Strictly Determined

Tonight's the night! Strictly Come Dancing, the show to which our blog pays homage, is bringing its warm, friendly glitter and glamour back to the screens.

Brucie will crack the same old cringe-worthy jokes and then say 'think about it' in case we're too thick to understand. Viewers at home will lament the ditching of Arlene. The dancers will nervously await their first moment of glory, and across the land grumpy dads on sofas will comment “never 'eard of 'im,” and “who's she when she's at home?”

Much as I enjoy Strictly Come Dancing, I have some sympathy for the view that it is scraping the barrel with its choice of celebrities. It could even get to the point where they'll be reduced to asking me to be on it. As a result, viewers initially tend to scoff about the contestants. Who on earth are they? What have they ever done? Isn't it a disgrace that anyone thin and young can get on TV these days without proper talent?

But if this series is anything like the last, we'll get to see the real reason why they are marginally more famous than us. Some of the contestants – maybe not the ones we expected – will turn out to be very, very good at dancing. Not only that, but they will spend phenomenal numbers of hours practising. They will get things wrong, they will crash to the floor, they will have moments of despair and self-doubt, they will carry on through illness or injury, repeating the steps however many times it takes to get them right. The sheer physical and emotional effort involved is incredible to those of us more familiar with Viennese Whirls than Viennese waltzes.

And where has that level of ability and determination got them so far? A minor role in The Bill or something. No wonder the rest of us aren't on the telly!

Sometimes in trying to make sense of rejection after rejection, writers look for reasons why others have got published - and it has to be anything other than the uncomfortable idea that they are talented and hard-working. If an acquaintance appears to dash off a first draft in two months, give it a quick glance through for typos and have a £100K advance by the next weekend – well, surely there must be some rational explanation for their success.

The lovely readers of Strictly Writing are not the type to whinge that others had unfair advantages, but you've probably all seen it happen in the more cut-throat corners of the writerly internet. New authors, people say, must have known someone in the business. They got published because they're blonde and pretty. Their great aunt was Agatha Christie's hairdresser's cousin; they went to Eton or did a week's work experience at Penguin in 1989.

Well, for most previously unknown novelists, the only rational explanation is that they worked outstandingly hard behind the scenes – for years, usually – cultivating their talent and practising until they got things right. That's all. Even that was never guaranteed to be enough to win a publisher's vote, but at last they made it into print on the strength of that effort and not because of what they look like or who they went to school with. We don't get to see just what it took because there was no one there to film the mistakes and challenges on the way, but we can rest assured that they happened.

Getting published might not involve glamorous frocks, glittering trophies or terrible jokes from Brucie, but it requires so much genuine work and determination that it's certainly an achievement worth dancing about!

Quickfire Questions with... Irene Yates

Fifty words on me: It’s a love/hate relationship this writing thing. When you’re doing it, it’s a killer, all angst and sweat and toil. When you’re not doing it, it’s also a killer, words racing round and round in your head, ideas jumping at you, structures presenting themselves. I know that once you’ve got it, it’s like something’s got you by the throat, you just can’t get rid of it. Even when you fall out with it and say you’re never going to do it again it just creeps up on you and you’re doing it in your head without even realising it. I look at somebody and I’m writing their story in my head. Sometimes I don’t know if it’s real or if I’ve made it up!

My first sale was…

An article to Woman’s Own, for ever ago.

My family think my writing is…

Brilliant, especially my 13 year-old grandson, Jack, who wants to follow in my footsteps and is at the moment on Chapter 9 of his latest novel – I understand this is page 22! He says he wants to be the next Irene Yates but I’ve told he needs to be the first Jack Archer.
My husband wishes I’d hurry up and make it big so that he could retire. Huh.

The best/worst thing about writing short stories for magazines is…

Best is sales, worst is rejections! Very worst is finding something in a mag just like something you’ve just sent off so you just know yours will be rejected.

Long hand first or computer?
Oh, computer every time. Used to be typewriter, so computer is wonderful.

On completing a story I feel…
Nice warm feeling in my tum.

When I run out of ideas I …
Read, read, read: a load more magazines, old ones, new ones, newspapers, letters, books, who cares?

Ideas come to me when…
I’m awake or asleep or talking or listening or thinking about something else entirely.

My biggest tip for new women’s mag writers would be…
Never miss jotting ANY idea down, you never know when you will need it. Jotted down ideas come in more useful at more odd times on more scraps of paper than anything else ever.

3 authors – dead or alive I’d like to invite to dinner would be…
Arnold Bennett, Charles Dickens and Maeve Binchy. And please could I have Elizabeth Taylor as well (not the film star).

Favourite writing outfit?

The nearest thing to hand.

Favourite writing snack?

Crisps and mugs of tea.

Daily Mail or Guardian?

Guardian, definitely. This is a zero tolerance house for D.M.

Corrie or Eastenders?

Both of them but going back ten years at least.

Best woman’s magazine story I’ve read during the last three months is…

Wouldn’t be able to choose, love most of them.

PRESENT IMPERFECT

At lunch with my friends Alan and Chris, I was introduced to wabi-sabi.

Rows of exquisite rolls of raw fish sushi-ing enticingly by on a conveyor belt? No. Wabi-sabi isn't sushi. It's the Japanese art of imperfection and impermanence.

The art of imperfection?? I've spent most of my life struggling against it. Haven't you? The concept of wabi-sabi provides much food for thought, and it doesn't come in little parcels. I began to think about wabi-sabi and writing.

I thought of what author Emma Darwin calls 'Ugly Duckling syndrome'. UDS is what strikes after you've completed your first (or second, or third) novel. You've learned a lot. You begin the next novel full of hope and enthusiasm. And then you suddenly find yourself wracked with self-consciousness. Stalled. You know what needs to be done but you feel utterly incapable of doing it. Every phrase you write is ugly, awkward. Every sentence is imperfect. Your Inner Editor sits on your shoulder, swiping you around the ear each time you begin to write.

Adjectives? Adverbs? Pah! the imperturbable Inner Editor spits, whacking a ruler painfully over your knuckles.

Cliche-ridden... The Inner Editor grins from ear to ear. Sure as eggs are eggs, you won't get that one past her.

Present Tense? The Inner Editor picks up her mobile and dials 999 to summon the men in white coats.

Don't Tell - Show!

I have to tell you that the Inner Editor is a pernickety old fart.

Have you ever actually seen an ugly duckling? I haven't. They may trip over their own feet occasionally, and those unformed little flaps on each side can't yet fly, but how cute is that? Only in fairy tales (Grimm ones) do ducklings see themselves as ugly. So why do we, as writers? What if we celebrated our temporary imperfections, seeing that in them lies our originality?

Take the Shitty First Draft. This is wabi-sabi in action. Any preciousnesses about an SFD can be thrown out of the window before you begin. The SFD gets you from here (no novel) to there (a draft) in the twinkling of an eye, and there is much to recommend it. Firstly, it's short on pain and angst. Secondly (as NaNoWriMo adherents know) it's quick. Thirdly, it is by nature unfinished and you can therefore relax and get on with it. Finally, you know it's going to be imperfect. Shitty. Awful. Rubbish. So, the reasoning goes, I can do that. Beautiful.

Wabi-sabi pots are just a little misshapen. Wabi-sabi people are weathered and wrinkled. Wabi-sabi ducklings don't swan around pretending to be something they're not. And wabi-sabi writing is full-on, in-your-face, unashamed-of-itself imperfect writing.

As Ben Okri says: 'Where there is perfection, there is no story to tell.'

Guest Blog Competition!

Ever fancied a good hiss and a spit about something writing-wise, that's close to your heart? Some of you may remember our last Guest Blog Competition at Easter - the winner was Gary Wilson and he wrote a very inspiring post about, erm, Inspiration! So, why not put yourselves forward and send us a sentence or two explaining what you would blog about. Have a good rant or a genteel discussion, list a top ten of how to deal with writer's block or rejection... Whatever you like, as long as it is tempered with good humour and strictly about writing. Or reading. Or getting published - you get the picture. We have a cap of 500 words and would link the piece to any website of your choice, as well as uploading a photo. Simply email your idea to Samantha (click on 'email' in her profile).

The winner will have their guest piece posted up in November and win a signed copy of our very own Helen Black's 'Damaged Goods'.

So come on, we can't wait to hear from you! Get your entries in by Friday 25th September and the winner will be announced on Sunday 4th October. And remember, in the first instance, just submit a brief outline of your idea.

Sorry, but previous Guest Bloggers not eligible.

Thanks everyone!

Scare tactics

I'm a good girl.

No, really, I am.

I eat my five a day, I read bedtime stories to my children and I call my Mother every day.

I like to think my reward will be an afterlife like George Best, but in the meantime I make sure I floss my teeth.

So what then, is a nice girl doing writing crime fiction?

It's a question I'm asked all the time. In fact, when I was doing the publicity stint for my second book, I was asked a variant of it in every one of the fifteen radio interviews I did.

And I suppose it does seem odd that I should choose to spend so much time dreaming up violent criminals and their brutal activities.

Why don't I shy away from imagining what goes on in the mind of a sociopath?

Why do I enjoy exploring the twisted logic of the damaged and the dangerous?

It seems strange, sick even...but it's not.

Hang on and give me a chance.

I believe that humans are instinctive thrill seekers. How else can you explain why my local gliding club has a waiting list? They're planes, with, like, no engines. Duh.

How else can you explain motorbikes, rollercoasters and ice skating? No need for any of it.

Yet we love it...or at least some of us do.

Me, I'm a bit of a wuss. I like being on my two feet. I don't like flying, skiing or riding horses. I don't like anything that goes faster than 30mph. To be honest I've never even driven on a motorway. Okay stop laughing now.

But I still need my fix of adrenaline, so what better way to get my kicks than to conjure a world of thrills and spills. A world of danger.

In the safe confines of the left field of my brain I can feel the dead weight of a gun, or the smell of fear on my victim. Hell, I can kill off the cast if I'm in a shitty mood.

And I'm not alone. Crime fiction has been and remains one of the most loved genres. From Agatha C to Mo Hayder, the book buying public have voted with their wallets and library cards.

Even in these cash strapped times, with the economy in free fall and the publishing industry suffering, crime fiction continues to sell.

When times are bad it seems, we still like to imagine a world where it could all be worse.

So that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

Now, can anyone think of a name for my new serial killer?

Fear and Loathing in North London

I slide into the room, back pressed to the wall. My heart is clattering, my breathing is shallow and my palms are sticky. Dots are dancing in front of my eyes, but my senses are on high alert to the slightest movement. It looks safe…but wait, what’s that in the corner? Did something move? Got to be certain. When I’m convinced the coast is clear, I make it to the bed and collapse, exhausted.
I made it. Until the next time….

Yup, it’s spider season again.

I spend most of September peeking around doorways before entering a room. Since the time I stepped on one of the critters with my bare foot as I was getting into bed [How big was it exactly, you ask? Let’s just say it wasn’t inconvenienced by the full weight of an adult woman] my already irrational fear has reached epic proportions.*
Yes, yes, I know. I should do one of those phobia courses at London Zoo. I write about this kind of stuff for a living, for Chrissakes. But I also know that you end up stroking tarantulas at the end of the course and I will never do that without general anaesthesia [me AND the spider would need to be knocked out].
Don’t think for a minute our eight-legged enemies are my only irrational fear. Oh no. I’m also frightened of fast rides, deep water and confined spaces. I’m not wild about flying. I’d always rather drive than be driven. Oh and I have a bit of a phobia about fish bones and choking. I know I’m not the only one like this. One friend is frightened of lifts and my sister visibly shudders at the very sound of the word ‘frog’.
But creeping around the house like a loon the other evening left me feeling deeply ashamed of my arachnid-based wussery. And then I started wondering whether courage has different faces.
The first time I slipped some of my writing into a big brown envelope and posted it into the big wide world, I felt a rush of adrenaline as though I’d just done a bungee jump [not that I'd know what's that like, but you get the picture]. When the same envelope came back through my letterbox with a standard rejection slip, it really hurt. And again, and again, many times over the last few years. I haven’t developed any kind of a thick skin. It hurts like buggery every single time, so much that I’m sometimes convinced I can’t put myself through this agony again. Maybe I am deluded or mad for trying but each time the punch in the guts comes, I seem to pop back up again, just like one of those Weeble toys from childhood.
So does this take a certain amount of courage? I think perhaps it does.
‘Tread softly because you tread on my dreams,’ said WB Yeats. ‘Weaseling out of things is important to learn. It’s what separates us from the animals…except the weasel’ said Homer Simpson. So if you don’t weasle out of every challenge and you lay your dreams where they may get trodden on, give yourself a big pat on the back right now. You’re just as brave as someone who can stroke a tarantula or bungee jump.

* Please don’t see this as in invitation to share your worst spider stories. I beg you to keep them to yourselves.

Whose Book Is It Anyway?

Two thirds of the way into my novel, something extraordinary happened. My manipulative youth who nicks his mum’s contraceptives and Prozac to flog at school, turned out to have a heart. He gave a short, inarticulate but impassioned speech to my protagonist about how much he loves the girl around whom the story is based. I looked at my notes in panic. He’s not supposed to do this. He’s a git, from a strong, unbroken line of gits. I hadn’t figured much of a heart beat under that scrawny chest. If I’d wanted my characters to extemporise so far from the script, I’d not have bothered plotting the book before writing it.

But now that I saw him trying to behave honourably when all around him adults schemed and brawled, I realised I must let him, just as my own kids deviate from plans we’ve made if they have a better idea. What would happen if at the end he got back together with the girl? The replacement boyfriend I’d lined up for her wasn’t shaping up as planned either: he kept snickering away like Beavis and Butthead when I'd instructed him to be unobtrusively gorgeous.

I imagine any novelist reading this is thinking, ‘Already two thirds of the way through before that happened? Duh! That’s how books get written.’ Alice Walker claimed the characters from The Colour Purple marched into her kitchen one day and started dictating their stories to her. And though I recognised the vividness of a character’s presence in what she described, their autonomy was alien. My character’s bid for freedom was a revelation after the control-freakery of short fiction writing where every comma is scrutinised. Trying to control the first two thirds of the novel had been like the agonising slow haul towards the crest of the Big Dipper; now momentum from the hard slog was sparking change.

As soon as one character got free rein, they were all at it, petitioning for improvements to their script, ganging up on me:

‘Can we come in three scenes earlier please, because we have just driven all night from London to Northumberland, so we think we deserve a better entrance than just arriving on boring old schedule at the flat.’

‘Could S and I actually not get tied up in an old clock tower because we think that’s desperately naff plotting? We thought you could give a juicy scene to C instead, because she hasn’t done much since p 54, and you know what she’s like with a bottle of caustic soda in her hands…’

Yes, yes, all right! I started feeling for Mike Leigh – all these actors he hired as walk-ons improvising their way into lead roles.

It has been strangely like having children. After a while you stand back and merely watch in awe as they whir around the furniture, creating turbulence, proclaiming and demanding, and you think: Who on earth made you? Where did you come from? What are you going to do next? Because I have no idea. From now on I’ll just stay quiet and observe. It’s more fun for all if I do…