislike intensely the distance between the two oldest LF and me, but their absence signals the return of economy catering which both my purse and my stomach welcome. Bring on the chickpeas. The end of the festive period is also, of course, the beginning of the new year and belatedly I'm getting a mini new year buzz. Such potential! Such possibilities! Finish the novel! Run 20 miles! Hit 10 stone!

Okay, okay, I know. Let's just go for more words, more walks and much, much less wine. (Although, for the record, the novel WILL get finished.)

The second consolation is Gary's Good Idea. Bobby, the Twynam dog, has long legs and incredible energy which means that Gary spends several hours a day out in the countryside walking with him. Bobby's energy may be almost limitless, but his conversation lacks depth, so Gary has plenty of time to cogitate. He sent me an email after one such cogitation with a line that made my day. Oh, but I squealed. I bounced up and down in my seat. I grinned my head off all afternoon.

Was thinking on my walk we should do a series of detective books - with a wise-cracking pair of 50 year olds - publishers would go for the two writer angle.

That's all it was. That's all I needed. She popped into my head in the 15 minutes it took me to drive home from work. This is how it all began for her:

She was a single parent to her kid(s?) following her bastard husband's affair. She'd known he was stepping out, she had just bloody known it. The signs were obvious to anyone who watched Brookside and Corrie.  But knowing wasn't enough, she wanted proof and the only way to have proof was to get it herself. So she asked her best friend to look after the kids one day and followed him.  She just walked ten feet behind him everywhere he went, the bastard. He didn't notice her, didn't once look her way and she wasn't even disguised. And, yes, she saw exactly what she'd known she would.

Her husband meeting Lorraine Nolan, the slutty bitch whore who'd made her teenage life hell. Her husband and Lorraine Nolan spending three hours eating a lunch that cost the equivalent of six months child benefit. Lorraine Nolan with her slutty bitch whore from hell tongue down her husband's throat.

Enough was fucking enough. They deserved each other, the bastard and the slutty bitch whore from hell, but she was going to get her own back first.

It was interesting to discover that getting her own back really did make her feel better. Interesting and thought-provoking. Then her best friend joked she was so good at it that she ought to make a living out of it. Now, wouldn't that be a great job?