Romantic fiction, anyone?

I wrote several novels before Gary and I collaborated on Farewell Trip.  They were my way into writing - a toe dipped into the frothy bubble bath of romantic fiction.  I bashed them out (or most of them) during the months of November 2008, 2009 and 2010 for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month http://www.nanowrimo.org/) when the goal is to write 50,000 words in 30 days.  

It's easier than you'd think, the secret is you have to think of writing and nothing else. 1666 words a day, every day till it's done, no excuses.  In 2007, the first year I tried, I had no idea of a story and not a clue who the characters would be.  I managed 5000 words in a week and then gave it up as too hard.  

The next year, I planned in advance (well, sort of) and went in with the merest glimmer of a plotline, but no real idea of the people about whom I was writing.  Adam and Stella soon popped into my head though and brought their story with them.  I achieved the 50k words in 30 days and went on to finish the book in (a far too wordy for its content) 100k words.  I still think about them occasionally - they were sweeties and really deserved better writing than the writing they got.  They gave me one of the best Novembers in my life.  Maybe one day soon I'll go back and do a rewrite.  

In recent weeks I have been filling the gap between Farewell Trip and Got It For A Song by tightening up the 2009 NaNo project.  I'm fond of this novel too, not least because the original idea was one gifted to me by none other than Mr Twynam (though I'm pretty certain he didn't expect the fluffy chicklit treatment).  

If you turn your eyes to the top bar above, you'll be able to click on a new button entitled Hallowshill and read the first chapter.  You'll notice a difference in style, I should think.  

Have you ever had to push, push, push...

For most self-employed trainers, finding work is a challenge. It's not your brilliance as a trainer that's key, it's your ability to sell yourself. And many of us struggle with this. I've spent many an evening with fellow trainers, getting drunk on all our wonderful business ideas which would transform the world and our bank balances, if only someone would give us a chance. We're talented and fun. Good people. Bad at business.

Getting published is the same. It would be lovely to think of a world where one's own book was immediately identified as worthy of a place on a modest shelf somewhere. Sadly, it's pretty obvious that whilst writing a good book is usually necessary, it's often not sufficient. The quality of one's final draft is important, for sure. But not as important as what's really needed for advancement in today's world: Networking skills, brass neck, and persistence.

Of course, some people stumble across agents and publishers because of the circles they move in. I've lost count of the number of times I've read authors saying something like, “I was at a dinner party in Chiswick, hosted by my good friend, Penelope Cholmondely-Warner, when I mentioned I was having a stab at writing a novel and, as luck would have it, uber-agent Peter Straus was there and signed me on the spot.”

This makes the rest of us feel sorry for ourselves. As a collective noun, how about a maudlin of unpublished authors? We mooch around, getting chippy, crying into our half-empty glasses, darkly. It's pathetic and it needs to stop. We're letting the pushy, the connected and the thick-skinned fill the shelves where our own work should be. We need to toughen up. Research. Focus. Believe. Attack.

The Last Piece of the Jigsaw

We've finished our book. By which we mean we're happy with all the constituent parts and at the moment feel no need for further revisions. We may tweak the odd sentence, amend the odd typo and edit any anomaly, but otherwise it's off in search of a publisher.

So, here's the very last piece to be written, which actually appears quite early in the book, in Trip's second letter. When I was at Lampeter there really was a student production of The Fiddler on the Roof, but I have to say they did it far more traditionally and successfully than Trip and Ruth.

I remember the first time I said “I love you”. You've spent most of your life trying to erase it from your memory. Our final year at Lampeter. Our moment in the spotlight as the director and star of Fiddler on the Roof. Which even now seems a startlingly original version. What with the Russian Jews becoming teepee-dwelling hippies in Wales. And all the male parts being played by women and vice versa. And you were great in the Topol role. I loved “If I was a Rich Girl”. All those lyrical changes we had to make. You loved all that. And guaranteed to offend just about everyone.

We poured ourselves into that for weeks, didn't we? All for one glorious night, capped by a wonderfully improvised climax. When the Fiddler fell off the Roof. Once we were sure I hadn't broken any bones and the curtain had come down on us, literally, we were the only ones left. You were tending to me.

“You know if we ever make another musical together...” I said.

“Promise me, we won't.”

“Well, if we ever do, there's gonna be a few changes.”

“Like what?”

“No sheep, for starters.” We laughed. Well, I laughed. You had tears in your eyes. ”You know Ruth, it really wasn't that bad. No-one walked out. They laughed all the way through. In the wrong places, admittedly. But you were great. Really. I was so proud”

And then I said it. First time ever. To anyone.

Writing limbo

I'm in limbo and I'm not coping with it very well.

My bits on the final draft of Farewell Trip are done and Gary's are on the way. Even if he identifies a few more tweaks, they're likely to be fiddling with what's already there, rather than new additions. So I'm between projects.

We've done some initial thinking about the new book – got the glimmer of a plot and a couple of interesting characters. I'm especially excited about the alcoholic solicitor who is friends with my main character. She drinks scotch and I think she may have an eye patch. Gary is hoping to get a car chase in somewhere. Since his character drives a Smart car that will be fun.

However, two engaging main characters do not a novel make. We ain't getting nowhere without a story and, frankly, we're in a bit of a pickle with this. We need a proper plot before any actual writing can be done. We've learned from Ruth and Trip that it helps to be clear about where the story is headed before we start generating words. Having an end point to aim for is particularly important to save us drifting in and out of different storylines, then having to go back to straighten things out. Two of us writing gives double the potential for inventive leaps in plotting, but the flip side of that is there's twice the probability we'll end up in a story cul-de-sac. It'll be the more complicated this time around since we won't have the structure of letters, narrative and camera's-eye view that Farewell Trip does.

So, I am left cogitating and contemplating; coming up with bits of back story, trying to fix my detective in my mind. Who is she? How does she react to the world around her? What colour underwear does she choose? (White, if you're interested. She also uses Blue Loo in her toilet, likes sausages and breeds rats.)

This is fun and makes for stimulating journeys to work and back. But it doesn't take the place of writing, actually sitting down to bash words onto the page. I have whole evenings to fill and plotlines, character development and back story just don't cut it.

This weekend I've been desperate enough to go back to an old story. It's very much lowest common denominator romance, but I like the people in it, so I'm tightening it up and will send it to some e-publishers once it's done. It's filling the gap. Sort of.