Writing

Ultracrepidarian

Someone who holds forth on a subject they know absolutely nothing about.

I have neglected the blog for too long. A small part of me wants to promise you consistent posting from now on: a regular post on something important and pertinent to the writing life. The larger part of me knows that I would fail, so dare not start. But – and please forgive me this writing pun – maybe this is the beginning of a new chapter.

When it comes to writing I often feel like I am ultracrepidarian. Most people can write; most of them can write sentences, paragraphs, even stories or essays that make coherent sense. So what makes a writer a writer?

I have come to the conclusion that it is ‘bum on seat’. A writer is a writer because they write. And the only way to write is to sit down and do it. Application to the craft is key to success. So much of the writing advice is that it is all very well to have a brilliant story idea, but until it is set down on paper (or tapped onto the computer) it is merely a thought or dream.

Another reason people don’t actually write their stories is their fear of getting it wrong. Writing is like elite sport: you only get any good by practise. The more you do, the more you learn, the better you become. At least, that is my theory. Some of us may never win Olympic Gold (Man Booker Prize) but that doesn’t mean we can’t make it onto the local football team (craft an excellent story – and have fun!)

Writing begets writing. It is addictive, seeping into you such that you can’t let it go. One story leads to another; one character draws you in to knowing a family more. As a plot develops, things happen: branches from the main tree trunk that you wish to follow and explore. Some break off, forming stories of their own; others become grafted on, intertwined with the original storyline.

Like any profession, writing requires dedication and commitment. For me, that is setting time aside when what I do is write, whatever the family is doing, or whatever the children need from me. To move forward, it has to be treated as a career in much the same way as my (paid) employment is. Sometimes that will involve blog posts.

Ultracrepidarian? Never! Now, back to the grindstone…

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Beware the Falling Avocados, Writing

I am a writer

I am ready for a rest at the end of a rather hectic week. The book launch was one thing; a charity I’m treasurer for had an important meeting about funding, the children made big decisions which involved me-as-mum making difficult phonecalls, (paid) work was normal but included an evening seminar and the nation (UK) has had a referendum on staying in Europe. All of great importance in different ways.

But today I realised that I am a writer. (Just putting that in words makes me feel like I’m coming out at Writers’ Whinge, or whatever our equivalent of Alcoholics Anonymous is). Obviously, I kind of knew that before: spending years writing, preparing and publishing In the Shade of the Mulberry Tree, and then repeating the process for Beware the Falling Avocados, does imply that I am a writer. My suspicion is that a proper writer would take less time and be more efficient and procrastinate less (yes, I really want to put the washing out/ walk the dog/ meet friends for coffee/ complete my tax return/ check twitter and Facebook…).

I spend time thinking and time writing and time editing. I spend time publishing and publicising. I promote my books as much as possible and purposefully push myself to the edge in order to get them known, against my better nature. Writing is what I do in between all the other stuff (see previous procrastination and hectic week paragraphs!)

This is why I know I’m a writer: today I concentrated on the next book. I have the outline of a novel which – with a bit of luck and a fair wind – will set sail into the publishing sea at some point in the future. Probably a long way off; possibly never, as I gather most authors leave their first novel in a bottom drawer… and their second and third… and only get published after many trials and errors. Not only did I work on the book I loved it! I spent three hours in the library sorting through paperwork and drawing a diagram of the plot structure. There are still some weaknesses to iron out, and a lot of questions to answer, but as a basic outline I feel quite confident. (Until I look at it afresh tomorrow, no doubt…)

I have no title for this venture. I feel I should give it a pet name, like ‘Bert’ or ‘Edith’ or ‘Fair weather friend’, but am likely to stick to ‘Novel 1’ for the time being. Perhaps a title will spring to mind as I actually put pen to paper/ tap away at the keyboard… That is the next job: harnessing the discipline to sit down and write. Not just when I feel like it, but regularly, so that the words accumulate, the characters come to life and the story takes a form of its own. I can’t wait to begin this exciting adventure!

In the meantime, I’m praying for peace for my country and the world. Who knows what the next 24 hours (let alone the eternity of ‘future’) will bring. The UK has already been rocked by the murder of Jo Cox MP and has been split by so much venom on both sides of the EU argument. I hold to Jo’s words: More In Common.

Make tea, not war.

(Obviously, particularly read Beware the Falling Avocados, available on line as a paperback here and for kindle here. Just can’t keep that marketing and publicity department down!)

Writing

And breathe…

It was a manic week of work on Book 2, together with a raft of other matters that needed attending to for the family and other commitments. It took a late night (or early morning) to reach the end of the book, correcting all the mistakes I could and re-writing all the bits that were obviously wrong, as well as the odd chunk of copying and pasting.

But – finally: manuscript complete.

Printed out on clean, white paper.

Given to a friend.

She (bless her) is going on holiday for a week and offered to take it with her as reading material. In case you’re concern, I have said that it is more important that she enjoys her holiday!

Still, having given her the printout I thought:

I need to re-write the ending. That ending is too abrupt. And does anyone want to know what happened next? Do I need an epilogue?

And then I thought:

What if I moved that chapter in with the camping story? Would it flow better? Can I mish-mash the two tales?

It turns out editing is never truly finished.

Writing

And today is…

I see it is over a month since I last posted on the blog: forgive me, but somehow the summer holidays always overwhelm me. It is a long, long time to entertain children and to keep them from being glued to small screens. Or big ones.

However, term has resumed. I have a child starting GCSEs. This makes me feel very old (though not as old as I’ll feel in two years time when my youngest starts hers!) The work-life balance resumes a routine, which may not be a perfect balance but at least I know when the spaces are.

Writing has, sadly, taken a backseat too. I have almost finished editing Draft 2 – which may be Draft 22: I don’t really keep count, but I know my next job is to print it all out, again, and go through it, again, and try to make it better. ‘Making it better’ seems to be all I have done for the last two years, and that is slightly driving me mad. I don’t want to publish unless it is the best it can be, yet there is a point – has to be a point – at which I say, “Enough is enough!” That point is coming ever closer!

I will write more, and more regularly, as term goes on, but meanwhile let me go back to filling my days with writing rather than routine.

Writing

What D&D taught me about writing

I must start with a confession: this holiday I was initiated into the world of D&D.

To be even more honest (gosh, this is painful!), I did dabble with it when I was a teenager, bullying my way into a game that my cousin and his friend were playing. It was probably a happy couple of hours, although my main memory is of being told in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t a game you could just come in and play; it took a long time, days indeed. Still, I played, and only for that wet Saturday afternoon.

But this holiday I really, truly played it. Just a beginner’s game, along with a bunch of other beginners and with my husband taking on the role of Dungeon Master.

For the uninitiated, D&D is Dungeons and Dragons: the game of teenage geeks (boys) in my childhood. It turns out that (a) my husband was one and (b) my son is becoming one. My evidence for these weaknesses is that when my son heard of D&D he looked it up, found some instructions and sent them to the printer. Unfortunately, it was 87 pages long, plus appendices of similar length. A week later the printer spewed out the final sheets. Thus evidence of my son’s interest, and my husband’s tolerance as he kept changing the ink cartridges and topping up the paper. (I would have switched the whole thing off!)

But this last week we holidayed with friends who have children of a similar age to mine, and it turned out that they too were interested in trying D&D. So a starter pack was purchased and, on a wet day (there were plenty of those!) we landed in a cafe and commenced our adventure.

(And yes, a motley collection of six adventurers + DM caused much hilarity among the other customers.)

Here is the link to writing. The first thing we did was to take a sheet of A4 and create our alter-ego. We could be human (where’s the fun in that?), halflings (or hobbits, I understand), dwarves or elves. There are probably other options, but we were a select bunch. I was the sole dwarf. What I enjoyed was describing what I was like (short), what I liked doing (hitting things), what my aim was (revenge on the people who had destroyed my father’s mine), and what my weakness was (OCD). It turns out that when I was allowed to go shopping with my Gold Pieces I was able to buy soap! I spent a lot of time washing green goblin goop from my hands after I had smashed them to death with my Great Axe.

To date I haven’t written a novel, although ideas bubble up every so often. Writing about my own experiences in my Zambian memoirs has the ease of the characters being already created: I can picture them in my mind, know their quirks and characteristics. But in a novel, everyone is made up. There can be a lengthy process describing their looks, their life-history, their abilities and failings. For a multitude of people in the story, this takes time to create.

D&D gave me the chance to create a new persona with simple boxes to complete, ensuring a motivated character with flaws. Really: Kathra Ironfist was a well-rounded dwarf (in more ways than one) that defended her heritage and stood by her friends.

My only problem is that none of my ideas for a novel involve a dwarf with OCD. Perhaps I need to re-think my writing future…

Writing

12 reasons why writing is like tennis

It is the Wimbledon season and I am even more distracted from writing than usual. I thought I’d put my wasted time to some use: here are the reasons I see that writing is like a game of tennis.

Like you can’t win on the first point in tennis, your writing won’t win on the first draft.
It takes a lot of hard work to become really good. Lots and lots of hard work… which isn’t seen by the majority of viewers/readers.
For tennis you need a racquet and ball; for writing a pen and paper. Basic equipment is essential, but tennis/writing doesn’t need much to allow the game/book to progress.
What you wear has little bearing on the quality of output (although nudity is discouraged!)
There have been amazing advancements in technology over the years – such as the progression from wooden racquets, or the development of computers – but the basic game remains the same: a good story is a good story, however it comes about.
Tennis is not a team game: it is one-on-one, however many support staff may be watching from the wings. So it is with writing: the final product is yours and yours alone. Others may help along the way, but it is your name that goes on the cover of the book.
You may have a bad patch – lose a few games, write some rubbish – but the next point is a fresh start. The match is never lost until the last point is won.
Sometimes it is mind over matter: believe in yourself and you are more likely to win.
Some days, writing is like the perfect first serve: an ace at 120mph, on target and winning. Others, the serve is returned back faster than it was delivered for a backhand winner down the line. Either way, the next day you have to pick the ball up and try again.
The most outrageous shots can still be winners.
There will always be commentary and criticism from the sidelines. There is an art to discerning the wise and salient points, but you must never let matters of irrelevance get you down.
Only those at the top get paid lots. But the rest of us can dream!

And the best bit is reaching the end and declaring yourself a winner with Game, Set and Match!

Beware the Falling Avocados, Writing

Beware the Falling Avocados: frustrated writer update

The book is nearly finished.

No, honestly, it nearly is.

I’ve just got to write this chapter, and then a couple more, and then an epilogue, and then it’s done.

Oh, and I need to go back and re-write the third chapter (‘cos it was rubbish).

Maybe I should ditch that chapter all together? If so, what impact does it have on the rest of the book – before and after?

And, re-reading the middle section, it doesn’t hang together properly. *rewrite*

Spell check. Always amusing with Zambian place names.

Where did that rogue word appear from?

Haven’t I already mentioned that? Am I just repeating myself erroneously?

Another unnecessary adverb…

Why are my husband’s comments always right? *rewrite*

How come it was ‘one week’ on page 46 and ‘one month’ on page 47?

Present tense or past tense, or some other tense that I forget the name of? Perhaps I shouldn’t have all three within one paragraph?

And now my final chapter doesn’t seem…well, final.

Let me just go through it again.

No, really, the book is nearly finished.

It’s just not perfect.

Not yet…

General, Writing

Time to write?

It’s been a shocking week of inactivity.

Well, I did go to work, as usual.

And I did have to do all the normal housework – washing, cooking, cleaning – as usual.

And I have served as a taxi service for children (music lessons, swimming lessons, cheerleading) and for my husband (still with his broken leg in a non-weightbearing cast) – as usual.

And I did have to have long conversations with school about my daughter (less usual, and really quite terrifying).

And I did spend a whole day with my husband filing paperwork (very unusual – it’s a job we both detest and thus defer for as long as we possibly can).

And I did watch The Great British Comic Relief Bake Off. Because I love it.

But writing-wise? There has been little.

But sometimes I wonder how I ever manage to squeeze it in.

All the advice – and it is good, sensible advice – is to do some writing, however little it may be, every day. I’m not sure that covers the emails I send (though some of those are quite creative!) but I can see March will be an uphill struggle if I don’t reintroduce some writing discipline.

Though, really, I’d most like my daughter to not be an issue and my husband to be walking again. Simple things make life easy.

Meanwhile, I must dash. There is dinner to cook and a dog to walk and a pile of laundry that acts as a wonderful burglar deterrent as we can’t get out of the back door…

Memoir

Memories

What is a memoir? Memoir comes – unsurprisingly – from the French memoire, which ultimately has its roots in Latin words for memory and mindful. It is the telling of one’s own story, the recounting of memories.

I fell into memoir accidentally. When we returned to the UK we moved to a new city where I knew no-one. My husband was at work (he’s a doctor: this means many long hours), both children were at school and I had no paid employment so, to kill the six hours on my own each day, I started to write about our experiences in Zambia. Others would have watched Jeremy Kyle or Homes under the Hammer: I needed something to keep the little grey cells moving.

Back then the memories were fresh and vibrant: now they are ageing. Some stories are etched on my mind and I cannot let a drop of them go: not the colours, not the smells, not the life-threatening nature of the events. Others are more vague: I remember the punchline, but not the joke.

Memoir comes in many forms. There was a ‘craze’ a few years ago for misery memoir. These had the general structure of an awful childhood, which metamorphosed into a successful adult life. They went out of fashion as the market was saturated with such stories, although there is a lot to be said for a book where good overcomes evil (see the Harry Potter franchise, for example!) The Christmas bestseller lists are usually dominated by the memoirs of the rich and famous. Some are clearly ghost-written, but the well-known name sells books. The publishing industry has a lot of say over what is successful and the trends the market may take.

It was when I started writing my memoir that I realised how much I enjoyed reading stories about other people – real people, rather than the delights of fictional characters that feel real. One piece of advice I was given to improve my writing was to read lots of books in the same genre. I realised I was already doing this! And so I have enjoyed all of Carol Drinkwater’s Olive Farm books, and Chris Stewart’s Driving over lemons series, and (after a successful family holiday on a narrowboat) One Man and his Narrowboat by Steve Haywood. I caught the whole of Wild by Cheryl Strayed when it was broadcast as Book of the Week on Radio 4 and am looking forward to the upcoming film version. I like nosing into other people’s lives! I like knowing that they can overcome adversity, in whatever form it may be.

And how accurate are they? Do they tell all the ins and outs, all the details? Of course not! When I was about 7 years old I amused my parents with my argument that the bible couldn’t be 100% truth when it didn’t tell everything about Jesus, for example when he went to the loo. (Read it: nowhere does it say that he relieved himself!) As my trivial example illustrates, every detail would clog up the story. It wouldn’t let the real tale shine, it wouldn’t let the purpose of the story be paramount.

Yet the memoirs are accurate enough to be real: to be logical and entrancing. They may not show every event but they give an overarching picture of the person’s feelings and lifestory. As a writer, I know that it cannot be totally accurate, as it is impossible to remember every word of a conversation; but it is possible to recreate the gist of it, and thus to expression emotions and reactions.

My dictionary defines memoir principally as a written record set down as material for history or biography. As a definition it is true, if a little staid and stiff. Personally I like it’s second definition: a biographical sketch.

That’s what I’m creating: a biographical sketch. A picture my life – or a portion of it – that reflects my feelings and surroundings. Accuracy? Who needs that, when there’s a good story to tell?

In the Shade of the Mulberry Tree is available to purchase now, and Beware the Falling Avocados is coming… soon…

Writing

In homage to Douglas Adams

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.

So said Douglas Adams, a man with whom I can identify, particularly in the form of writing deadlines. And blog deadlines. (Even this post was supposed to go out last Friday.)

The problem is that they are self-imposed deadlines, so nothing dire happens if I fail to meet one. Perhaps a unicorn sheds a tear or a fairy stubs her toe on a toadstool… but nothing really serious.

(Unless you are a fairy, of course.)

Except I want to be taken seriously and I want to achieve things. Even if the deadlines fail, I know I am putting in many hours of my time to get a book written or a short story submitted to a competition or a blog post posted.

What prompted this outburst? I had decided over the Christmas holidays that I would aim to write one short story or poem a month, probably based upon a prompt for a competition, and that I would post it here, on my blog.

That is all very well and, indeed, I have been inspired to write a story. But then I realised something. If I am to enter it into a competition then I can’t publish it here. (Many competitions require stories/poems not to have been published elsewhere first, even if that is an obscure blog online!)

So I was caught in a dilemma: meet my blogging/writing resolution, or meet my writing/competition winning resolution.

I’ve plumped for the latter.

Hear the swooshing noise? Yes… well… the first story is nearly finished but (as you can tell) it is already February. Already I am behind schedule. *sigh*

And at some point I will publish it here. I promise.

Meanwhile, you will have to put up with some more witterings, usually connected to writing, or Zambia, or the various calamities that hit our household. Oddly enough, there always seem to be enough of those stories to keep me going.