Painting by Letters

I love me a good analogy and as I haven’t mentioned any recently, I thought it was about time I took  one out, shook it off and gave it a thorough airing. 

During half term, whilst my clever husband was laying a floor in the living room, I was a few feet away  (we’ve downsized) giving the bathroom a couple of coats of what I consider to be a ‘warm steel’  - a kind of silver-denim if you like but I shall soon run out of describing words for the colour I got the nice people in Homebase to mix up for me - and it was during the first coat of this paint-job that I began my analogical musings.

I seem to follow the same weird (head) process whilst painting as I do when writing. Viz:

I start at the corners because I consider these the trickiest bits.  (Have a beginning. Know your end).  Then the corners are joined up to build a ‘framework’ for the haphazard, roller-it-like-a-madwoman and don’t worry too much about the splashes and drips because that’s what kitchen roll and spray stuff is for.  i.e. if I get it done without too much thought, then nobody will have seen me making and mending all the mistakes I made along the way and think 'how clever that's she's done this without any apparent pulling out of hair'.

And if paint gets on anything it shouldn’t (ceilings/skirtings/ light fittings/cat) then  there’s always white spirit, scourers and scrapers.  See -  the editing process is never an attractive proposition.  

But even as I’m painting the corners and the straight bits all nicely and neatly, I am WAY ahead of myself in the whole ‘picture’ process in my head and I’m already beginning to fret like a fool that I’ve chosen the wrong colour.  It’s going to make the room too small/too dark/too heavy/too frivolous/whatever.  I cannot relax.  And I have to convince myself to forge ahead.

Because what’s the alternative – go and buy a completely different colour; come back and perform the same silly dance all over again? 

I stand back at times and survey the scene – I squint in places and wonder if anyone would notice if I just left it and ran away for a week and started on a different room; maybe if I did it really badly then  I wouldn’t be relied on to do it again? And there’s always the tin of trusty Magnolia (delete/undo).

Lack of self-belief during the painting of a bathroom is utter lunacy; I know this now I can see it written down.  But it’s this exact-same self-belief that defies me when I’m writing too.

 

I’ve spent an eternity working out if the colour is right (that’ll be the story).  Will it ‘go’.  Will it be ‘got’?  Will it enhance, enrich, delight, transform? Will it make a difference, will it enlighten and will it be so memorable that everyone will want it?

It’s a bleedin’ rigmarole, is what it is.

This... THIS, people is why there are a million different half-full/empty tins of different coloured paint buckets hidden away in my metaphorical shed.  And unless I stop looking at other people’s pretty walls and trust that I’m allowed to choose my own shade for my own space, then I’m never going to get anywhere.

After I'd finished I did the usual 'stand back and survey' thing; turning the light on and off - watching where the shadows fell and how the light bounced off different walls and parts of me were proud at what I'd achieved.
I also revisited - popping back occasionally during the evening (well, we've only got the one loo so, y'know...) and approached the newly coloured room as if I was a stranger visiting and wondered how they'd see it.

The trouble is, I am an anxious painter.  it would therefore follow that I'm an anxious writer.
But I refuse to go down the 'Twenty Shades of Magnolia' path.

Difficult Second Album Syndrome

So, regular readers of this blog will know that last year I published a book, Dark Dates. It wasn’t a good fit for my previous publisher and I struggled to find an agent, so I thought, sod it, I’ll publish myself, and see what people say. Self-publishing has been a steep learning curve: it’s way more work than you imagine going in (although I’ve also found it more rewarding than I could have imagined) but the problem with publishing something yourself is you haven’t gone through the quality control procedure of agent-publisher-editor: there’s constantly the nagging worry in the back of your mind, the little voice saying, ‘c’mon, if this was really any good someone would publish it for you’.

Some bloggers were really kind...

So when the reviews start coming in, you pay more attention than is healthy to what people say. I’ve been very lucky with Dark Dates – the reaction has been almost overwhelmingly positive. Of course, I’d like more people to have read it (it’s still incredibly difficult to get coverage for an indie book) but those who have, have tended to love it. I’ve been blown away by the feedback I’ve got – just this week I got another rave review from Indies R Us and was selected as Book of the Month at the TBR Pile, and I also made a couple of bloggers’ ‘Top 10 of 2012’ lists. It was exciting, and thrilling, and exactly what I wanted – the fact that people actually talked about my characters, had opinions about them, cared about them: this was the very thing I got into writing for.

See? Actual nice quote by person I don't know

 

Then I had to write the sequel, and suddenly The Fear struck. What if it sucked? Lots of people said the first book was funny: the second book was darker, but I thought it still had a nice streak of humour in it – but what if it wasn’t enough? I found myself scouring the text to see if I could put in jokes (I didn’t, in the end, because I find that kind of writing tiresome, but Lord, the temptation was there). There’s more sex in this one: is it too sexy? Will people still like the characters? Will they feel let down? Suddenly all I could see in my head was a stream of reviews from people saying how disappointed they were – and the fact that I connect with a load of bloggers via social media means I’d be unable to hide from their scorn. Maybe I should just leave Dark Dates alone, treat it as a success and then move onto something completely different? It’s ridiculous given that my readers probably only number into the hundreds that I was working myself into such a state – how do properly famous writers do it? No wonder George RR Martin always seems a bit grumpy.

Fingers crossed...

 

In the end, of course, it boiled down to what it always does: having faith in the writing. When it comes down to it, I love these characters, and I’d write about them even if I was the only one who got to read the stories. They’re under my skin now and they aren’t going anywhere.

I sent the book, Wolf Night, to my beta readers who all came back with great feedback – but, importantly, also with comments on what didn’t work, and what needed to be made better (it’s good to have cheerleaders, but you also need people to be honest, especially when you don’t have the safety net of an agent or editor).

And so, after a lot of agonising, the book is out there. I’m trying to tell myself not to read reviews this time around (I can still quote the bad ones from Dark Dates) but I suspect I’ll fall at the first hurdle on that one – it really does matter to me that people like it, and don’t feel I’ve let them down. But I know it’s the best I could make it, and I know I’ve been true to the characters – and that’s all I can do, I guess. Anyway, I’m off to write the sequel now…

You can follow Dark Dates at darkdates.org

 

Guest Post: On digital publishing from an industry insider - and lapsed writer

I started my twelve year career in publishing in the heady summer of the year 2000. Working in books was the only logical career choice for me. Prior to this I wrote. I wrote all the time. I finished my first self-illustrated episodic story, about school bullying, at the age of ten. I completed a “novel” at aged fourteen, inexplicably about the mafia (I am not even Italian) and containing perhaps the most unconvincing sex scene in the history of literature. Until “Fifty Shades of Grey” was published, that is. At university I continued, writing heartfelt poems about unrequited love, frustrated intellect and bohemian stuff. Then, I got my first job in publishing and the writing stopped.

It wasn’t just seeing the brutality of the slush pile first hand that caused me to change my views. Wandering the halls of the annual book fairs, I couldn’t help but be astounded and somehow disheartened by the sheer number of books that are published every year. How, I asked myself, can my voice be heard above all this noise? And then, there are those writers, those brilliant voices, that inexplicably fail. As a publisher, you believe in the writer, you believe in the book, you promote the hell out of it and yet still the copies just don’t sell. And at the end of the day, that is what publishing is, the business of selling books. When books don’t sell, they are remaindered, they are pulped, they are listed as out of print, they are forgotten. Suddenly it seemed a bit pointless to be churning out my mediocre words into a clearly disinterested world. So rather than add to my piles of unread prose, I hid my writer’s heart away.

This is not to say that I have spent the last decade in bleak despair. Publishing is one of the most vibrant and exciting industries to work in and right now it is going through a period of immense change. For decades publishers have acted as gatekeepers for what is and isn’t read. Unpublished writers were, for the most part, unread writers. Digital publishing means that writers, instead of poring over endless rejection letters, can put their work out there - and what better way to get the attention of those distant commissioning editors than a bestselling Kindle novel? Of course, self-publishing is in no way a sure-fire way to success. If anything, the clamour of voices has become louder and harder to navigate. But the digital world has given us one thing: more opportunities to reach our readers.

So, armed with this sliver of hope and opportunity, I have slowly been starting up my writing hand again. It’s been hard. I am rusty, wracked with self-doubt and a heap of healthy cynicism, but I am doing it. I am writing.

Caroline - an industry veteran now 'jumping the fence'

About the writer:

Having spent twelve years in the publishing industry, Caroline Goldsmith has spent her life surrounded by books. She has worked in sales, publicity, marketing, rights and contracts and has spent more time at bookfairs and hauling suitcases full of hardbacks around Europe then she cares to remember. She has now left publishing to embark on a new life in the country, where she plans to rekindle her long-neglected writing habit and finally unleash that novel that has been hiding in her on an unsuspecting world. You can follow her adventures on her blog These Are My Days, or on Twitter @goldcaro

Confidence R Us...is I... Me... oh, you know what I mean

On my list of worries there sits:
1. Getting older
2. Getting wider (from the typo ‘wiser’)
3. Getting Alzheimers
4. Getting up. As in Not Liking It Very Much.

I don’t like to set goals because when I don’t achieve them I never heal from the bruises I get after beating myself up about it. And the bruises never make way for thicker skin. They just make me feel madder – with myself. Hence the absence of New Years Resolutions - never make them, never break them.

And although I like to blame my parents for most of my shortcomings (which makes it doubly easier when they’re somewhere they can’t take issue – hint: rhymes with Devon, letters – 7) I’m not sure how much longer I can realistically expect them to shoulder the burden of my lack of self-assurance.

I mean, surely BY NOW I should have grown up, moved on,  accepted things and dealt with these issues of self-confidence?

SURELY?

I became an adult – meaning I got through adolescence which is a battlefield in itself, right - all those wrong turns, all those difficult choices? I have married - twice but who’s counting? I have given birth - once and that was quite enough thank you - I'm not good with pain. I have been bereaved so many times it’s going to take me a l-o-n-g time to get through the welcome committee at the end of my own particular tunnel of light come My Time....
And I have made decisions in my life.
Not all of which turned out… well, brilliantly (see puberty back there). But who knows? Maybe bad decisions are rubbish for a reason – for a higher purpose than we can ever know in this world?

And one of my decisions was to write a book. Something that I know without even having to consider it for a millisecond, my parents would BOTH not believe me capable of achieving.  Much less add another 5 to the list.

I still remember the euphoria of typing ‘The End’ at the *ahem* end of my first attempt (see, even now I doubt calling it a real ‘book’ because it didn’t make the Grade and get published – but does that make it any less a proper ‘book’? I don’t know). (Is this like the tree falling in a forest and nobody there to hear it or am I mixing my metaphors again?). Anyway…
The euphoria….
Was short-lived it has to be said. I’d love to say I remember tearing the page out of the typewriter with feverish hands and leaping half-naked around my garret making squeaking noises that would shame the squeakiest of creatures (I’m so good with these analogies - I’m SUCH a natural, right?).
But not really. I simply watched the cursor cagily spit out out the letters ‘t’ ‘h’ ‘e’ ‘e’ ‘n’ ‘d’ and half a beat later, deleted them.
I sat back, thoroughly puzzled with what I thought I’d done.
Surely not?
I must be mistaken. There’s NO WAY I could’ve written a book.
Word count beamed at me from a bar and announced I had written in excess of 120,000 words so I must have.
Well, hadn’t I?
I tried typing ‘the end’ in a different font then deleted it.
I capitalised the first letters and deleted it again.
It was too easy to type ‘The End’. Surely if it was this simple, then everybody would be doing it?
And no Tippex was harmed during this particular execution, therefore doubly doubtful.

And there was nobody around to confirm or dispute the fact that I was ALLOWED to write ‘the end’, much less decide that this. Was. It. The End.
*gulp*

Maybe I’d got confused and had just written a really long shopping list without noticing the absence of bread and eggs.
Perhaps I’d just had one v-e-r-y l-o-n-g moan about how sh*t my life had been; aren’t most first attempts/books meant to be more memoir-y than subsequent? I couldn’t very well produce that as a bonafide Book, surely?

Briefly I allowed myself to imagine it already published in it’s shiny mauve cover with a rat wearing a wedding dress peering dolefully through it’s Perspex cage on the front – oh, it was called “Labrats” in case you’re thinking my imagination has gone way past the over-active stage and into the realms of proper Psychosis. And I also allowed myself a little shiver of anticipation at the thought.
I already had a desk in the corner of Watertsones – WHSmith at a push – and I was gaily scribbling my signature on the first page for my expectant readers. My Readers. My God! And I was in the local papers. Not front page you understand, but three or four perhaps. With the heading of ‘Local author signs books for local people in her local bookshop’ or something like that. I’m not good with headlines.

I wanted, no, needed to tell somebody. Of course the first to come to mind was my mum and dad. But even if I’d had a decent connection, I swear the conversation would still have gone something like:
“I’ve just finished writing a book…. (reply) you know, the book I said I was writing? (reply) well, I've been writing a book (reply) um...three years actually but…. (reply) no, no, it’s probably not a real book…(reply) yes …(reply)… no (reply) no… (reply) okay I can hear the adverts are finishing now, sorry … no, you don’t have to call back later, it’s fine."

So this happened anyway – but in my head.

Because I’m not good with the self-confidence thing. And I know precisely why but for the life of me I still don’t know how to grab it by the scruff and shake it up until it becomes my best friend. Or at least doesn't cross to the other side of the road when it sees me waiting.

How do you find it?
How do you get it and how do you keep it?
And is it fully self-supporting or does it require external validation?

Answers please.