Failure + Singing Out Loud = Successful Journey

Wednesday last was dedicated to clearing the boxes in the small bedroom/office after our house move. Order was the order of the day – I hated the fact that things weren’t in their ‘right’ place yet.

Anyway, in amongst the boring tax and banking stuff and a huge pile of paper for shredding , I came across some cds with songs I’d co-written some years ago. So I started to tidy the mess with my lyrics playing in the background.

I knew when I wrote them that I wasn’t the best lyricist (most of the work being an excuse to write something more akin to poetry than commercial lyrics) and listening to them years later I still felt that though the end result songs were ‘good’ – they weren’t amazing. Simon Cowell was not going to call in his search for the Christmas 2011 number one... And the song I'd written with Kelly Clarkson in mind, well...maybe not.

But then a strange thing happened. I looked at the pile of demo cds, next to a shoe box that holds my two unpublished novel manuscripts and rather than think of failure, of the fact that none of that work was ‘good enough’, I found myself beaming with pride. Hey! I made that music happen! And I wrote two books – all of that in three years! I turned the music up, went downstairs and made a cup of tea, sang along at full belt to my non amazing songs (in the style of Kelly Clarkson naturally) then went back upstairs and read the first halves of both manuscripts in the shoe box.

Hours later, I beamed some more... They may not have been perfect but they weren’t half bad. In fact, yes, I’ll say it out loud –they are a little bit amazing.

Okay, book one definitely has a couple of plot holes and book two, a plot twist that simply doesn’t work in the story but both of these are fixable problems. I know how to fix them, if I choose to. And the thing is - it wasn’t the writing that made them imperfect. I guess that’s why I beamed. I just enjoyed the feeling of knowing I can write, and that all this past work is, to coin a cheesy phrase, ‘all part of the journey’.

I’ve decided not to fix the problems, at least not now, as I’m working on book three. I’ve learnt such a lot from writing all those songs and two novels and I’d prefer to concentrate on correcting areas I fell down in before. I realise that I’ve naturally become more of a plotter, less flying by the seat of my pants (Although ‘pantsing’ still remains important!)

And I’ve also realised I hate tidying paper just a little bit more than I hate things not being in the ‘right’ place. The filing is still not done, the papers still not shredded, but my cds have been framed and the old manuscripts placed in a shiny, new, hard to ignore, neon pink box. There to constantly remind me of what I’ve done and how far I’ve come.

And since last Wednesday I'm singing more. Out loud! I've missed singing! My new neighbours may not be grateful but I'm enjoying myself immensely. I've come up with a new song called 'Lucky Misfortune'. Strange title I know but Kelly had a hit with 'Beautiful Disaster' so you see where I'm coming from? And 'When We Collide' (which could mean ANYTHING) has been massive for Matt Cardle?

So if Orion don't call, come on Simon - you know you want me...

Cry Me A River

On Sunday night, the kids and I, like millions more, settled down at 8pm to watch the X Factor.


Less typically, we were dressed respectively as Voldomort, a werewolf and Frankenstein's monster as we'd spent the evening trick or treating.

Sadly, as we traipsed our sorry route through the village begging for sweets, it bucketed it down, so our face paint and fake blood pooled unattractively under our chins.


Fortunately, we had amassed two carrier bags full of fun sized Milky Ways to cheer our spirits, as we sat, steaming, glued to the set.


Far removed were the poor contestants who looked like they could well do with some chocolate.


For the uninitiated, the X Factor is a talent show which culminates in a weekly public vote to decide who will remain to fight another day and who will be kicked off the show.
Brutally, the contestants are lined up like christians waiting for the lions to be released, while the public cheer and jeer.

Then, one by one, the survivors' names are read out until only two acts remain. These are the losers who will have to howl their way through another number before being subjected to the final judgment by Simon Cowell and his mates.


Imagine Herrod asking the crowd between Jesus and Barrabus and you're not far wrong.


This week, the losers were a girl band in very high heels and a funky young hipster who sounds like she smokes forty a day.
As they waited for the axe to fall they wept bitter tears with the world watching.

And the question on any normal sane person's lips must surely be...why would anyone put themselves through that?
Why would a person bare themselves to the thumbs up or thumbs down, time after time?


And I understand the incredulity, but, as a writer, I've got to admit that I get it.


As soon as any of us scribbers put pen to paper we begin the rejection courtship dance.


First, there's our inner critic. The one that tells us we are rubbish wiht every word we write.

Next comes 'feedback' from trusted readers, writers groups or mentors. It's a very rare day when they smile at us and declare ' you've a Booker winner on your hands.'

At some stage we release our work and try to secure an agent. Cue letter upon letter thanking us for our submission but actually, it's not for them.

And if you thought getting an agent was the end of the merry jig, think again. Enter a raft of publishers, all gushsing with praise, but on reflection, they won't be buying your book, they just don't love it enough.

Finally, the writer gets a deal. Yay. Salad days. Except...the editor isn't too keen on the title/the ending/the sub plot.

But there it is, at last, a book. A real book. You've done it. No more rejection.

WRONG.

It's only just begun...sales figures disappointing, the supermarkets not too sure. Then some bastard pans you on Amazon.


But you know what? Despite all the knockbacks, I love it. I choose to put myself and my work out there so I have to take the pain. If you can't, you're dead in the water and this game aint for you.
Same as the contestants on the X Factor, today their heart s breaking but tomorrow they'll be back in the saddle.

Cos that's what we do...now pass the Maltezers.

The Complete Package

My kids are addicted to The X Factor.

There, I’ve said it.

I tried, really I did. I fed them organic pieces of cardboard...sorry, rice cakes, I read them poetry. I even played Classic FM on the school run.

Alas, they now settle down each Saturday night with a packet of crisps and the remote control, discussing whether Cheryl Cole is the most beautiful woman on the planet and whether Simon Cowell waxes his hands.

Worse still, I have been sucked into my children’s world.

Yes, I am now an avid watcher of the darn show. I won’t say I’m a fan but must admit to an unseemly interest in the whole spectacle.

One of the things that fascinates me most is the constant commentary from the press and public as to which candidate is ‘the complete package.’
It transpires that it’s not enough that Joe McElderry sings like an angel. The guy will never make it, apparently, until someone fixes his teeth.
Similarly Stacey Solomon gains more column inches for her giggling than her undoubted talent for belting out a song. How, the public asks, will she ever give interviews when she’s clearly bonkers.

Have these people never heard of David Bowie or Kate Bush?

I must confess it makes me slightly uncomfortable, not least because this idea that an artist must be all things, ‘the complete package’, is gaining pace in the publishing world.
Nowadays, it’s simply not enough to pen a good story. A writer needs to be able to engage with radio DJs, write pithy features and lead creative workshops in schools and libraries. All of which require skills that may not be part of the average scribbler’s make-up.

I’m currently doing the publicity rounds for my latest novel and have been told, with indecent rubbing of hands, that I have a terrific back story.

‘You’re such an easy sell-in,’ said my PR gal.

Well, of course I’m pleased about that. And I actually enjoy chatting about work and craft. I’m naturally loud and opinionated and I have a terrific arse for radio.
I don’t even mind being asked for my views on being a working parent, or whether Olly Murs is the new Robbie. My commitment is to my book and I will do whatever it takes to help it reach an audience. And I’ll do it happily.

And yet...I do worry that the idea of being a personality is taking hold. And that like the poor contestants of The X Factor, being great at what you do will never be enough.

I worry that good writers won’t cut it because they couldn’t do the whole publicity thing.

A friend asked me today, why the hell I care, when I’m like a pig in the proverbial.
The answer, in truth, is I’m not sure.

Maybe I’m just being old fashioned.
But, you see, I love books and I love reading and I would hate to be dnied a fantastic author just because they needed a brace, or couldn’t dance.

Oh ignore me.
As my kids never tire of telling me, I’m just showing my age.

Mum's the Word

*Claps hands!* - I’ve managed to blag an extra hour on the laptop to do homework. Little does Mum know I’m here to write her blogpost. I mean, it’s not like she’ll get around to it herself - *rolls eyes*. She's going through another of her writing crises.

You’d think I’d be the over-emotional one. You know, with boyfriend probs, SATs exams, pressure to binge on cider, do ecstasy (yeah, I read the Daily Mail) or shag (Mum hates that word). But none of that compares to her latest rejection letter or crappy editorial report. And those supportive emails she gets from her writing friends, covered in smilies and kisses… Ugh! I’m never going to be like that when I reach their age. It’s so unsophisticated. You should see the flirty emails she sends to various men at WriteWords… Yeah, okay, I peeked at her inbox. That’ll teach her to read my school journal and spot the detention I forgot to tell her about. Anyway, I left one open on the screen so that Dad might ‘accidentally’ take a look - but all he did was close it so he could Google the football results.

It’s so unfair! I’m not allowed to make friends on Myspace and here she is practically snogging strangers over the internet – some of them have even met up. I mean, how dangerous is that, even writers could be vampire lesbians or axe murderers! And you should see her whenever we shop in Waterstones, announcing their book titles in a loud voice… It’s not like they’re Stephanie Meyer. Or JK Rowling. Or Jordan.

So, what’s all the latest fuss about? *Removes ipod plugs from ears*. Oh God! She’s still ranting on to poor Dad.*Puts plugs back in*. Apparently everyone thinks she should rewrite her latest book for teens. God, that’s random – as if Mum understands anything about being young. So if you’re out there, you sick people (no offence) who suggested this, you are soooo wrong. It’s embarrassing. Did you know Barry Manilow sings her ringtone? She calls funky short skirts “tarty belts” and can’t understand why I’d kill to snog Robert Pattinson. She fancies Simon Cowell - Simon Cowell! - and tries to be what she calls "street" with my friends, chatting about music and downloads. She doesn’t even know her Pixie Lott from Geldof. Why can’t she be like Megan’s mum and just say ‘That’s nice, dear’ before disappearing off to make tea? What’s even more random is that my friends don’t seem to mind and laugh at her jokes.

Then there’s the food – she still adds up my five-a-day and thinks I’m anorexic if I miss breakfast. Although that’s nothing compared to when I brought Tom home last month. Mum had been on at me for weeks, saying its her biological, God-given right to meet my boyfriend. Fine, I eventually said (after she bribed me with several chunky caramel Kit-Kats), as long as she didn’t wear her M&S lycra leggings (she thinks they’re really cool). And it all went okay, even when she asked if his phone had got Greentooth - until she served the pudding: home-made fairy cakes, decorated with pink icing and silver balls.

So please, any of you lot with half a brain – or heart – DON’T GIVE MY MOTHER ANY MORE BONKERS IDEAS!

Better go now. I promised I’d make her and me hot chocolate with marshmallows on top. We’re going to drink them in my room and if she’s still set on this mad teen lit idea, I suppose I could show her some of my favourite books. Then I’ll test out my new foundation on her skin as blotchy red eyes really aren’t a good look. Perhaps I’ll let her try my dazzle eyeshadow from Claire’s. She’ll like that. And I might even laugh at one of her jokes…

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