It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Writing)

Nicholas Royle's Latest

2011-12-26T00:32:00.002Z

And it's late in coming, but congratulations to Nicholas Royle for signing a deal with Jonathan Cape for his latest novel First Novel. All hats off to Nick. The book's due out in 2013.

Lunacy

2011-12-26T00:31:00.001Z

"TRUE! Nervous – very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! And observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story."

- from Edgar Allan Poe's 'The Tell-Tale Heart'

We Are The People That Rule The World

2011-12-26T00:23:00.004Z

So, the latest book is complete and stands at 98,000 words. I've sent it out to writer buddies to critique and so far feedback has been positive, but I'm holding all re-writes until all the feedback's in. Current title is We Are The People That Rule The World and is about mental health. It's partially set on an acute psychiatric ward in Manchester so I've had a real ferret in the imagination. Took about 12 months to write, although for 3 months I didn't write anything as I was unwell. So, 9 months graft. Game plan is to redraft in the new year and then send it out to an agent I've got in mind and see if anyone's willing to make a go of it.

Question: if an agent stipulates a 'brief' synopsis, exactly how long should that be...?

The Lovely Jasper

2011-03-09T13:07:00.004Z

Ah, the meet the fans/signing was excellent. Jasper played the crowd very well being the funny man he is and read a little from One Of Our Thursdays Is Missing, his latest novel. He took questions and went off on tangents and it proved to be a good way to spend a Tuesday evening. He'd also just been told by Hodder that he was at number one, which sent a flurry of cheers around the room. I was third in line to get my copy signed and I asked him what one piece of advice would be give to someone trying to make it as a writer. He said to 'Look to the longterm.' It's taken him ten years to get this far. He said you should never think you're going to be an overnight success and to always keep learning and plugging away.

Very good advice.

Getting Into It

2011-02-28T15:23:00.005Z

A few weeks ago I had a scare.

I was out with workmates, drinking heavily and having packets of crisps for tea. A workmate leaned over, gripped the table to stop himself from falling on the floor, and said:
'Still writing then?'
'Yep, still at it,' I said.
'I bet,' he slurred, re-establishing his grip on the table, 'that you're like me. Been working on a novel since you were 19, but knowing you're never going to make it 'cos work's got its claws into you. You've been here, what, five or six years?'
'I have,' I said in a small voice.
'Ha! You'll never leave now! You'll never make it!'
I felt immediately queasy, though this was in part having the breath of six beers blown in my face. I got up and swayingly put my coat on.
'I'm going home,' I announced to surprised faces; I'd only been drinking for four hours.
I tottered off into the night, which took a while as I had to continually correct my diagnoal weaving. When I got back home, and after having slurred an order for takeout, I bashed out 2,000 words. Nothing like someone trying to burst your bubble for motivation. Screw inspirational thinking. Pure pity works wonders.

...And for the record, I haven't been working on the same novel since I was 19.

Good Books

2011-02-28T12:46:00.005Z

Good books I've read this year:

The God Of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
Skippy Dies by Paul Murray
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro
Super Sad True Love Story by Gary Shteyngart
Requiem For A Dream by Hubert Selby Jr.

Give 'em a spin and see what you think.

Jasper Fforde Reading

2011-02-28T12:18:00.005Z

Cue wide eyes and excited trembling hands. Tomorrow evening I'll be at Waterstone's Deansgate where Jasper Fforde will be doing a reading and signing. Squeeee!! I'm a big fan so I'm looking forward to getting my childsized mitts on his latest. No doubt I will dissolve into a puddle of vodka and hair gel when faced with the man himself.

http://www.waterstones.com/waterstonesweb/navigate.do?pPageID=200002

Just another of those good things. Like jaffa cakes and bananas and Spongebob Squarepants.

Back

2011-02-21T12:23:00.003Z

And life trickles by Manchester. Insufficient blogging as too much weird stuff has happened.

The good news is I finished the last book and realised I shouldn't have bothered. Roman à clef through and through. A writer matey liked it, but I can see it's too close to real life.

So ditched it and am working on another. That's currently at 67,000 words. Feel the burn! I hold my hands up and say I just love a good hypomanic episode! So productive. Even it's drivel, it feels good.

Finished (Sort Of, Kinda, Maybe)

2010-05-21T11:11:00.005+01:00

The first bank holiday of May saw the book hit 133,000 words. It's now in a position to be read/critiqued by a writer matey. I await his comments with a mixture of anticipation and insecurity. I'm not kidding myself it's "finished", but it's moved up to the next level. 8 months of hammering out copy. My fingertips bleed.

I started doing research for a new book, but any notes I make are rubbish. Writer's fatigue must have kicked in, so I'm trying to be nice to myself and chill out before embarking on the next. Jaffa Cakes, Pepsi Max, and Chinese takeaway makes the warm evenings even nicer.

Tick Tock

2010-04-15T13:19:00.004+01:00

I've given myself three months to nail this sucker, aiming for a completion date of 25 June. First draft almost there - the only things missing are filling in a couple of scenes. I know what they are, but they're "linking" scenes so they feel boring to write. But write I must. Then will build in time to let book settle. Then hammer the re-drafting.

I'm not trying to rush it, but I need a deadline if I'm ever going to break through. Thanks to a recent hypomanic episode, I'm back on track and am happily living inside a fantasy world of my own making. This has been facilitated by Maltesers, pop, and the first and second series of The Street.

121,000 Words - First Draft Finishing Line Approaches

2010-04-13T15:49:00.001+01:00

'nuff said.

111,000 Words

2010-04-06T15:47:00.002+01:00

Squee! Finally the middle of the book is beginning to seem quite lovely. The ending is still a way off, but a little spark flared up at 3am this morning. The beginning ain't bad either.

Unfortunately, this means I'm starting to become quite protective of the book and the rose-tinted mist is forming. Soon the time will come to "murder your darlings".

I'd go a step further. Murder your darlings and welcome your demons.

105,000 Words

2010-03-30T13:10:00.001+01:00

...and because I've written so much story, there are no words left over for blogging.

I Get Higher, Baby...

2010-03-01T12:15:00.001Z

96,000 words. Feel the burn!

Climbing...

2010-01-25T12:23:00.001Z

85, 000 words.

Come on! This first draft needs to be finished before I develop an aneurismin my fingers.

Kindle Cracked

2010-01-02T14:15:00.010Z

Old news for some, but yes, Amazon's book reader device Kindle has been hacked.
It was reported on the BBC website on 29 December. The Digital Rights Management (DRM) copyright protection software has been broken, which means that the files can be converted into things like Adobe PDF files and used on other devices e.g. Sony Reader. Israeli hacker Labba wrote the "Unswindle" program, which does the job for you.

I've never really been into the Kindle or Sony Reader. Maybe it's because I'm so clumsy that I'd shatter the thing within hours of setting it up. But when I first saw them advertised I wasn't interested. It looked cool, but a no-go. I think the reason for this is because I saw it as a brand new gadget and inevitably, the brand new gadgets of technology do not last long before problems of compatibility, depreciation and upgrades crop up. Remember when MiniDiscs showed up? I loved them and getting music on them from analogue, CD, tape, etc was incredibly easy, but now trying to get the music off a MD is very difficult. Plus download eclipsed it. The original iPod looks like a brick compared to the eeney-weeney ones now. Digital cameras: a low megapixel camera on the market 10 years ago would set you back a monkey. Within a year the price rapidly began to fall and the quality came up. So with the Kindle/Sony Reader thing I decided to sit back and see if it was worth it. I'm very happy with paper at this time.

As ever, a part of me revels in piracy, because it's about a challenge and I like the idea of a community of highly intelligent people with a rebellious albeit geeky streak taking on the world as they see it. However, as I've not really bothered keeping up with the Kindle/Sony Reader debate thing I'm not sure what the ramifications are for authors pre- or post-DRM hack. I'm sure publishers are horrified as Amazon get working on the patch job, but I'm not sure how it affects authors, financially or in terms of keeping their work safe. I will go away and find out more.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/technology/8428126.stm

Happy New Year

2010-01-02T13:58:00.010Z

Oh, and Happy New Year to...well, no one's reading this blog, so I suppose Happy New Year to the people that maintain blogspot. I'm sure I've given them a few tedious moments this year.

Incidentally, this New Year's Eve was my first dry one since the age of 12. It was also the most hectic. Easy Maths:

alcohol + New Year's Eve

/ memory loss

= colourful times involving fireworks, hugging strangers and good natured vandalism.

sobriety + New Year's Eve x Jools Holland's Hootenanny

= crippling introspection, police involvement, and a forbidden sense of longing for alcohol and drugs.

Resolutions? Well, last year I had 2. Start a diary and don't bite your fingernails. I kept the diary and only bit my nails for the latter 6 months of the year. This year I thought I'd ramp it up a bit. Let's see if I can squeeze in some world domination, dubious fame, more tattoos, oh, and a book deal.

Compulsive Killer Writing

2010-01-02T13:56:00.003Z

I rarely use writing as a purely therapeutic tool. When people find out that you write, they seem to immediately consider it as a "a stress release tool" or "relaxation technique". That having "a hobby" must be very beneficial. It's not a fucking hobby. Pilates, Ultimate Frisbee, crocheting, long walks on the beach, and trainspotting (however frightening that is) are all examples of hobbies. For me, writing is a compulsion. And like all compulsions must be closely monitored for signs of overkill or addiction.

I shall explain.

If you naturally gravitate towards writing, then when you order your thoughts and feelings onto the page/computer they become violently real. The images and phrases stand up and breathe for themselves, they go off on their own weird ways, sometimes taking you with them. This is because you are creating. You are not subduing something, you are yanking it out into the open and when that happens it can be bigger than you realised. Like trying to pluck an iceberg out of the sea and finding out there's another 90-fucking-% lurking down there.

I'm not saying I'm one of those writers, who smiles forlornly and says, "When I write, my characters take over. It's just so mysterious. I'm just so tortured by my craft." Bollocks to that. I know I create the writing and therefore control the content. However, now and again, your brain short-circuits slightly and a piece of writing triggers something in you that you weren't expecting. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad. Occasionally funny, usually frightening. I'm fairly confident that Pilates or Ultimate Frisbee don't have this effect. But maybe trainspotting could, if you end up standing on the tracks trying to get that once-in-a-lifetime shot of a Manchester to Euston Virgin Pendolino bearing down on you.

With all this said and done, a four-year battle of wills with a single cell organism of a work colleague did trigger an idea for a story. Now and again, myself and another work mate have briefly fantasied about making Colleague X just, sort of, well...disappear. Ideally rolled up inside a carpet. Then I got drunk and wondered if there was a more creative way to kill someone off. Maybe by faking their death and destroying their life whilst they were on holiday. How would that go down? So a few weekends ago I crawled inside a bottle of Valium and wrote a 7,000 word story entitled 'Killing Annabel'. And it was darker than I thought it was going to be. I expected a slightly farcical story, adorned with swords and martial arts moves. Instead, I got a disturbing psychological case study in which Colleague X became almost pitiable and the story ended on a strangely ambiguous note. She did die, though. She had to. If it's any consolation to her, she died for art. Mine, that is.

It may not have been my intention to "resolve" my "issues" with a "stressful scenario" through "creative thinking" and "cognitive behavioural techniques", but I did feel very very good when I put the last full stop in. I may have snuffled up a giggle.

I may be going to Hell for this.

Up and Up

2009-11-26T12:58:00.000Z

71,000 words. Come on!

Tai Chi and The Art of Stress-Free Writing

2009-10-21T23:49:00.007+01:00

My uncle's been down to visit and it always makes me smile to chat with him as he's a mouthy little Scouser. Someone who hugs you by cracking you on the shoulder and opens a conversation by taking the piss out of your haircut and tattoos. He's been telling me how he's gotten into Tai Chi, on doctor's orders and has found it really beneficial. It's something that's been recommended to me before as a way to deal with stress and I'm all for having a crack if I can find a local class. I'm no stranger to martial arts, but if I tackled Tai Chi I'd probably not be doing a fighting system.

But: if I get all centred and stress-free, will I have anything to write about? Writing's about conflict. I mean, how many calm writers do you know? I'd be interested to hear about anyone who's tried Tai Chi.

Mental Blogs

2009-10-19T00:22:00.007+01:00

As someone with irregular Internet access, I rarely get to sift through all the things there are to read on the Internet, which is a shame. And sometimes a blessing. This time at home has had me wandering through cyberspace when I can't sleep. You see something on MSN that reminds you of something on Amazon, that reminds you of something on Facebook and then, whammo, you're retina deep in blogs.

Somehow I've ended up finding dozens of blogs about mental health difficulties, mental health professionals, and mental health professionals with mental health difficulties. An exotic world indeed. Some have made me giggle, some have made me feel a bit uncomfortable, and some have made me sad. Mental health is just at the bottom of the barrel when it comes to support and funding, isn't it?

And some have made me very angry. People who aren't exactly furthering the cause for reducing stigma of mental health difficulties. Particularly those pink-coloured blogs by girls who claim not to whinge and then go on and on about their various insecurities, symptoms, family history, medications and hospital admissions. I don't know, maybe it's the Celt in me, my past unresolved feelings of rejection, my creaky fingers, lopsided family, Nurofen intake and NHS Direct hits creeping out that says private life means private. Still, at least I got to laugh for half an hour. "Oh, God! My partner says I'm beautiful and he loves me just the way I am, but how can I trust him??!? I mean, just because I'm a size 10 Oxford graduate Gymkhana-entering trustafarian doesn't mean I'm HAPPY! That controlling misogynist! I'm leaving him immediately and then he'll be sorry! Oh, I'm off to drink some Chardonnay and blog some more..."

Mwahahahahahaha!!!

Apple Week

2009-10-18T18:55:00.005+01:00

In other news, I am away from Manchester and in my home town. Exciting indeed, as I was unaware it was Apple Week. Apparently, in their infinite wisdom to boost local town spirit and ignore the recession despite being 45 minutes from London and essentially a commuter town, the council is giving over a whole 7 days to celebrate our local produce. Because that will really get farmers and local tradespeople going. A week for apples. Apples. APPLES!

However scathing I may be, there were fireworks last night in celebration of the pipped fruit.

I am suffering from severe City withdrawal symptoms. I haven't been physically intimidated, seen a Magic Bus, had a frappe latte, heard an accent north of Luton, or grappled with my gas key card for seven days. Seven more to go. On the plus side, I'm seeing old friends, looking at stars, and spending time in pubs filled with people who cross their local accent with Snatch dialogue. Oh, you wish you were here.

Breaking The 60,000 Word Mark

2009-10-18T18:34:00.003+01:00

What is it about the 60,000 word mark that makes everything grind to a halt?

Infused with ideas, snappy dialogue, nice neat scenes, a novel seems to carry itself up to the 60,000 word mark in good speed and then...smoke spirals out of my ears, every sentence looks like something I concocted on speed, and I sob into my copy of The Writers' and Artists' Yearbook. It's like the writing fairies know that the book has reached the legitimate word count for a novel and then skip off to sow their thought dust on other writers. At 60,000 words I feel the pressure that comes with a new idea for the novel. Just the idea of reordering scenes feels immense because of the sheer number of pages. And yes, yes, yes, you shouldn't write and edit at the same time, but if you hammer on to the end of a first draft knowing full well that you wanted something in a different order, won't it just be crap?

Although, having a first draft in any shape is a bonus. I admit it; I'm a bully. I beat myself up for not being able to churn out 20,000 words in a weekend, being unable to see how scenes could build on each other automatically and being unable to find decent surnames for my characters.

Perhaps I should stop whinging, hit the stimulants and wear out my new keyboard to get that first draft done. The irony is, I love editing a draft. It's just hitting the low of the 60,000 words that knocks my confidence and makes me think I should consider a job in marketing. This happened with my last, abandoned novel. Hit 60,000 words, got smug about my favourite scenes and then realised there was fuck all story.

This weekend's progress then: I have changed the title.

Woo.

The Force Cannot Battle The Force of Tesco

2009-09-22T16:08:00.001+01:00

Okay, it’s nothing to do with writing, but I feel compelled to share this.

Jedi religion founder accuses Tesco of discrimination over rules on hoods
Helen Carter
Friday 18 September 2009 15.29 BST
Daniel Jones says he was humiliated and victimised for his beliefs following incident at store in Wales
Tesco has been accused of religious discrimination after the company ordered the founder of a Jedi religion to remove his hood or leave a branch of the supermarket in north Wales.
Daniel Jones, founder of the religion inspired by the Star Wars films, says he was humiliated and victimised for his beliefs following the incident at a Tesco store in Bangor.
The 23-year-old, who founded the International Church of Jediism, which has 500,000 followers worldwide, was told the hood flouted store rules.
But the grocery empire struck back, claiming that the three best known Jedi Knights in the Star Wars movies – Yoda, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Luke Skywalker – all appeared in public without their hoods. Jones, from Holyhead, who is known by the Jedi name Morda Hehol, said his religion dictated that he should wear the hood in public places and is considering legal action against the chain.
"It states in our Jedi doctrination that I can wear headwear. It just covers the back of my head," he said.
"You have a choice of wearing headwear in your home or at work but you have to wear a cover for your head when you are in public."
He said he'd gone to the store to buy something to eat during his lunch break when staff approached him and ordered him to the checkout where they explained he would have to remove the offending hood or leave the store.
"They said: 'Take it off', and I said: 'No, its part of my religion. It's part of my religious right.' I gave them a Jedi church business card.
"They weren't listening to me and were rude. They had three people around me. It was intimidating." Jones, who has made an official complaint to Tesco, is considering a boycott of the store and is seeking legal advice.
Tesco said: "He hasn't been banned. Jedis are very welcome to shop in our stores although we would ask them to remove their hoods.
"Obi-Wan Kenobi, Yoda and Luke Skywalker all appeared hoodless without ever going over to the Dark Side and we are only aware of the Emperor as one who never removed his hood.
"If Jedi walk around our stores with their hoods on, they'll miss lots of special offers."
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/sep/18/jedi-religion-tesco-hood-jones

Tesco’s response has made my week and I’m tempted to start shopping there more often as a sign of solidarity. Clearly the employees of Tesco are resistant to Jedi mind tricks. Maybe they’re tricking us into thinking there’s more 2for1 offers than there really are.

A thought: in 2,000 years time will there be crusades in the name of Jediism? I mean, at the moment, most people decry Jediism as ridiculous and geeky as it’s been based solely on a FANTASY FILM of MAKE-BELIEVE characters, but now that it’s officially recognised due to the results of the 1997 Census, will “Jedis” be afforded the same rights of protection as other religions? At the end of the day, the Bible is also just a string of stories and characters.

NB. Surely being a Jedi in the 21st Century is severely limiting and disappointing when you discover that you can’t make items levitate, train your telepathy skills, or wield a lightsaber that isn’t made by Argos?

Valium Writing

2009-09-22T13:32:00.002+01:00

I have discovered the benefits of writing on Valium. All anxiety disappears, you have a light sense of euphoria and you can happily pad away at your keyboard for hours, creating spare writing that is strangely effective. Your brain doesn't want to mess around with purple prose, it just goes for clarity, which ends up being quite powerful. Sentences are shorter, the lexis is tighter; overall, I've got to say, I like it.

And then the next day you start to agonise over the writing again. So you take another Valium and happily pad away. Outstanding. It should be handed out at readings and creative writing workshops.

Maybe editing whilst on Valium would also be something to bear in mind for the future.

Bitterness

2009-09-22T13:18:00.006+01:00

I've just had the misfortune to have been re-directed to a flourishing author's website. You know the sort: "My novel, How The Flowers of My Childhood Blossomed and then Withered, was recently published by Teeny Weeny Barely Noticeable Estrogen Themes Small Press and was long-listed for the Middle Class Housewives Literary Prize. Go to my site to read more."

Why did I press the link? Because I'm a glutton for things that fuel my bitterness as God forbid it should ever run low.

After reading about this writer's self-described idyllic childhood, their supportive partner, charity work and Aryan children, I feel deeply annoyed, like having an itch in my kidney; somewhere I just can't scratch. Their bio headed over the line of quiet accomplishment into the badlands of blatant smugness. That life is beautiful, writing is beautiful, tra-la-la-la-la.

Is it bollocks.

I want to introduce some sort of penalty. A penalty for these supposed well-adjusted writers, presenting themselves as such, because in reality there's no such thing. Because deep, deep down, they're just writhing balls of inky scar tissue like the rest of us. This gives me comfort.

I am not sure what form this penalty will take. I'm guessing something inappropriately violent on my part.

Bye, Bye, Keyboard

2009-09-03T12:07:00.001+01:00

Sadly, the keyboard has perished. Despite emptying an entire can of compressed air into its fluffy crevices and giving it a good shake, the keys and wiring have reached the end of their lives.

Ahh, the stories it could tell. Of all the bits of grammatically incorrect ramblings of a frustrated writer. Keyboard, you will be missed. Or at least, until I get a new one.

The Baby Is Back

2009-09-01T13:09:00.003+01:00

My first novel has recently been returned from the examiners, marking the end of my course. Happily, the notes included on it correlate with my own thoughts on the book so no nasty surprises. The suspicions I had about the novel have been picked up by the examiners, which is good because it means I managed to identify its main weakness correctly.

Now, I could rearrange the notes so that glowing praise radiates from the page, but I won’t. Because that’s silly. So here’s some verbatim snippets:

“The first thing to say about it is that it is extremely well written. On a basic, technical level – grammar, syntax, spelling, presentations, etc. – it is virtually flawless.”

“The descriptions of life in Manchester in the 21st century are detailed, accurate and written with vigour and vivid appeal to the senses.”

“The novel has psychological depth.”

But on the flip side:

“Perhaps as a result of the backwards chronology, perhaps for other reasons, here is a vague feeling that it is not as compelling as it could be, or as you might want it to be. The novel lacks tension.”

I agree. The irony was that when I completed the novel and handed it in it was only then that an understanding of tension, structure, plot, arcs, etc. seemed to click in my mind. When I came up with the structure 2 years ago, for some reason, I thought the novel going backwards in time was an outstanding idea. Not the case.

The thing is, I’m not really gripped by traditional linear plotting. I don’t mind it in the books I read, but when I’m writing I always want to try something a bit less “straight”. I want to play around with storytelling. I’m hoping that based on the positive feedback I know how to write now; it’s just whether that can be conveyed through the choices I make in novel plotting.

So now I’m stripping out the scenes that got positive responses in workshops, as it would be a shame to waste them, and building a new novel with a renewed understanding of how to construct tension. I’ve had a couple of false starts on new novels since this first one and the same style of protagonist keeps emerging, the same issues seem to pervade the writing. I think this means that there is a particular story I want to write and until I’ve written it, I won’t be able to get it out of my head.

Now I can put this novel to bed and reflect on the things I’ve learned by writing it. My course has come to a close. Now the real graft begins.

The Jinx Has Come

2009-08-27T13:29:00.000+01:00

I have jinxed it.

Within 12 hours my keyboard at home went into self-destruct mode. If I press the space bar I get x, if I press f I get fv, if i press h I get hh, and so on for most of the keys. This is obviously frustrating if you're trying to write prose. Despite my attempts to convince myself that my computer and are I in partnership, creating new prose and quirky neologisms, it's just not the case. It's not groundbreaking, it's a computer fuck-up, pure and simple.

More frustrating is the fact that my home computer is password-protected and so despite several efforts, I can't log in. This means no writing and no DVD watching. Painful. I have sent my query into the bowels of cyberspace to discover an answer.

And yes, I have tried switching it off, pretending I never saw the problem, and then turning it back on with a carefree smile. My computer is oblivious and will not be swayed by this ploy.

50%

2009-08-26T13:38:00.003+01:00

In a manic headrush lasting approximately three weeks, I've generated 50,000 words of draft for a new novel. And, surprisingly, the prose is pretty tight. There's obviously a lot to go, but the scenes and dialogue are coming together very organically.

This is a new experience. And I think I've just jinxed it.

My Morbidly Medical Little Obsession

2009-07-29T17:40:00.004+01:00

I've developed a real taste for narrative non-fiction, particularly the diaries/blogs of medical staff. Before I got rid of my TV, the two programmes I watched without fail were Casualty and Holby City. I used to play Guess The Diagnosis and see if I could beat the doctor. This has somehow convinced me that if the whole writing thing doesn't pan out then I can easily slip into the medical profession. However, now I no longer have a TV, I have found that a recent swell of medical staff biographies are coming out. My thirst for drama is sated.

I've been reading Blood, Sweat, And Tea and More Blood, More Sweat, And Another Cup Of Tea, both by Tom Reynolds, which have arisen from his blog. I've also been reading A Paramedic's Diary: Life and Death On The Streets by Stuart Gray, Trust Me (I'm A Junior Doctor) by Max Permberton, and In Stitches by Nick Edwards.

Why am I so obsessed with this stuff?? Am I so very morbid? I don't think so, really. It's funny, heart-breaking, poignant, all the stuff good stories are made of.

It's also upped my imaginary levels of competency to that of consultant/surgeon.

Tutoring

2009-07-27T18:13:00.004+01:00

I'm in a blogging mood as I have easy access to the internet for the next few days, so bear with me.

Horror of horrors, I've been accepted as a Creative Writing Tutor to secondary school kids in Greater Manchester starting in September. It involves night classes for the monkeys and I'm happy to be doing it (for the money, most importantly), but am suddenly gripped with fear. Oh, God, what if I know jack about Creative Writing? I know that sounds odd, but thinking you know something and actually being able to transmit to others are very different things. Hmmm. Will have to seek counsel from other creative writing tutors.

Sudden cold sweat: having to read a group of 16-year-olds' Goth poetry 2-3 nights a week.

Hmmm...

2009-07-27T17:48:00.004+01:00

What does it say about me that the last few short stories I've written have been about organ pawning, Munchausen's Syndrome, mortality, pyromania, snowflakes, coma patients, homicidal clowns, mental health, explosives, and illegal Pavarotti appreciation?

How does Beautiful Freaks sound for a collection title?

The Wee Hours

2009-07-27T01:02:00.003+01:00

When I started to type this it was exactly 01.01am.

I'm not ready to sleep because my head's crammed with ideas and stories. This is both good and frustrating. Good because, shit, I'm a writer, but frustrating because I can't smoke at this moment and I like to smoke when I write.

In between ideas I've been channel-hopping, something I rarely get the opportunity to do as I don't own a television, so it's been a luxary where I've been staying. I saw the final battle in 8 Mile and about half an hour of The One And Only. I somehow got Sean Pertwee and Richard Roxburgh muddled as the same person.

I'm sorry. This is boring. You don't have to read this. You shouldn't read this.

Jon McGregor's New Book

2009-07-26T23:19:00.005+01:00

I am awash with geeky readership joy. Jon McGregor's third novel Even The Dogs is being published in February 2010 and having recently re-read If Nobody Speaks Of Remarkable Things, I am ecstatic.

I've written to Jon in the past and he sent a lovely letter back (handwritten - how retro) just sharing the experience of writing and how to get into it professionally. I just love the level of detail in his work, the tiny, tiny attention to "mundane" things that come together to make huge, beautiful portraits of normal life, without being boring. Just heart-stoppingly real. The sublime in the profane.

Ooooo, can I wait until next February? I'll have to, but, oh, the shudders!

Manchester Book Market

2009-07-26T23:06:00.004+01:00

I stopped by St Ann's Square last weekend to hear some local writers read their stuff. There was a series of readings for the Manchester Book Market, which was part of the Manchester International Festival, which has now come to a close.

Of particular note, I saw/heard Nick Royle read an excellent story about taxidermy in his usual grim style. I unfortunately missed Conrad Williams's reading the day before, but the man's a born entertainer so I imagine it went well. Keep your eye out for further readings that they'll do.

As previously blogged, the idea of reading my own work fills me with dread, not because I'm a wallflower, but because of the crushing silence that can follow a bad reading. As has happened before. I'll read someone else's work or have them read mine, but me reading me...no, no, no. Oh, very no. Perhaps I should do a JT Leroy and invest in someone to stand in for me.

Hello

2009-07-25T21:03:00.005+01:00

Just a quick note to thank the wee handful of people who have left comments on my blog. Looking at "recent" comments, hello to Red, my apparent twin, and also Sexy, who helpfully left a comment in what appears to be Chinese. I've run it through Babel Fish and have come up with the following:

"Expresses feelings builds the garden small game, AIO makes friends love hall, the pornographic game, the sentiment color makes friends, toot toot the sweetheart color network, the love story, a sentiment pastes the picture area, the sentiment color forum, the pornographic movie, the sentiment color network, the pornographic cartoon, the UT chatroom, the chatroom, the bean bean chatroom, the chatroom, seeks the dream garden chatroom, the video chatroom, 080 chatrooms, the video chats, the beautiful woman makes friends, the video makes the love, the sentiment color video, free video."

I can't tell if this is free verse or porn spam.

Words stagger me.

Speeding

2009-07-25T20:59:00.004+01:00

How moral should I feel that a fellow writer has approached me for some speed to generate a novel in 6 days?

Do I support their enthusiasm, however narcotically-fueled, or do I tell them off for being a prat?

Also, how bothered am I that when it comes to narcotics I am one of the first people he thinks of?

Answer: not very.

Back Again

2009-07-25T20:52:00.006+01:00

No posts since December. How disgraceful. As should be obvious from my level of blogging, I'm not a big-time blog fan. So I can live without it. However, this huge gap has been due to illness, so I feel slightly justified.

Update: The agent who looked at a sample of my work liked the writing, but wasn't convinced by the structure/plot I've chosen. To be fair, neither do I anymore. It was a gamble and fun, but clearly not marketable. However, this lovely agent did give me a whole page of notes on the work she'd seen, which has been very encouraging. More than she had to, so I was very grateful for her input. She has also asked that I approach her again if I write anything else. Lady, your contact details are scarred into my retinas so be prepared!

In other news, I have a long outline for the novel, but am having trouble motivating a novel out of it. I think the problem is that my head is stuck inside the world of the short story at the moment and I find it difficult to bounce in and out of the two styles. No matter.

I've almost finished putting together a collection of short stories, although I'm not convinced by the likelihood of an unknown writer having a collection put out. Normally writers do this off the back of novel/scriptwriting success. But, we must believe.

Update

2008-12-09T10:56:00.002Z

The first section of the novel went off to the agent today. Now trying to remain focused on the current novel, but am getting distracted by short stories. Still, at least something is being written every day.

It Begins...

2008-11-24T12:57:00.003Z

Today I have a contact and address to begin my mentoring scheme with a literary agency in London. Over the course of twelve months the agent with give detailed feedback on two drafts of the novel, which is a great gesture for them to extend. It's a make or break time for this particular novel. Either it's up to scratch, or it might be wholly unpublishable. Either way, it's a step forward and it's nice to know something's in the works as I crack on with novel # 2 (currently at 60,000 words).

Now, must write a damn good synposis and covering letter. Then post. Then cross fingers. Although crossing fingers for twelve months will probably result in RSI or arthritis. Still, win some lose some.

Third Manchester Artists' Book Fair

2008-11-07T11:29:00.005Z

Little bit of news:
A piece of micro-fiction, 'Left In A Lift', which was commisioned by Danielle Ridyard as part of her BA Fine Art degree is being sold as part of a collection at the Third Manchester Artists' Book Fair, hosted by The Manchester School of Art with Righton Press. Lots of original artwork will be on sale from book art publishers. The guest speaker, Neil Crawford, will be discussing 'Artist Book Collecting' and there will be the chance to view the MMU (Manchester Metropolitan University) Special Collections.

Danielle's project was previously showcased earlier this year as part of her degree course. Her project was about human curiosity and she took photos of objects found in her apartment block. She then invited writers to generate a piece of work about that object. My photo was of an empty chocolate wrapper and the piece of prose that emerged from this was the story 'Left In A Lift'.

The book fair will be held from 11am - 5.30pm on Saturday 8 November at the Holden Gallery, All Saints Campus in Manchester (off Oxford Road).

Box Life

2008-10-10T11:15:00.003+01:00

Not strictly writing related, but a kick-start for some ideas...

Under my desk at work is a collapsing cardboard box which has been handed down over four members of staff for keeping generalised crap in. Bored, I decided to go through its current contents.

A ‘Wild Thing’ Love Heart sweet preserved in Sellotape
An Irish penny (or ‘pingin’) minted in 1990
A crushed empty pack of Lucky Strikes
A book of matches from Mere Golf and Country Club in Knutsford – Why? I’ve never been there
A half-full pack of Juicy Fruit gum
Out-of-date lemon-flavoured anti-flu sachet
Twenty-five screen cleaners
A copy of Albert Camus’s ‘The Outsider’
An empty delivery box from Firebox.com
About fifty packs of Post-It notes – I wondered where they kept going
Orange, blue, green, and pink highlighters
A heavy green glass candle holder with ‘Grolsch’ on it – liberated from a nearby pub
A pack of 4 AAA batteries
A piece of paper that informs me I have a CSE Grade 1 in Rabbit Shooting
A red floppy disk – do those even work anymore?
A stick-on Mexican bandit moustache made from black paper and Sellotape
A deck of Marvel Max Superheroes Top Trumps cards
A picture of a kitten
Information printed from the internet on Munchausen’s By Proxy Syndrome
Information printed from the internet on prison sentences applicable for murder
A P45 informing me I’d been fired two years ago

It’s like an overflow from my flat. Or an indication of my personality: a kleptomaniac sweet-toothed homicidal child-like ex-employee of my current employer. I am so misunderstood.

The Dark Side

2008-10-07T12:28:00.008+01:00

Does anyone else feel a little part of them shrivel up inside when they read the blogs of newly-published writers (often women) who fill the screen with pictures of flowers and biscuits? And uploaded photos of the pond being cultivated in their backgarden and their grinning, sticky children dressed as Harry Potter? And using words like "fab", "sooooo", and "mmmm"? And non-words like OMG and LOL? And why do the posts have to be peppered with exclamation marks, like a grenade just blew open a book on English grammar and buried the shrapnel inside their blogs? Silly moppets. Silly moppets with publishing contracts. I imagine them skipping (yes, skipping) into a publishing house, dropping a stack of pink lavender-scented notepaper covered with their scribblings (all 'i's dotted with hearts or smiley faces) on the nearest desk and then skipping back outside to frolic and shop and drink lattés. And then a publishing contract drops through the letterbox of their rural cottage a week later. Sometimes I hate having an imagination.

I found myself gripping the sides of the computer screen, my face green with its glow, as I hissed, "Just...diiiiie".

New Project

2008-10-06T12:28:00.002+01:00

Irritiatingly, all the lessons about plotting, three act structures, eight point arcs, only seemed to drop in to place after I'd finished the novel. Annoying, really. And what else I've learned is that learning and writing at the same time just leads to this bastard chimera of a story where you can actually point at the bits that were written in 2006, in 2007, and in 2008. Well, perhaps the point of writing it was to learn. Editing and writing together obviously pulls the story in opposite directions.

So, now I have a new project to work on, which I'm much more comfortable with. I have a stronger sense of plot, I know where the action needs to be, I know when to strim out unneeded detail, basically I feel like I'm a bit more in control. Before I was writing bits all over the place and then trying to cram it all in. This time it's being filtered through a bit more experience. Anyway, there's not much more to say on this, because I'm playing my cards close to my chest with this one (past experience of talking too much about something that wasn't finished meant it felt apart, like jelly through a shredder).

Slammed Down, But...

2008-10-06T12:18:00.004+01:00

There has been a formidable gap in posts for one reason and another so I should probably update. On the 18 August I finally received a response from the agency that I had sent my first 10,000 words to plus synopsis. After a three month wait the news was not great:

"I’m afraid that I did not quite feel that all-important connection with your work that I know is vital in this industry"

Ouch. Redeemed slightly by

"but please do not give up."

Still, by the time this reply had arrived I'd been scratching around at the book and do feel there's something not quite right about it. Even so, the e-mail was a bit of a kick in the teeth. Not, "it's not for us". Not "our lists are full". But, "did not quite feel that all-important connection". A swift six inches of vodka was called for.

However, there is now a new window of opportunity. An acquaintance who is signed to a literary agency has been approached by them to recommend four new writers to work with...and I'm one of them! If the recommendation comes off, it'll mean that this agency will read the entire "first" draft, offer feedback, and will then read a revised draft. Approximately a year's free work from them. At the end it may not lead to a signing with them, but I'd also be free to approach new agencies. I suppose that will be the way to find out if this novel is salvageable. So, it's looking up again.

10.5 Weeks On

2008-07-28T15:30:00.003+01:00

10 and half weeks down the line, I've phoned the agency and they've confirmed that they received the sample, but were backed up with submissions. They apologised profusely and said they'd be in touch soon...

It's a long time to be patient, but patience is a virtue. As is caffeine, sunshine, and high-sugar snacks.

Stupid Little Writer

2008-05-28T19:56:00.007+01:00

When I started a writing course almost five years ago I knew I'd have to make sacrifices. Three years on I did well out of the course and enrolled on a Masters in Creative Writing, the logic being that I made the sacrifices before, they'd paid off, so I could do it again. Sacrifices such as surviving on a low income and living in poor accommodation (cockroaches, burglaries, Big Brother, and gun crime included in the tenancy agreements) were the main ones. But I never actually thought my health would suffer.

When we're trying to achieve something the tendency in some people, often writers, is to go completely gung-ho and push and push and push. Saving money by living on cereal and Dr Pepper, not a problem. Staying awake for 72 hours to work, also not a problem. Staying indoors for hours and hours to work during a beautiful summer heatwave was also no problem. At the moment I work in an office by day. In the evenings I write and at night I go out to play. Seemed fine to me. This is why I'm a writer, not a doctor.

A healthy vitamin D count for someone living in the UK is 30. To be under 10 is to be considered deficient. My count is 3.8. My doctor has informed me that this is a direct result of sunlight deprivation over several years. Essentially, my body thinks it's living in a cave. Or dressed head-to-toe in a burka. So say my doctor. I found this intensely hilarious as I live in Manchester where sunshine is a bit of novelty weather forecast, but then found it less funny when the doc said I would need medication and injections for at least a year, although most likely for the rest of my life, to prevent osteoporosis by the age of thirty. Thirty!

I’m not a hermit, I have an active social life and hold down a job, but as a direct consequence of writing/editing/re-drafting I've made myself ill. I still think it's a litle bit funny, though. No wonder people look down on writers, silly fuckers they are. It’s like letting a petulant child make your life choices for you: ‘I want to make things up all day long and eat Smarties and not go out if I don’t feel like it.’

I’m off for a Vit-D tablet. It tastes of lemony chalk.

The Evil Three

2008-05-26T13:07:00.003+01:00

I've come to believe that every reasonably successful writer is divided into three, not unlike a Holy Trinity. Or 'three men walk into a bar' jokes. These three elements are: Insanity, Arrogance, and Vulnerability.

Insanity
It's been said before that every writer is a little bit mad. Not just because of whatever odd rituals they like to follow (I, for one, like to congratulate myself with cheese and mango chutney sandwiches), but because to create good characters you have to be inside their head. Even if you would never do the things you characters do, you have to understand why they do the things they do. You have to empathise. And if you empathise you absorb an understanding of someone else into your psyche. The boundaries between you and your characters become a bit fuzzy. The eternal cry of the lonely writer, 'Who am I?'. You'll know better if you take time out, have a Jaffa cake, go to the pub and see some friends. A bag of chips is an option.

Arrogance
It doesn't matter how modest we describe ourselves, how much we blush, how difficult we find it to accept a simple compliment ('I like your title.' 'No, no, no, you don't mean it. You mean it's derivative and deep down you laugh at it with your literary friends.') all writers are arrogant. This is because you create something from nothing, it's yours, no one else could do it and you believe that it's worthy of publication. You're aware that you may have to fight for it to survive in the publishing world. And you can't be too bashful then. You have to exude a little bit of arrogance in that world. Most writers I know socially do not come across as arrogant, so it's more of a private evil.

Vulnerability
Yep, doesn't matter how many times you say that your book is not a roman à clef, is not biographical, there will always be a part of you printed on the pages. Whether you draw on incidents from your life or draw from your own feelings (consciously or not) you're putting some of yourself out in the world and having it judged. And what makes it worst is that you can't accompany every reader and explain what you meant there, why you felt this was right for that chapter. You have to throw a bit of yourself out into the reading world and almost turn your back on it and trust that it will make its own way in the world. A very tall order and one that opens you up to both praise and criticism.

I've Done The Stupid

2008-05-14T13:11:00.004+01:00

Yesterday I bit the bullet and e-mailed an agent that I'd contacted last year about my novel (I was almost blind-drunk, but thought it best not to share this with him). Following the proposal I made his assistant requested that I send them the first 10,000 words plus a synopsis. I e-mailed that today. It's a relief to have forced myself to make the next step, because otherwise I could force myself to keep messing with the text until there was nothing there but scrappy bits of paper, but now there's the fear made up of my imagining an entire agency reading out parts of my novel and then killing themselves laughing at how bad it is.

Now it's a waiting game. If it's a no, then I guess I'll have to approach other agents and consider reworkings, or if it's a yes....many many more problems await. I'm preparing myself for embarrassment, because it's at times like this when I start thinking about my favourite novels and then my own. 'My work,' I sob into a bottle of tequila, 'will never be as poetic, or humourous, or gritty, or groundbreaking as these books.' Books end up on pedestals, which is just silly.

Time to stop typing. I'm hopped on Diet Coke and Quavers, so I should go and have a quiet lie down somewhere.

Achilles Heel

2008-04-23T12:45:00.001+01:00

Every writer (aspiring and published) I’ve spoken to on this subject has come clean to the same. There is some factor of their work which gives them grief. It might be dialogue, setting, or characterisation. Mine is plot. Worryingly, this is a fundamental part of a novel. There are plenty of published novels lacking in inventive characters, but they get by on a strong sense of story. Good storytelling is vital to a piece of work; aspects such as groundbreaking style, exotic turns of phrase, shocking characters, they’re found in the best work, but a story must always be behind it.

For myself it was less of a problem when writing was a hobby, something to retreat into when the outside world was too boring to take part in. Now that the move has been made to turn it into a career, the stakes have been raised. It can’t just be good for you, it must be good for agents, publishers, and readers if there is to be a chance of seeing a royalty statement in the black. This, for me, created a fear that my stories were wobbly, that past successes had been flukes, and that they had to be more carefully thought through, rather than feeling intrinsically. This is sound advice, but I took it a step too far and decided I couldn’t plot. I lost the ability to write a story from the beginning to end, instead writing patchwork ‘scenes’ and trying to stitch them together at the end, baffled at why it didn’t work. I got in a real mess about what ‘good writing’ was and phrases like Eight Point Arc terrified me. What did an arc look like? Could I get one at Waterstone’s?

So I did the frightened thing. I turned my back on a lot of good advice and decided I’d try and hide the lack of plot with description and characterisation, thinking I was being ‘innovative’ and ‘groundbreaking’. What I ended up with was a mess that cost several months of re-writing.

Re-reading my older work before the switch from hobby to potential career, I was surprised at how well the stories had stood the test of time, but by then any plotting ‘sense’ I’d had was gone. I think most cultures lend themselves readily to story-telling as the oral tradition has just about managed to cling on, in the form of nursery rhymes, bedtime stories, the lies children tell, spreading to jokes and anecdotes as we get older. Thinking we don’t know how to plot is wrong. Of course we do. Plotting is inherent in the way we structure a conversation, an e-mail, a joke. Really, if we think we can’t plot, it just means we don’t know how to break down the basics and turn them to any story. And that can be easily taught. There are a plethora of self-help books for creative writers these days, often specifically targeting problem areas like plot and structure. There is a huge pressure on aspiring authors (and admittedly a lot of this is self-administered) due to the competitive market and injecting the belief of, ‘I’ll never be worth anything if my work isn’t published AND sets a new curve’ too early on just applies the breaks.

What I have learnt from this is what every book on creative writing advises. Learn the rules before you break them. This way you have a clear picture in your head as to where you’re going. It might not be in a way that’s been done before, but if you’ve decided on a path, rather than stumbling onto it by mistake it may save a lot of heartache in the future.

I now have a mini library of creative writing books and have read them all to death. Most of them are very interesting. All of them contradict each other. It has taken time to see this and to realise that the best judgement is ultimately your own. If you don’t believe in yourself, who will? You have to be the one to give yourself that boost, the extra height. So now those books help prop up the legs of my lop-sided desk chair. Because of them I am an inch taller.

Neutered Names

2008-04-15T12:37:00.000+01:00

A.L. Kennedy said that because of her pen name (which stands for Alison Louise) people often assumed she was either a man or a lesbian.

Some men are turned off by reading books by women, thinking that the books will lack action, grit, and swear words. And maybe, women writers, you might think huffily, that you don’t want readers like that anyway.

And some woman may be put off by reading books by men, thinking that all the female characters will be fundamentally underdeveloped and will have no sense of relationships. And maybe, male writers, you might think huffily, that you don’t want readers like that anyway.

But unless you’ve been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature and your writing career has already blossomed you can’t be too picky about your readers. You need every one, every Amazon review, every book club endorsement.

So a lot of authors are turning to abbreviated first names. For women in particular, this can be awkward. Other women might think you’re not furthering the Cause, you’re not sticking with the sistas, that you’re pretending to be a male writer. Well, newsflash, if you study literature anywhere you can guarantee that only female writers will have the question of gender applied to their work. Men get left out, as if they couldn’t understand gender differences if it tried to chat them up in a club. Which is frankly, quite patronising. All abbreviated names do is try and reduce the stereotypes readers may bring to a book.

As a vague link, The Orange Prize is exclusively for books by female authors. Is this levelling the playing field or is it ghettoisation?

Heaven Knows, I Can Be As Miserable As You

2008-04-15T12:28:00.000+01:00

There is a disturbing popularity of awful childhood memoirs skewing the bestseller lists lately, so much so that there are now designated Tragic Life Stories sections in book shops a.k.a. Mis-Lit. Seriously, can you really read volumes with titles like Daddy, Don’t Touch Me There (all with a soft-box picture of a child hiding their face) when you’re waiting for your train without wondering what people think of you, that you choose to kill time by skimming a case study of sexual abuse?

It seemed to start with Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes, but that was witty, interesting and entirely without self-pity. The style was that of high literature, not of base memoir. It won the Pulitzer Prize. Then there was Dave Pelzer’s set of books that started with A Child Called It. Even to a certain extent this is excusable because it exposed shortcomings in the American system that made it so hard for police and schools to intervene in known abuse cases (Pelzer’s was recorded as the third worst in that state). But now it’s as if anyone who had a rough childhood is ready to spill their guts. Why is that? Is it by being surrounded by high incident programmes like EastEnders and Hollyoaks and celebrity excess that we don’t consider ourselves valid unless we’ve suffered? There’s a disturbing one-up-man-ship going on. ‘Oh, you were abused by your uncle? That’s nothing! I was hurt by my uncle, my mum, my dad, my priest, etc. And grew up in the gutters. And was on crack by the age of ten. No! Eight!’ I am in no way suggesting that abuse or poverty or drug abuse or any other painful incidents should be treated this lightly, but that is what this splurge of memoirs is doing. It seems like a cashing-in on something that is intensely painful and private. By all means confront the past, acknowledge the tragedies, but don’t identify solely through that. People can be more than what has happened in the past. Life moves forward, not backwards. And with so many books about these subjects, it ceases to be shocking. It’s all old ground. And if something stops being shocking it stops being taboo and from there, well, it sounds terrible, but will there come a time when disclosure of abuse will not even raise an eyebrow?

I often wonder how authors of such Mis-Lit cope with book launch parties, readings, contract negotiation. To be forever introduced as the Eight-Year-Old-Crack-Head-Rent-Boy must be somewhat limiting. Of course, there is the certain cache of labelling yourself as a Survivor, but then, really, who isn’t? Who hasn’t had bad experiences and weathered them? If you want to write about thorny issues then do so. That’s what makes good fiction. All writers draw on their experiences to some extent. But mining your pain so directly, that’s deeply worrying.

And what of the readers? When I studied Holocaust Representation the issue was raised that you had to wonder about people who were so fascinated by such a disturbing part of history. What did this fascination betray about their character? So what does being an avid reader of Mis-Lit say about the reader? Do they like to read about this kind of pain? Like as in find it sociologically interesting? Like it as entertainment, in a perverse way? Entertainment is considered a ‘diversion’ so this could be plausible. Do they, darkly and secretly, wish they had a similar story? Do they think they’re not interesting enough for having had a normal upbringing? That’s pretty rough. I’m sure most abuse sufferers would trade lives any day.

If I ever saw someone march into Waterstones and fling their copy of Daddy, Don’t Touch Me There across the counter and demand their money back because there wasn’t a happy ending I’d probably marry them.

Location, Location, Location

2008-04-15T12:27:00.000+01:00

The assumption is that I write about Manchester because I live there. That it’s the worst kind of laziness in terms of scene and setting. But I’ve lived in other places and they don’t generally fare as well on the page for a number of reasons. Manchester is a compact city with a fierce regional pride and a strong sense of itself. Each district has its own identity and there is a true cross-section of people. Mancs are known for their humour, for their love of life, for toughing it. But unless you know the city most people don’t have a picture in their heads of what it’s like.

If you read a book set in New York or London a writer has only to use a minimum of description and the reader can feel like they know where they are because of the exposure these locations have had in films, TV and in other books. You can probably visualise ticker tape falling in Times Square without knowing what ticker tape is. You know what Ground Zero looks like without being there in person. You may know that Manhattan is a rich area, Brooklyn has a high crime rate and Queens has a strong Italian identity. Think of London and you might think of the Tube, pigeons collecting in Trafalgar Square, Bearskins outside Buckingham Palace, Cockney market sellers, Pearly Kings and Queens. East End gangsters and Brixton teenagers in hoodies on bikes.

With Manchester you’d be lucky to get an out-of-date misty picture of factory chimneys or cobbled streets. The Stadium of Dreams maybe. The point is, a writer has to stretch themselves to describe somewhere that doesn’t have an international, or even national, shared sense of imagery. Could anyone from outside this city describe the differences between Moss Side and Rusholme? Fallowfield and Didsbury? East and West Didsbury, even? What’s the city centre like? Where’s the red light district? Where do the footballers hang out? Identify a North Manchester accent from a South one? It’s a challenge, but it’s a worthy one, because it feels like fresh territory. There’s so much colour, it’s hard to get it all in a book without it turning into a city guide, which incidentally never do the city justice. Manchester for me, therefore, becomes another character, as unique and shifting as a person.

I’ll Have A Chilled Moccachino Frapa-Laté With Swirly Cream, Hazelnut Shavings And Marshmallow Dunkers, Served Below Room Temperature On A Bed Of Ice

2008-04-14T15:45:00.003+01:00

What’s the connection with writers and coffee shops? Seriously, every Costa Coffee, Café Nero, and Starbucks seems unable to attract business unless there’s a bestubbled writer equipped with a laptop, iPod, a Dave Eggers book displayed prominently on the table, and designer caffeinated beverage. Oozing frustration and tortured creativity from his GAP shirt. That, or he can’t get his laptop to configure with the shop’s Wi-Fi network so that he can update his blogspot. Or they look blasé about life around them as they gaze out of the window, a seat they picked so that they would be seen, as their laptop goes into hibernation mode.

Why do some writers feel that tapping away at their novel in a shiny coffee chain is a part of a writer’s life? Is it loneliness? An attempt to show the world what they are? True, a writer’s life is mostly of solitude, of brain storming, word counting, editing, crossings outs. It’s been said that writing is a type of madness because of all the time you spend living inside another person’s (a fictional person’s) head. You have to understand what they do, know why they do it, and empathise, to make a believable character. Even if they do or say things you wouldn’t. but then if you’re writing might you, just maybe, do the same things? If you understand the rationale then it’s always going to be a possibility because you’ll never reject it as completely outrageous. That’s a bit frightening.

Okay, so these are possible reasons. but there’s no need for the smugness, the strained bohemian coolness of some apparent writers. A genuine writer can be spotted by the tell-tale signs:

1) They’re sitting on an inflatable ring to avoid pressure on ripening haemorrhoids
2) Their table is a mess of red-marked utility bills, all covered in scribbled descriptions
3) They’re wearing an old black top of some kind, because it covers both ink and blood
4) They’re surreptitiously correcting the grammar on the menu
5) If they brought a laptop they’re using it as a coffee mat

How much work can you honestly get done when you’re surrounded by people letting off steam, quite rightly, about work and the kids and the upcoming bank holiday? You can’t exactly jump up excitedly in the middle of a coffee shop and shout, ‘Of course! Madeline didn’t know Joseph was her brother until after their first child was born!’ without being removed from the premises.

If you’re an aspiring author, you should be at your day job. If you’re not, you can’t afford that coffee. Put it down.

Writing To Reach You

2008-04-10T11:13:00.000+01:00

The words ‘Refuge of the outcast?’ are blu-tacked above my computer. This is not a bold proclamation whenever I sit down to write (‘I’m a writer! It’s tough and no one likes me, but damn, it’s cool being on the fringe!’), but a photocopy of an excellent article by Matt Baker, published in The Times Higher on May 18th 2007 (p.19 in Features). This article was written shortly after the Virginia Tech Massacre in the USA when Cho Seung-hui murdered several of his fellow students. Though school shootings are sadly not an uncommon thing in the news these days, this one raised questions with regard to the risk attached to creative writing. Seung-hui was an English student and had turned in graphic creative writing assignments that prompted his tutor to refer him to counselling. At the time links were suggested between violence/psychotic tendencies and creative writing.

The article deals artfully and confidently with the position of the writer, in that generally they are an outsider (though not always in extremis) and may have high levels of tension with the way they perceive the world. However, nice sound bites from Jon Cook (director of the Centre for Creative and Performing Arts, University of East Anglia), Paul Magrs (creative writing lecturer at Manchester Metropolitan University) and Andrew Biswell (Programme Leader for the MA Creative Writing at Manchester Metropolitan University) make for a great defence of creative writing as a way of discharging this tension, this energy. The feeling of the article is a comfortable sense that individuals that write and go on to commit harm to others are in a firm minority and that it is not writing that is the disease, merely a symptom of something more disturbing. If creative writing made you decidedly unhinged most writers would not progress beyond one book, let alone build a career out of it. And it would probably be banned under Health and Safety Acts. Or at least be worthy of ASBOs. A great article and one worth reading. There’s also a quote in it from Blake Morrison, who said that, ‘If creative-writing programmes excluded students with personality disorders, they would all have to close down.’ Genius.

Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club, said in ‘Introduction’, a spoken word track on his self-produced CD Tour Stories Volume 1, that only within fiction can you create stories in that anything imaginable can happen. You have a one-on-one with the reader and unlike radio and films and TV, you can create characters that no actor would dare play. The only stories worth writing are the ones that affect you. Books should not comfort, but confront.

This is why I keep the article above my computer.

Mortification

2008-04-09T13:01:00.002+01:00

I’m reading a book called Mortification, edited by Robin Robertson, which is a collection of true stories by published writers and tells of their various forms of mortification suffered on tour, at readings, trying to get published, etc. Generally they are self-deprecating and cringingly honest, made funnier to me by my lack of identification. But then I remembered an incident of my own. Though other writers have had infinitely worse mortifications this was my first. It might not be so bad for anyone reading, but it still stung.

I’d spent the week in a big country house outside Hebden Bridge, in Yorkshire, on a retreat for the members of the writing programme at a university in Manchester. Five days were to be given over to focus solely on writing without distraction from TV, stereos, radios, and internet. The house was large and comfortable, well-placed in woody grounds, without the sound of sirens or gunshots. I was accompanied by four friends from my course, all of whom are funny, clever, talented and honest. I trust their opinions on my work. The other writers were affable and clearly very interested in writing. One or two had had novels accepted for publication. In time-honoured writing tradition we’d all come loaded with alcohol, in addition to the supplies that had been bought in by the organisers. Each night ended with extended drinking sessions. In between writing classes and cooking group meals people scribbled endlessly in notebooks, and the keyboards and computers in the barn seemed to smoke with shining potential.

Except for me. I could barely write anything. Now I’ve had Writer’s Block in the past, normally borne out of tiredness, lack of ideas, laziness, fear of failure (the usual suspects), but I’d never been completely without inspiration. This week, when I thought of my ‘novel’ (still the word makes me snigger), I couldn’t remember my characters’ names, any of the scenes, none of the story arcs I’d been planning, even though it was at a decent 60,000 words at the time. So I did what any responsible writer-in-waiting would do. I got drunk. Every night I drank. Loudly and messily in the small living room with the other writers, discussing films and music and day jobs, pointedly avoiding any mention of writing.

On the final day my friends and I were due to read in the evening, ideally share a sizzling snippet from our work. I find readings traumatic enough just being a member of audience, believing I need a look of rapt attention, being ever wary of catching the reader’s eye, and feeling desperately miserable for them if the turnout is not in the double figures. The strained atmosphere of literary aspirations always makes me want to do something irrational and violent, like throw my complimentary glass of wine at the opposite wall. This evening I had a terrible hangover from mixing Irish whiskey, Russian vodka, and a bottle of strong supermarket-own-brand chocolate liqueur, plus a cheeky smoke. What I had to read were a couple of hastily cobbled together pages of old writing that I could just about remember. There was no sense of the story, no peaks and falls in emotion, no twist, no surprises. They looked very like the alcoholic ramblings of a would-be failed writer. Which is not too far off the mark.

As different people got up to read, stunning the rest of us into introspection or making us double up laughing, I got progressively more anxious. This did nothing to help the blood pounding in my head, which I believed could only be my brain knocking on my skull, begging to be released. Each reading raised the bar in audience appreciation.
‘I can’t do this,’ I whispered to my friend, my pages turning damp and translucent in my fists.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he whispered back.

I was the last to read, an unwise decision. I should have sandwiched my mortification between two excellent readings so that I could be glossed over. Each member of the audience was warmed up and eager to hear more from young, upcoming Manchester-based writers. I got up and, haltingly, began to read. I am a huge fan of editing, over and over trimming words and sentences into a semblance of fluency. I had made no such efforts this time and I frequently ran out of breath as I fumbled through the piece. Slowly, the smiles and thoughtful nods in the audience died. The silence deepened. The contempt grew.

Part of the writing was about a character who stalks a family after a death. With more time spent rewriting it would become more subtly macabre, but with a hangover and catastrophic writer’s block it just sounded perverse and immature. This is what I read in their blank faces and occasional squeak as they shifted in their chairs. A tiny exhale of air rounded off with a tut. I haven't been tutted at since I was in school.

It got worse.

Within the pages there was a piece of dialogue that at the time I thought was funny and would go down well with a rabble of liberal-minded alcohol-enjoying writers. The dialogue ended with a homosexual slur, in the context of a group of teenage boys mocking each other. Anticipating the laughter of the audience I raised my voice and by the time I approached the punch line I ended up shouting out, ‘POOF!’.

Now, if any of the audience had drifted off in disinterest they all now looked up at the sight of my manic face apparently at the end of a homophobic rant. Faces twisted into distaste.

At the end there was polite applause, one or two coughs and I gratefully fled to my seat in the shadows. The sense of, ‘What the hell was that?’, followed me. It felt like one of those moments that you want to burn out of living memory. Everyone else flocked around one another and congratulated each other on their writing, their wit, their talent. I cowered behind my friends’ shoulders.
‘I knew I shouldn’t have read,’ I said to a friend eventually, hoping for a quick boost that it hadn’t had been as bad as I thought.
‘Yes, well, you know, they’ll be other times,’ my kind, yet honest friend said gently.

It hadn’t been as bad as I thought it had been. It had been worse. I have vowed never again to read voluntarily, unless at gun-point, or better still, contract-point.

There is maybe one more incident that is worth mentioning. The day I enrolled on my writing programme there was a meet and greet between new students and those progressing to their next year. Boxed wine flowed freely and tutors mingled, making everyone feel welcome. Alone, I gulped at my wine on the fringes of a group of Second and Third Years discussing their novels-in-progress. They were a knot of pashmenas and ironic badges pinned through the lapels. Despite having lived in the city for three years I felt provincial amidst their clucking.
‘Well, essentially,’ one woman was saying, ‘my work is a postmodernist pastiche of contemporary literature, paying homage to Joyce with definite Orwellian overtures.’
There was much cooing to be heard. Then one of them looked at me.
‘Are you starting the course this year?’ they asked.
‘Yes.’
‘What are your intentions toward it?’
I blanked. I forgot everything I’d mentioned in my interview plus every witty slapdown I’d ever heard. I drained my glass.
‘Honourable,’ I said, and fled.

The First Post

2008-04-09T12:58:00.001+01:00

I’m new to this blogspot business and have in the past been deeply uninterested in the online ramblings of every person in the broadband-connected world who thinks that other people should be as upset as them by the new less sociable hours of the local post office and why, somehow, this is indicative of our decaying society. Or why they love flour tortillas. Or why it sucks to not have Freeview. Or something equally traumatic.

I’ve also been a bit indifferent to blogs about writing by writers, seemingly filled with anecdotes about the value of moleskin notebooks and the surprising levels of rejection from small literary magazines. If editors and agents and publishers were to come across their blogs why would they waste their time on people periodically rejected? Once, twice, maybe three times is either bad luck or poor market research. Anything more is an ominous pattern.

But past experience has shown that I am not gifted enough, nay crap, in explaining vocally my interest in writing, and in particular what my work is about. Perhaps being unsure of the merit of my work I invariably come across as a disinterested hack, someone who can only mutter into their shoes, ‘Well, it’s about contemporary life and mortality, and you know, stuff.’ Normally I don’t get as far as that once the words, ‘Well, it’s not genre fiction…’ leaves my mouth.

But considering the high competition in the writing industry and my frankly unhelpful shyness regarding the subject, I’ve decided to start a writing blog, which is a more comfortable medium of trying to carve out exposure for a career like this. I doubt many people will read this, but it’s a step in the right direction.