The Elevator Pitch

"Once upon a time, in a far away land, where the streets were paved with gold, there lived a lady writer called Amelia. Her cat, Puss in Boots had made friends with the local Emperor, who liked to walk naked through the town. Her best friend Rapunzel had been imprisoned in a nearby tower and lived her life waiting for a faithful prince to come and rescue her. In the garden of Amelia's house, the house she had bought from Jack's mother, a cutting of a beanstalk leading towards the sky often echoed with the sound of overhead giants.

Sometimes, Amelia felt like she was living in a strange fairytale..."

It's a given that fairy tales have a happy ending. It's more or less understood in chick lit that the girl will get her man and in a tale of good versus evil that good will win out. So spinning a yarn on paper, should be simple. Easy peasy.

The reality is that we writers have many moments of being in the horrors. Days, weeks, spent wondering what the hell we are doing.Times when we doubt ourselves, tell ourselves to stop this madness and move on - do something else with our time. If I had a pound for every time I felt those feelings, it would provide (at least) a part time income. If I had a pound for everyone who looked blankly at me saying 'You're a writer, have I heard of something you've written?' only to follow it up (before I've had a chance to reply) with 'I've thought about writing a book, they say everyone's got one in them, don't they?'

Yes. 'They' frigging do.

So it must be a cinch really, this writing lark. After all, everyone's got a book in them.

Well I've had three actually. All of them pretty steep learning curves in this apprenticeship. But if I'm honest, I can now see their faults clearly and before/if I embark on another novel, I'm determined to try one extra thing I haven't previously done - What’s that? Answer in one to three lines what the story is about... I now believe every novel should have a succinct elevator pitch - saying exactly what the story core is. A pared back pitch from which everything else hangs, the bones without the meat - you get the picture. What is the book REALLY about?

For example, in the case of my opening paragraph:

Rapunzel – A beautiful young woman is trapped, then, realises she already holds the means of her escape in her hands.

The Emperors New Clothes - A vain powerful man is conned by people who know his weakness.

It's easier to do with fairy-tales and of course it can always be done after you've read a novel you love. It is however not easy to do before you write one, or even during the structured writing process. It's different to ‘theme.’ You have to pare the layers away to get to the story core. I could write a book about love, identity and healing friendship - all wonderful themes, but if asked to elevator pitch it to Steven Spielberg in one line, I'd probably say 'It's about a friendly alien who lands on earth and needs to find a way home'.

So what's your current WIP really about? Be it a short story, a poem, a novel, could you have that short succinct reply ready if you met Le Spielberg in an elevator and he asked you that question. Or, despite what I now think, does it even matter?

The Finish Line

The hubster is away this weekend playing golf, for the first time encouraged by me, because I have SOOOO much to do... I’ve been head down trying to finish the WIP and I'm at the point where I can see the finishing line, almost touch it. In the meantime, I’ve been eating and drinking crap. I’ve put weight on in the last week– now have lardy lady writer’s bum – and I think I’ve become a little antisocial.

For instance, the phone just rang. Three weeks ago, hell even three days ago, I would have at least leaned across the desk, looked at the caller I.D and decided whether or not to answer the phone. Now, I can’t even be arsed leaning, I am so immersed in what I have to do. I’m drinking copious tea and coffee, marginally better I know than my normal copious amounts of sauvignon blanc, but I’m wired in a sort of exhausted way.

Yesterday, I forced myself to take two breaks. One was a trip to Sainsburys - where I bought two melons, a mango, a packet of paracetamol and two packets of chocolate fingers (buy one get one free). Oh and six toilet rolls. I have so far consumed both packets of biscuits and thought about making a fruit salad, while stacking the loo rolls on the loo roll stacker thingy. My second break yesterday involved watching a movie the hubster had ‘sky plussed’, where there were so many plot holes that I needed the paracetamol and ended out yelling at the television ‘Just die, asshole!’

This morning I’m back at my desk ignoring the phone, the doorbell, the telly and the internet determined to write another two thousand words before I make the fruit salad. Stop laughing. I will make the fruit salad.

In the meantime, two thousand words must flow before my next break. I know what scene I have to write. Thinking about it, I’m smiling and I realise this is why I allow myself to become a fat recluse every now and then. I know what I have to do and I know the words will soon begin to flow. I’m excited because in the next few minutes my characters will take me far away from loo roll stackers and fruit salads.

But the phone is ringing again. Persistent little bugger. My daughter’s voice speaks on the answer-phone. ‘Mum, you have to eat. Come out of your cave for a few hours. We’re having a ‘Barbie’ at three. Be there.’

That sounded very much like an order. I wonder briefly when exactly that role reversal took place? Did I not notice it because I was too busy in my cave? I check my wrist, 10:05 and look out my office window. It is a lovely day. If I don’t take a break until then, I could get an awful lot done. I could even take a fruit salad with me.

Must go. ..Things to do... Imaginary places to be... Then must make some time for the real world.

Dastardly Distractions or Inspiring Innovations

I’m back writing. Regularly. Thanks to a promise to myself at the start of the year to write a minimum of 500 words whenever my ass is in the writing seat. By mid January, I’d added an addendum – to park my ass in that writing seat as often as possible, and by and large it’s worked. The WIP is growing in word count and I’m pleased with the outcome.

Pleased, but not thrilled. I could do more. The sisters of mercy warned me during my formative years - telling me that looking out the window would get me no-where. Well, they were right and they were wrong. Right when they wrote ‘could do better’ on my school reports and wrong about looking out the window. I was in fact focussing, just not on anything they said...

Nowadays, it’s the direction of my focus that I still struggle with. A busy personal life means that my ass ain’t in the writing seat as often as it should be, so when it is, I’m having to train myself not to ‘look out the window’. I’ve practised the avoidance of blogs, twitter, podcasts, facebook etc, having told myself that they are a distraction from the job in hand.

BUT, I’ve also had to face that I have the concentration span of a gnat. I get bored quickly, even with writing and I need a little distraction every now and then to keep the momentum going.
The problem is my drug of choice i.e. the internet, is just TOO distracting and time consuming, so I came up with a cunning plan. I would surround myself with impressive and inspirational writerly distractions. The theory behind this was so genius in it’s simplicity that if it worked, I could write a book on it. Watch this space.

So today, I had an hour and a half to write and here’s a list of the writerly distractions that I allowed on my desk.
1. A newspaper
2. A dictionary
3. A Thesaurus

Yes, yes, I know they’re all on my laptop but you’re missing the point!

4. The book I’m reading – Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand
5. A photograph
6. My notebook
7. My iphone – in case of an emergency
8. A red pen

I did get my 500 words done, quite quickly in fact, so I told myself to press on – try and aim for a thousand today. I almost made it when somehow, I found myself doodling on a stray piece of paper with the red pen. I drew trees and hearts and boxes with lids (anyone know what doodles mean?!) The I found an app on the phone that cost me 59p called Writing Tips and it’s brilliant and for only 59p? It had to be done. Then I stood up and put on a dark wash and sorted a white one for later. Had a cup of tea. Doodled some more (squiggly lines this time) followed by a brainwave about my main character and I wrote loads of notes in my notebook.

All in all, a successful session I feel. Focus, have a look out the window, re-focus, have another little look. Concentrate. Write. Doodle. Finish writing.

Easy...

Anyone know what a red heart in a box with an arrow going through it and a puddle underneath it means? Looks a bit scary. But you know, the more I look at it... there’s a story in there somewhere.

Love Story

Today, for the first time, I hadn’t a clue what to write about when it came to this post. I’ve spent the last few weeks huddled in my garret editing book two, pretending I know what I’m doing. Result? I’m stuck in such a rigid ‘surgical’ mode where I wasn’t sure I could write anything freely. I sat down, completely clueless, idea-less, doodled away….Interestingly the doodles were puddles, hearts and flowers? Answers on a blog reply please?

So in the absence of divine inspiration, I moved away from the desk, sat on the sofa with a cup of tea, closed my eyes and allowed myself to think of my next book. I allowed the characters to have an informal meet and greet in my head. I allowed myself to allow them to be a big part of the process, maybe take the story where they want to – allowed them to live from the folds of my brain. I found myself transported into a world that five minutes before I’d only ever had rough notes on. I could see where they lived, who liked who and why and where the conflicts may arise. I rolled the title round and round in my head and felt a surge of excitement that’s been missing for months.

My immediate instinct was to find my notebook, write it all down – quick! But I stopped myself, terrified that if I let myself get too carried away with book three, that the final hurdle of book two will suffer. And I’m on page three hundred and sixty one of three hundred and ninety seven pages. Nothing can interfere with that. I put the cup in the dishwasher and sat in front of the laptop, the manuscript for book two staring at me. Waiting.

Then a strange thing happened. Cal and Chrissie started talking in my head. They started talking about something which is important, based on a pivotal crisis in book three. They had a full conversation, Cal and Chrissie. I dived for the notebook, riveted at the scene playing out in my head. I wrote it down, made another cup of tea and found myself grinning stupidly, grateful to Cal and Chrissie for potentially solving a problem I didn’t even know I had! And Cal and Chrissie? Well, they hadn’t even featured in my cast of characters ten minutes earlier on the sofa. They do now and note to self – may have to ‘murder a few darlings’- as Stephen King so succinctly put it, in order to make room for them. They’re important now, Cal and Chrissie - my new best friends for at least the next six months.

I guess this brings me to what I think this post may be about? Aren’t we lucky, we writers? It’s not often we write about the tiny spurts of excitement we feel as a result of what we do. Too often, certainly from my own point of view, I moan about the submission process and how hard it all is. But I love what I do and I’m blessed to be able to do it. I’m not sure I do it well enough for market, but today, that doesn’t matter. Today, I’m still grinning at the joy of meeting two interesting people when I was least expecting it. And I’m grinning because I made them up, made them ‘real’.

Now, back to book two's manuscript for that last surge. There are other characters that need a final massage before I kiss them goodbye like an old lover, knowing I have a new exciting love affair waiting in the wings.